“I am flattered. Can it be that a great newspaper like the Mirror really considers a dirtbag sleaze TV magazine show like Hard Copy competition? My, my, my. But don’t worry, Dave. I don’t want to steal your stories. I want to interview you.”

“About what?”

“What really happened in China, dear boy? How was Arthur Bowman killed? I mean, I read that shit you wrote about a runaway truck, but it was not believable. Not to a former trickster like me. All your sleepy, responsible newspaper friends swallowed it just fine, but the Hatchet Man doesn’t work for the Establishment Press. And the Hatchet Man wants to know what happened.”

“I wrote the truth. We were in a little alleyway in Beijing looking for a restaurant. A big truck came roaring down the street. Arthur jumped in front to slow it down, and he got hit. That’s the story. That’s how he died.”

“Eric, babe, those are the little facts. I want the meta-facts. Nothing happens in Beijing without the Chicoms putting it in motion. So why did the Chinese want to kill Arthur Bowman, bigfoot journalist of the century? What was his game? Or maybe the culprits were his French friends, with whom—as we know—he was a tad chummy? Either way, it’s a story. So tell me, what’s the poop?”

“Are you recording this, Rupert?”

“Of course I am. The Hatchet Man records all his interviews. Why? Is that considered impolite by you celebrity journalists?”

“Fuck you, Rupert. I thought we had a relationship of trust. I protected you for months while you were still at the agency. You should treat me better.”

I heard an electronic click. “You’re right,” he said. “I should treat you better. I owe you one. And I should stop referring to myself in the third person, I realize that. I’m just very wired right now. I need copy, and I thought maybe you could help me out. But the bottom line is, you’re not going to tell me anything I can use next week. Is that right?”

“That’s correct, Rupert.”

“Crap! I’m really nervous, Eric. I’ve never done this. I want to be a star, but I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m sorry to be such a jerk. I know I owe you a favor. You listened to all my ranting and gave me encouragement, when everybody else just wanted me to go away. I realize that. I shouldn’t call you David Gergen, either. I don’t know why I do that. You can trust me. And if you’re ever in a jam, you just call on the Hatchet Man. Okay?”

“Okay, Hatchet Man. Break a leg. Do you have anything else for the first show, now that the item about me has fallen through?”