“No, no. That little toadstool press secretary of mine,” he said, pointing a thumb back toward his mansion, “‘advised’ me not to talk to you, and I didn’t want to have to fight with him, so I just came out the window. Didn’t even wake the wife.”
“Why do you think he advised you thusly?” Bromstad asked, accidentally producing a rather archaic sentence while trying to be nonchalant.
“He says you’re as dead as a stuffed mule deer. ‘Wouldn’t be good for my approval ratings to be seen with you,’ he says,” Herzog stated matter-of-factly before taking a puff of his Churchill. “Hey! I’m sorry—you want one of these?” he asked, gesturing with the already very wet end of his stogie.
Bromstad just shook his head sadly.
“What?” Herzog asked upon noticing Bromstad’s hurt look. “Oh, hey. Don’t worry about it. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You’re not as dead as a stuffed mule deer. Sure, you been shot by this Ryback fellow. But there ain’t no reason in the world you can’t drag yourself through the woods, find some heavy brush, and lay down to lick your wounds.” A passing car honked its horn. “Hey,” said Herzog, “they’ve spotted us. Let’s break up this little powwow and reconvene in my study.”
Once inside—they entered through the front door—Bromstad peered at Herzog through a thick fog of cigar smoke and attempted small talk. “How’s the governor game going?” he asked.
“Beats pickin’ cotton,” Herzog said, “Though not by much. I suppose you heard about my recent trouble?”
“No. I’ve been busy.”
“Are you kiddin’? Busy doin’ what—spelunking? It’s all over the media.”
“I’ve been . . . out of town.”
“Well, a protester got personal on me the other day, so I had to bust a move on him. Dropped him like a hot buttered anvil right there on the capitol steps. Unfortunately, a picture of me standing over him taunting Ali style made the front page of the paper.” He took a long pull off a can of vanilla-flavored sports shake. “Big uproar. Lots of negative press. I suppose they would have liked it better if I’d held him in my arms and rocked him to sleep singing ‘All the Pretty Little Ponies.’ No. I did the right thing. I stand by it.”
“Well, good for you,” Bromstad encouraged, though he was really just waiting for Herzog to be done speaking.
“And what’s happening with you? The latest Dogwood book just went in the toilet after the second week, huh?”
Bromstad pulled up the arms of his sweater. “No. No. It’s still posting strong sales, and we expect to tie up some more foreign-rights deals within—”
“You can’t fool an old soldier. This Ryback fellow’s taking a big boardinghouse bite out of your sales. There’s only so many book-buying dollars per household, and right now that rat-adventure book is eating your lunch. It happened to me when Stamp Your Ass MINE! came out. Bunt Casey’s was released right after it, and sales took a little hit. They recovered, though.” Herzog’s personal memoir had turned out to be a giant success, and it was at the Dwee Awards, where Bromstad and Herzog had met and formed their friendship after discovering a common love of drinking too much table wine, throwing wadded-up bits of dinner rolls at other attendees, and heckling the presenters.
“Well, I’ll admit it. I’m disappointed by recent events. I don’t like or trust this guy. I want him taken out as a viable threat to our way of life.”
“What can the governor’s office do to help you?” Herzog asked while exhaling the largest cigar cloud yet.
“Well, here’s the thing. I’ve got Stig and the boys from Den Institut Dansk working surveillance for me.”
“Be careful. They’re Danish. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Well, in fact, we ran into difficulty when an unfortunate incident caused the Volvo to roll, many times. We barely got out alive.”
“Swede cars aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. They would roll just as soon as look at you. Buy American.” Bromstad was puzzling over this nonsensical automotive jingoism when Herzog continued, “How’s their intelligence? What have you got so far?”
“Well, so far only this. He used to work at Medieval Burger. And he’s got large feet.”
“That’s not a lot to go on.”
“No, it’s pretty thin—but we’ll get more. He’s up in Holey with King Leo right now, and—”
“King Leo! Jumping Jerry Rice in a flatboat, man! What’s that panty-wearing freak of nature up to?”
“That’s what I’m—”
“Eroding our hard-earned Minnesota dignity, no doubt,” Herzog said, slamming a fist down onto his table, overturning his empty sports-shake can.
“No doubt. That’s—”
“What do you need? Troops?”
Bromstad did a double take. “Can I have some?”
“No. I got carried away there. Sorry. Now’s not a good time anyway. The heat on me is too intense. Diverting the National Guard for personal use is not going to endear me to anyone.” The governor looked around the room as though he smelled something. “What about a steak?” he asked suddenly.
Bromstad looked as puzzled as a man to whom the offer of steak has been unexpectedly made. “I . . . I don’t see how that will help.”
“You want one? I’m gonna have a steak.”
“No thanks. It’s a bit early for steak.”
“Okay, I guess I’ll wait, too,” said Herzog, his voice betraying his disappointment over having to forgo the breakfast meat. “King Leo,” he said, shaking his head. “His last album was nothing but a filthy rant over a bass line and fuzz guitars. It was an aggressive criminal act. My wife loves the guy, though. Figure that out.”
“There’s no sense to be made of it. But if this Ryback person has aligned with him, they can’t possibly be up to anything good. That’s where I need your help.”
“I’m listening,” said Herzog, though it was clear to Bromstad that he was still busy being disgusted over King Leo while relighting his cigar and therefore not listening at all. Bromstad coughed loudly, and Herzog disengaged from his own thoughts. “Okay. What do we do?” he asked.
“Well, I’ll tell you. Number one, I don’t believe that this Holey Rat story is true in the first place.”
“What? That’s a pretty serious accusation. What proof have you got?”
“It’s the story of a man being attacked by a six-foot rat, Governor.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard. Sounds like an amazing story.”
“Governor! A six-foot rat! When’s the last time you heard of a rat that grew to be six feet long?”
“I haven’t. But just to play devil’s advocate, I know that sturgeon can get to be a thousand pounds or more if left to their own devices. Maybe rats are the same way.”
“What does . . . ?”
“And I certainly wouldn’t want to tangle with a rabid capybara in a dark alley, would you?”
“I don’t know. But—”
“I saw him interviewed. He said he researched it pretty thoroughly. And his publisher, you don’t think they checked this out? Look, you know I’m behind you.
You’re good for Minnesota, just like I am, and Minnesota in turn is good to us. This guy with the big feet, I’ve got no more love for him than you do, but it seems like you’re the only one who has a problem with his story being true.”
“What if I could prove it wasn’t?” said Bromstad, narrowing his eyes and angling his head down significantly, unfortunately undermining the effect of the look by hiding it from Herzog under the brim of his hat.
Herzog lowered himself to see under it. “Then I’d be behind you one thousand and ten percent.”
“And you’d see to it that he was brought to justice?”
“Swiftly and surely.”
“Lying to his trusting fellow Minnesotans like that, it’s inhuman.”
“It’s in-Minnesotan, too, to coin a phrase. I don’t like that kind of thing.”
“What could you do to a
fellow like that?” asked Bromstad, pretending to mull.
“Well . . .”
“Yes?”
“Say, you’re not suggesting . . . ?”
“I could be.”
“The Minnesota Cultural Sedition Act?”
“I am.”
“The Minnesota Cultural Sedition Act,” Herzog repeated ominously. “Do I have the power to invoke it?”
“You’re the governor.”
“I am, aren’t I?” said Herzog. “Yes, if he’s guilty, we could invoke the Minnesota Cultural Sedition Act. It might be fun. Liven this state up a little. Steak?”
CHAPTER 15
About the four strangers in the Taconite Saloon, one thing was known for certain: They had recently shopped at Pamida, the discount store in Fishville, eighteen miles away. This was evident to the others present by the fact that all four were wearing identical brands of flannel shirts that had very obviously just been removed from their packaging (there was even a piece of cellophane tape featuring a redundant XL pattern adhered to one back). One was a red check, another yellow, and the two remaining were blue, and identical, and none looked very comfortable in their sizing-stiffened, almost crunchy states. The men’s just-off-the-shelf blue jeans looked even more oppressive, and those who beheld them felt a firm conviction that some very uncomfortable pinching simply had to be going on beneath.
The strangers were eerily similar, though not identical, as though they’d been created in a factory whose quality control had slipped and begun allowing previously tight machine tolerances to loosen somewhat. They had about them a serious purpose, but for some reason appeared not to want that to be evident to the people of Holey and so put on a feigned nonchalance that was as stiff as their clothing.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed one in a stilted, nearly chilling manner as they walked in. “That’s very funny, Vagns.” The man it was directed at, Vagns, it seemed, did not appear to have said anything. They took four stools at the bar, and Ralph approached with as much courtesy as he could muster for such an odd quartet.
“What can I get you?” he asked, starting with Ülo.
“Oh, dear, dear, dear,” said Ülo, looking above the bar, ostensibly for a drink menu that did not exist. “Oh, it is early, so I’ll just have a Klar Høker snaps—Aalborg, if you have it, please,” he added. He was immediately elbowed strongly by the man in the yellow shirt who sat next to him. “Or, actually, just a beer.”
“I’ve got Grain Belt, Grain Belt Premium, Bud Light, and Leinenkugel’s.”
“Leinenkugel’s? Is that Austrian?”
“Nnnnooo. Chippewa Falls, I think.”
“I’ll try one of those.”
The other three echoed his order, and Ralph filled them all.
Conversation was light at the Taconite and decidedly lighter among the four strangers. Ralph leaned against the back of the bar, employing his remarkable ability to simultaneously stare at and think of nothing in particular. The four peered vacantly around the bar, their heads shaking, pleasant smiles on their faces. The man in the yellow shirt spoke.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” he said.
This earned him a look from Ralph. “You all right?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said the man. “I was just thinking of something Ülo had said earlier.”
Ralph nodded, a gesture acknowledging that he had heard the response while at the same time confessing that he found it spectacularly uninteresting. He resumed his previous activities.
“So this is Holey?” the man said.
“’S that?” asked Ralph.
“Holey? This is it?”
“Yes, it is,” Ralph confirmed.
“Wasn’t—wasn’t there a mine or something here? Something like that?”
“Yes, there was.”
“Ja. Ja, I thought so. My name is Jørgen,” he said, extending his hand.
“Ralph,” said Ralph, accepting the handshake in a Ralph-like manner; that is, betraying nothing that would indicate how he felt about meeting Jørgen for the first time.
“These are my friends Vagns, Per, and Ülo.” Ralph greeted them all, and there was some difficulty getting him near a proper pronunciation of Ülo.
“Where you guys from?” Ralph asked.
“Minneapolis,” Jørgen answered.
“I live in St. Paul, actually,” Per added, looking over the tops of his glasses.
“Well, welcome to Holey,” Ralph said, and he meant it, though perhaps with somewhat muted passion.
The men from Minneapolis (and St. Paul) resumed their looking around as Ralph got back to the business of staring.
“How’s the fish—” Jørgen was just starting to say, but Ralph put up a finger indicating that he would be right back, as he was being summoned at the end of the bar by another patron who put in an order for a Jack and Coke and something called a Slow, Comfortable Screw. Ralph poured the drinks and returned.
“What were you saying?” he asked Jørgen.
“Oh. I was just inquiring how the fishing had been around here in Holey.”
“Season ain’t open yet. Unless you want to go after rock bass,” Ralph said, in a tone suggesting that to go after rock bass would be something akin to dancing down Main Street in a powdered wig and bustier.
“No,” Jørgen objected, “I don’t want to go after rock bass. No thank you!” He laughed at this, and, inexplicably, so did his companions.
Jørgen and his friends had loitered at the bar for nearly an hour when Ralph suddenly produced small tubs of pasteurized processed cheese spread and set four of them at regular intervals on the bar, following them up with individual sleeves of saltines.
“For me?” Jørgen asked.
“For everyone,” said Ralph.
Jørgen had never seen or tasted cheese in paste form before (he’d been brought up on Havartis, Esroms, flavorful Kumiosts, and Danish Blues), so he was somewhat mystified as to how he was to handle Ralph’s gift. He picked up a tub of cheese, looking for directions.
“All-natural cheese spread. Port wine flavored,” he said out loud to no one in particular. He opened it and plunged a cracker in with gusto, snapping it in half and polluting the pristine surface of the cheese spread with the broken piece and bits of shattered saltine detritus. “Son of a . . .” he said, displaying irritation for the first time since entering the Taconite Saloon. (Inside, he was filled with loathing over having to touch pasteurized processed cheese food, as he was convinced of the fact that Americans’ consumption of such an abomination was clear evidence of their moral failings.)
As he passed by, Ralph noticed Jørgen’s difficulties with the spread and, letting loose with a subtle but perceptible sigh, fetched four cheese knives from under the bar and set them near each of the tubs, placing the one near Jørgen with an especially heavy hand.
“This is a very thick cheese,” Jørgen offered as his excuse.
“Yeah,” Ralph concurred.
Jørgen and his associates responded to an unspoken command to consume and pretend to enjoy some of the offered spreads, probably reasoning that it was a way to endear themselves to the locals. Halfway through masticating his second cheese-encrusted cracker, Jørgen resumed his small talk with Ralph, who was again leaning against the bar.
“Mmm, this is very tangy and good.”
Ralph nodded.
“Say, that mine, isn’t that the one that that guy wrote a book about—or something like that?” Jørgen asked, brushing cracker crumbs from his new shirt.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“It involves a large killer rodent, if my memory serves me.”
“Yeah, it sure does.”
“Yes . . . yes,” said Jørgen, hoping that doing so would lead Ralph to give up more information. It did not work. “Yes,” he continued somewhat desperately, “yes.” After a moment he added, “Yes. Seems like an interesting fellow, that guy. Saw something on him on a television program not terribly long ago.” Ralph was unmoved by this piece of ne
ws, so Jørgen attempted a more direct approach. “Do you ever see him up this way?”
“Now and again,” said Ralph. That was the end of his information on the subject, and Jørgen, who wanted to remain inconspicuous, decided not to press further. They finished their drinks, thanked Ralph, and left, huddling on the sidewalk out in front to discuss their next move.
“That was a big, giant, fat dead end,” asserted Ülo. “And the cheese was ungodly.”
“True, yes. It tasted of freshly expelled vomit. And I admit our subject was not as forthcoming as I would have liked. But it should not be that difficult to find out where he’s staying, if only we keep our eyes and our ears open. Our next move should be—”
“Jørgen! Jørgen, traveler is at your six!” warned Per.
“What?” Jørgen said irritably. He turned to look where Per was pointing, and indeed Jack Ryback was striding toward them in the company of two other men. One was the mustachioed fellow from the park meeting, the other was King Leo, looking fresh and fetching in a peasant blouse of a delicate ocean hue. They were closing in on the knot of Danish men fairly quickly.
“Okay, move! Move!” said Jørgen urgently, underscoring his command by pushing his comrades roughly, first Per, then Vagns. “Come on. Come on.”
“Ow,” said Vagns, who did not like being pushed, especially when the pusher had a hangnail and his push had missed its mark, the jagged nail raking open a small cut on his top lip, which is precisely what had happened.
“You must move now,” Jørgen ordered. They walked briskly down the sidewalk, away from the approaching author and his strange entourage, ducking into an open shop, the Jurkovich Family Pharmacy. The bell tinkled as the foursome tumbled into the store, invading the quiet, Muzak-tinged air.
“Ow. You cut me,” said Vagns incredulously.
“Quiet, you little baby,” said Jørgen. He looked around to notice that the only person in the store, a placid-looking man of forty wearing a blue smock, was staring at them with a pleasant but subtly accusing look.
“Help you find something?” he said, and all were aware that he really meant “Don’t bring your trouble in here.”
Mike Nelson's Death Rat! Page 19
