I had been daring Gomez to go and eve’s drop by the captain’s door, but he was having none of it. Not even a double, stuffed crust, pepperoni pizza would persuade him. So, I resorted to cheating. Rock, Paper, Scissor…. Dynamite. My mind filled with evil laughter as I recalled how well it had worked at a children’s party and now here too, with Gomez. I was winning 6-1 when I heard loud clickety-clacking noises become louder. Jane appeared looking every bit as aristocratic as she had when she slammed the door in my face. Behind her, the Captain, whom I had not seen that morning, was looking every bit like the few hours of sleep he had. Unshaven with rouge tufts of hair standing up in random places where a quick brush had not been able to persuade his bed hair to cooperate. His eyes looked glazed. His uniform was the same as he had on yesterday. I could tell by the small coffee stain and his tie hung all skew. But more concerning to me was his demeanour.

Shoulders slumped; head bowed. This man was two hundred-and-twenty pounds of broken. Then the stale smell of cheap Whiskey hit me.

I opened the counter hatch, as before, and Jane strutted through without giving me a second glance. As the doors slid apart the Frenchy stood there with pricked up Bat ears and a questioning expression. She sniffed the reception air, sneezed twice, and turned to follow Jane which left me wondering: What’s next?

And there was my answer, in the flesh. The station chief was still standing in the doorway looking worse for wear with an expression of a man who had just been accosted by a Cartoon Tasmanian Devil on speed. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and glassy and I was sure I saw his hand shake a little. On his forehead small bead of sweat glistened under the fluorescent lighting as he continued to permeate the air with the sour stench of alcohol excreting through his pores. He looked a real mess.

He gestured to me to follow him, which I did, keeping a sniff safe distance. Whiskey I enjoy, smelling it second hand in the form of putrid body odour, not so much.

I closed the office door behind us and watched the chief slinger his way past his desk and fall back into his padded office chair like a bag of wheat. He sat there for several moments, mute, staring at his clasped hands. I knew the chief was no pushover but something, or someone had rattled his cage, big time. I am no stranger to politics, but I was still learning whose toes to avoid and whose arses to kick in the USBP. However, I have never been one to kiss the ring, ever, and today would be no exception. I knew the chief was not a man who lets himself be bullied. Likewise, I had witnessed agents cower with humiliation after the Chief let loose a barrage of profanity and explained, without ambiguity, what he tolerated and what would set in motion a landslide of unpleasant repercussions to any violator. But here and now the man looked worse than my Uncle Bob after his heart attack. Broken. And smelling like a distillery. On the bright side, his office has a separate air-conditioning unit, and I could already feel my armpits clapping in jubilation as the cool, odourless air cooled my skin.

I waited silently, standing before the Chief’s desk, as he continued to brood. Trying to arrange his thoughts in among the haze of confusion and hang over brain, I guessed.

He lifted his head and glazed at me though narrow, bloodshot eyes. Moving only the necessary muscles, the rest of his face remained still as if filled with Botox. His lips twitched and began to move silently. I had no idea if he was speaking and I should step forward or if I was witnessing a very personal, preparation ritual. Preparation for what? I shuddered.

‘What do you know about Jane?’

Hmm, no “good morning Rookie”. No, “please sit down, make yourself comfortable. Feel free to buzz Gomez and get us both a cup of coffee. For me? Black. Double strength and lots of sugar”. Nope, straight to the point. The chief was clawing back some of his confidence. Ha. Coffee first. Then confidence.

‘Sir.’

I began to rattle off the little information I had about the Tropical Thunderstorm that we call Jane. Leaving out the fact that I had not followed up on Vanessa, who was technically an illegal. I also left out the fact that I was besotted with the little Frenchy and had found my soul mate.

The chief rubbed his eyes with the ball of his palms. Result? Now even redder eyes and looking Zombie like. But the aircon is truly something to behold. Keep procrastinating Chief. My back, armpits and nether region salute you.

The Zombie looked at me. I didn’t know whether to laugh or pat him on the head and say something like: “It’s OK. It happens to many. Not me. I’m a good little rookie. And for the other thing. I hear those little blue pills work wonders. Never needed them myself…” and at that moment I would realise, he’s going to shoot me. So I stayed put, mute.

The zombified Chief sat back in his chair. Now with a resolute aura about him. His eyes were less glazed. The shutters in his eyes fully open. He leaned forward again and intertwined his fingers.

‘You are being seconded.’

I stared back blankly. WTF?

‘I have been ordered,’ the Chief waved his right hand in the air. ‘From so far up, that I got vertigo just thinking about it, that I am to make you, and where required, all the sites’ resources, available to Jane. No questions asked. You are to report to her and use me as a liaison for anything required from the Department.’

OK, brain fart. WTF? Jane? Me? To what end?

The chief must have read my expression because he threw his hands up defensively and continued:

‘Look, I’m just as confused as you are. I’d hoped you may have some answers but judging from your expression, you, like me, are part of a Mushroom plantation that has just been fed a whole new kind of shit. And the lights are still off. Because mushrooms are kept in the dark.’

The chief fidgeted in his chair. Why was he explaining himself to me? Rookie — Chief. Order me and I get it done. Simple.

His shoulders drooped again. His confidence dissipating.

‘I would ask if you had any questions but since I don’t have any answers. Dismissed. And report to Jane directly.’

‘Yes, sir.’ I turned and waddled bow legged to the door. I was not letting any aircon go to waste. As I opened the door, I heard the chief ask.

‘Agent Scott, who the fuck is Jane?’

Agent? Did he just call me agent? I turned and donned the best phlegmatic expression I could muster.

‘Sir, I am more afraid of the answer than of the question.’

The chief nodded. His head bowed so I couldn’t see his eyes. I opened the door just enough to slip back into the office oven and closed the door. My mind in chaos. But at least I would see the Frenchy again.