“Phil,” Sanderson corrected himself, smiling back at the Publisher. “I wonder if you’ve been informed about our policy re: calling the police?”
Blacklock bristled. That was his policy! How dare that scribbling, incompetent hack question it?
“Yes, I have. I think it’s a dumb policy.”
Everyone laughed except Blacklock. This was intolerable! Management was supposed to hang together, back each other up. They weren’t supposed to call each other’s policies dumb!
“From now on,” the Publisher continued after the laughter had subsided. “I hereby authorize any employee who feels threatened or sees a potentially dangerous situation to call 911 without prior approval. Now, that doesn’t mean I want you all calling the cops at the drop of a hat. I trust you all to use your best judgment. But better safe than sorry, eh?”
This was too much. Blacklock saw the warmth in the employees’ faces as they applauded this creature from the corner office as if he was some conjurer who’d performed an especially clever trick. The only trick he was performing was the magic unraveling of a decade’s work on Blacklock’s behalf to cow his workers.
“Is that all on the security issue?” the Publisher asked.
There was a muttering of general agreement. This would be the point to dismiss the mob, Blacklock thought. But no, the short-assed bastard merely surveyed the crowd and kept going.
“In that case, let’s open up the floor for other questions. Any topic. Fire away.”
This did take the Tribune staff aback for a moment. No publisher had ever given them this opportunity. It was Stone who broke the momentary silence.
“Phil, the demo this morning was prompted by our story on Sam Schuster’s suicide. The investors are demanding a retraction and there has been some discussion by some people that maybe we ought to give them one to take the heat off.”
There were angry mutterings and murmurings. The Publisher glanced down at Blacklock, surprised.
“Is that so, Connie?”
Blacklock felt his skin crawl. Sweet Jesus! He’d called him Connie in front of everyone! And he hadn’t proposed a full retraction — just one of the ephemeral non-apologies to take the sting out of things. His dignity mortally wounded, Blacklock merely shook his head.
“I thought not,” said the Publisher. “The Tribune stands by its stories and I stand by my people.”
There were cheers, full-throated, genuine cheers echoing in Blacklock’s ears. It was all too horrible. A life’s work undone in a few moments. God, he’d have them singing Kum Bay Ya by the end of it …
Blacklock was so self-absorbed that he didn’t even notice Jinnah slide into the room and take up his position at the back of the crowd, beside Sanderson.
“Did the paper fold in my absence, Ronald?” he whispered to Sanderson.
“No,” Sanderson hissed back, impatiently.
“Who’s this asshole?”
“That asshole is the new publisher.”
“So then the paper did fold.”
“No. He’s holding a meeting about security and other issues. Now shut up.”
“Security? Other issues? What about the shameful way I was just treated at the back entrance? Some rent-a-cop as much as frisked me before allowing me in!”
“Jinnah, where have you been all morning? Haven’t you heard?”
“You don’t understand, Ronald,” whined Jinnah. “He asked for identification, for God’s sake! Me! As if everyone doesn’t know Jinnah!”
“Hakeem, there was a mob of angry investors demonstrating in here this morning. Does that register on your personal radar?”
“You’re kidding!” said Jinnah.
And then what Acorn had said came back to him.
“Jesus. This was to do with Grant, right?”
“Yes. He also received a death threat.”
“Oh ho!” said Jinnah, scanning the crowd and failing to spot Grant. “I take it the poor boy took the rest of the day off to soothe his shattered nerves.”
“He’s at a business luncheon, actually and he’s not back yet,” said Sanderson. “Now shut up and listen to Phil!”
“Phil?” said Jinnah, bewildered. “Our publisher should not be referred to as Phil, Ronald — it’s disrespectful.”
“He wants us to call him Phil.”
“You’re kidding me. What did he do in a former life? Sell used cars?”
“Shush!”
But the Publisher was finished and had climbed down from the desk to a thunderous ovation. Jinnah stared at Sanderson as he clapped vigorously.
“What the hell are you doing that for?” he demanded.
“Because Phil just addressed every single problem thrown his way and gave us the straight goods, that’s why. He seems a great guy.”
Jinnah blinked and looked among the assembly for Blacklock.
“Did the corporate culture undergo a major sea-change while I was out?” he asked. “I mean, what’s Blacklock doing here still alive if the Publisher, for God’s sake, is addressing the newsroom directly?”
Sanderson smiled and gave voice to the thought that had formed in many minds.
“Maybe Mister Blacklock is not long for this newsroom, Hakeem.”
Jinnah looked at the dark, brooding expression on the editor-in-chief’s face and decided at once he’d spend some time researching in the field. He had to go out anyway.
“I know someone else who is not long for this room, my friend,” he said, clapping Sanderson on the back and smiling. “I’m outta here, buddy.”
“Where are you off to this time? Visiting your axe murderer or accosting more witnesses recovering in hospital?”
“Neither,” said Jinnah, pulling out an unlighted cigarette and putting it to his lips. “I have to see a woman about a body.”
Before Sanderson could ask if that meant he was on personal business and not company time, he was gone.
Chapter Five
The Schuster house on Vancouver’s West Side had been built by a railway baron at the turn of the last century. A huge, sprawling white building, it had a rotunda and circular drive and its facade was lined by white pillars crowned by Corinthian capitals. It escaped calumny as an eyesore by virtue of a huge expanse of green lawn, vast, carefully tended gardens, and an extremely high hedge that obscured the house itself from the view of the neighbours. Access was strictly controlled via a high, century-old wrought-iron gate made to discourage all but invited guests. Later tenants had added an intercom system linking the gate with the house. Sam Schuster had completed its current hi-tech look by having a security camera erected atop one of the formidable iron spires. This made the Schuster house and its grounds impenetrable to all but the most determined of intruders. It would take a Ninja or perhaps a U.S. Navy Seal to infiltrate this fastness. That or Hakeem Jinnah at his most shameless.
Jinnah had driven in the satellite-guided Love Machine to the tree-lined boulevard in front of the house wondering just how hard it would be to gain access to Schuster’s widow. He was slightly dismayed at first, but when he saw the video camera at the gate, he laughed. He drove off and returned a half-hour later, parking brazenly in front of the gate and in full view of the camera.