by Tommy Dakar
‘Hey, Joel, hey, how’s it going?’
Marcus slapped him on the back and gave him a half hug. Joel had expected this, it was part of the obligatory bonhomie; good vibes were part of the protocol. But he knew it was not really meant, not this time. Marcus smiled, but looked at Joel suspiciously, as if he had already scented the purpose of his visit.
‘Fine, just fine. You look like a happy man!’
Joel prodded his companion’s stomach.
‘Least I got my hair!’
A supposedly friendly banter that did nothing to ease the atmosphere. Joel picked up a miniature guitar from Marcus’ desk. It gave him something to do with his hands, like a bad actor. From behind Marcus a poster of B.B. King, lost in his personal world of blues, ignored them both.
‘So what brings you here, my friend?’
Asked casually, but dangled as if it were bait.
‘I need to talk to Carl. Is he in?’
A deflected answer. Not a good sign.
‘He’s upstairs in the soundtrack studio. He’s got a lot on his agenda. Anything I can do for you?’
Far too transparent. Joel sidestepped.
‘You could give me your sister’s number.’
‘She gave up her number a long time ago.’
The attempted humour, the pretend intimacy was falling flat on its face. Time to move on.
‘I have to speak to Carl now. It’s important. Could you let him know I’m here?’
It was a request, but at the same time an order, and coming from Joel, coordinator of the Cultural department, it was also a veiled threat. There was no point in trying to delay him or probe him further.
‘Wait here.’
