“Yeah. What kind of a lieutenant was he?”
“Pretty good. He’d show up once in a while.”
The governor chuckled. “But not too much, eh?”
“He was okay. Let us do our jobs. Didn’t care about much else.”
“That’s my boy. Run a hands-off administration. Walsh thinks you’d be just right for this job.” The governor wrinkled his eyebrows. “Insisted you be flown in immediately. Wants me to announce first thing in the morning that you’re my new press secretary.”
Fletch shrugged. “I was available.”
“Which means you were unemployed.”
“Working on a book,” Fletch said.
“On politics?”
“On an American western artist. You know: Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior.”
“Oh, yeah. Great stuff. But what’s that got to do with politics?”
“Not much.”
“You used to work for newspapers?”
“A lot of them.” Fletch grinned. “One after another.”
“Are you saying you weren’t successful as a journalist?”
“Sometimes too successful. Depends on how you look at it.”
The governor sat back and sighed. “A kid who looks like he belongs on a tennis court with an interest in cowboy art: as a politician’s press agent, you’re not a dream.”
“Isn’t American politics a crusade of amateurs?”
“Who said that?”
“I did. I think.”
“You’re wrong. But it has a nice ring to it.” Leaning over, the governor made a note on one of the papers on the coffee table. “See? You’re working already. Displaying talent as a phrasemaker.” He sat back and smiled. “That line might be worth thousands of dollars in contributions. You sure no one said it?”
“No.”
“I’ll say it. Then it will have been said.”
“I thought you said the statement is wrong.”
“I don’t qualify as an amateur. Elected to Congress twice, the governorship three times. But every new campaign is a starting over.” The governor flipped the pen onto the table. “Anyway, Walsh says you’re smart, resourceful, and willing to work cheap. Workin’ cheap doesn’t sound so smart to me.”
“Then make me smarter,” Fletch said. “Pay me more. If it would make you happier. I don’t mind.”
The governor chuckled. “Guess it’s time Walsh had a real pal somewhere in this campaign. All the pressure has been comin’ down on him. Hasn’t had a day off, an hour off, since I don’t know when. He’s got a much harder job than the one I’ve got. He does all the logistics: who goes where, when, why, says what to whom. My firing James last night didn’t make it any easier for him. Or me. You heard about all that, I suppose?”
“Walsh told me something about it last night when he phoned. Read the press reports at the airport.”
The governor’s face looked truly sad. “I knew James for twenty years. No: twenty-two, to be exact. Political reporter for the down-home newspaper. The newspaper that endorsed me for both Congress and the governorship. James was a personal advisor, a good one, totally honest. Even had Washington experience. I thought if I ever ran for President, he sure would be with me. To the end. Then he screwed up. Brother, did he ever screw up.”
“The newspapers said he resigned over a policy dispute with you. Something about South Africa.”
“The press was kind to us on that one. The policy dispute was not about South Africa. It was about Mrs. Wheeler.” The governor took a deep breath. “The first incident wasn’t so important. I was able to get people to laugh it off. He mentioned to some reporters in the bar that Mrs. Wheeler spends two and a half hours each and every morning getting up and putting on her face.”
“Does she?”
“No. She spends time making herself beautiful, of course. Every woman does. It’s damned hard on a woman, living out of suitcases, going from motel to motel, making public appearances all day, damned near all night. She always looks nice. Anyway, the newspapers reported it.”
“It was reported with a vengeance.”
“Made her look like a very superficial, self-indulgent woman. I turned it into a joke, saying that’s why we had to have two bathrooms on the second floor of the governor’s mansion. I said that on the road I’m apt to spend two hours every morning just trying to find my razor.”
“Yeah, that was good.”
“It was just this week that James really screwed up. It was in the newspapers yesterday. He told the press Mrs. Wheeler canceled—at the last minute, mind you—a visit to the Children’s Burn Center so she could play indoor tennis with three rich old lady friends.”
“True?”
“Look—what does Walsh call you, Fletch?—she made time to play tennis with some friends she hadn’t seen in years, wives of some influential fat cats around this state, who would never have forgiven her if she didn’t make time for them. She raised some badly needed money for this campaign.”
“Schedule conflicts must happen all the time.”
“You bet. And it’s the press representative’s job to shag a foul ball like that, not pitch it to the press. I’m convinced James went out of his way to make sure the press got the wrong slant on that story.”
“Yeah, but why would he do that?”
“God knows. He’s not the world’s greatest admirer of my wife. They’ve had a few disagreements over the years. But liking people has nothing to do with politics. In this life, if you stay with only people you
Listening, Fletch had wandered to every part of the living room. The governor’s shoes were not anywhere in the room.
“If Mrs. Wheeler had to cancel an appointment, she had to cancel an appointment, and that’s all there is to it. If you don’t know what our daily schedule looks like, feels like yet, you will within a few days.” The governor lowered his voice. “If you stay with us, that is.”
“I understand.”
“What do you understand?”
“I understand the job of press secretary is to keep paintin’ the picket fence around the main house. Just keep paintin’ it. Whatever’s goin’ on inside, the outside is to look pretty.”
The governor smiled. “The question is, Mr. I. M. Fletcher …” The governor took a cigar stub from the pocket of his robe and lit it. “By the way, what does I.M. stand for?”
“Irwin Maurice.”
“No wonder you choose to be called Fletch. The question is, Mr. Irwin Maurice ‘Fletch’ Fletcher—have I got it all right?”
“Tough on the tongue, isn’t it?”
“The question is”—the governor brushed tobacco off a lower tooth —“what do you believe in?”
“You,” Fletch said with alacrity. “And your wife. And your campaign. Is that the answer you want?”
“Not bad.” The governor squinted at him over the cigar smoke. “For a start. Why do you want to work on this campaign?”
“Because Walsh asked me. He said you need me.”
“And you were between jobs …”
“Working on a book.”
“You got the money to take time off and work on a book?”
“Enough.”
“Where’d you get the money?”
“You can save a lot of money by not smoking.”
