Fletch and the Man Who by Gregory McDonald Read Free Book Online Page A

reclining chair talking on the telephone.
    Along the side of the bus, three women sat at pull-out tables, typing.
    That morning’s newspapers littered the bus’s floor.
    Dr. Thom was not in the forward section of the bus.
    As Fletch moved down through the noise and confusion of the bus, Walsh shouted, “You all know Fletch!”
    None of them did. In response to the shout, they all looked at Fletch and returned to what they were doing. Now they knew him.
    “Hey, Walsh!” Barry Hines yelled from the telephone. “Vic Robbins! Upton’s advance man?”
    “What about him?” Walsh asked.
    “His car just went off a bridge in Pennsylvania. Into the Susquehanna River.”
    “Dead?”
    “Unless he was wearing a scuba tank.”
    “Confirm that, please,” Fletch said to Barry. “Pennsylvania State Police.”
    Barry Hines pushed a button on the telephone in his lap and dialed O.
    Walsh pointed to the last typist in the row. Instantly she pulled the paper she was working on out of her typewriter and inserted a fresh piece.
    Walsh dictated: “Upon hearing of the tragic death of Victor Rob-bins, Governor Caxton Wheeler said, ‘There was no one who had better technical understanding of American politics than Victor Rob-bins. The heartfelt sympathy of Mrs. Wheeler and myself go out to Vic’s family, and to his friends, who were legion. I and my staff will do anything to help Senator Upton and his staff in response to their great loss.’”
    “Yeah,” Barry Hines said, pushing another phone button. “He’s dead.”
    Walsh took the typed statement from the woman and handed it to Fletch. “Why am I doing your work for you?” He smiled. “Immediate release to the press, please.”
    Paul Dobson asked, “Should Caxton mention Robbins’s death in the Winslow speech, Walsh?”
    “Naw.” Hand rubbing the back of his neck, Walsh turned in a small circle in the middle of the bus. “Just wish Upton weren’t going to get all that free press in Pennsylvania, of all places. Why the hell couldn’t Robbins have driven himself off a bridge in a smaller state? South Dakota?”
    Phil Nolting said, “Some advance men will do anything to make a headline.”
    “Yeah,” said Dobson. “Let’s send a suggestion to Willy in California. California’s a big state, too. Must have some bridges.”
    “More active press, too,” Nolting said. “The weather’s nicer.”
    Fletch was standing at the copying machine, running off the Victor Robbins press release.
    The factory whistle blew. Through the steamy window, Fletch saw the governor turn and go through the factory gates by himself.
    “Where’s he going?”
    The press herd had turned their noses from the wind and were looking toward the campaign bus.
    “In to have coffee with the union leader,” Walsh answered, not even looking. “What’s his name—Wohlman. He’ll also have coffee with management.”
    “Coffee, coffee,” said a huge-chested man in a black suit who had stepped through the stateroom door at the back of the bus. “Coffee is bad for him.”
    “You know Flash Grasselli?” Walsh asked. “This is Fletcher, Flash.” Fletch got his hand crushed in the big man’s fist. “Flash is Dad’s driver, etc.”
    “And friend,” Flash said.
    “Couldn’t do without Flash,” Walsh said, and the big-chested man nodded as if to say,
Damn right
.
    “Glad to meet you,” Fletch said.
    At the front of the bus, while Fletch was trying to get by, Lee Allen Parke was saying quietly to the two volunteers, “Now, you make sure the congressman is made right comfortable, you hear? No matter what time of the morning he comes aboard, you have an eye-opener mixed and ready for him. If he doesn’t want it, he won’t drink it….”
    The press was gathered around the foot of the steps of the campaign bus.
    “Where’s the statement?” Fenella Baker demanded. Her lips were blue with cold.
    “What statement?” Fletch asked.
    “The governor’s statement regarding Vic Robbins’s