Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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craving audience,” Jinnah said, putting a protective arm around Sanjit’s shoulders and guiding him back into the room.
“Hey!” cried Germal. “What about me?”
“No more questions!” cried Jinnah, imitating the most officious press secretary he had ever come across.
Germal stood petulantly in the hall as the two cousins returned to the ballroom. There was still a considerable crowd milling about inside. A hush fell over them as Jinnah and Sanjit entered, suppressed grins twisting their mouths. The cameramen abandoned the blondes and swung their cameras around to capture the moment. There was a slight pause.
“Name of God, Jinnah! Now what?” whispered Sanjit.
They will think I am a flack, thought Jinnah. Oh well — in for a penny, in for your life savings.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Jinnah cried in a loud voice. “I give you the Chief Engineer of the Orient Love Express! All aboard!”
The models, knowing their jobs well, applauded enthusiastically, encouraging the rest of the crowd. An excited chattering broke out as Jinnah gently shoved Sanjit forward. The cousins found themselves mobbed by people wanting more information, the name of a reputable broker and, wonder of wonders, one or two who actually wanted to buy several units on the spot. Sanjit looked as if he was afraid to pinch himself for fear of waking up. For his part, Jinnah beamed at everyone and told anyone who asked that Sanjit was indeed his cousin and a savvy businessman. If this is all there is to being a P.R. flack, maybe a career change is in order, he thought happily.
Back at the Tribune office, a change in careers was just what was being contemplated. Not for Jinnah, of course — not this time, although Blacklock had often fantasized about breaking Jinnah down to the rank of copy-runner. The editor-in-chief was currently mulling his own career options. Not in a serious way, but depressing episodes like the one he was currently enduring always made him wonder if there weren’t greener corporate pastures elsewhere. The black cloud hanging over his thoughts had started with the demonstration in the newsroom that morning and become steadily larger, darker and more electrically charged.
Blacklock knew two things: one, the presence of so many protesters in the newsroom was an appalling breach of security and two, the sudden switching off of the lights had compounded the problem. He needed someone to take the fall for both and fortunately, he seemed to have just the right sacrificial victim: Crystal Wagner. He’d been stunned when the Publisher had urged caution after summoning him to the corner office.
“It’s quite clearly her fault, sir,” Blacklock argued. “Allowing so many couriers into the office at once. She admits she was the one who turned the lights off.”
“There may be perfectly reasonable explanations for her actions,” the Publisher said stubbornly. “Besides, you fire her and the union will simply grieve it.”
“Then what do you propose to do, sir?” Blacklock asked, dreading the answer.
“Investigate, Connie, investigate! There may be systemic failures that can be corrected. We don’t always have to have heads on platters when things go wrong.”
Blacklock gritted his teeth at the Publisher’s use of the diminutive, “Connie.” He hated being called Connie and had fought for much of his childhood, adolescence, and adult professional life to leave the despised sobriquet behind. And what nonsense the man was talking! Systemic errors! No need for heads? What sort of manager was he? It almost sounded like he believed all that crap about synergy and employee-empowerment the consultants tried to shove down your throat at those management training seminars.
“I really think this would be the fastest way of restoring confidence, sir. The least amount of disruption.”
The Publisher looked at Blacklock with that tiny face of his and his bespectacled eyes bulged.
“Listen, Connie: there’s been a major breach of our security. Firing a receptionist on the spot is not going to prevent a reoccurrence. I intend to take other action.”
Blacklock failed to suppress the arching of an eyebrow.
“If I may ask, what do you contemplate, sir?” he asked, hiding the amusement in his voice almost entirely.
“For a start, I intend to interview this Crystal woman.”
Blacklock was stunned.
“To what end, sir?”
“To finding out what happened, Connie,” the Publisher said in a tone that Blacklock found somewhat dismissive. “To communicate. We are in the communications business, no?”
Blacklock smiled weakly and to his horror, the Publisher made him sit through the entire wretched business. Crystal came in looking completely unconcerned that she was in the presence of the ultimate boss. That would not be the case, Blacklock sniffed to himself, if it were he sitting where that jumped-up advertising clerk is now.
“So, is this an unofficial conversation or do I need a shop steward?” Crystal asked right off the top.
Blacklock felt his neck flush red. She said this with an impertinence he found intolerable. The reaction of the Publisher was to smile reassuringly.
“Now Crystal — you don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you? Crystal, no one’s on trial here. This is completely off the record. All I want to know is what happened. This is in no way a disciplinary hearing and nothing you say will be repeated beyond these walls. Isn’t that right, Conway?”
Blacklock nodded. At least the little ad-taker had used his full first given name in front of this plebeian.
“You must have had an upsetting morning,” the Publisher said, voice tinged with what Blacklock took to be genuine concern.
“A little,” admitted Crystal. “But shi — stuff happens.”
The Publisher, who was leaning across his desk with his hands clasped, took this opportunity to lean back and smile.
“So — tell me how this particular … stuff, happened.”
“I clued in to the courier thing just before the demo broke out,” Crystal said, looking unconcernedly at her nails. “I was on the blower with the Security Supervisor when the shi — stuff, hit the fan.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he’d tried to warn Grant this Lavirtue character had quite the entourage with him, but Gerald was rude to him and hung up. Apparently, Mister Grant has a bit of a ‘tude when it comes to dealing with us lackeys.”
Blacklock was moved to interject. How dare a receptionist say such a thing about a reporter! But one quick look in the Publisher’s eyes silenced him. Jesus wept, he thought. The little bugger believes her.
“Go on,” the Publisher urged Crystal. “What happened with the lights?”
Crystal looked around at the art work on the walls and Blacklock, following her gaze, noticed there were one or two pieces of new work covering the unfaded patches: both were Markgraffs and the classically schooled Blacklock’s nose turned his nostrils so far up they were in danger of sheering through his skull like a can-opener.
“Simple, really,” Crystal said, finally looking directly into the Publisher’s eyes. “I saw the demo break out and called security. I’m not allowed to call the cops unless directed to, so I scoped out the action. Then I saw the cat with the video-camera taping very word Lavirtue was spouting and I said, ‘Hello, can you say Noon News, courtesy our newsfinder video?’ So I hit the lights so the bastard — bugger — sorry, bounder, wouldn’t have enough light to shoot by.”
A likely story, Blacklock thought. Surely not even the ad-taker could buy this bill of goods.
“Quick thinking,” the Publisher said, nodding his head. “And by the way, who has to give you permission to call the police in a potentially dangerous situation?’
“The editor-in-chief,