Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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it not?’
Thompson’s features twisted into something approaching a smile.
“Diversification’s the mantra of the Millennium. My new line and my next big score. Stop asking so many stupid questions, I might let you in on the ground floor.”
He thinks I can be bought, thought Jinnah. Play along.
“I don’t know, Neil,” said Jinnah, sinking a little more comfortably into his chair. “I mean, is there money in something like this?”
“Does the name Viagra have any resonance for you?” Thompson snorted derisively. “There’s a fortune in boners, buddy.”
“But something so private, so delicate —”
“Listen, Jinnah — build a better hard-on and men will beat a path to your door, if you know what I mean.”
Jinnah smiled and twirled the end of his moustache.
“No one ever went broke over-estimating the gullibility of the public. Is that it?”
“I’m not selling gullibility. I’m selling fear and anxiety.”
Jinnah was struck by this. A man who deals in emotions, not commodities.
“I don’t understand that,” he said, doubtfully.
Thompson flipped his laptop open again and started fiddling with it impatiently.
“You and your cousin are selling love, right? I’m selling fear and anxiety. It’s the old joke: anxiety is the first time you can’t get it up for the second time. Fear is the second time you can’t get it up for the first time, capice?”
“But getting the rights to a new drug is one thing. Getting it approved —”
Thompson waved his hand dismissively.
“Jesus Christ, Jinnah, you think I’m crazy? You got any idea how much time and money it costs to get a frig-gin’ drug approved in this country? Goddamn government red tape is killing business in this province, I’m telling you. Nope — this is no drug. It’s a purely natural vitamin mixture. That way, almost no regulations and fast approval.”
“What’s it got in it? Not rhino horn, for God’s sake!”
Thompson shook his head, disappointed.
“Jinnah, you’re a piker. Of course there’s no god-damn rhino horn in it. The goddamn friggin’ environmentalists and endangered species types would be on my ass so fast it would make your head spin. This is purely organic — terrific selling point. You gotta think of these angles.”
“I was thinking you should simply sell the assets of your secretary out there,” said Jinnah. “If I may say so, she too could cure your nonogenarian priest.”
This time, Thompson did smile. Jinnah knew he’d been crass, but he’d been looking for an opening in this man’s armour. He didn’t appear to have found one.
“Ah, but that would be illegal, Jinnah and I know the difference between legal and illegal. That would be more in your line, wouldn’t it?”
Why was Thompson obsessed with his business venture? Was he jealous? Just trying to upset him and throw him off his guard?
“As you yourself say, Mister Thompson, we are selling love, not bodies.”
“Same difference,” Thompson shrugged. “Your Russian babe don’t climb aboard your Chinese bachelor, no sale. What’s the difference between that and a bordello?”
“You’re wrong,” said Jinnah quickly. “All they have to do is agree to meet. It’s an introductory service —”
“And an escort agency will claim what happens once one of its ladies closes the hotel room door with one of their customers is between the escort and the horny businessman. But they still get a cut.”
Yes, he was trying to upset him. Jinnah went on the offensive.
“What sort of cut did you get of Sam Schuster’s seed money for IIP? Was it you who sent the thugs after him two weeks ago?”
“What thugs? I don’t need thugs in my line of business. I just need my noodle.”
Thompson tapped his greasy forehead with a thick, fleshy finger, sending a small avalanche of dandruff down his greying sideburns and onto his lapels.
“You have surely read my story today,” said Jinnah, his voice not betraying the considerable hurt he felt that someone, somewhere in the English-speaking world had not read his prose that morning — especially someone so closely associated with the story.
“Oh, that piece of crap — yeah, I read it,” said Thompson. “Nice touch you have there. You should write detective novels.”
Jinnah was finding it very hard to control a mounting anger. The only thing that kept him from getting uncontrollably upset was the realization that Thompson was being deliberately provocative. A good cop and a good reporter ignored personal insults and plowed ahead, trying to establish facts, find contradictions, let the suspect dig his own grave. But right now, Neil Thompson hadn’t even picked up the shovel.
“Two men threatened to burn Sam Schuster alive unless he gives them access to the millions he’s raised to buy IIP. You can’t tell me you didn’t know about the deal.”
“Everyone on Howe Street knew about the deal,” said Thompson. “He was asking everyone and his dog for seed money. Shit, he even hit me up for some scratch.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“To go take a flying leap at a rolling donut. I lost enough money thanks to that stupid son of a bitch and his Peace River scam.”
Jinnah decided to hit Thompson with some of his research.
“Almost as much as you lost on your own in the Houston deal. All the more reason to try to get some of it back, hmm?”
Thompson stared at Jinnah with those black-hole eyes of his. Jinnah realized he was holding his breath. He felt almost as if Thompson had the power to suck his soul clear out of his eye sockets.
“I washed my hands of Sam Schuster over a decade ago, Jinnah,” said Thompson, uncustomarily slowly and carefully. “You get a stack of Bibles or Qurans or whatever it is you hold sacred and put ‘em on my desk, I’ll swear to God I had nothing to do with his death. God can strike me dead right now if I’m lying, understand?”
Jinnah stopped fiddling with his pen. This was quite the denial. He almost sounded sincere. He didn’t really expect Jinnah to believe such theatrics, did he?
“You do not strike me as an overly religious man, Mister Thompson,” he said.
“You’re right,” Thompson shrugged. “But it’s the truth, the same way it’s the truth we’re over-taxed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got money to make —”
“You appear to have made a considerable sum of money in a short time, Mister Thompson,” Jinnah cut in. “There’s a marked contrast between your old and new offices.”
Thompson’s expression betrayed nothing. Neither did his voice.
“I don’t make a lot of money, Jinnah. I raise money from other people for business ventures. The resource industry is flat-lining. So I diversify and here I am. Maybe you should take a few notes on that — it might help your cousin.”
Jinnah did not like the way the interview was proceeding. It was time to unsettle his subject. He returned to his research, tapping the Thompson portfolio on the desk.
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