“Hm. I see.”
Now he looked. “What do you mean, ‘hm’? And what is ‘I see’?”
“I beg your pardon. I meant, of course, ‘I understand’ or ‘I have no difficulty comprehending what you have just communicated to me.’”
“That doesn’t explain the ‘hm.’”
“Purely contemplative.”
“What’s there to contemplate? The guy’s a jealous, wormy, illiberal dolt in bad pants. So you can lay off the contemplative ‘hm’s, all right?”
“Okay?” agreed Stig.
“What do you mean ‘okay’?—as though it were a question?”
“Did I say ‘okay’? I meant to say ‘okay.’ English is not my first language, of course.”
“Well keep working on it.”
Stig threw more water on the rocks, trying to increase the löyly.
Bromstad suddenly exclaimed, “Okay, look—I threw a roll, and it hit his friend, so he came over like some high-handed egghead to set me straight—”
“A roll?”
“A roll, a bun, a bap, as the Brits say. This one happened to be a spongy little dinner roll. Slightly yellowish color to it. No flavor. Simply a medium for butter.”
“Ah, yes. I believe I have seen them at weddings.”
“I wadded it up for better trajectory and threw it. I meant to hit him—never had much of an arm. He looked so funny sitting there in his bad little suit. That suit!”
“Unfashionable?”
“A crime against humanity. Brownish, it was. Some sort of pale shirt lurked beneath it. The pants were high, of course—that’s to be expected of a history writer. The shoes, wrong. Anyway, the roll hit this woman, this friend of his, in the eye. Not ideal needless to say, but kind of funny. That’s when he strode over like Galahad in polyester.”
“And demanded an apology?” Stig suggested.
“Yes, demanded. As though those things can just be summoned out of the air. Even if there was cause for one, which I’m not prepared to admit.”
“And you said . . . ?”
“I demurred, naturally.”
“By saying . . . ?”
“It’s been so long. . . .” Bromstad pretended to think. “It may have been ‘Ram it, clown’ or perhaps ‘Stuff it, oaf.’ As I said, it’s been so long.”
“And that’s when the attack against your . . . um, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Well, sounds like an unpleasant man. Drink?”
Bromstad accepted. Stig leaned back, crossing his legs, an unexpected blessing for Bromstad.
“So what kind of a writer is he, do you know?” Stig asked.
“Histo— Have you been listening?” Bromstad snipped.
“My question was referring to the quality of his writing.”
“The quality? Lacking, I would guess. The guy’s only sold about twenty-three books. Most of those got returned.” The men became quiet. The stove clicked gently.
“All right, I read Old von Steuben Had a Farm,” Bromstad said.
“One of his?”
“Yes. It, too, was up for the Dwee Award.”
“Not good, I trust?”
“No. No, it was good,” said Bromstad, looking down.
“Really?”
“Yes. I read it before the Dwee Awards, trying to get a sense of the competition. I also had to read Reach Not the High Shelf by someone named Lonnie Dich and, what was it . . . ? Oh! Complainer’s Moon by Ingrid Stufflebeam. I didn’t feel either was serious competition. Complainer’s Moon I remember as being particularly insufferable.”
“But Old von Steuben was competition?”
“Yes. Yes, it was good. And you want to hear something that stays within the walls of this sauna?”
“Of course,” said Stig, holding up a hand.
“Dogwood Downs never would have been written were it not for Old von Steuben.”
“No!”
“It’s true. His manner of not only reporting the history but also bringing these Minnesota towns and their people to life, it inspired me. Old von Steuben set me on my course as Minnesota’s greatest writer.”
“Astounding. You don’t think he knows that?” Stig asked.
“No. I don’t. . . . You don’t think he does, do you?”
“I don’t know.”
Bromstad thought about it. “Well, soon he’ll be in jail, so what difference does it make?”
“And what is the plan for tomorrow?”
“I go and visit the mayor of Holey and get the truth about this town from her.”
“What if he’s got her in his pocket, as you Americans inexplicably say?” asked Stig, using his right hand to squeegee sweat from his left arm.
“She’s a woman from a small town. I’m Gus Bromstad. She doesn’t stand a chance,” said Gus coolly, and he leaned his head back, drops of sweat falling from his beard. “If my charms don’t work, I offer her ten percent of my next Dogwood book. And, as you know, my next book isn’t going to be a Dogwood book,” Bromstad laughed, then took some of the water of life.
CHAPTER 21
It was now the fifteenth time that Ralph had heard “Love Death Tomorrow Jelly,” and he was becoming less enthusiastic about it with each fresh hearing.
“There! There! What does that part mean? What is that?” he asked irritably of Jack as they did their part in what was becoming a fairly massive revival.
“Is that a rhetorical question, or do I have to answer?” said Jack.
“I’d like an answer. I really would,” said Ralph, becoming quite agitated. “‘Crystal frogs, the amniotic fog, and daylight breaks upon your paper skin,’” Ralph quoted with some mockery in his voice. “What is that?!”
“Amniotic fog? Yikes. All the time I thought it was Amenhotep fog.”
“Amenhotep? What’s that?”
“Egyptian king, I think.”
“No. No, it’s amniotic. I looked it up on the Internet.”
“Ralph. Why?”
“It was bugging me. I’ve heard the thing four hundred times now, and I think I deserve to know what amniotic fog means.”
“Well, amniotic, that’s . . . What is that?”
“In mammals it’s a membrane that contains the fluid in which the embryo is immersed.”
Jack looked at Ralph questioningly.
“I looked that up, too,” Ralph explained.
“Well, then, clearly, amniotic fog is . . . Heck, I don’t know.”
“That’s my point. No one knows, and yet this idiot is a trillionaire, while I bust my hump at a bar every day.”
“You’ve got the book money.”
“Yeah, and I’m busting my hump for that, too. Every second spent here listening to this moron is like a full shift at the happy hour bar in hell!” Jack had never seen this much passion from Ralph, who usually preferred to communicate in short grunts.
“Well, he’s got a lot of energy,” Jack said, gesturing toward the stage, where King Leo was currently running at full speed, his high-heeled cowboy boots a blur.
“So do most three-year-olds, but they don’t get trillions for it. And what’s he trying to prove with this new religion crap of his? You want religion? Go to church. They’ve got one just sitting there. They’ll be happy to explain it to you anytime.”
“I think he just—”
“I’ll tell you what it is. It’s because people weren’t looking at him enough, and he needs that. He doesn’t exist unless people are looking him. What else could explain that jumpsuit he’s wearing?”
“That thing does raise some questions.”
“And how long is this thing going to go on? What’s he looking for?”
“Well, I can only tell you what you already know. He’s waiting for an appearance of the Funka-Lovely-Creative—”
“Creative-Spirit-Being, I know. If I hear him say that stupid name one more time, I swear I’m gonna run up onstage and bust him in the teeth. Then I’m gonna snap the high heels off his stupid little cowboy b
oots. What’s he supposed to be anyway, a cross-dressing Dale Evans?”
“Ralph, you seem tense.”
“I want this to be over. I can’t drive around my own town for these idiots,” said Ralph, singling out a man to his right to point a thumb at.
King Leo and his band finished “Love Death Tomorrow Jelly” on a high note, and the crowd of five hundred loved it (excepting Ralph, of course).
“Thank you! I love you Holey!” shouted King Leo to his flock.
“Get off the stage, you freak!” Ralph shouted back. Tourists all around him turned to look.
“Ralph, take it easy,” counseled Jack.
“Freak,” Ralph repeated, more quietly this time.
“I’d like to take a moment and acknowledge some of the familiar faces in the crowd. Some of those fine, fine, fine, people who’ve made the pilgrimage. Shā, is here. Come on up, Shā and say hello.”
“What in tarnation is a Shā?” Ralph asked irritably.
“She did that song ‘Love Is a Brick,’” Jack informed him.
Shā tottered up onstage in tight jeans, her thong underwear readily visible above the waistline, wearing a sequined, midriff-exposing halter top and high heels that put to shame King Leo’s attempt at height. The crowd was electrified by her appearance.
“Thank you! You’re beautiful. I love what you’re doing here. It’s so spiritual,” she purred into the microphone.
“Shā just came out with a killer new CD that will funk you up. It’s on the Spangle label. Little sister, you wanna do a song with the crew and me?” King Leo asked.
“Oh, King, I don’t know,” she said coyly.
“You got to, got to, got to, little sister,” King Leo pleaded. He gestured toward the crowd, and they dutifully erupted in cajoling applause.
“Would you guys be able to do ‘Love Is a Brick’?” she asked, looking around sweetly at the band. They all nodded coolly in turn.
“Yeah, man. Not a problem,” said Wigs.
“Yeah, then we got to do it!” King Leo exploded. “One, two, three, four—”
“I seen him!” shouted Ralph, who had suddenly materialized onstage next to King Leo.
Shocked, Jack looked to his left and noticed a decided lack of Ralph. He must have slipped off during Shā’s introduction. The crowd, too, was shocked, and there began a torrent of questioning murmurs.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on there, Ralph,” said King Leo, taking his microphone out of its stand and putting an arm around Ralph. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to my friend here, from Holey. This is Mr. Ralph. And you saw who?”
“The Rat of Dee-vine Power. The Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being . . . of Power,” Ralph added unsurely. “Well, you see, I been to every one of your revivals just a-waiting on the Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being, just feeling the funk and all that?”
“Bless you, Mr. Ralph,” said King Leo, giving him half a hug.
“Uh-huh,” said Ralph, trying to get the hug over as quickly as possible. “Well, anyway, it finally happened. He came to me.”
The crowd was hushed with the electric excitement of the revival’s first sighting. Shā stood there looking uncomfortable.
“Oh, Mr. Ralph, Mr. Ralph, Mr. Ralph, tell us all about it, brother,” said King Leo excitedly. He had forgotten about Shā.
“I was standing over there,” said Ralph, pointing to a spot where he had not been standing. “And that’s when I seen it.”
“Mr. Ralph, that is excellent news. And now you must tell us, was it a human form that it took?”
“No. It was . . . well, it was kind of ratty, if you know what I mean?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, I know what you mean indeed, Mr. Ralph. What else can you tell us about it? Did he walk up to you, or did he float up?”
“Um, he walked, and then it seemed like, if he got a little tired, he’d float. Just a little bit off the ground. Some of his tail was still dragging.”
“Was he glowing?”
“Glowing. Oh, yes. He was a glowing gray color.”
“A glowing gray,” King Leo repeated rapturously. “And what did he look like?”
“Well, as I said, he was rattish, but not totally like a rat.”
“No?”
“No. It had on a jacket,” Ralph vamped.
“What kind of jacket?” King Leo asked.
“One of those jackets like what kings wear. With the stuff on it?” he said, looking to King Leo for help.
“The crinoline? The gilding.”
“Is that the gold stuff?” Ralph asked.
“Yes.”
“Yeah, that’s it, then. He wore a gilded jacket that was real long in the back. Nice-looking. Fit him real nice. And he was carrying one of those things.”
“A crown,” guessed King Leo.
“No, no. One of those poles with the knobs on the end.”
“A trident? A staff? Oh, a scepter.”
“Yeah, one of those, and it was gold, too.”
“Was his face beautiful?”
“Well, remember, he is a rat. But, yeah, it was beautiful because it was so wise-looking. His whiskers were long and white. Real noble-looking . . . um, what you call it? Muzzle. Real noble-looking muzzle.”
“Mmmm,” said King Leo, closing his eyes.
“And he walked on his hind legs.”
“Yes, yes!”
“That’s about it, I guess,” said Ralph peering out at the crowd of eager faces.
“Did he say anything? Did he have a message for us?”
“Oh, yes. I almost forgot. He said, ‘I have a message for you.’”
“Yes, yes?”
“‘Tell them I appreciate them coming,’ he said. ‘It’s real, real nice of everyone to have traveled so far. And I thank them.’ And he said, ‘Go forth now, and spread my message.’”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Was there anything else? This is important, Mr. Ralph. Did he say what his message was?”
“Yes, I almost forgot that part. He said, ‘Funk on, my people.’”
“Yes, what we’ve done here has mattered, my brothers!” King Leo shouted to the crowd. “Praise the Holy Holey Rat! And let’s hear it for our faithful brother Ralph!”
The crowd applauded wildly for their prophet Ralph, who simply nodded impatiently back at them.
“Well,” said Ralph, “thanks everyone. I’m gonna do what the rat told me. I’m gonna get going, gonna funk on as best as I can. I suggest you do the same. Drive safely, everybody.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, brother. Didn’t he say, ‘Funk on, my people?’”
“He sure did.”
“Then I think we ought to do just that. If we stay and funk long and hard into the night, perhaps we will all be blessed with an appearance by the Funka-Lovely-Creative-Spirit-Being, the Rat of Dee-vine Power!”
The crowd agreed. Ralph tried to silence them.
“Well, now hang on there, brother. Remember he said, ‘Go forth and spread my message.’ Go forth. He was real specific about that. I forgot to tell you, but he said, ‘Don’t forget that part, Ralph.’”
“And so you shall, brother Ralph. You shall go forth. It is clear to me that that was your message. You are to go forth and spread the message. We are to stay here and wait for our own messages.”
“Well . . . I’m not so sure you’re doing the right thing, but you think I should get going, right?”
“Oh, yes. Go forth at once,” King Leo encouraged. “Tell them what you saw here today.”
“My staying here would serve no one?” Ralph double-checked.
“No, brother. Take your ’81 Malibu and spread the word.”
“All right! Woo. I’ll see you all later!” Ralph shouted and ran offstage. Wild applause followed after him.
“The visions are the start, people. Individual visions will precede the collective vision that we await. We are close, people. I can feel it!” King Leo exclaimed. “Have there been any more individual visions? Don’t be shy, we are a
ll friends here.”
“I saw him!” said Shā from a spot just behind King Leo.
“Praise the Rat,” said King Leo.
CHAPTER 22
Sandi Knutson was furiously rearranging her cat figurines. She hadn’t spoken to Ponty since he’d stood her up for their date more than a week ago. It made her angry, even though she knew he had a good excuse. (He was unconscious.) Still, a date was a date, she thought. He could have called and made other arrangements.
She was moving Alistair Q. Kitty, the yellow tabby, off the shelf by the recliner and into the growing window next to the plants when she was startled to see a famous author’s head suddenly appear before her.
“Ah! Gus Bromstad?” she said to the head that was currently hovering outside in her yard.
Now the head was joined by a hand, waving at her. It really was Gus Bromstad, standing on her lawn, looking mightily overdressed for such a warm day in his Greek fisherman’s cap and his Irish sweater.
She pointed him around to the side door and met him there.
“As I live and breathe. Gus Bromstad. What are you doing at my home?” she asked him.
“Are you Mayor Sandi Knutson?”
“Yes, I am she.”
“May I be so forward as to ask if I might have a few moments of your time? I know you’re busy, what with the bar and the mayoral duties and King Leo’s popular new religion.”
“Oh, please. Do come in,” she said cordially, if a bit stiffly.
She led him into the living room and showed him a seat among the bric-a-brac. He smiled warmly at it all.
“Is that Purressa White Boots?” said Bromstad, pointing to a black-and-white ceramic cat on an overcrowded end table.
“Why, yes that is. How did you know that?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve signed so many of them. They’re very popular with mid—” and he was able to stop himself, redirecting the word “miss—miss—misses. With the misses. And the men, of course. Ladies and men. I’ve noticed that everyone seems to enjoy the whole Pretty Kitty line.”
He finished stammering his cover, and she fetched them both some weak coffee that Bromstad was able to fortify with sugar and generic white creamer powder and pretend to enjoy. She told him how much she loved his books, and he pretended not to be impressed with himself. When that was over, he got down to business.
Mike Nelson's Death Rat! Page 25