Mister Jinnah Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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venture of yours. What are you selling?” he demanded.
“Why, love, Mister Thompson. A service,” he added hastily.
The faintest suggestion of a sneer twisted Thompson’s mouth, but he kept his tone expressionless.
“Love. Bullshit. People tell you they do things for love all the time, but when you peel away the wrapping, you always find cash underneath. Remember that next time you write a story, friend.”
Jinnah was about to reply to the effect that love was a greater motivator for murder than money any day and ask Thompson if he could account for his whereabouts during the night in question when there was an uproar behind them. Jinnah reluctantly craned his neck backwards and saw Sanjit bellowing as he walked away from the TV cameras with the pugnacious Germal in pursuit.
“Name of God!” Jinnah groaned. “You’ll forgive me, Mister Thompson —”
Jinnah turned around to excuse himself only to find Thompson had already vanished. Slippery bastard, he thought, and went to rescue Sanjit. Jinnah closed his eyes for a second and uttered a brief prayer to the effect that if he was dreaming or seeing things, he would not fail to increase his monthly tithe to the mosque. He reopened them to discover that if Allah worked in mysterious ways, profit-motivation was clearly not one of them. Sanjit was still stalking away from the cameras and from Germal — the worst possible thing an interview subject could do. This would be the kiss of death on the evening news. Germal’s paper, the Indo-Canadian Reporter, Jinnah could care less about. He took his ventilator from his pouch and took two quick puffs. He had only seconds to act. The cameramen were capturing the typical “crook caught-out walking away from camera” shot. Jinnah took several deep breaths and raced from the rear of the room towards his cousin. His lungs protested and ached, but he had enough breath in them to pace swiftly past the cameras and Germal and overtake Sanjit before he got to the large double-doors at the front of the ballroom.
“Sanjit! Hey!” cried Jinnah, grabbing his cousin by the arm.
Sanjit whirled around, eyes blazing, chins trembling with rage.
“Sanjit, never, ever walk away from the cameras!” Jinnah scolded. “Did you not remember a thing I told you?”
“A fine help you and your advice are!” Sanjit shouted at him in Punjabi. “Tell the truth! Hah!”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jinnah, sliding comfortably into the same language his cousin was using.
“That bastard Germal started off by asking if it was true we had been branded Islamabad Pimps by Mister Puri,” said Sanjit. “Then when I admitted this was true, he brought up the business of the gold coins! As if it was my fault!”
“You’re kidding!”
Jinnah turned around and saw the cameramen closing in again with Germal at their heels. Jinnah stared at them wide-eyed with terror. Now he knew something of how his own victims felt. Well, even rules governing a good interview were made to be broken. Jinnah linked an arm with Sanjit and marched him out into the corridor.
“Bastard!” he swore. “Germal’s family lost just as much as you did in that scam! Only they have deeper pockets.”
“What are we going to do, Hakeem?” wailed Sanjit. “There are people waiting to talk to me about investing! I can’t do it with awkward questions being asked!”
“Calmly, Sanjit, calmly —”
It suddenly struck Jinnah that they were speaking Punjabi. He used so many languages unconsciously he seldom noticed the transition. But in this case, it came to Jinnah like a clear flash of light that there may be salvation in the Old Country’s tongue.
“Sanjit, were you and Germal speaking English or Punjabi in front of the cameras?”
“Why, Punjabi, of course,” said Sanjit.
Jinnah stopped just a few feet down the corridor and turned Sanjit about abruptly. He placed his hands on his cousin’s shoulders and gave him a stern look.
“Sanjit,” Jinnah said. “Talk to Germal. Make sure you use Punjabi. Say whatever you want to him. I’ll take care of the cameras, hmm?”
“But Jinnah,” said Sanjit, bewildered. “They will hear.”
“Ah, but will they understand, cousin?”
Sanjit glanced over Jinnah’s shoulder at the advancing cameramen. After a moment, he smiled.
“Shabash, cousin!” he grinned, seizing Jinnah’s drift.
“Remind Germal of his own misfortune,” said Jinnah, launching his cousin at the reporter. “Don’t stop haranguing until I say so.”
Sanjit happily rounded on Germal, who was now in front of the two cameramen and started berating him in Punjabi as per Jinnah’s instructions. Jinnah steadied himself and fought to remember the names of the video-journalists capturing the scene for posterity. He knew their faces from hundreds of press conferences, scrums, stakeouts, and other news events. They were both, praise God, lily-white and he was quite certain completely ignorant of any language other than English and perhaps French. Jinnah planted himself firmly between them and Sanjit.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what brings you to the Grand Central Station of Love, hmm?” he said with a forced joviality.
The Older Camerman who was, as most technicians are, very tall, dropped his camera from his shoulder to his hip.
“No love lost between those two, Jinnah,” he said. “What gives?”
“I may ask you the same thing,” said Jinnah smoothly. “Where’s your reporter?
The older camerman glanced over at his younger colleague, a mere pup with red hair and a thin, weedy beard. They grinned at each other.
“Troughing at a business luncheon,” admitted the Older Camerman. “They sent us over to get nice visuals.”
Jinnah’s hopes soared. No reporters meant the news directors didn’t see this as a serious story, just a quirky one. With luck, Jinnah could convince them there was no larger issue.
“So what are you going to use on tonight’s news then? This will be a ten-second voice-over by the anchor with pretty pictures. The pretty pictures are over there,” said Jinnah, pointing to two rather blond, rather tall models who had gathered a considerable crowd around them.
The cameramen looked at each other suspiciously.
“Listen, Hakeem,” said the Older Cameraman. “What are those two jammering about? On the level.”
“They have a passing business acquaintance and are arguing over whose family lost more on a scam that went through the Indo-Canadian community some months ago,” said Jinnah, quite truthfully. “I’m sure I could get Sanjit to explain the whole thing for you — if you think that fits your demographic.”
The cameramen exchanged looks once more.
“Depends,” said the Younger One. “Are they women under thirty?”
“Look for yourself,” laughed Jinnah.
The cameramen shuffled their feet. Both looked hungrily over at the blondes. Jinnah sensed victory. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a couple of brochures.
“Just in case you need some words with the pretty pictures,” he said, handing one to each technician. “You need anything else, I’ll have Sanjit send a press kit over, hmm?”
The Older Cameraman accepted the brochure with a grin.
“Ever thought of going into P.R., Jinnah?” he asked.
“Never, my friend! But let me tell you something — if I did, I’d be the best goddamned flack this city ever saw.”
The pair picked up their cameras and hastened towards the Russian women holding court. Jinnah sighed mightily and muttered