With a little moan, Sloth clambers off the table and into my lap. He's seeing what I'm seeing, belying the bigshot producer image – a black tumour of lost things hanging over the man. A tumour that's eaten an octopus, but the fat black tentacles have been amputated, so all that's left are stumps. Dozens of them, squirming obscenely.
It's one of the worst hack jobs I've seen. There are ways to cut the threads. A good sangoma can do it. But they'll eventually grow back thicker and coarser than ever. In the shadow of his black halo, his skin looks sallow, his jowls sunken, his eyes bright and flat.
"What's wrong with your animal?" Huron says, collapsing into one of the chairs and fingering a hole in his t-shirt.
"He's just shy around strangers," I say, stroking Sloth's head to calm him down.
"Amira and Mark brief you already?"
I have to force myself to look at his face rather than the writhing black stubs around his head. I concentrate on his fleshy lips, the large nose, slightly skew, as if he once broke it in a rugby game or a bar fight. "Actually, Mr Huron, I'm still waiting to hear what this is about. Before I make up my mind as to whether I even want to be briefed."
"Call me Odi, please. Short for Odysseus."
"Sure. Odi."
We're interrupted by Carmen holding a red plastic tray that looks like it was moulded out of the same material as her shoes. She sets down a clipboard and a pot of evilsmelling tea.
"Don't worry, it's non-alcoholic." Huron pours a cup and hands it to me with a smirk.
"You've done your research."
"Yes, I've heard all about your nasty habit. But it's not just you. Moja Records has a policy. No drink. No drugs. No neural spells."
"No interference." I take a sip gingerly. It tastes as foul and pungent as it smells.
"Buchu and mustard seed. Good for detoxing."
"Lovely." I smile and heap in five spoons of sugar. It makes the brew only marginally more tolerable. What does it take to get a decent cup of tea? "I'm not sure I can even help you, Mr Huron."
"Call me Odi. Really." He puts an envelope on the table. "Open it."
I do. Sloth cranes his head to see. It contains a cluster of crisp blue R100 notes. I put it back on the table.
"What's this?"
"Two large, just to hear me out. If you like what I have to say, you take the job and consider this an advance. If you don't, you take the money, you don't repeat any of what I told you, we're all friends."
"This all seems very serious. Are you sure you have the right girl here?"
"Mark and Amira think so."
"Just in case I'm getting the wrong end of the microphone here – you do know I can't sing?"
"Like that ever got in the way of a pretty girl getting a record deal. Autotune is a beautiful thing." He laughs, but his eyes are cold. "Let me assure you, you are here for your other skills." He watches me closely. I take the envelope and slip it into my bag, ignoring Sloth scratching at my arm, the halo of black stumps waving around Huron's head.
"All right, good. Now, you're no doubt familiar with iJusi." He waves his hand impatiently at my blank look. "The twins? Song and S'bu?"
The name sounds vaguely familiar, another life glimpsed on the TV at Mak's, maybe on the cover of an old Heat magazine at the spaza shop. A boy and a girl. Twins. Beautiful. Wholesome.
Huron sighs, exasperated. "Well, you can do some research."
"Has something happened to them?"
"Officially, no. Absolutely not. Everything's just fine. They're keeping a low profile because they're in studio, writing new songs. The new album drops in three weeks. We've got a big party planned."
"And off the record?"
"Songweza is missing."
"Run away? Kidnapped?"
"Either is possible. She hasn't been home for four days, according to her house mother."
"Is that unusual?"
"You see the thing about iJusi, although you wouldn't know this, is that they're a little ray of sunshine in an ugly, ugly world." He pinches the corner of his lower lip and rolls it between his thick fingers. "They're good kids. Role models."
"And you want to keep it that way. No nasty real-world taint for Papa Odi's little girl."
"Amira said you had an ugly mouth." The stumps lash and twist.
"I prefer to think of it as a fast mouth. So, there's no boyfriend? Girlfriend, maybe?" I push.
"Plenty of time for that later."
"Because she's a good girl."
"You see. We understand each other."
"I don't understand why you're talking to me, rather than the cops or a private investigator. Four days is a long time. She could be dead."
"Now, Zinzi, that's not very discreet. Police. PIs. If the tabloids get a sniff…"
"I get it. You're making a mistake, but I'll take your money. How much are we talking?"
"If you bring her back before the official launch and intact?" He smiles thinly. I know what that means. Sweet. Innocent. Un-animalled. "R50,000." Sloth takes a sharp breath at the amount. All very serious indeed.
"Make it two hundred, I'm your girl."
"Eighty-five."
"One fifty. Plus expenses. Don't worry, Mr Huron, I'll submit receipts."
The Marabou looks pained. Huron gives me a slow, evaluating look. The tentacles pause, like they're holding their breath.
"Odi, please." And we share a conspiratorial grin. Or maybe we're just baring our teeth at each other, like chimps competing for dominance.
"Odi? There's a phone call for you," Carmen pops her head out the door, plaintive, like she thinks we've taken up too much of his time already. She is cradling a black Rabbit, stroking its ears. It does explain the fossilised chocolate raisins in the dining room. Who knew that Odi Huron's eccentricities included cultivating a personal menagerie of zoos? I can't help wondering what she did
to get her Bunny.
"Ah, thank you, Carmencita," Odi says. "I think we're done here. Amira and Mark will brief you and make all the necessary arrangements. Whatever you need."
He stands up, all business, downs his drink and throws out the ice towards the pool. The blocks go skittering over the cracked tiles and plop into the water, sending greasy ripples across the surface to stir the leaves. By the time I look up, Odi is disappearing into the house. And I didn't even get the studio tour.
Sloth is pissed with me. I can tell by the way he clambers onto my back, stiff and cross. "You have a better idea?" I hiss at him.
"What was that?" the Marabou asks mildly, staring at the pool, at the lichen-blinded maidens and the ripples breaking at their bare feet.
"I was wondering if this is the best idea," I say. "There must be more qualified people."
"More qualified, but maybe less discreet. And harder to vanish if everything goes wrong."
"You know, I'm pretty sure no one mentioned any vanishing."
"You do this thing, you disappear. No questions asked. Back to Zoo City and your own small world."
"I see." But I'm thinking about her lost gun.
"Shall we? You should probably be getting started."
The Maltese is waiting in the car upfront. It's been polished and waxed to within an inch of its warranty. The interior is awash with pine air-freshener and just a hint of ammonia. The combination makes Sloth sneeze. Which means I was wrong about the guy. I was convinced "spit and polish" was a euphemism for sex. But I have no doubt that dear Odi is nailing sweet little Carmen sideways and backwards. Maybe even now.
The Maltese – Mark – seems eager to get going. The car is idling, he's already strapped in and the Dog is standing on his lap, its paws on the steering wheel. It yaps once, impatiently, like this is a Formula 1 pit-stop and we're holding up the race.