Karin Slaughter - Martin Misunderstood

At times, she reminded him of the Geraldine doll his mother had bought him for Christmas when he was a child. Flip Wilson was one side while Geraldine, his cross-dressing alter ego, was on the other. Pull the cord and witticisms would come out, such as 'The Devil made me do it!' and 'When you're hot, you're hot!'

Perhaps worst of all, and even more humiliating than listening to her complain to her sister about menstrual cramps while she took off her shoes and lotioned her feet, was that she kept promoting herself. On her first day, Martin had foolishly given Unique the ability to order her own business cards. In the course of three years, her title had changed from 'accounting assistant', to 'accounts executive' to 'senior account executive'. Any day now, he fully expected to find a card that read, 'Unique Jones, Chief Financial Officer'.

Meanwhile, Martin's own cards simply read, 'Accounting'. He had ordered a thousand printed up his first day of work. Sixteen years had passed and the box was still half-full.

Back in the parking lot, Unique had stopped at the front door. 'Your mama didn't teach you to open the door for a lady?'

Martin was opening the door for her as a witty comeback occurred, but she was halfway to her desk by the time his mouth moved to get it out.

She said, 'Don't mumble, fool,' as she tossed her purse on to the desk. The chair made a noise like two pool balls hitting against each other as she sat.

Martin quietly put his stack of business cards, his pens, the yellow legal pad and his report on his own desk. His chair made no noise as he sat down and turned on his computer. When he'd first started working at Southern, the only automated part of the process was an IBM Selectric that got stuck on the 'g' and the 'l' no matter how many times it was cleaned. All the ledgers had been done by hand – Martin's hand. People from the factory floor were in and out of his office all day, giving Martin a quick wave or a smile. Mr Cordwell, the owner, would occasionally drop in and talk to him about fishing or taking the family out on the lake that weekend. Martin would 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.'