Fetlock, P.I: The case of the Shaky Secretary
Another from the files of Calvin E. Fetlock, Political Investigator!
 
 
                     PART ONE

The call came around 2:00 in the morning. It ruined a lovely dream.
 
Usually I don't have lovely dreams. Usually my dreams are about me being chased through the alleys of Washington by creditors armed with AK47s.
 
But this one was different. This one was nice, yeah. Sharon Stone and Halle Berry were in bikinis and up to their knees in Jell-O, wrestling to see who'd be the first to make me happy I was born a man. Sharon had just grabbed Halle's top with both hands and was about to make a wish, when Ma Bell rang time-out and my happy vision vanished like a campaign promise.
 
I snatched up the phone, "Fetlock," I snarled. One word fewer than the two I had in mind.
 
"Cal? That you?" It wasn't a voice so much as an irritating, adenoidal whine that could only be Stephanopoulos, AKA Little Georgie the Mouth, AKA Georgie the Fixer, AKA...
 
"Fetlock? You there? Hello?"
 
"What d'ya want, George?" I said. I sounded like the Old Man of the Mountains.
 
"Listen, Shamus, I got a meet set up for you."
 
"Uh-huh," I said, "That's swell, Georgie. Why don't you call me back in a coupla years and tell me all about it?" I started to put the phone back where I wished I'd left it in the first place.
 
"Wait, Cal!" the earpiece whined, "There's money in it!"
 
So I stopped, because the word "money," or a .38 pointed at my head are the two things that never fail to get my attention. There is something fine and true about that word.
 
"Alright, tell me about it," I said, propping myself up on the pillows, "Who's the meet with?"
 
"I can't tell you over the phone, but he's big! He's Big, Cal! And he really needs your help; which is good, on account of he's loaded, loaded!"
.
"Uh-huh," I said, "And you thought you'd put us two swell kids together outta the goodness of your heart."
 
Stephanopoulos dropped into second gear, "I always take care of my end, Cal; you know that."
 
"Yeah you do," I said. "You're a cutie, you are. How long before you pull the blue shroud off this mystery man, Georgie?"
 
"I can tell you tonight, Cal, only not on the phone." And he gave me the address of a cheap burger joint on 14th. I'd been there before. I got out the Tums.
 
But then that's how it is when you're a Political Eye.
 
Stephanopoulos was waiting for me at the burger joint, as excited as a puppy about to get his num-nums. "What's this about, Georgie? I said, probably sounding as tired as I felt. You get old fast in this business. Too bad you don't get any smarter.
 
"I'll tell you what it's about," he said, and handed me a business card. I looked, and then I sat up like somebody'd stuck me with a pin. It was a splendid card, all royal blue with gold filigree around the edge; and in the center, tiny gold letters that read simply:
 
                     Colin L. Powell
                     Secretary of State,
                     The United States of America
 
I whistled. "Where'd you get this, Georgie?'
 
"Where d'ya think? From the meet, natch,"
 
"What the hell's Colin Powell want with me?"
 
"Listen," he said, suddenly peeved. "I never ask nobody more'n two questions: what d' they need, and can they afford it? Anything else's strictly between them and their diaries." He took a sip from his glass. "Have I sufficiently intrigued your interest?" he said with a crafty look.
 
"You have, Georgie," I said, pocketing the card, "You have."
 

 
                     PART TWO
 
The address on the back of the card was in a well-to-do part of McClean. Even in the middle of the night the lawns appeared neatly trimmed, and for all I knew, they'd been blow-dried.
 
When I walked up to the door, I was halted by a Grizzly bear in an FBI suit. I figured he was one of Ashcroft's boys--in fact he looked a little like Ashy, except his knuckles cleared the ground and he didn't have that haunted "stop-me-before-I-kill-again" look.
 
"No, no, friend," the Grizzly said, in a voice that caused nearby flowers to droop. "We will not be visiting tonight. We will be turning around and going home, that is what we will be doing."
 
"Spin around, pal," I said, "I wanna see if you have a tail."
 
That brought him to me. But his progress ended about an inch from the barrel of the Smith & Wesson 500 that had magically appeared in my hand. I pushed the barrel forward into the spot where I was considering construction of his new belly button.
 
When I was confident things weren't going to get ugly, I pointed to an Azalea bush by the side of the house and with a nod suggested he go smell the pretty flowers. Then, because Mother Fetlock sets great store by politeness, I added, "Please."
 
The look he gave me told me he thought I'd look swell in a pine overcoat, and there was a moment when I believed he was thinking about taking up tailoring. But when I pushed the tiny Howitzer a bit deeper into his dinner he had second thoughts. He looked down at the S&W's seven-inch barrel (size matters, don't let them tell you otherwise), and he relaxed and took up a sudden interest in horticulture.
 
I found Powell in the sunroom at the back of the house. The windows were closed. The only light was from a citronella candle on the glass table beside his chair. I pushed my hat back off my forehead and sat down in the chair across from him. "Evenin', General," I said.
 
"I've heard good things about you, Fetlock," he said, his voice cool and smooth, like marble.
 
"What I guess you haven't heard, Mr. Secretary, is I'm strictly a Party of Jackson boy. I don't work the elephant side of the street, because my dear old union auntie's ghost would never let me hear the end of it."
 
"That's okay," he said, "I'm not much of a Republican."
 
"Yeah," I said, "There's been talk." I looked at him for a minute. "Just what are you much of, General?" I asked him finally.
 
He looked puzzled. "I don't understand," he said.
 
"I mean you're a little bit of a hard guy to follow. A fella could get seasick just trying to keep up with all your angles. You're a dove who's a hawk. You're a statesman who's a warrior. You're an incorruptible stand-up cat who'll say whatever crap your bosses put in your mouth." I leaned closer to him; "A coupla more sides, general, and you could be your own bar fight."
 
He started to say something--"No, wait," I said, leaning closer, "I got more. For example, there's the matter of your whitewash of the My Lai massacre, your involvement in the Iran-Contra affair, your--"
 
"I--I don't know what you're talking about," he said, folding his arms around himself like he was hugging a Tickle Me Elmo.
 
"Yeah," I said, sitting back and giving him the hard look, "Not much you don't."
 
We didn't say anything more for a few minutes. Then I took off my hat and hung it on the arm of the chair, "All right," I said, "You didn't bring me out this early just to hear the rooster, and the bars don't open for another coupla hours. I guess it won't kill me to hear you out."
 
"I think someone's trying to kill me," he said. Right off. Just like that. Not a general anymore, just another guy scared of ending up in the little room with the silk wallpaper.
 
I like to think I'm as compassionate as the next guy, so I said "Oh Yeah?" But in a heartfelt way.
 
"I don't know how I know," he said, "I just do. I figured it out when they started keeping me out of the public eye. Then they started blaming me for the mess Rumsfeld made of the diplomatic efforts. And now even Gingrich is getting in on the act, saying State needs to be reorganized--Gingrich, for God's sake! In a few more weeks I'll be totally irrelevant! The worst part is I'm beginning to believe Don Rumsfeld's behind it, and with the White House's backing."
 
Bingo. I'd already figured Rummy for the fix, but I didn't want to say that just then. Besides, there was another angle I didn't think the general'd tipped to yet.
 
"Tell me," I asked, did you know there was a goon outside your door who'd been sent to make sure we didn't talk tonight?"
 
He looked as surprised as I'd figured he be. "No," he stammered, "I don't have any idea what's going on"
 
"Maybe because it's too simple," I offered.
 
"Wh-what do you mean?" His voice was tight.
 
I leaned forward so I could see his reaction when he got it. "I mean maybe some of the kids on your team don't have Black History Month circled on their calendars."
 
He rose suddenly from his chair, "No!" he shouted. He looked like a man whose mother'd just kicked him in the stomach. "That can't be it. That's not it!"
 
"Of course not," I said, sitting back in the shadows. "What could I have been thinking?"
 
Just as I'd decided to bag it for a bad job, a rock smashed through the window, followed by a sudden brilliance in the backyard--the light from a burning cross.
 
While Powell stared out of the broken window, aghast, I grabbed the rock. It was wrapped in a note that read:
 
"The Party doesn't want your kind, Powell!!!
Get out NOW, while you still CAN!!!"
 
There's something about self-illuminated religious icons that gets my Irish up--which is odd, considering that the closest anybody in my family ever got to the Auld Sod is when I made a wrong turn and wound up in the St. Paddy's day parade by mistake.
 
Before I'd had time to think and maybe do something sane, I was leaping through the window and chasing the perp through the neighboring backyards. He looked to be a furtive, sneaky little guy who was wearing a white sheet and hood (will these people ever get a fashion sense?). By now I was sure it was Rummy.
 
He was two yards ahead of me, and getting farther every minute. In desperation I leaped up onto a tool shed, and started sprinting across the fences like a wire walker--a not especially intelligent move, since one slip meant I'd be spending the rest of my Saturday nights watching Lawrence Welk reruns.
 
But it paid off. The Ku Klux Krazy was just scrambling over the last fence as I flung myself squarely onto his percales. There was a brief tussle, a few minutes of oddly lackluster resistance from my opponent, and then no more. I whipped off the pillowcase to get a good look at the catch of the day.
 
At first I didn't believe it.
 
I was holding the crazed, sheet-wearing racist, the cross-burning fanatic, the lunatic desperado apparently prepared to do anything to rid the Republican party of Colin Powell.
 
And it was Condi Rice.