Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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ever got enough oxygen back into his lungs, he would strangle Gerald Dixon Grant. No jury would convict him. As Jinnah squirmed on the floor, Blacklock and Junior jumped to their feet, alarmed. Only Frost remained unmoved, calmly sipping at his black, bitter coffee. Grant stood above Jinnah, surveying his handiwork.
“Mister Grant!” Blacklock cried, forgetting the tone of familiarity. “What was all that in aid of?”
Grant retrieved Jinnah’s glasses. He held them up significantly.
“I was simply replicating a fraction of what Sam Schuster was going through when his car exploded,” he said, fiddling with the spectacles. “Why does every photograph I’ve ever seen of Schuster’s body show him still wearing his glasses? One would think between these two forces they would have come off somehow. Especially if he were being forced into or desperately trying to escape a blazing car.”
Jinnah struggled up to his knees.
“You son of a bitch!” he gasped. “I’ll sue your ass for assault!”
“On what, Hakeem? Your ego or your person? You’re going to have a hard time finding a jury willing to convict me.”
Jinnah stood up painfully and started towards Grant.
“You’re right — I intend to take vigilante action instead —”
Frost rose from his chair with surprising speed and grabbed Jinnah by both arms. Blacklock had stepped between the advancing Jinnah and Grant. The mask of synergy fell entirely from the editor-in-chief’s flushing face as he bellowed at his unruly troops.
“Mister Jinnah! Mister Grant! This is a news meeting, not a bout of All-Star Wrestling!” he shouted, trembling. “You will both sit down and calm down — not now, but right now!”
Everyone froze. Now that is more like the Conway Blacklock I know, thought Jinnah. He looked over at Junior, who was still seated. An expression of sheer terror was on his face. Grant, looking petulant, sat down in his chair while Frost guided Jinnah towards his. There was a glacial silence, punctuated only by the occasional gasp from Jinnah and Blacklock’s heavy panting. Blacklock snatched Jinnah’s glasses from Grant.
“Gentlemen,” he said, having mastered his emotions. “Really! What a way to behave. Gerald, you could have simply outlined your concerns verbally. There was no need to treat Hakeem in such a manner! You will apologize.”
Blacklock handed Jinnah back his battered spectacles. Grant’s wide, white face was scarlet. He opened his mouth wide, as if to protest, but Blacklock’s expression was enough to check him. He looked down at the floor.
“Sorry if I was too rough in my role-playing, Hakeem,” he mumbled at the carpet.
“Not good enough,” said Blacklock, a hint of the old steel creeping back into his voice. “Properly. Eye to eye.”
Grant gave Blacklock a look that suggested he was recording this moment indelibly on a long list of things to get even for, but he submitted.
“Hakeem, I’m sorry if I hurt you. It wasn’t my intention.”
Blacklock smiled and looked expectantly at Jinnah, who looked at Blacklock. What the hell was next?
“I’m not partaking in any group hug,” he warned.
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” said Blacklock, unable to entirely disguise the loathing in his voice.
“Then I suppose it would be good manners to accept Gerry’s apologies,” said Jinnah grudgingly.
A look from Blacklock — especially the raising of his shaggy eyebrows — indicated this was not sufficiently graceful enough.
“And I have always been complimented on my manners,” added Jinnah.
Blacklock’s eyebrows had now risen to such a height that they had merged with his retreating hairline. Jinnah was near the point of bolting from the room when he saw how he could turn the situation to his advantage. He rose slowly to his feet.
“Gerald, no hard feelings,” he said in his most dulcet tones. “Let’s shake hands.”
Grant looked at Jinnah’s brown hand snaking towards him like a hooded cobra. He glanced sideways at Blacklock for guidance. To his horror, the editor-in-chief was nodding and smiling approvingly. With the utmost reluctance, Grant stood up and half-heartedly extended his own right hand.
“No hard feelings, Hakeem,” he mumbled,
Jinnah grabbed Grant’s hand firmly and received a tepid handshake in return. Just as Grant’s limp grip was relaxing and his fingers slipping eagerly away, Jinnah seized the business reporter’s hand in a vise-like grip and hauled him towards his body.
“Gerry, I love ya!” he cried. “Give us a kiss you smelly old asshole!!”
And saying thus, Jinnah enfolded Gerald Dixon Grant in a firm embrace and planted a big, wet, sloppy kiss all over his forehead — not his lips, for there were limits even to Jinnah’s vengeance. It was quite a tableau: Blacklock and Junior Church leaning back in their chairs, mouths open, eyes wide. Frost gazing at the happy couple, his left eyebrow slightly arched, and Grant’s revolted expression obscured by Jinnah’s long, brown face. Gad, thought Blacklock, if only Phil could see the results of employee empowerment now.
In the end, the pretense of synergy prevailed as Grant wriggled from Jinnah’s grasp, wiped off his forehead and glared at him while Blacklock and Junior tried to make the best of it, saying how touching the whole reconciliation was and how good it would be for the newsroom for these two ace-reporters to work together. Only Frost remained unmoved and silent in his chair, like a statue, taking everything in. Blacklock asked Frost to stay so they could get a jump on the rest of the city list of stories for that day and he agreed quietly. They didn’t hear what Jinnah and Grant said to each other in hushed tones as they left the office, ostensively to work as a team.
“You’re going down, buddy,” Grant said, his lips hardly moving.
“Consider yourself dead, infidel,” Jinnah responded as they parted ways.
Blacklock took a deep, deep breath and closed his eyes. These things were quite a trial. It was far easier to dictate one’s own vision than have underlings try to articulate theirs. And see where it had got them: near anarchy! He opened his eyes and saw Frost sedately sipping his coffee. He smiled his first genuine smile of the day. Frost had his faults: he was moody and given to depression. But he was a consummate professional for all that and if anyone could handle the two giant egos who had just stalked out of the office, it was him.
“Peter,” said Blacklock. “I think it is safe to assume that we won’t be getting much from either Jinnah or Grant today. Do we have anything else to put on front? Whatever happened to Sanderson, for instance?”
Frost paused a moment before answering. Sanderson himself had said there was no story. Sanderson with Jinnah’s guidance had written a perfectly lineable story. If he said Sanderson had nothing, Ronald would be in trouble. If they ran the creative writing Jinnah was passing off as news, they’d likely be in more trouble, but at least it would give him something to put on the front in the absence of real news. And the photos were great. Especially the ones of the daughter.
“Sanderson has a great story of a daughter rescued from her pimp,” said Frost matter-of-factly. “He did a fabulous job.”
Blacklock grunted his approval.
“I always knew he had it in him,” he said, making those same, strange strangulation noises in his throat. “What else?”
They ran through the list. Mostly murder, mayhem, and politics. A few brights and health stuff. Blacklock approved. It was a good mix. He thanked Frost and heaved himself to his feet.
“I shall not be able to attend the afternoon meeting today, Peter,” he said heavily. “Responsibilities of state and so on. Rest assured that our esteemed publisher —”
“Phil,”