Fletch and the Man Who Read Free

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 satback 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. Everywoman 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