was a question Jinnah had been anticipating. He had his arguments — and a liberal dose of BS — ready. “The squeegee kids on The Corner said he’d been part of the scene,” said Jinnah, antennae shivering. “Plus Aikens said the initial prognosis showed Thad was dosed to the tits — the limit on horse.”
Whiteman said nothing. He arched his greying, ginger-flecked eyebrows and looked over to Frosty. “And do we have anyone — anyone at all — talking on the record, Ms. Frost?”
Frosty shook her head. “No, but given Jinnah’s instincts —”
“We all know about Jinnah’s legendary instincts. They have, I understand, cost this newspaper a fair amount of money in the past.”
Jinnah opened his mouth to protest, but one look at Frosty’s ravaged face silenced him. He ground his teeth, worrying the gold fillings (purchased at the expense of the union dental plan despite his suspicion that the mercury amalgam was slowly poisoning him).
Frosty stepped into the breach. “The kid was decapitated,” she said reasonably. “He had an established history on The Corner —”
“And we have the inside track here,” Jinnah cut in quickly, regaining the conversational initiative. “The cops are eager to co-operate with us.”
Whiteman let this last comment fall into a well of silence, where it rattled around in a hollow of unspoken suspicion. Name of God, thought Jinnah. What’s more important to this bastard? Selling newspapers or keeping the legal bill down to a minimum? The answer came a nanosecond later, emptying like a volcanic eruption from the contour map of Whiteman’s lined face.
“Proof, Jinnah. We need proof. Not co-operation, not instincts. I can’t let this run unless you get more to back it up.”
“What do you mean, proof?” Jinnah howled. “You’ve got the cops, you’ve got the kids —”
“I need a name,” said Whiteman calmly. “That would be a start. I would also like to know how you can say this man came from a good family.”
“Because Graham told me so.”
“And have you interviewed this good family?”
Jinnah had been hoping Whiteman wouldn’t raise that particular point. “Still trying to track them down,” he lied.
Whiteman closed his eyes, a sign of editor impatience. “Art?” he said softly. “Do we have any art, other than those long-distance snapshots of a body bag being loaded into an ambulance, which, by the way, seems a bit ludicrous, even given the state of our health care system?”
“I’m in charge of the words, Whiteman, not the visuals,” said Jinnah irritably.
Jinnah could tell by the look on Frosty’s face that he had gone too far. Certainly Whiteman’s visage betrayed nothing new. Well, in for a dinar, he thought.
“Listen, Chief,” Jinnah changed his tone to that of the pleading, whining toady. “My instincts tell me that these markings are the signature not just of the murderer, but a sinister new gang. I’m telling you, this will put us ahead of everyone else. They’ll be eating our dust.”
“Fine,” said Whiteman. “Prove it.”
Sonofabitch! It was the legal budget the bastard was worried about after all! Well, Dick Whiteman was about to find out what happened to infidels who crossed Hakeem Jinnah. He grabbed his coat and notebook and started out of the newsroom without a word.
Whiteman called after him. “Jinnah! Where do you think you’re going?”
Jinnah paused by the door. He made good and sure everyone in the newsroom was listening as he shouted his reply. “Deepest, darkest gangland, chief.”
* * *
An hour later Jinnah was still chuckling as he paced up and down the lush lawns in front of the Museum of Anthropology on the grounds of the University of British Columbia. The green campus at the tip of Point Grey, surrounded by sea and mountains, hardly looked like the set of The Sopranos, but nevertheless it was there that the very brave and the insatiably curious probed the dark secrets of the new millennium’s tribal societies. Jinnah smoked and waited for his gangland connection to appear. He considered the exquisitely carved totem poles standing guard over the museum entrance. The bright, simple colours painted on the wood were reflecting the glorious sun that had burst through the afternoon cloud. Typical west side. Hogging all the sunshine along with all the money. It was hard to believe that such beauty, such tranquility, could exist just a few miles away from the filth and squalor that was Main and Terminal.
The museum was practically deserted and few people were wandering around the grounds. Probably at Wreck Beach, Jinnah thought, and grinned in a slightly lascivious manner. The clothing optional beach was just around the corner from the museum and had once been a favourite site for Lionel Simons to stage mass, nude baptisms for his cult, Millennial Magi. Ah, those had been the days to be a crime reporter. The interviews he had conducted there. But he was looking for something quite different today. He spotted a woman in her early fifties walking towards him, dressed in a cardigan and a long, plaid skirt, and wearing stout, black walking boots. Jinnah quickly ground out his cigarette with his foot and smoothed down his hair. Showtime.
“Ah, Professor Bruce! How are the tribes doing these days?”
Dr. Alexandra Bruce was a plump, pleasant-looking woman with dark hair, dark glasses, and a bright wit. She looked more like a den mother than an expert on the social organization and mating habits of North American gangs. But the looks belied a tough interior and Jinnah always felt slightly guilty in her presence, like a student who had failed to do his homework.
“Jinnah. You said you had something special for me,” said Bruce, panting slightly — Jinnah could not tell whether from excitement or overexertion.
“Yes, professor. This.” Jinnah opened his notebook and showed Bruce the sketch of the marks on Thad Golway’s face. Bruce frowned and pursed her lips, holding the sketch quite close to her thick glasses for a long moment. Everything was riding on her pronouncement. Jinnah’s insides felt like they were being used to create a particularly elaborate origami sculpture. Sweat covered his face and his breathing came in quick, shallow pants, almost as if he was having a heart attack. It was a sure sign his inherent instincts were right. Or it could be, said his habitual hypochondria, the first symptoms of necrotizing fasciitis.
Finally, Bruce handed Jinnah his notepad back. “Definitely and without a doubt the Yakshas,” she said, beaming, as if Jinnah had given her a drawing of a particularly rare bird. “And you say this was found on the face of that poor young man they discovered this morning? Well, that is a first!”
Jinnah’s symptoms miraculously disappeared as a fierce glow of triumph spread throughout his system. Goddamn it, I knew I was right!
“Yakshas? Gesundheit. What the hell are Yakshas?” he asked.
Bruce looked at Jinnah, amused. “Jinnah, you surprise me. They’re part of the Hindu pantheon. Forest demons who, disguised as beautiful young women, lure travellers into the woods and to their deaths.”
Jinnah sighed. Bruce was an expert at North American gangs and could tell the difference between groups that appeared indistinguishable to most people, but she had a blind spot where Jinnah’s heritage was concerned. He put it down to watching too many
