Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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forehead in exasperation. Jinnah often provoked this response. He sat at the desk next to Sanderson and they had to share a computer terminal that swiveled back and forth. His slender, brown face framed by gold glasses could often be seen leaning out beside the computer screen as Sanderson tried to work. Today however, Jinnah sat back in his chair, feet calmly planted on his desk, stirring a cup of coffee with four creams and four sugars in it, head angled to one side alternately begging and berating Sanderson in an attempt to coerce his friend’s life savings out of his RRSPs. Around them, most of the Vancouver Tribune news room staff were silent. They were watching the daily Jinnah-Sanderson show with amusement and wondering how today’s battle would turn out.
“You don’t have to be Egyptian to build a pyramid scheme and I doubt Cheops could have come up with a bigger shell-game than you have,” replied Sanderson. “I ought to set the law on you.”
Jinnah snorted into his coffee.
“Ronald, it’s an introduction service, nothing more.”
“Most introduction services don’t get listed on the Canadian Venture Exchange.”
“This one does,” said Jinnah, calmly sipping his coffee. “It is, as you know, international in its scope. It requires a great deal of capital.”
“The capitals being Beijing and Moscow. Pairing lonely Chinese bachelors with Russian women desperate to immigrate? Are you nuts?”
“No, just logical, my friend. Think of it — because of Beijing’s one-child policy and the Chinese preference for male babies, within the next ten years, there will be over one hundred million Chinese men looking for wives that aren’t there! The Russian women are already on the market. I say strike while the iron is hot, buddy.”
“It’s immoral,” said Sanderson. “You’re selling Chinese men and Russian women in batches of twenty —”
“Units, Ronald, units,” Jinnah chided his friend. “Let’s be professional about this thing. And use the proper name for my venture: The Orient Love Express.”
“It’s dishonest.”
“It’s a legal way to make money, Ronald.”
“There’s more to life than money, Jinnah.”
“Tell the Aga Khan — he gets 10 percent.”
“To think you work at a newspaper that just won the city’s humanitarian award!”
Jinnah took a long sip of his coffee and pointed a long, dark finger at his friend.
“Ronald, don’t blame me when I make a fortune and you remain a destitute hack working at this Godforsaken rag until they wheel you out the door when you’re sixty-five — first, of course, they will have a security guard search your desk for stolen stationery. I am offering you riches.”
“You are offering me a one-way ticket to a medium-security facility for fraud.”
“Think of it as an early-retirement package.”
“Jinnah —” Sanderson started.
And stopped. He had been about to sharply rebuke Jinnah when he saw the smile creep around the edges of his friend’s mouth, eyes glinting like the heavy gold jewellery he wore on his chest and wrists. Jinnah had done it to him again, baiting him and playing him like some cut-throat trout, pulling on the line until he roared with the hook in his mouth. It was now Jinnah’s turn to roar, the laugh shaking his long, slender frame.
“What is it your Jesus said about gaining the whole world?” he laughed.
Sanderson snatched the paper off his desk and unfolded it with a snap. His face was burning red behind the pages. He did not turn around to see the smiles and grins on his co-workers’ faces, but he knew they were there. He could hear them chuckling and chortling as Jinnah looked over at them with that grin of his. Really, one day Hakeem was going to go too far. Even now, his voice floated over top of the newspaper to Sanderson’s ears.
“Ronald, Ronald, seriously — are you in or out?”
“Don’t you have any work to do, Hakeem?” said Sanderson, keeping his round, rubicund face behind the protective shield of newsprint.
“Things are slow on the crime front,” said Jinnah, reclining back into his chair.
“There was that sudden death in South Vancouver last night.”
“The Cadillac crispy critter? Bah!” snorted Jinnah. “A man dies in a car fire. Big deal. I wouldn’t go near it. Let a junior reporter cover it. Yourself, perhaps. I have other fish to fry. Although,” said Jinnah, grinning wickedly. “I hear this guy’s last words were to his father.”
“Oh?” said Sanderson, sounding disinterested. “What were they?”
“Hey, Dad! Can I borrow the keys to the char? Get it?”
Sanderson remained with his newsprint shield up, fuming. How could Jinnah be so calm and detached about these things? How he could be so passionless about such an awful death by fire? It was the same outer coolness with which he greeted all violent crime, whether it be murder, assault or worse. Sanderson supposed it had a lot to do with Hakeem’s childhood. He was the son of a Kenyan police chief and he thought more like a cop than a reporter.
“I see we have combined our customary callousness with a certain juvenile humour,” said Sanderson loftily.
“Come on, Ronald! Lighten up! No pun intended. Mind you, that would take a really twisted mind, hmm? Burn someone to death in their own car.”
“You take an indecent delight in thinking these things out. I think you almost identify with these murderers, Jinnah.”
“As it should be,” said Jinnah, twirling the ends of his thick, black moustache. “To catch a killer, my friend, you have to get inside his head. You must put yourself in the shoes of a killer. Know his mind and all will make sense by his rules, not ours.”
“I must say that most killers’ logic is a mystery to me.”
“That is why you are on general assignment, Ronald, and I am a beat reporter, hmm? Your mind is capable of flitting from story to story. Me? I obsess. I work myself up into a fury and, if the story merits it —”
“I know, you launch a Jinnahad,” sighed Sanderson, who had heard this spiel perhaps a thousand times before. “I wish you luck, Sherlock.”
Jinnah’s face assumed a twisted grin.
“Oh, ho, Bernstein! And what’s your great story today, eh? Another lost dog tale, is it not? Call the Canadian Association of Journalists! We have a finalist!”
Sanderson’s fair, freckled face flushed red again. He resented it when Jinnah tormented him because he was bored.
“I should win an award for the dumpster dog,” countered Sanderson firmly. “It’s an uplifting story of human compassion.”
“Throwing a Scottie dog into a dumpster to die is hardly heroism,” observed Jinnah.
“Rescuing him is,” retorted Sanderson. “Really, Hakeem! You’re so judgmental!”
“All shall be judged, Ronald! Remember: there is trial by judge, trial by jury and trial by Jinnah!”
“In any event, I’d much rather read about an act of kindness towards an animal over my morning corn flakes than the gruesome details of your latest case.”
“Now, Ronald —”
Jinnah got no further. A shadow came between himself and Sanderson and as it was cast by Gerald Dixon Grant, it was both a physical and emotional pall. Both Sanderson and Jinnah immediately stiffened. Grant was a business reporter and, as he liked to remind Jinnah, an award-winning journalist. As such, he dressed in power suits and conservative ties and regarded Jinnah’s fashion sense as “post-modern juvenile.” Grant towered over the seated