The Score

by HJ Golakai

  “I’m sorry. So sorry.” Moloi passed a hand over her face, fingers trembling. “I’m freaking out. Please … I … Can we do this another time?”

  “If it’s going to work –”

  Moloi’s hands fluttered again. “Yes, yes, I understand. You need more to work with, you have deadlines. But so do I.” She stood. “I mean, let’s face it, I’ve got a lot of balls in the air right now and am no good to you until that’s sorted. And I have a lot,” dry chuckle, “more to lose, which shouldn’t be taken lightly. I will guarantee you an exclusive, though.”

  Vee stood. “I understand. As I’m sure you do, that I can’t leave this to marinate forever. Nature of the news and all.” After another assertion, firmer this time, with an interview date of Monday morning attached, she decided to take what she could get. At the door she paused, hand on the handle. “You lied. Last time we were here, you said y’all never paid her the bribe. How much did, does, she want?”

  “Two hundred kay. She got thirty last December.”

  Moloi didn’t miss a beat; likely the number haunted her dreams. Vee sucked in her breath. Holy shit. That was nearly seven times the bribe she’d allegedly pocketed. Was this all it took; leverage, turn the screws, watch the other party sweat and squirm until they shovelled it over? How much did a place like this generate, to consider passing a one-off like that under the table so casually?

  “Pardon my French,” she said hoarsely, “but that’s a pretty big dick to slap on the table.”

  Akhona Moloi threw back her head and hooted. She could be worth it. If she smiled more, Vee surprised herself thinking.

  “Haaaaaa, thanks, I needed that.” She dabbed her eyes with the back of a finger. “That was just to start with. After LEAD, with the level of exposure, new business that would follow, she said she needed to re-evaluate our worth before deciding what was fair to her.”

  “Bet she did.” Vee dawdled, palm around door handle. “Look, you should maybe take some time off. Don’t let this swallow you up.” From deep within her mental recesses, her Bishop-embedded software, more like a viral program she had no hope of ever uninstalling, whispered ‘you and your bloody empathy gene’.

  Moloi managed a wan smile as she put her arms around her shoulders, giving herself a hug. With her short stature, unkempt hair and rumpled blouse, she looked like a waifish schoolgirl. “No hope now. New captain of the ship.” After a pause she added, “Is there any hope of getting that disk back?”

  “What, this?” Vee patted her handbag. “No. If I hand it in anywhere, it’s to the police. For now, I need it ’cause I need you.” She raised her brows. “Oh. Or did you want to officially claim it? As yours, Gavin’s, or the company’s? Maybe explain what’s on it, how it ended up where it was at The Grotto? Was it being hidden from the police?”

  Arms still crossed, lips thinning into a tight line, the old, shrewder Moloi crept back. “I thought you already knew what was on it.”

  Vee faked a superior smirk; her insides did a double-flip. “Let’s not play games, okay? I’ll speak to you on Monday.”

  She gave one final nod, quietly closed the door behind her and pressed for the exit, exhilarated to have gotten what she came for, had her suspicions confirmed and more, yet relieved to be leaving the building. The force of Moloi’s agitation had a disarmingly infectious quality to it. Like a new and eager beast that wasn’t content simply eating into its mistress, it needed a taste of whoever was around it as well. Vee was glad to be well away; the intensity of Gaba and Moloi back-to-back in a couple of days was a tad too rich for even her blood. And what the hell had she said before she left? ‘Let’s not play games’? “Smh Johnson, dah your mouf der so,” Vee scolded herself. Unease followed her down the length of the hall, kicking under her heels and breathing down her neck, a sullen bully goading. The quiet was almost cloying, sticking to her skin as she trudged past endless, pale walls, feeling like a dirty bolus moving through a bleached gastric canal. Akhona must’ve helped a lot with the décor. She checked the time on a wall clock, then walked around the floor. Vacant offices and an empty reception area yawned in her face. She retraced her steps.

  She knocked and re-entered the office in one swoop, not totally surprised to find Akhona still standing and self-hugging in the same spot. “Sorry, one last thing. You know this woman?” She held out her cellphone.

  Moloi squinted at the picture on the screen, neck bobbing like a pecking hen’s as she peered closer and pulled back repeatedly. Finally she gave an exasperated grunt, scraping her glasses back over her eyes. Phone aloft at an appreciable distance, she pouted and shook her head. “Noooo … no, can’t say I do. She seems familiar, though. Who is she?”

  Vee studied her long and hard before answering: “Rhonda Greenwood. You don’t remember her? The deputy GM from the lodge?”

  Moloi handed the phone back with a shrug. “Uh-uh. No, wait. You mean the one that died during our stay?” She frowned. “Why would I know her?”

  “No reason. Just background.” Vee slipped the Nokia away. “Where’s your staff? It’s after nine.”

  “Ah, I let them off today. They deserved it. It’s been –”

  “Yeah. Crazy lately. You said.”

  When she stepped back outside the fog had completely dissipated, a midsummer’s dream, its only remnants clinging in dewy clusters to handrails, poles, windshields, burning off under the sun.

  “Oi. You again. Good morning.”

  Steps from the Chrysler, Vee slowed to a halt, unable to mask her surprise. “Hi.” What was this girl’s name again? She racked her brain. Nothing came forth save Joshua’s penis envy joke, attempting to tickle a giggle out of her. She bit back a snigger and thought harder. Aneshree, that was it.

  Aneshree graced her with a slow nod that straddled haughty and serene at the same time. “We keep running into each other. What’re you doing here?”

  “Journalist. It’s my job to be anywhere something interesting is happening.”

  “Silly me. How could I forget. You’ve become the unofficial voice of the LEAD scandal, picking it apart line by line in your articles.”

  “Yep. What brings you here?”

  “If I tell you, will you put it in your paper?”

  “As if you need to ask.” Vee got a blank stare in return. She sighed. “If it’s juicy enough, yeah, bank on it.”

  Aneshree’s face changed. Vee dropped her hand off the door handle.

  “Listen. Off the record.” Aneshree’s eyes went side to side, scouting the lot. “They’re not doing too well, as you may’ve noticed when you were up there. We’re all doing our best to come out on top of this with or without backing, but they …” She flip-flopped a hand. “Far worse for wear. It’s understandable, considering. Murder isn’t exactly encouraging PR.”

  “No, it’s not.” Vee folded her arms, eyes boring into Aneshree’s, searching. Aneshree held her gaze, nonplussed, her heavy fringe of lashes all but creating a small breeze every time she did that pointed, irritatingly slow blink Vee knew all too well. Doggit, when you look hard, she really resemble dah her brother. Then, in another bat of the eye, her face bore nought but a whisper of allegiance to Joshua’s. Their wayward father Vikram Chowdri had apportioned his genes along interesting lines.

  “You haven’t answered my question. Since LEAD’s officially on hiatus, what are you doing here?”

  “Business is business,” Aneshree countered, all nonchalant shrugs and dismissive flutters. “Look, they’re a good lot. We’ve got some ideas that may throw some business their way.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  Disgust scraped out of the back of Aneshree’s throat. “You people.”

  “What? Okay, fine. This bone you’re throwing, it’s enough to keep them afloat?”

  “What bone? More like a life raft. They’re selling what they can to stay afloat, and if …” Aneshree sucked in her breath and clamped her lips together. “I didn’t mean to say that. That’s off the record.” She hu
rried towards the building.

  “Wait. What d’you mean …” Vee skipped after her.

  “No! Do not print that and say it came from me.”

  Vee watched her scurry through the back entrance and up the stairs. “Huh,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Wow. I mean, like … wow . Consider me flabbergasted.”

  Darren sprayed coffee back into his cup, wiped a hand across his mouth before allowing himself a full, belly-jiggling laugh. “Johnson, come on. Come on. Flabbergasted, really? That’s naive, and you, my young protégé, are anything but.”

  Vee rolled her eyes. The ‘editor of online team’ title and not nearly a decade more than her in age hardly warranted the ‘protégé’ jibe, but Darren liked his pot shots all the same. It was a small price to pay, considering the experience and latitude she got in return. “I mean to say it’s shocking to me, yes, despite everything I know, it still is, that corruption is standard here. And open. Damn. I expect these kinda shenanigans from my corner of the continent, but somehow not from y’all. This place is the America of Africa, we all flock here for our piece of the dream. Fair or not, our countries get held to your rainbow standard, whether it’s real or not.”

  “The US is the most corrupt country in the world. Don’t think ’cause they put our dictators on blast and gloss over their white-collar crimes that it’s different.” Lungile Nkuna, web designer, didn’t flick a lash away from the HP flatscreen as she threw in her two cents. Under her hand, the wireless mouse was a green blur as she worked.

  “Exactly,” said Darren. “Don’t think because this looks better than the rock you crawled from under in Nigeria –”

  “Liberia,” Vee groaned and tittered at the same time.

  “Ja, there, in North Africa. It’s not different. Same stinking cesspool of corruption. In fact, corruption’s such an overused word in this society I don’t even think anyone cares how bad it is. And they should. The taxpayers certainly should, since it’s their dime financing it. Squandering public funds lies at the centre of practically all these scams and tender manipulations. When you consider the fraction of the population who’re registered taxpayers and how much we have to accomplish with said taxes –”

  “Don’t get him started,” Lungi mumbled to Vee out of the side of her mouth. “Please don’t get him started.”

  “It’s a complete piss-take!” Darren banged his mug down and Lungi let out a persecuted groan. Straw between lips, Vee soundlessly took a pull of cold mango juice from the box. “Okay okay fine, laugh, but tell me,” he jabbed a finger at Vee, “why, huh, why do you think all these equity laws were initiated?”

  “For the likes of you. You’re black. Ish.” She ignored the dangerous narrowing of Darren’s eyes and patted his cheek. “Now, y’all the previously disadvantaged groups can get chance to zwap cake like the colonisers.” Her shoulders bobbed as she chuckled. “Y’all too funny here. Previously disadvantaged. Doesn’t even try to address the blatant inequalities of before. Like everybody fell asleep and had one collective nightmare, and after they woke up decided to come up with a bunch of euphemisms for the highly unsavoury past no-one wants to talk about.’”

  “Now you get it. Now you’re thinking like a player. It’s all wordplay and masterminding.” Darren punched a fist into his other palm. He had the gleam of a man on a rant he’d give many times, one who didn’t care if comments coming in from the fray were germane or not, he’d work it in or steam right past. “It’s meant to level the field but ohohohooo, don’t fall for it. The packaging says ‘equality for all’, don’t try to enter into business with government without the proper credentials, but the true purpose is anything but. It’s a closed system, crony-beneficial, and the millions the country gets swindled out of …” He shook his head and kissed his fingertips. “It’s almost beautiful when you think about it.”

  “Please be advised that Darren Februarie is a hard-core radical, whose views are not representative of the entire establishment’s,” Lungi intoned.

  “You can’t disagree with me, though. Look at this Gautrain mess. Imagine, imagine, how much did it cost to build that thing for the World Cup?”

  “Wasn’t just for the World Cup, though,” Vee interjected.

  “It sure as hell made them speed it up! The initial estimate compared to what it cost to build the damn thing skyrocketed by what, nearly ten times. They don’t deem it fit to be handled by any local contractor, so a foreign contractor gets it, then cue all the politicians and contractors dillying and dallying till the white elephant still isn’t even fully complete and has who knows how many engineering problems –”

  “Runs great, though. Very fancy. I like it.” Lungi crooked her index at Vee and then over to the article layout spread across dual screens, indicating she needed her take. Vee peered in over her shoulder.

  “For almost thirty billion?! Be serious. And now the real fun’s beginning, because evidence is gathering that, as usual, it’s all shady. These foreign companies sure as hell love doing business here because why not, it’s a happy hunting ground. They can leverage their way into major deals by sweetening up as many officials as they need to, slot into contracts as many bullshit clauses and commissions to extort funds as they can manage, and reap reap reap away. And once money leaves these shores, no way in hell is it being linked to fraud and reimbursed. I’m telling you guys. I can smell it. Gautrain-gate. Give it a year or two.” Darren drained his mug, ‘ahhed’, and clunked it on the desk next to the keyboard. Lungi shot him a caustic squint and he quickly walked over to dump it in the office basin. “The most hilarious part will be the fallout. Why? Because there won’t be any. Some fearless and highly attractive investigative team, much like this one …”

  Grins went around the room.

  “… will dig all this up and write an incisive exposé. It’ll lead to an avalanche of articles. Bloodhounds will vie to out-scoop each other, the cronies will bumble and bluster and incriminating emails will pop up, the headlines will scream for some weeks, hey, even months, after which we’ll all be desensitised and it will die.” He spread his palms like a magician, triumphant after a grand finale. “Welcome to the shining example.”

  “First of all, how have you avoided having your citizenship revoked, public horsewhipping and jail for this kind of treasonous talk?” Vee puzzled.

  “’Cause this isn’t Zimbabwe, or whichever banana republic you’re from.” Vee kicked his shoe. “We may pretend at our democracy, but we pretend very hard. And stylishly. Like the Europeans.”

  “Ha! Second and far more importantly, this is a hot story. You’ve just gone and belittled everything Chlöe and I, all of us in fact, have spent days slaving on.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me. I’m only pointing out how your GREED consortium –”

  “LEAD.”

  “Nuance. How it’s a tiny reflection of nationwide shadiness. So bask in the sun while it’s shining, but know that everyone gets their cut and goes home. You will apprehend no bad guys, and all this work will go down a thankless toilet.”

  “Screw you, Darren,” Vee said.

  “I’m married. I would, but I might never return to my wife. So, no thanks.”

  “And this,” Lungi jabbed her finger at him, “is why the ANC continues to thrive, feeding off this kinda apathy.”

  “At least they’re doing something. If they stopped their buffoonery and cutting corners, they’d get back some of the respect and power they had. You think the DA …”

  Not this again, Vee rolled her eyes, landing the juice carton in the wastebasket with a perfect wrist flick. Halfway to the door, she stopped and turned. “Wait. You’re ANC …” She pointed at Darren.

  “For life.” He thumped his chest.

  “And you’re DA?”

  Lungile shrugged, nodding. “After twelve years in Western Cape, you start to see their point.” She crossed her arms with an amused frown. “Oh wait. Did you racially profile us, assume the black girl h
ad to be ANC and the coloured guy DA?”

  “I got no words, my juice just ran out, so I’m taking a break. Before y’all less busy pipo waste my whole day with mouf runnin’.” Vee flashed a thumbs-up. “Back after lunch.”

  She headed to the tearoom, where a half-frozen carton of pineapple LiquiFruit awaited. How Darren could put a single drop of hot liquid against his lips right now was beyond imagining. Well, Darren was an addict, for coffee. Considering the vampiric pulse thumping in her temples at the thought of cold, fruity sunshine coursing down her throat, he wasn’t the only one.

  “Don’t look now, but your worst nightmare has just begun.”

  Vee whipped around to find Chlöe on her tail, her eyes low and super wide. “Time of the month sprang a surprise on you, huh?” Chlöe whispered.

  Vee followed her eyes. “Ahhh, nooo, thought I got it off.” She brushed the butt of her pants, the faint brown outline on it still a bit damp. “It’s not a visit from the Red Queen, thank God. On my Jo Borkett pants, I’d die. I sat on a funky stain at B&M,” she finished, just as Chlöe said, “Where were you this morning?”

  “Oh.” Chlöe’s eyebrows plummeted with comical speed. Her lips began, slowly, millimetre by millimetre, drawing into a small, pink-glossed funnel. Soon her face resembled a colicky baby’s. Sighing, Vee waved her through the tearoom door. The two other occupants picked up their coffees and shouldered past them.

  “Dammit Chlöe, hot sun like dis I’hn got time for your pusha mouf der.” Vee grabbed the juice from the freezer, popped the tab and poured down a gulp that made her teeth vibrate. “I had a hunch this morning and acted on it. There wasn’t time to rope you in.”

  “What hunch? Since when you started having hunches and running off without me?”

  “Since always. The beginning of time as we both know it.”

  “Let me rephrase. Since when do you go running off on hunches not knowing that I hate it? Because you do know. That I really hate it. Stop doing it.”