“So why does the governor blame you for it?”
“He can’t blame his wife. He never blames his wife. Always before, I’ve covered up for her. Done a deal with the photographers, you know? Made some half-assed explanation, said, ‘If you don’t report this, I’ll provide you with photo opportunities you never dreamed of —the governor in the shower stark naked smoking a cigar, you’ll win the Pulitzer Prize,’ you know? This time I couldn’t do that, I. M. Wouldn’t.”
“‘Wouldn’t.’”
“I’d had enough of it. The governor wouldn’t listen to me, all these
years. The situation was getting more serious. She’s getting worse. His chances of getting to the White House are getting better and better, and she’s ruining them. So I let the situation get reported. I thought maybe if Caxton saw what all this looked like in the press, for once, he’d at least try to restrain the bitch.”
“What makes you think he can?”
“He has to. Somebody has to. Caxton Wheeler shouldn’t be President of the United States because his wife’s a nut?”
“They’ve come a long way together, James.”
“That they have—a long way to fall over a cliff.”
“If she’s so impossible, why has he stuck with her? Divorce wasn’t invented Sunday, you know.”
“Want three good reasons why he hasn’t divorced her?”
“Yeah. Gimme three.”
“First, divorce still doesn’t go over so big with the voters. Despite President Ronald Reagan. People can still be found to say, If a man can’t run his own house, how do you expect him to run the White House?’”
“That’s one.”
“Two, she’s got the money. She is a wealthy, wealthy lady in her own right. Her daddy horned in on the oil business and made a barrel of money. A politician’s life is risky and expensive, you know. Nothing lubricates a politician’s life better than oil.”
“That’s two.”
“Three, I deeply suspect Caxton loves the bitch. Can you believe that? Don’t ask me how or why. Sometimes people whom you’d think would know better actually do love the last person in the world they should love. I’ve known lots of jerks like that. Their wives are ruining them with every word and gesture and all these jerks say is, ‘Where would I be without sweet ol’ honey-pie?’ Love, I. M., is as blind as justice. Maybe you’ve noticed.”
“And just as elusive.”
“Boy, am I glad my wife ran away with her psychiatrist fifteen years ago. There was a broad who needed shrinking. What an inflammation she was.”
“I don’t know, James. What am I supposed to do?”
“Carry on, brother. Carry on. I just want you to know what’s between Caxton and me.”
“His wife.”
“I love him. I admire him. I want to see him President of the United States.
I’d
do anything to see that. Anything. What I’m saying is, feel free to call me anytime about anything.”
“Thank you.”
“They threw me over, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll still do anything I can for Caxton.”
Fletch soon discovered that all he need do to make his phone ring was to put the receiver down into the cradle.
Immediately after he hung up from trying to make clear things that were not at all clear to himself for a rewrite editor at
Newsweek
magazine, he found himself answering the phone to his old Marine buddy, Alston Chambers.
“Nice to hear a friendly voice,” Fletch said.
“What’s happening, Fletch?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Just heard on cable news you’ve been made acting press representative for Governor Wheeler’s campaign. I saw you on the tube.”
“‘Acting press secretary’? I guess so.”
“Why are you doing that? You gone establishment?”
“Walsh called me late at night. Said he needed help desperately. I mean, he convinced me he was desperate.”
“Wow, a presidential campaign. What’s it like, Fletch?”
“Unreal, man. Totally unreal.”
“I believe you. On television you were wearing a coat and tie.”
“Alston, there have been a couple of murders.”
“What do you mean, ‘murders’? Real murders?”
“A couple of women beaten to death. One of them was strangled. They weren’t really a part of the campaign, but I think somebody traveling with the campaign had something to do with it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“ ’Fraid not.”
“Caxton Wheeler as Jack the Ripper. You’re giving a whole new meaning to the phrase
presidential assassin
, Fletch.”
“Very funny.”
“Haven’t seen anything about this in the news.”
“We’re trying to keep it out of the news. At least, everybody’s telling me to keep it out of the news.”
“Having had opportunity to observe you for a long time, Fletcher, I can say you’re not good at keeping things out of the news. Especially concerning murder and other skullduggery.”
“You wouldn’t believe this situation, Alston. It’s like being on a fast train, and people keep falling off it, and no one will pull the emergency cord. Everytime someone falls off, everyone says, ‘Well, that’s behind us.’”
“You’re right. I don’t get it.”
“It’s just an unreal world. There’s so much power. So much prestige. Everything’s moving so fast. The cops are so much in awe of the candidate and his party.”
“Yeah, but murder’s murder.”
“Listen, Alston, a lady gets thrown off the motel roof right above the candidate’s room, right above where the press have their rooms. And in a half hour the mayor shows up and says to the highest-ranking member of the campaign he can get close to something like, ‘Now, don’t let my cops bother you.’ And he says to the press, ‘Please don’t besmirch the image of my city by making a big national story of this purely local, unfortunate incident.’”
“Yeah, but Wheeler. What does the candidate himself say?”
“He shrugs and says, ‘There are sirens everywhere I go. I’m a walking police emergency.’”
“And Walsh?”
“Walsh says, ‘A local matter. We’ll be gone by morning.’”
“Taking the murderer with you. Is that what you think?”
“I’m trying to get the governor to permit an investigation. He’s convinced the investigation would become the story of the campaign, and ruin his chances for the presidency.”
“So ol’ Fletch, boy investigative reporter who took an early retirement somehow, is investigating all by himself.”
“My hands are tied. I can’t go around asking the who-what-where-when-why questions. If I did that, I’d find myself with an airplane ticket home in about ten minutes.”
“But you’re in there trying, right?”
“Subtly, yes. I’m trying to get to know these people. Besides Walsh, I really only know a couple: Fredericka Arbuthnot, Roy Filby—”
“You’d better hurry up. Two murders in a pattern usually mean a third, a fourth …”
“I’m doin’ my best, Mr. Persecutor. It’s like trying to put out a fire in a circus tent, you know? I can’t get anybody to admit there is a fire.”
“When I started trying to get you on the phone, Fletch, my intention was to congratulate you on your new job. By the time you answered the phone, I was saying to myself, ‘What’s the barefoot boy with cheek doin’ explaining the establishment to us peasants?’”
“I like Caxton Wheeler. I want to solve this damned thing.”
“What does he want to be President for anyway? If I had his wife’s money, I’d buy a whole country for myself.”
“A campaign sure looks different from the inside. On the outside it’s all charm and smiles and positive statements. On the inside, it’s all tension, arguments—”
“And murder?”
“In this case, yes.”
“Sometime, when you’re talking to Walsh, ask him why he left us so suddenly. I’ve always been curious about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember? After we spent those three days tied to the tops of the trees like cuckoo birds, a few days after we got back to base camp, Lieutenant Wheeler suddenly went home.”
“He got sent stateside.”
“I know. But how and why? It wasn’t time for him to get rowed home. We all knew that.”
“How? Because his dad had political pull. Why? Because his dad had political pull. What’s the mystery? Walsh didn’t have to be in the front lines at all. His dad was a congressman.”
“We never knew what happened to Lieutenant Wheeler.”
“He had seen enough action.”
“We all had.”
“Alston, at that point any one of us would have pulled strings to get out of there. If we had strings. You know it. Our dads weren’t politicians.”
“With rich wives.”
“So tell me about yourself. How do you like being chief persecutor?”
“In California, Fletch, we call ourselves prosecutors. And I’m not chief.”
“Sent any woe-begones to jail lately?”
“Two yesterday. No outstanding warrants on you, though. I check first thing every morning.”
“Haven’t been in California lately.”
“Well, if you ever really get to be a member of the establishment, Fletch, come on back. California can always use a few more people who wear suits.”
The two-hundred-year-old man from room service apologized for being so slow, telling Fletch the hotel was full of reporters following the campaign of “that Caxton Wheeler. Sure wish he’d get elected. Got a cousin named Caxton. First name, too.”
“Hello, Freddie?” Fletch had picked up the phone before the man from room service was fully through the door.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Dammit, Freddie.”
“Oh, hello, dammit.”
“I’m calling to tell you your sandwich is ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to be eaten.”
“So eat it.”
“Dammit, Freddie, you used to be a nice, aggressive woman.”
“Aggressive toward a sandwich?”
“Toward me! I’m not a sandwich! What happened?”
“Your job happened.”
“You don’t like my job? Neither do I.”
“Fletcher, what would you think of a journalist who became too friendly with the press representative of a presidential candidate, upon whose campaign she’s reporting?”
“Oh.”
“What would you think?”
“Not much.”
“You mean plenty, but not good.”
“Gee, it’s lonely here at the top.”
“See? We agree on something.”
“I’ll quit! I’ll quit right now! I’ve been looking for an excuse.”
“What excuse have you got?”
“Wasting food, obviously. Can’t waste this good sandwich. Think of all the starving children in Beverly Hills with nothing to eat but Sweet Wheat.”
“Good night, Fletch. Sweet dreams.”
“Aw….”
Fletch first ate one sandwich, and then the other, and drank the whole bottle of milk.
His phone rang continuously. Members of the press from around the world were calling him, asking for background to and interpretation of Caxton Wheeler’s Winslow speech. Through mouthfuls of ham and chicken and bacon and lettuce and tomato and mayonnaise, Fletch said again and again that there was no background to the governor’s speech; that the speech said exactly what it said, no more, no less.
The phone rang while he washed. It rang while he was putting on his shoes, his shirt, and his jacket.
It was ringing when he left the room.
“It’s none of my business, but—”
“You’re right,” Bill Dieckmann snapped. Sitting at the bar, he didn’t even look up from his beer.
“Just wondering if I can help.” The bartender brought Fletch a beer. “Does whatever happened to you on the bus today happen often?”
“None of your business.”
“Have you been to a doctor about it?”
“None of your business.”
“Agreed,” Fletch said. “Let me know if ever I can be of help.” He looked around the bar. All motel bars are interchangeable, too. Even the people in them are interchangeable: the morose, lonely businessmen, the keyed-up, long-haul truck drivers, the few locals who are there solely for the booze. “Where is everyone?” Fletch asked. There were only a few campaign types in the bar.
“In their rooms, I guess,” Bill answered. “Not getting anything to eat. At the mayor’s dinner, not getting anything to eat. Betsy is at the 4-H Club dinner, trailing Walsh. She’s probably getting something to eat. Solov’s in his room, watching cable television.” Bill grinned. “He’s not getting anything to eat, either.”
“Does that guy ever take off his overcoat?” Fletch asked.
“No, no. He was born in it. You can tell he grew up inside it. Each time
Pravda
sends him out of the country his managing editor just moves the buttons for him.”
“Time they moved the buttons again.”
Dr. Thom entered. He put his black bag on the bar beside Fletch.
“Here’s a doctor now,” Fletch said brightly.
“Best bedside manner in the country,” Bill said. “If you don’t have a temperature when Dr. Thom arrives, you will when he leaves. Good for business, right, Doc?”
“Journalists,” Dr. Thom said. “If any journalist ever spoke well of me, I’d instantly overdose on a purgative.”
“Looks like you already have,” Bill said.
“It’s a medical fact,” Dr. Thom said to Fletch, “that all journalists are born with congenital diarrhea. Double Scotch, no ice,” he said to the bartender.
“I’m a journalist,” Fletch said.
“I trust you vacated yourself before you entered the bar.”
“Mr. Fletcher?” A woman was standing at Fletch’s elbow.
“At least a journalist has to empty himself,” Bill Dieckmann burped. “Doctors are born vacuous, and vacuous they remain.”
“Yes?” Fletch had turned to the woman.
“Are you Mr. Fletcher?”
“Yes. But you can call me Mr. Jones.”
“If only,” Dr. Thom intoned ever so slowly, “journalists would vacate themselves privately.”
“I’m Judy Nadich,” the woman said. “Feature writer for
Farming-dale Views
.”
“Great stuff you’re writing,” Fletch said. And then laughed. “I’m sure.”
Judy grinned. “You liked my last piece? On how to repair cracked teacups?”
“Thought it was great,” Fletch laughed. “Read it several times.”
“I knew that one would get national attention,” Judy said.
“Sure,” Fletch said. “Everyone’s got cracked teacups.”
“Hey,” Judy said. “Seriously. I’m trying to get an interview with Doris Wheeler.”
“I think you’re supposed to see Ms Sullivan about that.”