by Glenn Ickler
“Whatever,” said Henry. “Still goddamn stupid.”
“What’s the temperature now?” Al asked.
“You don’t wanna know,” Henry said.
“I need to know,” I said. “Part of the story.”
“Would you believe t’irty-six?” Henry said.
“I’d believe twenty-six,” I said. “I’m surprised there’s not ice on the lake.”
“There still is some ice on the big lakes nort’ of us,” he said. “Goddamn coldest walleye opener in twenty years.”
“And lucky us, we get to cover it,” Al said. “I’ve had warmer days shooting the ice sculptures at the Winter Carnival.”
We joined a small armada of boats tagging after Governor Anders A. Anderson, whose guide was steering off to the left. The boat containing Lieutenant Governor Aaron Ross was heading directly toward an island about a quarter of a mile out in the bay. We could see blue cigar smoke streaming from his boat in the misty morning air.
“Frenchy’s takin’ the governor to a sandbar over dere,” Henry said. “Usually good for a couple of fish.”
“Where’s the lieutenant governor going?” I asked.
“Dere’s some rocks about fifty feet off dat island,” Henry said. “Walleyes feed dere pretty much all day long. But dey don’t generally run as big as on the sand bar.”
“Is the contest between the gov and the lieutenant for the biggest fish or the most fish?”
“I t’ink dey got prizes for both,” Henry said. “Dey’re set up in teams—though the governor is short one team member because of the guy dat drowned.”
From thirty feet away, Al shot pix of Frenchy putting a minnow on the governor’s hook, casting it out into the water and handing the rod to the governor. I took note of the time and left a blank space to record the time and size of the governor’s first catch.
“You gents ready to fish?” Henry asked. He had slowed the boat to trolling speed to shadow the governor. I nodded and picked up my rod.
“I can bait my own hook,” I said. I dipped a silver shiner out of the icy water in the bucket, slid the hook through its upper and lower lips, cast it out and played out some line. Al stopped shooting pictures and did the same, keeping an eye on the governor with the camera hanging at the ready around his neck.
Back and forth we went for what seemed like days, trolling across the sandbar without so much as a nibble. The blank space I’d left to record the governor’s first catch remained blank. There were five other media-bearing boats in our group and nobody in any of them pulled in a fish. Frenchy broke the monotony by leading the flotilla to another spot where we all trolled with similar results. Ditto in a third spot.
Lunch was scheduled for 11:30 a.m. and shortly before 11:00, Frenchy shouted that the fishermen in the governor’s boat were pulling in their lines and returning to the lodge. This was the best news I’d heard all day. My butt was sore, my legs were cramped and my bladder was filled to capacity.
Al put my worst problem into words: “Hurry up and get to shore. My back teeth are floating.”
As we were reeling in our lines, we heard a shriek from the governor’s boat. Ann Rogers had hooked a walleye.
“Get in close,” Al yelled as he forgot about his bladder distress and swung his camera into action. Henry turned up the motor and steered toward the governor’s boat. Five other guides did the same thing with their boats. The six of us were on course to meet at the governor’s boat and all eyes were on Frenchy as he scooped Ann’s fish from the water with his net and hoisted it head high to celebrate the day’s first catch.
Anders A. Anderson raised his arms in triumph and looked around for an audience. What he saw was the bows of six boats closing in on his stationary vessel at flank speed. “Get the hell away from us,” he yelled, waving his arms like a manic traffic cop in a fast forward film.
Six guides cut their engines and swung their rudders to avoid a six-point collision with the governor. Two of the boats turned toward each other and slammed together. A television cameraman who was standing in the bow of one of them was flung forward onto his knees. His fur hat flew off and miraculously landed in the governor’s boat. Al got a photo of the two guides flipping each other the bird as they backed their boats away from the spot of the crash. He also got a shot of Anders A. Anderson laughing as Frenchy Leroux placed the unfortunate photographer’s fur hat on the gubernatorial head. “Guaranteed page one,” Al said.
* * *
Lieutenant Governor Aaron Ross had been more fortunate. He and his crew had reeled in a total of four walleyes, which they displayed with gusto on the dock. Ross made sure we all had plenty of photo ops showing him holding up the two biggest fish, one on each side of his smoldering cigar.
“Your caption can say ‘Minnesota’s next governor shows how it’s done,’” Ross said.
“Is that the official announcement of your candidacy?” I asked.
“You can call it a preliminary announcement. The formal campaign kick-off won’t come until June first, but you should all follow me on the lake this afternoon for some real fishing action.”
The lunch had been advertised as an outdoor event, but manager Martin Johansen mercifully moved it into the dining room. Those of us who had spent the morning on the lake grasping fishing rods in numb hands gave him a standing ovation when he greeted us inside.
“You gents goin’ out again?” Henry asked as we warmed our hands around cups full of hot coffee.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Al said. “I need to get some shots of the next governor of Minnesota catching fish and fouling the clear northern Minnesota air with cigar smoke this afternoon.”
“I can see the cut line now,” I said. “‘Aaron Ross, far right, is shown angling for governor.’”
“How about, ‘Aaron Ross shows how he’ll hook the nomination,’” Al said.
“That’s a reel good line.”
“I knew you’d take the bait.”
Henry shook his head. “I’ll see you gents at the boat,” he said as he rose from his chair.
“Was it something I said?” Al asked as we watched our guide walk to another table.
“These outdoor types don’t appreciate high-class humor,” I said.
“Or maybe they do.”
On the lake again an hour later, we followed the boat carrying Aaron Ross and his party as Leonard Tallchief took them back to the rocky ledge near the island. Henry, following our instructions to stay upwind out of the cloud of Ross’s cigar smoke, kept us close but not too close.
The next governor of Minnesota’s team caught four more walleyes, including one by the great man himself. I chose to keep my hands warm in my coat pockets rather than fish, and Al quit after losing a hook in the rocks. “My fingers are too stiff to tie on another one,” he said.
The challenge officially ended at 4:00 p.m. and we returned to the dock a few minutes before the hour. The governor and the media fleet following his boat were already tied up when we arrived. Posing for pictures on the dock with the biggest walleye of the day was a familiar figure. “Trish Valentine reporting live,” yelled the five-foot-tall blond bombshell as she hoisted a seven-pounder for the cameras. Its tail was almost dragging on the ground.
* * *
“Why aren’t you on the evening news holding up a big fish?” Martha Todd asked. Al and I had decided to skip the Celebration Reception (more booze) and call home from our cabin as soon as our hands were supple enough to press the correct cell phone keys.
“Blame it on the weather,” I said.
“Too cold for the fish?”
“Too cold for me to hold a rod and reel all day.”
“Not too cold for Trish Valentine,” Martha said. “It looks like she’s having fun.”
“Why don’t you watch some other channe
l?” I said.
“You’re just jealous because she’s reporting live.”
“Better she should be reporting dead.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I like Trish but I’m getting tired of her stealing the show up here.”
“So go catch a big fish,” Martha said. “And maybe Trish will show it live on Channel 4.”
“Enough about Trish already. How are you doing on the wedding plans?”
“Everything is in place except the groom.” Of course it would be. Martha always has everything that she can control under control well ahead of time.
“The groom is doing his best,” I said. “If the ME issues his autopsy report tomorrow as promised, the groom will be on the road for home faster than a walleye can grab Trish Valentine’s boo, uh . . . bait.”
We chatted for another ten minutes, during which I learned that Sherlock Holmes, the homeless cat I had adopted several years ago, was asking where I was. “He goes around the bedroom meowing and he’s sleeping on your pillow every night,” Martha said. “And most of the day, too.”
“Oh, great,” I said. “I’ll come home to a pillowcase full of cat hair.”
“I’ll change it tomorrow so it won’t get in your nose.”
“Thanks. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”
“There is one little problem that came up here yesterday,” Martha said. “Grandma Mendes got a surprise phone call from the immigration authorities about her status. They want her to come to their office to, quote, ‘discuss the situation,’ unquote. She’s been in this country for fifty-eight years without any questions asked but now all of a sudden the government is telling her that their records show she’s not a legal immigrant. The problem is that she never applied for any kind of work permit or for U.S. citizenship because she never worked outside the home.”
“My god, are they going to deport her?”
“Not if I can help it. I’m glad I’ve got the wedding pretty much under control because Grandma will be my top priority for next week.”
Grandma Mendes had come to Minnesota from Cape Verde with her husband when both were twenty-five years old. They became the parents of two daughters, one of whom married Arthur Todd and gave birth to a beautiful baby girl named Martha. Grandpa Mendes worked at the Ford plant in St. Paul, retired at the age of sixty-five and died at seventy-one. Grandma Mendes, now eighty-three, has lived with Martha’s parents ever since.
“How did they find her after all these years?” I said.
“She took a bus downtown to go shopping Thursday afternoon and slipped and fell getting off,” Martha said. “Her ankle was sprained and the cops who answered the bus driver’s call took her to the emergency room at Regions Hospital. Of course the first things they ask for are your driver’s license and your insurance card and of course she didn’t have either one. Things went downhill from there and Grandma called me from the hospital.”
“Did they treat her ankle?”
“After I showed up they did.”
“Well, good luck dealing with Immigration,” I said. She thanked me and we made kissy sounds and signed off.
“What’s going on at home?” Al asked.
“Sherlock’s sleeping on my pillow twenty-three hours a day,” I said.
“Pretty soft.”
“And Immigration wants to deport Grandma Mendes to Cape Verde.”
“Far out.”
I filled Al in on the details of Grandma Mendes’s misfortune while we walked to the lodge for the official Celebration Dinner. We agreed that she was lucky to have a sharp lawyer like Martha for a granddaughter.
The circular dining room was filling rapidly, the decibel level was rising and the smell of alcohol was in the air as we looked around for a place to sit. We saw two pairs of hands waving near the outer ring of tables and recognized the faces below them. One of the hands pointed to two empty chairs. It was an offer we couldn’t refuse.
“Hi, Allie Wallie,” said Angie.
“Hi, Allie Wallie’s pally,” said Roxie.
We returned the greetings and sat down. “Aren’t you working tonight?” I asked.
“Jeez, a girl’s gotta eat,” said Roxie.
“Can’t turn a trick on an empty stomach,” said Angie.
“They say an army travels on its stomach,” Al said. “I suppose that’s also true of a gaggle of goodtime girls.”
“You’d be surprised what we can do on our stomachs,” Roxie said.
“That’s more information than we need,” I said. “Let’s talk about something else. Did you catch any fish today?”
“Caught a couple of suckers this afternoon,” Roxie said. “But I suppose that’s more information than you need.”
“Dumb question, Mitchie,” Al said. “What sort of catch do you expect from hookers?”
“Let’s talk about the weather,” I said. Facing a third consecutive night away from Martha, I didn’t want to hear even double entendres about sex.
When we’d finished the meal, the women got up to “mingle with the crowd.” Again Roxie put her soft warm lips against my ear and whispered, “Remember, Mitchie, into these pants any time, free of charge.” As I watched the movement of her ass retreating in the skintight jeans, I was forced to remind myself that I’d be embracing Martha in less than twenty-four hours.
Another moment of silence was held for Alex Gordon before the grand finale began. Speeches were given, prizes were awarded and somebody won the raffle for a boat and motor. Lieutenant Governor Aaron Ross, dead cigar stub protruding from mouth, accepted the Governor’s Trophy for the biggest walleye (Trish Valentine’s wasn’t allowed in the competition) and for the most fish caught. His acceptance speech sounded like the kickoff of his gubernatorial campaign.
“What a windbag,” Al said. “Please don’t let him get elected.”
“It’ll be close,” I said. “The voting public is split almost dead even between Democrats and Republicans.”
As the program ended and the drinking resumed, I saw Roxie leave the room holding hands with a middle-aged, sagging-bellied member of the governor’s staff. I felt a twang of envy and again reminded myself that Martha’s open arms would be waiting for me on the morrow.
Eight
Waiting for Bordeaux
We slept until eight o’clock Sunday morning and barely made it to the dining room, where they stopped serving breakfast at nine. Normally the media crowd would be clearing out and heading for home, but on this day we were milling about in the lounge like chickens in a pen, waiting to hear from Doctor Louis Bordeaux, the Crow Wing County medical examiner.
I caught up with Ann Rogers as she bustled about the room talking to reporters and asked, “What time do you expect the autopsy report?”
“Haven’t heard from Doctor Bordeaux yet this morning,” Ann said. “I’ll make an announcement as soon as I do.”
“So we’ve probably got time to go to our cabin and pack?”
“If you pack quick,” she said as she turned and hurried away.
“Quickly,” I said, but only Al heard me.
“Quickly what?” he asked.
“I was correcting Ann. She said we should pack quick but the correct word is quickly.”
“Oh, god, are you into the picky grammar thing again?”
“Can’t help it,” I said. “It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I almost had to stuff my hat into my mouth listening to Henry in the boat yesterday.”
“Henry’s job is to find fish, not teach them to speak proper English,” Al said.
“So what is taught in a school of fish?”
“Big fish teach little fish to keep their mouths shut. That’s why we didn’t catch any yesterday.”
We packed quickly and returned to t
he lodge to wait impatiently for Doctor Bordeaux, who we hoped would be arriving shortly. The weather was improving and we were eager to get on the road.
While packing my fishing gear I remembered our guide’s puzzlement about Alex Gordon’s missing lifejacket. The mystery of its whereabouts was still bugging me when we returned to the lodge. I beckoned Al to follow me and we intercepted Ann Rogers, who was touring the lounge trying to keep everybody calm. I asked her if anyone had gone through Gordon’s personal effects in his cabin. Ann replied that she and a member of Madrigal’s security staff had searched the room and packed everything they found for transport home.
“Was there a lifejacket in his room?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Why are you asking about a lifejacket?”
“Because our guide said he saw Alex wearing his own personal lifejacket Thursday morning, but he wasn’t wearing one Friday morning when he fell out of the boat. If he wasn’t wearing it and it wasn’t in his room, where is it?”
Ann thought about it for a moment and said, “I can’t imagine. Maybe he dropped it somewhere while he was getting his fishing gear into the boat.”
“Hard to imagine him being that careless with his personal lifejacket.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“What all was in the boat?” I asked.
“A rod for trolling and his tackle box, I guess,” Ann said.
“Minnow bucket?” Al asked.
“I suppose so. Look, guys, I really don’t know for sure what all was in the boat. You’d have to ask the sheriff. He took custody of everything that came out of it. Said it was evidence from an accident scene.”
“I think I will ask the sheriff,” I said. “You got his phone number?”
“No,” she said. “But I’m sure you can get it at the desk here in the lodge.”
This was something I could do while we were waiting for Doctor Bordeaux. I went to the desk and got the sheriff’s number. I added it to the numbers stored in my cell phone for possible future use and then called it. A woman answered and identified herself as Shirley. I asked for the sheriff and she informed me that Sheriff Holmberg did not come in on Sundays. I should have expected that.