Eileen Slovak

Chapter Thirteen: Up Chuck and Pretty Boy

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scott

Slumansky is one of the few investigators without a military or a civil service background. He’s the former brother-in-law of one of the relocated agents. Jeff’s concerns with his performance were partly the reason I was sent here. I’m supposed to play Mr. Fix it, to investigate my fellow investigator. Walking into the office, I’m assaulted by the reek of onions. Chuck sits at one of two desks in the small cramped office space. My first impression is that he’s a slovenly mess. His white dress shirt is un-tucked. His burgundy and black striped tie loosened, and there’s a large ketchup stain on his right front shirt pocket. Empty to-go containers are strewn all over on the floor surrounding his desk. On the surface, loose papers and files are spread out in disarray. In the middle of the piles, he’s eating a foot-long steak sandwich out of a subway wrapper. The absence of French fries means the stain is not new.

      “Chuck,” I say, extending my hand. “Scott Manchester. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

      Slumansky waves off the handshake and remains seated.

      “Yeah, yeah, Manchester. They told me you were coming here to work for some mucky mucks. They didn’t tell me you were such a pretty boy.” He takes a huge bite of the sandwich, talking with his mouth full. “I hear you were a Navy Chief. I was expecting someone tougher.”

      “You know what they say, about judging a book by the cover,” I answer. I’m still standing, now with my hands in my jacket pockets. I can bench 275 pounds, which is about what I estimate Chuck weighs. In my mind, I’m tossing him around the room like a rag doll. Two days of beard growth gives me an edge, but otherwise my looks tend to undermine my merciless attitude. Frigging genetics.

      “No matter. This is a BS case anyway as you probably figured out by now, if you have half a brain. Probably a waste of a trip down here. Grab a chair. I’ll give you the benefit of my experience.”

      As a rule, I prefer to form my own judgments of people rather than weighing too heavily on hearsay. Agency policy dictates that all new agents remain under supervision for their first three months. I’m required to report to Slumansky regularly with my progress on this case. If I have to deal with the guy, best to keep an open mind.

      I listen while Slumansky prattles on, working hard to mask my irritation. I’m not about to let this creep see he’s getting under my skin. I’ve had my share of hard ass bosses in the military. I’m not easily irked, but tolerating this jerk is going to be a challenge. Looking at him makes me queasy. While he rambles on, he stuffs his face with the sandwich. He drops onions and bits of pepper onto the wrapper. Then he scoops them up with greasy fingers and stuffs them in his gob. There’s a smear of grease on his chin that’s been there since I walked in. A pile of napkins sits untouched on the desk. With the same oily fingers, he scans porn on his laptop. He stops periodically to show me anything especially graphic.

      “How about this little juicy number, eh?”

      He finishes the sandwich and reaches into a box of donuts that is sitting on his desk. He motions for me to help myself but I decline. Somehow, I’ve lost my appetite.

I decide Up Chuck is a good nickname for him. Now I’m especially eager to wrap up this case quickly in order to see the back of him. Maybe the North Carolina office needs more help. I have family there; it’s been too long. What is Jeff thinking about keeping this guy on? The only thing I agree with Up Chuck about is that it doesn’t seem to be much of a case.