Fletch and the Man Who by Gregory McDonald Page B

said.”
    The bus, at high speed, was climbing a left-curved hill. Fletch had to push off the seat backs not to land on Betsy.
    “I mean, she didn’t ask me anything about myself.”
    “You think she had a chance?”
    “We were just talking.”
    “While you were at breakfast with her, did anyone from the campaign say hello to her, nod to her as he went by, wave from across the breakfast room?”
    “Not that I remember. She seemed a lonely person.”
    “Eager to talk.”
    “As long as she didn’t have to be assertive about it.”
    “You were in the motel bar last night.”
    “Yes. Drinking rum toffs.”
    “What’s a rum toff?”
    “Yummy.”
    “At any time did you see this girl—Sally, you called her—in the bar with anybody, or leave the bar with anybody, anything?”
    “I’m not aware of ever having seen her again since I had breakfast with her in Springfield.”
    “But you saw her Volkswagen trailing the caravan.”
    “No. I don’t know a Volkswagen from an aircraft carrier.”
    “They’re different.”
    “I expect so.”
    “Sea gulls seldom follow a Volkswagen.”
    “Oh. Well, at least I know the connection between the Shields woman and the campaign.”
    “What?”
    “There isn’t one. At least, as far as you can find out. So I won’t worry about it. As a story. Yet. Will you tell me if you discover there is a connection?”
    “Probably not.”
    “After all I just told you?”
    “Not much. You said so yourself.”
    “Now I have a question for you.”
    “You just asked one.”
    “Walsh has never married, has he?”
    “Yes, he likes girls.”
    “Oh, I can see that. Why don’t you introduce me to him? You’re his friend.”
    “You don’t know him?”
    “Not really. I mean, I’ve never been introduced as a woman to a man. As a reporter I know him.”
    “I see.”
    “He looks like he might go for the homebody type.”
    “You’re a homebody?”
    “I could be. If the home had a nice address on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
    “Sixteen-hundred block.”
    “Right.”
    “Lots of rooms to clean.”
    “You’ve never seen me with a mop.”
    “No, I haven’t.”
    “Pink lightning. Flushed with excitement. Ecstasy. You ought to introduce us.”
    “I will.”
    “Somebody in a presidential family ought to marry a Ginsberg. We do nice table settings.”
    “Agreed.”
    “Tell him you and I worked together in Atlanta.”
    The bus slowed. The bus driver was looking through the rearview mirror at Fletch.
    “I never worked in Atlanta.”
    “I did.”
    “Oh. Okay.”
    “Irwin!” the bus driver shouted.
    “Irwin!” Roy Filby echoed. “I’d rather see one than be one!”
    “Telephone!” the bus driver shouted. In fact, a black wire led from the dashboard onto his lap.
    Fletch said, “We have a telephone?”
    “Not for the use of reporters,” Betsy said. “Staff only. Want to hear what James said about the duplicating machine?”
    “I’ve heard.”
    Fletch went forward. The bus driver handed him the phone from his lap.
    “Hello?” Fletch said. “Nice of you to call.”
    Barry Hines said, “You’d better come forward, Fletcher.”
    “I’ve always been forward.”
    “I mean into this bus. Watch the noon news with us.”
    “Sure. Why?”
    “Just heard from a friendly at U.B.C. New York that something unsavory is coming across the airwaves at us.”
    “What?”
    The phone went dead.
    Brake lights went on at the rear of the campaign bus. It headed for the soft shoulder of the highway.
    Fletch looked for a place to hang up the phone.
    “Guess we’re stopping for a second. Got to go to the other bus.”
    The press bus was following the campaign bus onto the soft shoulder.
    “Just put the phone back in my lap,” the driver said. “I’m not expecting any calls at the moment.”
    Fletch put the phone in the bus driver’s lap.
    “How did you know my name is Irwin?” Fletch asked.
    The bus driver said: “Just guessed.”

13
    “We’re almost late for the rally in