Grant’s tone was still warm and friendly. It always was when he was skewering someone. Sanderson toyed with the idea of going to Jinnah’s aid, then rejected it. The audience watching this set-to was too large. If anything beat a Sanderson-Jinnah bout it was a grudge-match between the two biggest egos at the paper.
“There’s nothing pale about my African Rug, buddy,” said Jinnah, unfastening another button on his already amply opened shirt. “Would you like to see more of it?”
Grant straightened up and took a step back.
“I pride myself on being in touch with my feminine side, Jinnah. That doesn’t mean I want to be in touch with your hairy chest.”
“Then what’s this bullshit about you stealing my Cadillac crispy critter?”
“Because the crispy critter in question has just been identified as Sam Schuster and Sam Schuster belongs to me. Period.”
Jinnah was momentarily silenced. Sanderson was surprised enough to let his newspaper shield drop.
“You mean Sam the Sham? Shyster Schuster?” Sanderson asked.
Grant nodded gravely.
“Well,” said Jinnah standing up. “All the more reason for me to cover it, I think.”
For all his sang-froid, Grant bristled slightly.
“Indian speak with fork in his tongue,” said Grant. “Make no sense.”
“Then I’ll use the tiny, small words you business guys are limited to in your vocabulary,” Jinnah replied, taking a step towards Grant. “I have a 100 percent controlling interest in murders at this newspaper. Your presence on this story would be a considerable liability. And since, as my inherent instincts tell me, this is likely to be the line story today —”
“It should be done properly,” said Grant coldly. “By me.”
“Oh?” said Jinnah. “And where are you going to get your facts? The same place you got your name?”
Grant’s face hardened into taut, tense lines.
“What are you insinuating?”
“Listen, smartass! I remember when you were just plain Gerry Grant working in the suburbs writing sports! Suddenly, you make up a middle name —”
“I’ve had quite enough of this conversation.”
Grant, his face a mask of icy contempt, turned and stalked away.
“Go on, run!” Jinnah shouted after him. “We’ll see who ends up on page one!”
Grant turned abruptly.
“Why don’t we leave it to Blacklock to decide then, Jinnah? He usually gives you preferred treatment, doesn’t he?”
There was a momentary hush. Conway Blacklock, the Tribune’s editor-in-chief, did have a special place for Jinnah. It was called the doghouse and despite being arguably the best reporter at the paper, Jinnah was seldom out of it. But Jinnah, in full fury, was not about to back down.
“I’ll meet you in Blacklock’s office at two o’clock and we’ll see who’s writing this story,” he said, throwing the gauntlet down at Grant’s feet.
Grant smiled.
“Fine. It’s up to the editor,” he said and, certain of his pending victory, went back to his desk to place some very important phone calls about the late Sam Schuster.
Unbeknownst to Jinnah and Grant, they were among the main topics of conversation at a lunch Blacklock was having with the Tribune’s new publisher. Blacklock had chosen the restaurant with great care. They were at the Teahouse in Stanley Park, an elegant eatery that looked out over the magnificence of Vancouver’s Outer Harbour. With snow-capped mountains spreading out on either side and the long, slender stretch of blue water in between gradually widening into the Strait of Georgia, the scenery was as spectacular as the cuisine. It was an establishment that never failed to impress and that was exactly what Blacklock was attempting to do. He felt it vital to define the limits of his personal empire and that meant explaining his management style to the new boss. Most reporters, had they been asked, would have described it as “neo-fascist,” but the editor-in-chief preferred a more gracious interpretation.
“I call it ‘Negative Energy Dynamics’ and it works remarkably well,” Blacklock said, his pudgy hands gripping his white coffee cup, slowly rotating it so the Publisher wouldn’t see the little brown coffee stains trailing down the lip.
The Publisher frowned.
“Negative Energy Dynamics? Is that sort of like Synergy or Employee Empowerment?”
Blacklock allowed himself a small, amused smile on his wide, beefy face, which was framed by greying brown curls and a sneer worthy of Charles Laughton.
“With due respect, sir, those sorts of management theory don’t work in a newsroom. Negative energy, on the other hand, produces results. Daily.”
“Really?”
The Publisher frowned again. Blacklock, seeing some further explanation was required, stared out at the mountains and the water. This was another advantage of the Teahouse: you could gaze out the window with a thoughtful look on your face for quite a while without your guest minding much or even suspecting you were searching your brain for the correct response. But now, Blacklock merely did it for dramatic effect. He’d rehearsed this speech carefully, he simply wanted to give it an air of spontaneity. He folded his hands together and continued to look out the window as he spoke.
“Negative Energy is rather like a battery: you need both positive and negative working together to create a spark. The reporters provide the positive charge, I serve as the negative pole.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” said the Publisher, a pleasant-looking man in his late fifties whose glasses were just a bit too large for his domed head.
Blacklock returned his gaze to the Publisher and found himself looking down. He smiled inwardly. A tall, stout man, he liked being physically overbearing. He calculated that he was a good six inches taller than his new superior.
“The reporters work very hard, putting their positive energies into producing stories,” explained Blacklock. “They seek my approval as a sort of surrogate father figure. However, I deny them my approval, giving back negative energy.”
The Publisher’s eyes widened.
“Meaning if they do a good job, you don’t give them a pat on the back?”
Blacklock had been taking a sip of coffee and he nearly choked. This fellow was much more astute than his rather bland little exterior would lead one to believe. He would have to be more careful.
“Not exactly,” he continued. “I may grudgingly acknowledge that they have done better than they normally do — marginally — and then perhaps opine that their standard of work is still far below that of a National Newspaper Award. That sort of thing.”
“Don’t they just fold
