Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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“Oh ho! Are we being called into the woodshed then?”
“I guess so. He called me at home.”
“Was he yelling?” asked Jinnah with relish.
“No. Actually, he complimented me on my quick thinking.”
Jinnah frowned. That did not sound like the Conway Blacklock he knew.
“He’s lulling you into a false sense of security, Permafrost. I suspect we’ll need a shop steward to come with us. Ronald?”
“Forget it, Hakeem. I’m busy.”
“Don’t be sore, for God’s sake!”
“What’s your problem?” asked Frost.
“He’s upset because I gave him a few tips on news writing,” said Jinnah, pointing to the screen. “What do you think, my friend?”
Permafrost looked at the first few paragraphs of the story. He grinned.
“It reminds me of The Color Purple, actually.”
“Why’s that?” asked Jinnah, defensive.
“Because that’s the hue of your prose, Hakeem. Lawd, I’m afraid.”
“Not as afraid as you should be, my friend. Let us go into the lion’s den together.”
They left Sanderson to rewrite his epic tale and walked towards the executive offices. They were intercepted at the threshold by Gerald Dixon Grant.
“Hullo, Hakeem. Peter,” he smirked. “Been invited to this little chat, have we?”
Jinnah bristled. He didn’t like Grant’s considerable attitude.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Jinnah. “Something about the line story, I think.”
“Oh, that,” said Grant. “I thought maybe it was about the complaints that have been pouring in all morning to the switchboard.”
“At least I have a story to complain about, buddy,” said Jinnah.
“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, Hakeem,” said Grant and swaggered into Blacklock’s office.
Jinnah and Frost followed. Jinnah noticed immediately the tray of danishes and coffee. Then he realized Blacklock wasn’t sitting behind his massive oak desk. There were fives seats scattered about in front of the enormous fixture, Blacklock standing in front of one to Jinnah’s left, Church lounging in his to the right. Jinnah’s bullshit detector went off at full volume. His sense that something phony was up was heightened by Blacklock’s next action: he smiled.
“Ah, gentlemen!” he said warmly. “Do come in. So glad you could make it.”
Jinnah glanced once more at the danishes and two thermoses of coffee.
“Did we interrupt a management meeting or something?” he asked.
Blacklock laughed — a trifle hollowly — and Church smiled.
“No, not at all — these are for you. A little brain food, so to speak, and a token of our appreciation for a job well done.”
This confirmed Jinnah’s suspicion that the danishes and coffee were poisoned. He wasn’t buying this job-well-done crap either. He decided the best defence was a good offence. He pointed an accusing finger at Blacklock.
“Listen, before you start in on us, I want you to know that I can personally testify that Frost tried to get hold of you two assholes and was unable to, so if you’re planning any disciplinary action —”
Blacklock held up both hands.
“Hakeem, Hakeem! Who said anything about disciplinary action? No, no, this is a story meeting. Look — can I get you a cup of coffee?”
To Jinnah’s astonishment, the Machiavelli of the newsroom, the master of negative energy, personally poured him a cup of coffee from a tall, stainless-steel jug.
“Do you take cream or sugar?” he asked.
“Four of each,” said Jinnah, stunned.
Grant and Frost exchanged glances, shrugged and looked over to Church expectantly. The managing editor leapt to his feet an seized the second thermos of coffee and lined up three cups.
“Gerry, you take yours black, right? Peter? Cream or sugar?”
“Black,” said Frost casually, draping himself in the chair nearest the danishes, which he eyed hungrily. “Are any of these prune?”
Jinnah accepted his coffee from Blacklock and sniffed it suspiciously. He sat down and waited until Blacklock took a sip of his beverage before daring to sample the contents of his own cup. Blacklock waited until everyone had their coffee and danish before starting the proceedings.
“Gentlemen, I have called you all together to … congratulate you for your… work on the Schuster story. It has been top-notch: noted, I may add, at the highest level.”
At Jinnah’s level, it was noted that, as he spoke, Blacklock made small gurgling noises deep in his throat as if he were choking on his words. He waited patiently. Blacklock was sure to put the shiv in soon enough.
“Great stuff,” Junior chipped in. “Real kick-ass material. Everyone else is eating our dust.”
Jinnah looked over at Frost, who had a mouthful of danish, then Grant, who looked like he was about to be ill.
“Okay, Blacklock, what’s going on?” Jinnah said. “You’ve lulled us into a false sense of security — tell us what assholes we really are and let us get back to work.”
Blacklock gave Jinnah his best forced smile and did something extraordinary. He reached out and patted Jinnah on the knee.
“Hakeem, I would appreciate it if you would call me Conway.”
Jinnah looked down at Blacklock’s hand on his knee, horrified, then up at the earnest face of the editor-in-chief. He sniffed his coffee again. He had been wrong about the poison. It must instead be laced with LSD or some other powerful hallucinogen. Certainly, Jinnah was not inhabiting any plane of reality he had previously embraced. Neither was Grant.
“Look, this corporate blow-job is all very fine and well, but what do you want?” said Grant. “I’ve got stories to work on.”
“Gentlemen,” Blacklock said. “I understand your suspicion and hostility. But I assure you, your efforts on this story have been duly noted and appreciated. Now, last night’s offering by Hakeem pushed the story ahead a considerable distance. We are here to discuss how it can be advanced even further.”
“So we continue to kick our competitors’ asses,” added Junior.
Jinnah gazed at the faces around him. Were his ears functioning properly?
“Listen, what would advance the story is if you tell this asshole (and here Jinnah pointed at Grant with his coffee cup) to keep his nose out of it.”
“This is a business story, Jinnah!” said Grant. “And I don’t appreciate you muddying the waters with your half-baked fiction writing!”
“You pompous little prick —”
“I won’t take that shit from you —”
Blacklock stood up and waved his hands in supplication.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” he cried. “We are all from the same newspaper here, are we not? Now then: in fact, Gerald and Hakeem, the Publisher —”
“Phil,” corrected Junior.
Blacklock smiled painfully at his protégé.
“Phil,” he conceded, “is most anxious that you two work as a team, bringing your expertise in both business and crime to bear. He is of the opinion —