Mike Nelson's Death Rat! Read Online Free Page A

suite had three rows of identical purple plastic stadium seats, the only clue that he was being feted was that he was positioned roughly in the middle of the row next to the stately Ms. Pedersen. As he fumbled to his chair, struggling to keep his Mr. Pibb upright, she smiled understandingly, dispensing a benevolence that made him resent her without even having to register it consciously. Roughly his same age, pinched but pretty, with graying blond hair, she possessed an easy grace, a dignified mien that made Bromstad feel quite large and clumsy in comparison, which indeed he was.
    Flanking Ms. Pedersen were PederCo’s high-ranking officers. Bromstad had been introduced to them all but was unable to recall anyone’s name—or rather he recalled one name, Carlos, but had applied it to the wrong person twice already.
    â€œIsn’t it wonderful how Minnesota embraces her own?” Ms. Pedersen asked, her tone low and pleasant.
    â€œYes. Yes it is,” Bromstad answered, assuming she meant him.
    â€œYes, you are a true Minnesota original, Mr. Bromstad. We’re lucky to have you.” Bromstad nodded, ostensibly in thorough agreement, during the lengthy pause that followed. “As you might know, we, too—PederCo, that is—originated right here in Minnesota, back in 1921, when my grandfather, August—”
    â€œWho’s that guy?” Bromstad asked with sudden, jarringenergy. Darlene stopped short, obviously annoyed that she was unable to complete what she thought was a better-than-average corporate history.
    â€œI’m sorry. Who?” she asked reasonably, for Bromstad was not pointing at anyone. “Ron? Our business-affairs manager?” she attempted, smiling wanly at a slender fellow in khakis and a light blue shirt leaning against the side wall eating a piece of deep-fried ravioli.
    â€œNo, down there.” Now Bromstad gestured down toward the field. “The guy in the mask.”
    â€œWell,” Ms. Pedersen explained patiently, “that’s the catcher.”
    This seemed to satisfy Bromstad’s inexplicably sudden, childish interest. “Okay,” he said. There was a long silence. The PederCo employees subtly abandoned their company’s owner by starting their own low conversations.
    â€œMr. Bromstad,” Ms. Pedersen began, a little unsteadily, “I can’t imagine your chicken drummies will take much longer.”
    â€œLet’s keep our fingers crossed,” he said grimly. Their discourse vaporized. Ms. Pedersen glanced around for help and, finding none, gently and silently cursed her traitorous employees.
    â€œYou enjoy drummies, hm, Mr. Bromstad?”
    â€œEvery right-thinking person does,” he responded grumpily.
    â€œHa, ha. Yes.” More punishing silence followed, and there was a lull in the game, so Ms. Pedersen could not reasonably turn her focus to that. She tried to meet Bromstad on his own level. “If you could have only one snack, Mr. Bromstad, which would it be?” she asked sweetly.
    â€œHm? Snack?” He formed his face into an expression suggesting that he was being bothered by unseen biting flies. “Idon’t know,” he said, shrugging dismissively, “something fried or . . .”
    There was more intense nothingness. Her last push had failed. Ms. Pedersen glanced at the side of his irritable head, looking for a way in. She was about to make an uncontroversial statement about the pleasant weather when Bromstad again burst forth with unexpected vigor.
    â€œHow about a reading?” he asked.
    Ms. Pedersen’s employees looked to her for guidance.
    â€œI think that would be splendid,” she said, clasping her hands near her chest.
    â€œYes, great!” “Oh, that’d be super!” “Please, please!” came the chorus of voices from PederCo staff. Cheatham Imprint Books, Bromstad’s publisher, had sent over a case of his latest, Dogwood,