It was 8:45 A.M., and Bart Herzog, the governor of Minnesota, was rappelling out the third-floor window of the governor’s mansion to greet his guest.
“Bromstad, you son of a tinker’s son, how the Hec Ramsey are you?” he asked, unclipping from his carabiners to shake Bromstad’s hand.
Bromstad had expected a more conventional approach, something along the lines of Herzog’s opening his door in response to Bromstad’s knocking upon it. He answered Herzog with a question of his own. “Governor, are your stairs out?”
Herzog began the process of laughing, extracted an El Rey del Mundo Churchill maduro from the breast pocket of his military-issue M-65 field jacket, paused his laughing to bite the end off, resumed laughing, pulled a pack of Ohio Blue Tip matches from the thigh pocket of his BDU tiger-stripe trousers, took one out and struck it on the side of his lifted boot, interrupted his laughing again to light his cigar, and, after some strenuous puffing, threw the match over his shoulder, took a long drag, and resumed his laughing on the exhale.
“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?”