I'm your lawyer.
My lawyer. That's good… very good. I was hoping I'd see you today. We have a lot to talk about.
Yes, says the man in the black shirt, patting the bundle of files and folders on his lap. A great deal to talk about. But before we get down to that, I want you to take a good look at me and try to remember my name.
Mr. Blank looks carefully at the man's thin, angular face, peers into his large gray eyes, studies his jaw and forehead and mouth, but in the end he can do no more than let out a sigh and shake his head in defeat.
I'm Quinn, Mr. Blank, the man says. Daniel Quinn. Your first operative.
Mr. Blank groans. He is mortified with shame, embarrassed to such a point that a part of him, the innermost part of him, wants to crawl into a hole and die. Please forgive me, he says. My dear Quinn—my brother, my comrade, my loyal friend. It's these rotten pills I've been swallowing. They've screwed up my head, and I can't tell if I'm coming or going anymore.
You sent me on more missions than anyone else, Quinn says. Do you remember the Stillman case?
A little, Mr. Blank replies. Peter Stillman. Junior and Senior, if I'm not mistaken. One of them wore white clothes. I forget which now, but I think it was the son.
Exactly right. The son. And then there was that strange business with Fanshawe.
Sophie's first husband. The madman who disappeared.
Right again. But we mustn't forget the passport either. A small point, I suppose, but it was tough work just the same.
What passport?
My passport. The one that Anna Blume found when you sent her on her mission.
Anna? Do you know Anna?
Of course. Everyone knows Anna. She's something of a legend around here.
She deserves to be. There's no woman like her in the world.
And then, last but not least, there was my aunt, Molly Fitzsimmons, the woman who married Walt Rawley. I helped him write his memoirs.
Walt who?
Rawley. Once known as Walt the Wonder Boy.
Ah, yes. That was a long time ago, wasn't it?
Correct. A very long time ago.
And then?
That's it. You retired me after that.
Why would I do such a thing? What was I thinking?
I'd put in all those years, and the time came for me to go. Operatives don't last forever. It's the nature of the business.
When was that?
Nineteen ninety-three.
And what year is it now?
Two thousand and five.
Twelve years. What have you been doing with yourself since… since I retired you?