Ponty grunted.
“Okay, I’ll give you the pro-‘Wildfire’ side of it. You’re right, it’s a sure winner.” He fished around for a blister pack full of beef jerky, zipped it open, and held it out toward Ponty. “Ponty, can I offer you some jerky?”
Ponty shook his head distastefully. With great difficulty, Jack snapped a piece off and began chewing laboriously.
“Man,” he said with emphasis, through a mouthful of meat, “sometimes I wonder if they should have just left it as steak. That is to say, I’m sure it wasn’t the greatest cut of meat ever, but it had to be more tender than this is.” He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Course, I suppose you can’t go around eating pieces of room-temperature steak from a plastic bag, can you?”
They drove on in silence, but not for long.
“It must be nice to have your license back, huh?” Jack asked.
Ponty grunted a noncommittal response.
“I would not feel like a complete man if I had my license revoked. It had to be hard on you.” Jack snapped off another piece of jerky. “Ow, I’m getting hurt by my own food over here,” he said, then chewed for another moment, before picking up a newspaper off the floor mat. “Did you read about this? They found some new carvings right in the area where the Kensington Rune Stone was found? It got me thinking, Ponty, and I have a proposal for you. Don’t say no before you hear the whole thing. Well, you know about the Kensington Rune Stone, right? Found on a farm, years ago. The writings indicate that the Vikings got to central Minnesota in 1392? What am I saying—the man’s a historian. Of course he knows about it! Anyway. You remember what it says on the stone? Here, it’s right here in the paper: ‘Eight Swedes and twenty-two Norwegians on an exploration journey from Vinland westward. We had our camp by two rocky islets one day’s journey north of this stone. We were out fishing one day. When we came home, we found ten men red with blood and dead.’ That’s pretty good stuff, Ponty. Almost too good to pass up. My proposal is, if this book works out well for us, we write another about this, maybe plant another rune stone. We assert that the Vikings did battle with some strange creature. We can brainstorm about the creature later. The sky’s the limit though, really. What do you think? Hey, I just realized something: If that farmer, the one who supposedly found the stone, if he forged it, we owe him a hearty tip of our caps, don’t we? That’s a good one. I wonder what he got out of it? He didn’t write a book, I know that. Can you make good money forging stones about Viking expeditions?”
Ponty ignored the steady stream of rhetorical questions. In fact, he did not really hear them. He was busy thinking, wondering if St. Cloud State Penitentiary was really as damp and drafty as it was rumored to be. And could the prison kitchen accommodate his slight case of lactose intolerance?
LAKE VERMILION IS a large one: 40,000 acres, with 1,200 miles of coastline and 365 islands. It stretches 35 miles, tipped diagonally northwest to southeast, across Minnesota’s arrowhead region. The town of Holey is not nearly so big. Its “downtown” area is anchored by ten buildings, five interconnected buildings on either side of County Road II, just one mile from the southeast edge of the lake. Various small buildings and homes scattered outward from the center of town, but those ten were really where anything of note took place.
Jack and Ponty pulled into the main drag just after lunch and went in search of the town’s tavern. It was not difficult to find. A cluster of diagonally parked American sedans, all at least ten years old, led them to the Taconite Saloon. They disembarked from the Tempo, Jack brushing off crumbs and detritus from the various snacks he’d consumed, and walked cautiously toward the bar’s entrance. Ponty was disposing of some spent coffee cups into a sidewalk trash can, when Jack, with no subtlety at all, pressed his face against the window of the bar, squinting to shut out some of the day’s bright, cold sunlight.
A small outburst of surprise escaped him, as he was greeted by a face on the other side of the glass, not two inches from his own, staring back. It was the rugged, unshaven face of man wearing a blaze orange hunting cap and a look of mild hostility. Jack pulled back quickly and offered an apologetic wave.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Can we just get inside, please?” Ponty urged. “And let’s try not to stick out too much.”
They pushed open the door, and the sunlight stabbed into the bar’s dark interior. Every head in the place swiveled to look, amounting to about twelve heads. Jack, turning to his left, understood why the man in the hunting cap had been so close to the window: There was a pinball machine positioned along the front wall. The man was just disengaging from it, so Jack offered another apology.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to alarm you with my face there.” The man simply nodded at him, took a sip of his longneck, and sat down at a tall bar table to work on a half-finished plate of nachos.
Conversations had been halted. The jukebox was playing something just below the threshold of comprehension, possibly country rock. The attention was too much for Ponty, and he became quite aware of the shockingly loud hue of Jack’s very new puffy yellow coat, one of his first purchases after they’d cashed the check for their book advance. It was enormous, and thoroughly overstuffed. On the ride up, Jack had presented a spirited apologia of it, claiming that with Minnesota winters’ being so life-threateningly severe, there was no room for fashion. In defense of its intense hue, he offered a parade of illustrative scenarios, many including imagined head injuries, stranded cars, and animal attacks, all ending with rescue squads or search helicopters spotting his colorful jacket. Ponty had listened to his defense and, while not disagreeing, told Jack that he looked like the Michelin Man with severe jaundice. He feared he’d hurt Jack’s feelings.
While their eyes adjusted to the dark, Ponty and Jack stood uncomfortably near the door, rubbing their hands and unzipping their coats. Ponty scoped out the long bar to his right and the game room/dining area to his left and decided it would be easier to blend in if they simply bellied up to the bar. He was just about to nudge Jack and motion in that direction when Jack took off on his own, striding confidently toward the bartender.
“Whoa,” he said to no one and everyone, ignoring Ponty’s instructions to lie low and let him do the talking, “it’s so cold the dogs are sticking to the fire hydrants out there.”
Because Jack’s joke had come from an outsider, it had little chance of hitting its mark to begin with. But it was hampered even more by the fact that it had been heard and repeated by the twelve people in the bar hundreds of times before. Jack, hearing no laughter, provided some of his own.
“Ah, well, what are you going to do?” he said as he mounted a stool. “Barkeep, what have you that will warm these chilly gizzards?” Ponty, giving Jack’s banter an internal grimace, took a seat next to him.
“What do you want?” asked the bartender, a tall, pleasant-looking blonde in her mid-fifties wearing a sweatshirt whose front featured an embroidered loon.
“How ’bout a Woodpecker Cider? You got a bottle of that floating around?”
“Nope.”
“Whatever hard cider you have, I’ll take that.”
“Don’t have hard cider.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll take a Smokehouse Nut Brown Ale,” Jack said, rubbing his hands together vigorously.
“Hm, don’t have that.”
“Do you have the Smokehouse Pale Ale?”
“No.”
“Well, then just give me your Samuel Taddy India Pale Ale.”
“We’ve got Grain Belt, Grain Belt Premium, Bud Light, and Leinenkugel’s.”
“Grain Belt. Premium Grain Belt. That sounds good.”
“You?” she asked, looking at the red-faced Ponty.
“Coffee, please,” he said.
Ponty was leaning over to whisper discreetly in Jack’s ear when Jack leaned in the other direction to speak to a middle-aged man two barstools to his left.
“Hi there, Sonny, is it?” he said, making a gesture toward the na
me stitched on the breast pocket of the man’s corduroy work coat. The man did not look up from his paper. “Sonny, how are you today?” he asked again, but there was no response. Jack looked around for assistance, and the man, sensing something, looked over at Jack.
“Pardon?” he said.
“Sonny, right?”
The man looked thoroughly mystified for a moment. Then he shook his head in understanding. “Oh! The coat. No, no, I’m not Sonny. Got this down at a secondhand store in the Cities last year.” He did not offer his name.
“The name’s Jack,” Jack said.
The man, who had already looked back down at his paper, raised his head again. “You ought to get that stitched on your coat,” he said. The bartender laughed as she set down their drinks.
“Say, Jack,” Ponty whispered when she had withdrawn, “be cool, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m just trying to be friendly.”
“Well, maybe it’s the coat or something, but right now I think you’re scaring everyone.”
“Well, your coat isn’t exactly a paragon of good taste,” Jack said, casting a critical eye over Ponty’s blue parka. “Should I call you Nanook? How would you like that?”
“Jack, please. Why don’t we take off our coats and just get comfortable. Try to blend in.”
They settled in and began silently watching the television that sat in a corner over the bar. It was tuned to a medical program that was showcasing a hernia operation. A few minutes went by. A short, stocky older man with a camouflage coat and a battered baseball cap that read DEKALB on its front approached the bar to pay his check. Ponty noticed Jack eyeing him up, itching to say something to him as he stood waiting for his change, so he tapped Jack’s leg as a warning.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jack whispered impatiently. “I got you.”
They went back to watching the muted television. After about ten minutes, just as the surgeon had begun stapling a synthetic fabric to the patient’s abdominal wall, Jack asked Ponty, “Have we blended in enough yet?”
“All right, fine. Let me do the talking,” he said, smoothing down his hair. “Excuse me,” he said to the bartender, and she approached. “We’re . . . um, we’re both writers from the Twin Cities,” he said, and swallowed.
“Well, good,” she said, smiling.
“What I mean is, we’re interested in the history of this town, and we’re wondering who we might talk to about that?”
“You’re interested in this town?”
“Yes, right.”
“You’re in Holey, you know?”
“Yes.”
“Minnesota.”
“Right.”
“And you’re still interested?”
“Yes. Yes, we are.”
“Well,” she said, crossing her arms, “I guess I know about as much as anyone. Ask away.”
Ponty leaned into the bar. “Well, actually, we were wondering if there’s a historical society or something like that.”
“The Holey Historical Society? Something along those lines?”
“Yes, yes. Exactly.”
“There isn’t one.” Seeing Ponty’s look of profound disappointment, she quickly added, “But the mayor is in charge of what few historical documents there are in Holey, and I’m the mayor.”
Ponty returned her smile. “Really?”
“Yes. Name is Sandi Knutson,” she said, offering her hand.
“Ponty Feeb. And this is Jack Ryback. Can you imagine that, Jack? She’s the mayor,” Ponty said, slapping the back of his hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“I’m pleased to meet you both,” she said. “Why don’t you hang around till four, when Ralph comes in, and I’ll be able to take you to my office and answer your questions.”
“Oh, terrific,” Ponty said, using a word he had not used in this manner for some twenty-eight years.
“All right,” Sandi said, leaning back against the bar, there being really no place she needed to go. Because of this, the conversation was left in a state of limbo, having not been fully severed by her leaving, yet practically hampered by the fact that their business was concluded for the moment. Ponty looked self-consciously up at the television, not really seeing it. Jack drummed lightly on the bar and stared at the walls.
“How are your cheeks?” he asked suddenly.
“I’m sorry?” Sandi asked.
“I noticed you had walleye cheeks on the menu there,” he said, pointing to the hand-lettered menu above the bar. “I’m thinking I need a little something to munch on.”
“Oh, they’re fine. Ralph, my partner, he caught ’em this last summer, so they’re frozen. Ralph doesn’t ice-fish.” Ponty surprised himself by feeling disappointed that Sandi had a partner. “Been a bad year anyway, hasn’t it, Chet?” she said to the man with Sonny’s jacket.
“ ’S that?” Chet said, looking up from his paper.
“Been a bad year for walleye, hasn’t it?”
“Oh, yah. Lots of eelpout, but the walleyes are being coy.”
“Eelpout, huh?” said Jack, as though he had fished for them his whole life.
“Yup.”
“What are they?”
“Well, they’re freshwater cod—little bearded things. Kind of slimy. Ain’t you never caught an eelpout?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, you usually hook ’em when you’re going after walleye, but some like to fish ’em ’cause they’re good fighters.”
“Are they?”
“Yah. Don’t listen to those guys who go after ’em with leeches, though,” Chet said, shaking his head and putting on a look of extreme censure.
“I won’t.”
“You just take a Lindy rig and jig it off the bottom, real slow-like.”
“I’ll do that,” Jack promised.
“Yup,” he said with finality and went back to his paper.
“You got any eelpout on the menu?” Jack asked.
“Oh, gosh, no,” said Sandi.
“Well, could you give me the cheeks and some of those deep-fried mini-tacos? Ponty, I’m buying the deep-fried minitacos?”
“No, no thanks.”
When Jack’s food arrived, Ponty decided that in the interest of their relationship, he would look away as Jack ate. He had been traumatized by Jack’s snack consumption on the trip up and needed time to heal. He spun around on his barstool and gazed about the Taconite Saloon. On the far wall, past a pool table and just above the table of a young couple holding hands and drinking Budweisers with their free hands, he saw several dioramas featuring dead animals. In one, a large muskellunge pursued a “buck tail” lure, its mouth opened wide in preparation for chomping down. Ponty immediately thought of Jack, tearing into his plate of batter-coated walleye cheeks, and shuddered. Another diorama featured a stuffed bobcat poised on hind legs near a crystalline lake, batting at a butterfly. Next to it a largemouth bass broke the water’s surface, again, mouth wide. It was very nicely done, but Ponty got stuck thinking about the poor bass, having been necessarily sawed off at an angle just behind the head, in order to make it appear to be rising out of the lake that had been painted on the bottom of the display case.
He tapped Jack. “I’m gonna look around,” he said.
“Sure, sure,” said Jack, mouth full.
Picking up his coffee, Ponty got out of his chair to see if there were any more dioramas on the far wall of the tavern, which was obscured from his view by a half wall. He took a few steps to see and stopped up short, nearly choking on a sip of coffee. There, hanging on the far wall, was the pelt that he had written about, the huge, gray-black pelt of the death rat itself. He took several steps toward it and then stood, gape-mouthed, his heartbeat quickening.
Good gravy, he thought, it’s true! But it can’t be. His eyes went out of focus, his mind raced. Did I make it up? Or did I read it? He stepped beneath it now, reached up slowly, and touched the bristly hair. He gasped and took a step back. Off to his left, he heard a small giggle.
“He
y there. You all right?” He turned to see the couple who’d been holding hands looking at him with amused smiles. She was turned fully around in her chair to get a good look at him.
“Yeah,” Ponty mumbled. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Don’t be afraid of it. It’s dead,” said the girl, and they both laughed.
Ponty hurried back across the bar and jumped onto the stool next to Jack.
“Jack,” he whispered loudly, “the pelt. The pelt of the death rat. It’s over there on the wall. The death rat! How can that be, Jack? It’s not true, is it?”
Jack looked at Ponty in disbelief. “Ponty, did you take a pool cue to the noggin? No, it can’t be. There’s no such thing as a six-foot rat, remember? Heck, I learned that the hard way.”
“But it’s over there. It’s right over there.”
“Okay, Ponty, honey,” Jack said with mock condescension. “I’ll just go take a look.”
Jack wiped his mouth, stood up, and crossed the bar, out of Ponty’s sight for a moment, then returned. Nonplussed, he sat back down.
“Well?” Ponty said. “Isn’t that bizarre? It’s just like I wrote it, don’t you think?”
“Did you?” said Jack with a guilty look.
Ponty studied his face for a moment. “Oh, my—I thought you said you’d read it?” he accused, his voice incredulous.
“I did. I did read it. I just didn’t remember that part. Anyway, Ponty, that’s a bearskin. So you can calm down and stop accusing people of not reading your book.” He bent over his appetizers again.
“That’s a bearskin? A bear—are there bears around here?”
Mike Nelson's Death Rat! Page 9