Pizza 911

A Mister Jinnah Mystery

Donald J. Hauka

• Publisher: Dundurn Press
• Year: 2015
• ISBN:
  9781459728097
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

In the third Mister Jinnah adventure, Hakeem Jinnah's smoking hot story could be his last. The Tribune's editor-in-chief can kiss Hakeem Jinnah's ass goodbye! His bags are packed and he's off to Africa as king of his own Burger Palace. That is, until a charred, dismembered body is discovered in a pizza oven. The lure of one last front-page byline is too much for Jinnah to resist... even if it turns out to be his own obituary. Pizza 911 puts the perpetually puffing, politically incorrect Jinnah on the trail of a vicious killer in a chase that takes him from Vancouver to Tanzania. Negotiating a deadly labyrinth of deceit, betrayal, and long-kept secrets, the neurotic newsman has to use his entire reporting repertoire — and then some — to get to the truth. Bikers, drugs lords, shadowy assassins, and a mysterious, beautiful woman are all pieces in a complex puzzle that Jinnah must put together before it's too late for him, his family, and even his newspaper. Based on the Gemini Award–nominated made-for-television movie, Pizza 911 delivers.

Chapter One

God is watching, even if no one else is, Jagjit Major told himself as he approached the dark double doors of Commonwealth Pizza. But God’s observation didn’t stop the devout Sikh from grumbling as he put down his bucket filled with cleaning fluids and cloths. One gloved hand groped for the keys in his faded blue overalls. It was Sunday evening and the pizza parlour was closed — just like almost every other business in the compact strip mall that straddled the edge of Little India in South Vancouver. God was almost the only one watching Major on this warm, overcast nightfall. But that was the reality of things. It was hard times for Little India. Most of the stores that the janitor had passed on his walk to work had not only been closed for business, but boarded up for good. The clothing stores, the jewellery bazaars, the carpet factory outlets were being replaced by pawn shops and cheque-cashing fronts. Everyone was moving from the city to the suburbs and now Surrey, across the Fraser River, had the biggest South Asian community (and the biggest Diwali festival) in British Columbia. His friends and relations like the Gills, the Bains, and Sidhus — all gone. But not the old man. The old man was immovable. He, at least, had not sold out and moved on. It was not for Major to judge, but he thought that as long as the owners of Commonwealth Pizza had decided to stay in Little India, they ought to be open for business. Perhaps this was yet another thing the old man and his son could not agree on. A white smile split his dark beard as the deadbolt slid back with a click. Those two seldom agreed on anything.

Major sensed that something was wrong even before he swung the door open. A scent had faintly reached his nostrils, warning him. Now thick, acrid smoke struck him in the face as he stepped inside. Coughing, he waved furiously at the shifting clouds. Through the haze he could see the shadowy shapes of chairs stacked on the tables. Choking, he buried his nose in his sleeve. There was no crackle of flames, no roar of a blaze raging. Nor was there the smell of burning wood and plastic. This was a far different smell, foul and nauseating. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see the source of the fumes. The kitchen. He swore, not caring if God was watching or not. The son often left things in the ovens for him to clean up. But never before had there been smoke like this. Or such a stench.

Major made his way half-crouching into the kitchen. Smoke was pouring from the huge blackened stainless-steel commercial oven. He reached for the oven door handle, but recoiled from the heat. The temperature was cranked right to the top. Major glanced briefly around the kitchen. His eye landed upon a large wooden pizza paddle. Just the thing. He grabbed it and jammed it into the handle of the oven, struggling to open it. Finally, he hooked it just right and wrenched with all his might. The heavy door fell open.

A hot blast staggered Major backwards. The stench was now overpowering. Coughing and holding down the bile rising in his throat, he forced himself to approach the oven. The smoke had dissipated, but waves of heat shimmered and danced in the air, making it look like water. He cleared his throat and peered inside from a safe distance. Dark shapes were outlined against the red glare of the oven. Something sat charred and still smoking, heaped on several metal platters, glowing red around their edges. He looked closer. Poking through the pile of ashes closest to him was the distinctive dome shape of a human skull.

It took a few seconds for the information to be fully processed by Major’s overloaded brain. It took much longer for him to finish vomiting into one of the sinks in the kitchen. Then he unsteadily groped his way to the telephone and dialed 911.

“Police, fire, or ambulance?” asked the operator.

“All three,” Major managed to gasp before he was ill again.

“I’ve had it. My bags are packed and I’m going back to Africa. So, Mr. Richard Whiteman, so-called editor-in-chief, you can take your deadlines and your lectures on ethics in journalism and kiss my brown ass goodbye! I’m out of here!”

There was a short pause after Hakeem Jinnah said this. The rest of the Vancouver Tribune newsroom hummed with activity as the newspaper gradually gathered momentum, steaming slowly toward deadline. The TV news chattered in the background, copy runners criss-crossed with each other, bearing page proofs and photos for the news deskers laying out pages and rewriting stories. But a hush lay over the central city desk. The soft clack of computer keys ceased and people on the phone asked whoever they were speaking with to hold on for a moment. It seemed an eternity before Ronald Sanderson cleared his throat somewhat doubtfully, filling the vacuum.

“Is that what you’re really going to say to him?” he asked.

“Not this time,” Jinnah admitted. “But if things work out in Africa, I’ll be back in a month and then I can tell him to his face.”

It was at times like this that Sanderson regretted sitting next to Jinnah, the Trib’s high-strung crime reporter. He studied the slender brown face framed by gold glasses across from him. Jinnah sat, dressed in his traditional “crime of fashion” style (tight black polyester pants, acrylic white disco shirt, too much heavy gold jewellery — a sort of Indo-Canadian Bruno Gerussi), with one hand on his computer mouse, the other flipping through the phone book. He was not exactly the very picture of business savvy and Sanderson wondered if his latest get-rich-quick scheme was finally the real deal.

“It all sounds a little drastic,” said Sanderson, “giving up your career and all.”

“Ronald, I’m telling you, I’m sick of this place! I’m fed up with my job, my boss, and my life! This month’s leave of absence is the smartest thing I’ve ever done!”

Sanderson suppressed a smile. Up until a few weeks ago, Jinnah had claimed investing his life’s savings in a computer dating service called Online Life-Partners Enterprises (or the “OLE,” which had instantly earned the nickname the “Orient Love Express”) had been the smartest thing he’d ever done. The OLE had subsequently been investigated by the Securities Commission and Jinnah had been forced to sell his interest at a loss. Sanderson was about to remind Jinnah of this, but he never got the chance. Barrelling toward them was the force of nature known as Frosty.

“Jinnah! How old is this guy who robbed a bank wearing only a towel?”

Nicole Frost’s voice was the product of thirty years in the business, rough-hewn by hollering questions louder than any other reporter in the scrum, three packs of cigarettes a day, and a fondness for single malt scotch. Acerbic at the best of times, there was an irritable edge to Frosty’s voice that rattled Sanderson’s West Coast sensibilities. Jinnah, as usual, was unfazed.

“It’s in the third ’graph, Frosty,” he said reasonably, his deep voice resonating with patience.

“No, it’s not. Neither’s his name.”

Frosty’s patience level was zero: unusual with so much time before deadline. But then, Jinnah had that effect on managers, even the ones who admired him, like Frosty. He swiftly called up the story in question on his screen. Staring at it, he cursed loudly in Punjabi.

“Sonofabitch!” he growled, switching to English. “I’ll send you an add.”

Frosty grunted and turned her sour gaze on Sanderson, who flinched. “Well? Exactly what is your contribution to the Daily Miracle, Ronald?”

The Daily Miracle. The desk’s not entirely inaccurate name for the creation of each edition of the paper. Sanderson, a general assignment reporter, had been given three non-stories to work on that morning. None had panned out. He opened his mouth to explain, but Frosty had already turned away with a disgusted snort and stomped back to her terminal. Ronald slumped in his seat and watched Jinnah pound out his add. He wrote effortlessly, sticking to his tried-and-true crime story formula. The fact that he also read aloud as he wrote was a constant irritant.

“Police have charged twenty-eight-year-old Jonathan Blocks with armed robbery … and indecent exposure after an incident at the Bank of Montreal on Denman Street.…”

Jinnah paused and leaned around the side of the computer he and Sanderson shared. The leering grin on his face told Ronald another tasteless Jinnah Joke was imminent.

“Ronald, you realize that Blocks would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t dropped his towel while fleeing police, hmm?”

“Oh yes?” said Sanderson, not meeting Jinnah’s gaze.

“Yes. You might say he blew his cover!”

Jinnah howled with laughter. Sanderson gritted his teeth. The steady stream of bad jokes, horrid puns, and other “witticisms” from Jinnah’s corner was undoubtedly one way in which Hakeem dealt with the stress of reporting on death, murder, mayhem, and the darker side of human nature. Sanderson considered it somewhat puerile. He returned to the topic of Jinnah’s impending departure.

“Seems to me now is not the time to be taking extended leaves of absence,” Sanderson stated as if he were a pre-Charter of Rights judge ticking off a lawyer only recently called to the bar. “Your job may be absent by the time you get back.”

“So might be the paper,” rejoined Jinnah. “All the more reason to go, hmm?”

“And leave the Wet Coast? What is Nairobi like at this time of year anyway?”

“Fucking hot, buddy. It’s always hot. I’m leaving in three days, and when I get there, I’m going to meet with my relatives —”

“And, more importantly, their business connections.”

“Exactly. If all goes well, I’ll be fabulously wealthy.”

“By setting up the biggest chain of Burger Palace fast food outlets in Africa?” asked Sanderson, with just a slight note of scepticism in his voice.

“Beef is where it’s at in Africa. Are you going to actually file anything today, Ronald? It is a daily newspaper, you know.”

Sanderson flushed as Jinnah hit the send key. A paragraph of precisely twenty-seven words made its way to Frosty at city desk. Jinnah leaned back in his chair, feet calmly planted on his desk, stirring a cup of coffee with four creams and four sugars in it. It wasn’t much, but it was twenty-seven more words than Sanderson had contributed to date and it rankled him. So did Jinnah’s crack about the Trib not being in business by the time he returned in four weeks. The newspaper industry was in trouble and the Tribune, one of the last independent major daily newspapers in Canada (or just about anywhere else), faced with largely absent advertising revenues, had a credit rating only slightly better than Greece. The thought of Jinnah bailing out at exactly the right moment was too much for Ronald to bear.

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Sanderson backtracked, as he often did during his arguments with Jinnah. “There are rumours of another buyer. The Star chain, for one —”

“Hah! Then I am truly getting out while the getting is good!” cried Jinnah, nearly spilling his coffee. “I have no wish to become an invertebrate.”

Sanderson tried hard to smother an infant smile in the bathwater behind his teeth. Jinnah was referring to the back-story of poor Douglas Princeton, the assistant night news editor. In his prime he’d been the city editor of a hip, happening daily in the B.C. Interior that had been bought by the Star syndicate and unceremoniously merged with its rival. Both papers had been union shops and layoffs were done by strict seniority. Princeton, not yet thirty years old, had been saddled with a newsroom whose average age was twice his own. No amount of shouting at the deaf-as-a-post reporting crew could prompt them into action. They weren’t ambulance chasers, they were passengers. Nothing happened in a hurry. Or with great accuracy. They’d gone down in legend as “Doug and the Slugs.” It had been too much for Princeton, who quit and joined the Trib as a desker, his career prospects (not to mention his nerves and his own hearing) in tatters.

“Well, we’re unlikely to be bought by a newspaper chain anyway,” said Sanderson. “It’s far more probable we’ll be gobbled up by some Google/Yahoo dot-com media conglomerate.”

“Fantastic! Then instead of being reporters, we’ll be content providers,” snorted Jinnah.

Sanderson shifted uneasily in his desk. He was used to Jinnah’s get-rich-quick schemes and his endless exit strategies. He had always put it (and his desk mate’s eccentric behaviour) down to the stresses of being a police reporter. Dealing with death and the worst in human nature on a routine basis must, after all, be wearing to even the strongest psyche, let alone one as riddled by neuroses as Jinnah. But there was something about this particular venture that made Ronald’s guts feel a bit like Hakeem’s own digestively challenged intestinal tract. He seemed, well … serious about this one. The presence of Jinnah in the newsroom was, generally, intolerable. The thought of the Tribune without him was unthinkable. The idea made Sanderson uneasy. And unusually loquacious.

“But why would you want to leave here?” he hectored his colleague. “You’re respected among your colleagues, feared by your competitors —”

“Loathed by my editor.”

“That goes without saying at a daily,” said Sanderson. “I’m sure under his thick, black, callused heart, in some small corner, Whiteman actually likes you, Hakeem.”

“Huh!” snorted Jinnah, stirring the sickly sweet contents of his grande-sized cup. “Fat chance! When I get back from Africa and I’m rich and famous, I’ll have some choice words for that old windbag.”

“Which old windbag?” asked a voice with an Etonian accent directly behind Jinnah.

Jinnah, startled, leaned so far backwards in his chair to stare wide-eyed and upside-down at his tormentor that he almost fell out of it. Richard Whiteman loomed above him, glasses in one hand, a promotions newspaper box card in the other. Eternally in his fifties, Whiteman ran the Tribune the w...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Contents
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Copyright