at Fletch.
“Some people,” announced Fletch, “think I always have been.”
“This is Betsy Ginsberg,” Freddie said about her seatmate, a slightly overweight, bright-eyed, nice-looking young woman.
“Terrific stuff you write,” Fletch said to her. “I’ve never read a word of it, but I’ve decided to say things like that on this trip.”
Betsy laughed. The diesel engine straining to move the bus out of the motel’s horseshoe driveway was making as much noise as a jet airplane taking off.
Freddie pressed her elbow into Betsy’s ribs. “Move,” she said. “Let me be the first to sink teeth into this new press representative.”
“You’re just saying that,” Betsy said, moving out of her seat, “because he’s good-lookin’.”
“Is he?” said Freddie. “I never noticed.”
Fletch slumped into the seat vacated by Betsy. “I don’t know,” he said to Freddie. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it as a member of the establishment. It’s all too new to me.”
After doing his copying and delivering chores the night before, Fletch finally had taken his shower and climbed into bed with all the folders Walsh Wheeler had given him. There was a folder stating the candidate’s position on each campaign issue, as well as on issues that had not arisen and probably would not arise. Some of the positions were crisp, concise, to the point. Others were longer, not as well focused, and had to be read two or three times before Fletch could discover exactly where the candidate was hedging his position. There were personnel folders, with pictures and full biographies, of each member of the candidate’s staff”. And there were other folders, not as well organized, on most of the members of the press traveling with the campaign. Some of these too had photographs, personal items regarding their families, political leanings, a few significant clippings. Fletch may have been asleep when the phone rang to wake him up. He wasn’t sure.
“So far,” he said to Freddie, as the press bus rolled along the highway, “I’ve received two lectures on absolute loyalty.”
“What do you expect?” she asked.
Fletch thought a moment. “I don’t believe in absolutes.”
“You’re in a position, all right,” she agreed, nodding. “Between the fire and the bottom of the skillet. As a reporter, you’re trained to find things out and report ’em. As a press representative, you’ve got to prevent other reporters from finding certain things out. Adversary of the press. Against your own instincts. Poor Fletch.”
“You’re a help.”
“You’ll never make it.”
“I know it.”
“That’s all right.” She patted him on the arm. “I’ll destroy you as painlessly as possible.”
“Great. I’d appreciate that. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Up to what?”
“Destroying me.”
“It will be easy,” she said. “Because of all those conflicts in yourself. You’ve never tried to be a member of the establishment before, Fletch. I mean, let’s face it: you’re a born-and-bred rebel.”
“I bought a necktie for this job.”
She studied his solid red tie. “Nice one, too. Looks like you’re already bleeding from the neck.”
“Got it in the airport in Little Rock.”
“Limited selection?”
“No. They had five or six to choose from.”
“That was the best?”
“I thought so.”
“You only bought one, though, right?”
“Didn’t know how long this job would last.”
“Glad you didn’t make too big an investment in your future as a member of the establishment. Are you going to tell me about last night?”
“What about last night? I saw you to your room and got the door closed in my face.”
“Last night a woman landed dead on the pavement outside your candidate’s seventh-floor motel room window. Don’t you read the papers?”
“I read the papers. Today’s big story is about a hockey riot—”
“To hell with today’s big story,” Freddie said. “I’m interested in tomorrow’s big story.”
“Tomorrow’s big story will be about how badly the police behaved at the hockey riot.”
Freddie talked to herself in the bus window. “This here press representative thinks he can get away with not talking about the young woman who got thrown to her death through the governor’s bedroom window last night.”
“Come off it. I don’t know anything.”
“You ought to.”
“I noticed none of you hotshots asked the governor about it this morning.”
“Questions at this point would be ridiculous.”
“Of course.”
“At least, questions directed at him.”
“But I’m fair game?”
“The definition of a press representative. You are game as fair as any, seasoned, roasted, carved, and chewed.”
“Freddie, I only know what I heard on television this morning. Her name was Alice Elizabeth Fields—”
“Shields.”
“In her late twenties.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“From Chicago.”
“You got that part right.”
“She was naked when she landed on the sidewalk. Apparently, she had been brutally beaten beforehand.”
“She wasn’t raped,” Freddie said. “Don’t you find that odd?”
“I find the whole thing terrible. Sickening.”
The two big buses hurried down the highway through the swirling snow. Behind them were a few cars filled with more staff, volunteer workers, one or two television vans.
“And, Fletch, it is possible her point of departure was the balcony outside the governor’s suite.”
Slowly, he said, “Yes. The governor had had press and other people in for drinks earlier in the evening. I happen to know the front door to the suite was left unlocked.”
“I see. Thanks for being frank with me.”
“I know you don’t print speculation.”
“And”—Freddie sighed—“she had been traveling with the campaign all week.”
“Not traveling with the campaign. Just following it. She was some sort of a political groupie. She had no position with the campaign.”
“As far as we know. I recognized her when I saw her picture in this morning’s
“Had you ever spoken to her?”
“Two or three days ago. In whatever town we were in. I was using the motel’s indoor pool. So was she. I said, ‘Hi’; she said, ‘Hi’; I dove in, did my laps, when I got out, she was gone, I think.”
“How would you characterize her?”
“A wallflower. I think she wanted to be with the campaign, but didn’t know how to be assertive enough to become a volunteer or something.”
“Any chance of her being a real camp follower? A prostitute?”
“Definitely not. But you’d have to ask the men.”
“I will.” Suddenly Fletch wanted a cup of coffee. “A local matter,” Fletch said. “To be investigated by local
