Mike Nelson's Death Rat! (16 page)

“No, really,” Jack objected, backing up a step. “I'm not much of a hugger. Well . . . okay.” And he received King Leo's hug, relieved that he was not also receiving some of King Leo's sweat.

“There, there, there, there, Jack. Go throw a bag together,”
King Leo said, and he patted Jack's back. Jack took a step toward his room and then turned back.

“I guess I don't know what to pack,” he said.

King Leo gave it some thought. “Well,” he said, “I packed my Jimmy Choo calfskin slingbacks, a tulle bodysuit, some jersey-knit sweaters, three chiffon peasant tops, my python pants, a Fendi cape . . . um, my Manolo Blahnik heels, a few sleeveless turtlenecks. Oh, and my mink sweatpants for just hanging around.”

Sleep, for Jack, was difficult in the Funkabus. At all times Kaptain Kinetik was drumming on some surface: the large mahogany table, the cabinets above the stove, even the head of Billy Moonbeam. And Wigs Jackson was playing a video golf game against Sir Shock-a-Lot, who seemingly could play nearly flawless video golf, causing Wigs to yell and hit him on the shoulder. King Leo strummed mindlessly on a hollow-bodied Gibson and sang indeterminate words in a wavering falsetto. With the hum of the bus's tires and the other riders' conversations obfuscating his voice, to Jack it might just as well have been Tiny Tim.

He was watching the yellow lines fly by when King Leo swung into the seat next to him. “Jack, Jack, Jack,” he said, a strange smile on his face that reminded Jack of his perpetually stoned freshman roommate, only a good deal less stupid-looking.

“King Leo.”

“You're a writer, Jack.”

“I am,” Jack lied.

“I don't want to put you on the spot, but I want you to take a look at something.” Jack became quickly and appropriately terrified
. “I've written some poetry. . . .” said King Leo, producing a notebook.

Jack scanned surreptitiously about him for an escape route, noticing with disappointment that his seat was not positioned near one of the emergency windows. “Well, King Leo, I'm really more of a journalist, you know. Not really a good judge of poetry, per se.”

“But you know words, Jack. You bend them to your will.”

“Oh, not so much bending, really.”

King Leo thrust the notebook at him. “I'd be honored.”

Jack was about to formulate a new line of objections when he concluded that it would probably be easier to capitulate and accept an inevitable fact of life: at some point some person will force you to look at his poetry. In any calendar year half of the people on the planet collar the other half and cajole them into looking at their bad rhymed couplets, free verse, poems about horses accompanied by crude drawings, or what have you. It was simply his turn. He took the notebook gingerly from King Leo's hand.

“Okay. I'll take a look at it—though understand, I'm no judge.”

“Thank you,” said King Leo.

“Sure,” said Jack with finality.

Jack saw fresh difficulty on the horizon when King Leo, who by all accepted rules of human interaction surrounding the exchange of poetry should now have been leaving, was doing nothing of the sort. In fact, he was looking at Jack with an eager expression, as though Jack were about to bite into his famous home-baked Dutch apple pie. Jack devised a way to test his theory that King Leo was going nowhere until some unit of poetry was read by him. “Okay, I'll take a look at it when I've
got a minute,” he said, and turned away. Unfortunately, he was unable to begin any activity that seemed more important than reading poetry, and King Leo pounced.

“What are you doing now?” he asked reasonably.

“Oh. Now?”

“Yeah. Read it now. Go ahead.” King Leo was excited.

Jack thought briefly how nice it would be to die, but he simply smiled at King Leo and thumbed open the notebook.

“All right. I'm excited,” said Jack. “First page, here?”

“Yeah, yeah. Start there.”

Jack noticed his use of the phrase “
start
there” and despaired. He tried to get the first page to come into focus, but it was difficult with the low light and the distraction of being able to hear its author breathing. Finally it did, and he read the title, written in flowery script with a gel pen: “My Flute,” it read. Because he couldn't think of anything else to do, Jack coughed. He pointed to the page. “Right here?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Right there.”

He was cornered now, with nowhere to go, so he read King Leo's poem entitled “My Flute.”

Toot, man.

That what it says, says my flute.

You'd think it would be a hoot.

But it ain't a hoot to toot my flute, brute.

My life—my blood, my sweat, my tears—MY LIFE

Is in that toot.

That toot,

From my flute.

Toot.

Jack was so delighted that it wasn't filthy, he was certain he would be able to pretend that it was good, even though he felt very strongly that, like 99 percent of all the poetry ever produced, it was not good.

“Wow. That's . . . that's very good. There's a real dark edge to it.”

“Yeah, I meant that,” said King Leo.

“Your music?” Jack offered as his analysis.

“What's that?” asked King Leo.

“It's about your music?”

King Leo thought about it. “Well, that's one reading, I suppose.” Jack closed the notebook and made half a motion to return it. “No, no, no. Read more,” King Leo commanded.

“More? Well, I'm just kind of letting that one sink in.” King Leo smiled at him. “Okay. I'll read more. Good.” And Jack read King Leo's entire notebook, two hours' worth, as King Leo looked on, the bus speeding northward. And while he read, he thought how much better off he would be if he had stayed at Medieval Burger and worked his way up to register.

Everyone on the Funkabus was so engrossed in his task, and the video-golf music was turned up to so needlessly intense a level, that no one noticed a cool blue Volvo keeping pace with them until about an hour outside of Holey, when there came a bright white flash originating in the Volvo's interior compartment. Nor did they see the car swerve out of control, its right front tire catching the gravel on the shoulder of the road. And they did not notice as the car flipped and rolled off into the woods, where it came to a stop some fifteen yards off the road, its roof propped up against a red oak.

W
hen Ponty returned to Holey, he was not exactly expecting to be welcomed as a long-departed hero, but neither did he expect the extreme and tangible apathy that greeted him as he entered the Taconite Saloon.

“Hey, Ralph,” he said.

Ralph didn't look away from the television. “Hey,” he replied.

“Hey, Chet!” Ponty said, and, noticing that Chet was no longer wearing Sonny's jacket, added, “Got a new coat, huh?”

“Hm?” Chet said, glancing up from his paper. “No. Well, I suppose it's new to you.” And he looked back down at his paper.

Ponty, who, despite having paid the citizens of Holey a decent amount of money, did not consider himself their employer, nevertheless decided it was time to take a firm hand.

“Where's Sandi?” he asked sharply, and then quickly added, less sharply, “Have you seen her, or . . . ?”

“Sandi?” said Chet. “Oh, I think she's taking a delivery in back.”

“Thank you, Chet,” said Ponty, satisfied that he'd got some solid results. He decided to press his advantage. “Say, everything going okay around here?”

“Oh, yeah. Everything's fine.”

Ponty thought perhaps Chet was missing his deeper meaning, so he spelled it out. “No strangers poking around asking questions?”

“Nope. Just you— Well, you know what I mean,” said Chet.

“Yes, thank you.”

Chet's intelligence had been excellent: Sandi was indeed just finishing up unloading produce in the back.

“Hello, stranger,” she said cheerfully.

“Hello. How's everything going?” he said, adding an extra edge of conspiracy to his voice.

“Good.”

“Really?” he said doubtfully.

“Yes.”

“No . . . problems?”

“No. Well, the grinder on the dishwasher went out and the whole drain line clogged, so Ralph and I were doing dishes by hand for nearly a week.”

“But no one calling, no visitors asking uncomfortable questions about the book?”

“Oh, there've been a few calls, an interested person will stop by the Taconite—nothing I haven't been able to handle. I understand the book is doing real good, which is nice for all of us. We can all use a little extra walkin'-around money. Come on in and have a cup of coffee with me.”

They convened at a table near the bearskin, poured coffee, and settled in. Sandi stared at him penetratingly. “You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet,” she said, employing an equine saying unfamiliar to Ponty. He used context to guess at its basic meaning but still proceeded cautiously in case he'd erred horribly.

“Really? Well, I suppose I was not as dry as I could have been . . . when . . . um . . .”

“Have you been sleeping well?” she asked with what looked like genuine concern.

“Frankly, no. This whole business, the book thing, it takes it out of you. Lots of bad dreams. I'm being chased in my dreams
quite a bit lately, and the people chasing me seem more and more committed. Overall, they're worse than the falling dreams, and I don't like those much either.”

“Falling off of cliffs or what?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes buildings. Sometimes I just fall down and hurt myself. Shorter dreams, but no less frightening, 'cause I don't wake up before I hit the ground, like in the others. But those aren't as bad as the dreams where I'm on trial—they go on forever. The evidence against me is usually presented by my family and friends. And there's always a lot of it, cataloged and presented methodically. Why am I telling you this?”

“No. It's okay.”

“Well, my uncle Barn is usually the prosecutor—he was a sweet guy. Not in my dreams, though. There he gets pretty nasty. Shouts down all my own attorney's objections—not that that guy's good for much anyway. But, as I said, it just goes on and on. I have to sit there and watch.”

“You poor thing.”

“Oh, it's okay. Usually if I cry too loudly in my dreams, my roommate kicks the top of my bed, and then I stop.” He realized that this sudden confessional left him a bit exposed, so he took a sip of coffee to quell his embarrassment. He swallowed. “What about you? Sleeping well?” he said, and immediately regretted its inadvertently personal nature.

“Me? No problems, no. I don't dream often, but when I do, it's usually about just me lounging in a little house by the sea. I don't know where it is, but the curtains on the little yellow house always blow in the breeze, and the waves are always calm. I stand with my hands over my eyes looking out at the ocean for something.” Realizing that this revelation, with its distinct lack of angst, might hurt his feelings, she added,
“Could be something bad that I'm waiting for, like . . . like Viking raiders or something. Luckily, I always wake up before it comes.” She shifted gears. “So you have room
mates
or room
mate
?”

“Roommates, four. They're hardly even around during the school year.”

“Are they teachers?”

“No, students,” he said, as though the question were odd.

“And are you . . . involved with any of them?” she asked.

Before he could stop himself, Ponty screamed. It wasn't much of a scream, but still, the half-dozen or so people in the Taconite Saloon turned to look at him, none of them with fondness or admiration. He gathered himself enough to say, “No! No! Whatever would give you that idea? No, no, ouch!” he said as he sloshed some coffee into his lap. “No.”

“I'm sorry. Are you okay?” she asked, referring to his potential groin burn.

“Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Sorry I overreacted. You'd have to know my roommates.”

“I thought perhaps ‘roommate' was a new term for ‘girlfriend' that people were using in the Cities. We get things late here.”

“No. Roommate means roommate in this case, probably more than it ever has before.”

“I believe you.”

Ponty, fearing he had frightened her with all his histrionics, tried to stay calm as he asked, “And you don't—that is Ralph, you mentioned—he's not your husband—or partner, I think you said—but he and you aren't—aren't—that is to say—you're not married to him—or anyone? Right now?”

“Ralph and I? No! No. He's a good man, Ralph but—no. Not ever. I was married once, a long time ago. I lost him.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Back in '78, we were in the BWCA—the Boundary Waters Canoe Area—when he wandered off to get firewood. Never found him. No bones or anything. They tell me if he met with some accident or something (which is probably the case) and couldn't move, then he most likely got eaten by wolves.”

“Oh, that's horrible.”

“It's actually a great comfort to me to know he didn't suffer for long if those wolves got him. Course, I don't know if they got him, but I like to think that.”

“Of course. I didn't mean to bring up a painful subject. Forgive me.”

“No, please. Don't worry about it.”

“Well, speaking of painful subjects. The reason I'm up here, King Leo took a fancy to the book, and he's planning a visit here at any time.”

“King Leo! Oh, dear. I don't think there's much here in Holey for King Leo,” said Sandi, taking a sip of coffee. “But we'll try to make him feel welcome.”

Ponty, while not wanting to judge unkindly, felt that she was not displaying the appropriate amount of panic. “He's apparently insane and . . . and slightly obsessed with the book. . . . And he'll be bringing a lot of media attention here,” he said forcefully, trying to replace her apparent sangfroid with a reasonable and proper amount of fear, such as the kind he felt nearly always.

“Well, I know most of the folks around here won't much like it, but everyone could stand to have his cage rattled every now and then.”

“I don't think you understand. If he finds out the truth, so
will everyone else who matters. Our little gravy train will be off the rails right quick.”

“How would he find out our secret?”

“Well . . .” He looked around for an audience to do an arms-out-at-the-side, “can you believe this?” take to, but finding none, he did it to the wall. “Somebody might let it slip. Is everyone in town properly motivated? Everyone's happy with his pay? You're in charge of all this, you know. It's in our contract.”

“I know that, you big dope,” she said, not without affection. “The people of Holey have given you their word, and I don't know how things are in your St. Pauls and your Minneapolises, but around here that's . . . well, that's as good as gold, if you'll pardon the expression. I have only one concern, and that's with Gerry Iverson. The mine's on his land, and . . .” she said, seemingly reluctant to continue.

“Why? What's . . . ? What's his deal?”

“Well . . . he's different,” she said cryptically.

“Different? Different from what?”

“Well, he doesn't have electricity . . . and he does really
interesting
chain-saw art. . . . I think he used to be on the goof-balls or something. He's different.”

“Well, is he one of those guys whose brain is fried? You know, one of those guys who laughs a lot at nothing? Are we trusting someone who's not all there?” Ponty was getting worked up. Sandi tried to calm him.

“Ooohhh, noooo. He's a nice fellow. Well, you'll see. I'll take you out to meet him. It'll be fine. Hey, maybe you can give him a little extra piece of the book! Or maybe buy one of his chain-saw sculptures. That might help.”

“I vowed I'd never buy chain-saw art.”

“Well, take a look at it anyway. Look, Gerry's fine. Don't worry.”

Ponty was not calmed by her reassurances. “Oh, we're doomed,” he said.

“I doubt it. Can I get you a warm-up?” she asked softly, proffering the pot.

“Doomed,” he said miserably. “Abso—that's good,” he said as she filled his cup, “—lutely doomed.”

P
ONTY WAS UNWRAPPING
a complimentary bar of Lux facial soap at the Bugling Moose when he heard an unsteady thudding sound coming from the vicinity of his entryway. Aside from the fact that it sounded very much like a human fist making rapid contact with the outside of his door, it otherwise had none of the qualities of someone knocking in an attempt to get his attention. Its rhythm and intensity were too unsteady. With curiosity and slight trepidation, he opened his door partially and peered through, expecting to find something in the neighborhood of a handyman nailing up aluminum chimney flashing, or perhaps a badger trying to snare a sausage rind from a garbage can. Instead he found the apparent source of the thudding to be Ralph. He opened the door wider.

“Ralph,” he said. “I'm sorry—I thought you were a badger.”

“Nope. How are you, Ponty?” Ralph asked, his hands jammed into the pockets of his polyester bar jacket.

“I'm good. How are you, Ralph?”

“Good.” There was a long enough pause that Ponty thought perhaps their business was concluded for the evening, but
Ralph soon followed up with “I was talking to Sandi. She said you been having kind of a rough time of it lately.”

“Did she?” Ponty said, suppressing a grimace. Probably because he was framed in the doorway, he noticed for the first time how much space Ralph took up and, again, because he had the right angle of the doorframe as his guide, how his head was not completely symmetrical.

“Yeah. So I thought maybe to kind of unwind a little you might want to go out with me tomorrow.”

Ponty stopped breathing. His heart continued to beat, but arrhythmically. Breathing resumed shortly, followed by severe tachyarrhythmia. His vision pixelated slightly, and he felt hot, as unconsciousness loomed. He was saved by an important clarification from Ralph.

“I'm going turkey hunting tomorrow. Thought you might want to go out with me? Help you get your mind off your troubles.”

Under normal circumstances the question “Would you like to go turkey hunting?” would have been greeted with as much enthusiasm by Ponty as “Would you like to see a four-hour showcase of performance art?” But given his enormous relief over the fact that a large man had not come to his door at a late hour to ask him out on a date, it seemed extremely welcome. He accepted without hesitation.

“Okay. I'll see you at five, then,” said Ralph. “You can use my old bow.”

Ponty had said his good-bye to Ralph and stepped inside to resume his appointment with the Lux when he suddenly realized that Ralph's parting sentence made less than no sense to him. Five, he'd said?
P.M
., surely. But hunting in the late afternoon?
It couldn't be. Still, it was less improbable than 5:00
A.M
., a time that, when presented as the hour to meet, should raise in the presentee serious suspicions of insanity about the presenter. There was, he was fairly certain, no molecular movement of any kind before at least 6:30. And what could Ralph possibly have meant by “You can use my old bow”? Did one wear a colorful ribbon around one's head for maximum visibility when hunting turkeys? No, couldn't be. He didn't mean a bow, as in the bow that propels arrows? This was not a weapon commonly used for the hunting of any fowl, was it? No, certainly not. But perhaps. Too much about the whole scenario had already shown itself to be extraordinarily improbable to begin discounting the smaller absurdities out of hand.

For one thing, Ponty had always assumed that turkeys were raised on farms, obviating the need for hunting them. Could they possibly be going out to hunt for escaped, renegade turkeys? And if that was the case, were the turkeys desperate not to get caught and therefore reckless and dangerous? It seemed likely. Or
were
there wild turkeys? Wild as in “feral”? As in “wily”? As in likely to sense Ponty's obvious weakness and attack? He hoped not. He had compiled sixty Thanksgiving dinners' worth of evidence that turkeys were not small animals—imagine how much larger they grew in the wild.