'You've gone and upset her,' Huron says, not looking particularly bothered.
'It's upsetting stuff.'
'This notion of yours,' he says, pinching his thick bottom lip. 'What should we call it – the Polanski-Sopranos Theory? It's original. Not bright. Not true. But original. Aren't you worried I'm going to put out a hit on you?'
'Believe me when I say I haven't got anything left to lose.'
'So, what's next? You go to the police?'
'With what evidence? One half-baked Polanski-Sopranos Theory? No, I'm just letting you know that if anything happens to Songweza Radebe – anything
'These are wild accusations. I might have to take this to my lawyer.'
'Do what you have to.'
'Do you have a physical address I can have the restraining order sent to?'
'Your people know where to find me. But so long as Songweza stays singing fit and healthy, I won't trouble you with the slightest, littlest thing, Mr Huron.'
'You assume I don't have my own insurance policy on you.'
'Like the 1.5 million you've taken out on each twin?'
'You've been doing some research, little girl.'
'I'd like my money now, please.'
28.
I hand over the cash to Vuyo in the lobby of the Michelangelo. It's the most upmarket hotel I can think of that's still vaguely accessible. I've dressed accordingly in a sundress and dark sunglasses with a red faux snakeskin briefcase I purchased from the Sandton City luggage shop for the occasion, together with a brand-new phone. I can afford it. And for some moments in your life, it's worth making a scene. Especially the kiss-off.
I sit beside Vuyo on one of the couches in the sumptuous flash of the lobby and flick open the briefcase on my lap, not caring who sees. I'm feeling reckless.
'All here plus the fee for the recent extras. Do you want to count it?'
'I trust you,' says Vuyo, calmly flipping the briefcase shut. 'We're rehearsing for a movie,' he says smoothly to an overweight man in a Cape Town t-shirt goggling at us.
'You shouldn't,' I reply.
'Can I say that I am sad?'
'You could. It won't make a difference.'
'I am sad. We worked well together.'
'I worked. You ambushed.'
'Ah. But I knew you would rise to the occasion. You are a hard-headed woman, Zinzi December. Sometimes you need a push.' He still hasn't reached for the briefcase. 'This isn't a sting, I hope. No cops about to swoop down?'
'I thought about it,' I confess. 'But I'm too busy trying to dig myself out of the plague pit that's my life right now.'
He leans in close to me. 'This money? I will give it back to you doubled. Another R500,000 a year from now. Come work with us. You're an asset to the Company.'
'There's more chance of Sloth sprouting wings and starting his own airline. Not that I don't appreciate the offer. I'm trying to get clean.'
'Zinzi. What are you going to do? Keep digging up trinkets for old people for spare change?'
'Something better. Or worse. Depends on how you feel about the media. I'm hoping for better.'
'Well, if you ever need a dentist…'
'I have Ms Pillay's email address.'
He stands up to shake my hand and, just like that, I am cut free.
Or not quite.
There are 3,986 new emails in my inbox, unread. I set up an auto-reply to all of them.
This is a scam.
No one is going to give you millions of dollars for nothing.
Save your money.
Spend it on ice-cream.
Go out to dinner.
Take your loved ones away for the weekend.
Pay off your credit cards.
Have an adventure.
Blow it on skydiving lessons or drink or hookers or
gambling.
But please, don't send it to me or anyone else involved in this ugly little fiction.
And next time, don't be so fucking naive.
Vuyo is going to be pissed. But not pissed enough to have me killed. Not when he doesn't have an animal yet. And hey, there will be others.
I add a final line, even though it's a petty revenge, far less than he deserves, even though it might implicate me, or at least my anonymous pseudonym, Kahlo999.
Questions? Please contact Giovanni Conte gio@ machmagazine.co.za
It takes a long time to send 3,986 emails, watching the status bar count them off. There is a deep satisfaction in this. A satisfaction that is dented when one of the addresses bounces. It takes a techno-naif to fall for a 419, but they're usually not so unsophisticated that they can't even get their return address right.
From: Kahlo999
Date: Sun, 27 March 2011 21:51:59 +0200
To: ‹no-one›
Subject: RE:
