Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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“No, but —”
“Did he have anything at all to do with Schuster’s death?”
“Not likely, but —”
“Then you have wasted the company’s time, haven’t you, Jinnah?”
“That’s not the point —”
“That is entirely the point!” bellowed Blacklock. “Now get back to your desk and do a round of cop-checks and fill up the news briefs column at least!”
Jinnah, sensing defeat, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily.
“Mister Blacklock, this madman threatened my life. I feel I am suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and may have to take the rest of the day —”
“Over my lifeless carcass!”
“— off.”
“Be off with you! To your desk!”
Blacklock stepped back. Jinnah paused, trying to think of something terribly cutting to say but he was so furious, he could think of nothing. He skulked past Blacklock and felt the eyes of everyone drilling through his back. Blacklock waited until he was just about to sit down before delivering his final insult.
“And Jinnah? It is a daily newspaper, remember that!” he said loudly.
“Son of a bitch!” muttered Jinnah as Blacklock waddled off, escorted by a variety of chuckles, snorts and knowing grins.
A daily paper! Who produced more daily news stories than Jinnah? The bastard. Jinnah did some power-dialing, working the phone with a homicidal intensity, looking for a story — any story — that could knock Grant off the front page. But there were no juicy murders, no brazen bank robberies, nothing. The crime scene was as sterile as the Pope’s choir. It was with an increasing sense of frustration that Jinnah dialed, left messages, was told nothing was going on. Finally, he slammed the phone down in frustration. Almost immediately, it rang. He snatched it up and noticed too late the number displayed. Sanjit.
They spoke in Hindi mixed with a rich panache of words from English and other languages. This “language” was completely incomprehensible to everyone else in the newsroom. All of Jinnah’s business conversations were conducted in this tongue.
“Greetings, cousin!” said Sanjit gloomily. “I hope all is well with you.”
“Well enough,” lied Jinnah. “What can I do for you, Sanjit?’
“I have just attended the Indo-Canadian Business Council luncheon in Surrey.”
“I am pleased for you,” said Jinnah sharply. “Did you call to describe the meal?”
“Obviously not!” said Sanjit, offended. “But I did have a strange experience.”
Oh God, thought Jinnah. Merciful Allah, now what?
“Yes?” he said, opening the door to further details.
“Naturally, I asked many prominent business people if they were going to the launch of our little venture tomorrow afternoon.”
“And were no doubt very warmly received?” said Jinnah with faint hope.
“Jinnah,” said Sanjit, his voice rising to an annoying whine. “Each and every one of them gave polite apologies and said they had a meeting at that time! Is it possible everyone is attending the same meeting?”
That or they have all had a meeting with a certain individual, thought Jinnah.
“Isn’t anybody coming, for God’s sake?” he asked peevishly.
“Only Mister Germal from the Community Reporter,” agonized Sanjit.
“Well, that’s good,” said Jinnah. “At least we will get some press.”
“Hakeem, all the media outlets we sent invitations to have indicated they will attend, even your competition, the other Vancouver daily newspaper!” wailed Sanjit.
“Believe me, cousin, this is a good thing,” Jinnah tried to reassure him.
“What if they all show up?”
“Then on top of being the president of a highly successful multi-level marketing scheme, you will also be the most successful public relations flack in Vancouver!”
“But they will all ask questions! Write stories!”
“That is the idea, after all, Sanjit. There is no such thing as bad publicity.”
“Tell that to Bill Gates.”
“First you whine no one is coming, now you’re alarmed they are! It will all be fine, Sanjit.”
There was a pause before Sanjit asked the question Jinnah had been dreading.
“Hakeem, did you talk to Mister Puri today?”
Jinnah had been expecting this inquiry since the beginning of the conversation, but he was still unsure of how to handle it. He decided a little bluntness was in order. It would help prepare Sanjit for the reporters’ questions tomorrow.
“I did. He said he wouldn’t recommend our venture to anyone who asked him.”
Sanjit, a devout and religious man, swore a blue streak in a variety of languages, making even Jinnah’s ears burn.
“I knew it!” he shouted. “I bet no one got a chance to ask him! I bet he was on the phone the second you left him, calling people up!”
“Now, now, Sanjit,” said Jinnah soothingly. “Mister Puri is a very holy man.”
“You are right,” said Sanjit, abruptly changing tone, his voice nearly breaking at the stress. “Oh God, Jinnah! How did I ever let you talk me into this?”
“It was your idea, Sanjit,” said Jinnah reprovingly. “And my money.”
“Hakeem, what will we do?”
“We will show up tomorrow and tell the truth. As my colleague Ronald Sanderson is fond of saying, ‘Ye shall know the truth and it shall set ye free.’ Don’t worry about it.”
“But without the community behind us —”
“There are plenty of shrewd investors in Vancouver and Canada — indeed, the world — who will more than make up for the absence of the community,” said Jinnah. “Now get the last-minute stuff done and don’t call me unless it’s an emergency.”
“But Hakeem —”
“No buts, Sanjit! Now good-bye.”
Jinnah hung up. That bastard Puri. All Jinnah had tried to do was slide him a piece of the action. Well, Puri would be laughing out the other side of his face in a few weeks when Orient Love Express shares took off. Then he would get on board — for full price. Jinnah didn’t give the matter another thought. He spent the rest of the afternoon, as he put it, “drinking at the well of dryness.” He filed two briefs and made one final attempt to find out what Grant had. But he was rebuffed by Perma-Frost when he asked him in the designated smoking area of the cafeteria.
“I’m sworn to secrecy. Sorry,” he said, his eyes very sad. “You owe me a jet.”
Jinnah handed over a cigarette and gave it one last go.
“I have a right to know,” he pleaded. “I bet the copy-runners know!”
“I’d say just about everyone knows,” said Frost, taking a deep lungful. “But Blacklock has let it be known that the person who does tell you will be assigned to do obituaries for the rest of their life.”
“Jesus Christ!” spat Jinnah. “Look, can you at least tell me if it’s good?”
Peter Frost looked at Jinnah through his right eye, head tilted to that side.
“Are