presidential candidate?”
“The way I play tennis—”
“Listen—”
“Wait a minute. Wasn’t she also raising money for the campaign playing tennis? Badly needed money?”
“I said: we had already arranged for her to play tennis two days later. She didn’t even cancel the burn center. Just got in the car and went to play tennis. Look what happened. The nurses got all the kids into their wheelchairs, their roll-beds, into this special reception room. Photographers were there, reporters. The bitch never showed up. You realize the pain she caused? You don’t move kids with burns, and then go play
“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.
“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
“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
“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.”
