Frank shrugged. “Maybe he’s in Delhi to get a cure for a dose of the clap. Or maybe he’s there for the chicken tikka masala. The point is, as long as he’s already in place, he’s going to cover this.”

“Jesus, Frank, does Kate know?”

He stubbed out his cigarette and shifted some papers on his desk. He was steamed but trying to keep the lid on. “Kate’s the one I spoke to.”

Kate Erving was Frank’s boss. And she’d been my boss too back in New York. Like so many other young lions, I was eager and impatient to make a name for myself. I’d risked my neck in Chile, reporting on the Desaparecidos in ’73 and ’74, until I got roughed up by the police and expelled from the country. From there, I’d flown straight to Vietnam on Kate’s orders, where I stayed until April 29, 1975. I made it out of the country on a military transport, a day before the last helicopter left the roof of the U.S. Embassy in Saigon.

I returned to New York, but only for a month. I wanted another opportunity to prove my worth. Kate encouraged me. And when Eric Nielsen abruptly quit his position in Bombay, I begged her for a chance. She arranged everything.

“Look, you’re a good kid, Dan,” said Frank. “But don’t play that game with me. Kate’s not going to protect you here. Budgets and speed count. Chuck’s already there.”

“Sorry, Frank. I never meant it that way. It’s just that I want a chance.”

“You’ll get it. But not today. We’re a growing wire service. We simply don’t have the time or resources right now to send you to Delhi for a story that’ll probably turn out to be nothing.”

I nodded in resignation, all the while fuming that a hash-smoking hack with the clap had stolen my story.

As I licked my wounds, I thought of the tattered reporter’s pad in the bottom drawer of my desk. The notebook Eric Nielsen had left behind. I’d never met him, but, judging by his journal entries, he was an odd one. He took notes on people, places, and events, and scribbled addresses and dates in a disorganized manner. As if writing in a diary, he documented in telegraphic language his social life, too. Failed attempts to bed girls he’d met in restaurants, shops, and hotels. “Frigid bitch,” “has a boyfriend,” “probably a dyke,” “not that pretty anyway,” and “cockteaser” were some of his comments.