Andrew was at a loss for words; Ruben Crespo had that kind of effect on people.

“You have many questions.” he spoke in a ratatat cant, like a box of tap shoes tumbling down a marble staircase,” Not the least of which, of course, is: what have I done with your umbrella?”

Andrew opened his mouth to speak and then promptly closed it again. He did have many questions and primary among them was the whereabouts of his umbrella. But even listening to Ruben was exhausting; he thought he might throw his back at trying to respond.

On his way into the City, Andrew had steeled himself for a battle. His umbrella was at stake, yes, but so was his pride. And while pride won’t get you anywhere in a rainstorm, it still is a good cover.

He was only one day removed from having a man die in his arms. Well, hand, technically. Regardless, he had nothing to lose. What were the chances that would happen again?

Low, he hoped.

His plan went something like this: he’d burst into the building at the address on the card. He’d demand to see Ruben Crespo, no matter what the person at the front desk said about needing an appointment. He would wait, amiably, no more than fifteen minutes for Ruben to be free. And then!

….And then!

Well, there was still some time to work out the ‘and then’. He was never much of a planner, anyway.

As for what he’d say to Ruben, Andrew had run through all the options:

I’m here for my umbrella and I won’t leave until you’ve handed it over.

No, a little too aggressive.

You’ve got five minutes to explain this whole umbrella nonsense before I start getting answers my way. And you’re not going to like my way.

Much too aggressive. And fanciful. And a threat he couldn’t possibly act upon. He wasn’t about to start a fight over an umbrella. More importantly, he wasn’t about to lose a fight over an umbrella.

How’d you get this business card into my briefcase and what’s it going to take to get my umbrella back, anyway?

A little whiny, perhaps. Spineless even. But it was direct and simple and, Andrew thought, the route most likely to wind up with him leaving with his head held high, his pride restored and his umbrella in hand. No, it wasn’t ambitious, but he figured it was high time to get an easy win instead of a guaranteed loss.

With that plan in mind, Andrew strode confidently past the gourmet doughnut shop and the boarded-up haberdashery next door and straight into 222 West 23rd Street. He paused, only for a second, to notice the words CHELSEA HOTEL etched into a limestone arch over the doorway of the old building.

A tingle went up his spine. There was history in those somber red bricks. And, if the goosebumps he was fighting off were any indications, it hadn’t been a happy one.

Andrew barreled through the dated, musty lobby. He was relying on the strongest force known to man: moxie. Moxie is brute force multiplied by momentum taken to the third power. It’s useful in the same way that a nuclear bomb is: it’s sure to get the job done so long as also destroying the job isn’t a problem.

The wall calendar behind the receptionist showed a bucolic mountain scene, a little yellowed by time. Upon closer inspection, Andrew saw it hadn’t been switched out since the Carter administration. It was a late Easter that year.

“Ruben Crespo, please,” Andrew said to the receptionist. She rolled her eyes, communicating at once her impeccable despondence. If she cared any less, she might just disappear, her molecules lazily floating off into the ether, destined to join up with other unmotivated atoms, or whatever.

Languorously, looking more at the grime-colored floor than at Andrew, she relayed the Department’s floor and suite number. It seemed to pain her to meet this bare minimum standard for helpfulness. Andrew couldn’t help but wonder if this were community service rather than her actual job. Still, before he continued towards the elevators, he thanked her, though both of them knew it was more than he deserved.

That was when the receptionist sprung into action. From sloth to swift. It was as if, inside the well-honed apathy machine, there was a real human being after all. Think of a turducken, though with less saturated fat.

Her hand darted out and took Andrew’s arm in its grasp.

“Here’s the thing: we don’t get a lot of visitors. The kind of people I usually see either work here or have scheduled business with someone who works here.”

“I think Mr. Crespo is expecting me,” Andrew said, aware that he was not being entirely truthful.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Here’s the other thing. No one I’ve ever sent up to talk to Ruben Crespo ever comes back--”

The receptionist broke out into an otherworldly cough. She doubled over at her desk like a flimsy piece of tissue paper. Andrew was sure that she hadn't finished her thought, that, before she began hacking for air, she was going to say something after the word ‘back’. He was caught between desperately wanting her to finish and wanting to help her. Luckily for him, he was in no way qualified to help her, anyway. He could be guilt-free. Eventually, her body satisfied with expelling one lung and a chunk of her liver, she managed to reach for a bottle of water.

“Ugh,” she scowled at last, “Don’t worry. What I’ve got isn’t contagious. What was I saying again?”

“Something about the people who usually come to see Ruben Crespo.”

The receptionist thought about it for a second before shaking her head.

“Whatever it was, I don’t remember now. You need anything else from me?”

“So, can I have it back?”

Andrew spoke with temerity. All the planning in the world couldn’t account for Ruben Crespo.

“What is ‘it’ exactly, Andrew, and why do you want ‘it’ back?”

Ruben sat back in his chair, his feet resting on his desk like two sphinxes. He chewed at a piece of spearmint gum nonchalantly. With his yellow tracksuit and black sneakers, he looked a little like a ripe, unopened banana with greasy shoulder-length hair. The only explanation for Ruben Cresp was unabashed, absolute shamelessness. He had never encountered modesty and had no plans on getting acquainted with humility, either. He hadn’t once doubted himself, not since leaving the womb, which he probably did with a strut and a half-hearted nod towards his mother in passing.

Anything short of that would have stopped him in his tracksuit years ago.

Andrew couldn’t remember having introduced himself, either to Ruben or to the long-suffering receptionist. Of course, it was in the realm of possibilities. Stranger things had happened -- and would happen, too. Choosing to not dwell on that mystery, he tried to regain the upper hand with Ruben.

“‘It’ is my umbrella. And I’m here for ‘it’ because you took ‘it’ from me.”

Andrew dug out the business card from his pocket and flung it towards Ruben’s propped-up feet.

“And how did you get this in my briefcase?”

Ruben spared the business card only the slightest glance.

“Tell me, Andrew, your best guess: how many people come all the way from Bellwether for an umbrella? How many people lie to their lovely, winsome parents so they can come to the City to pick up an umbrella? Tell me. And then tell me why you’re really here.”

Maybe he had said his name -- but he certainly hadn’t told anyone in the building he’d come from Bellwether. And while someone, conceivably could have guessed his name and his hometown, Andrew had very serious doubts that anyone would be able to divine the nature of the conversation he had had with his parents before leaving that morning.

Yes, he had proffered a little untruth to them when they asked why he was heading for the train again two days in a row. He couldn’t not lie to them, the way they stared back at him, like two golden retrievers pleading with their eyes for their overdue afternoon walk. Surely it wasn’t illegal to imply that you’d been called back for a second round of interviews. Surely he wasn’t required to admit that the man interviewing him had died and that now he had about as little chance of getting the job as Mel did of learning the breaststroke.

Ruben went on before Andrew could come up with any kind of rebuttal.

“Tell me, too, what does it feel like to go from the joy in one second of thinking you’ve finally got that job to the despair in the next when a man has died before you?”

“What’s going on here?”

Andrew’s voice quivered as he rose out of his chair. He didn’t know what he would do next but figured it would land somewhere between lunging over the desk to wring Ruben’s neck or hightailing it out the door behind him.

“One last thing: tell me how did the doughnut you bought before you came here taste?”

Andrew paused and raised a quizzical eyebrow. He looked around the room. For the second time in as many days, we wondered if this was some kind of gag, with him as the punchline. No hidden cameras in sight, though that would be very much like a hidden camera to stay out of sight. It is their nature, isn’t it?

Ruben’s office was simple. Thick hardwood desk. Bookshelves filled with old encyclopedias lined the walls. The only strange thing was that, instead of photos of distant locales or friends and family, the room was littered with mirrors. Big ones. Small ones. Full-sized. Porthole shaped.

“Doughnut? I didn’t buy a doughnut.”

Ruben shrugged.

“Well, nobody's perfect. We had you pegged as a doughnut guy for sure. Crullers, specifically. Your loss, I say. They are very good. To die for. Everything else was right, though, no? Pretty impressive.”

No more sure of his next course of action, Andrew stood up fully upright, knocking his chair to the floor.

“Who are you? Doughnut notwithstanding, how do you know so much about me? How do you know anything about me?”

Ruben quickly jumped to his feet, too. He leaned over his desk so that his face was as close to Andrew’s as it could be without it becoming very uncomfortable. It was only moderately uncomfortably close. Andrew could smell Ruben's days old aftershave.

“The Department of Lost Umbrellas. Of course. If that’s all you came for, I can make sure you leave here ready for the next rainstorm. ” Was he whispering or was it the pounding of Andrew’s heart that made it so hard to hear Ruben? “I think I could even tell you the next time it might sprinkle if that’s all that bothers you. But, we, well, I think we know enough about you to be fairly certain that you are here for something greater than an umbrella.”

From pounding to silence. For a moment, Andrew’s heart skipped a beat. It was only a moment, but that was long enough for him to wonder if it had gone and left him for good. He finally exhaled when it dutifully returned home.

“Now, take a seat please, Andrew,” Ruben suggested, settling himself back in, too. “I have much to tell you. Some of it is good news. But, well, for the bad stuff, I think it would be better to be sitting down.”