“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.
19
“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
“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.
