“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