After a few moments, the governor came over to Fletch, gripped him by the elbow and, nodding at them kindly, faced him away from the publisher and the editorial writer. “Fletch. Find Dr. Thom for me. Have him come up here. No black bag. He’ll know what I need.”
The hand holding Fletch’s elbow shook ever so slightly.
Fletch said, “Yes, sir.”
18
“Hello, Ms. Arbuthnot?” Fletch said into his bedroom telephone.
“Yes?”
“Glad I caught you in.”
“In what?”
“The shower?”
“Just got out of it.”
“And did you sing your ‘Hoo boy, now I wash my left knee. Hoo boy, now I wash my right knee’ song?”
“Oh, you know about that.”
“Used to hear you through the wall in Virginia. Key of C in the morning, F at night.”
“I take a cold shower in the morning.”
“I was just about to order up a sandwich and a bottle of milk to my room. I could order up two sandwiches.”
“Yes, you could, Fletch. If you want two sandwiches.”
“I only want one sandwich.”
“Then order only one.”
“You’re not getting the point.”
“I’m trying not to be as presumptuous as some people I know.”
“You see, I could order up one sandwich for me. And one for a friend. Who might come along and eat with me.”
“Entirely reasonable. Do you have a friend?”
“I was thinking you might be that friend, seeing you’ve taken a shower and all.”
“Nope. I wouldn’t be.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“I’m certain.”
“We could eat and slurp milk and maybe even we could sit around and sing ‘Great Green Globs of Greasy Grimy Gopher’s Guts.’”
“Nope. We couldn’t.”
“Aw, Freddie—”
“Look, Fletch, would you mind if I hung up now? I’m expecting a phone call from Chicago. Then I have to call Washington.”
“Okay,” Fletch said. “I’ll call you back after you change your mind.”
He called room service and ordered up two club sandwiches and a quart of milk.
His shoes were already off. He took off his shirt and fell on his back on the bed.
His bedroom was virtually identical to the room he’d had the night before, to the same centimeter of space, to the autumnal, nondirtying color scheme, to the wall mirror tilted to reflect the bed, to the heating system that wouldn’t cool off, to the number of too-small towels in the bathroom, to the television he had discovered produced only pink pictures. The painting on the wall was of mountaintops instead of a sailboat. For a moment Fletch thought of American standardization and the interchangeability of motel rooms, motels, airports, whole cities, national news telecasts, and presidential candidates.
The bedside phone rang. Fletch said into the phone: “Knew you’d change your mind. Ordered you a club sandwich.”
A man’s voice said: “Nice of you. Can you have it sent to Iowa?”
“I suppose so,” agreed Fletch. “But who’s in Iowa?”
“I am,” the man’s voice said. “Rondoll James.”
Fletch sat up on the bed. “I. M. Fletcher, Mr. James.”
“Call me James, please. My parents spotted me with a first name no one’s ever spelled right—Rondoll, you know? like nothing else you can think of—so early on I gave it back to the Registry of Births.”
“I know the problem.”
“No one ever spelled your first name right either?”
“Everyone did. You want your job back?”
“Not right away. I’m in Iowa for the funeral of Vic Robbins.”
“He died in Pennsylvania.”
“His home is in Iowa. His body’s being flown here tonight.”
“You good friends?”
“The best. Vic taught me much over the years. Who wrote Caxton’s remarks on Vic’s death? Walsh?”
“Yeah. The governor was in a factory when we got the news.”
“The statement would have been a hell of a lot warmer, if I had been there. Sometimes these guys forget who really runs American politics. So how do you like my job?”
“I’m not very good at it.”
“Hey, you got the lead on all the network news shows tonight. Not bad, first day.”
“Yeah, but didn’t the story do more harm than good?”
“Get the space, baby. Get the network time and the newspaper space. Builds familiarity. Recognition of the candidate, you know? What the candidate is actually saying or doing is of secondary importance, you know?”
“Did anything like what he was saying come across to the people, James, do you think?”
“I’m not sure. He said technology is tying us together, integrating us, maybe making us more sensitive to each other, maybe even increasing the sense of responsibility for each other. That about it?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Wonderful part of it was, I was sitting in an airport bar about a thousand miles away from where he was saying it, and I heard him and saw him say it. Sort of proves his point, don’t you think?”
“What did other people in the bar think of it?”
“Not much. One guy said, ‘There’s ol’ Caxton spouting off again. Why doesn’t he tell me where my wife can get a job?’ Gin drinker. The bartender? Typical. No good bartender ever takes sides. Costs him tips.”
“Guess it’ll be a day or two before anyone digests what the governor was trying to say.”
“Longer than that, I. M., longer than that. Something ol’ Vic taught me, and it’s always proved to be true: statesmanship has no place on a political campaign. A campaign is punch and duck, punch and duck. Fast footwork, you know? Always smiling. The voters want to see fast action. Their attention won’t hold for anything more. From day to day, give ’em happy film, and short, reassuring statements. If you really try to say anything, really ask them to stop and think, they’ll hate you for it. They can’t think, you know? Being asked makes us feel inferior. We don’t like to feel inferior to our candidates. Against the democratic ideal, you know? The candidate’s just got to keep giving the impression he’s a man of the people—no better than they are, just doin’ a different job. No one is ever elected in this country on the basis of what he really thinks. The candidate is elected on the basis of thousands of different, comfortable small impressions, not one of which really asks the voters to think.”
“How about handing coins out to kids. Was that ‘comfortable’?” How did that come across?”
“Just fine.”
“Yes?”
“You bet. Anytime you can get psychiatrists on television speaking against your candidate, immediately your boy is up three percentage points in the popularity polls. Psychiatrists shrink people, you know? People resent being shrunk.”
“You’re making me feel better.”
“Don’t intend to, particularly. And it’s not why I’m calling. But as long as we’re talking, take this advice: any time you see ol’ Caxton looking like he’s about to say something profound, stick a glove in his mouth.”
“Appreciate the advice. Why are you calling?”
“Why, sir, to tell you how much I love Caxton Wheeler. And explain to you what I’ve done for him lately.”
“What have you done for him lately?”
“Put myself out of a job, thank you. If not out of a whole career. Sacrificed myself on the altar of Athena. Wasn’t she the goddess of war?”
“Oh, yeah: the broad standing in her backyard with a frying pan. Great statue. Seen it dozens of times, as a kid. The governor told me—”
“To hell with what Caxton told you. I’ll tell you.” Suddenly whatever James had imbibed in that airport bar became audible in his voice. “I’ve been with Caxton twenty-three years. I’ve been his eyes and his ears and his legs and his mouth for twenty-three years, night and day, weekends included.”