“I think you should do it,” he continued. “The Mirror is a great paper, but it’s heading into a dry spell. People are so busy now, they’re time-poor, and one of the first things that go is the newspaper-reading habit. We need to rebuild that habit with a new generation. People like Weiss and me can’t do it, because we’re too old. Bob Marcus can’t do it, because he’s too stupid. We need to get the smart kids like you in place for the next lap. Let you start worrying how to keep the ship afloat.”

It was Bowman’s specialty: high-grade confetti. He went on for a while longer about the history of the paper, and the evolution of modern journalism and the threat to it from the know-nothings and talking heads, and why—although he, himself, had never become an editor—he thought I should go to New York. And why, even though we had occasionally disagreed about stories, he was certain I would do a good job. And how he had said that to Weiss himself, just the other day.

Everything he said was well phrased, wise, even; and in any other context I would have thanked him for it. But tonight, his charm was intolerable. It was an evasion.

“I’m very flattered, Arthur,” I said. “But you didn’t ask me to dinner to talk about my career.”

“No, no. That’s precisely what I’d like to talk about. I want to get to know you better. We haven’t really talked since that night in Paris.” He wasn’t listening. I had been living on a knife-edge for the last several months, and he was still playing make-believe. I needed to say the truth out loud.

“I don’t want to be unpleasant, Arthur, but you and I have a real disagreement about this China story. It’s been obvious for weeks. You weren’t happy about my reporting. And I’ve had questions about the sources of your stories, too.”

“Let’s forget all that.” His voice was honey-coated. Sweet reason. “I didn’t have any problem with your story the way it was published. Weiss asked me about it. I told him it was a mix-up. I don’t want to be your enemy. I think you’re a good reporter.” He was such a manipulator. He really thought he could bury the whole thing over cocktails at his club.

“Bullshit, Arthur!” I said loudly. The word reverberated through the second-floor salon of the Athenian Club. “You and I have a problem, and we should talk about it.”

Bowman was suddenly icy. His charm offensive had failed. “Lower your voice,” he said. “What is this problem?”