“I told you to have the report ready this morning.” Chief held his reading glasses up to the light, rubbed them gently with a cloth, and, when satisfied they were clean, put them on and began to read through a folder on his desk, apparently ignoring me. That was typical. He was no-nonsense. I had come to deeply respect him over the past decade of working for him. He had taken me under his wing with as much affection as he allowed himself to show anyone, which was not much. He hated wasting time, and enjoyed making the point to me by usually performing two or three tasks while talking with me. Today was not a bad day-he was only reading.
“I was going to finish it when I came to work this morning.”
A tiny smile on his lips, he did not look up but instead casually flipped a switch on his intercom. “Could you tell Staff Sergeant Okoro to come over?” he told Stella, then flipped the switch off and began signing papers. I waited, watching him, wondering who Mr. Old Calluses was and why Chief had seen him.
Chief of Police Isaac Olatunji had worked hard to be where he was. The man was probably one of his networking contacts. Chief was in his early fifties, tall, slender, with a long slim face. A Yoruba Moslem from the South-West, he did not indulge in smoking, drinking, or womanizing like some other officers.
“Sir, I saw you on TV yesterday on the national news. If I may butter you up, it was a fine speech. If someone had tried to kill Okpara it would be no surprise; it was one more example of the dark cave into which Nigerian politics has crawled.”
He looked up at me briefly, arched his eyebrow, then went back to reading and signing. “I don’t need any of your blathering today, detective. If you really wanted to butter me up you would have gotten your report finished and on my desk this morning.” All while reading and signing. “I don’t watch myself on television. Why were you watching it instead of working?”
His voice was hushed and serious. Chief had rung me up himself yesterday to say there had been a bomb explosion at Okpara’s house, and he wanted me over there immediately. It was very rare that he would call me directly about a case.
At least he kept me working.
There was a knock on the door. Chief said “Come,” and Staff Sergeant Okoro entered. Chief tore himself from his paperwork for a moment. Okoro saluted, just as a good police officer should. I respected that good-police-officer approach. I respected Okoro. He was like one of my uncles. An uncle who drank all your beer if you left him alone in your kitchen-but an uncle.
“At ease, sergeant,” Chief said. “Temporarily transfer the Team B surveillance van to Akpan.”
“But, sir-”
Chief raised his hand. “We have no choice. Get the van ready. He dropped by this morning to say his team needs the other surveillance van. Theirs is in the workshop again.”
“Yes, sir.” He saluted again, quite neatly. As he turned sharply on his heel, he shot me a despairing look. For his benefit-actually, he has to do what Chief tells him-I shrugged my shoulders at him: What can you do? Team B was his team but Akpan had the rank.
After Okoro left, Chief said, “The report on my desk, detective, by noon. You can go.”
I said, “Thank you, sir,” and got up.
“Tammy, call Stella in here on your way out.”
“Was her father really Marlon Brando?”
“No, it was that Tennessee Williams fellow. You can leave now, detective. I have important things to do.” He was back to the papers on his desk.
I excused myself, saluted as best I could, and left his office. Stella nodded at me as I walked by, busy at her typewriter. I told her Chief wanted her in his office and she scurried inside. I went down to my car and drove to the older block across the Yard.
When I walked into my office, I saw my partner, Femi, deep in files, almost like a younger version of Chief. He had opened the only window for relief, but the steamy air was no improvement. My office was small. No new paint on the wall, no new furniture. The floor was rarely cleaned, the windows never. Many seasons had passed since I became a detective, and my office remained as grungy as it had been when I walked in the door for the very first time.
“Good morning, lieutenant,” Femi said as I squeezed past him. “Here is the final report on the bombing.”
Didn’t know Femi would have the report ready. Wasn’t about to face Chief with the report.
I sat and opened the file but found it difficult to concentrate. I knew the details already, but the file had to be checked for accuracy. I had lost interest before I finished page ten and gave up totally at thirteen. The file in my hands, I pushed my chair back as much as I could in the space available, stretching my legs. I looked over at Femi. He ignored me, having his own work to get through.
I looked at the file but thought about Freda. I’m not a bad guy. My dog loves me-well, it would if I had one. Freda. She deserved much more than I was giving. It was a lot to live up to, and I did not know if I had it in me to give more. My work took plenty.
It did not make sense. Freda appeared to be everything I wanted in a woman. It was luck that she was not just my lover, but my friend; luck that she wanted me. Good luck for me. Whether it was also good luck for her wasn’t for me to say, but I knew the answer, and I was not proud of it. I knew I had to make a decision, and that if it was to stay with Freda and meet her needs, I would have to push myself. I was used to pushing myself for work, but not for anything else.
I was attracted to her the first time I saw her, at a friend’s birthday party. I couldn’t help but stare. It was a combination of her stunning physical presence and her attitude. She had modellike long slim arms and legs. Her fine, short, straight sable hair accentuated her huge hazel eyes. Fair complexioned, she’d narrowly escaped being an albino, but I bet neither of her parents is. She was elegant in a black flowing dress that bared her lovely shoulders. My mind told me not to stare but my eyes would not obey.
She was chatting with our host, Modestus, and two other men. He was married, and his wife, nearby, kept an eye on them. I wondered which one of the two men had come with Freda, or whether either had, and whether I could arrest both to get them out of the picture. It never occurred to me she had not arrived with a man-at least, not until pondering it just now.
I knew I could use Modestus for an introduction to this fabulous mystery woman, especially with his wife watching. As I approached, the woman turned my way and our eyes met. I smiled, raised my glass of wine to her, and mouthed “Cheers.” She ignored me. That was a good sign. She had taste, ignoring me. The two men walked off so I made my move before any other men got ideas.
At first I ignored her and greeted Modestus. “Happy birthday, old boy,” I said as I shook hands with him.
“Thanks buddy.”
That was as long as I could ignore her. “And who’s this?”
“Tammy, meet Freda Agboke. She works with the Mercury Insurance Company here in Port Harcourt.”
She held out a well-manicured delicate hand. A pianist’s long fingers. Slim wrists.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. Her hand felt warm; touching it was like walking into your home.
“Freda, meet a very good friend of mine, Tamunoemi Peterside. We all call him Tammy. He’s a police detective attached to Homicide. You can get along with him when he’s not carrying handcuffs,” he said, punching my side playfully. “Or maybe especially when he’s carrying handcuffs.” That was Modestus-always subtle.
“My pleasure, Mr. Peterside.” Very cool. She had heard it all before. I might as well have given up and gone home if I was going to just feed her lines.