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.