Читать книгу Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Donald J. Hauka - Страница 5

Everyone was indeed chasing Jinnah over his stories the next day. Unfortunately for him, most of them had long, sharp knives they wished to plunge into his back. One of the nastiest shivs was wielded by none other than the Publisher.

“Interfering with an investigation. Gaining access to a witness recovering in hospital under false pretenses. Wildly speculative near-fiction. Jeopardizing the investigation. Refusing to speak with a senior officer who knew of the story and was attempting to give the reporter information that would have resulted in a more balanced article,” the Publisher recited from his notes, frowning.

Blacklock’s face was impassive. He was sitting in the Publisher’s office on the other side of a massive oak desk. He had sat there many times and listened to similar complaints from three other men in his tenure as the Tribune’s editor-in-chief. While listening to the litany of lamentations from aggrieved parties, Blacklock had always told himself that one day very soon it would be him sitting on the other side of that desk and woe to the poor bastard who occupied the chair he was currently in. But he had been passed up — again — and this time by a man who was proving to be even more unsuited than usual to the task of leading the newspaper. During the harangue, Blacklock glanced about the office. It was in the transitional state. The nearly bare walls still had light squares and patches on them where the previous publisher’s personal paintings had been hung. One or two pieces of corporate art, like the 1950s rendering of the Tribune building, remained, but the new man had yet to put a personal stamp on the space. If Blacklock had anything to do with it, the Publisher would have an even harder time putting his personal stamp on the Tribune itself.

“At least they didn’t say we were wrong,” he said when his boss was finished.

The Publisher looked at Blacklock over the top of his glasses. He was clutching a copy of Jinnah’s front-page article. Several words and paragraphs were marked and there were hastily scrawled notes in the margins. Blacklock sighed inwardly and adopted the “experienced editor showing the rookie publisher the ropes” routine he’d perfected some two management generations ago.

“Sir, if I may explain: the police always say these things when we print something they don’t like. It’s not that we’re wrong, it’s just that the police like to work in secret and they don’t like it when a reporter employs their own tactics against them.”

“But calling this man at the scene a suspect,” said the Publisher. “There’s nothing to suggest he had anything to do with Sam Schuster’s death.”

“No, but then, there’s no suggestion he isn’t the man police are looking for either,” said Blacklock firmly. “You see sir, in the broadest possible terms, the police consider you and I suspects as well until we convince them of our innocence.”

The Publisher sat back in his chair. His look was one of total bewilderment mixed with a certain harassed consternation.

“But everyone is considered innocent until proven guilty,” he said.

“It may work that way in court, but believe me, sir, it’s the other way around in a police investigation. I wouldn’t worry overly about it.”

The Publisher picked up the offending article once more and stared at it.

“So there’s no need for a correction? What about Jinnah? He deliberately defied you. He should be suspended or something, shouldn’t he?”

Blacklock smiled inwardly. Now he had the Publisher where he wanted him: asking for advice, using the editor as a lifeboat in unfamiliar waters. It gave him an immense sense of satisfaction and safety. He decided to be magnanimous under the circumstances.

“No, indeed not, sir,” he said, the smile creeping out over his face. “I suspect Mister Jinnah will suffer enough today without any official sanction.”

The Publisher looked completely baffled now. Poor man, thought Blacklock. Perhaps this one will last even less time than the previous chief executive had.

“What do you mean, precisely?” the Publisher asked.

“The police will make his life misery for the foreseeable future, his competitors will be busy trying to knock down his story and of course, I will mention in a completely unofficial capacity my displeasure at his disobedience. And then there’s Mister Grant.”

“Grant? He’ll be sulking, won’t he? He thought he was getting the front page.”

“Oh, I suspect that once Mister Grant gets over his power-pouting he’ll rise to the occasion and excel,” said Blacklock smoothly. “Revenge is a fine motivator.”

“More negative energy at work?”

“Precisely, sir.”

The Publisher’s intercom buzzed. The voice of his secretary, electronically disembodied, floated across the desk.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but you asked me to remind you about your luncheon appointment for today.”

“Thank you, Jackie,” said the Publisher curtly.

Blacklock looked at his boss and dared to raise an eyebrow.

“Luncheon appointment?” he said archly.

“Yes. The first of my new community outreach luncheons. Get to know various pillars of the community, local interest groups, that sort of thing…”

Blacklock tuned out as the Publisher outlined his ambitious plans to give the Tribune a kind, caring face and a higher community profile. Every publisher Blacklock had ever known started out in this manner, wining and dining the local arts council or the heritage foundation, making contacts and receiving helpful story suggestions. It had taken a full two years for the previous publisher to be cured of his illusions. Blacklock was just dreading the prospect when he noticed for the first time that the Publisher’s face appeared to be just a fraction too small for his head — almost as if it was inset in a frame. He was so distracted by this he failed to register the fact the Publisher was standing and the interview was over. Blacklock hurried to his feet.

“And which vitally important local interest group are you meeting with today, sir?” he asked, feigning interest.

There was something about the set of the Publisher’s mouth, the tightness in his voice and dismissiveness of his tone that disturbed Blacklock and ruffled his previously calm demeanour.

“The Vancouver Police,” said the Publisher in a firm voice Blacklock had never heard before. “I’m lunching with the Chief Constable and several of his superintendents.”

Blacklock muttered something about luck and best wishes and scurried from the room. For the first time, he felt threatened by this ad salesman. He hurried down the stairs to the third floor as fast as his bulk would permit. It was vitally important that Grant come up with a story that would eclipse Jinnah and appease the police. Not for Grant’s sake, of course. For Blacklock was already anticipating the meeting he would have to attend when the Publisher finished having his ears chewed off at lunch with the Chief Constable. And loathing the prospect.

But Grant wasn’t at his desk when Blacklock, breathless, arrived a few minutes later. He had been called out of the office to follow up on an extraordinary tip and no one but Grant knew where he was. Grant himself could scarcely credit it. It had started with a phone call a half hour earlier. The voice on the other end of the phone was unfamiliar but there was no denying the authenticity of the number displayed on the tiny screen of Grant’s telephone.

“It’s about that specious front page story of yours on Sam Schuster —” the voice began.

“Listen, I didn’t write the bloody front page story —” Grant started.

“Did I call to complain?” the voice interjected. “No, I just want to put you on the right path, that’s all.”

“The right path?” Grant had said, idly opening his notebook. “What path is that? Space aliens murdered Sam Schuster?”

“As a matter of fact, no. But I can tell you that I have proof of an extensive police investigation into Schuster’s business dealings and one other piece of information that you will find most intriguing.”

“Oh yes?” said Grant, now taking actual notes. “Look, if you’re going to continue to be off the record —”

“For obvious reasons, I can’t have my name or department associated with this.”

It was at this point that Grant looked at the number on display and did a double-take. He checked it in his phone book. He sat up straight and lowered his voice.

“Listen, I’m not doing any lame ‘sources say’ story,” he said. “Jinnah may like that shit but I don’t. I need live people. Quotable people.”

There was only the slightest pause before the voice resumed.

“I think I can put you on to someone,” it said. “Come down to my office. Now.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Grant. “But this better be good.”

“Oh, I think you’ll be pleased with the results,” said the all-too-happy voice of Staff Sergeant Graham of the Vancouver Police.

Jinnah was completely unaware of Grant’s location or what he was working on. He didn’t have time to think about it. Between angry phone calls and tracking down Mister Puri, he had his hands full. It was the call from Graham that upset him most.

“I just called to let you know I have nothing further to say to you regarding this case,” Graham said coldly. “You will get no further information from me.”

“Come on, Sarge!” Jinnah tried to jolly Graham. “Look, it’s all out now, so you may as well co-operate, hmm? Now, you’re looking for a white male, I presume — any age or other description?”

“Jinnah, your selective deafness is affecting you again. But I will tell you this: as far as we’re concerned, there is no suspect to look for.”

“What’s this bullshit?” Jinnah demanded.

“We have good reason to believe that Robert Chan’s eyes were playing games with him. What he saw was likely a trick of the light.”

“Come off it!” Jinnah cried. “What trick of the light?”

“You know — shadows, smoke, and mirrors — ingredients you should be intimately acquainted with, Jinnah, since most of your so-called stories are composed of all three.”

“You son of a bitch! You’re not going to tell everyone this … fiction! Are you?”

“Our release quotes Chan’s doctor. Patient is slightly delusional at this point due to trauma suffered. You might have learned that if you had talked to the doctor instead of stalking the poor man —”

“Stalking! Since when —”

“Since now and from now on. Good-bye, Jinnah.”

Graham hung up and Jinnah cursed. Another spell in the Vancouver police dog house, a situation that only time would heal. But time would prove Jinnah right, of that he was certain, although he knew he couldn’t count on the police to follow this lead. There was only one thing for it. Jinnah would launch his own investigation. He had his coat on and an unlit cigarette in his mouth before Sanderson noticed the activity beyond his newspaper barrier.

“Going somewhere?” he asked idly.

“Ronald, I’ll be out of the office for some time. I want you to do me a favour —”

“No, I won’t tell them you were summoned to a personal audience with the Aga Khan or that your tests results for leukemia came back positive,” said Sanderson, eyes glued to his paper. “Where are you going, really?”

Jinnah took the cigarette out of his mouth and shook it at Sanderson.

“Listen, my friend, I don’t give a damn about anyone here knowing where I am! What I want you to do is find out what Grant is working on.”

Sanderson lowered his paper and regarded Jinnah with patient exasperation.

“Hakeem, if you weren’t so lazy you would have called up the list yourself and seen he has some angle about a securities investigation into Schuster’s business.”

“Bullshit, Ronald! That’s what it may say on the list, but I know Grant! He’s furious because I bumped him off front! He has something up his sleeve, I know it! ”

“Then why don’t you ask him? You two are supposed to be partners.”

Jinnah shot his colleague a look of utter disgust as he headed for the door.

“I would rather be sealed in a pit of my own filth, Ronald.”

“Where shall I tell them you are, Hakeem?” Sanderson called after him.

Whirling around, Jinnah shouted somewhat melodramatically, “On the trail of a killer, my friend!”

“The man of light and shadows?” Sanderson teased.

Jinnah replied somewhat stiffly with one of his favourite phrases.

“Even a man of light and shadows must undergo trial, Ronald. There is trial by judge, trial by jury, and trial —”

“Yes,” Sanderson interrupted. “And trial by Jinnah.”

With the dramatic effect of his exit ruined, Jinnah scowled and left.

Two minutes later, Blacklock came looking for Jinnah and found Sanderson (whose nearly infallible editor-in-chief radar had, for once, failed him) with his feet up on the desk, reading the newspaper.

“Mister Sanderson!” Blacklock bellowed. “Where is that miscreant Jinnah!”

Sanderson threw down his paper and snapped to attention in a manner that would have done an Armed Forces recruit proud. It did not impress Blacklock one wit.

“I believe he’s out on a story, sir,” said Sanderson, voice tight with fear.

“Where did he claim he was going this time? The airport to greet an arriving terrorist or the Mayo Clinic for treatment?”

“He said something about tracking down a murderer, Mister Blacklock,” said Sanderson, trying to smile and failing miserably.

Blacklock looked at Sanderson as if he were something his cat might have spat up after eating too quickly.

“And just how are you justifying your enormous salary today, Mister Sanderson, other than reading the comics page?” asked Blacklock in that pleasant tone he reserved when about to sever a reporter’s jugular vein.

“I … I was hoping to do a follow-up on my Dumpster Doggie, sir —” Sanderson trembled, feeling like a caterpillar about to be devoured by a rotund praying mantis.

“Forget that!” snapped Blacklock, jaws closing on his prey. “Be in Mister Church’s office in five minutes.”

Sanderson gulped dryly, squirming in Blacklock’s mental grip, feeling his vital fluids of free will and daily assignments being sucked from his body and replaced by the pure adrenaline of fear and dread of a special project.

“Church’s office?” he whispered feebly.

“Yes,” Blacklock smiled, licking his lips, enormously pleased with his feed. “We have a special project that requires your unique talents.”

Blacklock lumbered off, leaving Sanderson to fall back into his chair, helpless as a squashed bug. A special project! His unique talents!

“It cannot, nor shall it come to good,” he said.

Jinnah drove down Oak Street towards South Vancouver, smoking non-stop as he navigated the satellite-guided Love Machine through the traffic. A trick of the light! Smoke and mirrors! Jinnah would prove there had been someone there. He was headed for the crime scene on Marine Drive. Pray God it hasn’t been messed up too badly, he thought. But Jinnah’s musings were interrupted by the ring of his cellphone. Cursing, he struggled to wrench the thing out of his jacket pocket with one hand while maintaining control of the van with the other.

“Y’ello!” he said.

“Jinnah. It is Mister Puri here.”

“Mister Puri!” Jinnah said with mock enthusiasm. “How are you, sir?”

“I am well, God be thanked,” said Puri. “I am at the Punjabi Market.”

Jinnah was no more than five minutes drive from the market. He didn’t hesitate.

“I will meet you there,” he promised.

Jinnah got into the left-hand lane and turned east towards Main Street. The Punjabi Market was the heart of Vancouver’s Little India. It was with no great joy he drove south and east, however. Jinnah was from Africa first and foremost, and he felt vaguely ill at ease in the vibrant heart of the Indo-Canadian community of the West Coast. He was really no more at home here than he was in the European enclave that was the Vancouver newspaper industry. It was his fate, it seemed, to be a man apart in his adopted home. Try as he might, Jinnah could not fit entirely into either world.

He could not fit Mister Puri’s moral scruples into with his own business interests either. The discussion over coffee did not go well from the start.

“How are you today, Mister Puri?” Jinnah asked solicitously as the older man settled into his chair, puffing.

“Troubled, Jinnah, very troubled,” Mister Puri, a devout Hindu, replied, peering at Jinnah over the top of his glasses.

Jinnah swallowed hard and forged ahead.

“Sanjit was telling me you have some concerns over our little share offering. I wish to assure you —”

Mister Puri held up a slender hand, silencing him.

“Jinnah, it is not just I who have reservations. Many respected citizens are concerned that it will reflect badly on the community.”

“In what way?”

“Jinnah, we do not deal in selling women to men. This pyramid scheme of yours —”

“It’s not a pyramid scheme! It’s a multi-level marketing strategy.”

“Ah! I have heard that phrase used before in relation to gold coins. Please explain the difference.”

“A pyramid scheme is where you sell people,” Jinnah said, growing a little impatient. “Multi-leveled marketing is where you sell services. We are selling services.”

Mister Puri leaned forward, his brown, square hat almost in his coffee, and whispered discreetly.

“It is exactly the nature of the services to be sold that concern me,” he hissed.

Jinnah groaned inwardly.

“We are not selling women to men, Mister Puri. We are selling an introduction service to women from Russia who may wish to marry single men from China. There is nothing untoward about it. There are similar schemes in Canada.”

“I believe you, Jinnah, but you know how these things look to people who wish us ill. People in the press, for instance — yourself aside,” Mister Puri said. “May I suggest that you and Sanjit find some other, less venal, investment vehicle.”

Jinnah decided to play what he considered his trump card. He played it badly.

“Listen, Mister Puri, I am in a position to offer you a special price on shares —” he began.

Mister Puri straightened up in his chair, glaring.

“This is not about money, Jinnah! It is about principles! Appearances! Morals!”

“What’s immoral about hooking up a bunch of Christian women with a load of Confucian-Communist men?” Jinnah snapped, losing his temper.

Mister Puri rose stiffly with the assistance of his cane and stood in front of Jinnah, shaking a finger at him in front of the entire marketplace.

“Hakeem Jinnah, their faith and nationality do not matter! They are people who deserve to be treated with dignity! If anyone asks my opinion, I shall not be recommending your venture as either safe or honourable. Good day to you, sir!”

He limped off, huffing puffing. And blowing Jinnah’s hopes down.

Jinnah was left feeling sick and to top it off, he realized that Puri had stiffed him with the bill. Cursing his stupidity, he drove off towards the Marine Drive vacant lot where Sam Schuster had met his end. The day had started badly and become worse. He hoped things were about to pick up.

At first, things seemed to have progressed from worse to catastrophic. Jinnah parked his precious van at the side of Marine Drive and walked along the broad, unpaved shoulder to the narrow, dirt driveway that led down to the sawmill site. From this vantage point at the top of the bank above the river, Jinnah surveyed the crime scene and felt his raw, tender, red heart drop like stone into the churning acid-bath of his stomach. It was a mess. The car, of course, had been removed long ago. He could see the black, oily square that marked its spot. Emanating out from it were two deep, wide tracks: the signature of the huge flatbed truck the forensic guys had used to haul away the burned-out shell of the Caddy. Cutting across those tracks at an angle were a set of narrower ruts made by the ambulance. And all around the cross of treadmarks with the square, black head were footprints: hundreds of them, it seemed, all in crazy circular patterns radiating out from the spot where the car had once sat. It looked like something out of the Battle of the Somme. Jinnah very nearly turned around and left in disgust, but his pride wouldn’t let him. If he left now, he would have no story at all. As it was, there was only the most slender possibility of finding what he was looking for in the chaos below, but a slender chance was better than no byline at all.

Jinnah walked stoically down the drive, kicking up little clouds of dust into the warm, dry air. As they rose the particles danced and shimmered in the sun, but Jinnah was blind to their understated beauty. He had his eyes firmly on the ground. He followed one of the deep furrows plowed by the flatbed to the charred rectangle and avoided adding his own footprints to the confusion. The sun had dried the tracks made in the moist mud since the night of the fire and Jinnah was relieved: it preserved the evidence.

Heartened, he arrived at the edge of the fire-blackened area and paused, orienting himself. He stared at the footprints. Most of them were to his left. Ahead of him, to the south, was the river. To the north and behind him, Marine Drive. It was almost certain, therefore, that the car had been facing the river with its driver-side door to the left. He squatted down and stared hard, but there was no obvious outline to mark the spot where Sam Schuster’s body would have been. All indications of that had been obliterated by at least three sets of footprints. Two of them appeared to be of individuals wearing heavy boots — a firefighter and a paramedic, likely. Two of the cast of dozens who had responded to Kathy Chan’s 911 call and who had been all over the site, tromping in the soft, damp earth with their boots, fouling the trail. The third was a lighter shoe — possibly the cop first on scene or maybe even the forensic squad member who had helped pack up the car. All around and inside these depressions were bits of white paint stained by smoke, small pieces of glass and fragments of metal: the detritus of death, explosion, and fire. To the left, perhaps seven metres away, there was a convergence of all three sets of tracks in a muddy confusion, as well as some markings Jinnah assumed had been made by an ambulance gurney.

Taking out a cigarette, Jinnah lit up a smoke, sending a tiny blue cloud into the air. His knees were beginning to ache, but he continued squatting there, visualizing what had happened. Robert and Kathy Chan were at the top of the driveway when the car erupted into flames. Robert had managed to make it quite close to the vehicle and Sam Schuster before the gas tank ruptured and ignited, sending a second blast scorching over the flat. Certainly the long, scraggly grass and the dandelions all around where the car had been were blackened and withered. Chan was a brave man, whatever his wife might think. A little closer and he might have joined Schuster.

Jinnah straightened up and walked along the far edge of the black square. Here at the front of the stain there were more footprints still. He finished his cigarette and threw it to the ground, grinding it into the drying soil, frustrated. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His smoke-deadened nose could still scent the growing warmth of the late-morning sun on the soil; the green of the trees and the bushes; the damp, sea smell of the river here close to its mouth. He could also smell the oily, pungent, lingering scent of gasoline. And something else? He opened his eyes and sniffed. Kerosene? No, creosote. He looked towards the river. There was a suggestion of a crumbling dock on the bank leading out into the river and beyond, rafts and rafts of log booms. That must be where the creosote smell was coming from, wafting up from the blackened pilings. Curious, Jinnah took a few steps towards the river. He had only gone a few feet when he almost stumbled and fell over with surprise. He righted himself just on time.

“Name of God!” he muttered and squatted down once more.

There in front of him was a single footprint pointing away from the fire scene and towards the river. Jinnah whirled around and looked at where Robert Chan would have been when he saw his shadowy figure. Jinnah was standing to Chan’s right — exactly where the so-called trick of the light would have been.

“Smoke and mirrors, eh?” he crowed aloud.

It was a large print, well-preserved by the drying weather and with a distinctive tread, but easily missed by investigators amidst the riot of indentations littering the scene. To Jinnah, it looked like it had been made by some sort of boot with rows of tiny spikes on the sole. It was deep, suggesting it had been made by someone running away from the scene of the fire. Jinnah followed the probable line taken by the boot’s wearer, but there were no other markings to guide him. He made an educated guess that he’d find more near muddy ground of the ruined dock and sure enough, he found them again after a few metres. They turned sharply left, forming a ragged line on soft, muddy bank, then disappeared entirely.

Jinnah looked up-river in the direction the prints had been headed. Here had once been the heart of the mill, long since dismantled. All that remained was a row of crumbling cedar shacks by the lip of the river, their shake roofs covered by thick, green moss. Jinnah frowned and walked towards them. Here there was a carpet of decaying bark, wood chips, and sawdust. There were no obvious tracks. But his inherent instincts were tingling and he had no doubt he was headed in the right direction. The right direction to find what hadn’t really formed in his mind yet. Evidence of some kind. He already had enough to call Graham and taunt him into giving him some sort of info, otherwise the tale of these footprints of a killer would be appearing under the banner of “an exclusive Tribune investigation.” There might be a discarded gas can in the shacks, or bits of rope of the type used to bind Sam Schuster. Jinnah certainly didn’t expect to find the killer waiting there to confess to him. There were three shacks, all of them on rotting log foundations, all leaning precariously close to the river’s brown-green current like an uneven row of teeth. Jinnah looked at them carefully. The first two had no doors and their window-frames were empty. A cursory glance showed there was nothing inside. The third had its door intact and there was plastic where the windows had once been. He was about to step inside when he saw something at the side of the shack that made him stop suddenly. There, laying on its side as if it had just been tossed there was a red, plastic Jerry can. The smell of gasoline was quite strong. He took a step towards it. Just then, a voice behind him nearly caused his heart to stop beating.

“What’cha doin’ there?” it barked.

For a terrifying instant, Jinnah thought he really had stumbled upon the killer. It happened on occasion that they came back to the scene of the crime, over and over again, to relive the thrill. But Jinnah’s common sense told him this was extremely unlikely and, in any event, he was not an obvious threat to anybody. How could this man know he was looking for Sam Schuster’s murderer? There were a dozen good reasons why he might be here. Jinnah turned around slowly and deliberately.

“Ah, my friend! Let me —” he began smoothly.

And stopped dead. There in front of him was a tall, gaunt, scarecrow man. He wore the ragged uniform of a working man fallen on evil times — tattered green work shirt, tartan vest dirty and smeared with oil and grease, wool pants that might once have been brown almost black with sooty grime, and mud-caked boots. He had the ubiquitous dark cap that doubtless sported the logo of a trucking firm or tool outfit on its crest, but its form was obscured by filth. All other observations, however, seemed secondary after Jinnah looked the man in the eyes — or eye, rather. A jagged scar line divided his face right down the middle. The right side was the picture of a man in his late fifties who has worked hard in the elements all his life: weathered, drawn; eye with a dark and intense aspect. But it was the left side of his face that gave Jinnah pause. On the opposite side of the scar line was a twisted, sunken cheek, pale and sallow. The socket of the eye was empty, glazed over by scar tissue. He stood not five feet away.

He was also carrying an axe.

Jinnah was speechless.

“Whatcha want?” rasped the scarecrow.

What Jinnah wanted at that moment was a safe and graceful exit, but he certainly didn’t want to seem rude. Suddenly, of all those dozen perfectly sound and reasonable reasons why he might be here in the middle of what was, after all, nowhere (urbanly speaking), none immediately sprang to mind. Well, the best defence was a good offence. Take control of the situation, he thought.

“I saw the gas can —” Jinnah began.

“What about it?” the man said curtly.

His voice was low, rough, and sharp, like a river running over a gravel bar. He advanced slowly towards Jinnah, axe rising almost imperceptibly in his right hand.

“Well, there’s been a fire here recently, hasn’t there?” Jinnah said, nervously eyeing the axe, for this Tin Man needed no oil to loosen his limbs.

“I know why you come now. Better come into the shack,” he pronounced.

Jinnah looked over at the shack, which had transformed from a charming riverside shanty to the Bates Motel. He considered his options. If he ran, the man could bury the axe in his back with ease. On the other hand, he could have done that while Jinnah’s back had been turned in the first place, transfixed by the gas can. He had said he knew why Jinnah was there. Did he want to confess after all? Jinnah’s inherent instincts struggled with his congenital cowardice. In the end, he decided to accompany the man inside the shack. At the very least, he wouldn’t be able to swing the axe right over his head in the confined space. Jinnah bowed stiffly and threw an arm in the doorway’s direction.

“After you, my friend,” he said.

The man grunted and moved sideways, keeping Jinnah in view at all times as he slid into the shack. Jinnah followed. The small space inside was full of junk. Cans, empty and full, were piled everywhere. There were stacks of newspaper on the floor, covering the small counter on the far wall and almost obscuring the tiny table in the right hand corner. The stench of rotting garbage was overpowering. Jinnah almost gagged as his host pointed a crooked, bony finger at the ceiling by the door.

“See that?” he barked.

Looking up, Jinnah could see a string of dull, reddy-brown stains about two feet long above their heads on the grimy ceiling. It looked like someone had sprayed it with ketchup. He looked mutely at the man.

“Some son-of-a-bitch broke in here last month,” said the Tin Man, voice hard with anger. “Hit me on the goddamn head. That’s my blood! Sprayed up there like a fountain, right outta my head!”

“Yes, how terrible,” Jinnah coughed. “Dreadful, my friend. I do hope you —”

“Kill the bastard if I catch him,” growled the Tin Man.

Jinnah stood, transfixed, as the man’s cyclopean eye squinted slightly and his voice dropped to a suspicious stage whisper.

“Never did get a good look at his face,” he said menacingly. “Might even come back, pretendin’ to be interested in gas cans.”

Fantastic, thought Jinnah. This is what comes of being an enterprising, self-starting reporter who doesn’t swallow the police line. An axe-murderer wants to check my fingerprints against his scalp to see if I did the head-dance on his nut. Jinnah tried to reassert what little control of the proceedings he could.

“About the fire,” he coughed. “Did you happen to see anything, my friend?”

By this time, the Tin Man had positioned himself between Jinnah and the door, barring escape. Any hopes for a quick resolution to the interview vanished as he banged his fist on the nearby counter.

“I haul wood, y’know! Outta the river — used to be a fisherman, y’know that? That’s how I had my accident.”

Before Jinnah had a chance to assimilate this information properly, the man leaned close to him, balancing his weight on the counter with one bony hand while his other drew an unsteady line down the middle of his face.

“Years ago. Line snapped on me. Tackle block came flying back before I could get outta the way. Took my left eye out and part’a my brain. Should be dead.”

“I’m awfully sorry to hear that.”

Jinnah felt in his jacket pocket for his cellphone in case he had to call 911 — not that they’d arrive in time, but at least he would have tried to save himself.

“Listen, this fire. It was Sunday evening?” Jinnah persisted, not wanting to seem unsympathetic, but business was business.

This remark elicited a strange response. The Tin Man looked around his shack as if the walls had ears.

“Shush!” he hissed. “Mounties got this place bugged!”

Jinnah found his eyes involuntarily scanning the ceiling and walls for likely spots to place a listening device. He was convinced this man could very well have burned Sam Schuster alive in cold blood — if it was possible to burn someone in cold blood. The Tin Man stood there silent for a second. He looked as if he had something devastating to add, then shook his head as if he’d forgotten what he’d been talking about and walked past Jinnah to the table. He started shuffling through the mounds of paper.

“I know why ya come,” the Tin Man said once more, using the blade of his axe to scrape a layer of newsprint and other paraphernalia off the midden. “With all yer questions about fire!”

Jinnah’s head was pounding. He felt sick. He needed both a cigarette and a tranquilizer. But some fresh air would do in the meantime and the Tin Man’s movements had opened a clear path to the door. But despite his terror, despite the feeling that he was about to hurl the contents of his stomach (mostly coffee) onto the shack floor and despite frantic messages from his brain to take three steps to freedom, the reporter in Jinnah could not help but ask one last question.

“Did you see the fire on Sunday night, sir?” he asked, steeling himself.

The Tin Man looked up sharply. His already tight face went rigid. His axe rose from off the table in his shaking fist as he transfixed Jinnah with his cyclopean stare.

“Questions! Always questions! You can never ask enough, your kind!”

This struck Jinnah as being pejorative. His jelly-like spine stiffened a scintilla.

“What do you mean by that?” he said, although not too stridently.

The Tin Man held his axe at chest height and his whole frame trembled.

“Why do ya need to know? Haven’t I given enough, eh?” he cried. “Yer a dark messenger from the black forces!”

“I’m brown, not black,” Jinnah said peevishly, now convinced the Tin Man was insulting his race and heritage.

“Black!” shouted the Tin Man. “You’re all black! All shall be consumed by fire! Ye shall burn in the flames of righteousness that the Lord shall send —”

The Tin Man raised his axe over his head with both hands as high as the low roof of the shed would allow. Jinnah needed no further prompting. Live to be insulted another day, he thought. He bolted towards the door, slipped in a puddle of ooze, lost his balance and hurled headlong out the shack onto the muddy flat. The impact knocked his glasses off. Panicked, he frantically clawed at the ground while scrambling to regain his feet. His hand closed around one glass lens just as the Tin Man appeared in the door.

“And the Lord went before them by night in a pillar of fire to lead the way!” he screamed, waving the axe. “A just and vengeful God is our Lord —”

Jinnah didn’t hang around to argue theology nor try to impress on the man the limitless mercy of Allah. He turned and put his glasses on in a single movement, then ran off at a speed that a heart constricted by decades of cigarette smoking is not designed to sustain for any great distance. The flow of oxygen to his lungs was further strangled by the conviction that a heavy, sharp axe could at any moment imbed itself in his skull. Jinnah ran faster and further than he had since he had been in compulsory military training back in Africa. He hung a wide, ragged right at the sawmill site, added his own set of deep tracks to the confusion of the crime scene, then fairly threw himself into the satellite-guided Love Machine. Hands shaking, he managed to find his keys, jam them into the ignition and roar away down Marine Drive without putting on his seatbelt. He looked in the rearview mirror at the rapidly receding driveway. There was no sign of his one-eyed host. That didn’t fool Jinnah. He put the pedal to the metal.

He drove furiously, alternately fumbling with his right hand to find and light a cigarette and his left to somehow pull out his seatbelt and snap it into place, his hands trading places on the steering wheel every few seconds like a punch-drunk boxer throwing his fists around wildly. He did not meet with a great deal of suecess on either front. He realized with a start that he was panting so hard he could scarcely breathe. Jinnah pulled over. Shaking, he turned the ignition off and got out of the van. His knees nearly buckled as he rolled around the front of his vehicle, putting a hand on the hood for support. He made it to the bushes at the side of the road just on time to heave.

“Son of a bitch!” Jinnah gasped, drawing his breath in deep, uneven gulps.

All he had wanted was some proof there had been someone else at the crime scene the night Sam Schuster died. He hadn’t planned on actually meeting that someone. Looking on the bright side, however, he now definitely had a story. Wait until he ran this little tid-bit past Sergeant Graham: he’d have to talk now. Feeling a modicum more composed, Jinnah wobbled back into the driver’s seat, lit a cigarette with palsied hands, and, after several attempts, finally managed to get his seatbelt on. He drove, quietly smoking, towards the Tribune, composing his story in his head. He was nearly there when a voice almost made him jump out of his brown skin.

“You should be in the left-hand lane within the next hundred metres in order to arrive at your designated destination,” said the on-board computer.

“Bastard!” shouted Jinnah and punched the off button so hard he nearly broke the console. “I know exactly where I’m going!”

Jinnah may have known exactly where he wanted to go when he arrived at the Tribune, but every avenue he tried proved to be a dead-end. He entered the building via the back, taking the alleyway entrance and trudging up the rear stairwell that took him to the corridor between the newsroom and the library. He didn’t want the hassle of going in the front way and having to show his ID card to the security people at the desk in the main foyer. He slunk in through the big double doors at the far end of the newsroom and made his way to his desk, still shaken, and sat down with a thump. He rather expected Sanderson to say something, but looking up, Jinnah noted his colleague was in full panic mode. He was on the telephone, with directories, contact lists, and a stack of story print-outs scattered in front of him.

“No, I don’t know, really,” he was apologizing to whoever he was speaking to. “I’m a bit new at this, er, subject area …”

Deprived of the opportunity to impress upon his desk-mate how close he had come to death, Jinnah decided to do the next-best thing: call Sergeant Graham and harangue him on the same matter. He had just picked up the phone when Sanderson rang off and glanced in his direction.

“Jinnah! I thought you were sick or something!” he said.

“Very nearly Or something,’ my friend,” said Jinnah, rubbing his temples.

Sanderson noticed for the first time that his friend did not look at all well.

“Good God, man! If it was possible for you to look pale I swear you’d be as white as a ghost!”

“I came rather close to being one, Ronald,” said Jinnah. “I’m telling you, my friend, I have had a brush with a madman!”

“You didn’t find Sam Schuster’s killer?” exclaimed Sanderson.

“No, but the son of a bitch I ran into has definitely killed somebody in his time. Let me tell you, Ronald —”

“As much as I’d like to hear it, I haven’t the time, Hakeem,” said Sanderson, his hands shuffling the mounds of paper on his desk, sending pages fluttering to the floor. “You’ll never believe what Blacklock and Junior did to me!”

“I hoped they used condoms.”

“Very funny —”

At that moment, Sanderson’s phone rang. He snatched up the receiver as if it were a rattlesnake. Jinnah had seen Sanderson like this before. He always got this way when faced with one of Blacklock’s mega-projects, working himself up to a state of anxiety that rivaled Jinnah’s own neuroses at times. Jinnah dialed the Vancouver Police.

“Staff Sergeant Graham,” said the familiar voice on the other end of the phone.

“Sergeant Graham, I have found the tracks of a killer!”

“Is that so, Hakeem?” said Graham cheerfully. “My goodness. Pray, where did you find these alleged tracks?”

“You know damn well where I found them! At the crime scene! A print near Schuster’s car pointing towards the river. Smoke and mirrors! A trick of the light! Son of a bitch! You knew Chan had seen someone that night.”

“Thought he saw someone, Hakeem,” said Graham, unfazed. “Now apparently you have found proof he did. Congratulations. What are you going to do now? Interview the treadmark?”

“Listen, buddy! I found the man who made those tracks!”

“Do tell.”

“I will. And I’ll be truly grateful if you’d admit that the homicidal maniac in question is a suspect and you’re treating this murder case seriously.”

“Oh, I would never call Old Jake a homicidal maniac. Or a suspect, Jinnah.”

“What do you mean, Old Jake?” cried Jinnah, very nearly falling off his chair.

“Or Crazy One-Eyed Jake as he’s affectionately known to us. How’s his axe?”

Jinnah closed his eyes. The son of a bitch. He’d known.

“You bastard!” he said. “Why the hell didn’t you —”

“Tell you? Maybe if you didn’t hang up on me you might learn these little details.”

“But he threatened me! He could have killed me!”

“Oh, I doubt that, actually. He threatens everyone, Jinnah. He’s quite convinced that everyone who wanders by his miserable shack is a Revenue Canada collector. You see, Jake lives on the whole tax-free and he wants to keep it that way.”

Jinnah’s eyes fixed on the call-display. He looked at the number to be sure he hadn’t misdialed and this was some grotesque practical joke, but there could be no doubt as to whom he was speaking with. The son of a bitch had let him go down a dangerous blind alley knowing full well what he would find. The thought that perhaps this might be in some small way his own fault never occurred to Jinnah. He ran through his considerable store of English invective and found that, for a change, the tongue of his adopted land failed him. Instead, he launched into a very long, very loud stream of insults and vile epithets in Hindu with a sprinkling of Pushtu thrown in for effect. Through it all, Graham continued to laugh. Finally, Jinnah stumbled to a halt, exhausted.

“Finished?” said Graham.

“In more ways than one, Sarge,” said Jinnah. “Come on — give me something for tomorrow! Anything! I’ll kiss your ass! I’ll rewrite your press release! Don’t let me go a day without a byline.”

“Your paper won’t suffer, Jinnah. Be sure to read it tomorrow. Now good-bye.”

Graham hung up. Jinnah considered smashing the phone down, but thought better of it. He sat, chewing his lip, thinking. Sanderson was busy having his nervous breakdown on the telephone. Around him, his fellow reporters were at their work. What did Graham mean, he thought, by the Tribune not suffering? Read it? Jinnah snorted derisively at the notion. The only thing he read in the paper was his own stories and the stock quotations in the business section —

The business section.

Grant.

Jinnah stood up abruptly and hurried over to the business department. Grant was at his desk, working on his computer. Before he could get a look at the story, Grant hit the send key and the words on the screen vanished.

“Hakeem. Delighted to see you. How’s the pyramid scheme going?”

“Cut the crap, Gerry!” said Jinnah, pulling up a chair and sitting uncomfortably close to Grant. “What are you working on?”

“Need to know basis only, top secret. I’d have to kill you.”

Grant’s fulsome face was smug. Jinnah felt a burning ball of rage knotting his stomach. He tried to control it.

“Look, my friend,” he said as reasonably as he could. “We’re supposed to be working on this together. Let’s compare notes.”

“Like we compared notes yesterday?” said Grant, arching an eyebrow. “Forget it.”

“Come on, Grant! Just to make sure we’re not stepping on each other’s toes!”

“Jinnah, you’re eating my dust so far behind me on this one that you can’t even scuff my heels let alone step on my toes,” smirked Grant. “Now, maybe you’ll tell me what your contribution for tomorrow is — partner.”

Jinnah looked at his tormentor with cold loathing.

“That’s none of your damned business, partner!”

Jinnah stood up, flung his chair backwards in Grant’s direction and stormed back to the city desk. He sat stewing in his chair, playing with a pack of cigarettes, waiting for Sanderson to get off the phone. When he finally did ring off, Jinnah leaned around the computer terminal solicitously.

“Listen, Ronald, my friend,” he said in a low voice. “I wonder if you could do me a favour —”

“Forget it, Hakeem! I haven’t the time.”

“I just want you to find out what Grant’s working on, that’s all.”

“It’s not on the list and he certainly won’t tell me of all people,” said Sanderson, rifling through the notes he’d just taken over the phone.

“What the hell sort of project are you doing anyway, for God’s sake?” demanded Jinnah. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.”

Sanderson looked at Jinnah with a face that could have been used on a poster for National Suicide Prevention Week.

“It’s called ‘Reclaiming Our Kids.’ I have to interview a bunch of single moms who have had their daughters run away from home and — what are you laughing at?”

Jinnah was fighting hard to contain it, but a chuckle was slipping out from behind the hands he’d clutched to his mouth.

“Let me guess — your first assignment is to find a mom who’s about to rescue her daughter from a notorious pimp, right?”

Sanderson looked guppy-like at Jinnah, mouth open, eyes agog.

“How — how —” he gasped.

“Ronald, we do this series roughly every five years. I personally did it about fifteen years ago, just before you arrived at this pillar of the journalistic industry, hmm?”

Sanderson took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. He closed his eyes. His voice was tired.

“Jinnah, I don’t see anything humorous about a woman risking her well-being to save her daughter from some swine of a pimp,” he said as evenly as he could.

“Nor do I, buddy,” agreed Jinnah, barely able to contain himself.

“Then what is so damned funny?’

“The thought of you risking your person to cover the event,” howled Jinnah. “Can you imagine!”

“Why is that so funny?” said Sanderson, turning red.

“Are you kidding me? You’re too damned Canadian to do a story like that and Blacklock knows it!”

“What has being Canadian got to do with it?”

“Manners Ronald, manners! You’ll probably apologize to the pimp as he puts you in a headlock!”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“I bet you call him ‘Mister’ out of pure habit as he pummels you.”

“I’m not talking to you anymore, Hakeem.”

“You don’t need to, buddy,” said Jinnah, standing up and feeling much, much better. “I have more important things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like get a start on writing your obit, that’s what.”

Jinnah felt refreshed. Somehow, seeing Sanderson discomfited never failed to cheer him up. It was part of that class struggle between beat reporters like Jinnah and general assignment reporters like Sanderson. Sanderson often commented on how “beat” reporter meant knowing how to beat the system out of an honest day’s labour, unlike the honest general assignment journalist, the men and women who produced the bulk of cityside copy and had to write two, three, or four stories every day. Jinnah loved it when Sanderson was forced to do a crime story and confront the horrors that he dealt with every day. Let Ronald fret. He had other Tribune staff to do his bidding. He sauntered over to the receptionist’s desk.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” he said, approaching the young woman wearing a headset and seated behind the imposing, glassed-in counter. “Voulezvous coucher avec moi?”

Crystal Wagner gave Jinnah a bland look and sighed. In her early twenties, she’d been working at the Tribune to pay her way through university for three years now and was quite used to Jinnah’s routine. She called it his “Pepe le Pew act” and while other women might have been offended, Crystal found it amusing.

“Speed it up, Hakeem,” she said. “The sooner you finish the sooner I can call the Human Rights Branch and lodge a complaint.”

Jinnah slowly undid two more buttons on his shirt and started stroking his hairy chest, his fingers rolling his heavy, gold medallion back and forth.

“Ah, ze young lady iz playing hard to get,” he said, still affecting his French accent. “Perhaps if she stopped working so hard and relaxed on my African rug she would feel differently.”

“I’d feel like a shower,” said Crystal. “Whatever it is you want, the answer is no.”

“There is a difference between what I want and what I need,” said Jinnah, seating himself on the counter next to Crystal. “I want you to look something up for me.”

“Can’t. Busy. Got homework.”

“Homework! For what?”

“It’s a study of contemporary work values in North American office settings.”

“You should do a study on this place.”

“I’m majoring in sociology, not zoology.”

Jinnah moved even closer to Crystal, brushing against her shoulder.

“I just want you to get some information for me,” he purred, lowering his voice to that rough, bourbon-like baritone that Crystal called “The Jinnah Tiger Growl.”

She fought to control a smile on her lips, which bore the tell-tale markings of piercings where studs and rings would appear once Crystal got home from work and donned her “University Uniform.” Such decorations were banned in the Tribune newsroom, which Crystal found ironic since having some heavy metal at hand would be useful when dealing with Jinnah.

“Just what’s in it for me?” she asked. “Aside from a wrongful dismissal case?”

“Mademoiselle, I shall shower you with love and affection,” said Jinnah. “That and a large coffee from the cafeteria.”

“You must want something awfully badly. You never buy anyone a coffee.”

Jinnah got down on his knees in front of Crystal and took her hand in his.

“For you, I would make such a sacrifice,” he said earnestly. “Just tell me one small thing —”

“You want to know what Grant is working on.”

Jinnah almost dropped Crystal’s hand, but somehow found the strength to hang gamely onto it.

“How do you know that?” he gasped.

“Because I know you and your ego.”

“Am I that predictable?”

“As constant as the pole star.”

Jinnah tightened his grip on Crystal’s hand and raised it to his lips.

“S’il vous plait, mon amour, mon petite truffle!” he murmured, lips brushing the back of her white hand. “Pour your homme formidable, hmm?”

It was in this position, on bended knee, kissing Crystal’s hand, that Blacklock finally found Jinnah.

“Jinnah!” roared Blacklock from not three feet behind the cooing lovebirds. “What on earth do you think you’re doing! This is a newsroom, not a bordello!”

Jinnah turned around, unperturbed. He looked at Blacklock coolly.

“Her hand fainted,” he said. “I was merely giving it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in accordance with the Good Samaritan Act.”

“You appear to be committing some other form of act!” cried Blacklock. “Unhand that poor young woman at once!”

Crystal withdrew her hand, unruffled and, without the slightest appearance of alarm, went back to her work. Jinnah stood and tried to walk past Blacklock to his desk. The editor-in-chief used his considerable bulk to block his escape.

“Where have you been all morning?” he demanded. “What do you have to contribute to this newspaper today?”

“At the moment, nothing,” said Jinnah, looking around for an escape route and finding none, what with his entire horizon filled by angry editor.

“Then get to your desk and find me a story, Jinnah, instead of the fiction you pawned off on us last night!”

By now, the entire newsroom was pretending not to watch. Fine, thought Blacklock. Let them. Meanwhile, Jinnah felt his honour had been insulted: and in front of a woman, too. He reared up to his full height of five feet, eight inches.

“Fiction! I’ll have you know I interviewed that so-called fictional person this morning!”

“Oh,” said Blacklock, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “And was he a descendant of Lizzy Borden?”

“No, but —”

“Did he have anything at all to do with Schuster’s death?”

“Not likely, but —”

“Then you have wasted the company’s time, haven’t you, Jinnah?”

“That’s not the point —”

“That is entirely the point!” bellowed Blacklock. “Now get back to your desk and do a round of cop-checks and fill up the news briefs column at least!”

Jinnah, sensing defeat, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily.

“Mister Blacklock, this madman threatened my life. I feel I am suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and may have to take the rest of the day —”

“Over my lifeless carcass!”

“— off.”

“Be off with you! To your desk!”

Blacklock stepped back. Jinnah paused, trying to think of something terribly cutting to say but he was so furious, he could think of nothing. He skulked past Blacklock and felt the eyes of everyone drilling through his back. Blacklock waited until he was just about to sit down before delivering his final insult.

“And Jinnah? It is a daily newspaper, remember that!” he said loudly.

“Son of a bitch!” muttered Jinnah as Blacklock waddled off, escorted by a variety of chuckles, snorts and knowing grins.

A daily paper! Who produced more daily news stories than Jinnah? The bastard. Jinnah did some power-dialing, working the phone with a homicidal intensity, looking for a story — any story — that could knock Grant off the front page. But there were no juicy murders, no brazen bank robberies, nothing. The crime scene was as sterile as the Pope’s choir. It was with an increasing sense of frustration that Jinnah dialed, left messages, was told nothing was going on. Finally, he slammed the phone down in frustration. Almost immediately, it rang. He snatched it up and noticed too late the number displayed. Sanjit.

They spoke in Hindi mixed with a rich panache of words from English and other languages. This “language” was completely incomprehensible to everyone else in the newsroom. All of Jinnah’s business conversations were conducted in this tongue.

“Greetings, cousin!” said Sanjit gloomily. “I hope all is well with you.”

“Well enough,” lied Jinnah. “What can I do for you, Sanjit?’

“I have just attended the Indo-Canadian Business Council luncheon in Surrey.”

“I am pleased for you,” said Jinnah sharply. “Did you call to describe the meal?”

“Obviously not!” said Sanjit, offended. “But I did have a strange experience.”

Oh God, thought Jinnah. Merciful Allah, now what?

“Yes?” he said, opening the door to further details.

“Naturally, I asked many prominent business people if they were going to the launch of our little venture tomorrow afternoon.”

“And were no doubt very warmly received?” said Jinnah with faint hope.

“Jinnah,” said Sanjit, his voice rising to an annoying whine. “Each and every one of them gave polite apologies and said they had a meeting at that time! Is it possible everyone is attending the same meeting?”

That or they have all had a meeting with a certain individual, thought Jinnah.

“Isn’t anybody coming, for God’s sake?” he asked peevishly.

“Only Mister Germal from the Community Reporter,” agonized Sanjit.

“Well, that’s good,” said Jinnah. “At least we will get some press.”

“Hakeem, all the media outlets we sent invitations to have indicated they will attend, even your competition, the other Vancouver daily newspaper!” wailed Sanjit.

“Believe me, cousin, this is a good thing,” Jinnah tried to reassure him.

“What if they all show up?”

“Then on top of being the president of a highly successful multi-level marketing scheme, you will also be the most successful public relations flack in Vancouver!”

“But they will all ask questions! Write stories!”

“That is the idea, after all, Sanjit. There is no such thing as bad publicity.”

“Tell that to Bill Gates.”

“First you whine no one is coming, now you’re alarmed they are! It will all be fine, Sanjit.”

There was a pause before Sanjit asked the question Jinnah had been dreading.

“Hakeem, did you talk to Mister Puri today?”

Jinnah had been expecting this inquiry since the beginning of the conversation, but he was still unsure of how to handle it. He decided a little bluntness was in order. It would help prepare Sanjit for the reporters’ questions tomorrow.

“I did. He said he wouldn’t recommend our venture to anyone who asked him.”

Sanjit, a devout and religious man, swore a blue streak in a variety of languages, making even Jinnah’s ears burn.

“I knew it!” he shouted. “I bet no one got a chance to ask him! I bet he was on the phone the second you left him, calling people up!”

“Now, now, Sanjit,” said Jinnah soothingly. “Mister Puri is a very holy man.”

“You are right,” said Sanjit, abruptly changing tone, his voice nearly breaking at the stress. “Oh God, Jinnah! How did I ever let you talk me into this?”

“It was your idea, Sanjit,” said Jinnah reprovingly. “And my money.”

“Hakeem, what will we do?”

“We will show up tomorrow and tell the truth. As my colleague Ronald Sanderson is fond of saying, ‘Ye shall know the truth and it shall set ye free.’ Don’t worry about it.”

“But without the community behind us —”

“There are plenty of shrewd investors in Vancouver and Canada — indeed, the world — who will more than make up for the absence of the community,” said Jinnah. “Now get the last-minute stuff done and don’t call me unless it’s an emergency.”

“But Hakeem —”

“No buts, Sanjit! Now good-bye.”

Jinnah hung up. That bastard Puri. All Jinnah had tried to do was slide him a piece of the action. Well, Puri would be laughing out the other side of his face in a few weeks when Orient Love Express shares took off. Then he would get on board — for full price. Jinnah didn’t give the matter another thought. He spent the rest of the afternoon, as he put it, “drinking at the well of dryness.” He filed two briefs and made one final attempt to find out what Grant had. But he was rebuffed by Perma-Frost when he asked him in the designated smoking area of the cafeteria.

“I’m sworn to secrecy. Sorry,” he said, his eyes very sad. “You owe me a jet.”

Jinnah handed over a cigarette and gave it one last go.

“I have a right to know,” he pleaded. “I bet the copy-runners know!”

“I’d say just about everyone knows,” said Frost, taking a deep lungful. “But Blacklock has let it be known that the person who does tell you will be assigned to do obituaries for the rest of their life.”

“Jesus Christ!” spat Jinnah. “Look, can you at least tell me if it’s good?”

Peter Frost looked at Jinnah through his right eye, head tilted to that side.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he said.

“Yes.”

“It’s good. Very, very good.”

“Son of a bitch!” said Jinnah.

It was a tired, defeated Jinnah who was greeted by Manjit at the door that evening. He tried to slide past her with a muttered growl of a greeting, but Manjit grabbed his arm and steered him towards the living room.

“Hey! What’s the matter?” she asked, shoving Jinnah lightly into his easy chair. “Hard day at the office?”

“Oh, typical stuff,” sighed Jinnah, putting his feet up on the proffered footstool. “Routine, sweetheart.”

“So what happened?” she said, crouching down beside him.

“The Vancouver Police betrayed me, that bastard Grant scooped me and Blacklock humiliated me in front of the entire newsroom, Mister Puri issued the equivalent of an economic ‘fatwah’ against me, and a crazy, one-eyed axe-murderer tried to kill me — you know, normal-type stuff.”

“Kill you?” cried Manjit. “Are you hurt? Did you tell the police?”

“It was the police who let me walk into the bastard’s shack by the river in the first place, so I don’t see much use in reporting anything to them.”

Manjit stood up, her easy manner having disappeared completely.

“Hakeem, I think we should talk.”

Jinnah knew his wife. The last thing she wanted to discuss was some half-assed attempt on his life. There had been genuine, serious efforts to kill Jinnah and this hadn’t been one of them. He knew with absolute certainty what she wanted to talk about.

“If this is about the Orient Love Express, it can wait until after dinner, hmm?”

Manjit gave him a penetrating look.

“Hakeem, my friends are already asking me if you have a harem of Russian women. Do you have such a harem?”

“Of course not, for God’s sake!” cried Jinnah. “We don’t even launch the thing until tomorrow!”

“So, then you will have a harem?”

“Manjit, I can scarcely handle you, so why would I want a harem?”

“Who says you can handle me?”

“An unfortunate turn of phrase. What’s for dinner?”

“Left-overs,” said Manjit and disappeared into the kitchen like an angry djinn.

Jinnah sat in his chair, staring at the flames of the gas fire against the artificial logs, thinking. It had been a hellish day, one where he could scarce imagine how it could possibly have been worse. He’d completely mishandled everything and couldn’t account for it. His instincts had been tingling. He had been on to something, but what? Maybe this Crazy Jake had more to do with the murder than Graham was letting on. But if the man was really a suspect, they wouldn’t have let Jinnah within a country mile of him, given how hard they’d tried to protect Robert Chan from his charms. He looked to his inherant instincts for guidance, but they were inconclusive.

“Sam Schuster was murdered,” he said.

His instincts tingled slightly on the left. Logic. Hmm …

“It was suicide,” Jinnah intoned.

A slight tingle on the right. Emotional. Son of a bitch.

Jinnah puzzled it over and over and came to no good conclusions. At least the day was nearly done. After dinner, perhaps he would surf the net and look for information on Sam Schuster. He was just starting to doze off when Manjit awoke him, calling from the kitchen in a voice devoid of spousal affection.

“Hakeem! Are you there?”

“Yes darling?” Jinnah said, sitting bolt upright, jarred from near-sleep.

“There is a young woman on the line who wishes to speak with Pepe le Peu or, failing that, Kenya’s Love Idol. When I said there was no one of that name here, she assured me that this was your nickname at work and you were on intimate terms with her. Do you know her, Hakeem?”

Name of God. Crystal. Suddenly, with the blinding clarity that comes to men just before they are hanged, Jinnah realized how the day could get worse.

“Wrong number!” shouted Jinnah, now on his feet and racing to the kitchen. “Obviously this is a crank call. I’ll speak with her.”

“Perhaps I will just hang up,” offered Manjit, holding the phone away from him.

“No, no — one must tell these people off so they don’t call again,” said Jinnah, beginning to sweat.

He wrenched the phone from Manjit’s hand. Her nostrils were flared, her breath coming in little gulps. This was serious.

“Listen, you crazy crack-head!” Jinnah shouted into the telephone. “I don’t know who you are —”

“Do you want to know what Grant’s story is or not?” said Crystal Wagner.

Jinnah closed his eyes and put his hand over the receiver. Why couldn’t she just have identified herself and asked for him properly instead of teasing Manjit like that? Really, young women these days! No sense of propriety.

“Manjit,” he hissed. “It is indeed one of the receptionists from work. I know her slightly. I believe she is on drugs. I had better try and talk her down. If you could just go into the next room —”

“Surely anything you have to say to this young woman whom you know only slightly you can say in front of your wife, can you not, Hakeem?” said Manjit, her voice dripping with an acid that was as strong as the gastric juices currently consuming Jinnah’s innards.

“Of course,” said Jinnah, waving a hand. “I simply didn’t want you to get upset.”

“Oh, I’m not upset, Hakeem.”

Manjit pulled up a stool next to the telephone and sat down with an alarming air of finality. Well, there was nothing for it. He took his hand off the mouthpiece.

“Crystal, tell me how much of the drug you took, sweetheart,” said Jinnah.

“Sweetheart?” cried Manjit.

Jinnah glared at her. Manjit glared back.

“Another unfortunate turn of phrase?” Manjit asked.

“Is your wife still there?” asked Crystal. “She sounds nice.”

“Oh, she’s a nice person, all right,” agreed Jinnah.

Inwardly, Jinnah was vowing to murder Crystal in as gruesome a manner as he could possibly devise — that is, in as gruesome a manner as a man who had recently been castrated by his wife could manage.

“Crystal, is it the crack again, hmm? Or maybe the meth? You can tell Jinnah.”

“Stow it, Pepe. Are you gonna tell your wife about us or am I?”

“What’s to tell?”

“Hakeem! Sweety! You promised you’d do anything for me!”

Jinnah closed his eyes. He was by now drenched in perspiration and Manjit’s eyes looked like they were about to start from their spheres.

“I promised to buy you a coffee,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

“A coffee!” squawked Manjit. “This young woman does not rate herself very highly if all she charged you —”

“Manjit!” shouted Jinnah. “For God’s sake! This is about work!”

“I don’t know about work,” returned Manjit. “But it certainly has to do with being on the job!”

“Hakeem,” said Crystal. “Hakeem, put Manjit on.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Trust me. I’ll tell her the truth.”

“Which version?” asked Jinnah quickly.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be in trouble anymore.”

I won’t be in trouble any less either, thought Jinnah, but shrugged and, with that sense of fatalism peculiar to those born under African skies, handed the phone to his wife.

“She wants to talk to you,” he said.

“Now I have to talk her down, hmm?” Manjit said, eyeing the phone suspiciously.

“Other way around, actually,” said Jinnah and made for the dining room.

“Where are you going? You’re not leaving!” shouted Manjit after him.

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” he said, opening the liquor cabinet and pouring himself a triple scotch. “I’m merely having a small drink.”

“What are you doing that for?”

“To dull the pain of the knife,” muttered Jinnah and collapsed onto the couch.

Five minutes and four ounces of scotch later, Jinnah heard a sound emanating from the kitchen that made him jump. He listened for a few seconds and heard it again.

Name of God. His wife was laughing.

“Et tu, Manjit?” he groaned.

“Hakeem!” Manjit called brightly from the kitchen. “Crystal wants to talk to you.”

For a terrible instant, Jinnah thought perhaps the receptionist had told his wife the whole truth and Manjit was waiting for him behind the kitchen door with a knife. He stuck a hand timidly through the archway. For if thy left hand offend thee, then cut it off…. But nothing happened. He edged inside. Manjit was on the phone, moving around the kitchen, tidying things as she chatted, smiling. Oh God, what has she told her?

“Here you are,” said Manjit happily, handing him the receiver.

Jinnah looked at the thing with revolted fascination. His instincts were telling him to hang up now, he didn’t really want to hear whatever sordid news Crystal had for him. But, like Ahab, something pushed and dragged him on, he knew not what. He put the thing to his ear.

“If you want to inform me of my pending divorce or Bobitization, speak now.”

“Oh, Hakeem! You really don’t understand women, do you?” said Crystal.

“Madame, I hardly understand myself.”

“Well, don’t worry about that. We got you ‘sussed.”

“Then what the hell do you want?”

“It’s what you want. I know what Grant’s writing for tomorrow’s paper.”

“Shabash, Crystal!” cried Jinnah. “What lies and half-truths has he managed to fabricate into a semblance of a story?”

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

“You’re not going to like it,” said Crystal finally.

“That, Madame, is a given. Tell me.”

“Okay. But don’t you want to know how I got it and why I’m telling you?”

“Again, I thought that was a given.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Grant told me.”

“Why would he tell you?”

“Honestly, Hakeem! I would have thought that was a given!”

“Of course. I apologize. And you’re defying Blacklock’s ban because?”

“Because right after he told me what he was writing, he tried to pick me up.”

“Has the man no shame!”

“Spoken like an expert hypocrite. Grant’s calling Schuster’s death a suicide.”

Jinnah’s eyes widened.

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. He cites an insurance policy for ten million bucks that Schuster took out just six weeks before he died.”

“You’re kidding!”

“You’re becoming repetitive. Quotes some business partner of Schuster’s denying everything, but the securities investigation into Schuster’s business has spread to Jakarta.”

“Jakarta! That’s where Schuster’s big deal was going down.”

“Well, it’s gone down all right. He’s got some bigwig in the Indonesian government quoted as saying there were irregularities in the geological reports, allegations of bribery —”

“And he ought to know!” Jinnah cut in. “Nobody does business there without a little baksheesh changing hands.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not the worst of it.”

“It’s not!” cried Jinnah. “What could be worse?”

“Schuster’s death has been turned over to the Vancouver Police Commercial Crime Squad.”

Jinnah clutched the phone compulsively. He howled into the mouthpiece.

“You’ve got to be joking! Son of a bitch, not those assholes!”

“Hakeem,” said Manjit. “Language.”

“They take years to do anything! This is murder investigation for the Major Crime Division, not those accountants! No one ever goes to jail when the Commercial Crime guys get involved. It’s like sicking an accountant on Charles Manson.”

“So was I right or was I right about it being worse?” said Crystal.

Jinnah was impressed. The receptionist’s stock, already high, went up in his estimation. News sense and good judgment were rare qualities in the business. An appreciation of the mechanics of the VPD and their affect on a news story was even rarer. Crystal realized putting the Commercial Cops on the Schuster case meant the police didn’t consider it a murder. Jinnah could count the number of people working for the Tribune who could figure that out on one hand.

“So, how did he get the cop stuff? Unnamed sources?”

“Actually quotes some commercial cop — a corporal. Extensively. Joint investigation with authorities in Indonesia. Seeking the co-operation of the police in Alberta, Texas, and elsewhere.”

Son of a bitch. Graham. Jinnah felt the acute, searing pain of a well-honed shiv being shoved into his back. It was dawning on him how furious the cops must be with him to hand this to Grant on a silver platter.

“Crystal, you’re an angel,” said Jinnah. “You have just earned yourself a coffee.”

“I’ll expect a no-fat latte tomorrow morning,” said Crystal. “Good night.”

“Wait a minute!” said Jinnah. “What did you tell Manjit?”

“The whole truth,” laughed Crystal. “How you harass the women at work —”

“You didn’t!”

“— how you show them your African love rug —”

“You’re kidding!”

“— and how none of us take you seriously. Good-bye, Hakeem.”

She hung up, leaving Jinnah gaping at the phone. He looked up, aware that someone was watching, and found his wife laughing at him.

“Well, darling? Are you going to let your wife lay on your African love rug?” she giggled.

Jinnah’s cheeks burned with shame. He would almost rather have had his wife use the carving knife and take him seriously than be laughed at as a fool. But then, he thought just as quickly, perhaps Crystal did take him seriously and was just telling Manjit this to placate her. The thought mollified him.

“Darling,” he said, enfolding his wife in his arms. “You know I could never love any woman other than you.”

“I know, Hakeem,” said Manjit, returning his hug. “And still —”

She dissolved into giggles and buried her face in his shoulder. Jinnah looked at the side of her head, her hair warm and perfumed. He realized that he really didn’t understand women. Not unless they were criminals, of course.

“Manjit, what is so damned funny?” he whispered, stroking her hair.

“Something Crystal told me. It convinced me she was telling the truth.”

“And what was that?”

Manjit raised her head and looked intently into her husband’s eyes.

“When I accused her of being a harlot, she laughed and said: ‘Come now, Manjit, honestly: which would Hakeem prefer? A chance at illicit, adulterous sex or a front page byline, hmm?’ And of course, I had to agree with her.”

Manjit laughed and giggled and nuzzled her face into Jinnah’s chest. Jinnah stared straight ahead.

“Are you angry, darling?” she asked after a moment.

“Not with you, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Not with you.”

Jinnah was looking at his own reflection in the leaded glass of the china cabinet. He saw a man who had been deceived, duped, and humiliated. And he had only himself to blame. He had been cruising, not giving this case his all. He had not seriously attempted to do his duty to the dead. Sam Schuster deserved to have his killer caught and his soul freed. Jinnah had reached a terrible conclusion and made a fearful vow to himself.

Sam Schuster’s death was now the subject of a full-fledged Jinnahad. He had sworn it.