Читать книгу Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Donald J. Hauka - Страница 8

The look on Conway Blacklock’s face the next morning was a study in red, purple, and puce. He would have made a perfect calender boy for the Heart and Stroke Foundation. Instead of the explosion story or a heart-warming tale of a mother rescuing her daughter, he was confronted by a huge, colour photograph of the Schusters and a banner headline proclaiming the abduction story. And the worse part of all, the crowning insult on a page of insults, was Jinnah’s byline on the story. Furious, Blacklock stormed out of his house without eating breakfast and headed straight for the office.

But if his expression had been alarming while surveying Frost and Jinnah’s handiwork on the front page, it was as naught compared to the look that twisted his facial features upon finding the Publisher. Blacklock considered himself something of a classicist. The great ideas of Rome and Greece still informed and shaped his world. Blacklock saw the editor-in-chief as a sort of pater familias — the all-powerful head of a large family whose members lived or died at his pleasure. The Publisher, he had always thought, was more like the Emperor in pagan times: God incarnate, never revealing himself to the plebeians except on state occasions to cow them into submission or rally them to the defence of the empire.

So it was with considerable consternation that, still clutching the crumpled front page he’d torn from his morning paper, Blacklock tracked the Publisher down to the cafeteria patio on the fourth floor only to discover the demi-God himself slaving behind an outdoor grill, wearing a silly chef’s hat and an apron that read: “Kiss the cook!” Caesar, Blacklock was quite sure, never flipped pancakes for his legions.

“Connie!” Phil cried. “Glad you could make it! Grab an apron!”

“Ah, sir, a matter has arisen that demands your serious attention —”

“I am attending to it,” said Phil, sliding a stack of pancakes onto an advertising employee’s plate. “There you are, Roger! Way to go!”

“With all due respect, sir, it is an issue of a journalistic and, dare I say it, disciplinary nature and perhaps a soupçon more critical than a pancake breakfast!”

Blacklock had spoken in an angry tone and, as usual, he regretted it. The Publisher looked up at him with that maddening blank expression that Blacklock was beginning to recognize as extreme displeasure.

“Nothing is more important than motivating our employees to do their best,” said the Publisher. “You may have noticed, Connie, that this event is also in aid of the United Way Campaign. I issued an invitation to all managers to attend and take turns cooking. Did you not get yours?”

Blacklock had. He’d assumed it was a joke. But he didn’t think it wise to admit it.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he apologized. “This other matter has somewhat preoccupied my thoughts.”

“Well, Mister Church appears to have remembered,” said the Publisher, turning sausages over with a long barbecue fork.

Blacklock gave a start and looked down the long row of outdoor cookers and through the crowd of chattering employees saw Junior dressed the same as the Publisher, serving up stacks of flapjacks and bevies of bangers, his chef’s hat almost touching the huge, United Way banner hanging down over the patio. Thou too, Brutus …

“Sir, I don’t wish to rain on your breakfast, but this is urgent.”

Blacklock unfolded the front page and thrust it under the Publisher’s nose. It immediately began to smoulder from the heat emanating from the cooker. Blacklock pulled it back and used his own, ample chest as a blackboard. The Publisher squinted through the smoke at it.

“Ah yes, the front page,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Blacklock gave an inner sigh of relief. Finally, he had found an iota of managerial responsibility in the man.

“An excellent example of employee empowerment, that front page,” Phil said, skewering a sausage.

“More like employee sabotage!” gasped Blacklock. “Sir, these people —”

“Did a hell of a job on deadline, on their own initiative, Connie.”

Blacklock closed his eyes and took in a deep, deep breath of air mingled with smoke and grease. He calmed himself and, with a supreme effort of will, tried one last time to instruct the Publisher on how management was supposed to manage.

“Sir, the timing and execution of their so-called initiative suggests a willful circumvention of managerial responsibility —”

“Or,” smiled the Publisher. “That you and I were at the opera, Church was at the basketball game and when news happened, the employees we deputized to take our places used their best judgment.”

“Best subterfuge,” corrected Blacklock.

“Has it occurred to you, Connie, that they pulled the wool over your eyes because they knew you wouldn’t listen to them?”

“What on earth are you talking about, sir?”

“Come on!” laughed the Publisher. “They pulled a fast one on you because they knew you’d nix their idea to change stories. It seems to me, Connie, that if we are to trust our employees to use their best judgment, then they also have to trust us to let them exercise it in our absence, right?”

“But the chain of command! The ladder of accountability, the painstaking planning —”

“Connie, stuff happens. The first four letters of the word newspaper are news, after all. They did a kick-ass job. Everyone but everyone is eating our dust. The competing paper looks sick. We have to keep this up.”

The pater familias of the Tribune looked at the Emperor and contemplated deicide. What sort of strange management seminars did they attend in advertising? Blacklock was left to stew and fume while a tall, blond woman in a power suit gushed all over the Publisher about what an absolutely fabulous event the breakfast had been and how the entire promotions staff were just over the moon, really…. By the time she had finished, Blacklock realized he’d compacted the front page in his hand into a tiny, tight ball. The Publisher returned his attention to the unhappy editor-in-chief.

“Now, Connie, about Jinnah and Frost: I want you to have a chat with them this morning.”

A few minutes ago, Blacklock would have felt a vague stirring of hope. A chat: management code for a good old-fashioned verbal thrashing in the editor’s woodshed. But not now. All he felt was an impending sense of doom.

“Oh, yes?” he said, curious, but without enthusiasm.

“Yes. Be sure Mister Church attends as well. I’d like you to include Mister Grant. I want you to develop a team-approach to this story. Be positive, let them carry the agenda. Then report back to me at noon on how they intend to advance the story.”

This was as close as Blacklock had come to receiving the corporate equivalent of the black spot. For if this was not an outright death-sentence, it was the beginning of a sort of mental torture that would only end when one of them — himself or the Publisher — died, metaphorically. Blacklock was damned if it was going to be him, so he forced himself to smile.

“Very good, Phil,” he said, teeth gritted. “Perhaps I should order some coffee and danishes from the cafeteria as well?”

“Good idea,” the Publisher said, taking off his chef’s hat and apron. “And by the way, I think it would be a good idea for you to attend this training seminar down at the Hyatt this afternoon —”

“Training seminar!” gasped Blacklock. “But sir! I’ve attended every —”

The Publisher waved a spatula at Blacklock.

“Connie, Connie! A little refresher course in synergy never hurt anyone.”

Synergy. Touchy-feely, EST-like claptrap. Writing out your true feelings and discovering how to empower your employees. It was not to be borne.

“But I’m needed! The afternoon news meeting —”

“Runs very well while you’re on vacation. Don’t worry — I’ll take your place.”

The Publisher handed his spatula to a promotions employee and put on his jacket.

“And Connie? It’s a three-week course, so you’d better get used to the idea.”

“Of course, Phil.”

The Publisher moved off, surrounded by a coterie of adoring staff. Blacklock realized that his hand hurt. He looked down and discovered the little ball of newsprint now resembled a tiny sphere of cardboard, so tightly was it compressed. His fingers were smeared black with ink. He watched the Publisher disappear into the building and the promotions staff start the process of clearing away the cooking equipment, the banners and balloons. Blacklock tossed the wad of newsprint onto the grill the Publisher had used and watched it start to smoke, curl, and finally, burst into flames.

“Thus we bid the world good-bye,” he said and walked to his office like a man facing examination by the Spanish Inquisition.

If Blacklock’s morning had been ruined, Jinnah’s had been made. He awoke to the sweetest sound a print reporter can hear: a radio announcer reading his copy virtually verbatim over the airwaves at the top of the news. He knew that Graham would be angry, Paula Schuster furious, and Blacklock — well, words could not adequately describe how Blacklock would react. Possibly he would resemble one of the djinn who followed Iblis, the Despairer, the fallen angel who had rejected the true faith. Such creatures were made of fire and had haunted Jinnah’s childhood nightmares. He closed the gate and looked back at his house. Framed by a charming, white picket fence, it glowed in the sun. All was perfect bliss.

By the time he got to the office that morning, the anticipation of seeing the look on Grant’s face had replaced any apprehension about Blacklock’s reaction. He had driven to work singing. He went into the building by the front entrance: partly because the paranoid streak in him was convinced that Sam Schuster’s murderer would be waiting for him in the back alley, but mostly because he wanted to enter the newsroom by the reception desk and see the adoring look on Crystal’s face. But when Jinnah arrived at the glass cubicle, Crystal’s look was anything but adoring. It was absorbed in the task of packing up her desk.

“What’s all this?” Jinnah demanded, leaping up the stairs into the glass cubicle and onto the small platform where Crystal was putting her files, stationery, and other effects into a cardboard box.

“I’m outta here, that’s what,” said Crystal dryly.

There was only one conclusion Jinnah could come to and it made his heart burn.

“That bastard! Blacklock got you fired, did he? I’ll show him!”

“Hakeem —”

Jinnah looked frantically about the newsroom. From his elevated vantage point, he spied Ronald Sanderson sitting quietly at his desk, reading his newspaper.

“Sanderson! You’re a shop steward! Do something for this poor woman!”

“As Shakespeare once said: ‘Get while the getting is good,’ Hakeem,” Sanderson said, keeping his eyes riveted to the page in front of him.

“Hakeem,” said Crystal. “This ain’t a union thing.”

“To hell it isn’t! If our contract can’t protect employees from wrongful dismissal, what use is it?”

“Your concern is touching, but —”

“Listen, everybody!” Jinnah bellowed at the newsroom. “We’re waffling! Everyone down tools!”

No one looked up. Sanderson smiled.

“The term you’re searching for is ‘wobble,’ Hakeem.”

“Whatever. We won’t stand for this!”

Crystal calmly finished tucking the cardboard flaps of her box into each other, sealing the container, and stood up, holding it against her stomach.

“Hakeem, Blacklock didn’t have me fired. I’m leaving for another job.”

Jinnah looked at her with wide-eyed surprise, then narrow-orbed suspicion.

“What other job? Where?” he said.

“With Phil. I’m now the publisher’s executive assistant.”

A piece of matter as negligible as a tiny quark zooming through time and space would have knocked Jinnah down, let alone a feather.

“You’re kidding!” he cried. “Phil? Executive assistant?”

“That’s right. He likes my style — apparently, he didn’t like Jackie’s.”

“But executive assistants aren’t covered by the contract!” protested Jinnah. “You’ll be completely at his mercy!”

“A chance I’m willing to take, Hakeem.”

“You’ll be utterly under his power — completely in his thrall,” he went on, leaning closer and closer to Crystal. “What if, Allah forfend, he sexually harasses you?”

Crystal opened her mouth wide and squealed at this audacity.

“That’s a rich one, Hakeem!” she shrieked.

“I’m serious,” said Jinnah, having pressed Crystal against the desk, the only thing between them the cardboard box. “What if he starts rubbing up against you, placing his filthy hands on you, slobbering disgusting things in your ear like, ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec —’”

Crystal wrenched herself sideways and twisted the box, partly collapsing it to create a small space between herself and her oppressor to escape Jinnah’s embrace. The movement sent him stumbling against the desk and Crystal, laughing, continued on down the steps and exited the glass cubicle.

“Bye-bye, Hakeem. Come visit me some day up in the corner office.”

Jinnah watched as the young woman walked out of the newsroom and stood in the foyer, waiting for the elevator to take her up to the fourth floor and out of his orbit.

“But you can’t leave me!” he wailed. “We need you!”

“You’ll live,” said Crystal.

The elevator door opened and she stepped inside. Jinnah could not resist making one last attempt to appeal to her basest fears.

“But what if he asks you to do a Lewinsky, for God’s sake?” he cried.

The doors closed and Crystal was taken up to her new incarnation. Jinnah turned and saw Sanderson’s face buried behind his newspaper, shoulders shaking with laughter. How dare he laugh at Jinnah’s despair? He stalked over to Sanderson and tore the paper out of his hand.

“Hey! I was reading that!” Sanderson protested, still laughing, waves of merriment rippling across his freckled face.

“Read it from cover to cover, you won’t find a byline of yours in it!” said Jinnah cruelly. “What the hell happened to you last night?”

Sanderson sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

“There wasn’t a story,” he said, smugly. “There was no pimp to rescue the teen hooker from. We’ll have to try again.”

Jinnah looked at his colleague and sighed. How many times did he have to tell Sanderson there was always a story — it just wasn’t always the one you’d been sent for?

“What do you mean, no pimp?” he demanded. “Where was the bastard?’

“Apparently he’s on ice somewhere. Tried to stab a cop or something and he’s doing time. There was nothing to the rescue.”

Jinnah shook his head put a hand on Sanderson’s shoulder.

“Ronald, Ronald — get up, please.”

“Jinnah, no —”

“Just get out of the chair,” said Jinnah firmly.

Reluctantly, Sanderson rose and watched as Jinnah sat down at the computer they shared. His fingers pounded on the keys, bringing a story template up.

“Jinnah,” said Sanderson hotly. “I will not allow you to do this!”

“Relax, Ronald — it’s just a little exercise.”

Jinnah typed Sanderson’s byline and glanced up at his friend’s flushing red face.

“Right. Tell me what happened.”

“I’m telling you, nothing happened. We picked this mom up and drove to this Surrey flea bag motel where her daughter was supposed to be shacked up with this horrible pimp —”

“Whose name is?”

“T-Rex,” said Sanderson, flipping through his notebook and checking. “Allegedly he has a dozen girls working in Surrey and Vancouver.”

“Disgusting. Now, Ronald my friend, tell me what happened next?”

“Nothing. This young woman comes to the door dressed in a teddy-bear T-shirt and says ‘Mom?’ and the mom says, ‘Cindy!’ And they hug. End of story.”

Jinnah shook his head.

“At least you acknowledge there’s a story now,” he admonished Sanderson. “In my mind, an excellent story of courage and danger —”

“Not a user-key story, Jinnah, please!”

“Absolutely, my friend! User-key two in this case.”

“I thought user-key two was ‘Why did he/she have to die?’ “’

“That’s user-key one,” Jinnah corrected him. “User-key two is ‘Lucky to be alive.’”

Jinnah flexed his index fingers. He was the last of the two-fingered typists in the newsroom and although he used but one digit per hand, he was the fastest hunt-and-pecker at the Tribune. He was almost ready to write.

“What was this mom’s name?”

“Darlene Spencer. Hakeem —”

The brown fingers rattled the keyboard. Sanderson’s story was being “Jinnahed.”

“Darlene Spencer had her heart in her mouth as she broke down the door of the Surrey sex-house where her daughter was being held prisoner —” he read as he typed.

“She didn’t break the door down!” cried Sanderson. “She just knocked on it!”

“As she hammered on the portal behind which her daughter, Cindy, was being held as a sex-slave —”

“She ran away of her own volition, Hakeem.”

“No one runs away to Surrey of their own volition, Ronald. Now then — but fear turned to tears when she saw her little pig-tailed girl —”

“Pony-tailed.”

“Pony-tailed,” Jinnah backed up the cursor and made the correction. “Girl clad only in a flimsy teddy-bear T-shirt.”

“Hakeem, really! This is too much!”

“This is called news writing, buddy. One day you too may become a reporter, Ronald, with considerable tutelage on my part. Now, where was this T-Bone man?”

“T-Rex,” said Sanderson. “I told you — in jail.”

“Ah,” said Jinnah. “Fearing at any moment the appearance of the vicious teen-pimp who held her in sordid bondage —”

“He’s in his twenties.”

“Is he likely to sue you for getting his age wrong? Besides, he must have started as a teenager.”

“That’s not the point! What about the truth?”

Jinnah looked up at Sanderson sadly.

“And Pilate asked, what is truth? Don’t you read your own scriptures, Ronald?”

“I’m too busy reading the fiction you’re pawning off as my story at the moment!”

“My stories are very real to me, Ronald. Now: Fearing his appearance — how much did Cindy charge for a Lewinsky, by the way?”

“Jinnah!”

The story, such as it was, was almost done by the time Frost made his way to Sanderson’s desk and tapped Jinnah on the shoulder. Jinnah looked up from his handiwork with surprise.

“Peter! What are you doing in here so early?”

“I have been summoned to a meeting with the editor-in-chief,” said Permafrost. “I’m to take you with me.”

“Oh ho! Are we being called into the woodshed then?”

“I guess so. He called me at home.”

“Was he yelling?” asked Jinnah with relish.

“No. Actually, he complimented me on my quick thinking.”

Jinnah frowned. That did not sound like the Conway Blacklock he knew.

“He’s lulling you into a false sense of security, Permafrost. I suspect we’ll need a shop steward to come with us. Ronald?”

“Forget it, Hakeem. I’m busy.”

“Don’t be sore, for God’s sake!”

“What’s your problem?” asked Frost.

“He’s upset because I gave him a few tips on news writing,” said Jinnah, pointing to the screen. “What do you think, my friend?”

Permafrost looked at the first few paragraphs of the story. He grinned.

“It reminds me of The Color Purple, actually.”

“Why’s that?” asked Jinnah, defensive.

“Because that’s the hue of your prose, Hakeem. Lawd, I’m afraid.”

“Not as afraid as you should be, my friend. Let us go into the lion’s den together.”

They left Sanderson to rewrite his epic tale and walked towards the executive offices. They were intercepted at the threshold by Gerald Dixon Grant.

“Hullo, Hakeem. Peter,” he smirked. “Been invited to this little chat, have we?”

Jinnah bristled. He didn’t like Grant’s considerable attitude.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Jinnah. “Something about the line story, I think.”

“Oh, that,” said Grant. “I thought maybe it was about the complaints that have been pouring in all morning to the switchboard.”

“At least I have a story to complain about, buddy,” said Jinnah.

“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, Hakeem,” said Grant and swaggered into Blacklock’s office.

Jinnah and Frost followed. Jinnah noticed immediately the tray of danishes and coffee. Then he realized Blacklock wasn’t sitting behind his massive oak desk. There were fives seats scattered about in front of the enormous fixture, Blacklock standing in front of one to Jinnah’s left, Church lounging in his to the right. Jinnah’s bullshit detector went off at full volume. His sense that something phony was up was heightened by Blacklock’s next action: he smiled.

“Ah, gentlemen!” he said warmly. “Do come in. So glad you could make it.”

Jinnah glanced once more at the danishes and two thermoses of coffee.

“Did we interrupt a management meeting or something?” he asked.

Blacklock laughed — a trifle hollowly — and Church smiled.

“No, not at all — these are for you. A little brain food, so to speak, and a token of our appreciation for a job well done.”

This confirmed Jinnah’s suspicion that the danishes and coffee were poisoned. He wasn’t buying this job-well-done crap either. He decided the best defence was a good offence. He pointed an accusing finger at Blacklock.

“Listen, before you start in on us, I want you to know that I can personally testify that Frost tried to get hold of you two assholes and was unable to, so if you’re planning any disciplinary action —”

Blacklock held up both hands.

“Hakeem, Hakeem! Who said anything about disciplinary action? No, no, this is a story meeting. Look — can I get you a cup of coffee?”

To Jinnah’s astonishment, the Machiavelli of the newsroom, the master of negative energy, personally poured him a cup of coffee from a tall, stainless-steel jug.

“Do you take cream or sugar?” he asked.

“Four of each,” said Jinnah, stunned.

Grant and Frost exchanged glances, shrugged and looked over to Church expectantly. The managing editor leapt to his feet an seized the second thermos of coffee and lined up three cups.

“Gerry, you take yours black, right? Peter? Cream or sugar?”

“Black,” said Frost casually, draping himself in the chair nearest the danishes, which he eyed hungrily. “Are any of these prune?”

Jinnah accepted his coffee from Blacklock and sniffed it suspiciously. He sat down and waited until Blacklock took a sip of his beverage before daring to sample the contents of his own cup. Blacklock waited until everyone had their coffee and danish before starting the proceedings.

“Gentlemen, I have called you all together to … congratulate you for your… work on the Schuster story. It has been top-notch: noted, I may add, at the highest level.”

At Jinnah’s level, it was noted that, as he spoke, Blacklock made small gurgling noises deep in his throat as if he were choking on his words. He waited patiently. Blacklock was sure to put the shiv in soon enough.

“Great stuff,” Junior chipped in. “Real kick-ass material. Everyone else is eating our dust.”

Jinnah looked over at Frost, who had a mouthful of danish, then Grant, who looked like he was about to be ill.

“Okay, Blacklock, what’s going on?” Jinnah said. “You’ve lulled us into a false sense of security — tell us what assholes we really are and let us get back to work.”

Blacklock gave Jinnah his best forced smile and did something extraordinary. He reached out and patted Jinnah on the knee.

“Hakeem, I would appreciate it if you would call me Conway.”

Jinnah looked down at Blacklock’s hand on his knee, horrified, then up at the earnest face of the editor-in-chief. He sniffed his coffee again. He had been wrong about the poison. It must instead be laced with LSD or some other powerful hallucinogen. Certainly, Jinnah was not inhabiting any plane of reality he had previously embraced. Neither was Grant.

“Look, this corporate blow-job is all very fine and well, but what do you want?” said Grant. “I’ve got stories to work on.”

“Gentlemen,” Blacklock said. “I understand your suspicion and hostility. But I assure you, your efforts on this story have been duly noted and appreciated. Now, last night’s offering by Hakeem pushed the story ahead a considerable distance. We are here to discuss how it can be advanced even further.”

“So we continue to kick our competitors’ asses,” added Junior.

Jinnah gazed at the faces around him. Were his ears functioning properly?

“Listen, what would advance the story is if you tell this asshole (and here Jinnah pointed at Grant with his coffee cup) to keep his nose out of it.”

“This is a business story, Jinnah!” said Grant. “And I don’t appreciate you muddying the waters with your half-baked fiction writing!”

“You pompous little prick —”

“I won’t take that shit from you —”

Blacklock stood up and waved his hands in supplication.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” he cried. “We are all from the same newspaper here, are we not? Now then: in fact, Gerald and Hakeem, the Publisher —”

“Phil,” corrected Junior.

Blacklock smiled painfully at his protégé.

“Phil,” he conceded, “is most anxious that you two work as a team, bringing your expertise in both business and crime to bear. He is of the opinion — and so am I — that it will be an unbeatable combination. Especially as Mister Frost — I mean, Peter — is being assigned to you as the deputy city editor responsible for co-ordinating your efforts.”

Jinnah glared at Grant with undisguised hostility. The lion does not lie down with the asshole, he thought. What on earth was going on here? Grant returned Jinnah’s stony gaze and there was a long silence. It took Permafrost to break the ice.

“Chief,” he began, clearing his throat.

“Conway,” Blacklock insisted, wretchedly.

“Conway,” Frost fought hard to stop the corners of his mouth from rising. “Maybe it would help if we recap what we know first. Then we can decide where we’re going.”

“Excellent, Peter, excellent!” Blacklock beamed. “Now then, Gerry —”

“I hate being called Gerry!” snapped Grant.

“Gerald then. Give us your version of events: what happened to Sam Schuster?”

Grant took a sip of coffee and composed his thoughts. Jinnah braced himself for the inevitable swipe at his own theory.

“It’s straight-forward,” said Grant. “Schuster’s putting the IIP deal together and for once, he looks like he’s scoring big time. So somebody — Cosmo Lavirtue is my bet — leans on him a little, trying to get back some of the cash he’d lost in a previous deal. Schuster sends him the ten million. Maybe Lavirtue has dirt on him, maybe he threatens to squeal to the securities guys. Schuster probably figures he can raise more cash, but just as the deadline looms, he comes up empty. He panics. He takes out this massive insurance policy and toasts himself, hoping his wife can use the money to save the deal. Full stop.”

Blacklock, who had been taking notes, nodded appreciatively.

“And you, Hakeem? Do you have anything to add to Gerald’s analysis?”

A dose of reality, thought Jinnah, but did not say.

“Listen, Mister Blacklock —”

“Conway, Hakeem.”

“Whatever. Gerry over there isn’t taking into account the fact that Cosmo Lavirtue is shagging Schuster’s wife.”

“What has that got to do with it?” demanded Grant.

“Motive,” said Jinnah. “It makes Lavirtue a suspect. It also makes Thompson a suspect. Suspects are these characters we have in a murder, hmm?”

“Why them?” asked Frost.

“Simple, my friend. Cosmo Lavirtue and Neil Thompson were the two partners closest to Schuster in his previous incarnations and they were the ones who got burned the worst. No, I see things very differently. Might I have a drop more coffee?”

Junior immediately reached over, took Jinnah’s cup from his outstretched hand and poured him another cup. Jinnah stirred the thick, viscous combination of cream, sugar, and a drop of coffee with a look of extreme concentration in his face, as if his entire being was wrapped up in this simple act. Frost had seen that expression before. It was a sure sign that Jinnah was getting wound up to spin one of his fantastic tales. What he couldn’t see was the conflict in Jinnah’s mind. He wasn’t convinced that Schuster had been murdered, but he was damned if he was going to ride the suicide band-wagon along with Grant. He sucked the liquid sugar off the end of his plastic stir stick.

“You see, my friends, it’s like this,” he said. “Lavirtue or Thompson hear about Schuster’s IIP deal. They want a cut of the action. One of them hires a couple of thugs to terrorize Sam the Sham into giving them the cash. He refuses. Fearing for his life, he takes out his large insurance policy. Then, Sunday night, they set up a meeting with him at the abandoned mill site. There, instead of working out a deal, they tie Schuster up and threaten to burn him alive. Now, whether they actually meant to kill him or they were just trying to scare him and there was an accident of some kind is immaterial — the end result is all that counts. Poof! Schuster goes up in flames, his lungs burned out by super-heated gases, the pure, pink tissue shriveled black in the blink of an eye —”

Blacklock held up a hand.

“Hakeem please! I don’t think we need to get into the finer, sordid details.”

“My apologies, Conway,” said Jinnah, who was starting to enjoy the situation immensely. “You don’t mind if I call you Connie?”

Blacklock made a sort of strangulating sound in his throat and for a moment, Jinnah thought he’d at last succeeded in making Blacklock swallow his tongue. Certainly when the editor-in-chief finally managed to answer, it sounded as if there was a ten-tonne weight on the tip of it.

“Why, of course not,” he grated. “After all, Phil calls me Connie.”

Jinnah’s mouth became a tight, compressed circle of brown tissue battling against the very natural urge to smile.

“Well, Connie, it’s like this: Schuster’s toasted. The deal collapses. Lavirtue has Paula Schuster, ten million bucks insurance money, and whatever they can salvage of the business empire. Or Thompson has his revenge and his cash. That’s how I see it.”

Jinnah sat back and finished his coffee. Blacklock was nodding and smiling in a wretched sort of manner suggesting he’d just eaten a live toad. Jinnah braced himself. Surely Grant would have something to add. In the event, it was Permafrost who spotted the hole in Jinnah’s theory.

“That doesn’t take into account the fact that Schuster was found beside his own car,” he said calmly. “If he’d been abducted and tied up, surely he would have been inside the vehicle.”

“Not necessarily,” said Jinnah. “As I said, perhaps they were only trying to scare him and things went wrong.”

“Sure, Hakeem,” said Grant. “Not that I doubt you believe all that,” he added quickly. “I just have one small question.”

“Shoot,” said Jinnah.

“I want you to stand up.”

Jinnah gazed at Grant with a grasshopper’s eye.

“I don’t get up unless absolutely necessary, Gerry.”

“Please, Hakeem — for the sake of our joint investigation.”

“Surely,” said Jinnah, feeling the ant-like eyes of the rest of his colleagues on him.

He stood up. So did Grant. The business reporter approached him carefully.

“Now, look: you pretend to be Sam Schuster, okay?”

“There’s a limit to what I’m willing to perform in a role-playing exercise, Grant,” warned Jinnah. “I forbid you to throw gasoline on me.”

“That won’t be necessary,” grinned Grant. “Now, with your permission …”

Grant grabbed Jinnah’s shoulders and positioned him in front of Blacklock and Junior, arms outstretched.

“I believe this is how Mister Schuster would have been postured by the side of his car just before the explosion, right?” he said.

“A reasonable assumption,” said Jinnah suspiciously.

“Good,” said Grant. “Now, Conway, I want you to observe something — Hakeem, you quote this pathologist as saying the explosion hit Schuster like a blowtorch? With enough force to throw his body to the ground?”

“Yes?” said Jinnah, annoyed — what did the son of a bitch want?

Grant had positioned himself in front of Jinnah, perhaps six feet away.

“Presumably, to accept your version of events, he was also struggling with one or two captors while bound hand and foot, right?”

“At least that many,” agreed Jinnah.

Grant bent down in a footballer’s stance, like a linebacker taking a bead on a quarterback with two bum knees.

“Then observe and learn,” he said.

Grant lowered his head and launched himself forward, piling into Jinnah’s midriff as if he were a tackle dummy. Jinnah grunted and doubled over, falling backwards. His glasses flew from his head and landed by the doorway. He lay there, winded and writhing on the carpet, with only one thought in his brain. If he 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,” chimed Junior.

Blacklock grimaced. This was becoming tiresome.

“Phil,” he said, through clenched teeth. “Will be here, as will Mister Church —”

“Actually, Connie,” said Junior.

Actually, Connie, thought Blacklock. It has come to this. The peasant, the creature of mud and straw I fashioned with my own hands, my Gollem! Addressing me as Connie!

“Actually, Connie,” repeated Junior. “I’ll be coming with you to the same synergy seminar. Phil thought I could benefit by it.”

Blacklock regarded his former protégé and heard the ring of thirty pieces of silver. Phil thought you could benefit by it. Blacklock had known from the start that the Publisher was infectious, but not until this moment had he realized how virulent Phil was. He would not crush the man like an insect. From that moment on, Blacklock would be looking for the silver bullet to shoot the werewolf-virus that threatened his career.

Jinnah walked back to his desk to find Sanderson still at the keyboard, labouring over his story. He glanced at the screen and groaned.

“Ronald! You have undone most of my handiwork!”

Sanderson turned a baleful eye on Jinnah.

“Handiwork is not a word I would use here, Hakeem. I am merely restructuring the story so it resembles something akin to the truth.”

“You’ve made it boring is what you’ve done, my friend. Any hack from Canadian Press could write this stuff! You must put your personality into your writing, hmm?”

“I just did,” said Sanderson, sounding a trifle hurt.

Jinnah shook his head and sat down at his desk, put his feet up and started chewing his lower lip. He considered his next move carefully. Sam the Sham. Shyster Schuster. Murder or suicide? Who had the most to gain? Who had the most urgent motive? He ran down the list of suspects and sighed. There was nothing for it. He had to start eliminating them, one by one, the old-fashioned way. And the best way was to start with the one most likely and get it over with. By the time Frost had manifested beside his desk, he knew what he must do. The only trick was convince Frost it was entirely within his half of the investigation.

“That was quite a performance in there, Hakeem,” Frost said, sitting on the corner of Jinnah’s desk. “I think if you’d slipped Grant a Frenchie he’d have had a seizure.”

“I must say, you were mighty cool in there,” said Jinnah, voice trickling like dark molasses, in full flattery mode.

“You think so?” said Frost, raising an eyebrow.

“An iceberg, my friend: a veritable Arctic tundra. How do you do it?”

“Save us both a lot of time by cutting the crap and telling me what you want.”

“And so perceptive. A veritable Edgar Cayce —”

“Jinnah.”

Jinnah pulled up short. That was the quiet Frost voice of command. For unlike Blacklock, Frost believed a soft, icy tone was far more effective than shouting. It certainly worked well with Jinnah.

“My friend, I have examined my options here on the criminal side of things.”

“Yes. So what are you going to do?”

“And having fully examined them and followed a tale of deductive reasoning second only to Sherlock Holmes himself —”

“Jinnah —”

“I’m going to interview Neil Thompson.”

Frost said nothing for a moment. His face had that blank, permafrost expression, betraying no hint of emotion. Jinnah squirmed in his chair. He hated this. Most people he could read by their faces and body language. Not Frost. He was one of those rare individuals who had been born with a perfect poker face. He sat there, considered what you said, made sure you’d finished, then pronounced like some Greek oracle. There was no way to tell what sort of hand he would deal Jinnah.

“That sounds suspiciously like a business angle to me,” he said finally, voice completely neutral, non-judgmental.

“My friend — my inherent instincts tell me he is the man to start off with.”

“My inherent instincts tell me that’s poaching on Grant’s turf. They also tell me that Cosmo Lavirtue seems to be a more likely suspect.”

“He’s doing the Full Lambada with Mrs. Schuster,” Jinnah agreed. “We’ll get to him in due course. First finks first.”

“You think Thompson’s the killer?”

“I’m not sure, but he has the eyes of a killer, I’m telling you,” Jinnah shivered.

“Give me a reason to let you to attempt a hostile takeover of the business side.”

Jinnah had thought hard about this. He had decided on using honesty. It was a tactic he seldom used so when he did employ it, he felt it carried considerable weight.

“Frost, say you send Grant to interview Thompson instead of me. What sort of story are you going to get, hmm? I’ll tell you what — the same sort of thing you’re about to get from Sanderson over there on his teen-hooker rescue — zip, that’s what! You send me, you get a line story. Guaranteed, buddy!”

Frost came close to cracking a smile. He said nothing, but sauntered over to Sanderson’s desk and took a cursory glance at what Ronald had done to Jinnah’s lurid (but far more readable) prose. He had to admit, the analogy was precise. Grant would ask questions about funds, debentures, shares: technical stuff that seemed hugely important to a business junkie but were utterly incomprehensible to the vast majority of readers. Jinnah, on the other hand, might come back with a signed confession.

“You will tell no one else of this,” Frost said quietly. “You will not boast to Grant even if this guy Thompson spills his guts and turns himself in to you. Understand?”

Jinnah’s hackles rose, but only very slightly. It was a small price to pay for victory. He smiled broadly.

“You won’t regret this, my friend,” Jinnah said, grabbing his jacket.

“Considering the example you used, I could hardly say no,” said Frost blandly.

Jinnah, who had been about to make a dramatic exit, paused briefly.

“It would be a shame for Sanderson to submit that piece of shit he’s working on instead of my masterpiece, hmm?” he whispered to Frost.

“Did you save one of your versions?” Frost replied softly.

“I always do,” smiled Jinnah.

Frost nodded and Jinnah went on his way, feeling a double happiness. For one way or another, he was certain, he would have the line story today. True, one article might have Ronald Sanderson’s byline on it, but that was a technicality. Everyone who mattered would know who the true author of the masterpiece was. Feeling a bit like Bacon to Sanderson’s Shakespeare, Jinnah swept out of the newsroom.