Martin Misunderstood

nod, then Mr Cordwell would go to the bathroom (the only entrance was through Martin's office), and then he'd come back again and toss the paper towel he'd used to dry his hands on to Martin's desk. They were heady times, the Cordwell days – peaceful times. That was before the Germans came in and made Martin hire an assistant. It was never the same with the old man gone.

Before Unique, he'd had his desk on the far wall, away from the toilets (she had changed that the first day). The view was better over there because you could see out the window to the factory floor. It gave you some sense of being part of a group. At times, Martin had glanced up and seen them all standing at their stations and thought, 'Ah, my colleagues.' Now, he kept his head down for fear of Unique misinterpreting his glance and shouting, 'Don't even think about it, fool. You ain't got the vocabulary to read this book!'

Unique was staring at him. 'I asked you a question, Fool.'

'What?' Martin asked, painfully aware that he had become so accustomed to being addressed as 'Fool'. He was even beginning to think of it as a proper noun.

'I said, where is Sandy?'

Martin glanced out the window. The stairs leading up to the executive office were empty. Usually, Sandy came down to use the bathroom and check in with Unique before work started. It was odd that she wasn't here, especially since last night's episode of Dancing With the Stars had been particularly competitive. Even the judges had been shocked.

Unique craned her neck, trying to see up the stairs. 'Who's that?'

Martin was thinking the same thing. He saw a foot appear at the top of the stairs. It was clad in a white tennis shoe. His gaze followed tan hose up the calf to a below-the-knee beige skirt. Who did that calf belong to? A beauty queen? A salesperson from a pulp goods distributor? The woman started to walk down the stairs, and he was reminded of the beautiful passage from The Great Gatsby when we first meet Mrs Wilson… 'She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can.'

'Uh-oh,' Unique said. 'This ain't good.'

'Her face… contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smoldering.'

'What's wrong with you, Fool?'

Martin became aware that his mouth was hanging open.

'That's the police.'

Unique pronounced the word with two syllables: po-lice. Martin glanced around the room at the boxes stacked high to the ceiling as if he could detect some theft. Southern had been broken into once before. In 1996, just before the Olympics, hooligans had busted the back door and papered the entire factory floor. Martin had been the first to discover the crime; he could still remember the sense of abject violation he'd felt as he'd picked 2300 from the machinery. Had it happened again? Who had dared to target Southern Toilet Supply this time? What rapscallion had breached the sanctity of a small American business that was owned by a multinational conglomerate?

On the stairs, he saw that there was a man behind the woman, a gray-haired, square shoulders kind of guy who probably wore cologne and winked a lot to make his point. Rounding up the end of the group was Norton Shaw, whose face was scrunched up like a fist.

'Uh-oh,' Unique repeated. 'Norton don't look happy.'

Martin was standing, his fists clenched. Who had attacked this simple little business? What had they done this time?

The door opened. The woman stood there, light pouring in all around her. Her blonde hair had been permed too much, or perhaps the winter weather had split the ends. There were tiny splotches of dry skin on her face and what looked like the last throes of a pimple in the crevice of her right nostril. She was older than he had first guessed, probably in her late forties, which somehow made her more beautiful (even as a boy, Martin had always been attracted to older women). There was just something about her – some kind of inner beauty, an air of knowing – that commanded attention.

She took in the office, the stacked boxes, the potted succulents. Behind her, the man asked, 'Are you the twat?'

Unique barked a laugh that made Martin's eardrums hurt. 'That's him. That Fool over there.' She pointed a long red fingernail his way.

Norton Shaw gave Martin a wary glance before turning around and wordlessly heading back up the stairs.

The woman took a wallet out of her jacket pocket. She flipped it open to show Martin a gold badge. 'I'm Anabahda.'

Martin squinted at the ID above her badge, trying to put words to the sounds he had heard. She closed the wallet too fast, though.

'This is Detective Bruce Benedict, my partner.'

The man winked at Martin, but his focus was squarely on Unique, taking in every inch of her. She smiled at his attention, practically batting her eyelashes. With his slicked-back hair, expensive suit and purple silk tie, he reminded Martin of a character from a Stuart Woods novel. And, like the typical Woodsian character, he carried himself as if every woman he met wanted to give him a blowjob.

'You're Martin Reed?' Anabahda asked.

'Yes.' He added, 'ma'am' to let her know he respected her authority. 'Are you here about my car? I hope you've caught the vandal.'

'Why don't we go somewhere and talk? Your boss said we could use the conference-'

'You got a card?' Unique interrupted.

Martin smiled at Anabahda. 'You'll have to excuse-'

'Fool, these are detectives. They don't send detectives when somebody twats up your car.' She snapped her fingers at Benedict. 'Gimme your card.'

The man gave his partner a knowing, lopsided smile as he handed his card to Unique.

'Homicide!' she screamed, nearly falling out of her chair. 'Martin, you don't talk to Homicide cops. My cousin talked to them once and he got sent to jail for twenty years!'

Anabahda asked, 'What's your cousin's name?'

Unique's face went blank. She picked up her purse. 'I think I left my oven on.' She scampered out the door, only the lingering scent of garlic and mocha latte indicating she had even been there.

Martin swallowed. He was alone with her now, except for Benedict. 'Can I see your card, please?'

She took out her wallet again and dug around in one of the pockets. 'This is just routine questioning, Mr Reed. There's no reason to worry.'

He took the card, electric shocks going through his body when his fingers brushed against hers. Martin noticed that she chewed her cuticles, just like he did.

'Mr Reed?'

He realized he was staring at her. Martin ducked down his head, reading the card: Detective Anther 'An' Albada, Homicide Division. 'An' not 'Anne' or 'Ann' but 'An'. The simplicity was breathtaking, yet alluring. And the Albada… how exotic, how foreign… He wanted to touch the raised letters to see if the tingling sensation came back.

'Mr Reed?' She was leaning against Unique's desk, arms crossed over her chest. He saw a gold Timex on her wrist – spare, utilitarian, just like the lady.

She looked tired. He wondered what it might feel like to have her put her head in his lap. Martin blushed at the thought, thinking that, if she could read his mind, she would assume that his wanting her head in his lap had sexual connotations, which was not the case – he simply wanted to stroke her hair, to ask her about her day. Maybe he would make her fishsticks and Tater Tots (Martin's favorite meal), and then when the kids came home, he would help them with their homework and then carry her to bed where they would make sweet, gentle love and she would look into his eyes and-

'Mr Reed?'

Martin looked back at her. 'Yes, ma'am?'

'Can you tell us where you were yesterday?'