Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
Читать онлайн книгу.
like a battery: you need both positive and negative working together to create a spark. The reporters provide the positive charge, I serve as the negative pole.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” said the Publisher, a pleasant-looking man in his late fifties whose glasses were just a bit too large for his domed head.
Blacklock returned his gaze to the Publisher and found himself looking down. He smiled inwardly. A tall, stout man, he liked being physically overbearing. He calculated that he was a good six inches taller than his new superior.
“The reporters work very hard, putting their positive energies into producing stories,” explained Blacklock. “They seek my approval as a sort of surrogate father figure. However, I deny them my approval, giving back negative energy.”
The Publisher’s eyes widened.
“Meaning if they do a good job, you don’t give them a pat on the back?”
Blacklock had been taking a sip of coffee and he nearly choked. This fellow was much more astute than his rather bland little exterior would lead one to believe. He would have to be more careful.
“Not exactly,” he continued. “I may grudgingly acknowledge that they have done better than they normally do — marginally — and then perhaps opine that their standard of work is still far below that of a National Newspaper Award. That sort of thing.”
“Don’t they just fold the tent and stop working then?”
“Indeed not, sir. They generally redouble their energies, hoping that the next story will please me and gain my long sought-after approval.”
The Publisher’s frown returned. He was a good man, but he had risen through the ranks of the chain through the advertising and the business offices in Toronto. He had no idea of how to run a newsroom and reporters were a mystery to him. They certainly didn’t operate like advertising salespeople, who had a monetary incentive to work hard and succeed. Reporters got paid the same no matter how much — or how little — work they did. But then, people were people, even reporters, and the Publisher had always believed motivated employees who felt valued performed better than those who were terrorized.
“Well,” said the Publisher, resorting to Blacklock’s strategy of looking out the window. “I must say it sounds like a lot of work for you, being the sole negative spark.”
Blacklock let out a mental breath. He had not been sure if the Publisher would buy into his theory. He knew the man’s background, how the sales department had special events, parties, bonuses, and other methods of motivating their employees. Blacklock despised them. People like the Publisher made his job that much more difficult.
“Actually, although I am the primary power source, I am not the only negative pole,” admitted Blacklock modestly. “You see, the other facet of this theory is to create positive-negative energy between the reporters themselves — make them compete with each other.”
The Publisher took his eyes off the line of tankers and container ships sitting out in the harbour, waiting for their turn at the docks inside the Lions Gate Bridge.
“Compete with each other?” he said, eyes narrowing.
“Of course. That way, they form a positive-negative charge of their own, creating even more energy.”
“It sounds a bit like divide and conquer to me, Mister Blacklock,” said the Publisher with a hint of a smile. “Is it practical?”
“It has worked well for the Tribune thus far, sir,” said Blacklock, unruffled. “Take, for instance, the rather bizarre and untimely death of Sam Schuster this morning.”
“Sam Schuster?” asked the Publisher. “Who is he?”
Blacklock gave an inward shake of the head. In his rules of power-lunching, never admitting ignorance of any fact, no matter how small, was high on the list. Even if you were absolutely, unequivocally wrong, you never admitted it. How had this man risen to the state of Publisher with no concern, seemingly, for appearing not to be plugged-in? The fact the Publisher was new to Vancouver did not signify. Part of the trick of establishing your place in the pecking order of the information industry was to research these kinds of things in advance. He went on indulgently.
“A local and somewhat colourful stock promoter,” said Blacklock. “Found burned to a crisp beside his Cadillac last night. A bit of a shyster, but never convicted.”
“You’ll give that to Jinnah, of course,” said the Publisher.
Blacklock was somewhat impressed. At least the Publisher had bothered to scope out the staff before taking the job. Then again, he reflected ruefully, it was a woefully ignorant newspaper executive who had never heard of Jinnah in some capacity or other.
“In fact, sir, since this story has a plethora of business ins and outs, I was considering involving Mister Grant, our award-winning business reporter, in the Tribune’s investigation.”
“I see. Teamwork. Good thinking,” said the Publisher. “They get on well together, Grant and Jinnah?”
“No sir,” laughed Blacklock. “They do not. In fact, in a newsroom barely large enough to fit all the over-sized egos, they are the two biggest prima donnas in the place. Hate each other. Passionately.”
“Won’t that create a lot of friction?” asked the Publisher, raising his eyebrows.
“You mean, I think, negative energy, sir,” said Blacklock, finishing his coffee.
Jinnah was savouring a cigarette on the open-air plaza of the cafeteria, writing his story in his head for about the fourth time when the senior assistant city editor Peter “Perma-Frost” Frost came to give him the bad news
“You may consider that cigarette your last request,” said the white-haired desker.
Jinnah smiled. He liked Frost. Once, he had been a golden-haired young man, back in the Sixties when it was still possible to tell your boss to go to hell, quit, and get a job at another paper overnight. Then, Frost had adopted his trademark wardrobe of bright, floral Hawaiian shirts, sandals, and shades. Always calm, always cool under deadline pressure. But the years had slowly turned Peter Frost’s hair a paler and paler yellow until now it was a thinning mass of snow-white, limp locks, which had earned him his sobriquet. Like Jinnah, Frost was one of the few smokers left on the Tribune. The nicotine-addicted shared a common craving and a sense of solidarity born of their persecution by the no-smoking forces that had banished them to this one designated smoking area. The tips of Frost’s fingers were browny-yellow with nicotine and Jinnah could see the man looking enviously at his cigarette.
“It is indeed my last cigarette, my friend,” he grinned. “So don’t think of bumming one — I’m out.”
“This has nothing to do with trying to collect some of the thousands of smokes you owe me,” said Frost, gently taking the cigarette from Jinnah’s hand and taking a drag off it. “You have been summoned to the inner sanctum.”
“I know,” smiled Jinnah. “I specifically asked for the meeting. It’s me or that asshole Grant for the line.”
“Would that it were so simple,” said Frost sadly. “It’s no longer an either-or situation.”
Jinnah looked at Perma-Frost with a dismay that had nothing to do with the loudness of his shirt.
“Son of a bitch,” he said. “What now?”
“I think Blacklock wants you to work with Grant on this Schuster death.”
“Son of a bitch,” repeated Jinnah vehemently. “Grant got to him first!”
“Not, actually,” said Frost, patting his own pockets for a pack of cigarettes and failing to find one. “He’s been closeted with Junior since he got back from lunch.”
Jinnah winced. This was even worse news. Junior was the nickname for James Tiberius Church, the Managing Editor, who was indecently young to hold