“I know.”
“I want you to know I love that man. I admire him and love him above all others. I know more about him than his wife, his son, anybody. He’s a good guy. I’d do anything for him, including sacrificing myself, which I just did.”
Fletch waited. Eulogies to a relationship never need encouragement from the listener.
James continued: “Caxton ought to be President of the United States. I believe that more than I believe I’m sitting here talking to you. But Doris Wheeler, in case you haven’t discovered it, is his weak spot. She’s horrible. There’s no other way to say it. Horrible. She has no more regard for people than a crocodile. If anything around her moves, she lashes at it and bites it, bites deep. She’s been lashin’ at Caxton, bitin’ him for thirty years now.”
“James, a husband and wife—not our business.”
“Not our business unless one of them is running for public office. Then it becomes our business. You ever hear her talk to a volunteer, or a chartered pilot?”
“Not yet.”
“Or a junior reporter, or to her son, or to Caxton himself?” Fletch didn’t answer.
“The word is bitch. Doris Wheeler is an absolute bitch. Sometimes I’ve been convinced the woman is insane. She becomes violent. She’s Caxton’s biggest liability, and he won’t admit it.”
“He knows something—”
“He won’t admit it. Always covering up for her. Over the years I’ve talked to him a thousand times, trying to get him to restrain the bitch. Even divorce her, get rid of her. He never listened to me. And she’s getting worse, with all this pressure of the campaign on her. I couldn’t keep covering up for her, I. M. I just couldn’t. You understand that?”
“Yeah.”
“I couldn’t cover up for her anymore. Stories were beginning to get out about the way she bullies the governor, the staff, everybody. The way everything either has to go her way, or else she’ll kick everybody in the crotch. Her campaign. She’ll run it. And everybody better fall in behind her, or life won’t be worth living for anybody.”
“The visit to the children’s burn center—”
“Was just one of a hundred things. She knew what she was doing. Walsh told her she had to go. Her own secretary, Sully, told her she had to go. Barry and Willy arranged another time for her to meet her friends for indoor tennis. She just walked off and played tennis.”
“Why?”
“Because she always knows best.”
“Yeah, but why? In this particular instance, so obviously stupid—”
“First, she’s convinced she can get away with anything. Whatever happens, it’s someone else’s fault. Second: vanity. Wouldn’t you love to appear among your old cronies, your peers, and play tennis with them as the wife of a presidential candidate?”
“The way I play tennis—”
“Listen—”
“Wait a minute. Wasn’t she also raising money for the campaign playing tennis? Badly needed money?”
“I said: we had already arranged for her to play tennis two days later. She didn’t even cancel the burn center. Just got in the car and went to play tennis. Look what happened. The nurses got all the kids into their wheelchairs, their roll-beds, into this special reception room. Photographers were there, reporters. The bitch never showed up. You realize the pain she caused? You don’t move kids with burns, and then go play tennis!”
“So why does the governor blame you for it?”
“He can’t blame his wife. He never blames his wife. Always before, I’ve covered up for her. Done a deal with the photographers, you know? Made some half-assed explanation, said, ‘If you don’t report this, I’ll provide you with photo opportunities you never dreamed of —the governor in the shower stark naked smoking a cigar, you’ll win the Pulitzer Prize,’ you know? This time I couldn’t do that, I. M. Wouldn’t.”
“‘Wouldn’t.’”
“I’d had enough of it. The governor wouldn’t listen to me, all these years. The situation was getting more serious. She’s getting worse. His chances of getting to the White House are getting better and better, and she’s ruining them. So I let the situation get reported. I thought maybe if Caxton saw what all this looked like in the press, for once, he’d at least try to restrain the bitch.”
“What makes you think he can?”
“He has to. Somebody has to. Caxton Wheeler shouldn’t be President of the United States because his wife’s a nut?”
“They’ve come a long way together, James.”
“That they have—a long way to fall over a cliff.”
“If she’s so impossible, why has he stuck with her? Divorce wasn’t invented Sunday, you know.”
“Want three good reasons why he hasn’t divorced her?”
“Yeah. Gimme three.”
“First, divorce still doesn’t go over so big with the voters. Despite President Ronald Reagan. People can still be found to say, If a man can’t run his own house, how do you expect him to run the White House?’”
“That’s one.”
“Two, she’s got the money. She is a wealthy, wealthy lady in her own right. Her daddy horned in on the oil business and made a barrel of money. A politician’s life is risky and expensive, you know. Nothing lubricates a politician’s life better than oil.”
“That’s two.”
“Three, I deeply suspect Caxton loves the bitch. Can you believe that? Don’t ask me how or why. Sometimes people whom you’d think would know better actually do love the last person in the world they should love. I’ve known lots of jerks like that. Their wives are ruining them with every word and gesture and all these jerks say is, ‘Where would I be without sweet ol’ honey-pie?’ Love, I. M., is as blind as justice. Maybe you’ve noticed.”
“And just as elusive.”
“Boy, am I glad my wife ran away with her psychiatrist fifteen years ago. There was a broad who needed shrinking. What an inflammation she was.”
“I don’t know, James. What am I supposed to do?”
“Carry on, brother. Carry on. I just want you to know what’s between Caxton and me.”
“His wife.”
“I love him. I admire him. I want to see him President of the United States. I’d do anything to see that. Anything. What I’m saying is, feel free to call me anytime about anything.”
“Thank you.”
“They threw me over, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll still do anything I can for Caxton.”
Fletch soon discovered that all he need do to make his phone ring was to put the receiver down into the cradle.
Immediately after he hung up from trying to make clear things that were not at all clear to himself for a rewrite editor at Newsweek magazine, he found himself answering the phone to his old Marine buddy, Alston Chambers.
“Nice to hear a friendly voice,” Fletch said.
“What’s happening, Fletch?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Just heard on cable news you’ve been made acting press representative for Governor Wheeler’s campaign. I saw you on the tube.”
“‘Acting press secretary’? I guess so.”
“Why are you doing that? You gone establishment?”
“Walsh called me late at night. Said he needed help desperately. I mean, he convinced me he was desperate.”
“Wow, a presidential campaign. What’s it like, Fletch?”
“Unreal, man. Totally unreal.”
“I believe you. On television you were wearing a coat and tie.”
“Alston, there have been a couple of murders.”
“What do you mean, ‘murders’? Real murders?”
“A couple of women beaten to death. One of them was strangled. They weren’t really a part of the campaign, but I think somebody traveling with the campaign had something to do with it.”