The Score

by HJ Golakai

  Chlöe leapt from the faux leather lounger. “Are you fucking kidding me? You can’t seriously think this is important. It’s not part of the deal!”

  “The deal was to pursue every avenue, then we can go.”

  “Yeah, every worthy avenue. How the hell is this relevant?”

  “We won’t find out standing here.” Vee trailed Zintle into the hallway, throwing back a questioning glance as she held the door open. Chlöe grumbled and stomped over the threshold after them. “And stop fuckin’ cussing, for shit’s sake. Dirty ass mouth,” Vee clipped her at the back of her head.

  “I didn’t say they were fighting.”

  “Ma-me-lo,” Zintle drawled in disbelief. She clapped her hands once, surprised, and took a backward step, head shaking.

  “Ah-ah! Me I never said fighting. Ehh you, always adding extra spice and chakalaka to stories. She always does that.” Mamelo tossed Vee a conspiratorial wink, tipping water into a spray bottle of what smelled like industrial-strength cleaning fluid and shaking vigorously.

  “You know what you told me. Don’t try and make me look bad.” Zintle cocked her chin, adamant. “She said they were fighting.”

  Vee blew a breath over her sweaty upper lip as she fanned the front of her T-shirt. The corridor suddenly felt too close, no air sifting in from any direction, the scent of cleaning agents and floor polish creeping up her nose. “How were they – hey, hey, listen now, please – how were they talking to each other? They were yelling? Sort of yelling? Were they pissed off but trying to keep their voices low, like angry whispers?”

  Done arranging a colourful plethora of cleaning containers on her push-trolley, Mamelo pushed it to one side, peeped into the room she was meant to be servicing and quickly shut the door. “No-one looked angry. They were more like …” Deliberating, she massaged one ear, an arc of flesh stapled through to the uppermost curve with tiny silver hoops. Vee ogled, unconsciously massaging her own ear, pierced with three meagre holes, all threaded through with a fine gold chain. Must’ve been one helluva excruciating month if she did that all at once, she awed.

  “Excited,” Mamelo snapped her fingers. “Ms Greenwood was excited. Maybe not excited, don’t know how to explain it. Surprised kind of. She stopped the lady and started talking, only this lady looked confused and kept shaking her head, and she kept insisting. They talked a bit, then the lady started to go. Ms Greenwood stopped her again and asked something else, the woman shook her head and said something back, they laughed a bit and then she left.”

  “Scintillating,” Chlöe groused.

  “Who left first?” Vee persisted. “Who walked away, the lady?”

  “Ummm … yes. Yes, she walked away. Then I went to talk to Ms Greenwood.”

  “And what was her expression? Greenwood, how was her face looking?”

  Mamelo pursed her lips. “It was looking like her face, the one she always had.”

  Vee pumped at her T-shirt, ignoring fumes of mounting impatience wafting from Chlöe’s direction. Greenwood had been immersed in her job, thoroughly, and hands-on with clientele. With an excellent memory. It could have been nothing more than a genial conversation with a guest. Or a dangerous lot more.

  “Maybe she looked a bit confused too,” Mamelo threw in, shrugging apologetically.

  “You remember what the other woman looked like?”

  “Errhhm … dreadlocks. The thin ones. And she was dark in complexion.”

  “Like me?”

  Mamelo gave Vee a cursory once-over, head shaking an immediate dismissal. “No ways. You’re normal dark, dark brown. She was dark dark, that foreigner dark look.” A moue of distaste funnelling her lips, Mamelo caressed her tawny arms, as if afraid the darkness was infectious, would leap into her chromosomes and snatch her God-given fairness away. Vee repressed a snort. She knew all too well the increasing levels of disdain as one moved ever duskier down the precarious scale of black complexions.

  “And she had big hips. Not too biiiig but …” Mamelo sized up the group, before dropping her eyes down at her own thighs with a defeated sigh. “Okay, around my size. Somewhere around me and you,” she flicked a finger between herself and Vee. “But definitely bigger, maybe by this much,” she indicated with outstretched arms. About size 36, Vee estimated.

  “Haven’t we just cracked the case wide open?! Let’s call that gruffian Sgt Ncubane and tell him we’ve got enough to make an arrest right now. A hippy black woman with dreadlocks is what, a viable lead? Really? We’re taking the needles in haystacks approach this early?”

  Vee hustled her down the hall by the elbow, throwing a backward wave to the two maids. “Bishop, we can’t know what’s significant at this point. And it won’t come with a label.” She shrugged. “Fine, I’hn got no idea what that meant back there. Maybe nothing. But maybe something.”

  “How the f–”

  Vee pinched Chlöe’s mouth closed with two fingers. “Maybe Greenwood saw someone she wasn’t supposed to see. Maybe it sparked a memory or set her off on trying to remember something, and that’s what got her killed.”

  “Ewwuurgh!” Chlöe slapped her hand away. “You know how I am about warm parts near my mouth!”

  “Ha-haaa. Since when?”

  Chlöe swiped the seam of her shirt over her lips. “Ohhh okay. Yes, I slept with a disgusting old guy once for mercenary reasons, geez. Let’s hang it over my head forever, why don’t we. God only knows why I ever told you about that.”

  “Your fondness for oversharing.”

  “No such thing as overshare between friends. At least some of us know that.” Vee narrowed her eyes and Chlöe hastily cleared her throat. “That list of maybes, remember how you can’t stand maybes? We have nothing, we know nothing. It’s hot like hell. Let’s go home.”

  “Oh, we got a lil better than nothing,” Vee grinned.

  “Sure, fine. But whatever our potential paydirt is, we’re not finding out by opening it on my laptop. Or yours. We’ll brainstorm about it on the road.” Chlöe crossed her arms. “And I’m driving. I’m super fast, we’ll be there in –”

  “Ha! Touch my car and watch me put my foot so far …”

  Chasing Rainbows

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Chrysler double-bounced and screeched behind the force of the brakes. Folders slithered off the dashboard, contents ejecting onto Vee’s lap and the adjoining car seat.

  “Aaay dammit, man.” She yanked up the handbrake, stole a quick glance in the rearview mirror and slid out. The street was clear but the bumper jutted well off the end of her driveway into the street. She decided to risk it; what was one more minute? She dashed back inside the house.

  Six minutes later, a carton of fruit juice in hand, brown envelopes balanced under both arms and a plastic binder in her mouth, she struggled with the car door.

  “Good morning, employer.”

  Vee gritted her teeth. Rows of teeth on flash, Tristan relieved her of the juice, pulled the door open and bowed deeply.

  “You know, young man,” she grunted as she leaned past the steering, gathering folders to right, “even when visitors can’t see the clock, they must glean the hour from the look on the face of their host.”

  “Huh?”

  “It means you should develop a talent for knowing when to buzz off.” She slipped behind the wheel. “It’s a very insightful quote, from a great man called Walter Emerson.”

  “Well, this great man,” Tristan aimed a finger at his chest, “is only eleven, so,” he shrugged wildly, “whatever. I just came over to remind you – DHLPP.”

  Preoccupied, Vee’s lips moved in time with a bobbing finger as she quickly took stock of the haul on the front seat. Five files by her count, another two in the laptop bag. The rest, a stack she could easily visualise sitting plum in the middle of her hurricaned desk. The current workload was in order. As for the new interest du jour –

  “Envelope!”

  “Dashboard,” quipped Tristan.

  She snatched it
up, checking for the dozenth time that morning its contents were safe. That there was everything they had to work with. A sinking feeling tunnelled through her breakfast as she eyed their ‘everything’, barely a bulge in an innocuous brown A5. Least it was something, it had better be. She stuffed it in a side pocket of the laptop pouch, then, thinking better of it, reassigned it to a pouch in her handbag. She zipped it up and gave it a final, satisfied pat.

  She looked up, right into Tristan’s disturbingly adult gaze of weariness undercut with endearment. Her eyes narrowed. “Fineboy, don’t be lookin’ at me like that. Like this guy I used to date. In fact, like this one I’m kinda still seeing, who –”

  “Ohhh my Gooood,” Tristan threw back his head, groaning. “Please do not make me listen to one of your boring love stories from 1964. Old people are always doing that. I,” he pressed a hand over his heart, “have a life. I only came over to remind you about the shots.” He stomped his foot in response to her blank stare. “Shots. Vaccinations. Remember? You have to take Monro to the vet for the DHLPP and rabies. You keep forgetting and it’s five weeks overdue.”

  Vee grimaced, prickling with guilt. The number of reminders scrawled in red ink had overrun the calendar stuck to her fridge like army ants. “Yeah, yeah. Damn. This weekend, I’m on it.”

  “They never have weekend slots! That’s why you keep rescheduling, ’cause you never have time during the week.” Tristan sighed. “Let me take him. Before you let him die from kennel cough or something worse.”

  “Alright I hear you, but hell no. My baby, my responsibility.”

  “Ag, man, he’s three, he’s not a baby.”

  “Noted. But you’re not gettin’ my go-ahead to go walkabout. Forget it.” Vee pressed on the airconditioning and reversed, window inching up against Tristan’s whines. “I’ll remember, I swear,” she called through the last inch of open glass. “But I’m not changing my mind. Now get your behind to school right now.”

  “It’s school holidays!” Tristan watched the gold bumper swing off their street and cruise out of sight. He looked down at the icy box of mango juice still in his hand. “Loser,” he cackled, piercing the carton with his pinkie.

  Chlöe rushed over as Vee zoomed through the maze of cubicles with her arms loaded, scanning the room.

  “Oooh daaamn, finegeh!” Vee exclaimed, stopping by her desk.

  “Damn yourself, bosslady! I see I’m not the only one who made an after-hours emergency stop to the hairdressers.” Chlöe grinned as she sifted lengths of Vee’s now mid-neck length tresses through her fingers. “Long was cute but the whole shattered bob effect, me likey. Very edgy.” She stepped back and squinted, hand on hip. “You could’ve gone shorter, though.”

  “Said the girl with all this.”

  Chlöe skimmed a proud hand over her locks. Her naturally intense red now shone two or three shades paler, severely gelled back and cinched into a ponytail of wispy plaits. The thick black kohl etching her eyes and gold gladiator sandals were extra touches that gave her the look of an extra on the set of an epic warrior movie. Vee tickled her nose with the braid, giggling, eyebrows arched.

  Chlöe gave her a playful shove. “Yes, it’s completely lice-free. And very Givenchy two seasons ago, I know, but hey, work it if it works.”

  “You definitely are. Who knew you secretly wanted to be blonde.”

  “We all wanna be blonde, my friend. Even black people.” Chlöe shushed her with a finger. “Don’t even. You know I’m right.” She killed the smile, peering around the newsroom and craning her neck every which way, wary of eavesdroppers and tongue-waggers. “Okay, war faces. First of all, you got the disk?”

  “Yeah I got the disk, Agent M. As agreed I didn’t try open it on my laptop, in case the message self-destructed and released nerve gas. I’ll have it couriered to Richie’s secret drop-box as soon as.”

  “Ahhh … let me do it.” Chlöe shrugged, bit her lip. “You know how he can be. Bloody mood monster. Besides, I gotta call him anyway, make sure he gets our specific instructions.”

  “More specific than what? We ain’t building a time machine. Tell us what’s on it, period. A simple breakdown in plain English if he can manage that.” A smile played on Vee’s lips. “You know, it’s not fair how you keep hogging him from me. I’ve never met him, don’t know what he looks like, only hear his voice on the phone now and again, and he’s not exactly the kinda person you can Google and get reliable hits on. ‘The Guy’ Richie might be your friend but he’s our contact.”

  “Yeah, and he really loves that nickname too,” Chlöe said. “Look, Richie’s Richie. That idiot’s playing cops and robbers with himself and I don’t have the heart to spoil his fun.” The thought of her cyberphilic underground rat of a friend blowing his lid and withdrawing, all because they’d probed for more social intimacy, dried her throat. As she was sure it did Vee’s. Richard Fish wasn’t hugely conventional or prompt, but within their pool of ‘informed consultants’ he was head and shoulders above the pack. “It’s easier when I handle him. He’s the only one I’m in charge of, so allow me my meagre power.”

  “Alright, alright.” Vee plucked a tissue from Chlöe’s Kleenex box and dabbed her neck and chest. “Hoo. The air-con ain’t kicked in yet? And I been setting for my frozen juice all morning, had it right in my hand before that lil –”

  “Good thing we both decided to come in early,” Chlöe cut in, gnawing at her lower lip. “So we can sync up our plan of action before the takedown.”

  “What plan of action?” Vee turned on her heels.

  “Don’t start. No pulling that innocent ‘Why, I declare, my lady, I can’t possibly discern your meaning’ when –”

  “Uggh, not your Downton Abbey accent, please, it’s terrible.”

  “– I know you’ve got a masterplan brewing. Spill it. I need to be prepared.”

  Vee kicked closed the door to the communal tearoom-kitchen against the gathering office buzz. Thank God they were alone. She squinted through the wide, frosted glass panelling overlooking the sprawl of cubicles, then unbuttoned two notches on her blouse and yanked open the refrigerator’s freezer compartment. “There’s no masterplan o. We’ll break it down to Nico as it happened and it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Since when are you the daft one? This man has it in for us. He gave us a clear directive and we disobeyed it. People Tweeted and blogged and Facebooked all weekend about those murders and the journalists who were there. Did you follow that? D’you still think it won’t be a problem?”

  Goosebumps erupting on her skin, Vee blew a happy sigh. “Of course I followed it. Why would I miss our fifteen minutes of fame?” She saw Chlöe clenching her jaw out of the corner of her eye and softened. “Look, Nico told us to follow a story, which we did. He didn’t say stay in your rooms and die of bor–”

  “He also didn’t say crash parties, drink and dance the night away with strangers, stumble on corpses and have the cops in our face.”

  “We did …” Vee trailed off. “Did we have too many drinks and dance with strangers?”

  “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, social whore. Walsh the computer geek, remember, the guy with the weird hair, he kept making eyes at you and dragging you to dance. I for one was sloshed, you’re taller so you can hold your liquor better. It looked bad. Stop flashing your boobs to the poor fridge and listen to me.”

  “You geh, I’m sweating in places I didn’t even know I had places.” Vee got slammed with another acrid look. “Hey, I’m messin’ with you. Of course I’ve thought this through and my conclusion is, don’t worry. Nico might be bent outta shape but this story is our leverage. We got this.”

  “Portia’s here.”

  The fridge hummed, puffing clouds of chill across the silence.

  “She’s not here for us.” Vee slapped the freezer door closed. “Of course not. Why would she be?” She buttoned her blouse. “No.” She shook her head and undid the top button. “Did you see her hair, though? What it looked like?”


  “No, I didn’t see her hair,” Chlöe scoffed. “That’s not a real thing, guessing which way the wind is blowing by her hairstyle. And she’s not our boss any more so we can safely not give a shit what she’s doing here, right.” Chlöe watched what she could have sworn was one drop of sweat bud like yeast into a glistening line of tiny beads on Vee’s top lip. “Right?”

  They started at a rap on the glass partition. Through the smoky frosting peered a motioning colleague, finger pointing down the hall. Eventually she walked round and cracked open the door to their puzzled looks. “Nico wants to see you guys,” she announced, closing it after her.

  “You know what, I’ll take that bet she’s not here for us,” said Chlöe.

  “Ahh, if it isn’t Pinky and the Brain.”

  Portia Kruger extended endless skinny-jeaned legs off an armchair and advanced. “You ladies look great. Love the new hair.” She eyed them up and down. “You clearly learnt more about fashion than you ever let on. I’m almost sorry I let you leave.”

  “You don’t look half bad yourself,” Vee quipped. She looked incredible.

  “Wait … who’s Pinky and who’s the Brain? Am I meant to be Pinky?” Chlöe hissed. “Pinky’s a retard!”

  Portia flicked her a dismissive eye and brushed imaginary fluff off the sleeve of a sheer cream blouse. It was the very same blouse Vee had recently turned her back on at Forever New at the V&A shopping mall, eyes watering from both grief and the price. “I rarely do anything by halves, but I’ll take the compliment anyway. And just so you know, whoever’s first to ask who Pinky is,” she smirked at Chlöe, “tends to be Pinky.”

  Nico muttered what sounded like ‘fuckin’ oestrogen’. “Let’s make this quick,” he cut in, louder this time, “we all have a lot to get back to.”

  Vee opened her mouth, scrutinised Chlöe’s pinched frown, and they both looked to Nico before three pairs of eyes zoomed in on Portia.

  “Oh, I was just in the neighbourhood. Should I …?” Portia curved manicured thumbs toward the door, eyebrows arched.