Mike Nelson's Death Rat! Page 12

  “Yes. That is he.”

  “That was a very weird song.”

  “King Leo thanks you.”

  “I—”

  “He has asked me to contact you because he wishes to have an audience with you.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I am—Why don’t you just call me . . .” And there was a pause that Jack assumed was supposed to be mysterious but then carried on a little too long.

  It was Jack who broke the silence. “Hel—” he began, but the caller had mistimed his cryptic pause, and Jack had stepped on the payoff. The voice spoke at the same time as Jack.

  “Mr. Gray.”

  “What?” said Jack.

  “Mister—”

  Jack interrupted again. “Sorry, didn’t mean to step on you there.”

  “No, it’s all right. I was going to say ‘Mr. Gray,’ but I guess you can just call me Don.”

  “Okay, Don. Don Gray?”

  “No, I made that part up. The Mr. Gray part.”

  “Well, Don, why does King Leo want to see me?”

  “It has something to do with your book. That’s all I know.”

  Jack’s scalp tingled with panic, a panic that was exacerbated by the fact that the coat-check woman was now staring straight at him with a strange expression. “What about my book?” Jack asked in a quiet voice.

  “I don’t know. He just wants to see you. May we come for you now?”

  “No, I’m at a party.”

  “After the party?”

  “It will be quite late.”

  “King Leo doesn’t sleep,” Don said crisply.

  This caught Jack at a loss and found him defenseless. “All right. One-thirty, here at Beret. You know where it is?”

  “King Leo knows where everything is.”

  Jack became impatient. “Okay, okay. Fine. Just be here at one-thirty, or I’ll go home.” Jack hung up. Despite the note of danger to the call, he was mostly annoyed with having his unwanted party abut an unwanted and late-night meeting.

  “Pardon me. I couldn’t help but overhearing. King Leo wants to see you?” said the coat woman, her eyes wide.

  “Apparently.”

  “Wow. Tell him I loved ‘Your Velvet Flower’!”

  “I sure will,” Jack said distractedly. It had been more than a month since he’d spoken to Ponty, at Ponty’s request, but he thought it was time to break radio silence. He dialed Ponty’s number and, asking for Earl, got him on the phone.

  “Earl?” Jack asked, so upset by recent events that he forgot to be annoyed by Ponty’s insistence on the ridiculous smoke screen.

  “Yes, this is Earl,” Ponty said in a manner sure to arouse the suspicions of anyone who might be tapping his phone.

  “Say, concerning ‘the thing’? I just got a call from King Leo. He wants to see me about the thing.” Calling the book “the thing” had been Jack’s idea, a compromise arrived at when Jack bucked mightily at Ponty’s suggestion that they call it “Delta Romeo,” a radio-language abbreviation of its initials.

  There was silence on the other end of the line. After a moment Ponty spoke. “What’s a King Leo?” he asked.

  “Pont—Earl, come on! How out of touch are you? He’s the funk guy, lives here in town? He did . . . um, ‘Pene Train Station’?”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Ponty said.

  “I get very nervous when funk superstars call me out of the blue and ask to see me,” Jack said. “What do I do?”

  “Jack, I’m sure you can appreciate that I, too, have very little experience having audiences with funk superstars? Just go talk to him. Maybe it’s nothing.”

  “A one-thirty A.M. meeting with King Leo? It’s bound to be something. Do you think he knows? Hang on, Earl.” Jack had stopped because Fetters was peeking into the coatroom making a complicated series of hand signals, mouthing indeterminate words along with them. Jack could make no sense of any of them, but he nodded back his understanding anyway. “Earl, I have to run. I’ll give you the full report later.”

  “Ten-four,” said Ponty. Jack thought his weak voice sounded very much at odds with his military sign-off.

  Jack made his way, not too quickly, back to the reception and was soon engaged in dangerous small talk with the chair of the Greater Twin Cities and Southern First Tier Suburban Council for the Arts.

  “That’s a big rat you’ve got there, young man. Congratulations,” said Thomas Kaat, shaking Jack’s hand.

  Jack struggled to look into his eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m going to be seeing Dirk and Fiona in a couple of weeks, and you can bet your hat I’m going to mention the fine work you’ve done on this rat story.”

  Jack hadn’t the faintest shadow of an idea who Dirk and Fiona were, but he guessed from context that he was supposed to be pleased that they were going to be informed about his book. “Well, good. Please give them my regards when you do see them.”

  “You know Dirk and Fiona?” Kaat turned away before Jack could protest. “Leslie! Leslie, Mr. Ryback knows Dirk and Fiona.”

  Leslie, overjoyed to hear the news, disengaged from her conversation and joined them at once. “Oh, you’re kidding! What a small world. When did you last see them?”

  “Dirk and Fiona are our favorite people in the world. We just love them to death,” said Thomas Kaat, his eyes moist with emotion.

  “No. No. I’m sorry. I don’t know Dirk and Fiona at all. Never met them.”

  Jack had let down the pleasant old couple in a very profound way. Thomas attempted to understand Jack’s having misrepresented himself concerning his relationship with Dirk and Fiona. “Why . . . ? Why did you say you knew them?” he asked.

  “I misunderstood,” Jack was beginning to explain when Leslie took Thomas by the arm.

  “Come along, Thomas. Let’s be getting home.”

  The crowd was thinning, drifting away with the disappointed Kaats. Fetters came over and grasped Jack’s right hand with his own, supporting Jack’s elbow with his left. It seemed to Jack as though Fetters were about to teach him a secret lumberjack handshake.

  “You did a fantastic job tonight, Jack. This town is now completely a pro-Ryback town.”

  “The Kaats need some convincing.”

  Fetters ignored him. “Everyone loves the book. Did Christine get plenty of good shots of you?” Fetters asked, referring to the photographer he’d hired.

  “I think so. I see flashbulbs in my retinas when I close my eyes,” Jack said, his voice sounding weary.

  Fetters laughed. “Well, you look great. Just great. We’re on our way, Jack. We’ll be talking about the next book soon enough. I’ve got to go. Petra is here if you need anything,” and Fetters glided insincerely away.

  JACK WAS RELEIVED when King Leo did not show up, and he was getting into his car, nearly hungry for sleep, when he heard a hollow sound he thought very much like the clattering of hooves. Jack concluded that it was unlikely he was being attacked by a division of light cavalrymen, so he turned to see what the source of the sound might be. When he saw an obscenely overdecorated horse-drawn carriage making its way up Fourth Street toward him, and when it then pulled up next to his car and the coachman had dismounted, approached him, and said, “Mr. Ryback, King Leo thanks you for agreeing to see him,” he knew he was one unwanted King Leo meeting away from crawling into his bed.

  “Don?” Jack asked the coachman.

  “Don is in the landau, sir,” he said. “Watch your head, sir,” he said, just as Jack cracked the top of his head violently against the carriage’s frame. The first thing Jack noticed, after he had sworn, rubbed his head for a minute, and managed to scramble into the carriage without concussing himself, was that in the design and construction of landaus (as he now knew this carriage to be), obviously precious little attention had been paid to providing adequate headroom for such as Jack Ryback. The pressure of his head on the carriage’s fabric roof made him worry for its continued integrity. The next thing he n
oticed was that Don, a small man of about forty with a fiery red mustache and even fierier hair, seemed to have more than his share of headroom. Jack immediately resented him for that, if not for Don’s coming to collect him using excessively fey transportation.

  “Mr. Ryback?” said Don.

  “Yes. Don?” said Jack.

  “For now, yes, ‘Don’ will do. I must apologize for our tardiness. King Leo found it necessary to dispatch the last three limos to a party in Wisconsin to retrieve some . . . items. A brilliant man, but if I had to level any criticism, it would be at his inability to stick to the published schedule as regards his fleet of personal luxury transportation.”

  “Well, if that’s the worst you can say about the guy,” said Jack, tossing his head in an “oh, well” manner and immediately feeling a buildup of static electricity in his scalp.

  “I assure you, it is. But it was that misstep that caused us to have to use backup transport to retrieve you. The stable is a drive from the main house as it is, and, as you can see, the tack for this rig is elaborate, and it takes time to properly hitch up the team.”

  “If I’d known, I could have driven myself.”

  “King Leo would be ashamed if it had come to that.”

  “Are we going to his house?”

  “I think it’s safe to say now that, yes, we’re going to his house.”

  “And where is that?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. That’s why I’ve rolled down the curtains on this carriage, so you cannot see its location.”

  “Isn’t it . . . ?” Jack thought for a moment. “Wait, I’ve heard where he lives before. Isn’t it in Deephaven or Mound or one of those?”

  Don started. “Who told you that?” he demanded.

  “I think I read it in Us magazine.”

  Don retrieved a small notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his London Fog coat and, swearing under his breath, scribbled furiously for half a minute. Then he pushed the notepad back to its home.

  “Security issues plague us. We can’t be too careful,” Don explained.

  Jack nodded, somehow using only his face, as he’d resolved to try not to move the whole head unit again until it was time to extract himself from the carriage. “I don’t think I’ve ever had an ‘audience’ with anyone before. What usually happens?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Well, what does he want with me?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, Mr. Ryback.”

  There was silence, save for the sounds of traffic and the clattering of horseshoes on asphalt.

  “Will anyone be with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Should I have brought something?”

  “Sir, really. I don’t know.”

  There was more silence as Jack thought of more questions, but it was Don who spoke next. “Can I get you something to drink?” Don asked.

  “What have you got?”

  “Nothing. But we could certainly stop and get whatever you’d like us to get at a 7-Eleven or something. We didn’t have time to stock beverages in this thing. I am sorry.”

  “No, let’s not stop this at a 7-Eleven. I’m fine. Can you get any heat in this thing, though? I’m kind of cold.”

  “I’m afraid not. We could stop somewhere, you could warm yourself briefly, and we could continue.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Or we could call around to see if any of the Fleet Farm stores stay open twenty-four hours, and, if so, I could call ahead and order, then hire a delivery service to pick up a catalytic-type heater or camp stove and then meet us at spot somewhere—”

  “No. That’s okay, really.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Not at all.” Jack closed his eyes and let the pressure of the roof support his head.

  “Music?” Don asked.

  Jack’s eyes flew open, and he drew in breath. “What?” he asked.

  “Would you like some music? I’ve got a CD player and headphones in my briefcase. Ooh. Though I should check to see if there’s any battery life before I offer.”

  “No, really. I’m fine. Good night, Don,” Jack said, and he fell asleep, missing most of his first and only ride in a horse-drawn carriage.

  Jack awoke when the landau bounced, creating a sudden increase in pressure on the top of his head. With no objections from Don, he lifted a curtain and saw that they were passing through an iron gate. They continued on past dense hedges, their progress broken by topiaries trimmed into the shapes of curvy women, until they arrived at the grand entrance of a large, colonial-style manor, rather conventional in appearance except for the fact that it was painted hot pink. It also had spotlights trained symmetrically on either side of its facade fitted with gobos projecting the classic “naked-lady mud flap” shapes in bright white. When they came to a stop, the coachman helped them down and Don led them quickly through the front door. They weaved expediently through some darkened hallways, and Jack was shown to a small, upholstered chair situated in a room that nearly hurt his eyes. His coat was taken, and he was told to wait while Don fetched King Leo. The room was medium-size, decorated, Jack guessed, in a kind of rococo/baroque/neoclassical/Wild West/risqué lingerie shop–style. On the walls hung naked paintings from nearly every major period save the Neolithic and before. Every style of design from every country in Europe—every royal house, even—had apparently sent a representative piece of furniture to be shown in King Leo’s waiting room.

  As Jack waited, he heard intermittent sounds outside his door. First some hysterical screaming that had him momentarily worried, followed quickly by laughter from the same apparent source. He mused briefly on what could have caused the extremes of emotion. Being set upon by wolves only to discover that they were quite tame, that each one wanted to lick your hand more vigorously than the last? A knife-wielding intruder waiting for you around a corner who turned out to be your husband, wearing an apron, cutting a lime, just about to ask you where the Captain Morgan’s was? Jack was just working out a third possibility when he did indeed hear the cry of some beast, probably canine, possibly a large cat. Then some silence. Then he heard a shattering, as of a large terra-cotta pot falling from some height and hitting a tiled pool deck. Then low voices and soon the sound of a hutch being shoved, three feet at a time, across a wooden floor. Then more low voices, the brief sound of a radio being turned on at explosive volume and turned off very quickly. Just as Jack had made a commitment to investigate and was rising from his chair, an apparently insane man entered the room and strode up to him.

  “Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack! Jack Ryback!” said the man, though the reason for his saying it so many times still was not clear to Jack.

  “Hello,” said Jack.

  Jack recognized the insane man as King Leo, a handsome, open-faced, bright-eyed man with closely cropped hair. He was small and fairly well muscled, with a hairless chest and just a small fringe of hair around his belly button. Jack wished he did not have access to this information, but it couldn’t be helped, as King Leo entered wearing a pair of very low-cut, red leather pants—and that was it. He hugged Jack, and Jack realized that King Leo was a good deal moister than he needed to be.

  “Forgive me! I’ve been doing some things, and I’m a little sweaty because of it. Jack! Jack, Jack, Jack—”

  “Yes,” said Jack, trying to stop King Leo’s momentum before he got onto another tear with his name. But King Leo plowed on.

  “Jack, Jack, Jack. Jack Ryback,” he said.

  “King Leo,” Jack responded.

  “You can call me King Leo, or you can call me the Sovereign Ruler of Groove, Milord Nasty Pants, the Magistrate of Penetrate, the Pharaoh of Funk, Maharaja of the Mojo, Caesar the Pleaser, Benevolent Despot of the Lower Places, the Commander in Chief in the Overstuffed Briefs, or the Exchequer of Milk Chocolate Soul. Wooo!” He ended this obviously practiced bit of elocution by leaning back with his arms out at his sides, looking
up at his cove ceiling.

  “Uh-huh. May I call you King Leo?” asked Jack.

  “Absolutely. I trust my barouche conveyed you here in adequate comfort?”

  “We took the landau, actually,” said Jack.

  “Ah, I’m so pleased. That is a fine coach.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. Cold but pleasant.”

  “Didn’t Don provide blankets? Did he bring the space heater?”

  “No, but it’s no big deal.”

  “Your comfort is my number-one priority. I’ll have to have strong words with Don. Now—Jack! Jack, are you ready for a revival?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Jack honestly.

  “Your book! Death Rat. It is a sign, Jack, very clearly a sign.”

  “Is it a sign?” asked Jack. He turned to look at his chair.

  “Yes, yes, sit, sit, sit, sit.”

  Jack was already discovering King Leo’s love of repetition to make points, no matter how minor. Jack sat, and King Leo pulled up a Queen Anne side chair, leaning in close.

  “When I heard you on the radio a few weeks back, and I heard the story of what happened in Holey, I was so moved I nearly messed my drawers,” said King Leo.

  “Ah, really? So you liked Death Rat?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes. It is the most important work of ours or of any time.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’d go near that far. Kind of a fun read is about all I’d—”

  “Jack, before we get any further along, may I get you a drink of some kind?” King Leo asked, placing a hand on Jack’s arm.

  “Hm. You know, I could stand—”

  “I will be partaking of a frozen Down Under Snowball, but I also have a Goom Bay Smash, or we could do a Yank Me, Crank Me as well.” He looked earnestly into Jack’s eyes as he said this.

  “Well, are they all frozen drinks, or . . . ?”

  “Actually, the Yank Me, Crank Me is not frozen, but I highly recommend it.”

  “I’ll have one of those.”

  “You will not regret it. Now, let’s talk about you,” said King Leo, his arm still on Jack’s.

  Jack looked around nervously. “Oh, your drink will be here in a second, Jack. My crack staff listens in and makes whatever it is you order. Say hello to them.”