About the four strangers in the Taconite Saloon, one thing was known for certain: They had recently shopped at Pamida, the discount store in Fishville, eighteen miles away. This was evident to the others present by the fact that all four were wearing identical brands of flannel shirts that had very obviously just been removed from their packaging (there was even a piece of cellophane tape featuring a redundant XL pattern adhered to one back). One was a red check, another yellow, and the two remaining were blue, and identical, and none looked very comfortable in their sizing-stiffened, almost crunchy states. The men’s just-off-the-shelf blue jeans looked even more oppressive, and those who beheld them felt a firm conviction that some very uncomfortable pinching simply had to be going on beneath.
The strangers were eerily similar, though not identical, as though they’d been created in a factory whose quality control had slipped and begun allowing previously tight machine tolerances to loosen somewhat. They had about them a serious purpose, but for some reason appeared not to want that to be evident to the people of Holey and so put on a feigned nonchalance that was as stiff as their clothing.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed one in a stilted, nearly chilling manner as they walked in. “That’s very funny, Vagns.” The man it was directed at, Vagns, it seemed, did not appear to have said anything. They took four stools at the bar, and Ralph approached with as much courtesy as he could muster for such an odd quartet.
“What can I get you?” he asked, starting with Ülo.
“Oh, dear, dear, dear,” said Ülo, looking above the bar, ostensibly for a drink menu that did not exist. “Oh, it is early, so I’ll just have a Klar Høker snaps—Aalborg, if you have it, please,” he added. He was immediately elbowed strongly by the man in the yellow shirt who sat next to him. “Or, actually, just a beer.”
“I’ve got Grain Belt, Grain Belt Premium, Bud Light, and Leinenkugel’s.”
“Leinenkugel’s? Is that Austrian?”
“Nnnnooo. Chippewa Falls, I think.”
“I’ll try one of those.”
The other three echoed his order, and Ralph filled them all.
Conversation was light at the Taconite and decidedly lighter among the four strangers. Ralph leaned against the back of the bar, employing his remarkable ability to simultaneously stare at and think of nothing in particular. The four peered vacantly around the bar, their heads shaking, pleasant smiles on their faces. The man in the yellow shirt spoke.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” he said.
This earned him a look from Ralph. “You all right?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said the man. “I was just thinking of something Ülo had said earlier.”
Ralph nodded, a gesture acknowledging that he had heard the response while at the same time confessing that he found it spectacularly uninteresting. He resumed his previous activities.
“So this is Holey?” the man said.
“’S that?” asked Ralph.
“Holey? This is it?”
“Yes, it is,” Ralph confirmed.
“Wasn’t—wasn’t there a mine or something here? Something like that?”
“Yes, there was.”
“Ja. Ja, I thought so. My name is Jørgen,” he said, extending his hand.
“Ralph,” said Ralph, accepting the handshake in a Ralph-like manner; that is, betraying nothing that would indicate how he felt about meeting Jørgen for the first time.
“These are my friends Vagns, Per, and Ülo.” Ralph greeted them all, and there was some difficulty getting him near a proper pronunciation of Ülo.
“Where you guys from?” Ralph asked.
“Minneapolis,” Jørgen answered.
“I live in St. Paul, actually,” Per added, looking over the tops of his glasses.
“Well, welcome to Holey,” Ralph said, and he meant it, though perhaps with somewhat muted passion.
The men from Minneapolis (and St. Paul) resumed their looking around as Ralph got back to the business of staring.
“How’s the fish—” Jørgen was just starting to say, but Ralph put up a finger indicating that he would be right back, as he was being summoned at the end of the bar by another patron who put in an order for a Jack and Coke and something called a Slow, Comfortable Screw. Ralph poured the drinks and returned.
“What were you saying?” he asked Jørgen.
“Oh. I was just inquiring how the fishing had been around here in Holey.”
“Season ain’t open yet. Unless you want to go after rock bass,” Ralph said, in a tone suggesting that to go after rock bass would be something akin to dancing down Main Street in a powdered wig and bustier.
“No,” Jørgen objected, “I don’t want to go after rock bass. No thank you!” He laughed at this, and, inexplicably, so did his companions.
Jørgen and his friends had loitered at the bar for nearly an hour when Ralph suddenly produced small tubs of pasteurized processed cheese spread and set four of them at regular intervals on the bar, following them up with individual sleeves of saltines.
“For me?” Jørgen asked.
“For everyone,” said Ralph.
Jørgen had never seen or tasted cheese in paste form before (he’d been brought up on Havartis, Esroms, flavorful Kumiosts, and Danish Blues), so he was somewhat mystified as to how he was to handle Ralph’s gift. He picked up a tub of cheese, looking for directions.
“All-natural cheese spread. Port wine flavored,” he said out loud to no one in particular. He opened it and plunged a cracker in with gusto, snapping it in half and polluting the pristine surface of the cheese spread with the broken piece and bits of shattered saltine detritus. “Son of a . . .” he said, displaying irritation for the first time since entering the Taconite Saloon. (Inside, he was filled with loathing over having to touch pasteurized processed cheese food, as he was convinced of the fact that Americans’ consumption of such an abomination was clear evidence of their moral failings.)
As he passed by, Ralph noticed Jørgen’s difficulties with the spread and, letting loose with a subtle but perceptible sigh, fetched four cheese knives from under the bar and set them near each of the tubs, placing the one near Jørgen with an especially heavy hand.
“This is a very thick cheese,” Jørgen offered as his excuse.
“Yeah,” Ralph concurred.
Jørgen and his associates responded to an unspoken command to consume and pretend to enjoy some of the offered spreads, probably reasoning that it was a way to endear themselves to the locals. Halfway through masticating his second cheese-encrusted cracker, Jørgen resumed his small talk with Ralph, who was again leaning against the bar.
“Mmm, this is very tangy and good.”
Ralph nodded.
“Say, that mine, isn’t that the one that that guy wrote a book about—or something like that?” Jørgen asked, brushing cracker crumbs from his new shirt.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“It involves a large killer rodent, if my memory serves me.”
“Yeah, it sure does.”
“Yes . . . yes,” said Jørgen, hoping that doing so would lead Ralph to give up more information. It did not work. “Yes,” he continued somewhat desperately, “yes.” After a moment he added, “Yes. Seems like an interesting fellow, that guy. Saw something on him on a television program not terribly long ago.” Ralph was unmoved by this piece of news, so Jørgen attempted a more direct approach. “Do you ever see him up this way?”
“Now and again,” said Ralph. That was the end of his information on the subject, and Jørgen, who wanted to remain inconspicuous, decided not to press further. They finished their drinks, thanked Ralph, and left, huddling on the sidewalk out in front to discuss their next move.
“That was a big, giant, fat dead end,” asserted Ülo. “And the cheese was ungodly.”
“True, yes. It tasted of freshly expelled vomit. And I admit our subject was not as forthcoming as I would have liked. But it should not be that difficult to find out where he’s staying, if only we keep our eyes and our ears open. Our next move should be—”
“Jørgen! Jørgen, traveler is at your six!” warned Per.
“What?” Jørgen said irritably. He turned to look where Per was pointing, and indeed Jack Ryback was striding toward them in the company of two other men. One was the mustachioed fellow from the park meeting, the other was King Leo, looking fresh and fetching in a peasant blouse of a delicate ocean hue. They were closing in on the knot of Danish men fairly quickly.
“Okay, move! Move!” said Jørgen urgently, underscoring his command by pushing his comrades roughly, first Per, then Vagns. “Come on. Come on.”
“Ow,” said Vagns, who did not like being pushed, especially when the pusher had a hangnail and his push had missed its mark, the jagged nail raking open a small cut on his top lip, which is precisely what had happened.
“You must move now,” Jørgen ordered. They walked briskly down the sidewalk, away from the approaching author and his strange entourage, ducking into an open shop, the Jurkovich Family Pharmacy. The bell tinkled as the foursome tumbled into the store, invading the quiet, Muzak-tinged air.
“Ow. You cut me,” said Vagns incredulously.
“Quiet, you little baby,” said Jørgen. He looked around to notice that the only person in the store, a placid-looking man of forty wearing a blue smock, was staring at them with a pleasant but subtly accusing look.
“Help you find something?” he said, and all were aware that he really meant “Don’t bring your trouble in here.”
“We are just looking,” Jørgen said, and he began nosing around the nearest rack, which happened to be an area displaying barrettes, colorful brushes, various hair ornaments, and ponytail scrunchies. He was pretending to examine a purple Goodie-brand nylon hairbrush—as the others looked on—when the bell tinkled again and the very three men they were attempting to elude walked into the store, their progress stopped short by the presence of the four Danes blocking their way in the cramped entrance.
“Whoa,” said Ponty.
“Hey, man,” said King Leo as Jørgen, with terror in his eyes, looked up at him.
“Full house, huh?” Jack said energetically to them all.
“Ah. So sorry,” said Jørgen. “Just needed to . . .” he said weakly, and grabbed a yellow flower-print scrunchie off the display rack. Per, Vagns, and Ülo just stared nervously. In order to clear a path for the threesome, Jørgen and company walked toward the register, their leader setting the scrunchie on the counter, ostensibly with the intent of purchasing it. Jørgen had assumed that this would allow Jack Ryback and his friends to spread out into the store, but they only followed the four up to the counter. Noticing this, Jørgen said nervously, “Ah. Would you . . . ?” and gestured weakly toward the cash register.
“No, you go ahead there,” said Jack.
“Yes, please, we are in no particular hurry,” said King Leo.
“Thank you, most gracious of you,” said Jørgen, pushing the scrunchie several inches farther toward the clerk, who didn’t notice because he was watching Vagns dab at the bleeding cut on his top lip.
“Um . . . you need something for that?” said the clerk.
“I suppose I should bandage it,” said Vagns, pulling his hand away to reveal a red smear.
“Yeah, mouth wounds really bleed,” said the clerk, who walked to the end of his counter, lifted a hinged section, and hustled off, leaving the seven men standing in a loose and uncomfortable knot at the front of his store.
“Sorry,” said Jørgen, shrugging.
“Ja, sorry,” said Vagns, from under his hand.
“No, no, no, no, don’t give it a second thought,” said King Leo. “Happened to me more times than I care to remember.” Ponty looked at King Leo curiously for a second when he’d finished saying that.
“How’d you do it?” Jack asked Vagns.
“I don’t remember,” Vagns replied vaguely.
“How . . . how long has it been bleeding?” asked Ponty.
“Not long,” said Vagns. “Oh, I remember. I must have cut it when I was having some cheese and crackers at the pub down the street.” Jørgen was thinking that, on the whole, Vagns had done a less than acceptable job of coming up with a better explanation than “He pushed me,” but he would not be able to say so until some later time.
“You . . . you cut yourself with cheese and crackers?” Ponty asked.
“Perhaps a jagged cracker edge. It’s all a blur to me now,” Vagns replied.
The clerk returned with bandages, a small generic yellow tube of triple-antibiotic ointment, and two cotton balls.
“Will that do you?” he asked.
“That looks dandy,” said Jørgen, though the clerk was talking to Vagns.
“Okay . . . bandages,” said the clerk, ringing a price into the register. “The ointment . . . and a scrunchie. The cotton balls are on the house.”
“Thank you ever so much,” said Vagns, reaching for them.
“That’ll be two eighty-five,” said the clerk. Jørgen paid as Vagns swabbed at his lip with one of the complimentary cotton balls. “Need a bag?”
“No thank you,” said Vagns. “I will probably dress it here.”
“Let’s dress it in the car,” suggested Jørgen strongly.
“Fine,” Vagns acquiesced, leaving it unclear to the clerk whether or not they needed a bag.
“So . . . should I bag it up?”
“Yes,” said Vagns.
“It won’t be necessary,” said Jørgen, snatching the items off the counter and hustling his crew out of the store.
“Strange fellows,” King Leo said before turning his attention to the clerk. “Say, my man, I need a high-quality stain lifter to hand-wash soil out of mohair, some Chakra Pure-Fume Body Mist by Aveda, and I need these three prescriptions for amoxicillin filled, please.”