LITMIR.BIZ

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did it?”

      “He was a Kenyan police chief! Yelling was one of the perks of the job! And stand up straight, for God’s sake!”

      Saleem turned his bored, bespectacled, adolescent face on Jinnah and sunk slowly into a chair sideways, dangling one long, skinny leg back and forth. Jinnah fought to control his temper. Saleem was insolent, stubborn, self-possessed. Excellent qualities in a crime reporter but liabilities in a son, as far as Hakeem was concerned.

      “What’s all the shouting about?” Jinnah demanded.

      “Saleem wants to go to a rave tonight.”

      “The boy’s got lips of his own,” said Jinnah irritably. “And you might say ‘hello’ to your father.”

      “Didn’t hear you saying, ‘Hi, son’ as you blasted in,” said Saleem.

      Jinnah opened his mouth, his volume cranked up, but Manjit’s melodious voice cut him short. “He might say more if you let him get a word in edgewise, Hakeem.”

      Jinnah closed his eyes. Allah, strength. Dealing with Manjit was frustrating. Under that slender form and angelic face beat the heart of a lioness. She could be maddeningly reasonable. It was like being set upon by an attack sparrow. Conceding the point, Jinnah pulled a chair towards him and sat down on it backwards, his arms folded over the back.

      “All right, son,” he said, choking only slightly on the words. “Let’s rap.”

      Saleem rolled his eyes. “Dad! That’s so retro!”

      “I’ve already told Saleem how dangerous raves can be,” chirped Manjit. “Drugs everywhere.”

      “But mom! It’s a legal rave. It’s licenced by the city, for God’s sake!”

      “Don’t say ‘For God’s sake’ to your mother,” snapped Jinnah.

      “Saleem,” said Manjit. “I’ve seen the overdoses. I know what those drugs can do to kids. Besides, the problems aren’t on the dance floor. They’re around the edges, in the parking lots, the washrooms….”

      Jinnah marvelled at how swiftly he’d been cut out of the conversation his wife had urged him to have with his son. Fine. If she wanted it that way, fine. He wouldn’t say a thing.

      “But Mom! Lionel Simons is playing tonight and everybody knows he’s —”

      “A fraud!” roared Jinnah, springing out of his chair so fast that it toppled over, beating a drummer’s tattoo on the kitchen linoleum.

      “— anti-drug,” finished Saleem, his voice rising above his father’s.

      “Hakeem!” said Manjit, warning.

      “Don’t give me that ‘Hakeem’ bullshit!” shouted Jinnah. “Lionel Simons is a cult leader and a crook! He works his devotees into a frenzy and then sends them out to beg for cash so he can live in his West Vancouver mansion in the lap of bloody luxury!”

      “Then how come he tells all his followers not to do drugs?” said Saleem defiantly.

      “So there’ll be all the more for him! Next thing you’ll know you’ll be a member of his Millennium Magi gang, singing at the top of your lungs in some posh pit —”

      “It’s called a mosh pit and they prefer to be called the MiMis,” Saleem interjected.

      “Whatever! You’re not ending up as some screaming MiMi!”

      Saleem gave up shouting at his father and appealed to his mother. “But everybody goes to raves, Mom! Like, everybody!”

      “Not everybody, Saleem.”

      “You’re going!”

      “I have to go. It’s my job. Somebody has to hand out the free water and deal with the overdoses.”

      “I mean all my friends go.”

      “Name one of your friends who is allowed to go,” said Manjit, brightly.

      Ahchah! She has him, thought Jinnah as Saleem stared, open-mouthed at his mother. Poor kid’s searching his memory banks. There were not many parents in Jinnah’s social circle within the Indo-Canadian community who would knowingly let their children go to a rave. If Saleem actually gave a name, he could be sure that Manjit would be on the phone in an instant, checking the veracity of his claim. But Saleem only hesitated for a couple of seconds.

      “Andy Gill goes.”

      Jinnah was stunned by this. Surely this couldn’t be the same Andy Gill who Graham had mentioned?

      But Manjit was already ahead of him. “Andy Gill is two years older than you and his parents wouldn’t know what he was up to if he was on the nightly news,” said Manjit. “Try again.”

      “No, wait a minute,” said Jinnah, sitting down again, instincts tingling. “This Andy Gill, Saleem? He’s about eighteen, right? Just out of high school?”

      “Why do you wanna know?” asked Saleem, eyes narrowing with well-founded suspicion.

      “Because his reputation precedes him.”

      Manjit looked at her husband quizzically. “Hakeem, what’s this about? You sound like you’re interviewing your own son.”

      “I am,” agreed Jinnah. “Look, Saleem, this is more important than any stupid argument we’re having. Who is this Andy Gill?”

      “If I tell you, can I go?”

      “We’ll talk about it. I’m offering you a plea bargain. Anything you say will not be held against you.”

      Saleem studied his father’s face in much the same manner that Hakeem had earlier sized Sanderson up. He spoke smoothly, echoing his father’s tones. “He’s Mr. Puri’s nephew. Now can I go?”

      Jinnah felt a significant piece of the jigsaw puzzle that was Thad Golway’s death go click! Right in his own kitchen. Ram Puri was an éminence grise of the Indo-Canadian community and a sort of ethical guidance counsellor for Jinnah. He was now even further ahead of Graham than when he’d left the newsroom.

      “Well? Can I go, Dad?”

      Jinnah looked at his son and smiled. Then, Graham’s words came back to him. “Thad Golway was a good kid. He got caught up in the rave scene and started dealing.” In a flash, Jinnah saw Saleem there on The Corner, squeegee in one hand, nickel bag in the other, being stalked by the Dark Figure with an axe under his overcoat….

      “Dad?”

      Jinnah snapped back to reality. “I think I’d like to hear more about these raves — and other things, Saleem,” he said, rising from his chair.

      “Hakeem? Where are you going?”

      Jinnah paused in the doorway. “I am going to find Andy Gill and perhaps solve a murder. You, darling, are going to work. And Saleem? You’re staying here and doing your homework, hmm?”

      And before anyone could contradict him, Jinnah was out of the house.

      * * *

      Within minutes Jinnah was walking down the sidewalk on Main Street. But this was not Main and Terminal. This was well south, near 49th Avenue, an entire world away from where Thad Golway had been found. Jinnah was in the heart of Little India, walking along the several blocks of the Punjabi Market. Here, the windows of the shops were ablaze with lights. Everywhere the deevas — little clay lamps — glowed yellow, shimmering like a desert mirage against the glass panes. The light from the flickering flames of the lamps danced on bundles of traditional sweets in red and gold wrappings that were heaped high behind them. Even though Jinnah wasn’t a Sikh, he was married to one, and he couldn’t help but be swept up in the mood of celebration that swirled through the market. This was one of the highest points in the Sikh calendar: the festival marking the release of the Guru Gobind Singh from captivity and his return

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