Fletch and the Man Who Read Free Page A

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
like
, the normal person would have to move every ten days. Politics is advantageous loyalty, son. Loyalty is what you buy, with every word out of your mouth; loyalty is what you sell, with every choice you make. And when you sell loyalty, you’d better make sure your choice is to your own advantage. James sold out twenty-two years of loyalty to me for the dubious twelve-hour pleasure of embarrassing my wife in public.”
    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.”
    “What do you think of my domestic policy?”
    “Needs refining.”
    “What do you think of my foreign policy?”
    “Needs a few good ideas.”
    The governor’s grin was like seeing a chasm open in the earth. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You’re an idealist. You mean to be a good influence on me.”
    “Maybe.”
    The governor looked at him sharply and seemed to be serious when he asked: “And do you have any good ideas?”
    “Just one, for now.”
    “And what would that be?”
    “To be loyal to you.” Fletch grinned. “Until I get a better offer. Isn’t that what you just said politics is all about?”
    Scraping the ash off his cigar onto a tray, the governor said, “You learn fast enough. . . .”

4
    “Where’s Dr. Thom?”
    “Coming right up.”
    “I want to go to sleep.”
    Walsh Wheeler had entered his father’s suite without knocking. Fletch saw that Walsh knew the door was unlocked.
    In the living room, Walsh handed his father a piece of paper from the top of the sheaf he was carrying. “Here’s your schedule