It was damned good to have him back. Breaking in the new kid nearly drove me nuts over the summer. She was good, but keeping her grandfather from interfering took more work than I really needed while showing her the ropes. Amber sat three sets of desks over, alone for now, studying as her next partner was on vacation. Something we in the CRAPP division tend to milk out as much as possible on. Then again, the Cleanup, Remediation, And Paranormal Protection jobs take their toll faster if we skip those days off we can sneak.
"Yeah, we also kill more trees than any other division in the agency." My personal pet peeve was high this morning, testified to by my overflowing trash can, old type writer and twelve open bottles of that screwup hiding stuff. Watching the guys with computers upstairs do reports last week, I felt I really deserved something more modern than 1950's era surplus. But not for my chair. It may be that old, and failing, but I have it broken in to that wonderful stage called "comfortable".
Longhand tossed his copy of a report on a cleanup from back in the spring over to me. The Hell Hound thing ate up more trees than most quarters did in the office. If I ever find the damned fool that felt crossing a hell hound with a red bones bloodhound, I intend to use all four edges of every sheet of paperwork that generated to flay him with. Or her, not trying to be sexist (Yes, they just made me watch those mandatory political correctness videos. Again.). Satan's puppies, I was calling them. So help me, former partner or not, if Blair had a hand in it, I was dumping the paperwork on him.
Kirk hates paperwork as much as I do. The only reason we do it is Jim's Law. Our boss, Jim Young, painted this on the walls a few years back. "No paychecks issued until the paperwork is CORRECTLY filed."
I intend to have it made up on a brass plaque for him someday. With my name listed as "chief violator".
"Tanner, Longhand. Quit screwing off, and finish that Environmental Impact Statement." Hollering from his office door, coffee mug in hand to raid my precious supply of Kona again, Jim strolled into what I tend to call the Pits of the Damned, the small cubicle room that is the CRAPP offices.
I'm Tanner, or at least that is the name the thing on the desk claims for me. It lies a lot. Saying things like I am a "Remediation Specialist", when janitor is a lot closer. It also says my first name is Trey, not Troy. What can you expect, it was made by the lowest bidder, like all things governmental not associated with a corner office are.
"Jim, get me some leads on which redneck is behind it, I can stop the mess." I pushed aside his hand reaching for the pot. "Tanner's Law." My words accompanied a gesture towards my sign. "No expense accounts approved, no coffee stealing allowed."
"Not me this time, the IG held them upstairs. He said he'll sign off this time, but your next set gets submitted to him with a personal interview over why you needed those items." Trusting Jim, who is a former partner, I let him fill the mug.
"Yeah, fine. The IG and Director Johnson can check my expense reports all they want. If they want to ride along next time." Finding things to extinguish dog-poo reacting closer to napalm than fertilizer took a hellish amount of experimenting. Not to mention a lot of cleanup behind the failures.
"They might do that. Congressional Oversight Committee meetings next week." Jim smiling with that retort set my nerves on edge. Hell, to avoid those, they might.
Leaning back, I noted a well known gleam in his eyes. "Where and what, Jim?"
My heart sank when he pulled out a thermos to fill next. He expected me to cut him off again after this assignment. Taking his time to fill it, part of an old game dating back before his promotion up the food chain.
What he said chilled my heart. "Region One requested help. Dan said he'd even let you in the office."
Dan Martin, the Region One CRAPP liaison hates my guts. Something to do with using his BMW as a pen to keep a litter of young werewolves in. Hey, I filled out the expense report, justified it, just a budget cut cost him the car in the end.
Kirk leaned back in his chair, looking skyward. "More white-man mess to clean."
"Mother Nature's mess." Jim laughed. "No playing that race card to get out on Native blood reasons, Kirk. They say it has something to do with salamanders. Starting fires in hunting cabins and barns out there."
"Sounds like a white guy from Fish and Wildlife's problem." Kirk pressed on, but his eyes narrowed at that creature being named. "Oh, hell no. White folk brought the fire breathers here, not my people."
"On a reservation in upstate Maine." Jim twisted the knife, stealing a handful of candy from Kirk's desk jar. "You get nominated as lead to keep your people happy."
Looking across the desk, I waved off Kirk's next try. "Fine. Anything that has Dan ready to let me back into New England must be real, and scary." Standing up, I glanced to the wall plaque with the names of the fallen agents on it. Something about this raised my hackles, wondering whose name would get engraved on it next.
Kirk's glance spoke volumes. He wanted to head home for some time off. I let a smile cut my face after Jim's door closed. "Think you can convince your fellow natives to cut me a fishing permit?"
"Not my tribe, but I can try." He looked dubious.
Flashing a set of Office of the Inspector General's ID's for him, expertly forged over to us, I smiled. "We are looking at blaming the BIA for everything."
If you investigate the Bureau of Indian Affairs, most Natives bend over backwards to help. Especially when a fellow native is part of the team.
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