by HJ Golakai
Nico crossed the desk and sighed into his chair. He mulled for a long moment. “Okay Dumb and Dumber, here’s my ruling. We’re going to handle this gently, with kid gloves, because the potential for it to blow up in our faces and make us look like fools is massive. Here’s what’s going to happen …”
They high-fived and hugged once they were out of earshot.
“We got it! We got our story back! In your face, Khaya and Andrew!” Vee did a joyous twirl and twerked her butt up and down until a passing male colleague rewarded her with a lengthy whistle.
“Keep it moving, pervert,” Chlöe called after him. “And you stop that, Beyoncé.” A grin tore her face open. “But yeah, we did it! We got it back.”
“Although …” Vee cocked her head. “He gave in too quick. I’m not too sure he didn’t mean to take it away just so we could bust our butts to get it back. Anyway, who cares. We get to keep our story and do the online version with the digital team.” She pumped a fist. “Go Dumb and Dumber!”
Chlöe clicked in her throat derisively. “Nobody respects us around here. We deserve better nicknames than Wallace and Gromit, Pinky and the Brain … and I always come up short. Why can’t we be Mel Gibson and Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon? Or, oooh, Will Smith and Martin Lawrence in Bad Boys.” She flexed her biceps, bobbing her head coolly. “I’d be Will Smith of course.”
“Yeah, you would be Will Smith, tall as you are,” Vee sniggered, sliding her cellphone out of her back pocket. “Hang on, I should take this.” She frowned at the flashing screen. “Third missed call from this number this morning.” Phone to ear, she punched her chin at the newsroom, indicating she’d be there afterwards, threading down the hallway in conversation.
Chlöe gazed at the ceiling, chewing over more übercool pair-ups. Batman and Robin. She wrinkled her nose. Hollywood had milked that franchise dry, and the whole superhero thing had never sparked her fancy. Why did it always have to be men anyway? Women, then. Famous, crime-fighting duos. Interracial ones. She went blank. Much longer think-through for that one.
Her Motorola beeped a message. She pressed a hand over her belly, quelling the flutters at Richie’s text: Hav you told her? Cuz I hav to call her about the other thing at some point.
She squeezed her eyes shut, muttering a curse. It had to be done eventually. Today, not eventually. But if she told Vee now and killed her high … Call her. Just don’t say anythn. I’ll do it, she texted back.
She trudged through the newsroom chaos and slumped in front of her desktop HP, her stare now tainted with worry, until a breathless Vee hurried back. Chlöe cleared her mind with a shake of the head and tuned back in.
“God really loves us today. Guess who that was? The first call. Akhona Moloi. Madam uptight, Berman’s business partner. She heard about my attack, no doubt from Walsh, she says she’s got information –”
“Wait, how would Walsh know about it?”
“Ah, that was the real first call, the first-first one. He called this morning to ask me out again, stop making that face, and yes I told him no. I’ve got enough to deal with, and he’s not my type. Alright, I know I don’t believe in ‘the type’ theory, but I’m not into him. Don’t even think I get him.”
“You do at least have a quasi-type, whether you acknowledge it or not. Between Titus the black Superman and Joshua the coloured Benjamin Bratt, Walsh doesn’t cut it.” Chlöe narrowed her eyes. “But you have been worn down by persistence before.”
“Joshua Allen used years of Jedi mind-trick on me before I cracked. That’s an anomaly, never to be repeated. Pay attention. We’re talking, me and Walsh now, and I mentioned the attack. He was shocked, appalled, sympathetic. Then we went for the meeting, and voila, three missed calls from this strange number, turns out to be Moloi’s. Apparently she and Walsh still communicate, and he’s lending her a hand during these trying times.” Vee paused for breath, then widened her eyes and dropped timbre for suspense. “She admits she hasn’t been entirely truthful about events.”
“Really? No shit.”
“None whatsoever. And now that the spirit of honesty has overwhelmed her, she want run her mouth.” Vee threw her indigo blue handbag over her shoulder and grabbed her travel zip case, swollen with information dossiers on the convention. “So get your dry booty outta that chair, my ginger-haired comrade, for answers and adventure are afoot. We’re going to Berman & Moloi Financials right now, before she changes her mind.”
“Sherlock and Watson.”
Vee frowned. “Hehn? What about them?”
Chlöe twisted her mouth and shook her head. “Nothing.”
Chapter Twenty
“You know what?” Vee popped the front of her dress to allow the air-con to circulate over her chest. She stretched her legs. “It just hit me that I’hn got no laptop to even write one sentence on, much more a whole article. I’m grateful Connie’s letting me, more like forcing me, to stay at her place until she’s satisfied my home security is hundred per cent, but how much work can I do? She and her sister got their own laptops, their own work, I can’t be humbuggin’ them every five minutes to let me borrow it to do my ownah stuff.”
“Mmmm.” Chlöe pored over her iPhone, one ear attentive. Hooray for Connie Mojisola Adebayo, best friend extraordinaire. Feeling pressured to make a limp, half-hearted offer would’ve sucked, and Vee in turn would’ve hated finding a way to decline without hurting her feelings. In truth, she didn’t want Vee living with her. Though tiny, her place in a tidy complex of one-bedrooms on Roeland Street was nice enough, but great flatmates she doubted the two of them would make. “How bad is it?”
“The screen’s a mess. I can barely see good with all that black inky stuff coming out the cracks. I doubt IT can fix it. You think Craig can fix it?”
“Nope.” Chlöe’s fingers blurred over the touchpad. “Even if they can, it’s gonna cost so much to replace the screen you might as well get a new one.”
“Yeah, that Acer is over three years old now; that’s like twenty-five in tech years. Maybe it’s a mixed blessing it’s destroyed, now the office can replace it. I sure as hell wasn’t gonna buy one on my own steam anytime soon. Though I could dip into my bribe stash like I did to buy my car. Cut the palaver short.” Vee tossed a wry grin, fading it out when it fell on dead, unresponsive air. She fell to idly stroking her side, an area Chlöe assumed was one of her battle wounds. “Should I invest in a tablet you think, or stick to a new kickass laptop? Oooh, what about a touch screen?”
“Get whatever you want. Can I use your wireless?” Out of the corner of her eye, Chlöe saw Vee frown, then flick her gaze across to the receptionist when she realised she wasn’t the one being addressed. “Your internal network,” Chlöe waved her cell at the woman behind Berman & Moloi’s front desk, angling for a more instructive reply than a void expression. “I’m trying to capture it on my phone and it’s not happening.”
“It has a secure network key.”
“I realise that. That’s what I’m after, if you don’t mind.” Chlöe waved the phone again. “Have to send an urgent email.”
Clad in a checkered brown skirt suit of the Mr Price variety, the woman countered with the glower of a diamond drill. Messing about clearly stopped at the threshold of B&M. “We don’t give it to visitors. You can ask it from Ms Moloi when you go in to see her.” With that, she lifted the landline receiver, murmured a few words into it, and tossed them each a curt nod as she put it down. “Ms Moloi is ready.”
They exited the room before Chlöe muttered, “Cow.” She grimaced, half fierce, half apologetic. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but black women have a highly and unnecessarily shitty way of staring people down. Like, excuse you.”
“I should argue with you, but I can’t. And for the record, it’s called the stank-eye.”
They traversed a long corridor with pale cream walls, slowing their pace as they passed two larger rooms with waiting areas, healthily populated with clients waiting to be attended by consultants.
Mostly black clients, Chlöe noted, of the ilk of honest middle-class graft and department store habitude. A good sprinkling of the new, polished aspirational class, garlanded in Jenni Button and Markham’s. A smattering of coloured and white faces.
“Middle-class, family-style kind of operation,” Vee murmured.
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Chlöe squared her shoulders proudly.
Moloi’s door stood open. Her office mirrored her: clean lines, practical to the point of severe, slightly depressing. One massive hardwood desk, two standard wheelie chairs on the other side of it, a wall-mounted cabinet stacked with black binders and folders, a few books. The upheaval of Berman’s death had made a dent, though: an extra, smaller desk strewn with more files stuck out like a sore thumb in a far corner. The only thing nearing an indulgence was the carpet. Chlöe bit back a laugh as Vee’s lips moued almost imperceptibly in distaste. Brown, however richly blended with maroon, was not a colour her friend deemed acceptable in any form.
Chlöe swung her eyes to Akhona Moloi in mild shock. Gone, or at least thoroughly wilted, was the starchy, exacting exterior. Moloi’s eyes were puffy, but not red; eyedrops had effectively prissied that up, no doubt. Her short afro had reverted from the well-combed, shiny globe of curls she’d sported at The Grotto to a dry mat, knobbly and flecked in places with lint.
“Please excuse the mess.” Voice gravelly from a cold, or sobbing, Akhona flicked her chin towards the unkempt table, practically flinching in embarrassment. “Since Gavin died …” She shook her head, eyes on the floor. Chlöe and Vee jumped a little when her head popped up like an invisible string had yanked the back of her neck. “Was killed. I have to keep reminding myself of that, that he didn’t die normally.” She flapped her hands, dismissing the unsavoury memories. “Anyway. We’re trying to cope, all the staff. It’s not easy reassuring our clients, but we’re coming along. Please sit down. Oh, wait! Are you okay?”
They had a split second to barter bewildered gazes before Moloi sprang on tiptoe, leaned in and gathered Vee in a gentle, but clearly awkward for her, embrace. Over her shoulder, Vee widened her eyes. In reply, Chlöe widened hers, throwing up an exaggerated shrug.
“It must’ve been a horrible ordeal.”
Vee recouped quickly. “Oh! Yes, it was. Kind of. I’ve had worse.” She faked a laugh. “Bumps and bruises always heal.”
“The internal damage is what no-one really understands. I feel for you,” Moloi said. She crossed back over to her desk, giving them time to sneak another silent, baffled exchange. Seated, they declined refreshments and patiently waited for her to launch.
Moloi took her time, sighing at length and flexing her fingers about in her springy ruff of hair. “I feel … foolish … negligent, for withholding this information. I say ‘withholding’ because although I’m fully aware that the, uhm, shall we say prying and somewhat predatory nature of your job means that disclosure isn’t wise, I feel in good conscience that I should. The police presence here yesterday reinforced my belief that we’re all involved. And look what not being forthcoming led to. This has followed us back to Cape Town. I don’t know what the hell I thought it would accomplish … Well, saving this business is everything to me now. But this is bound to come out at some point. No-one else should be put in danger,” her eyes drooped their pleas all over Vee.
“Meaning …” Vee urged.
“You kind of remind me of her. Strong, clever, very inquisitive, reckless even. Not that I’m saying you’re reckless. As if I know you,” Moloi chuckled. Chlöe tossed Vee a sly smile that said ‘maybe she does’; Vee slid her foot nearer and lightly crushed Chlöe’s toes.
“Remind you of who exactly?” Vee asked.
“Oh, the person I asked you here to talk about: Xoliswa. Sorry, I was just so strongly reminded of her when I picked up on that relentless curiosity of yours at the lodge. We all noticed it, you two bouncing around with your questions, while the rest of us were like deer in headlights. I suppose it’s the natural way of journalists.”
Moloi read through their puzzlement and polite impatience and cleared her throat. “Of course, you have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ll get to the point, none of us have all day.” She pivoted her desktop monitor to give them a better view and double-clicked the mouse to raise a digital photo. “That there is Xoliswa Gaba.” She pointed, from amongst a cluster in professional wear, to a dark-skinned, full-eyed young woman with shiny nubs of dreads eased against her scalp. Chlöe took quick note of Berman, inflated of chest and self-regard, and Moloi herself in a very ill-fitting pantsuit, both front row in a younger time. “She used to work here about five years ago. She was very valuable to us.”
Vee began scribbling notes. “And Xoliswa was –”
“Xoliswa,” Moloi promptly corrected, emphasising the ‘X’ with a sharp, resounding click against the roof of her mouth. She smiled, indulgent. “It’s fine. I know you’re not Xhosa. Sorry, you wanted to ask what she did, right? She wasn’t one of the consultants, well, not the financial consultants anyway, although she gained on-the-job expertise and became well versed in financial systems during her time here. She worked in our IT department, mainly programming and R&D type of thing. It wasn’t as clearly demarcated then as it is now, and she had a lot to do with that.”
“How old was she?”
“Hmmm, let’s say twenty-nine, thirty when she left. Started young. A fresh UCT graduate in computer science, and she stayed with us for eight years. She wasn’t much younger than me when we parted ways; I was in my late thirties then. She was pretty, though, had that pull on people that pretty girls thrive on. She knew how to work it too, none of that insincere, apologetic ‘who, me, I didn’t know I was hot’ thing women do.” Her chuckle was rueful and showed surprise at herself. “Sorry, that was bitchy. Guess we’re all guilty of something. I’m constantly warned by my friends to stop underselling myself or behaving like I’m so ancient, or I’ll end up dying earlier than I’m supposed to. I’m an old soul, though, can’t help it.” She flapped the dismissive hand again. “Xoli came in from temping, some dead-end job or other that had her dissatisfied because she wasn’t challenged enough. I remember her interview, not very well of course, it was a while ago now, but I remember gagging on that sense of frustration you get after listening to a string of applicants abuse that word ‘challenge’. ‘I like a challenge’, ‘I always rise to a challenge’. So boring. But she had this energy, this push, that made me believe in her. She was raw, very much a kasi girl, rough around the edges you might say, but her education cleaned her up a bit.”
Vee and Chlöe exchanged looks.
“We took a chance on her, and she didn’t disappoint. In three short years she went from being one of the technicians, you know, just handling basic data entry and client info, to running the IT department. The guy in charge, uhm, I forget his name now, was the boss in name only. She got results, we got better turnaround and better clients because of her.”
Eyes closed, Moloi massaged her scalp, a furrow between her eyes as she tufted her hair, as if suddenly aware of the sorry picture she presented. Her fingers feathered down to her forehead. “Xoliswa was restless. Restless and reckless. It was hard to please her, like, please her in a solid, final way. She’d push every issue further, finding a way to make it better or more. It was exhausting. Don’t get me wrong, that’s great to have in an employee, but know your limits. Know your employer’s limits. We’re after all a small company. Gavin tried with her. He …” She swallowed hard, exhaled. “He was brilliant in this set-up. It was his baby, he started it, he ran it, he loved it; groomed me as his partner. We had our share of mishaps but he had a killer instinct for manoeuvring, for knowing the right fit for us. I learnt a lot from him, so much. In the beginning I thought I’d be just another BEE front, the black female partner who made it all look good on paper but didn’t get to give much input. But it was ours, he made it our company …”
Vee held out a tissue from the packet in her bag a
nd made sympathetic noises as Moloi pressed it to her eyes.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t me at all,” she squeaked. “I can’t get over it, how he was murdered and displayed …” She swiped the Kleenex one last time, scrunched it into a ball and dropped it into the full wastebasket at her feet. “It takes so much anger and bitterness to do that.”
“It does,” Vee agreed softly. Chlöe nodded along.
“She was relentless. We had good equipment for our purposes, but she would angle for this upgrade or that. Wanted everything cutting edge, top notch overnight. To tell you the truth, I got bored with her. She did great, yes, but other than that I couldn’t be bothered. But Gavin … got interested. He was a good man, but he was a man. Women were his weakness. And he had a thing … he had a thing for black women.” She threw up her hands. “There it was. He’d been divorced for several years and was free to be as stereotypical as he pleased. It wasn’t my business but …” She fashioned a disappointed downturn of the mouth that implied ‘what could you do’.
You wanted it to be your business, Chlöe thought. She took in the painfully short, average-looking, flat-chested woman with a measure of pity. Everybody wanted love.
“Xoli had it, with extra spice. Gavin started sleeping with her. He’d never been too … appropriate with his choices. But it never jeopardised our work, never. I knew Xoli wanted her way in some way, but I didn’t think too much of it and hoped it would blow over.”
“How long had she been here before they started shagging?” Chlöe piped in. Vee and Akhona gave her two different versions of purse-lipped censure and she made a mini eye-roll.
“Not straightaway, which is what you may be thinking. She’d been around a good, what, five years, earned her stripes, got promoted, before I started worrying. Xoli was focused, her work was practically her all. Gavin was professional in that respect, nothing of the kind had happened before, at least that I knew of. To be honest I didn’t think they noticed each other in that way to begin with, other than playful flirtation.” When Chlöe opened her mouth again, Moloi rushed on: “I’d say it lasted two years, maybe more.”
