“There’s chicken curry too, but you won’t find it hot enough,” said Jinnah, collapsing into his own chair. “Is food more important than business?’
Sanjit looked at Jinnah much the same way Hakeem himself looked at Sanderson when explaining what he considered an obvious point. His double chin wobbled.
“There is no profit in business discussed on an empty stomach,” said Sanjit, stroking his thin, black beard. “In breaking bread, we ensure success.”
Jinnah rolled his eyes and passed Sanjit the naan. His cousin-in-law resembled a bear and had the appetite of one. He helped himself to a little basmati rice. The state of his stomach would not allow him to consider the other culinary delights that his wife had prepared. Sanjit was not so handicapped and to ensure their discussion was fruitful, piled on the food. Jinnah rose and went over to the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Black Dog Indian scotch and poured himself a healthy two fingers. Sanjit looked up from his meal and scowled.
“You shouldn’t pollute yourself like that Hakeem,” he scolded. “Remember what your Prophet has said.”
Jinnah bristled. Sanjit was a much more devout Sikh than Jinnah was an observant Ismali. He took prohibitions against drinking very seriously. But this was Jinnah’s house and Sanjit would have to observe Jinnah’s rules, not Mohammed’s or Guru Nanak’s. He sat down and sipped his drink.
“I am perfectly aware that the Prophet says wine is the blood of Shaitan,” he said. “Fortunately, the Quran is silent on the question of scotch. Can I pour you one, cousin?”
Sanjit’s face turned darker still and he attacked his chicken and mango chutney with devout fervor. Jinnah nursed his drink and watched. There could be no doubt Sanjit was more nervous than usual, but there was no hope of getting to the root cause of his anxiety until he was ready to talk. The rest of the meal progressed in silence. Sated at last, Sanjit wiped his mouth and hands off with his serviette.
“An excellent repast,” he enthused. “Cooking of the highest quality.”
“Yes,” said Jinnah sourly. “It looked good from here.”
Sanjit pushed his plate away and put his elbows on the table. Here it comes, thought Jinnah.
“Hakeem, I am worried about our cash flow,” he said.
“Jesus Christ!” swore Jinnah. “The company hasn’t even been listed on the CDNX yet, Sanjit! The only cash flow we have is out.”
“I know, I know, Hakeem. But there have been so many expenses.”
Sanjit’s hands were on his napkin, wringing it slowly into tighter and tighter knots, mirroring the process that was swiftly accelerating in Jinnah’s intestines.
“Sanjit, listen — we have enough cash reserves, hmm? The money I gave you from the sale of my other house? Your savings? Unless you’ve done something stupid —”
“Oh no, no, it’s nothing like that!” cried Sanjit, waving his hands about.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Jinnah said darkly. “How long has it been since you moved out of my basement?”
Sanjit smiled pathetically. Jinnah had been good to him after he’d lost his shirt during that gold coin business. It had been Sanjit’s first experience with a pyramid scheme, a scam that had swept through Vancouver’s Indo-Canadian community like wild-fire. Many lost their life savings. Sanjit also lost his house, his wife Rani, and his children, who returned to Kenya in disgust to live with his in-laws. With Jinnah’s help, he put himself back on his feet and there was some talk of reconciliation with Rani. Reflecting on this, Jinnah was not surprised Sanjit was a little over-anxious about their current business venture — his entire future was riding on it. He regretted his remark.
“Look, Sanjit, don’t worry about it. Everything’s covered, hmm? Would you like some coffee?”
“Thank you,” said Sanjit.
While Manjit made the coffee and hovered discreetly in the kitchen, Sanjit appeared to relax somewhat. Jinnah’s own stomach had stopped doing backflips to the extent that he was now nibbling on some of the naan as Sanjit made polite conversation.
“You have written a story today, Hakeem?” he asked.
“Indeed, Sanjit. About a most perplexing murder.”
At this Sanjit looked up sharply.
“Murder? Whose murder?”
“Sam Schuster. Businessman. You may have heard of Schuster the Shyster?”
“Something, perhaps,” said Sanjit guardedly. “How was he killed?”
“In a quite unusual manner. Someone put him in his Cadillac, dowsed it with gas and set it on fire. He was burnt to a crisp.”
Beads of sweat had once again broken out on Sanjit’s forehead. His voice quavered slightly.
“Name of God! Who could have done such a thing?”
“Take a number,” Jinnah grunted. “Any one of a thousand shareholders who suffered at his hands, that’s who.”
Sanjit’s breathing was becoming laboured. Jinnah looked at him, cocking his head to one side. His cousin was an extraordinarily emotional man who got upset over the slightest things. But he’d never seen Sanjit so overwrought about the death of stock promoter, and a white one at that.
“Terrible! Terrible,” he muttered. “His wife. His family. His business —”
“Will do just fine, I imagine,” Jinnah cut in. “His business partners will likely pick up the pieces — if there are any pieces left … what is it now?”
To Jinnah’s astonishment, there were tears in Sanjit’s eyes and his lower lip was quivering. He was gasping for breath.
“For God’s sake, man! Was Schuster a close personal friend of yours?” demanded Jinnah. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Hakeem!” Sanjit blurted out as he burst into tears, hands covering his face. “I am so worried that I will end up like that unfortunate man!”
Jinnah’s inherent instincts were tingling once again and when finances were involved, that was a bad sign. The naan in his mouth turned to ashes and dust and a half-dozen possibilities — all of them catastrophic in nature — flashed through his mind. He put an arm around Sanjit’s burly shoulders.
“Hey, hey! Sanjit! Get ahold of yourself!” he said, giving him a friendly shake. “For the love of God, what’s this about burning?”
Sanjit looked up at Jinnah, his face streaked with tears.
“It will end in flames, I tell you!” he blubbered. “Just like Sam Schuster.”
The alarm bells were going off non-stop in Jinnah’s head. God, he groaned inwardly, don’t let it be another gold coin scheme …
“Listen, Sanjit! Sam Schuster was murdered by disgruntled shareholders. You don’t have any shareholders as yet. Everyone is fully gruntled, as far as I know. And Buick’s are damn near fire-proof, I understand.”
“It is not our future shareholders,” said Sanjit tearfully. “It’s Mister Puri.”
Jinnah sat back down in his chair with a thump, one arm still around Sanjit’s expansive shoulders.
“Name of God,” he muttered, removing his hands from his cousin’s person and feeling in his pockets for a cigarette. “What now?”
“Mister Puri came to see me last week, Hakeem,” sniffled Sanjit, struggling for control. “He is, as you know, a very devout man.”
As well as a powerful and rich one, thought Jinnah. Puri had considerable influence in the Indo-Canadian