by Dale Bailey
In retrospect none of us could say with any precision when it began. Condon had never been part of our set. Grandfathered into the club by one of those old robber barons whose fortunes had declined, he was essentially nondescript—capable of maintaining a decent conversation, pleasant enough to be around, but not the kind of man with whom one formed deep and lasting relationships.
When we met him, we were friendly. When we didn’t — which was the norm, Condon not being ubiquitous in our circles — we didn’t think of him at all. So it was hard to say, as we thought the thing through among ourselves, when precisely it had begun — a task complicated by the fact that none of us had known anything had begun, until it was over.