Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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moms who have had their daughters run away from home and — what are you laughing at?”
Jinnah was fighting hard to contain it, but a chuckle was slipping out from behind the hands he’d clutched to his mouth.
“Let me guess — your first assignment is to find a mom who’s about to rescue her daughter from a notorious pimp, right?”
Sanderson looked guppy-like at Jinnah, mouth open, eyes agog.
“How — how —” he gasped.
“Ronald, we do this series roughly every five years. I personally did it about fifteen years ago, just before you arrived at this pillar of the journalistic industry, hmm?”
Sanderson took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. He closed his eyes. His voice was tired.
“Jinnah, I don’t see anything humorous about a woman risking her well-being to save her daughter from some swine of a pimp,” he said as evenly as he could.
“Nor do I, buddy,” agreed Jinnah, barely able to contain himself.
“Then what is so damned funny?’
“The thought of you risking your person to cover the event,” howled Jinnah. “Can you imagine!”
“Why is that so funny?” said Sanderson, turning red.
“Are you kidding me? You’re too damned Canadian to do a story like that and Blacklock knows it!”
“What has being Canadian got to do with it?”
“Manners Ronald, manners! You’ll probably apologize to the pimp as he puts you in a headlock!”
“Don’t be absurd!”
“I bet you call him ‘Mister’ out of pure habit as he pummels you.”
“I’m not talking to you anymore, Hakeem.”
“You don’t need to, buddy,” said Jinnah, standing up and feeling much, much better. “I have more important things to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like get a start on writing your obit, that’s what.”
Jinnah felt refreshed. Somehow, seeing Sanderson discomfited never failed to cheer him up. It was part of that class struggle between beat reporters like Jinnah and general assignment reporters like Sanderson. Sanderson often commented on how “beat” reporter meant knowing how to beat the system out of an honest day’s labour, unlike the honest general assignment journalist, the men and women who produced the bulk of cityside copy and had to write two, three, or four stories every day. Jinnah loved it when Sanderson was forced to do a crime story and confront the horrors that he dealt with every day. Let Ronald fret. He had other Tribune staff to do his bidding. He sauntered over to the receptionist’s desk.
“Ah, mademoiselle,” he said, approaching the young woman wearing a headset and seated behind the imposing, glassed-in counter. “Voulezvous coucher avec moi?”
Crystal Wagner gave Jinnah a bland look and sighed. In her early twenties, she’d been working at the Tribune to pay her way through university for three years now and was quite used to Jinnah’s routine. She called it his “Pepe le Pew act” and while other women might have been offended, Crystal found it amusing.
“Speed it up, Hakeem,” she said. “The sooner you finish the sooner I can call the Human Rights Branch and lodge a complaint.”
Jinnah slowly undid two more buttons on his shirt and started stroking his hairy chest, his fingers rolling his heavy, gold medallion back and forth.
“Ah, ze young lady iz playing hard to get,” he said, still affecting his French accent. “Perhaps if she stopped working so hard and relaxed on my African rug she would feel differently.”
“I’d feel like a shower,” said Crystal. “Whatever it is you want, the answer is no.”
“There is a difference between what I want and what I need,” said Jinnah, seating himself on the counter next to Crystal. “I want you to look something up for me.”
“Can’t. Busy. Got homework.”
“Homework! For what?”
“It’s a study of contemporary work values in North American office settings.”
“You should do a study on this place.”
“I’m majoring in sociology, not zoology.”
Jinnah moved even closer to Crystal, brushing against her shoulder.
“I just want you to get some information for me,” he purred, lowering his voice to that rough, bourbon-like baritone that Crystal called “The Jinnah Tiger Growl.”
She fought to control a smile on her lips, which bore the tell-tale markings of piercings where studs and rings would appear once Crystal got home from work and donned her “University Uniform.” Such decorations were banned in the Tribune newsroom, which Crystal found ironic since having some heavy metal at hand would be useful when dealing with Jinnah.
“Just what’s in it for me?” she asked. “Aside from a wrongful dismissal case?”
“Mademoiselle, I shall shower you with love and affection,” said Jinnah. “That and a large coffee from the cafeteria.”
“You must want something awfully badly. You never buy anyone a coffee.”
Jinnah got down on his knees in front of Crystal and took her hand in his.
“For you, I would make such a sacrifice,” he said earnestly. “Just tell me one small thing —”
“You want to know what Grant is working on.”
Jinnah almost dropped Crystal’s hand, but somehow found the strength to hang gamely onto it.
“How do you know that?” he gasped.
“Because I know you and your ego.”
“Am I that predictable?”
“As constant as the pole star.”
Jinnah tightened his grip on Crystal’s hand and raised it to his lips.
“S’il vous plait, mon amour, mon petite truffle!” he murmured, lips brushing the back of her white hand. “Pour your homme formidable, hmm?”
It was in this position, on bended knee, kissing Crystal’s hand, that Blacklock finally found Jinnah.
“Jinnah!” roared Blacklock from not three feet behind the cooing lovebirds. “What on earth do you think you’re doing! This is a newsroom, not a bordello!”
Jinnah turned around, unperturbed. He looked at Blacklock coolly.
“Her hand fainted,” he said. “I was merely giving it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in accordance with the Good Samaritan Act.”
“You appear to be committing some other form of act!” cried Blacklock. “Unhand that poor young woman at once!”
Crystal withdrew her hand, unruffled and, without the slightest appearance of alarm, went back to her work. Jinnah stood and tried to walk past Blacklock to his desk. The editor-in-chief used his considerable bulk to block his escape.
“Where have you been all morning?” he demanded. “What do you have to contribute to this newspaper today?”
“At the moment, nothing,” said Jinnah, looking around for an escape route and finding none, what with his entire horizon filled by angry editor.
“Then get to your desk and find me a story, Jinnah, instead of the fiction you pawned off on us last night!”
By now, the entire newsroom was pretending not to watch. Fine, thought Blacklock. Let them. Meanwhile, Jinnah felt his honour had been insulted: and in front of a woman, too.