Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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first time,” Jinnah said darkly. “How long has it been since you moved out of my basement?”
Sanjit smiled pathetically. Jinnah had been good to him after he’d lost his shirt during that gold coin business. It had been Sanjit’s first experience with a pyramid scheme, a scam that had swept through Vancouver’s Indo-Canadian community like wild-fire. Many lost their life savings. Sanjit also lost his house, his wife Rani, and his children, who returned to Kenya in disgust to live with his in-laws. With Jinnah’s help, he put himself back on his feet and there was some talk of reconciliation with Rani. Reflecting on this, Jinnah was not surprised Sanjit was a little over-anxious about their current business venture — his entire future was riding on it. He regretted his remark.
“Look, Sanjit, don’t worry about it. Everything’s covered, hmm? Would you like some coffee?”
“Thank you,” said Sanjit.
While Manjit made the coffee and hovered discreetly in the kitchen, Sanjit appeared to relax somewhat. Jinnah’s own stomach had stopped doing backflips to the extent that he was now nibbling on some of the naan as Sanjit made polite conversation.
“You have written a story today, Hakeem?” he asked.
“Indeed, Sanjit. About a most perplexing murder.”
At this Sanjit looked up sharply.
“Murder? Whose murder?”
“Sam Schuster. Businessman. You may have heard of Schuster the Shyster?”
“Something, perhaps,” said Sanjit guardedly. “How was he killed?”
“In a quite unusual manner. Someone put him in his Cadillac, dowsed it with gas and set it on fire. He was burnt to a crisp.”
Beads of sweat had once again broken out on Sanjit’s forehead. His voice quavered slightly.
“Name of God! Who could have done such a thing?”
“Take a number,” Jinnah grunted. “Any one of a thousand shareholders who suffered at his hands, that’s who.”
Sanjit’s breathing was becoming laboured. Jinnah looked at him, cocking his head to one side. His cousin was an extraordinarily emotional man who got upset over the slightest things. But he’d never seen Sanjit so overwrought about the death of stock promoter, and a white one at that.
“Terrible! Terrible,” he muttered. “His wife. His family. His business —”
“Will do just fine, I imagine,” Jinnah cut in. “His business partners will likely pick up the pieces — if there are any pieces left … what is it now?”
To Jinnah’s astonishment, there were tears in Sanjit’s eyes and his lower lip was quivering. He was gasping for breath.
“For God’s sake, man! Was Schuster a close personal friend of yours?” demanded Jinnah. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Hakeem!” Sanjit blurted out as he burst into tears, hands covering his face. “I am so worried that I will end up like that unfortunate man!”
Jinnah’s inherent instincts were tingling once again and when finances were involved, that was a bad sign. The naan in his mouth turned to ashes and dust and a half-dozen possibilities — all of them catastrophic in nature — flashed through his mind. He put an arm around Sanjit’s burly shoulders.
“Hey, hey! Sanjit! Get ahold of yourself!” he said, giving him a friendly shake. “For the love of God, what’s this about burning?”
Sanjit looked up at Jinnah, his face streaked with tears.
“It will end in flames, I tell you!” he blubbered. “Just like Sam Schuster.”
The alarm bells were going off non-stop in Jinnah’s head. God, he groaned inwardly, don’t let it be another gold coin scheme …
“Listen, Sanjit! Sam Schuster was murdered by disgruntled shareholders. You don’t have any shareholders as yet. Everyone is fully gruntled, as far as I know. And Buick’s are damn near fire-proof, I understand.”
“It is not our future shareholders,” said Sanjit tearfully. “It’s Mister Puri.”
Jinnah sat back down in his chair with a thump, one arm still around Sanjit’s expansive shoulders.
“Name of God,” he muttered, removing his hands from his cousin’s person and feeling in his pockets for a cigarette. “What now?”
“Mister Puri came to see me last week, Hakeem,” sniffled Sanjit, struggling for control. “He is, as you know, a very devout man.”
As well as a powerful and rich one, thought Jinnah. Puri had considerable influence in the Indo-Canadian community. One did not dismiss his concerns lightly.
“So, what did he want?” asked Jinnah grimly, lighting up.
Sanjit coughed and waved his hands vigorously.
“You really shouldn’t smoke at the dinner table, Hakeem.”
“This is my house and it is a designated smoking area in its entirety! Now, what did Puri want?”
Sanjit was getting a grip on himself — or as much of one as could be expected.
“He has grave concerns about the Orient Love Express. He wonders if perhaps it may be perceived as immoral.”
Jinnah choked on his cigarette. He almost wished Sanjit had told him he’d embezzled the entire start-up fund than hear this.
“Immoral?” Jinnah squeaked, his deep voice tightening and reaching the range of a teenager’s. “All we’re doing is selling a service!”
“Mister Puri is concerned over the appearance of the services we are selling, Hakeem. He thinks they may reflect badly on the community.”
“Was he serious?”
Sanjit looked at his cousin with a watery, wobbly face.
“He called us Islamabad pimps. He said we would burn in hell! Is that serious enough for you?”
It was serious, all right. Jinnah chewed his finger-nails and muttered to himself while Sanjit fought back a fresh round of tears. One had to be very, very careful in such situations. Jinnah and Sanjit were hoping to raise much of their money within the community. A word from Puri could drive business almost entirely away. Was he really morally offended? Or did he simply want in on a good thing?
“Did he really say we would burn in hell?” Jinnah asked.
“Apparently he feels there is a special circle in hell for those people who sell flesh for illicit purposes,” said Sanjit.
Jinnah finished his scotch. He thought hard. His faint sense of morality fought desperately with his business instincts. His business instincts, as usual, won.
“Sanjit,” he asked. “Did you offer Mister Puri any shares at a preferred rate?”
Sanjit sat up straight, his tear-lined face hardening, his tone indignant.
“Hakeem! Don’t be ridiculous! Mister Puri’s principles cannot be bought!”
“No, no, of course not,” said Jinnah soothingly.
But, Jinnah thought to himself, his scruples might be assuaged if I dropped off a prospectus and explained in person there is no sin in buying and selling introductory services for a lot of Asian infidels. Surely I can persuade the old man of that.
“I will talk to Mister Puri tomorrow, Sanjit,” he said gently. “Now, come on! Stop blubbering like a baby, for God’s sake.”
It took coffee and two helping’s of Manjit’s tapioca pudding to calm Sanjit enough to say goodnight and drive home in his golden chariot. Jinnah watched from the living room window as the Buick lurched away into the night. Manjit was behind him.
“What