“Anything your heart desires. You know a man more from his questions than from his answers. Who said that?”
“You just did.”
“Let’s not make a note of it.”
“I’ve got a simple question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why do you want to be President of the United States?”
“I don’t, particularly.” The Man Who was changing his socks. “Mrs. Wheeler wants to be Mrs. President of the United States.” Smiling, he looked up at Fletch. “Why do you look so surprised? Most men try to do what their wives want them to, don’t they? I mean, after ten, fifteen years in the same business, most men would quit and go fishin’ if it weren’t for their wives driving them to the top. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know.”
“Never married?”
“Once or twice.”
“I see.” The governor, socks changed, shoes on, laces tied, sat back in the swivel chair. “Well, Mrs. Wheeler worked hard during the two congressional campaigns, and the three campaigns for the statehouse, and she worked hard in Washington and in the state capital. It’s her career, you see, as much as mine. For my part, I began to see, five or six years ago, that I might have a crack at the presidency, so I deliberately started sidling toward it, positioning myself for it. I’m a politician, and the top job in my career is the presidency. Why not go for it?”
“You mean, you have no deep convictions …”
The governor was smiling. “The American people don’t want anyone with deep convictions as President of the United States. People with deep convictions are dangerous. They’re incapable of the art of governing a democracy because they’re incapable of compromise. People with deep convictions put everyone who disagrees with them in prison. Then they blow the world up. You don’t want that, do you?”
“Maybe I don’t mean convictions that deep.”
“How deep?”
“Ideas …”
“Listen, Fletch, at best government is a well-run bureaucracy. The presidency is just a doorknob. The bureaucracy is the door. The doorknob is used to open or close the door, to position the door this way or that. But the door is still a door.”
“All this stuff about ‘highest office in the land’ …”
“Hell, the highest office in the land is behind a schoolteacher’s desk. Schoolteachers are the only people who get to make any real difference.”
“So why aren’t you a schoolteacher?”
“Didactic but not dogmatic is the rule for a good politician. Who said that?”
“No one yet. I’m still thinking about it.”
“The President of the United States should be a good administrator. I’m a good administrator. So are the other gentlemen running for the office, I expect.”
“And you don’t care who wins?”
“Not really. Mrs. Wheeler cares.” The Man Who laughed. “Your eyes keep popping when I say that.”
“I’m a little surprised.”
“You really wouldn’t want an ambitious person to be President, would you?”
“Depends on what one is ambitious for.”
“Naw. I’m just one of the boys. Got a job people expect me to do, and I’m doin’ it.”
“I think you’re pulling my leg.”
Again The Man Who laughed. “Maybe. Now is it my turn?”
“Sure. For what?”
“For asking a question.”
“Do I have any answers?”
“We established last night you’ve taken this job on the campaign to feed some ideas into it. Last night, going to sleep, I was wondering what ideas you have.”
“Really sticking it to me, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes you know a man by his answers.”
“Governor, I don’t think you want to hear Political Theory According to Irwin Maurice Fletcher, scribbler and poltroon.”
“I sure do. I want to hear everybody’s political theory. Sooner or later we might come across one that works.”
“Okay. Here goes.” Fletch took a deep breath.
Then said nothing.
The governor laughed. “Called your bluff, did I?”
“No, sir.”
“Talk to me. Don’t be so impressed. I’m just the one who happens to be running for office.”
“Okay.” Fletch hesitated.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” Then Fletch said in a rush, “Ideology will never equalize the world. Technology is doing so.”
“Jeez.”
Fletch said nothing.
In the small stateroom in the back of the presidential campaign bus, The Man Who looked at Fletch as if from far away. “Technology is equalizing the world?”
Still Fletch said nothing.
“You believe in technology?” the governor asked.
“I believe in what is.”
“Well, well.” The governor gazed at the steamy window. “Always nice to hear from the younger generation.”
“It’s not a political theory,” Fletch said. “Just an observation.”
Gazing at the window, the governor said, “There are many parts to that observation.”
“It’s a report,” Fletch said. “I’m a reporter.”
Only dim light came through the steamed-over, dirt-streaked bus window. No scenery was visible through it. After a moment, the governor brushed his knuckles against the window. Still no scenery was visible.
“Run for the presidency,” The Man Who mused, “and see America.”
The stateroom door opened. Flash Grasselli stuck his head around the door. “Anything you want, Governor?”
“Yeah. Coffee. Black.”
“No more coffee today,” Flash said. “Fresh out.”
He withdrew his head and closed the door.
The Man Who and Fletch smiled at each other.
“Someday …” the candidate said.
“Why is he called Flash?”
“Because he’s so slow. He walks slow. He talks slow. He drives slow. Best of all, he’s very slow to jump on people.” The governor frowned. “He’s very loyal.” He then swiveled his chair to face Fletch more fully. “How are things on the press bus?”
“Could be better. You’ve got a couple of double threats there, that I know of.”
“Oh?”
“Fredericka Arbuthnot and Michael J. Hanrahan. Freddie’s a crime writer for Newsworld and Hanrahan for Newsbill. ”
“Crime writers?”
“Freddie is very sharp, very professional, probably the best in the business. Hanrahan is utterly sleazy. I would deny him credentials, if I thought I could get away with it.”
“Try it.”
“Newsbill has a bigger readership than the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times put together.”
“Yeah, but Newsbill’s readers are too ashamed to identify themselves to each other.”
“So has the Daily Gospel a huge readership, for that matter.”
“How did we attract a couple of crime writers? Did somebody pinch Fenella Baker’s uppers?”
“The murder last night, of Alice Elizabeth Shields, was the second murder in a week that happened on the fringes of this campaign.”
“‘On the fringes,’” the governor repeated.
“They may not be connected. Apparently, Chicago police don’t think so. There’s a strong possibility they are connected. Strong enough, at least, to attract the attention of Freddie Arbuthnot and Michael J.”
“‘Connected.’ To the campaign?”
“Don’t know.”
“Who was murdered in Chicago?”
“A young woman, unidentified, strangled and found in a closet next to the press reception area at the Hotel Harris.”
“And the woman at the motel last night was murdered?”
“Clearly.”
“You’re saying I should get myself ready to answer some questions about all this.”
“At least.”
“So get me ready.”