“Oh, you know. The governor’s life.” Flash looked directly at Fletch. “His disappearances.”
Fletch knew he was being handed a line of inquiry. “He disappears? What do you mean, he disappears?”
“His fishing trips. Sometimes they’re called that. He doesn’t know anything about fishing. So they call them hunting trips. The governor wouldn’t shoot a rabbit if he was starving. You know.” Flash smiled. “The trips the governor takes with those prostitutes he hires. His week-long sex orgies. You know about them. His drunken benders. He spends them in the mob’s hideaways.”
Fletch felt a sudden chill. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Everybody knows.” Flash grinned. “All the press. His drunken benders. He goes to consult with the mob. Sometimes they supply him all the women he wants. He disappears for days at a time. Everybody knows that. I go with him.”
“The governor can’t just disappear.”
“He does as governor. He did as congressman. He’s always done it. A few days at a time.”
“Nuts. The governor just can’t disappear. Be too easy to follow him.”
“Impossible to follow him. He sees to that. I see to that. Trick is, there is no clue as to when it’s going to happen. In the middle of the night, two or three in the morning, he rings my phone over the garage and says, ‘Time to go, Flash.’ I say, ‘Yes, sir,’ get the car out, and he’s waiting by the back door. Once he even excused himself from a University Board of Governors meeting to go to the bathroom, see? And came out to me in the car and said, ‘Time to go, Flash.’ I always know what he means.”
“And the press knows about this?”
“The great untold story. They don’t dare report it, because they don’t know what to report. Nobody can get any evidence. Am I saying that right? Nobody can get any evidence as to where he goes on these trips, or what he does. I’m the only one who knows.” Flash sucked on his beer.
“Am I supposed to ask?”
“Governor had a girl friend, before he ever married. Barbara some-thing-or-other. She was a designer of some kind—hats or clothes or something. I guess she had this cabin from her father. Inherited it from him. She and the governor used to spend time there, a long time ago, when they were kids, their early twenties, when he was in law school, I guess. She died. She left it to him. I guess it wasn’t a sudden death. They knew she was going to die. No one has ever known he owns this cabin. Big secret of his life.”
“So when he disappears he goes to this cabin? Alone?”
“I go with him. I know every route in and out of that place, east, north, south, and west. Every timber road. I could drive to that place blindfolded. And no one has ever succeeded in following me.”
“You’re talking about a cabin over thirty years old.”
“Older than that. A lot older than that. It really rots. Rickety. Wet, cold. Falling apart. I try to do a few things when I’m there, keep it propped up. He never notices. Roof leaks. Fireplace smokes. Pipes are rotted. I bring water up in buckets from the lake. No real work has been done on it in over thirty years. I can’t do much. What do I know? I’m a city kid.”
Fletch watched the governor’s driver-valet without saying anything.
Flash sat forward. “And you know what he does when he gets there? No broads, no booze. No mobsters. Just me. There’s a picture of this girl, Barbara, on the bureau in the bedroom.”
“Is she beautiful?”
Flash shrugged. “Not especially. She looks like a nice lady. Nice smile.”
“So what does he do?”
“He goes to bed. He sleeps. He goes on a sleep orgy. We get there, immediately he goes to bed. It’s a big, soft bed, usually a little damp. He never seems to mind the damp. I try to air out the little bed in the other room. He sleeps fifteen, sixteen hours. When he wakes up I bring food to him. Steak and eggs. Always steak and eggs. There’s a phone, still listed in her name, I think, Barbara’s name, after thirty years, if you’d believe it. What does the telephone company care? The bill gets paid. And he’ll phone his secretary and maybe the lieutenant governor, and his wife, and maybe Walsh; do a little business, see that everything’s all right. Then he’ll go back to sleep. He doesn’t even take a walk. Spends no energy at all. He’s like a bear. Hibernates a few days. In all my years of doin’ this with him, he’s never gone down to the lake. He’s never seen the outside of the cabin, except goin’ in and comin’ out, and that’s usually in the dark. I don’t think he even knows what a shambles it is.”
“Flash, does he take pills to sleep so much?”
“No. Steak and eggs. Water from the lake. I’ve never even seen an aspirin bottle at the cabin. He just sleeps. Fifteen, sixteen hours at first. Then eight hours. Then like twelve hours. There are some old books in the cabin— Ellery Queen, S.S. van Dyne. He reads them sometimes, in bed. Never seems to finish them.”
“You mean, his wife doesn’t know about this?”
“Nobody does.”
“When he calls them, where does he say he is?”
“He doesn’t say. He’s been doing this a long time. I know what they think. They think he’s with some woman. In a way, maybe he is. The governor’s out of town, they say. Private trip. Most of the press would give their left arms to know where the governor goes. I’ve been offered quite a lot.”
“I bet you have.”
“Until they know something, they can’t report anything. Right?”
“Right. Did James know about this?”
“Nope. He used to get pretty mad about it sometimes. Yell at the governor. James saw some kind of danger in it. He’d say, ‘Some day you’re gonna get caught, Caxton, and then it will blow up in all of our faces.’”
“And what would the governor say?”
“Nothing. James was pretty smart. He played every trick in the book to get me to tell him where the governor goes, what he does. I don’t know much, Mr. Fletcher, but what I know I shut up about.”
“Flash, what’s the big secret about this? If it’s so innocent, if all the guy does is sleep—”
“I don’t know. Maybe it shows he’s human. What’s the word? Vulnerable. He doesn’t have all the energy in the world. He needs sleep. Maybe he’s ashamed of it. Maybe it’s because this woman was involved. Is involved.”
“Maybe it’s just because it’s an eccentric thing to do.”
“It’s been goin’ on a long time. As long as I’ve known him. That’s how secrets begin, isn’t it? At first you don’t say nothin’, and after a while you find you
“Then what happens?”
“After three, four days of this, sometimes five, he gets up, gets dressed, says, ‘Time to go home, Flash,’ we get in the car and go back to the mansion.”
“He never says where he was.”
“He says he was away. Only once there was some crisis, some vote that had to be taken. I guess he miscalculated, things moved faster than he expected, we had to come back earlier than he wanted to.”
“How often does he do this?”
“Three, four times a year.”
“Sounds pretty boring for you.”
“Oh, no. I like looking at the lake. I keep sweaters up there, you know, and a big down jacket. It’s quiet. I talk to the birds. I chirp back at them. You can get a real conversation going with the birds, if you really try. I like helping out the chipmunks.”
Fletch gave this big, ex-boxer a long look. “How do you help out a chipmunk?”
“The place is so rotten. There’s a stone wall under the cabin, a foundation, and then another between the cabin and the lake. The chipmunks live in the walls. They come in and out. The walls keep fallen down, blockin’ up their doors. I move the big rocks for them. And I find nuts and leave them outside their doors for them. It’s easier for me to find nuts than it is for them.” The man said sincerely, “I can carry more nuts than a chipmunk can.”
“Sure,” said Fletch, “but do they thank you?”
“They take the nuts inside the walls. I think they do. They go somewhere.” Fletch said nothing. “Why shouldn’t I help them out?” Flash Grasselli asked reasonably. “I’m bigger than they are.”
