The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

  Blair reclaimed his seat. He made a lame excuse about thinking of using the washroom, then deciding it could wait.

  The artist, whose name Blair couldn’t grasp, gave him an odd look but made no comment. He began to work, asking questions as he sketched.

  Some fifty minutes later, Yassin’s cold, dark stare was down on paper. By the time the man’s nose and lips filled in, Blair was getting antsy again. For all he knew, and despite what logic dictated, this entire exercise could be a sham. Just like everything else in his recent past.

  He paused and told himself to get a grip.

  Back in his office before noon, the phone calls from the press began, some from as far away as England and South America. He told each of them that he had no comment. When a few persisted, he gave out his lawyer’s name and phone number, per Andrew Sciascia’s instructions.

  Absentmindedly, he began to go through the files on his desk. He’d open one, give it a cursory glance and set it aside. It became an exercise in futility. He couldn’t comment on what he’d just read because everything was a blur. Soon he was slamming files down in frustration.

  Andrea Victor stepped into his office and asked what was wrong.

  “I just can’t get into this stuff,” he said.

  “Perhaps you need more time,” she suggested.

  When Mandy came to call unannounced a few days later, hope had all but left him.

  He ushered his ex-wife into his office and invited her to have a seat. He was surprised by her conservative look. Her blouse was buttoned to the top. Her hair was worn up instead of down.

  At first they remained mute, as if they were perfect strangers without any history.

  Then Mandy said, “I’ve come to apologize.”

  Blair reflected that everyone seemed anxious to apologize to him lately.

  “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did,” she continued. “Shouldn’t have said the things I said. I just had no way of knowing what was going on.”

  “It’s not you who should apologize,” Blair corrected. “These people…” He allowed the thought to drift. “They said they would harm Sandra if I told you the truth. I didn’t know who I was dealing with. I thought they were legitimate, part of the government. They played me for a damn fool. I’m sorry, Mandy.”

  “You’re sorry and I’m sorry. We make one hell of a team, don’t we?”

  He frowned.

  “But have you heard anything?” she asked anxiously.

  “Not a word. Nothing.”

  “Is that true? Or are you holding back on me?”

  “I haven’t heard anything. I swear.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Good question. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Do you think she’ll come through this, Blair?” Her voice quivered. “Do you think we’ll get Sandra back alive?”

  He hesitated, not wanting to expose his own doubts.

  “Oh, God,” Mandy said, reading the truth in his reticence. And she began to cry.

  Long after his ex-wife had left, Blair sat at his desk, brooding. Mandy didn’t cry. It simply wasn’t in her nature. Seeing her in tears reminded him of how dire their situation was.

  It was late and his employees were gone for the day. For no conscionable reason, he decided to take a stroll through the showroom. With the spotlights off, the toys were not shown to their best advantage. He passed each section with an apathy he’d never felt before. From dolls to board games to radio control cars. No longer creative playthings to him, each somehow represented menace and deception.

  Toward the back wall sat a four-foot section of Cyber-tech. A working sample of the game was out of its package. Point of purchase material, including signage and shelf-talkers, made the product look important. A motion-activated television set, with a built-in DVD player, was positioned in the center of the display.

  Upon his approach, the commercial flashed on the TV screen, catching Blair unawares. He lifted the Cyber-tech sample and threw it to the floor. When it didn’t break, he bent down and retrieved it, then heaved it against the wall.

  There was still no sign of damage.

  Anger surging, he took hold of it again and began smashing it into the metal shelf. The product remained unscathed. But a cut had opened in the palm of his hand. The sight of blood sent Blair into a frenzy. He took aim at the boxes in the four-foot section and swept them to the floor. Then he began to stomp on each one until they were crushed. Only then did he head out of the showroom, blood leaving a scarlet trail behind him.

  CHAPTER 73

  The next morning, he sat in his office, dressed in his customary suit and tie, staring off into space. His company was holding on by the slimmest of margins. His bank had agreed to a bridge-loan until the end of the year. This was all that was keeping them going.

  About to stand from his desk, Blair made the mistake of taking a call from Tracey Lambert of Playmart, a four-year-old chain of five hundred stores, prominent in the northeast.

  “I must have a meeting with you,” the buyer said. “At once.”

  “At once?”

  “Yes, it’s important.”

  Blair grimaced, inwardly furious at this sort of demand. “Could we not discuss this over the phone?” he asked.

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  He stifled his comment. This is what had become of the business he cherished. It was all one way, the buyer’s way, or the proverbial highway. And Tracey Lambert was worse than most. Employed for only six months, she had already succeeded in alienating almost everyone in the industry.

  “Look,” he tried reasoning with her, “it’s difficult for me to get away right now. Can we not put this off for a few days?”

  “No, we could not,” the buyer said with her usual insolence. “I said it was important.”

  He sighed, knowing he had no choice.

  The drive took two hours. He was using a leased Hyundai until his insurance claim was settled over his lost BMW.

  The entrance to Playmart’s head office in Wayne, New Jersey was located less than a half-mile from the corporate headquarters of Toys ‘R’ Us, and the common assumption in the toy industry was that this site had been chosen intentionally. There was no guard station but the impressive grounds were similar, reminding Blair of a sprawling college campus, without the hustle and bustle of professors and students.

  He entered the building, registered at the well-lit reception desk, then rode the elevator to the third floor. There, the huge video screen drew his attention, its size representing another obvious jab at its competitor, as if to say, “Whatever you can do, we can do bigger and better.”

  Now, he confirmed the location of his pre-assigned appointment, headed for the room, entered, and waited.

  Within minutes, Tracey Lambert joined him. There was no smile or greeting, and Blair couldn’t help wondering if her short, shapeless body and excess girth were the cause of her surly disposition.

  The minute they were seated, the buyer thrust a sample of one of his current craft items at him: Bead-a-licious.

  He spent a minute or two examining the box and was unable to find anything wrong.

  “Study the language,” Tracey said.

  He turned the box from front to back but was still in the dark.

  “My God, are you blind?”

  He was used to her insults so he didn’t say anything.

  She yanked the sample from his hands and tapped at a number of lines of print on the box with her index finger. “French and English,” she said.

  “So?” he asked.

  “So?” The buyer’s voice rose. “How many times do I have to tell you people? I don’t want anything but English on my goddamn packaging! This is America, not France!”

  You people. Her meaning wasn’t lost on him: lowly sales-types. “Tracey,” he said, fighting his temper now, despite his resolve, “many manufacturers have gone to English/Spanish packaging, others to multilingual, with French and German added to the mix. It d
oesn’t take anything away from the product. With America’s cultural diversity today, it most likely adds to its sales appeal.”

  “I want it off my shelves!”

  “But the expense…”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about the expense! You people don’t listen! You think you can do whatever you please!”

  “It wasn’t done to hurt you,” Blair persisted. “To save on cost we decided to produce one box for Canada and the United States.”

  “Well I don’t like it. The balance of my inventory has to go back to you. What RA number should I use?”

  “I can’t authorize a return for something like this.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “You can, and you will!”

  Blair paused and took a deep breath. “Look, why don’t we compromise,” he suggested. “You keep the goods in your stores for a period of, say, two months. If every piece hasn’t sold by then, you can return the balance, no questions asked.”

  Tracey Lambert’s face quickly became infused with an unattractive blush. “I must be talking funny,” she said, “because you obviously haven’t understood me. I want every piece of this crap,” she slapped the box hard, “removed from my stores!”

  Blair stood abruptly.

  She seemed taken aback. “Wh—where’re you going?”

  “I’ve got to get back to my office,” he said, surprised at how meek she’d become.

  “What about my RA number?” Her voice had not only softened, it sounded submissive.

  He wondered what she was thinking. “Use today’s date,” he said matter-of-factly. “That’ll be your return authorization number.” And he walked out.

  He took a seat in his car, leaned back, and shook his head. Not all that long ago, the just completed meeting with Tracey Lambert would have driven him to distraction. No matter how well he understood the relationship between buyer and seller, no matter how often he had to camouflage his feelings because his role was, and always would be, subservient, unfairness ate away at him. It was something that normally remained with him for days, even weeks. Swallowing his pride was one thing; being made to choke on it quite another.

  But those very feelings were rubbing off him now as if they didn’t count. Dealing with temperamental buyers somehow seemed inconsequential.

  Ironically, he wished it weren’t so.

  CHAPTER 74

  On Thursday, he arrived at his office a little later than usual. He was just settling himself behind his desk when his secretary walked in and handed him over a hundred message slips. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook,” she said. “Congratulations.”

  “Huh?”

  “You mean, you haven’t heard?”

  He tensed. “Heard what?”

  “You’ve been awarded one of the highest civilian honors in the country. The Presidential Medal of Freedom.”

  “Which means what, exactly?”

  “Which means you’ve been invited to the White House.” The woman beamed. “Which means the president himself will be doing the honors.” She paused. “Six of those message slips,” she indicated the hand still holding them, “are from Andrew Sciascia. He needs to speak to you right away.”

  The minute his secretary left, Blair picked up the phone and dialed his lawyer. When Andrew came on the line, he explained what needed to be done.

  The man’s protest was vociferous. “You can’t,” he said. “No one turns down the president of the United States.”

  “I’m not turning him down,” Blair argued. “You’ll be picking up the medal on my behalf.”

  “Not good enough. I’m not the one he wants to meet.”

  “Then ask him to send it to us. I’m not going, Andrew.”

  “It’s a mistake.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “What do I tell the press?”

  “The same thing we’ve been telling them all along. I will not meet with anyone until this is over.”

  “They’re not used to this treatment, Blair. They will not be kind.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Let them find someone else to go after.”

  “There is no one else. You’re the hero of the day.”

  “Yeah. Some hero. If I were a hero, I’d have my daughter back by now.”

  “Blair…”

  “Andrew, use any excuse you need to make. Just handle it for me. Okay?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Please?”

  “Okay,” the lawyer finally said. “I’ll handle it.”

  There were twelve messages from his sister, all marked urgent. Blair asked his secretary to call and see if this was about his mother. She came back to him within five minutes and advised that Cynthia wanted to discuss something entirely different.

  The majority of the remaining messages were from the press. He threw those and the ones from his sister into his wastebasket.

  The conversation with Andrew Sciascia came to mind. As usual after the fact, he wondered if he had made the right decision. How many people get to meet the president? he asked himself.

  It didn’t matter.

  His decision had been the correct one. Participating in some silly photo-op would not be wise.

  CHAPTER 75

  The next morning, he came out of the subway and practically ran to his office, only to be disappointed. His instincts had been telling him that there would be news about his daughter today. Not that he understood why. He had simply talked it into himself that this would be so.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Jeremy’s mobile number.

  It seemed to ring forever before voicemail kicked in. “Hey, it’s me,” Blair said. “I really need to speak with you. Call me back.”

  After hanging up, he sat quietly, wondering what to do next.

  He got on the phone again and tried reaching the FBI agents without success. He left messages for both men.

  Later, finally concentrating on his business, he came to the conclusion that without Cyber-tech, and with no other potential winner in his stable of products, his company was in trouble.

  He made a list of his employees, their salaries, and the role each played. Firing people didn’t appeal to him. So he considered changing everyone to a four-day workweek. This way, they would keep their jobs, albeit at a reduced rate of compensation. Not the best solution, but not as discouraging as the alternative.

  He stood from his desk and was about to head out for coffee, when his intercom buzzed.

  “Your sister again,” his secretary told him. “Do I still tell her you’re busy?”

  “No.” Blair sighed. “I’ll take it.” He returned to his seat.

  “I’m really mad at you,” Cynthia said before he could say hello. “Didn’t your secretary tell you how many times I called?”

  “She told me.”

  “Well?”

  “I’ve had other things on my mind, Cyn.”

  She paused, then apologized and asked if there was any word about Sandra.

  “Nope. I still don’t know a damn thing.”

  “I’m sorry, Blair. Really I am. Mom’s condition hasn’t changed, by the way. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have wonderful news.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Hold on to your seat. Or your hat. Or whatever it is you can hold on to.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve won the lottery.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s true.” The joy was back in Cynthia’s voice. “Your Loto-Québec numbers came up. Not quite all of them. But five numbers for a cool quarter of a million dollars.”

  “A quarter of a mil—”

  “Yes. Can you believe it?”

  He tried to absorb the news and concluded that it was a curse. Like everything else in his life. His obsession with lottery tickets. His preoccupation with Cyber-tech. It was all interrelated. His need for the big score, his greed. “Listen
to me, Cyn,” he said. “I want you to cash it in. Use the money to get help for your hoarding problem. Put the balance in a savings account.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “You have to.”

  “Blair, you’re not making sense. Can’t you use this kind of money?”

  “Who couldn’t?” he said, thinking of his company’s bottom line.

  “Then why give it to me?”

  “You deserve it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Cynthia said. “You’re being far too hasty. I think you should sleep on it, at least for a day or two.”

  “I don’t need to sleep on it.”

  “You do! Besides, I can’t cash it in. The check will be made out in your name.”

  “I’ll have my lawyer draw up authorization. You should have it before the end of the week. And, Cyn, don’t renew the subscription.”

  “Why not? I thought you liked playing the lottery?”

  “Liked. Past tense. I’m cured.”

  “Cured of what?”

  “My bad habit.”

  “It’s not a habit, and it’s not bad.”

  “Bye, Cyn. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  After a quick lunch, Blair revisited his company’s financial problem. Putting himself in the shoes of his employees, he perceived the trouble his potential move was bound to create. Losing a chunk of one’s salary would surely be a hardship. People might quit. A few would feel betrayed. There had to be another way. He’d already contemplated cutting his own salary in half. But more was needed.

  Getting on the phone, he contacted the various presidents he knew at other toy companies. Using what he said was a hypothetical situation, he laid out his financial crunch and ran a few scenarios by them.

  Unfortunately, he came away no better off than when he had started.

  At home, he considered having a drink to calm his nerves. But he wanted to remain clear-headed, so he decided against it.

  At 10:00 PM he tried Jeremy again, to no avail. He found the number Lisa had given him and called it.