“Now I have to talk her down, hmm?” Manjit said, eyeing the phone suspiciously.
“Other way around, actually,” said Jinnah and made for the dining room.
“Where are you going? You’re not leaving!” shouted Manjit after him.
“Don’t worry sweetheart,” he said, opening the liquor cabinet and pouring himself a triple scotch. “I’m merely having a small drink.”
“What are you doing that for?”
“To dull the pain of the knife,” muttered Jinnah and collapsed onto the couch.
Five minutes and four ounces of scotch later, Jinnah heard a sound emanating from the kitchen that made him jump. He listened for a few seconds and heard it again.
Name of God. His wife was laughing.
“Et tu, Manjit?” he groaned.
“Hakeem!” Manjit called brightly from the kitchen. “Crystal wants to talk to you.”
For a terrible instant, Jinnah thought perhaps the receptionist had told his wife the whole truth and Manjit was waiting for him behind the kitchen door with a knife. He stuck a hand timidly through the archway. For if thy left hand offend thee, then cut it off…. But nothing happened. He edged inside. Manjit was on the phone, moving around the kitchen, tidying things as she chatted, smiling. Oh God, what has she told her?
“Here you are,” said Manjit happily, handing him the receiver.
Jinnah looked at the thing with revolted fascination. His instincts were telling him to hang up now, he didn’t really want to hear whatever sordid news Crystal had for him. But, like Ahab, something pushed and dragged him on, he knew not what. He put the thing to his ear.
“If you want to inform me of my pending divorce or Bobitization, speak now.”
“Oh, Hakeem! You really don’t understand women, do you?” said Crystal.
“Madame, I hardly understand myself.”
“Well, don’t worry about that. We got you ‘sussed.”
“Then what the hell do you want?”
“It’s what you want. I know what Grant’s writing for tomorrow’s paper.”
“Shabash, Crystal!” cried Jinnah. “What lies and half-truths has he managed to fabricate into a semblance of a story?”
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
“You’re not going to like it,” said Crystal finally.
“That, Madame, is a given. Tell me.”
“Okay. But don’t you want to know how I got it and why I’m telling you?”
“Again, I thought that was a given.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Grant told me.”
“Why would he tell you?”
“Honestly, Hakeem! I would have thought that was a given!”
“Of course. I apologize. And you’re defying Blacklock’s ban because?”
“Because right after he told me what he was writing, he tried to pick me up.”
“Has the man no shame!”
“Spoken like an expert hypocrite. Grant’s calling Schuster’s death a suicide.”
Jinnah’s eyes widened.
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. He cites an insurance policy for ten million bucks that Schuster took out just six weeks before he died.”
“You’re kidding!”
“You’re becoming repetitive. Quotes some business partner of Schuster’s denying everything, but the securities investigation into Schuster’s business has spread to Jakarta.”
“Jakarta! That’s where Schuster’s big deal was going down.”
“Well, it’s gone down all right. He’s got some bigwig in the Indonesian government quoted as saying there were irregularities in the geological reports, allegations of bribery —”
“And he ought to know!” Jinnah cut in. “Nobody does business there without a little baksheesh changing hands.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not the worst of it.”
“It’s not!” cried Jinnah. “What could be worse?”
“Schuster’s death has been turned over to the Vancouver Police Commercial Crime Squad.”
Jinnah clutched the phone compulsively. He howled into the mouthpiece.
“You’ve got to be joking! Son of a bitch, not those assholes!”
“Hakeem,” said Manjit. “Language.”
“They take years to do anything! This is murder investigation for the Major Crime Division, not those accountants! No one ever goes to jail when the Commercial Crime guys get involved. It’s like sicking an accountant on Charles Manson.”
“So was I right or was I right about it being worse?” said Crystal.
Jinnah was impressed. The receptionist’s stock, already high, went up in his estimation. News sense and good judgment were rare qualities in the business. An appreciation of the mechanics of the VPD and their affect on a news story was even rarer. Crystal realized putting the Commercial Cops on the Schuster case meant the police didn’t consider it a murder. Jinnah could count the number of people working for the Tribune who could figure that out on one hand.
“So, how did he get the cop stuff? Unnamed sources?”
“Actually quotes some commercial cop — a corporal. Extensively. Joint investigation with authorities in Indonesia. Seeking the co-operation of the police in Alberta, Texas, and elsewhere.”
Son of a bitch. Graham. Jinnah felt the acute, searing pain of a well-honed shiv being shoved into his back. It was dawning on him how furious the cops must be with him to hand this to Grant on a silver platter.
“Crystal, you’re an angel,” said Jinnah. “You have just earned yourself a coffee.”
“I’ll expect a no-fat latte tomorrow morning,” said Crystal. “Good night.”
“Wait a minute!” said Jinnah. “What did you tell Manjit?”
“The whole truth,” laughed Crystal. “How you harass the women at work —”
“You didn’t!”
“— how you show them your African love rug —”
“You’re kidding!”
“— and how none of us take you seriously. Good-bye, Hakeem.”
She hung up, leaving Jinnah gaping at the phone. He looked up, aware that someone was watching, and found his wife laughing at him.
“Well, darling? Are you going to let your wife lay on your African love rug?” she giggled.
Jinnah’s cheeks burned with shame. He would almost rather have had his wife use the carving knife and take him seriously than be laughed at as a fool. But then, he thought just as quickly, perhaps Crystal did take him seriously and was just telling Manjit this to placate her. The thought mollified him.
“Darling,” he said, enfolding his wife in his arms. “You know I could never love any woman other than you.”
“I know, Hakeem,” said Manjit, returning his hug. “And still —”
She dissolved into giggles and buried her face in his shoulder. Jinnah looked