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How does Gramble Thyssen, middle-aged and complacent bureaucrat, transform into an brilliant FBI agent Extract from the book: Chapter 1 Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board. Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937) Birdie in the hand for life's rich demand The insurgency began and you missed it I looked for it and I found it Miles Standish proud, congratulate me A philanderer's tie, a murderer's shoe Let's begin again begin the begin Let's begin again Begin the Begin R.E.M. (1986) i. Gramble Gramble Thyssen was looking at the clock wondering when it would strike 5 PM so that he could leave. The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) was, as always, devoid of any customers and the silence preoccupied him: the hum of the air-conditioning, the occasional cough several aisles away, the shuffling of papers, or creak of a chair. He was alone today in his cubicle again as Edith was out pregnant and George started showing premature signs of Alzheimers and no one had been assigned yet to the other corner and was rummaging in the tomb of his memories. Funny how these partitions create a fake sense of isolation and look so desolate with their laminate surfaces, the carbon copy telephones and old monitors and power strips. The Wi-Fi was relatively unstable (despite being spitting distance between the Lincoln Memorial and the White House in central Washington, DC) and the network cables were all missing that little plastic tab designed to hold the cable in the laptop port. If all four occupants of the cubicle pushed back on their chairs, they would collide without even stretching out their legs. And should two of them need to make a phone call at the same time, well, it was hard to hear oneself think sometimes. The Standing Rock conflict in North Dakota was still a few years away, so things were very quiet. Too quiet. He opened the file before him once again. It had a few receipts stapled inside the cover smudged with a dirty thumbprint and slightly crumbled from being in his pocket. They were from his investigative trip down to Florida. What a change from DC. He decided to stretch his legs and walked over to the window from which he could see a corner of the Washington Monument. In his reflection in the window, he was a bit pale and haggard with salt and peppered brownish hair with high cheekbones and penetrating blue eyes. At 43, and a few inches shy of six foot, he had already started developing a bit of a beer gut. His thoughts drifted to that trip down to Miami. First off, after kissing the kids and his wife goodbye (Daddy will be back in just a day or two) that airplane ride on an aging 737 with staff that looked as if they were recruited in a nursing home probably easier to keep these ageing employees on minimum wage and increase the airlines profit margins rather than paying younger people that would ask for higher salaries. It did tug at his heart when their tottering hands were handing scalding hot coffee across the two seats to him at the window (out of pity or out of fear of spilt coffee, he couldnt say.) Then, the mess of Miami International Airport (MIA) which, still, after decades, was under constant construction. This time around his luggage was not lost (no, he was an old-fashioned traveler that didnt mind checking bags even if it meant losing them occasionally). He was in no hurry; he was not really expected at the casino a sort of surprise inspection or rather inconspicuous observation, nonetheless a regular monthly one. He had suspicions of collusion of the corrupt members of the tribes running the casino with organized crime and thus being too obvious and cocksure with a formal visit would, of course, cause the mafia-connected individuals to flee like shadows when a light is turned on in a dark basement. He had a sense of rage against injustice; for a long time, he was able to feel he was making a difference at the BIA, bu
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