Fletch and the Man Who

beckoning at Fletch.

To Betsy, Fletch said, “I have a question for you, okay?”

“The answer is yes,” she said. “Anytime. You don’t even have to bring a bottle of wine.”

Andrew Esty, fingering his Daily Gospel button, was glaring at Betsy Ginsberg. He had given up glaring at Roy Filby.

“Later,” Fletch said to Betsy.

Roy Filby said to Fletch, “Marvelous, the issues the press dreams up for itself, isn’t it?”

Fletch stepped around Esty and went down the aisle to Fenella Baker.

“Two or three questions,” she said busily. “First is, did you save the life of Walsh Wheeler while you were in the service together?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What is your relationship with Walsh Wheeler?”

“We were in the service together. He was my lieutenant.”

“People do make up stories,” she said.

“Don’t they just?”

“Have you been close friends ever since?”

“No, ma’am. Last time I saw Walsh was at a football game more than a year ago.”

“Were you surprised when you were asked to take on the job of press rep. on this campaign?”

“It’s only temporary,” Fletch decided. “Until they can find someone with more experience. I’m not worth writing about.”

“I agree,” she said. “I do hope they find someone who can spell.”

Fletch too wondered why Fenella Baker’s face didn’t itch. Surely some of that powder had been on it since the days of Jimmy Carter.

“Now about this Shields woman—”

“Who?”

“The girl who was murdered last night.”

“Was her name Shields?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“I saw your report on it in the newspaper this morning. Great piece.”

“I didn’t write on it this morning, mister.”

“Oh yeah. You did a think-piece on the hockey riot.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I must be. I’m here.”

“I wouldn’t have written on the Shields murder this morning. It isn’t a story yet.”

“It isn’t?”

“It’s not a national story until some connection is made between the girl and the campaign.”

“Oh. I see.”

“What is the connection between the girl and the campaign?”

On a seat at the rear of the bus, Michael J. Hanrahan appeared to be asleep. His head lolled back on a cushion. His jaw was slack. While Fletch watched, Hanrahan lifted a whiskey pint to his lips and poured down two swallows. He did so without opening his eyes or changing the position of his head.

“What girl?” Fletch asked.

“Next you’re going to ask me, ‘What campaign?’ Are you stupid as well as crazy?”

“I’m trying to follow you, Miss Baker, Apples and bananas—”

“Add up to fruit.”

“—make mush.”

“Someone said she had been traveling with someone on the campaign. Now, who was it?”

“News to me.”

Lansing Sayer, standing in the aisle, touched Fletch on the waist.

Fletch stood straight and turned around. “Are you rescuing me?”

Sayer too turned his back to Fenella Baker. “Fenella,” he said, working his mustache histrionically, “is the original eighty-pound bully.”

“Great stuff you’re writing, Mr. Sayer,” Fletch said.

“Want to warn you, ol’ boy. Your man is going to be attacked on the so-called welfare shambles in his state. Incidents of people committing welfare fraud.”

“When?”

“As soon as he gets back up over thirty percent in the national polls.”

“Thank you.”

In his seat forward in the bus, Bill Dieckmann was doubled over in pain. Eyes squeezed closed, he held his head in both hands. His white skin glistened with sweat.

Going forward in the aisle, Fletch leaned over and whispered to Freddie, “Do you know what’s wrong with Bill Dieckmann?”

Freddie craned her neck to see him. “He does that.”

“Does what?”

“Suffers terrible pain. He even whimpers. I think he blacks out sometimes. I mean, I think there are times he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Fletch watched him from where he stood. “Isn’t there anything we can do for him?”

“Guess not.”

Fletch looked forward and aft. “This bus is full of loonies.”

“Pressures of the campaign,” Freddie said. She continued reading Jay Daly’s Walls.

Fletch put his hand on Dieckmann’s shoulder. “You going to be all right, Bill?” Dieckmann looked up at him with wet eyes. “Want me to stop the bus? Get Dr. Thom?”

With both hands, Dieckmann squeezed his head tighter. “No.”

“I will, if you want. What’s the matter?”

Eyes squeezed closed again, rocking forward and back in his seat, Dieckmann said in a hoarse whisper, “Leave me alone.”

“You sure?”

Dieckmann didn’t answer. He suffered.

“Okay,” Fletch said. “If you say so.”

He went back up the aisle to where Betsy was sitting. She was reading Justin Kaplan’s Walt Whitman.

He bent over her and spoke quietly. “Someone said he saw you having breakfast a few days ago with the girl who was murdered last night.”

“That’s right. I did. The breakfast room was filled. People were waiting. The hostess seated us together. Two single women.”

“Did you talk?”

“Sure. Civilities over toast.”

“You’re a reporter, Betsy. I suspect you found out one or two things about her.”

“Not really.”

“Like not-really what?”

“She was an ordinary, nice person. She’d been working as a sales clerk in a store in Chicago. Mason’s, I think, mostly in the bookshop.”

“Is that all?”

“She liked to read; said she read three or four books a week. Asked me if I’d read certain people, such as Antonia White, William Maxwell, Jean Rhys, Juan Alonzo. She said Saul Bellow once came up to her counter and asked her for something, some book they didn’t have, and he was very courteous about it. She recommended Antonia White’s Frost in May in particular because, she said, she had gone through parochial schools in Chicago. A Catholic high school; I think she said Saint Mary Margaret’s.”