Fletch and the Man Who

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“Fletch, my man! Good! You got here!”

“Where?”

Shirtless and shoeless, Fletch was standing in a midtown motel room in a middle-sized town in a middle-sized state in Middle America. He had turned on the shower just before the phone rang.

“I want you to go to Dad’s suite,” Walsh Wheeler said. “Immediately. 748.”

“Why don’t you say ‘Hello,’ Walsh?”

“Hello.” The sounds behind Walsh were of several people talking, men and women, the clink of glasses, and, at a distance, heavy beat music—bar noises.

“Why don’t you ask me if I had a nice flight?”

“Stuff it. Isn’t time for all that.”

“Are we enjoying a crisis already?”

“There’s always a crisis on a political campaign, Fletch. On a presidential campaign, all the crises are biggies. You’ve only got a few minutes to learn that.” Despite the background noises, Walsh was speaking quietly into the phone. “Wait a minute,” he said. At the other end of the phone someone was speaking to Walsh. Fletch could not make out what the other person was saying. His mouth away from the phone, Walsh said. “Any idea who she is?” There was more conversation wrapped in cotton. “Is she dead?” Walsh asked.

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