It was after lunch when he stood from his desk. Blair had removed his red floral tie but still wore his navy suit jacket. He liked to think of himself as the last of a breed, dressing in business attire no matter the day of the week or what he might have on his agenda.
Now, he approached the window. The view of 37th Street west of 8th Avenue was not the most glamorous. And he was reminded of what had brought him here.
A number of years ago, many toy companies were headquartered in a set of sister buildings, at 200 5th Avenue and 1107 Broadway. The world came to them and it was a tradition of sorts. When the owners of both buildings announced that the properties would be turned into condominiums, indecision took hold. Shortsightedness led to alternatives that weren’t viable. Goodbye toy buildings, goodbye to a central area to meet buyers, to review product, to discuss business. And goodbye to tradition. Instead, Blair and his competitors went their separate ways. No one seemed able to reach a consensus as to what building, in which location, could best accommodate their needs. So here he was, situated in a place chosen mainly for its proximity to the Javits Center, which happened to be the current home for New York Toy Fair.
For much of the afternoon, the visit from John Dalton, the government agent, crept into Blair’s subconscious and prevented him from concentrating on his work. He should have been more forceful, he realized, made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t appreciate the intrusion, that he was not going to cooperate. Instead, as usual, he’d acted meek and indecisive. And the truth was hard to digest.
Born in a poor Montreal neighborhood, Blair had shared a bedroom in a rented flat with his sister. His father was a competent carpenter but unskilled at business. The man had worked day and night to barely eke out a living. His mother worked in retail and also kept long hours.
It was his sister, older by seven years, who nurtured him, who taught him her cardinal rules: to respect anyone of authority, to think before speaking, and that turning “the other cheek” said more about a person than protecting one’s honor.
Blair wished he could have grown up tougher, into someone quicker on his feet. Maybe then a man like John Dalton wouldn’t intimidate him, wouldn’t be able to keep him so off balance.
He left work at five o’clock and took a taxi home, located in the least tony area of the Upper West Side.
His one-bedroom condo was small yet adequate. A den/living room. One and a half bathrooms. The largest room in the apartment was the kitchen, where a quarter of the space was filled by an off-white, rectangular table made of marble.
Blair kicked off his shoes, hung his clothes in the closet, then made himself a sliced turkey sandwich. He sat down in the den and began to dig into some recent editions of Time. He noticed a number of references to Homeland Security, the FBI, and the CIA. There was nothing on BIS.
He turned page after page, convinced he would find some reference, somewhere. There was too much space devoted to politics, and too many reports on the economy. His reading got to be depressing after a while. The fact that the turmoil in the Middle East and violence in Africa was getting increased attention did not improve his mood. Neither did the too-frequent reports of multiple murders by lone psychopaths.
Whenever he came across the mention of a government agency, Blair slowed his reading. What was it John Dalton had said? Few people were aware of his organization, which was the way they liked to keep it? He suspected that part was true. Up to a point. Nothing was ever completely hidden from the press. There should be something here, he was convinced. And it made him even more suspicious to not be able to find it.
Finally, bleary-eyed after forty more minutes of searching, he gave up.
John Dalton’s agency was part of the U.S. government, he decided. It didn’t much matter how clandestine the agency was.