Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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The third floor retained several tiny offices for small firms struggling to grow larger or stay alive. To Jinnah, the building had only one obvious virtue: cheap rent.
Jinnah took out his cellphone and dialed Thompson’s number. Normally, he would not bother calling ahead, but it seemed sensible to determine if the bastard was actually at his office before he went to the trouble of plugging the parking meter, for an hour. If he was going to be thrown out, a quarter to the Metro Parking Authority would be more than enough money wasted. The call was answered by a woman’s voice.
“Thompson Enterprises, how may I direct your call?”
Jinnah grinned at this. He suspected Thompson and his secretary were crammed into an office so small that, as Dorothy Parker had put it, if there were any less room it would be adultery.
“I wish to speak with Neil Thompson, please,” said Jinnah brightly.
“Whom may I say is calling?” asked the secretary in a crisp voice with a deeply submerged English accent that was still detectable to Jinnah’s sharp linguistic sonar.
“Jinnah. Hakeem Jinnah.”
There was silence at the other end of the phone. Jinnah was just about to ask if the secretary was still there when the woman said: “One moment, please,” and put him on hold. Nearly two minutes elapsed before the secretary came back on the line.
“I’m sorry, Mister Thompson’s out,” she said abruptly. “May I leave a message?”
“Are you sure he’s out?” said Jinnah. “It’s rather important.”
“Yes, he is out and he asked me to take a message.”
The voice had become curt, tight — like an offended school marm’s. Jinnah pursed his lips. What exactly had Thompson told her?
“Perhaps if you could tell me where I might find him —” Jinnah began.
“Mister Thompson is not to be disturbed by people like you!” snapped the secretary. “If you don’t want to leave a message, fine.”
The line went dead. Jinnah sat astonished for a moment. Not to be disturbed by people like you? Meaning what? Well, that was immaterial: whether she had insulted Jinnah’s race or his profession made little difference to him. She was about to feel the full fury of a Jinnahad. He undid his seatbelt and reached over to the passenger seat. A thick, brown manila envelope was nestled on the plush, purple seat cover. Written on it in neat, tidy letters was the name of Neil Thompson. He had done his homework. Inside were all the stories from the database on Thompson, as well as a few photocopied prospectuses from his checkered business career. He wanted it handy for reference. Hefting the envelope, he crawled out of his van, locked it, plugged the meter and found the stairs to the third floor at the far end of the building.
Cheeks burning, Jinnah huffed and puffed his way up the stairs. Please, Allah! Not another asthma attack! he prayed as he reached the top floor and paused to catch his breath. To the left at the far end of the corridor was Thompson’s office. The door was chipped around the bottom edges, showing the inexpensive particle board it was made of. The lettering was also the cheap glue-on kind: black with a tinny gold background. Jinnah threw the door open without knocking and stepped inside. He had rather expected to see more evidence of tawdriness, but the sight that greeted his eyes rendered him speechless. The secretary was much as he had imagined: a plump, middle-aged woman with horn-rimmed glasses sitting behind the sort of insubstantial desk that bespoke of a company more concerned with cutting fiscal corners than impressing clients. But instead of the tatty wall-hangings and tacky posters he’d envisaged, Jinnah found an office in transition: heaps of papers and piles of cardboard file boxes were everywhere. Thompson, Inc. was moving out. Jinnah looked at the secretary mutely, his eyes wide and his envelope held out in front of him. The secretary looked over the rims of her glasses with disdain.
“Couriers are supposed to knock first,” she said dryly.
Jinnah flushed and he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He searched for words adequate to convey his disgust. But in this case, hesitation was a blessing, for it gave time enough for a blinding flash of inspiration to hit him square between his dark eyes. He forced himself to smile, abashed, and wave the envelope in front of him up and down urgently. He adopted his “fresh off the boat from Bombay” accent.
“Begging your pardon Madame,” he said, trying his best to be nearly incomprehensible. “But I am having an envelope here for Mister Thompson.”
Jinnah was no more than three feet from the desk in this crowded little space. The secretary rose, revealing a pleated, plaid skirt that had seen better days. She reached out to grab the envelope.
“I’ll make sure he gets it —”
Jinnah snatched the envelope back, clutching it to his chest and assumed a wild-eyed expression.
“No, no, no, no, no! Is for Mister Thompson, person to person only or returning to sender am I!” he cried.
The secretary looked exasperated. She shook her extended hand twice.
“Give it here! I’ll get it to him.”
“Signing personally is he or not getting it, see?” Jinnah insisted, holding the envelope up to his chest with both hands. “See? Is having his name on it.”
The secretary squinted through her glasses at the handwritten lettering.
“I must say, it doesn’t look very professional. Just who sent it anyway?”
That was a question Jinnah’s inspiration had not prepared him for. He flipped the paper rectangle over and stared at its edges. They were devoid of any suggestions. Fortunately, his muse had not entirely deserted him, for a name formed itself clearly in his mind after only a second.
“From a Mister La-vir-too, Cosmos, person to person or return to sender and too bad,” said Jinnah. “Payment being pre-made,” he added.
The secretary, looking harried, decided not to argue. She dropped her arm.
“Okay. You can take it to Mister Thompson at the new office.”
Ahah! Allah be praised! thought Jinnah. He whipped out a pen from his jacket and held it poised over the front of the envelope.
“Please to be giving me the address?”
The secretary shuffled through some papers and found new letterhead with an address on it. Jinnah noted it was gold-embossed and bore some sort of medical emblem.
“Are you ready?”
She said this needlessly slowly, as if addressing a very slow, very stupid child. Jinnah could see she was in a hurry. Well, he wasn’t. He decided to have some fun.
“Pardon me? What is ready?” he asked, eyes all innocent.
“Ready. As in … set?”
“Set?” smiled Jinnah lewdly. “You want have set?”
“Here is the address,” said the secretary, her cheek-bones turning crimson.
“The address where we have set?” asked Jinnah.
“Mister Thompson’s address!”
Jinnah affected a confused look.
“I no want have set with Mister Thompson. Me straight as Islamabad pimp I.”
Veins were standing out on the secretary’s forehead.
“Mister Thompson’s address,” she said, voice trembling. “Is two —”
“Two,” repeated Jinnah, writing it down.
“— two —” continued the secretary.
Jinnah lifted his pen from the paper, feigning befuddlement.
“Pardon me, Madame, but is being the same two or another two, please?”
“ — two