Fletch and the Man Who by Gregory McDonald

you in trouble.”
    “Why’s that?” Fletch asked.
    “ ’Cause you’ve never dealt with Hanrahan before.”
    “Dreadful stuff you write,” Fletch said.
    “All you’ve had to deal with so far are these milksop pussycats mewing for your handouts.”
    “Meow,” said Freddie.
    “You’re gonna work for me,” Hanrahan said. “You’re gonna work your shavvy-tailed ass off.”
    “What do you want, Hanrahan?”
    “I want to sit down with your candidate. And I mean now.”
    “Not now.”
    “Today. Within a few hours. I need to ask him some questions.”
    “About what?”
    “About dead broads,” Hanrahan snapped. “That broad in Chicago.That broad last night. The brutally slain debutante your candidate leaves behind him everywhere he goes.”
    “
Newsbill’s
electronics must be good as
Newsworld’s
,” Fletch said to Freddie.
    “
Newsworld’s
doesn’t use such colorful words,” Freddie said. “Archaic though they may be.”
    “Hell, Hanrahan,” Fletch said, “that matter’s already wrapped up.”
    Hanrahan squinted. “It is?”
    “Yeah. They took Mary Rice into custody an hour ago. Your own reporter. From
Newsbill
.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “He’s right, Hanrahan. We all know how far you
Newsbill
writers will go to make a story. Mary just got caught this time.”
    “The police knew the murderer was Mary because she left someone else’s notes at the scene of crime,” Fletch added.
    Even Hanrahan’s neck was turning red. “You know how many readers I got?” he shouted.
    “Yeah,” Freddie said. “Everyone in the country who can’t read, reads
Newsbill
. Big deal.”
    “They all vote,” Hanrahan insisted to her.
    “More’s the pity,” Freddie said to the ground.
    “I want to get together with your candidate now,” Hanrahan said. “And no more juvenile crap from you!”
    “Doubt the candidate will have all that much time for you, Hanrahan.”
    “What’s the matter?” Hanrahan took a step forward. “Doesn’t little boyums like the smell of big bad man’s breath?”
    “Highly indicative, I’m sure,” Fletch said.
    “You put me together with your candidate, let me work him over with my bare knuckles, or tomorrow
Newsbill’s
readers are going to be told Governor Caxton Wheeler refuses to answer questions about two recent murders on his campaign trail.”
    “You just do that, Hanrahan.” Fletch turned to climb the bus steps. “It will be the first time you’ve ever written the truth.”

9
    “Listen to this.” Dr. Thom was stretched out on the bed in the candidate’s stateroom at the back of the bus. He was reading a book entitled
The Darwinian Theory as Fossil
. “‘For thousands of years, we have been told perfection is not attainable, but a worthy aspiration. In this post-Freudian era, we are told normalcy is not possible, but a worthy aspiration. In one scheme, we might achieve excellence; in the other, mediocrity. In one scheme, we fear despair; in the other, depression.’” The doctor put down the open book on his chest. “What can I do for you?”
    “Need to ask you a couple of questions.” Fletch had knocked, entered the stateroom at Dr. Thom’s drawled “Enter if you must,” and sat in one of the two comfortable swivel chairs at the stateroom’s desk.
    Dr. Thom spoke with extraordinary slowness. “Anyone trying to handle the press can have anything he wants from me: poisoned gas, flamethrowers, machine guns, hand grenades. If I don’t have such medical and surgical tools on hand, I shall secure them for you at greatly reduced rates.”
    “At the moment, I’m inclined to place an order,” Fletch said. “I just met Michael J. Hanrahan, of
Newsbill.
”
    “The press ought to be an extinct species,” Dr. Thom drawled. “They never evolved to a very high level. You can tell by the way they go along the ground, sniffing it. I might suggest to the candidate that the press be handed over to the Department of the Interior. That way their extinction will