Fletch and the Man Who

by Gregory Mcdonald

  Fletch shrugged. “I was available.”

  “Which means you were unemployed.”

  “Working on a book,” Fletch said.

  “On politics?”

  “On an American western artist. You know: Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior.”

  “Oh, yeah. Great stuff. But what’s that got to do with politics?”

  “Not much.”

  “You used to work for newspapers?”

  “A lot of them.” Fletch grinned. “One after another.”

  “Are you saying you weren’t successful as a journalist?”

  “Sometimes too successful. Depends on how you look at it.”

  The governor sat back and sighed. “A kid who looks like he belongs on a tennis court with an interest in cowboy art: as a politician’s press agent, you’re not a dream.”

  “Isn’t American politics a crusade of amateurs?”

  “Who said that?”

  “I did. I think.”

  “You’re wrong. But it has a nice ring to it.” Leaning over, the governor made a note on one of the papers on the coffee table. “See? You’re working already. Displaying talent as a phrasemaker.” He sat back and smiled. “That line might be worth thousands of dollars in contributions. You sure no one said it?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll say it. Then it will have been said.”

  “I thought you said the statement is wrong.”

  “I don’t qualify as an amateur. Elected to Congress twice, the governorship three times. But every new campaign is a starting over.” The governor flipped the pen onto the table. “Anyway, Walsh says you’re smart, resourceful, and willing to work cheap. Workin’ cheap doesn’t sound so smart to me.”

  “Then make me smarter,” Fletch said. “Pay me more. If it would make you happier. I don’t mind.”

  The governor chuckled. “Guess it’s time Walsh had a real pal somewhere in this campaign. All the pressure has been comin’ down on him. Hasn’t had a day off, an hour off, since I don’t know when. He’s got a much harder job than the one I’ve got. He does all the logistics: who goes where, when, why, says what to whom. My firing James last night didn’t make it any easier for him. Or me. You heard about all that, I suppose?”

  “Walsh told me something about it last night when he phoned. Read the press reports at the airport.”

  The governor’s face looked truly sad. “I knew James for twenty years. No: twenty-two, to be exact. Political reporter for the down-home newspaper. The newspaper that endorsed me for both Congress and the governorship. James was a personal advisor, a good one, totally honest. Even had Washington experience. I thought if I ever ran for President, he sure would be with me. To the end. Then he screwed up. Brother, did he ever screw up.”

  “The newspapers said he resigned over a policy dispute with you. Something about South Africa.”

  “The press was kind to us on that one. The policy dispute was not about South Africa. It was about Mrs. Wheeler.” The governor took a deep breath. “The first incident wasn’t so important. I was able to get people to laugh it off. He mentioned to some reporters in the bar that Mrs. Wheeler spends two and a half hours each and every morning getting up and putting on her face.”

  “Does she?”

  “No. She spends time making herself beautiful, of course. Every woman does. It’s damned hard on a woman, living out of suitcases, going from motel to motel, making public appearances all day, damned near all night. She always looks nice. Anyway, the newspapers reported it.”

  “It was reported with a vengeance.”

  “Made her look like a very superficial, self-indulgent woman. I turned it into a joke, saying that’s why we had to have two bathrooms on the second floor of the governor’s mansion. I said that on the road I’m apt to spend two hours every morning just trying to find my razor.”

  “Yeah, that was good.”

  “It was just this week that James really screwed up. It was in the newspapers yesterday. He told the press Mrs. Wheeler canceled—at the last minute, mind you—a visit to the Children’s Burn Center so she could play indoor tennis with three rich old lady friends.”

  “True?”

  “Look—what does Walsh call you, Fletch?—she made time to play tennis with some friends she hadn’t seen in years, wives of some influential fat cats around this state, who would never have forgiven her if she didn’t make time for them. She raised some badly needed money for this campaign.”

  “Schedule conflicts must happen all the time.”

  “You bet. And it’s the press representative’s job to shag a foul ball like that, not pitch it to the press. I’m convinced James went out of his way to make sure the press got the wrong slant on that story.”

  “Yeah, but why would he do that?”

  “God knows. He’s not the world’s greatest admirer of my wife. They’ve had a few disagreements over the years. But liking people has nothing to do with politics. In this life, if you stay with only people you like, the normal person would have to move every ten days. Politics is advantageous loyalty, son. Loyalty is what you buy, with every word out of your mouth; loyalty is what you sell, with every choice you make. And when you sell loyalty, you’d better make sure your choice is to your own advantage. James sold out twenty-two years of loyalty to me for the dubious twelve-hour pleasure of embarrassing my wife in public.”

  Listening, Fletch had wandered to every part of the living room. The governor’s shoes were not anywhere in the room.

  “If Mrs. Wheeler had to cancel an appointment, she had to cancel an appointment, and that’s all there is to it. If you don’t know what our daily schedule looks like, feels like yet, you will within a few days.” The governor lowered his voice. “If you stay with us, that is.”

  “I understand.”

  “What do you understand?”

  “I understand the job of press secretary is to keep paintin’ the picket fence around the main house. Just keep paintin’ it. Whatever’s goin’ on inside, the outside is to look pretty.”

  The governor smiled. “The question is, Mr. I. M. Fletcher …” The governor took a cigar stub from the pocket of his robe and lit it. “By the way, what does I.M. stand for?”

  “Irwin Maurice.”

  “No wonder you choose to be called Fletch. The question is, Mr. Irwin Maurice ‘Fletch’ Fletcher—have I got it all right?”

  “Tough on the tongue, isn’t it?”

  “The question is”—the governor brushed tobacco off a lower tooth —“what do you believe in?”

  “You,” Fletch said with alacrity. “And your wife. And your campaign. Is that the answer you want?”

  “Not bad.” The governor squinted at him over the cigar smoke. “For a start. Why do you want to work on this campaign?”

  “Because Walsh asked me. He said you need me.”

  “And you were between jobs …”

  “Working on a book.”

  “You got the money to take time off and work on a book?”

  “Enough.”

  “Where’d you get the money?”

  “You can save a lot of money by not smoking.”

  “What do you think of my domestic policy?”

  “Needs refining.”

  “What do you think of my foreign policy?”

  “Needs a few good ideas.”

  The governor’s grin was like seeing a chasm open in the earth. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You’re an idealist. You mean to be a good influence on me.”

  “Maybe.”

  The governor looked at him sharply and seemed to be serious when he asked: “And do you have any good ideas?”

  “Just one, for now.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “To be loyal to you.” Fletch grinned. “Until I get a better offer. Isn’t that what you just said politics is all about?”

  Scraping the ash off his cigar onto a tray, the governor said, “You learn fast enough. . . .”

  4


  “Where’s Dr. Thom?”

  “Coming right up.”

  “I want to go to sleep.”

  Walsh Wheeler had entered his father’s suite without knocking. Fletch saw that Walsh knew the door was unlocked.

  In the living room, Walsh handed his father a piece of paper from the top of the sheaf he was carrying. “Here’s your schedule for tomorrow.”

  The governor dropped the paper on the table without looking at it.

  Walsh handed Fletch two sheets of paper, one from the top of the pile, one from the bottom. “Here’s Dad’s schedule for tomorrow… and Mother’s schedule for tomorrow. Have these copied and under the door of every member of the press by six in the morning. All the press are on the eighth floor of this motel.”

  “Is there no one on the eighth floor but members of the press?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. No reason why you shouldn’t deliver to every door on the eighth floor. We’re not trying to keep Dad’s whereabouts a secret. Leave some downstairs on the reception desk, too. And have some on you to hand out to the local press.” Walsh poured out two Scotches with soda and handed one to Fletch. “Oh, yeah. At the back of the campaign bus there’s a copying machine. For your use and your use alone.” Walsh smiled at his father. “James’s first major press announcement was that if any member of the press touched his copying machine, James would disarm him or her—literally.” Walsh sipped his drink. “Maybe you should make the same announcement.”

  “Don’t tell Fletch to do anything the way ol’ James did it. One thing might lead to another.”

  “A copying machine and a quick wit,” Walsh said. “That’s all you need to be a press representative, right?”

  “He’s got a quick wit,” the governor said. “He makes me laugh.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Walsh sat next to the best reading lamp. He made himself look comfortable, legs crossed, drink in hand, papers in lap. “How do you guys like each other so far?”

  The governor looked at Fletch and Fletch looked at the governor.

  “Don’t know how the press will accept him,” the governor said. “Fletch looks like breakfast to someone with a hangover.”

  Smiling, Walsh looked up at Fletch. “What do you think, Fletch?”

  “Well,” Fletch drawled, “I think Governor Caxton Wheeler can get this country moving again.”

  “I believe it!” Walsh laughed.

  “I’ll say one thing,” the governor chuckled. “There’s been so much cow dung on the floor since he came into the room, I had to take off my store-bought shoes!”

  Fletch looked from one to the other. “Where are your shoes?” he asked.

  Father and son continued their moment of easy, genuine admiration, love for each other, enjoyment in each other.

  Fletch sat down.

  “Okay, Dad, let’s go over your schedule for tomorrow, just quickly. We’ve only got a few days before the primary in this state. We’ve got a real chance to win, but we haven’t won yet. Without killing you, we’ve got to make the best use of your time.”

  Slowly, the governor sat up and took the schedule in his hands. He yawned. His cigar stub was burned out in the ashtray.

  “Seven forty-five,” Walsh said, “you’ll be at the main gate at the tire factory. These guys are worried about two things: foreign import of tires, of course; and they’re afraid their union bosses will call a strike sometime in April.”

  “Union boss name?” the governor asked.

  “Wohlman. By the way, Wohlman’s wife has just left him, and some of the membership say this is making him act meaner and tougher toward management than they want.”

  Dully, the governor said: “Oh.”

  “At eight-thirty, you’re having coffee with Wohlman, first name Bruce, and …”

  Only glancing at the items on the governor’s schedule for next day, Fletch listened. Walsh seemed the perfect aide. He had the answers to most questions the governor asked. “Where’s breakfast?” “There will be a breakfast box on the bus.” He made notes to get the answers he did not know. “How far does a farm family have to go to get to a medical facility ’round there?” “I’ll find out.” Walsh did not balk at taking anything on himself. And he was not insistent, but gently urging when the governor began to balk. “Why am I at Conroy School at ten o’clock? I keep telling you, Walsh, ten-year-olds don’t vote. Isn’t there some better use of my time this close to the primary?” “Their parents do, Dad, and so do the teachers, and all their relatives. And they’re all more interested in the future generation and education than they are in bank failures in Zaire. That’s what they’re living and working for.” “I’ll be late for the downtown rally in Winslow. Then I’ll have to do more I-couldn’t-find-my-toothbrush jokes.” “We’ll have a band playing until you get there.” Sitting on the divan, the governor seemed to get more old, fat, and tired as the session went on.

  Walsh, on the other hand, seemed to have attained some level of nirvana. His tone of voice did not alter. His speech pace, even with the governor’s interruptions, was consistent. His concentration was as steady as an athlete’s in midgame.

  Walsh had changed since his days in uniform, of course. He was heavier by twenty pounds; his hair was thinner. His skin was gray. There was something in Walsh’s eyes that had not been there before. Instead of being just ordinary human eyes, looking around casually, seeing and not seeing things, Walsh’s eyes now seemed overfocused, too bright, rather as if whatever he was looking at was getting his full concentration. Fletch wondered whether in fact Walsh was seeing anything.

  “If all goes well,” Walsh concluded, “we’ll have you at the hotel in Farmingdale by six. The mayor of Farmingdale is throwing a dinner for you. Well, he’s throwing a dinner for himself, a fund-raiser, but you’re the main attraction.”

  “What do I have to do the next morning?”

  “Thought you might like to catch up with the newspapers. Bed rest.”

  “Put a hospital visit in there,” the governor said. “Farmingdale must have a hospital. Special attention on any kids with burns.”

  “Yes, sir.” Walsh made a note.

  The governor rubbed his eyes. “Okay, Walsh. Anything else I’m supposed to know?”

  Walsh glanced at Fletch. “There’s something you’re not suppose to know.”

  The governor looked at each of them. “What am I not supposed to know?”

  “A girl jumped off the roof of this motel about an hour and a half ago.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How old?”

  “Twenties. They say.”

  “Damned shame.”

  “Apparently she jumped from the roof right over your windows.”

  The governor looked at Fletch. “So that’s why you showed up at my door tonight? Checked the balcony. The door.” He looked at Walsh. “Turned off the phone. You guys are working together already.”

  “People had been on your balcony,” Fletch said quietly. “Your front door was unlocked.”

  “You don’t know anything about it,” Walsh said.

  “In fact, I do,” the governor said. “I heard the sirens. Saw the ambulance lights flashing. How can I pretend it didn’t happen?”

  “I guess she actually jumped just as you were coming into the hotel.”

  “No one said she jumped,” Fletch said. “Someone told me the girl was naked and had been beaten before she hit the sidewalk.”

  “Anyone we know?” the governor asked.

  Walsh shrugged. “A political groupie, best I can find out.”

  “No.”

  “A political groupie?” asked Fletch.

  “Yeah,” Walsh said. “There are people who think political campaigns are fun. They follow the campaign—literally. They travel from town to town with the candidate’s party, try to get into the same hotels—generally just hang around. Women mostly, girls; but men too. Sometimes they turn into useful volunteers.”

  “Was this girl a volunte
er?” the governor asked.

  “No. Dr. Thom saw the body. Said he thinks she’s been with us less than a week. Never saw her doing anything for the campaign.”

  “Name?”

  “Don’t want you to know her name, Dad. When reporters ask you about her, I don’t want the expression on your face that you’d ever heard her name before.”

  “Okay. Can we do something nice? Send flowers—?”

  “Nothing, please. She was just someone who happened to be in the motel. Fletch has the job, as of right now, of denying this girl had anything to do with the campaign. And without making an issue of it.”

  Fletch said, “You said the woman had been trailing this campaign for almost a week.”

  Walsh said: “That’s the problem.”

  A thin man in an oversized sport coat, carrying a little black bag, entered the suite. He too did not knock.

  The governor said to him, “Want to go to sleep, Dr. Thom.”

  “Go to sleep you will,” said the doctor. “You’re not getting eight hours every night.”

  “I will tomorrow night,” the governor said. “If all goes well.”

  “Come on,” Walsh said to Fletch. “We’ve got one or more things to do.”

  As Walsh and Fletch were leaving the suite, Dr. Thom was saying, “You’ve got to get eight hours every night, Governor. Every night. If Walsh can’t work it out for you, we’ll have to get someone else to run your campaign.”

  “Listen, Bob. I got real tired around four o’clock today. Couldn’t think. Started repeating myself.”

  “Okay,” Dr. Thom said. “Okay. I’ll give you something after lunch tomorrow….”

  5

  “Got to leave Mother’s schedule in her suite for her,” Walsh said as they walked down the corridor. His jaw was particularly tight.

  “Does this Dr. Thom travel with the campaign?” Fletch asked.

  “Shut up.”

  The door to Suite 758 was unlocked. Walsh seemed to know it would be.

  They entered a suite identical to the one they had just left. The chips on the gold paint seemed identical. The painting of the ship was oil on canvas. Even the bottles on the bar seemed identical, with identical quantities missing.