Chapter 2

The moment Smith and Teddy got to the hallway of the office, all they heard was the boisterous Chief Martin making a fool of himself as usual, all in the name of motivating the office and pulling a crowd. There he was, standing on the desk that was wedged between the trashcan and the corner of the room, making weird noises and trying to get applause from the crowd.

Perhaps he was embarrassing enough to elicit pity from someone, or maybe someone actually found it funny. A certain woman, whom Smith was sure worked in the accounting department, began to give a small clap, which eventually turned into a loud round of applause in the office.

This was like a parting gift because, as usual, as soon as the applause started, Martin gave a very low bow, spread his arms dramatically, and left by jumping off the desk, landing on the floor in one of the most awkward poses that Smith had ever witnessed a grown man do in his whole life.

Smith passed Chief Martin with a greeting and waited for the day’s instructions. After all, he was the chief they had been waiting for since they arrived at the office that morning—never mind his theatrics. Officer Teddy, who was the quieter one of the two, was a distance away, still typing away on his phone, wearing an unaware look on his face.

Smith wasn’t so eager to embark on any mission that wasn’t fully planned out. Most times, Martin’s missions were poorly planned, and they often ended up with the team being outsmarted or the other team getting away with whatever deal was going on. Either way, most of the missions they embarked on were a flop, and Smith knew it was not his fault, and neither was Teddy’s—it was Chief Martin’s fault.

“Good morning, Chief Martin,” Smith greeted as he reached the round man, who was wearing a small grin on his face, sweat mapping his armpits and back. His uniform was a little tight around the crotch, and Smith didn’t want to think about where the man was or what on Earth he had done that early in the day actually to give him an erection. Frankly, it was none of his business, and he knew this for a fact.

“Smith,” Martin said and gave a long stare at Smith, making the man glance at his shirt, hoping he didn’t have a coffee stain or perhaps a boner, just like he imagined the man had.

“There’s something different about you today, Smith… I can’t place it… Ehhhhh…” he thought for a while and then clicked his tongue. “Ahhh… Your hair, you cut your fucking hair! It’s been so beautiful, I envy you. Why did you cut your hair, boy?” Martin asked.

“Thank you very much, sir. I’m glad you find my hair beautiful. I didn’t cut it; I shaved my beard off, sir,” Smith replied.

Martin snorted. “Haaa… You’re kidding, yeah?” he asked and looked at Smith, whose expression hadn’t changed at the very least.

“Really? You didn’t cut your hair? I could have sworn you wore it longer yesterday,” he stated and then shrugged. “Oh well… you look different. Maybe you got fucked today,” he decided and then turned to walk into his office after grabbing a small black cup of creamed coffee from the personal assistant.

Smith wasn’t envious of the man; frankly, he did not see what was there to be envious of. Firstly, his hair—or lack of hair—was something that made others grateful for what they had on their heads, no matter how little. Chier Martin balded so beautifully that it was hard ever to imagine that he had once had any strands of hair on his head.

But then, the pictures framed and hung in his office were an alibi that he was once a fine—although still overweight—young man with just enough hair to go to a barber’s shop and style it.

The creamed coffee that he kept taking all morning at the office was something Smith was pushed almost to tell him once or twice that it would kill him if he didn’t already have diabetes.

Well, Martin chuckled and told him that if he were dying, then it would have to be with a gun in his hand and not by getting too much sugar in his belly.

After saying this with so much assurance, Smith had tried never ever to mention his sugar intake and sweet tooth to him again. After all, he was his superior, and anything he said out of turn could, in fact, be punishable.

Smith walked behind him, watching his round buttocks wiggle and sway in his faded uniform and his waist twist from side to side. He had strong arms, the kind that could squeeze life out of someone, even someone of his own size. Smith knew first-hand that those arms, no matter how fat they looked, actually had strength in them and could crush you if he put in just enough effort.

But that was about the only thing he had to his advantage. His stance was poor, and even as Smith looked at him, he could think of a dozen ways to trip him and take him out before he knew what hit him. But then, he couldn’t do that; that was his superior, and as boring as his job was, he still needed it to pay his bills.

Martin got to his office, thanked the assistant who handed him another cup of coffee, and then ogled her as she walked out, casting Smith a small wink. Smith knew he was an attractive man, and he didn’t pass up any opportunity to use his looks to his advantage.

After emptying the second Styrofoam cup and accurately dumping it into the trash can, he plopped into the swivel chair behind his desk. He rubbed a large hand over his face, wiping off whatever sweat he had. Then, he picked up two envelopes that lay untouched on the center of his desk.

“Now, to the business of the day,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Smith, and then dug into the envelopes. He read for a few minutes, then frowned, shaking his head with a little smile on his face, one that meant resignation rather than actual joy.

He tore into the second envelope, took out a picture, and then took one long look at it before trying his best not to smile genuinely this time.

“I bet she ain’t anywhere she doesn’t want to be,” he mumbled.