Jinnah was already at the door of Blacklock’s office. He looked bleary-eyed up at the ceiling.
“Father? Father is that you?” he said and lurched out of the office.
The seconds ticked by at a glacial pace as the three remaining occupants of the room stared alternately at each other and the open door. Finally, Blacklock sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“Mister Grant? Will you please see to it that in his delirium Mister Jinnah doesn’t steal any stationery or, perhaps, his computer?” he said heavily.
Grant sprang up from his chair.
“Of course, Mister Blacklock,” he said, and was out the door like a shot, closing the portal with a diffidence that Junior Church admired and silently vowed to emulate.
Left alone in the presence, Church sat mute, waiting for a verbal or physical cue from his boss. He half expected an explosion now the reporters were gone on the laziness and venality of the average working hack. He’d endured many such rants before. But to his surprise, Blacklock smiled, shot him a wink, and picked up the phone. He put the device on speaker phone so Church could hear both sides of the conversation.
“Mister Frost?” he said. “Can you see what Mister Jinnah is doing just now?”
“He’s talking to Sanderson with his coat on,” Frost’s voice crackled. “He told me he was suffering from malaria and was taking the rest of the day off.”
“Excellent,” said Blacklock. “I want you to hold the front page for an exclusive interview with the only witness to Sam Schuster’s fiery death.”
There was a slight pause and Junior Church tried to hide his look of amazement.
“Uh, boss,” said Frost matter-of-factly. “How do you know Jinnah’s going to get that interview with Chan?”
“Because, Mister Frost, I have just specifically forbidden him to speak with the gentleman.”
The pause this time was no more than a beat, nor did Frost’s tone betray any admiration. It was all strictly professional.
“You want the whole top or just a zipper on the bottom?” he asked.
“The whole top, Frost. And have the rewrite desk combine whatever Grant files into one story on page three. I’m sure you’ll find his prose infinitely cuttable.”
“Will do.”
Blacklock hung up and looked over at Church. His young ME was staring at him with something approaching genuine awe.
“But how —” he began.
Blacklock waved him into silence.
“That’s negative energy at work, son,” he said.
Jinnah was chewing his lower lip and eagerly anticipating a cigarette as he approached his desk. Sanderson was there waiting for him.
“I tried to get your attention before you went into the meeting —” he began.
“Yes,” said Jinnah sharply. “I saw you, Ronald. I thought you were imitating a drowning man the way you were flailing about.”
“A gentleman identifying himself as the president of the Orient Love Express called,” continued Sanderson.
“Ah, cousin Sanjit,” said Jinnah.
“The same cousin Sanjit who was living in your basement about six months ago?”
“He has risen considerably in the world since then.”
“He said it was urgent.”
“Nothing is as urgent as my need for quinine and nicotine right now.”
Jinnah grabbed a pill bottle off his desk and popped it open. He took out three tablets and swallowed them with the aid of some cold coffee. Sanderson frowned.
“Anti-malaria drugs?” he said dryly.
“Phenobarbital, actually,” said Jinnah. “If you’d been through what I’ve just experienced, you’d need some tranquilizers too.”
Sanderson shook his head. He disapproved of what he saw as Jinnah’s abuse of prescription drugs. One day, all that pill-popping and prescription juggling was going to get out of hand. But there was nothing anyone could do about it. That was just part of the package that was Jinnah. And it seemed to help him work, in an odd way — rather like his chain-smoking.
“Hakeem, why are you always faking some exotic tropical disease? Why don’t you just say you’ve got flu like the rest of us?”
Jinnah looked surprised and affronted.
“But Ronald — my pains are very real to me!” Jinnah said, popping another mouthful of God-only-knew-what and swallowing them without any water.
“Your only pain is in your wounded pride. I take it Grant has the line story?”
“Not if I can help it, buddy.”
Jinnah grabbed his jacket and his notepad.
“If anyone wants to know where I am, I’ll be at the tropical diseases clinic seeking treatment,” he said.
“Where are you going, really? Just in case Perma-Frost needs to know?”
Jinnah paused at the door.
“Tell him I’m off to see Staff Sergeant Graham about a witness.”
Chapter Two
Staff Sergeant Graham was a veteran of three decades of police work and the closest thing that Jinnah had to a friend on the Vancouver Police Force. Their relationship was a long-standing one with a few knock-down, drag-out fights sprinkled in between. This particular afternoon, the death of Sam Schuster occupied very little of Graham’s consciousness. The Duty NCO had called in sick and so had the Media Liaison Officer. Graham was filling in for both. So when there was a fatal accident downtown at the beginning of rush hour and the news crews descended on the corner of Cambie and Nelson Streets, it was his painful duty to supervise the operation and speak to the media on site. He hated scrumming with television reporters about something as routine as a traffic accident, but Graham knew the TV stations had early afternoon shows to fill up and the radio reporters had hourly and half-hourly deadlines to meet. So the dour Scottish-born officer stood stoically on the corner in the brisk afternoon breeze giving the bare bones of what had happened and hiding behind the phrase “that’s still under investigation,” when he didn’t have an answer. The pack had just dispersed and he was looking forward to a coffee when he caught sight of Jinnah coming towards him.
“Oh, God!” said Graham.
“Pleased to see you as well, Sergeant Graham sir!” beamed Jinnah. “Finished with that pack of ambulance chasers?”
“If you want a statement you’ll have to beg for the tape from one of the radio guys,” said Graham wearily. “I can’t help it if you’re late for —”
“Relax, Sarge,” said Jinnah, stepping up onto the small traffic island where Graham was standing. “I’m not here about any accident. I’m here about a murder.”
“Not Sam Schuster again!” cried Graham. “Look, Jinnah, I’ve told you — I can’t give you anything more on that.”
Jinnah grunted and lit up a cigarette. In front of them, firefighters were prying the twisted remains of a small car from under the front section of a cement truck. Three policemen from the traffic section — two constables and a corporal — were busy measuring the skid marks and recording other details. Jinnah waved to them and the corporal grinned back. Jinnah took in a deep lungful and held it for a moment before letting it out. Graham coughed and waved an angry hand as a cloud of blue smoke burst from Jinnah’s mouth and played around his nostrils.
“I