Mister Jinnah Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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bearing of fangs about to be sunk into the delicate portions of Jinnah’s large, exposed ego.
“Morning, Jinnah,” Grant said curtly. “Hard at it, I see.”
Jinnah remained sprawled in his chair, feet on his desk. His coffee was nearly empty but he affected a look of disinterest by sipping at its dregs and playing with his computer terminal.
“Crime reporting requires thinking, Mister Grant, not just rewriting some corporate press release. I am thinking,” he said, staring at his screen.
Grant leaned down and looked at the curved glass surface. A story template was on display there with Jinnah’s name atop it, but otherwise, the screen was blank.
“I see you have the most important portion of your day’s labour completed,” said Grant. “All you have to do now is hit a user key and fill in the blanks, right?”
Sanderson managed to stifle a chuckle. Jinnah only wrote four kinds of tales and did them in such a repetitive style that his colleagues had coined the phrase “user key stories” to describe them. User key one, when dealing with murder or accidental death, was “Why did he/she have to die?” If somehow the victim had failed to die (a serious fault that almost always moved a story off page one and back inside the paper), Jinnah fell back on user key two: “So-and-so is Lucky to Be Alive.” There was also user key three (The little guy/gal fighting the government body oppressing him/her and “she/he is furious!”) and user key four (“All I saw was a blinding flash,” for explosions and other catastrophes). Jinnah, however, was not amused.
“What do you want, Grant? We’re all rather busy here on city side.”
Grant leaned even closer to Jinnah, putting an unfriendly arm around his co-worker’s shoulders. His tone was as collegial as a drill sergeant explaining something to a particularly thick recruit.
“This little car fire story I see your name attached to on the list? Drop it, okay?”
Jinnah sat bolt upright, rigid.
“What are you talking about?” he snapped.
“I’m doing it, that’s why.”
“Like hell you are! And take your hands off me or I’ll slap a sexual harassment suit on you so fast —”
“That it’ll make all those times you unbuttoned your shirt and showed Crystal the receptionist your ‘African Rug’ pale by comparison?”
Grant’s tone was still warm and friendly. It always was when he was skewering someone. Sanderson toyed with the idea of going to Jinnah’s aid, then rejected it. The audience watching this set-to was too large. If anything beat a Sanderson-Jinnah bout it was a grudge-match between the two biggest egos at the paper.
“There’s nothing pale about my African Rug, buddy,” said Jinnah, unfastening another button on his already amply opened shirt. “Would you like to see more of it?”
Grant straightened up and took a step back.
“I pride myself on being in touch with my feminine side, Jinnah. That doesn’t mean I want to be in touch with your hairy chest.”
“Then what’s this bullshit about you stealing my Cadillac crispy critter?”
“Because the crispy critter in question has just been identified as Sam Schuster and Sam Schuster belongs to me. Period.”
Jinnah was momentarily silenced. Sanderson was surprised enough to let his newspaper shield drop.
“You mean Sam the Sham? Shyster Schuster?” Sanderson asked.
Grant nodded gravely.
“Well,” said Jinnah standing up. “All the more reason for me to cover it, I think.”
For all his sang-froid, Grant bristled slightly.
“Indian speak with fork in his tongue,” said Grant. “Make no sense.”
“Then I’ll use the tiny, small words you business guys are limited to in your vocabulary,” Jinnah replied, taking a step towards Grant. “I have a 100 percent controlling interest in murders at this newspaper. Your presence on this story would be a considerable liability. And since, as my inherent instincts tell me, this is likely to be the line story today —”
“It should be done properly,” said Grant coldly. “By me.”
“Oh?” said Jinnah. “And where are you going to get your facts? The same place you got your name?”
Grant’s face hardened into taut, tense lines.
“What are you insinuating?”
“Listen, smartass! I remember when you were just plain Gerry Grant working in the suburbs writing sports! Suddenly, you make up a middle name —”
“I’ve had quite enough of this conversation.”
Grant, his face a mask of icy contempt, turned and stalked away.
“Go on, run!” Jinnah shouted after him. “We’ll see who ends up on page one!”
Grant turned abruptly.
“Why don’t we leave it to Blacklock to decide then, Jinnah? He usually gives you preferred treatment, doesn’t he?”
There was a momentary hush. Conway Blacklock, the Tribune’s editor-in-chief, did have a special place for Jinnah. It was called the doghouse and despite being arguably the best reporter at the paper, Jinnah was seldom out of it. But Jinnah, in full fury, was not about to back down.
“I’ll meet you in Blacklock’s office at two o’clock and we’ll see who’s writing this story,” he said, throwing the gauntlet down at Grant’s feet.
Grant smiled.
“Fine. It’s up to the editor,” he said and, certain of his pending victory, went back to his desk to place some very important phone calls about the late Sam Schuster.
Unbeknownst to Jinnah and Grant, they were among the main topics of conversation at a lunch Blacklock was having with the Tribune’s new publisher. Blacklock had chosen the restaurant with great care. They were at the Teahouse in Stanley Park, an elegant eatery that looked out over the magnificence of Vancouver’s Outer Harbour. With snow-capped mountains spreading out on either side and the long, slender stretch of blue water in between gradually widening into the Strait of Georgia, the scenery was as spectacular as the cuisine. It was an establishment that never failed to impress and that was exactly what Blacklock was attempting to do. He felt it vital to define the limits of his personal empire and that meant explaining his management style to the new boss. Most reporters, had they been asked, would have described it as “neo-fascist,” but the editor-in-chief preferred a more gracious interpretation.
“I call it ‘Negative Energy Dynamics’ and it works remarkably well,” Blacklock said, his pudgy hands gripping his white coffee cup, slowly rotating it so the Publisher wouldn’t see the little brown coffee stains trailing down the lip.
The Publisher frowned.
“Negative Energy Dynamics? Is that sort of like Synergy or Employee Empowerment?”
Blacklock allowed himself a small, amused smile on his wide, beefy face, which was framed by greying brown curls and a sneer worthy of Charles Laughton.
“With due respect, sir, those sorts of management theory don’t work in a newsroom. Negative energy, on the other hand, produces results. Daily.”
“Really?”
The Publisher frowned again. Blacklock, seeing some further explanation was required, stared out at the mountains and the water. This was another advantage of the Teahouse: you could gaze out the window with a thoughtful look on your face for quite a while without your guest minding much or even suspecting you were searching your brain for the correct response. But now, Blacklock merely did it for dramatic effect. He’d rehearsed this speech carefully, he simply