look like in a sari, but then, even the jeans and white cotton blouse she wore was an improvement over her wardrobe during their first encounter, when she had been totally nude.
“Jassy Singh!” he cried.
It was not until Jassy’s tight little mouth set and her soft, brown eyes hardened that Jinnah also recalled that they had not, strictly speaking, parted on the best of terms.
“Jinnah, you son of a bitch!” Jassy screamed above the music. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
Jinnah’s memory had finally located the file marked “Singh, Jassy.” Interview subject eight years previous. Story: Simons’s first mass, nude baptism on Wreck Beach. Subject had been eloquent in defence of the MiMis. Wardrobe consisted of flowers in her hair. Had reminded the reporter of a wild pony revelling in new-found freedom. How could she have taken offence at that?
“How have you been, Jassy?” shouted Jinnah. “I must say, you look fantastic.”
“Don’t give me that shit!” said Jassy, hands on her hips. “Do you think I’ve forgotten what you wrote about me?”
Jinnah had, actually. He did remember the photos, of course. Most of which could not be used in a family newspaper like the Tribune.
“I’m sure it was nothing but flattery for one so young and beautiful,” Jinnah said, resorting to evasive tactics.
“Flattery! You called me a besotted teenage zombie!”
“It was meant in a nice way,” Jinnah protested.
“You totally distorted what I said! You completely twisted everything to make me look like I was some … some Moonie or something. And you called us a cult! The MiMis aren’t a cult, we’re a service organization!”
“I thought I painted a charming portrait of a new generation of flower children,” Jinnah riposted, still trying to remember the exact tone of the article.
“Depraved nude revels. Brainwashed automatons cavorting in a public orgy. Charming?!” yelled Jassy, whose memory seemed far more perfect on the subject than Jinnah’s. “My parents threw me out of the house! They haven’t talked to me in eight years because of the lies you wrote! Maybe if you paid more attention to what I was saying instead of scoping me out —”
By now, several people had gathered around to watch. And the music, which had been at near ear-bleeding level since Jinnah’s arrival, had stopped. But Jassy hadn’t bothered to lower her voice.
The last thing Jinnah needed here was a scene. He switched desperately from the defensive to the offensive. “Look, this has nothing to do with your nakedness. Everything I wrote about you and your cult — and it is a cult — was true,” Jinnah said, lowering his voice. “Does the naked truth hurt so much?”
“Let me tell you a thing or two about truth —” Jassy started.
“Tell me what you know about Andy Gill.”
The question landed like a low blow in a boxing match. Jassy closed her mouth for the first time since she’d bumped into Jinnah. His instincts tingled. Yes. On the right track at last….
“Andy who?” said Jassy fiercely. “I don’t know an Andy Gill.”
Her eyes cannot meet mine. She’s a bad liar, Jinnah thought.
“His family is very anxious over his whereabouts. He left home in your company several weeks ago, according to his father.” Jinnah pressed his advantage. “And I have reason to believe he would like to speak to me about — several things.”
“I don’t know him and I hope I never see your stupid face again!” Jassy stomped off and was swallowed by a crowd of teens, who eyed Jinnah as if he were some lascivious ogre. He turned to find a nice, safe corner to crawl into and ran right into Manjit.
“Manjit, darling! What a surprise!”
“Hakeem. Who was that young woman?”
“A former interview subject who objected to a story I wrote. That’s all, my love,” said Jinnah, shrugging.
“And do you interview all of your subjects while they are naked?”
There was no logical response to this question. In fact, Jinnah knew the entire episode was a black pit into which he would be sunk for months, even years. He was about to confess the entire truth when Manjit put up a warning hand.
“Not now, Hakeem. Why have you brought Saleem here?”
“I brought him here to work, not for fun, Manjit. He’s on assignment.”
“You went against your own word so you could use your son to pursue a news story?”
The words shook Manjit’s head for her. They were lost on Jinnah. This was partly due to his ability to hear an ugly truth and have it bounce off his emotional armour, but mainly because his attention was elsewhere. Near the exit, Jassy was pitching into the doorman — likely for letting Jinnah in. It was his subconscious that picked up the urgent tone in Manjit’s voice and yanked him back to attention.
“I’m sorry, my love — you were saying?”
“I said don’t you think it’s about time you took our child labourer son home, Hakeem?”
“Of course, darling. I’ll just go get —”
But when Jinnah’s eyes finally peeled away from Jassy and the doorman and focused on the dance floor, there was no Saleem. Manjit looked at her husband. Jinnah knew his eyes were twin revelations of guilt behind his tinted glasses. Her words from earlier this evening echoed in his head: “The problems aren’t on the dance floor. They’re around the edges, in the parking lots, the washrooms….”
“Sonofabitch,” muttered Jinnah.
* * *
Jinnah burst through the crowd at the front door of the building and felt like a drowning man breaking surface. Panting, he put the two Phenobarbitals into his mouth and swallowed them dry. Where the hell was Saleem? He didn’t need Manjit’s accusing look to know this was his fault. What if he was already shooting up in the parking lot? No, he couldn’t be — wouldn’t be. Surely he’d raised his son — okay, surely Manjit had raised his son better than that. He found his cellphone in his hand and he almost used the speed-dial to call Graham for help. His finger was on the button when a small circle of teens hanging around the steps broke apart, revealing Saleem at the centre. To Hakeem’s immense relief he appeared unharmed and still in his right mind.
Jinnah’s heart rate had scarcely begun to slow when he heard a disturbance in the parking lot. Standing at the top of the stairs by the doors, he had a perfect view of its source. A gang of teens was approaching, singing loudly, marching in a tight formation, and sweeping errant ravers before them like a scythe. They were dressed in white bomber jackets bearing logo of the warrior Archangel Michael and his flaming sword. Shit, it’s the crusaders. Hobbes’s God Squad. Led by the Reverend Hobbes himself. All hell was about to break lose. Without reflecting on the irony of that thought, Jinnah sprinted down the steps and grabbed Saleem by the collar. His ring of friends, having spied the God Squad, had already started for the building.
“What
