The other side of the room, beyond the governor, was a sliding glass door onto the balcony. The drapes were open.
Slowly, as if wandering aimlessly, Fletch crossed the room to the balcony doors. Trying to make the question sound conversational, he asked, “If you lose this primary, is the campaign over?”
“You win votes in a primary; you win contributions. You lose, and the contributions dry up. Motels and gas stations expect even presidential candidates to pay their bills. It’s the American way.”
Fletch snapped on the balcony light outside the glass doors. “Does the press know you’re short of funds?”
The governor did not turn around in the sofa to look at Fletch. “We don’t issue a financial report every day. But we have to get the message out through the press that we need money. If they ever thought our campaign was broke, they’d desert us faster than kittens leave a gully in the January thaw.”
On the balcony, the snow and ice, the slush, had been stirred up, walked on. A section of the railing had been scraped clean of snow.
“Have you been out on the balcony tonight?” Fletch asked.
Finally the governor turned around in his seat. “No. Why? At least, I don’t think so.”
“Somebody has been.”
“Some of the press were in earlier. For drinks. Some of the staff. Lots of cigarette smoke. I might have stepped out for some fresh air. I do things like that. Or a quiet word with someone. Must be slushy out there.”
Fletch turned off the balcony light and pulled the drapes closed. “Would there be people in your suite if you weren’t here? I mean, other than hotel staff?”
“Sure.” The governor turned around to face the coffee table again. “For traffic, my suite is second only to O’Hare International Airport. In fact, where is everyone now? Why isn’t the phone ringing?”
“Walsh had it turned off at the switchboard.” Fletch went through the living room and down the little corridor to the front door of the suite.
“Why did he do that?”
Fletch opened the door and tried the outside knob. “Your door is unlocked.”
“Sure. People come in and out all the time. What are you, a press agent or a security man?”
Fletch closed the door and came back into the living room. “Looks like you need a good security agent.”
“Flash is all I need for now. He doesn’t bother anybody. So,” the governor said, “you and Walsh knew each other in the service. I remember hearing about you.”
“Yes, sir. He was my lieutenant.”
“Was he any good that way?”
“You mean your son? As a lieutenant?”
“Yeah. What kind of a lieutenant was he?”
“Pretty good. He’d show up once in a while.”
The governor chuckled. “But not too much, eh?”
“He was okay. Let us do our jobs. Didn’t care about much else.”
“That’s my boy. Run a hands-off administration. Walsh thinks you’d be just right for this job.” The governor wrinkled his eyebrows. “Insisted you be flown in immediately. Wants me to announce first thing in the morning that you’re my new press secretary.”
Fletch shrugged. “I was available.”
“Which means you were unemployed.”
“Working on a book,” Fletch said.
“On politics?”
“On an American western artist. You know: Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior.”
“Oh, yeah. Great stuff. But what’s that got to do with politics?”
“Not much.”
“You used to work for newspapers?”
“A lot of them.” Fletch grinned. “One after another.”
“Are you saying you weren’t successful as a journalist?”
“Sometimes too successful. Depends on how you look at it.”
The governor sat back and sighed. “A kid who looks like he belongs on a tennis court with an interest in cowboy art: as a politician’s press agent, you’re not a dream.”
“Isn’t American politics a crusade of amateurs?”
“Who said that?”
“I did. I think.”
“You’re wrong. But it has a nice ring to it.” Leaning over, the governor made a note on one of the papers on the coffee table. “See? You’re working already. Displaying talent as a phrasemaker.” He sat back and smiled. “That line might be worth thousands of dollars in contributions. You sure no one said it?”
“No.”
“I’ll say it. Then it will have been said.”
“I thought you said the statement is wrong.”
“I don’t qualify as an amateur. Elected to Congress twice, the governorship three times. But every new campaign is a starting over.” The governor flipped the pen onto the table. “Anyway, Walsh says you’re smart, resourceful, and willing to work cheap. Workin’ cheap doesn’t sound so smart to me.”
“Then make me smarter,” Fletch said. “Pay me more. If it would make you happier. I don’t mind.”
The governor chuckled. “Guess it’s time Walsh had a real pal somewhere in this campaign. All the pressure has been comin’ down on him. Hasn’t had a day off, an hour off, since I don’t know when. He’s got a much harder job than the one I’ve got. He does all the logistics: who goes where, when, why, says what to whom. My firing James last night didn’t make it any easier for him. Or me. You heard about all that, I suppose?”
“Walsh told me something about it last night when he phoned. Read the press reports at the airport.”
The governor’s face looked truly sad. “I knew James for twenty years. No: twenty-two, to be exact. Political reporter for the down-home newspaper. The newspaper that endorsed me for both Congress and the governorship. James was a personal advisor, a good one, totally honest. Even had Washington experience. I thought if I ever ran for President, he sure would be with me. To the end. Then he screwed up. Brother, did he ever screw up.”
“The newspapers said he resigned over a policy dispute with you. Something about South Africa.”
“The press was kind to us on that one. The policy dispute was not about South Africa. It was about Mrs. Wheeler.” The governor took a deep breath. “The first incident wasn’t so important. I was able to get people to laugh it off. He mentioned to some reporters in the bar that Mrs. Wheeler spends two and a half hours each and every morning getting up and putting on her face.”
“Does she?”
“No. She spends time making herself beautiful, of course. Every woman does. It’s damned hard on a woman, living out of suitcases, going from motel to motel, making public appearances all day, damned near all night. She always looks nice. Anyway, the newspapers reported it.”
“It was reported with a vengeance.”
“Made her look like a very superficial, self-indulgent woman. I turned it into a joke, saying that’s why we had to have two bathrooms on the second floor of the governor’s mansion. I said that on the road I’m apt to spend two hours every morning just trying to find my razor.”
“Yeah, that was good.”
“It was just this week that James really screwed up. It was in the newspapers yesterday. He told the press Mrs. Wheeler canceled—at the last minute, mind you—a visit to the Children’s Burn Center so she could play indoor tennis with three rich old lady 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.”