telecasts, and presidential candidates.
The bedside phone rang. Fletch said into the phone: “Knew you’d change your mind. Ordered you a club sandwich.”
A man’s voice said: “Nice of you. Can you have it sent to Iowa?”
“I suppose so,” agreed Fletch. “But who’s in Iowa?”
“I am,” the man’s voice said. “Rondoll James.”
Fletch sat up on the bed. “I. M. Fletcher, Mr. James.”
“Call me James, please. My parents spotted me with a first name no one’s ever spelled right—Rondoll, you know? like nothing else you can think of—so early on I gave it back to the Registry of Births.”
“I know the problem.”
“No one ever spelled your first name right either?”
“Everyone did. You want your job back?”
“Not right away. I’m in Iowa for the funeral of Vic Robbins.”
“He died in Pennsylvania.”
“His home is in Iowa. His body’s being flown here tonight.”
“You good friends?”
“The best. Vic taught me much over the years. Who wrote Caxton’s remarks on Vic’s death? Walsh?”
“Yeah. The governor was in a factory when we got the news.”
“The statement would have been a hell of a lot warmer, if I had been there. Sometimes these guys forget who really runs American politics. So how do you like my job?”
“I’m not very good at it.”
“Hey, you got the lead on all the network news shows tonight. Not bad, first day.”
“Yeah, but didn’t the story do more harm than good?”
“Get the space, baby. Get the network time and the newspaper space. Builds familiarity. Recognition of the candidate, you know? What the candidate is actually saying or doing is of secondary importance, you know?”
“Did anything like what he was saying come across to the people, James, do you think?”
“I’m not sure. He said technology is tying us together, integrating us, maybe making us more sensitive to each other, maybe even increasing the sense of responsibility for each other. That about it?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Wonderful part of it was, I was sitting in an airport bar about a thousand miles away from where he was saying it, and I heard him and saw him say it. Sort of proves his point, don’t you think?”
“What did other people in the bar think of it?”
“Not much. One guy said, ‘There’s ol’ Caxton spouting off again. Why doesn’t he tell me where my wife can get a job?’ Gin drinker. The bartender? Typical. No good bartender ever takes sides. Costs him tips.”
“Guess it’ll be a day or two before anyone digests what the governor was trying to say.”
“Longer than that, I. M., longer than that. Something ol’ Vic taught me, and it’s always proved to be true: statesmanship has no place on a political campaign. A campaign is punch and duck, punch and duck. Fast footwork, you know? Always smiling. The voters want to see fast action. Their attention won’t hold for anything more. From day to day, give ’em happy film, and short, reassuring statements. If you really try to say anything, really ask them to stop and think, they’ll hate you for it. They can’t think, you know? Being asked makes us feel inferior. We don’t like to feel inferior to our candidates. Against the democratic ideal, you know? The candidate’s just got to keep giving the impression he’s a man of the people—no better than they are, just doin’ a different job. No one is ever elected in this country on the basis of what he really thinks. The candidate is elected on the basis of thousands of different, comfortable small impressions, not one of which really asks the voters to think.”
“How about handing coins out to kids. Was that ‘comfortable’?” How did that come across?”
“Just fine.”
“Yes?”
“You bet. Anytime you can get psychiatrists on television speaking against your candidate, immediately your boy is up three percentage points in the popularity polls. Psychiatrists shrink people, you know? People resent being shrunk.”
“You’re making me feel better.”
“Don’t intend to, particularly. And it’s not why I’m calling. But as long as we’re talking, take this advice: any time you see ol’ Caxton looking like he’s about to say something profound, stick a glove in his mouth.”
“Appreciate the advice. Why are you calling?”
“Why, sir, to tell you how much I love Caxton Wheeler. And explain to you what I’ve done for him lately.”
“What have you done for him lately?”
“Put myself out of a job, thank you. If not out of a whole career. Sacrificed myself on the altar of Athena. Wasn’t she the goddess of war?”
“Oh, yeah: the broad standing in her backyard with a frying pan. Great statue. Seen it dozens of times, as a kid. The governor told me—”
“To hell with what Caxton told you. I’ll tell you.” Suddenly whatever James had imbibed in that airport bar became audible in his voice. “I’ve been with Caxton twenty-three years. I’ve been his eyes and his ears and his legs and his mouth for twenty-three years, night and day, weekends included.”
“I know.”
“I want you to know I love that man. I admire him and love him above all others. I know more about him than his wife, his son, anybody. He’s a good guy. I’d do anything for him, including sacrificing myself, which I just did.”
Fletch waited. Eulogies to a relationship never need encouragement from the listener.
James continued: “Caxton ought to be President of the United States. I believe that more than I believe I’m sitting here talking to you. But Doris Wheeler, in case you haven’t discovered it, is his weak spot. She’s horrible. There’s no other way to say it. Horrible. She has no more regard for people than a crocodile. If anything around her moves, she lashes at it and bites it, bites deep. She’s been lashin’ at Caxton, bitin’ him for thirty years now.”
“James, a husband and wife—not our business.”
“Not our business unless one of them is running for public office. Then it becomes our business. You ever hear her talk to a volunteer, or a chartered pilot?”
“Not yet.”
“Or a junior reporter, or to her son, or to Caxton himself?” Fletch didn’t answer.
“The word is bitch. Doris Wheeler is an absolute bitch. Sometimes I’ve been convinced the woman is insane. She becomes violent. She’s Caxton’s biggest liability, and he won’t admit it.”
“He knows something—”
“He won’t admit it. Always covering up for her. Over the years I’ve talked to him a thousand times, trying to get him to restrain the bitch. Even divorce her, get rid of her. He never listened to me. And she’s getting worse, with all this pressure of the campaign on her. I couldn’t keep covering up for her, I. M. I just couldn’t. You understand that?”
“Yeah.”
“I couldn’t cover up for her anymore. Stories were beginning to get out about the way she bullies the governor, the staff, everybody. The way everything either has to go her way, or else she’ll kick everybody in the crotch.
“The visit to the children’s burn center—”
“Was just one of a hundred things. She knew what she was doing. Walsh told her she had to go. Her own secretary, Sully, told her she had to go. Barry and Willy arranged another time for her to meet her friends for indoor tennis. She just walked off and played tennis.”
“Why?”
“Because she always knows best.”
“Yeah, but why? In this particular instance, so obviously stupid—”
“First, she’s convinced she can get away with anything. Whatever happens, it’s someone else’s fault. Second: vanity. Wouldn’t you love to appear among your old cronies, your peers, and play tennis with them as the wife of a
