I researched the director in question—Mukesh Sharma—for the better part of an hour, and found what I thought was his mother’s address in Lower Parel. I made a note to contact her in the morning or Monday. There was also a minor starlet who’d been linked to his name in the film biz gossip columns a few months earlier. I’d try to find her as well.

Lokhande returned my call around seven. He thanked me for the bottle of Chivas Ramu had dropped off for him.

“But next time, Dan, don’t send it to the station. That makes it look like a bribe.”

What did he mean next time? Was he expecting more imported booze from me? And wasn’t it a bribe?

We got down to business. I explained the situation to him, that Bikas had broken into my flat and I’d appreciate some police protection. Maybe an officer posted in the lobby?

“Why did he break into your flat?” he asked.

“I think he wanted to threaten me. He’s changed his mind about the interview, I guess.”

I didn’t mention that Bikas had ransacked the place. That would suggest he’d been looking for something. I was still keeping the existence of the film—the film I’d lost—from Lokhande, of course.

“Why didn’t he simply threaten you by phone? Why risk getting caught?”

“I don’t know. Can you help me?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. At length, Lokhande said he’d stop by to check on me in the coming days, but it sounded as if I was in little danger.

“He’s given you his warning,” he said. “No reason for him to do anything else to you if you don’t print your story. Unless …”

“Unless what?” I asked, thinking I already knew the answer.

“Unless you have something he wants and won’t give it to him.”

SUNDAY, JULY 20, 1975, 9:03 A.M.

Huge waves were breaking against the seawall along Marine Drive, launching great plumes of water that rose high into the air before cascading down onto the footpath and anyone foolish enough to be out and about. Me, for one. I ran hard through the rain, hurdling the puddles, as I cursed myself for having left Poona. No one had forced me. I could have told Harlan and Ranjit to go to hell. I could have continued sleeping with Sushmita. We could have managed Chhotu, as she’d explained.