Fletch and the Man Who (4 page)

“I would say hundreds.”

“A conservative guess. Let’s not keep a potentially great president out of office because some insignificant woman hits a sidewalk too hard.”

“What about the local police? Aren’t they going to investigate?”

“I’ve already handled that. The mayor found me downstairs in the bar. He said he hoped this unfortunate incident was not disturbing to the candidate or his party. Asked me to let him know if any of his police pestered us about it.”

“You’re serious?”

“Told him if anybody had any questions, they should be referred to Barry Hines.”

Fletch rolled his eyes. “Things sure are different on a presidential campaign.”

“Frankly, I think His Honor, the Mayor, was chiefly worried,” Walsh said with mock solemnity, “that with all the national press
crawling around, a murder in his fair city might get national attention. Spoil his image of Homeland, America, if the once-his-city gets national attention it’s for murder.”

“These political reporters wouldn’t know how to report a murder anyway,” Fletch said. “They’re specialists. They have no more interest in murder than they do a boxing match. Beneath them.”

“I suppose so.”

“Even if there were a murder on the press bus, they’d have to call in police reporters. They have no more ability to report a murder than your average citizen on the street. Which is why I’m so curious as to why we do, in fact, have one crime writer with us.”

“Do we?” Walsh asked absently.

“Fredericka Arbuthnot.
Newsworld
.”

Walsh said, “Tomorrow at dawn, this campaign rolls out of this town, probably never to come back. Good luck to the local police. I hope they solve their problems. But I don’t want any investigation of this death to touch the campaign. It’s just a public relations problem—one you’ve got to manage.” Walsh relaxed more in his chair. “Enough of this. Not important. In general, all I’m saying is, if you’re going to be with us, you’re going to be with us all the way.”

“Why do you want me with you?”

“You’ve had a lot of experience with the press, Fletch.”

“I’ve worked for a lot of newspapers.”

“You ought to know how the press works.”

“Very hard.”

“How they think.”

“Slowly but tenaciously.”

“Hill 1918, Fletch.”

“Nineteen when?”

Walsh’s eyes focused on the dark carpet. Despite the slight smile on his Ups, his hairline seemed to pull back and his face turned even more white. “Twelve of us left. Surrounded by the enemy. Who knew we’d had it and were coming in to wipe us out.”

“Are you about to tell me a war story?”

“Hundreds of ’em. Either we dug in and got killed. Or tried to blast our way out and got killed.”

“War stories …”

“You, dogface Fletcher, didn’t let your lieutenant choose either obvious alternative. You argued with me. Until I got the point.”

“Never could handle authority very well.”

“You had us move out of the obvious position, climb the trees, and tie ourselves to the branches. We disappeared. Three days we hung in those goddamned trees.”

“Must’ve gotten hungry.”

“It was better than being dead with our parts in our mouths.”

“You were big enough to take the suggestion, Walsh.”

“I was scared shitless. I couldn’t think. The enemy rummaged around below us. They even shot each other. Carried off their dead. They never thought Americans would do such a thing.”

“I was saving my own life,
hombre
.”

“Your buddy—what’s his name? Chambers? You ever see him anymore?”

“Alston Chambers. Yeah. We talk frequently. He’s a prosecutor in California.”

“You know how to make the best of a bad situation, Fletch. And a presidential campaign is one bad situation after another.”

Fletch glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late.”

“I’ve got lots of files to give you tonight. Anyway, what would you be doing if you were home now?”

“Listening to Sergio Juevos, probably.”

“Oh, yeah. The Cuban drummer.”

“A harpist, actually. From Paraguay.”

“A Paraguayan harpist?”

“You’ve never heard him?”

“You mean, he plays the harmonica?”

“He plays the harp.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone play the harp.”

Across the dark living room, the door to the bedroom opened.

“You haven’t lived,” Fletch said.

Walsh sighed. “Just like the old days, Fletch.”

“What old days? I thought all days are twenty-four hours. Do some get to be older?”

“Bending my brain,” Walsh said.

She came across the room like a specter. She was in a long, gray robe. Her blond hair hung to her shoulders.

Doris Wheeler was much bigger than Fletch expected. Her true size had not come across to him on television or still pictures, maybe because she was usually seen standing next to the governor, who was also a big person. She was tall with extraordinarily big shoulders for a woman.

Fletch stood up.

“Walsh? What are you doing at this hour of the night?”

“Dropping off your schedule for tomorrow.” Walsh shot his thumb toward the piece of paper on the coffee table. “Why are you back from Cleveland so early?”

“Had Sully make me an earlier plane reservation. Left the symphony benefit at intermission. I’ve heard Schönberg.” Walsh had not stood up. Doris Wheeler’s eyes fastened on Fletch’s shirt collar. “Who’s this?”

“Fletcher,” Walsh said. “Here to help handle the press. Just making sure he’s housebroken.”

“Why are you up talking so late?”

“War stories,” Walsh answered. “Haven’t seen each other since the Texas-Oklahoma game. That right, Fletch?”

Doris leaned over her son. She kissed him on the mouth.

“Walsh, you’ve been drinking.” She stood up only partway.

“Had to spend some time in the bar, Mother. Something happened. This girl—”

Doris Wheeler slapped her son, hard. Her hand going down to his face looked as big and as solid as a shovel.

“I don’t care about any girl, Walsh. I care about you walking around with liquor on your breath.” Walsh did not move. He did not look up at her. “I care about getting your father elected President of the United States.”

Fully, stiffly erect, she walked back across the living room. “Now, go to bed,” she said.

The door to the bedroom closed.

Fletch stood there quietly.

Walsh’s face was two kinds of red. It was dark red where his mother
had hit him. It was bright red everywhere else.

Walsh kept his eyes on the papers in his lap.

“Well,” Walsh finally said, “I’m glad I gave you my lecture on loyalty, before you saw that.”

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Governor Caxton Wheeler said heartily.

From the back of the bus, a man’s voice snarled: “
Men
and
women
of the press.”

“Women and men,” corrected the woman sitting next to Freddie Arbuthnot.

“Persons of the press …?” offered the governor.

Fletch was standing next to the governor at the front of the bus. At six-thirty in the morning the governor apparently was slim, tanned, bright-eyed, and fully rested. He did not use, or need to use, the tour bus’s microphone. Also, he did not leave much room for the person standing beside him at the front of the bus.

As a politician will, he filled whatever space was available to him.

“Don’t forget the photographers,” wire service reporter Roy Filby said. “They don’t quite make it as persons.”

“Dearly beloved,” said the governor.

“Now you’re leaving out Arbuthnot!” said Joe Hall.

“All creatures great and small?” asked the governor.

“Why’s that man up there calling us a bunch of animals?” Stella

Kirchner asked Bill Dieckmann loudly. “Trying to get elected game warden or something?”

“It gives me great pleasure,” the governor said, “to introduce one of your own colleagues to you—”

“Hardly,” said Freddie Arbuthnot.

“—I. M. Fletcher—”

“Politicians will say anything,” said Ira Lapin.

“—whom we’ve employed to hand out press releases to you—”

“He spelled Spiersville wrong already this morning!” shouted Fenella Baker. “It’s
ie
, everybody, not
eel”

“—do your research for you, free of charge, dig out an answer to your every question, however obtuse and trivial, and generally, to say things about me I’d blush to have to say myself.”

“He’s a complete crook,” said the man wearing the
Daily Gospel
badge.

“Now, I know some of you miss ol’ James,” continued the governor. “I do too… more than you’ll ever know.” The governor pulled his touch-of-sentiment face. To Fletch, seeing the expression in profile, it seemed the governor was too obviously clocking the seconds he held the expression. “But, as you know, ol’ James decided he wanted to go somewhere more agreeable.”

“Yeah,” Lansing Sayer said. “When anyone goes to play tennis, James wants to go play tennis.”

“So,” said the governor, coloring slightly behind the ear, “I’ll leave ol’ Fletch in your hands.” Walsh had told Fletch to ride the press bus that morning. “Try not to chew him up and spit him out this morning. Can’t promise you that lunch is going to be that good.”

“Hey, Governor,” shouted Joe Hall. “Any response yet to the President’s statement on South Africa last night?”

Waving, the governor left the bus.

Fletch picked up the microphone. The bus driver turned on the speaker system for him.

“Good morning,” Fletch said. “As the governor’s press representative, I make you the solemn promise that I will never lie to you. Today, on this bus, we will be passing through Miami, New Orleans, Dallas, New York, and Keokuk, Iowa. Per usual, at midday you will be flown to San Francisco for lunch. Today’s menu is clam chowder, pheasant under glass, roast Chilean lamb, and a strawberry mousse from
Maine. Everything the governor says today will be significant, relevant, wise, to the point, and as fresh as the lilies in the field.”

“In fact,” Fenella Baker said, trying to look through the steamy window, “it’s snowing out.”

The other side of the motel’s front door, Doris Wheeler was climbing into the back of a small, black sedan. Today the campaign would head southwest in the state; the candidate’s wife would go north. The governor would ride the campaign bus, in front of the press bus.

“Any questions you have for me,” Fletch continued, “write backwards and offer to your editors as think-pieces. Just ask your editors to label such fanciful essays as ‘Analysis.’”

“Fletch, is it true you’re a crook?” Roy Filby asked.

“No,” said Fletch, “but if any of you run short of cash, just ask me and I’ll put you in contact with people who will supply you with all you want at a modest charge of twenty-percent interest daily.”

“Oh, you work for a credit card company, too?”

“Is it true you saved Walsh Wheeler’s life overseas?” Fenella Baker asked.

“That’s another thing,” Fletch said. “I will never evade any of your questions.”

He turned the microphone off and hung it up.

“How does it feel to be an adversary of the press?” From her seat on the bus, Freddie Arbuthnot grinned up at Fletch.

“Some people,” announced Fletch, “think I always have been.”

“This is Betsy Ginsberg,” Freddie said about her seatmate, a slightly overweight, bright-eyed, nice-looking young woman.

“Terrific stuff you write,” Fletch said to her. “I’ve never read a word of it, but I’ve decided to say things like that on this trip.”

Betsy laughed. The diesel engine straining to move the bus out of the motel’s horseshoe driveway was making as much noise as a jet airplane taking off.

Freddie pressed her elbow into Betsy’s ribs. “Move,” she said. “Let me be the first to sink teeth into this new press representative.”

“You’re just saying that,” Betsy said, moving out of her seat, “because he’s good-lookin’.”

“Is he?” said Freddie. “I never noticed.”

Fletch slumped into the seat vacated by Betsy. “I don’t know,” he said to Freddie. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it as a member of the establishment. It’s all too new to me.”

After doing his copying and delivering chores the night before,
Fletch finally had taken his shower and climbed into bed with all the folders Walsh Wheeler had given him. There was a folder stating the candidate’s position on each campaign issue, as well as on issues that had not arisen and probably would not arise. Some of the positions were crisp, concise, to the point. Others were longer, not as well focused, and had to be read two or three times before Fletch could discover exactly where the candidate was hedging his position. There were personnel folders, with pictures and full biographies, of each member of the candidate’s staff”. And there were other folders, not as well organized, on most of the members of the press traveling with the campaign. Some of these too had photographs, personal items regarding their families, political leanings, a few significant clippings. Fletch may have been asleep when the phone rang to wake him up. He wasn’t sure.

“So far,” he said to Freddie, as the press bus rolled along the highway, “I’ve received two lectures on absolute loyalty.”

“What do you expect?” she asked.

Fletch thought a moment. “I don’t believe in absolutes.”

“You’re in a position, all right,” she agreed, nodding. “Between the fire and the bottom of the skillet. As a reporter, you’re trained to find things out and report ’em. As a press representative, you’ve got to prevent other reporters from finding certain things out. Adversary of the press. Against your own instincts. Poor Fletch.”

“You’re a help.”

“You’ll never make it.”

“I know it.”

“That’s all right.” She patted him on the arm. “I’ll destroy you as painlessly as possible.”

“Great. I’d appreciate that. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Up to what?”

“Destroying me.”

“It will be easy,” she said. “Because of all those conflicts in yourself. You’ve never tried to be a member of the establishment before, Fletch. I mean, let’s face it: you’re a born-and-bred rebel.”