“No, I don’t know, really,” he was apologizing to whoever he was speaking to. “I’m a bit new at this, er, subject area …”
Deprived of the opportunity to impress upon his desk-mate how close he had come to death, Jinnah decided to do the next-best thing: call Sergeant Graham and harangue him on the same matter. He had just picked up the phone when Sanderson rang off and glanced in his direction.
“Jinnah! I thought you were sick or something!” he said.
“Very nearly Or something,’ my friend,” said Jinnah, rubbing his temples.
Sanderson noticed for the first time that his friend did not look at all well.
“Good God, man! If it was possible for you to look pale I swear you’d be as white as a ghost!”
“I came rather close to being one, Ronald,” said Jinnah. “I’m telling you, my friend, I have had a brush with a madman!”
“You didn’t find Sam Schuster’s killer?” exclaimed Sanderson.
“No, but the son of a bitch I ran into has definitely killed somebody in his time. Let me tell you, Ronald —”
“As much as I’d like to hear it, I haven’t the time, Hakeem,” said Sanderson, his hands shuffling the mounds of paper on his desk, sending pages fluttering to the floor. “You’ll never believe what Blacklock and Junior did to me!”
“I hoped they used condoms.”
“Very funny —”
At that moment, Sanderson’s phone rang. He snatched up the receiver as if it were a rattlesnake. Jinnah had seen Sanderson like this before. He always got this way when faced with one of Blacklock’s mega-projects, working himself up to a state of anxiety that rivaled Jinnah’s own neuroses at times. Jinnah dialed the Vancouver Police.
“Staff Sergeant Graham,” said the familiar voice on the other end of the phone.
“Sergeant Graham, I have found the tracks of a killer!”
“Is that so, Hakeem?” said Graham cheerfully. “My goodness. Pray, where did you find these alleged tracks?”
“You know damn well where I found them! At the crime scene! A print near Schuster’s car pointing towards the river. Smoke and mirrors! A trick of the light! Son of a bitch! You knew Chan had seen someone that night.”
“Thought he saw someone, Hakeem,” said Graham, unfazed. “Now apparently you have found proof he did. Congratulations. What are you going to do now? Interview the treadmark?”
“Listen, buddy! I found the man who made those tracks!”
“Do tell.”
“I will. And I’ll be truly grateful if you’d admit that the homicidal maniac in question is a suspect and you’re treating this murder case seriously.”
“Oh, I would never call Old Jake a homicidal maniac. Or a suspect, Jinnah.”
“What do you mean, Old Jake?” cried Jinnah, very nearly falling off his chair.
“Or Crazy One-Eyed Jake as he’s affectionately known to us. How’s his axe?”
Jinnah closed his eyes. The son of a bitch. He’d known.
“You bastard!” he said. “Why the hell didn’t you —”
“Tell you? Maybe if you didn’t hang up on me you might learn these little details.”
“But he threatened me! He could have killed me!”
“Oh, I doubt that, actually. He threatens everyone, Jinnah. He’s quite convinced that everyone who wanders by his miserable shack is a Revenue Canada collector. You see, Jake lives on the whole tax-free and he wants to keep it that way.”
Jinnah’s eyes fixed on the call-display. He looked at the number to be sure he hadn’t misdialed and this was some grotesque practical joke, but there could be no doubt as to whom he was speaking with. The son of a bitch had let him go down a dangerous blind alley knowing full well what he would find. The thought that perhaps this might be in some small way his own fault never occurred to Jinnah. He ran through his considerable store of English invective and found that, for a change, the tongue of his adopted land failed him. Instead, he launched into a very long, very loud stream of insults and vile epithets in Hindu with a sprinkling of Pushtu thrown in for effect. Through it all, Graham continued to laugh. Finally, Jinnah stumbled to a halt, exhausted.
“Finished?” said Graham.
“In more ways than one, Sarge,” said Jinnah. “Come on — give me something for tomorrow! Anything! I’ll kiss your ass! I’ll rewrite your press release! Don’t let me go a day without a byline.”
“Your paper won’t suffer, Jinnah. Be sure to read it tomorrow. Now good-bye.”
Graham hung up. Jinnah considered smashing the phone down, but thought better of it. He sat, chewing his lip, thinking. Sanderson was busy having his nervous breakdown on the telephone. Around him, his fellow reporters were at their work. What did Graham mean, he thought, by the Tribune not suffering? Read it? Jinnah snorted derisively at the notion. The only thing he read in the paper was his own stories and the stock quotations in the business section —
The business section.
Grant.
Jinnah stood up abruptly and hurried over to the business department. Grant was at his desk, working on his computer. Before he could get a look at the story, Grant hit the send key and the words on the screen vanished.
“Hakeem. Delighted to see you. How’s the pyramid scheme going?”
“Cut the crap, Gerry!” said Jinnah, pulling up a chair and sitting uncomfortably close to Grant. “What are you working on?”
“Need to know basis only, top secret. I’d have to kill you.”
Grant’s fulsome face was smug. Jinnah felt a burning ball of rage knotting his stomach. He tried to control it.
“Look, my friend,” he said as reasonably as he could. “We’re supposed to be working on this together. Let’s compare notes.”
“Like we compared notes yesterday?” said Grant, arching an eyebrow. “Forget it.”
“Come on, Grant! Just to make sure we’re not stepping on each other’s toes!”
“Jinnah, you’re eating my dust so far behind me on this one that you can’t even scuff my heels let alone step on my toes,” smirked Grant. “Now, maybe you’ll tell me what your contribution for tomorrow is — partner.”
Jinnah looked at his tormentor with cold loathing.
“That’s none of your damned business, partner!”
Jinnah stood up, flung his chair backwards in Grant’s direction and stormed back to the city desk. He sat stewing in his chair, playing with a pack of cigarettes, waiting for Sanderson to get off the phone. When he finally did ring off, Jinnah leaned around the computer terminal solicitously.
“Listen, Ronald, my friend,” he said in a low voice. “I wonder if you could do me a favour —”
“Forget it, Hakeem! I haven’t the time.”
“I just want you to find out what Grant’s working on, that’s all.”
“It’s not on the list and he certainly won’t tell me of all people,” said Sanderson, rifling through the notes he’d just taken over the phone.
“What the hell sort of project are you doing anyway, for God’s sake?” demanded Jinnah. “You look like you’re