“Who’s that?” Fletch asked.
Freddie turned around. “That,” she said definitely, “is bad news. Mr. Bad News, himself.” Turning back to Fletch, she said, “Mr. Michael J. Hanrahan, scourge of respectable journalists everywhere, lead dirt-writer for that chain of daily lies and mischief, the scandal sheet going under the generic name Newsbill.”
Carrying his suitcase in one hand, a portable typewriter in the other, overcoat hems flapping in the wind, the man was lumbering toward the campaign bus. The taxi driver was shouting something at him, which could not be heard in the wind.
“That’s Hanrahan? I hoped never to meet him.”
Hanrahan turned his head and spat toward the taxi driver.
“I thought Mary Rice was covering us for Newsbill.”
“Mary’s a mouse,” Freddie said. “Hanrahan’s a rat.”
“ ’lo, Arbuthnot.” With either a smile or a grimace, Michael J. Hanrahan tipped his profile toward her, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Made it with any goats lately?”
“Always a pleasure to witness your physical and mental degeneracy, Hanrahan,” Freddie answered. “How many more hours to live do the doctors give you?”
Hanrahan didn’t put down either his suitcase or his typewriter case. He shivered in his overcoat.
The skin of his face was puffy, flushed, and scabrous. Between the gaps in his mouth were black and yellow teeth. His clothes looked as stale as last month’s bread.
“Never, never use a toilet seat,” Freddie advised Fletch, “after Hanrahan has used it.”
Hanrahan laughed. “Where’s this jackass Fletcher?” he asked her.
“I’m the jackass,” Fletch said.
Hanrahan closed his mouth, tried unsuccessfully to breathe through his nose, then opened his mouth again. “Oh, joy,” he muttered. “This kid doesn’t even go to the bathroom, I bet. Probably been taught not to. It isn’t nice.” He put his chin up at Fletch, who was still on the stairs of the campaign bus, and tried to give Fletch a penetrating look with bloodshot eyes, each in its own pool of poison. “Boy, are you in trouble.”
“Why’s that?” Fletch asked.
“ ’Cause you’ve never dealt with Hanrahan before.”
“Dreadful stuff you write,” Fletch said.
“All you’ve had to deal with so far are these milksop pussycats mewing for your handouts.”
“Meow,” said Freddie.
“You’re gonna work for me,” Hanrahan said. “You’re gonna work your shavvy-tailed ass off.”
“What do you want, Hanrahan?”
“I want to sit down with your candidate. And I mean now.”
“Not now.”
“Today. Within a few hours. I need to ask him some questions.”
“About what?”
“About dead broads,” Hanrahan snapped. “That broad in Chicago. That broad last night. The brutally slain debutante your candidate leaves behind him everywhere he goes.”
“Newsbill’s electronics must be good as Newsworld’s,” Fletch said to Freddie.
“Newsworld’s doesn’t use such colorful words,” Freddie said. “Archaic though they may be.”
“Hell, Hanrahan,” Fletch said, “that matter’s already wrapped up.”
Hanrahan squinted. “It is?”
“Yeah. They took Mary Rice into custody an hour ago. Your own reporter. From Newsbill.”
“Bullshit.”
“He’s right, Hanrahan. We all know how far you Newsbill writers will go to make a story. Mary just got caught this time.”
“The police knew the murderer was Mary because she left someone else’s notes at the scene of crime,” Fletch added.
Even Hanrahan’s neck was turning red. “You know how many readers I got?” he shouted.
“Yeah,” Freddie said. “Everyone in the country who can’t read, reads Newsbill. Big deal.”
“They all vote,” Hanrahan insisted to her.
“More’s the pity,” Freddie said to the ground.
“I want to get together with your candidate now,” Hanrahan said. “And no more juvenile crap from you!”
“Doubt the candidate will have all that much time for you, Hanrahan.”
“What’s the matter?” Hanrahan took a step forward. “Doesn’t little boyums like the smell of big bad man’s breath?”
“Highly indicative, I’m sure,” Fletch said.
“You put me together with your candidate, let me work him over with my bare knuckles, or tomorrow Newsbill’s readers are going to be told Governor Caxton Wheeler refuses to answer questions about two recent murders on his campaign trail.”
“You just do that, Hanrahan.” Fletch turned to climb the bus steps. “It will be the first time you’ve ever written the truth.”
9
“Listen to this.” Dr. Thom was stretched out on the bed in the candidate’s stateroom at the back of the bus. He was reading a book entitled The Darwinian Theory as Fossil. “‘For thousands of years, we have been told perfection is not attainable, but a worthy aspiration. In this post-Freudian era, we are told normalcy is not possible, but a worthy aspiration. In one scheme, we might achieve excellence; in the other, mediocrity. In one scheme, we fear despair; in the other, depression.’” The doctor put down the open book on his chest. “What can I do for you?”
“Need to ask you a couple of questions.” Fletch had knocked, entered the stateroom at Dr. Thom’s drawled “Enter if you must,” and sat in one of the two comfortable swivel chairs at the stateroom’s desk.
Dr. Thom spoke with extraordinary slowness. “Anyone trying to handle the press can have anything he wants from me: poisoned gas, flamethrowers, machine guns, hand grenades. If I don’t have such medical and surgical tools on hand, I shall secure them for you at greatly reduced rates.”
“At the moment, I’m inclined to place an order,” Fletch said. “I just met Michael J. Hanrahan, of Newsbill.”
“The press ought to be an extinct species,” Dr. Thom drawled. “They never evolved to a very high level. You can tell by the way they go along the ground, sniffing it. I might suggest to the candidate that the press be handed over to the Department of the Interior. That way their extinction will be guaranteed.”
“Got to have the free press,” said Fletch.
“Do you really think so? Neither the substance of America’s favorite sport, politics, nor the substance of America’s favorite food, the hot dog, can bear too much analysis. If the innards of either American politics or the American hot dog were too fully revealed, the American would have to disavow and disgorge himself.”
“You against motherhood too?”
Dr. Thom clicked the nail of his index finger against the cover of the book on his chest. “On the evolutionary scale, Woman and The Bird, of course, are superior.” He cleared his throat. “Which is why, of course, Man invented the telephone wire.”
“I understand you were one of the first people to get to the body of Alice Elizabeth Shields last night.”
“I was.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
“Have you a morbid curiosity?”
“Fredericka Arbuthnot and Michael J. Hanrahan are not on the press bus to count the votes in congressional districts. They’re crime writers.”
“You mean the death of Ms. Shields might affect the campaign in some way?”
“They tell me two young women have been murdered on the fringes of this campaign just this last week.”
“Oh, dear. And the perpetrator might be one of us?”
“There’s a good possibility of it.”
“And you’d like to get the facts before they do, so you can put the right spin on them.”