Fletch and the Man Who

“No.”

“They can make up stories about you. Deflect from the candidate. After these stupid, high-energy primaries are over, you’ll be used as the scapegoat. You’ll be what’s wrong with the campaign. You’ll be gotten rid of as a concession to the press, an answer for everything that’s wrong. Then they’ll march the professionals in. You think I don’t know what I’m talking about?” Fletch was eating and listening, not registering surprise to the degree Ira Lapin wanted. “They have one ready. You ever hear of Graham Kidwell? He’s already on the campaign as media consultant. I’ll bet you this piece of toast, what’s left of it, Wheeler’s already talked with him this morning, maybe twice. Kidwell is sitting in a big Washington office, partner in a rich public relations firm, primed for the job of press secretary to the President of the United States. You think you’re going to the White House? Think again. I’ve seen it before. ‘A presidential campaign is a crusade of amateurs.’ Where did he get that? Some amateur. Caxton Wheeler’s an amateur like a Georgetown madame. And his wife, the dragon lady. She could make the finals in any contest you happened to run. Including mud wrestling. During the primary campaigns, in all these rinky little towns, a good campaigner wants to give the impression of amateurism. Makes the campaign seem more real. More like a people’s movement. Gets the volunteers out, the bucks up. The people see the fumbling around, say, ‘Gee, I can help,’ throw down their shovels and golf clubs, and go to work for the candidate. Later, only professionalism sells. Then the image of competence is needed. So right now, in this road show, you’re the lead amateur.” Ira drained his teacup. “Thought I’d let you know.”

“Thanks,” Fletch said cheerily enough. “I expect you’re right.”

“No probably about it. I know I’m right. Campaigns at first need idealism and youth. Once the primaries are won, cynicism takes over and idealism gets a bus ticket home. You don’t mind being used?”

“Everybody gets used,” Fletch said. “Depends on what you get used for.”

“Idealism,” scoffed Ira Lapin. “Idealism goes home on a bus.” Ira poured the last drops from his teapot into his coffee cup. “I feel sick.”

“You don’t look well.”

“What I need is some coffee.” He signaled the waitress. “I should contribute to the population explosion?” The waitress came over and he ordered a pot of coffee. Then he said to Fletch: “You know my wife was murdered.”

“No. My God. When?”

“Two years, five months ago. A block from our apartment in Washington. Stabbed by a mugger.”

“Stabbed to death?”

“She was stabbed. Would you believe it was hitting her head on a stone step when she fell down that killed her? Stone steps leading to a house.”

Fletch shook his head. “How do you accept a thing like that?”

“You don’t. You don’t accept it. You don’t think about it. You just leave it out there somewhere, like a part of town you never visit. You put the anger, the rage, the fury in another part of town, and you never visit it.” The waitress brought the pot of coffee and a fresh cup and saucer for Ira. “Thank you,” he said to her. “You’re killing me.” He poured the coffee slowly into his cup. “I was in Vienna with the President when I got the cable. Did you ever see a piece of paper you couldn’t believe at all? I mean, no matter how many times you read it, it just sits there like an impossible lie? I don’t even remember the trip home. I remember Marty Nolan of the Boston Globe packing my bags for me.”

“Any kids?”

“Grown. They were devastated. Who was their mother to get stabbed? A nice little person.”

“Did they ever catch the guy who did it?”

“A man was seen running away carrying a purse. Maybe she had fifty dollars in the purse. I doubt that much. He didn’t steal the new tablecloth she had just bought. The whole thing was unnecessary. We already had a tablecloth.”

“I dunno,” Fletch said. “I’m real sorry for you, man.”

“It’s not that.” Ira waved his hand in front of his face. “It’s just that every time I hear of one of these murders—women getting killed—just stirs the whole thing up again.”

“Sure.”

“Jeez. You can’t come down to breakfast without hearing about some woman getting killed down the corridor.”

“What do you mean?” Fletch asked.

“You didn’t hear? Some reporter you must have been. A chambermaid got killed last night. Strangled.”

“In this hotel?”

“Yeah. The kitchen help found her when they came in this morning. At four o’clock. In a service elevator. Two nights ago was it?—a woman gets pushed off the roof of the motel we were in. I don’t know. We go through this whole election process as if we were civilized human beings. What good does it do? It’s just a big pretense that we’re civilized.”

Fletch wanted to say, Wait a minute….

“What’s the matter with you?” Ira asked. “Now you look sick. What happened to your tan? Didn’t know it was the kind you could rub off. Better take some of my coffee.”

“No. Thanks.”

“Take it. You look like your heart just sat down and took off its shoes.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure. Have some coffee. No good for me anyway. My doctor says it makes me nervous.”

24

“You all right, Fletch?” Betsy Ginsberg asked. She was standing in the hotel lobby outside the coffee shop.

“Sure.”

“You look white.”

“Just saw Paul Szep’s editorial cartoon.” In fact, he had. Roy Filby had showed it to him at the coffee shop’s cash register. “So how do you like Walsh,” Fletch tried to ask easily, “now that you know him?”

Michael J. Hanrahan went by into the coffee shop. He grinned/grimaced at Fletch and held up three fingers.

Fletch ignored him.

Betsy returned the question. “What do you really think of Walsh?”

“He’s a cool guy,” Fletch answered. “Forgiving, reassuring, absolutely competent. Totally in control.”

“I don’t know,” Betsy said.

“So he didn’t fall all over you,” Fletch said. “Think of the position he’s in.”

The Man Who was getting off the elevator. The eyes of everyone in the lobby were attracted to him. He was smiling.

People intercepted him as he crossed the lobby. Several had children by the hands. A few snapped pictures of The Man Who, as if the world were not being nearly saturated with pictures of him. The Man Who was shaking hands, listening briefly, speaking briefly, as he came across the lobby. He patted some of the children on their heads. He did not take coins from their ears.

Fletch walked close beside him. Quietly he said, “We’ve got to talk. Privately. Soon.”

“Sure,” the governor said. “What’s up?”

Into the governor’s ear, Fletch said, “Ira Lapin tells me another young woman has been murdered.”

The governor reached through the mob, went out of his way to shake a bellman’s hand.

With his public grin on his face, the governor spoke almost through his teeth. “Two people in the United States are murdered every hour, Fletch. Didn’t you know that?”

“Talk,” Fletch said.

“Sure, sure.”

25