River Rats

a novel by

MJ Yennik

Copyright 2009 MJ Yennik

CHAPTER 1

Frank scooted sideways through the bar like a kayak in white water -- rolling right, back-paddling, squeezing through mighty boulders. People stared at him. The crowd surged, and Frank felt the sting of ice water and Scotch on his sleeve. He drifted towards a clear pool hall near the back.

Frank was an associate attorney with a large Minneapolis law firm. He specialized in reviewing annuity retirement plans for agricultural cooperatives. He never made any changes to the plans, but he read every word, lingering over the more lyrical passages, laughing out loud at the humorous portions, stopping only to gaze out his window for hours. His view from the fiftieth floor of the IDS Center included the Mississippi River as it snaked through a flat plain of suburbs. Spectacular, he often thought. Most days, it was all he needed to get by.

Now he rubbed his arm as he scanned the bar for a waitress. He had almost broken his elbow that morning, falling from the top bunk. The bunk beds were his wife’s idea; and though the bottom bunk was empty now, he still liked it on top, in the danger zone. Frank was a thrill-seeker.

“Waitress!”

He locked eyes with a disheveled-looking young woman, then carefully looked away. Frank could impregnate women with a certain look, or so his uncle told him when he was twelve, and he had developed the habit of averting his gaze from women who might make poor mothers. “What do you want?” asked the waitress rudely. His suspicions were confirmed.

“Nonalcoholic sour mash whiskey. Neat. And a Big Sheba.” Big Shebas were huge, potent cigars imported directly from Utah. They were pre-chewed and dampened for convenience.

Frank lit the cigar and caught his reflection in a mirrored column. It gave him no pleasure. He was still recovering from a horrible accident involving ski goggles left drying too close to a fire. Though his skin was nearly healed, his appearance had been permanently altered – not necessarily for the worse, he told himself, but altered nonetheless. The scarring around his eyes made him look tough, he thought, even dangerous. Women might even notice him now.

Unfortunately, Frank had the kind of face that deflected attention from his physical appearance. Every feature was so perfectly average that to most he was invisible -- easy to lose in a crowd, or on a date. Scarred or not, he was human camouflage.

“Frank!”

He peered through the smoke. Trembly and Barger were at their usual table. Barger was racking them up. They waved him over. Trembly and Barger were both lawyers with local firms, and Frank sometimes wondered how the three of them ever came to be friends. Except for being lawyers, they had nothing in common -- Trembly practiced patent law, and Barger practiced securities law. Both were trouble-making louts, in Frank’s view. He hurried over.

“The bandages are off,” observed Trembly as he peered at Frank in the dim light. “Jesus, you look like a raccoon!”

“You hit the jackpot, man,” added Barger, without really looking up. He took a shot.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” Frank replied. “Why just tonight, I had to turn down a waitress who -“

”Have you filed suit yet?” interrupted Barger.

“Suit?”

“Still negotiating then,” observed Trembly. “Have you picked out a new car?”

“There’s nothing to negotiate,” sighed Frank. “I’m not suing anyone.”

Trembly and Barger looked confused. “Permanent facial scars are worth a mint,” said Barger. “And what about the pain and suffering?” asked Trembly. “The sexual dysfunction?”

“Now hold on there,” said Frank. “I burned my face, not my –“

Barger interrupted again. “The jury doesn’t have to know that you’re afraid to talk to women, Frank. Now that you’re horribly scarred, it’s understandable.”

“I’m not afraid to talk to women, I’m not horribly scarred, and I’m not suing!”

“Why not?” asked Trembly and Barger in unison.

“Because the accident was my own fault.”

Trembly and Barger froze as they contemplated his response. “You can’t say that,” said Barger slowly.

“It was my own stupid fault.” Frank watched the others cringe at the phrase. He knew he should sue someone, anyone. But he had stormed through the chalet in his ski boots, bellowing like an ox and knocking over children as he tried to peel the melted goggles from his face. It was all too embarrassing for the public record.

“Sometimes you have to take responsibility for your own actions,” he said, blushing. “If everyone sued everybody all the time our society would –“

”Let’s play another game of pool,” interrupted Barger.

Frank hated being interrupted, but knew that Barger couldn’t help himself. It was a skill he acquired in assertiveness training. Barger’s law firm required assertiveness training to help associates overcome their natural politeness.

The change was subtle at first, Frank recalled. Each time he ran into Barger, his ties were slightly bolder. Then he noticed that he was wearing different shoes for different events -- Frank rarely even changed his socks. Next came designer suits with name brands sewn onto the sleeves. And finally, for the coup de grace, Barger dyed the hair on his temples silver. Frank didn’t believe the story that his temples turned silver during an IRS audit.

In the months that followed his training, Barger’s voice steadily dropped in timbre from whiny tenor to rich baritone. He became a leader in the securities law department, and the other members followed his example. Soon their rich, deep voices could be heard interrupting others at every turn. Their bright ties flashed boldly in the dim conference rooms of the firm. They challenged the management committee of the partnership for a larger share of the pie. Drastic action was required to rein the group in, and drastic action was taken.

The partnership adopted a casual dress policy.

Barger and the other securities lawyers were stunned. Several left in a huff, moving to firms where a good pinky ring still inspired respect. This had the inadvertent effect of clearing the path to partnership for Barger. But as his wardrobe changed from suits to khakis, his voice gradually rose again to a whiny tenor. Before long, he had reverted to his old personality, becoming even more like Barger than he was in the first place. He began wearing sweaters tied over the shoulder, for example, and he learned to play folk songs on an acoustic guitar. All that remained of his assertiveness training, in fact, was his habit of interrupting.

Barger and Trembly pretended to ignore Frank as they racked up another game. Frank thought he should change the subject.

"I was appointed assistant secretary of the bagel club,” he bragged.

Barger broke. “I closed an eighty million dollar private placement last week.”

“I slapped my boss in the face,” added Trembly. They all knew Frank was lying, and an awkward silence ensued.

“Why did you ever get into law, Frank?” asked Barger incredulously.

Frank’s eyes narrowed as he looked through the smoky haze at Barger. “Perry Mason,” he lied.
“You went into law because of Perry Mason?” asked Barger, incredulous again.

“Sure,” Frank replied. “He was fat and ugly, but he drove the chicks wild.”

“I don’t remember that part,” said Trembly.

“He had a thing for his private detective,” added Barger.

“I missed that episode,” said Frank with a frown. He took a huge drag off his Big Sheba, tilted his head back, and exhaled fiercely through his nose. Trembly and Barger looked impressed. “Perry Mason had a cool office,” said Frank. The others nodded in agreement. “A big desk, books, everything,” he added softly.

“He’d get his ass handed to him these days,” said Trembly. “One minute he’s drafting a guy’s will, and the next minute he’s defending the same guy in a murder trial. It’s ridiculous.”

“Murder will out!” said Frank.

“That’s bullshit,” said Barger. “Lawyers specialize. My cousin Bodie sues the parents of kids who bite other kids in day care. You wouldn’t believe how filthy the human mouth is.”

“Bodie’s a fucking idiot and you know it,” said Trembly. Three months earlier, Bodie had attended the baptism of Trembly’s baby girl. Afterwards, he ate fourteen pancakes in the church basement and then vomited all over the rectory. Father Markey, who teaches kick-boxing to troubled youths at the Bacon Ridge Center for Repeat Violent Juvenile Offenders, dragged Bodie into the kitchen and provoked a series of horrible screams. Bodie later claimed to have been badly bitten, and negotiated a fat settlement with the Archdiocese.

“Perry Mason didn’t have to specialize,” said Frank. “He was a lawyer. A real lawyer. Real lawyers bend the law to their will. They wield the law like a chainsaw through butter. Real lawyers–”

“Frank,” Barger interrupted. “Perry Mason wasn’t a real lawyer.”

It doesn’t matter if Perry Mason wasn’t a real lawyer,” said Frank. "I’ve modeled my career after him. Perry Mason is how I’ll make partner.”

Barger and Trembly looked at their drinks. “You’ll need more than Perry Mason to make partner,” said Barger.

“You’ll need a miracle,” said Trembly.

“Or a big client,” said Barger.

“All I need is a shot,” said Frank. “Shots!” he called, and they drank to old Perry.

CHAPTER 2

The Manhattan skyline was brilliant at dawn. John Walker finished his hundredth sit-up and eased himself to his feet. He walked across the bedroom in the dim light, and could faintly see the outline of his wife and two young daughters under the covers. They always seemed to be in the same position, he reflected, whether late at night or early in the morning. He hadn’t seen them awake for days, and it crossed his mind that they might be dead. He was too busy to check.

John was destined for Harvard Law School from the eve of his conception, when a large and aggressive young sperm pushed its way past the rabble to take what was due it: a Mercedes Benz, Armani suits and Claire, a big Southern blonde. He graduated at the top of his class and began his career with an old-line Wall Street firm. There he broke records for billable hours and secretary turnover. When he finally made partner, the firm held a reception in his honor at the finest restaurant in New York. The founding partner hailed John’s stamina, drive and loyalty to the firm in a long speech that brought tears to the eyes of most present. At last John addressed the group. “I quit,” he announced.

He had already accepted a lucrative position as general counsel for Autopsy Saw Corporation. His new employer made saws for cutting cross-sections of human flesh. Many of the saws were portable, and John learned that pathologists often took them home at the end of the day for woodworking projects. Some of the recent models even included instructions for building a birdhouse. Under the circumstances, he was not surprised when nine pathologists with missing digits named Autopsy Saw Corporation in a product liability suit.

But he was disappointed. The suit was filed in Federal District Court in Minneapolis. He had to travel to Minneapolis to interview potential defense counsel. And the best his secretary could arrange were interviews on a Friday and a Monday, which meant he had to spend the whole weekend there. Obviously, the choice of venue by opposing counsel was a measured psychological blow.

John was a true New Yorker; he hated every other city in the world. In particular, however, he hated cities in the Midwest. He found the people irritating and strange. On a trip to Ames, Iowa, he told a waitress that he had never seen a more putrid shade of lipstick. This was a standard pick-up line in New York, and he meant it as a compliment. But the waitress dropped her tray and fled sobbing to the kitchen. During a trip to Canton, Ohio, he purchased a bagel, took a bite, started shouting, and threw it at the clerk. Nothing unusual. But the clerk fainted when the bagel bounced off his forehead. Or maybe he knocked him cold, John thought as he ran from the store. Either way he was disgusted. More recently there was the trip to Madison, Wisconsin, when he had kicked the crutches out from under the homeless man who -- no, that was actually in New York, he recalled. But the big crybaby was certainly from the Midwest.

As soon as John arrived at work, he ordered his secretary to find a map of the United States. Although he had never been to Minnesota, he regularly worked with Oslo Anderson, a Minneapolis patent lawyer. When they spoke on the phone, Oslo always asked about the weather in Manhattan, listened patiently, then expostulated on the shocking weather conditions in his own state. When it was thirty degrees Fahrenheit in New York, John learned, it was certain to be thirty below in Minneapolis. When it was ninety degrees in New York, it was always hotter, and more humid, in the Midwest. When it hit five below in Manhattan one January, John called Oslo to describe how he braved the weather while hailing a cab. Oslo exploded. “Five below? Five below? When it’s five below the kids sleep out in the treehouse! We fall to our knees naked in the snow and thank God for the blazing heat!”

John wondered what the weather was like that day in Minneapolis. He decided to call Oslo.

* * *

Oslo Anderson was a tiny man, and striking. His Norwegian ancestors were among the fiercest Vikings to have ever walked the earth -- tall and over-muscled, with eyes that burned like coals -- but Oslo looked exactly like a leprechaun. For many years he had served in just that capacity as Grand Marshal of the St. Patrick’s Day parade in St. Paul, Minnesota. But as he aged, the deep lines of his face twisted his appearance into something slightly more demonic than Irish. Now when he appeared on his high green float the Irish children screamed and hid their faces. Oslo attributed their increased shyness to mixed-race marriages with the Swedes.

That morning, Oslo had invited Trembly, his associate, to join him in his corner office for a little experiment. Oslo was preparing a patent application for Now Hear This, an ear enlargement tool designed to improve hearing. When Trembly arrived, Oslo placed a prototype of the device over his left ear. Moving with surprising quickness, he tightened a series of screws.

“Ouch,” said Trembly. The phone rang.

“Hello?” Oslo answered. “John! How’s the weather in Manhattan?”

“How do you loosen this thing?” Trembly interrupted.

Oslo ignored him. “The weather here is perfect for July, but it’s tornado season. Last week a tornado tore the roof off the Har Mar Mall and turned thirty-seven people into shredded beef.”

“Oslo,” Trembly interrupted. “Oslo.”

“Really?” Oslo continued. “You’re coming to Minnesota?” Blood began to trickle down Trembly’s neck.

* * *

Back in New York, John heard screaming curses, and the phone went dead. Was it a tornado, he wondered?

A few minutes later, Oslo called back.

“Sorry,” said Oslo. “One of my associates just passed a kidney stone. Where were we?”

“Next Friday and Monday I’m interviewing defense council for a lawsuit filed in Federal District Court in Minneapolis,” said John.

“The pathologists?” asked Oslo. “I heard about it.”

“What it boils down to is that I’m stuck in Minneapolis for the weekend,” said John.

At that moment, John’s secretary appeared with a large map of the United States. He spread it out over his desk and found Minnesota.

“Why don’t you come down to the polka festival in Rochester?” asked Oslo. “We dance all night, and at dawn we burn effigies of corn demons.”

“What are corn demons?”

“Republicans, I suppose.”

John’s mouth went dry. Then something on the map caught his attention. “I’m looking at a map of Minnesota,” he said. “What’s that thin blue line running north to south through the middle of the State?”

“Probably the Mississippi.”

John’s brain flooded with images. Muddy water. Paddlewheels. Underage tobacco use. “White-water rafting,” he said aloud.

“Pardon me?” asked Oslo.

“I want to go white-water rafting,” said John. “On the Mississippi.”

CHAPTER 3

Frank checked his watch. It was 9:55. Mike Snike never came in before 10:00, and Frank wanted to catch him before he got on the phone for the day. Snike was the firm’s top product liability lawyer, and for good reason. His facial expressions conveyed more meaning than the most carefully drafted legal memoranda. If scientists chopped off Snike’s head but preserved motion in his facial muscles, Frank believed, he could still win a jury trial -- floating back and forth in a big glass jar, raising an eyebrow at the judge, slipping an occasional wink to the lonely female juror.

Though his firm had spawned many fine litigators and judges, Frank would never be accused of striking a witness on the stand, or of wearing no pants under his judge’s robe. He was a paperwork lawyer, as are most. When his brother called to say a neighbor’s dog had torn off his right testicle, Frank said he was sorry for him, rather than “Ca-ching!” When his wife called from jail at three in the afternoon, accused of drunken driving, all Frank could say was “Pick up some beer when they let you out.”

He waited by the file cabinets near Snike’s office. Suddenly Snike appeared, marching purposefully down the hall, greeting lawyers and staff alike with bold equanimity. Frank waited until he was seated before knocking on the door frame. “Knock, knock,” he said, with bold equanimity.

“Yes?” said Snike. He squinted his eyes as if he should know the man at his door.

“It’s Frank. From agricultural annuities.”

“Who?”

“Frank. I’m the associate who got his gum stuck in your daughter’s hair at the company picnic.”

“Now I remember. What the hell were you thinking, putting a big wad of gum on a nine-year-old’s head?”

“I was trying to stop the bleeding. Anyway, she’s twenty-six, sir, not nine, and. . .”

“Bleeding?”

“Well, sir, we were playing monkey in the middle with an empty bottle of Scotch and . . . well, actually, Mr. Snike, that’s not why I’m calling.”

“What the hell do you want, then?” roared Snike. Frank sensed he was off on the wrong foot.

“I just wanted to say, sir, that I can help with stuff. Briefs. Hearings. All that stuff. You know. Trial stuff.”

“I thought you were in annuities,” said Snike. “This is litigation. Litigation is war! Now go back to your office and get to work.”

The great Mike Snike, Frank thought as he made his way down the hall. Mike Snike the Great.
He picked up an annuity retirement plan for the Big Boy Soy Bean Cooperative and started to read. At page sixty-eight he heard shouting. Litigators were in the conference room again, this time arguing about whether to order out for Vietnamese or Thai. “I’ve had just about goddam enough,” boomed the deep voice of Mike Snike. “Well maybe you have a problem with Thai food,” chirped a young litigator, “but I have a problem with Vietnamese food. Do you have a problem with that?” “Goddam you to hell!” roared Snike, but Frank could tell he was cornered. The argument soon turned to sauces and side dishes.

Frank ate a sandwich in his office, envious of the camaraderie down the hall. Other lawyers in his part of the building were nice enough. One of them would even say “good morning” from time to time, or “good night.” Frank thought he should work harder to get to know this lawyer, a partner with considerable influence on the management committee. He imagined himself timidly knocking on the partner’s door. “Come in,” the partner would say. Frank would enter the room. “Goddam you to hell!” Frank would shout. Then they would go out for beers, equals now, perhaps at the Skyway Bar.

Frank gazed out the window at the Minneapolis skyline. Peregrine Falcons nested high in the Pillsbury tower, and he sometimes saw them drifting by without a care in the world. But not that day. The sky was empty, and blue.

CHAPTER 4

“There’s no white water on the Mississippi,” said Trembly, pressing a bloody wad of paper towels against his ear. “It’s like pea soup.”

“Take him over the Coon Rapids dam then,” said Oslo. “I don’t care. Just don’t kill him.”
“I don’t even know the guy,” said Trembly.

“I billed him nearly three hundred thousand dollars last year,” said Oslo. “And he paid it. And that’s all you need to know.”

“Where the hell am I going to get a raft?” asked Trembly.

“Use the company expense account. And buy some camping gear. John wants a wilderness experience. Get someone to show up in a bear suit. I want you to pull out all the stops on this one, Trembly.”

“You’re out of your mind!”

“You’re out of line,” said Oslo. “If you ever want to make partner you had better learn that there’s more to being a lawyer than doing legal work. There’s kissing ass.”

Trembly’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit,” he said. “I won’t do it.”

“You’ll do it or be fired,” said Oslo. “And I suggest you get moving. You’ve got two days to get this trip off the ground.”

Trembly stomped out and slammed the door behind him. He walked straight to the break room and picked up a large jelly donut. Then he slowly squeezed the donut until jelly oozed between his fingers and ran down his shaking arm. The secretaries in the break room stopped talking and watched as Trembly used two fingers to apply a thick red band of jelly from cheek to cheek. They scrambled for the door.

Trembly’s eyes flashed as he surveyed the room. He noticed an unpopped bag of microwave popcorn on the counter. He swept up the bag and tossed it in the break room’s microwave oven. Then he set the timer for one hour and pushed start. “Smell that, you bastard,” he laughed as he ran down the hall to the elevators.

By the time he gained his senses, Trembly was standing in front of the Skyway Bar. He used the pay phone to call Barger. “Emergency drinking session,” said Trembly. “Skyway Bar. Call Frank. Get down here fast!” He slammed down the phone and went to the bar.

He ordered a mint julep in a frosted glass to help himself cool down. Like many men his age, Trembly was forty pounds overweight. And when he became too excited, he tended to sweat profusely; this in turn caused him to emanate the faint but distinct odor of barbecued ribs. Women avoided him in this condition. Men drew uncomfortably near.

As a younger man, he had been an athlete, a downhill ski racer in high school and college. Most of those years were spent in full-leg casts, but he had retained a trim, athletic profile through his early twenties. Looking back, he realized that the exertion required to move about in heavy leg casts may have explained his thin frame. But the odor of barbecued ribs defied explanation: it crept upon him in his early thirties and clung to his skin like musk on an ox. He ordered a huge plate of barbecued ribs, and another mint julep.

When Frank and Barger showed up four hours later, they found Trembly at his table, passed out, his face smeared with dried jelly and barbecue sauce. They carried him to Frank’s car, and Frank drove him home. Trembly’s wife Helen met Frank at the doorstep, and together they carried him to a couch. Frank was surprised at how calm she appeared. Suddenly, Helen went stiff.

“My God!” she cried. “He’s been cheating on me!”

“No he hasn’t,” said Frank. “At least I don’t think so.”

“Then what do you call this?” asked Helen, pointing at Trembly’s face.

“It looks like dried jelly. Maybe from a jelly donut. And possibly some barbecue sauce.”

“He swore to me,” sobbed Helen. “Fat-free. We were going on a fat-free diet. Why would he do this to me? Why, Frank? Why?”

Frank held her close, and realized it had been two years since he had last held a woman. His wife had been anti-fur. At first he put up with it: the rallies, the paint-throwing, the arrests. But when she insisted that he shave his beard, he balked. “You look like you have a dead animal on your face,” she persisted. “What gives you the right to exploit the plight of animals?” What makes people so nuts? he thought to himself as Helen moved her hand to his thigh.

Frank gently pushed her away. “Make sure he sleeps on his side,” he said.

“So he won’t choke on his own vomit?” asked Helen.

“So he won’t snore,” he replied, and let himself out.

CHAPTER 5

The next day, Frank and Barger met Trembly for lunch at Peter’s Grill. “You look like shit,” Barger observed.

“Like you saw a ghost,” added Frank.

“Helen was ready to kick my ass this morning,” said Trembly. The men laughed as the waitress appeared.

“I’ll have a double cheeseburger, fries, and a piece of cheesecake,” said Trembly.

“Same,” said Barger.

“Water and toast,” said Frank. Helen is too good for either of them, he thought.

Trembly turned to Barger. “Have you ever been white-water rafting?”

“No,” replied Barger with an edge of suspicion. “And I never want to go.”

Trembly sighed, and told them about his meeting with Oslo Anderson. “I don’t know where to begin,” he said. “I don’t think I can do it alone.”

“Sorry,” said Barger. “I promised my cousin Bodie that we’d hit the all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast at Christ Lutheran early Saturday morning. He’s been talking about it for two weeks.”

“Autopsy Saw Corporation had three hundred million in sales last year,” said Trembly. “It’s publicly traded. Get in good with John Walker and he might send you some securities work.”
Barger looked thoughtful. “I’ve always hated Bodie,” he said.

“And don’t forget the litigation,” added Trembly. “The guy is coming in to interview defense counsel. Win or lose, it’ll be worth a couple of million in legal fees. If one of you can bring it in the door, you’ll make partner for sure.”

“I’m in,” said Frank. “But there’s no white water on the Mississippi.”

“So what?” said Trembly. “He’s a New Yorker. We’ll get some drinks in him, rock the boat a bit, and scream like hell. He won’t know he difference. But I need a big rubber raft, a place to camp, food, a plan.”

“You need a pontoon boat,” said Frank. “Not a rubber raft.”

“Who ever heard of white-water rafting on a pontoon boat?” asked Trembly.

“A pontoon boat is just a raft,” said Frank. “It’s a platform on floats. You can walk around on it, sit in lawn chairs, play cards, anything. And it’s a hell of a lot easier to piss off the side of a pontoon boat than out of a rubber raft.”

“Pontoon boat then,” said Trembly, shifting in his chair. “Where can we get one?”

“My folks have one,” said Frank. “They have a place on the river in Anoka. I think the pontoon’s up on blocks in the woods. They’ll let me use it, though.”

“Do you know how to drive it?” asked Barger.

“If it still floats.”

“Maybe we should hire a guide,” said Barger.

“You don’t need a guide,” said Frank. “The river only goes one way. We could put in at Elk River on Saturday morning, camp at Killian’s Island, then float down to my parent’s house the next day.”

“What’s Killian’s Island like?” asked Trembly. “Is it a public campground?”

“Killian’s Island is just a sandbar with trees,” said Frank. “Nice beach, a little grassy spot for tents. We used to camp out and play poker all night.” Frank recalled the one and only time he ever played strip poker. He was fifteen. Susan Westlund was there. Colleen Swenson. Barb somebody. His good friend Andy was dealing.

They had all lied to their parents about spending the night at a friend’s house, and had met up on Killian’s Island. Frank somehow talked them into playing. And when the game began, the enormous potential of the night nearly crushed the air from his lungs. He had reached the zenith of his young life, he knew, and he silently thanked God for giving him that moment. He lost the first hand. The next. And the next. Soon he was standing in his underwear, while everyone else was fully clothed, staring at him. He lost again. “I quit,” he said, and put his clothes back on.
Trembly mopped up the rest of his cheesecake with his cheeseburger. “Let’s go look at that boat,” he said.

* * *

An hour later they were tramping through the woods behind Frank’s parents’ house. The boat was tucked between two small trees, and was nearly obscured by branches. The deck was covered with years of leaves and twigs. “What a piece of shit!” exclaimed Trembly.

The boat was thirty feet by ten, and Frank pulled himself up on the bow. He opened the little gate that separated the front deck from the main part of the boat and shuffled through the leaves. How long had it been, he thought. Fifteen years? It had been at least that long since he last spoke to Andy -- Andy, who stole his girlfriend because Frank didn’t have the guts to kiss her; Andy, who went to medical school on a full-ride scholarship while Frank worked his way through law school at Taco Bell. As he pushed his way through the branches the blocks shifted slightly and the boat shuddered. Frank caught his breath and adjusted his weight. Then he continued on to the stern.

“What a piece of shit,” said Trembly again.

“She’ll float,” said Frank, bending over the engine. The gas line to the old Johnson outboard was cracked with age. Frank tried the pull starter and it came off in his hand. “It needs a little work,” he said.

“We need another boat,” said Barger.

“No we don’t,” said Frank. “I know boats. It’ll work fine. I’ll clean it up. Get the engine running. But we still need tents, sleeping bags, and everything else. You guys take care of that.”

Trembly looked at Barger. “We’re all gonna die,” he said with resignation.

“Where should we meet you?” asked Barger.

“There’s a Burger King in Elk River near the boat launch,” said Frank. “Meet me there Saturday morning at nine. And don’t worry about the boat.”

Frank breathed a sigh of relief as Trembly and Barger tramped back out of the woods. Neither had noticed the faded Led Zeppelin murals on the side panels of the pontoon. “Let’s rock and roll,” he said softly.

CHAPTER 6

John Walker entered the men’s room at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport and loosened his tie. When no one was looking, he removed a small plastic collar from his neck. The metal contact points had set off the alarm at Kennedy, and he wanted to avoid the same embarrassment on his trip home.

He had tried everything to quit smoking. The patch. The gum. Narcissism. Nothing worked. The collar, he recalled, was Claire’s idea. “It’s called adverse conditioning,” she said. “If a dog can take it, you can.”

The painful shocks had their intended effect. The collar had a range of 100 yards, and John never felt safe sneaking a cigarette around the home. Soon, however, Claire applied adverse conditioning to teach him to put his plates in the dishwasher. Then she used adverse conditioning to teach him to leave the toilet seat down. One night, Claire confused the TV remote with the remote for John’s collar. John was dreaming of smoking when the bone-jarring jolts hit again and again, pinning him to his bed in agony.

John breathed deeply. He loved Claire, but it felt great to be well out of range. He gathered his bags and went to find his luggage, stopping for cigarettes on the way. The limo driver was waiting for him at the baggage return. John introduced himself.

“What a great accent!” gushed the driver. He studied John’s suit and lowered his voice, still grinning. “Are you here for a mob hit?”

John paused, and looked directly at the driver with a dark, penetrating gaze. “You ask too many questions,” he said. “Get my bags.”

John checked his watch when they were on the road. “I’ve got two hours to kill,” he said. “Find a sporting goods store. I need some gear.”

“Are you going camping? Where? Boundary waters? North shore? Chain of lakes?”

“The less you know, the safer you’ll be.” A few minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the Camp-N-Stuff Superstore.

* * *

Camp-N-Stuff customers rarely arrived by limousine, and Roy Marley was determined to intercept this one before his rivals. He stuffed out his cigarette, slipped in the service door, bolted through the warehouse, and hustled through an aisle of fishing tackle. He poured it on past the rain gear and stepped in front of John just as another salesman was reaching to shake John’s hand.

“How are you doing today?” gasped Roy.

“That’s none of your goddam business,” said John.

“Har har,” said Roy. New Yorker, he thought, rubbing his hands. New Yorker in a limo.
“I’m going white-water rafting,” said John. “Through some rough territory. I need a few things.”
“White-water rafting?” asked Roy, genuinely curious. “Where?”

“The Mississippi.”

Roy’s eyes widened. “Did you get a permit from the Coast Guard? That’s one tough river.”
“Don’t worry about me,” John replied. “I can take care of myself.”

“You have a survival suit, don’t you? No one shoots the Mississippi without one.”

John paused. “I may have left my survival suit back home. Do you sell them here?”

“Let’s take a look,” said Roy. He led John to the outdoor clothing section and selected a pair of blaze orange deer hunting coveralls. “Space age material,” he said. “3M makes them under the Blood Lust brand. They prevent hypothermia, serve as a life preserver, and make it easy for helicopters to spot you in the water.”

“I suppose they’re bulletproof.”

“As a matter of fact --”

“Don’t try to con me,” John interrupted. New Yorkers know their bulletproof clothing, he thought. He pulled the suit off the rack and held it up. The color was soothing, almost mesmerizing. “How much do you want?” he demanded.

“Three hundred ninety-seven. Marked down from four twenty-five.”

“All right,” sighed John. “I’ll take one.” There goes my budget, he thought. “Let’s take a look at those knives over there.” They walked over to a glass display case and stared at row after row of hunting and utility knives. Roy selected an expensive-looking Swiss Army knife.

“It’s got everything,” Roy began. “Fork and knife, eyebrow plucker, nose-hair clipper --”

“Show me that one,” said John, pointing at the far end of the case. Roy unlocked the case and retrieved a Bowie knife with a twenty-inch blade.

“Two hundred forty-nine dollars,” said Roy. The steel glistened under fluorescent lights as John slashed it back and forth in uncertain arcs. Roy took a few paces back. “Jim Bowie tamed the West with that knife,” he said. “It’s the perfect weapon for killing anything.”

John gave the air a vicious jab.

“We’ve been lobbying for a knife-hunting season,” he added. “It would start in September, a few weeks before bow-hunting season begins. If they ever approve knife- hunting, you’ll be all set with that baby.”

“What will they approve after that,” asked John. “Bare hands season?”

Roy looked thoughtful. “You’d have to be in pretty good shape to bring down a buck. But I suppose you could jump from a tree and strangle one.”

“I’ll take the knife.”

“What about a sleeping bag and tent?”

“The guide is going to provide those,” said John. “I don’t think I need anything else.”
“You might need a flare gun,” added Roy. “Maybe a compass, pair of boots, cook stove, backpack, trail mix, water purifier. . .”

“I’m from New York City,” John snapped. “All I need is a survival suit and a Bowie knife.”

* * *

Back in the car, John pulled the knife in and out of its sheath. “How do you like this baby?” he asked the driver, flashing the knife back and forth. The driver said nothing. By the time they reached the Marriott in downtown Minneapolis, the driver was hyperventilating and couldn’t help John with his bags. “There goes your tip, buddy,” said John.

John checked in at the front desk. He carried his own bags past a bellboy who was reading a magazine. “There goes your tip, buddy,” he said again. He liked saying that. He shared an elevator with an elderly man in a cardigan sweater. “Tenth floor,” said John.

“Push it yourself,” snarled the old man.

“There goes your tip, buddy.”

John found his room and unpacked his bag. He tried on his survival suit and strapped the Bowie knife to his hip. Then he stood in front the mirror, practicing his quick draw. He was ten minutes late for the interview with Mike Snike, and for a moment he considered attending as he was. “Pardon my appearance, Snike,” he would say, “I’m on my way to the Mississippi for a spot of white-water rafting.” But John wasn’t sure whether it was legal to carry a Bowie knife with a twenty-inch blade in downtown Minneapolis. He put his suit back on.

Riding into the city, John noticed that most of the buildings in the downtown Minneapolis were connected with glass walkways high above the pavement. According to Oslo Anderson, these “skyways” were how Minnesotans avoided the wolves that scavenged frozen corpses on the streets. As he waited for the elevator, John began to feel a little tentative about walking outside without his knife. So he decided to chart a path through the skyways to his meeting.

At street level, the IDS Center was two blocks away. But, strolling through the skyways, John had a chance to see the Timberwolves stadium, the Convention Center, and the Hennepin County Government Center. He sensed the diverse ethnicity of skyway neighborhoods, which he christened “Little Sweden,” “Little Norway,” “Little Scandinavia,” “Little Northern Europe.” He began to recognize restaurants and shops he had passed hours earlier. He also began to recognize people, and he realized they too were lost. The skyways reminded John of an elaborate hamster runway he received for Christmas when he was ten, and of the accident involving his hamster and train set. He gave up, called a cab from a hotel lobby, and darted from the lobby to the car.

“Take me to the IDS Center,” he said.

“You just came from the IDS center,” said the cab driver.

“You people are hamsters!” John shouted. He ran back inside to find the elevator banks closed to the public for the day. Mike Snike will be upset, he thought. Oh well, he reflected, Snike is probably your typical Midwestern wimp. He listened for wolves, then set off down the street for his hotel.

CHAPTER 7

Frank backed the trailer into the river until the rear of the pontoon boat began to float. He unhooked the winch, grabbed a coil of rope secured to the bow, and pushed. The boat slid into the river as Frank played out line. He walked down the shore a few feet and pulled until the front pontoons rested on the sandy bottom. The current took the rear of the boat in shallow, and Frank tied the rope to a tree on the bank.

The Mississippi was only a quarter of a mile wide at Elk River, and at eight in the morning the water was smooth as glass. The high, tree-lined banks were studded with expensive homes that Frank didn’t remember from his childhood. But the river was the same. Warm, muddy water tugged at his ankles as he waded out to the boat. Soft-backed turtles sunned themselves on the rocks near shore. A lone duck circled nearby.

Frank stayed up half the night getting the old pontoon ready, and he was proud of his work. Trembly and Barger won’t recognize it, he thought, as he carefully draped beach towels over the Led Zeppelin murals facing shore. The orange indoor-outdoor carpet was gray with age, but clean. Four unmatched lawn chairs graced the deck with simple, understated elegance. The eight-track tape player was working beautifully, and he had happened upon his old Ted Nugent collection in the garage. Frank was beginning to worry about the duck.

He focused on the engine. He had put new oil in the lower unit, and purchased a gas tank with new lines. The electric starter had given him trouble, but he replaced the handle on the manual recoil with a dusty spare he found in the garage. He pumped the ball on the gas line, pulled out the choke, gripped the starter handle, and pulled with all his might. The duck was closer. On the tenth pull, the engine roared to life in a huge cloud of greasy smoke. Frank hit the kill switch.
The duck was an ordinary mallard. A bit ragged around the neck, Frank thought; old, maybe. It held its head in a quizzical fashion, regarding Frank with a cold eye. How long do ducks live? Frank wondered. Ten years? Twenty? “Scram!” he shouted and the duck bobbed nervously. Frank pulled a handful of change from his pocket and hurled it. The duck took flight.

He might have been twelve. His parents were hosting an engagement party in their yard for the neighbor’s daughter. Everyone was dressed up, even kids. His sisters wore white, frilly summer dresses. Frank wore his new leisure suit.

Judge Murphy and his wife were there. So were most of the neighbors. Frank’s mother had gathered them together on the riverbank for a group photograph. Frank picked up a palm-sized rock and tossed it from hand to hand. Aunt Mary smiled at him: a boy and his rock. A boy in a leisure suit with his rock. “Everybody look at me,” called Frank’s mother from the dock. “Smile!” She clicked the shutter. Frank’s mother was an artist with the camera. “Judge, put your arm around Father Wilson,” she said. “Now look out over the river. Smile!”

Frank stepped forward and hurled the rock with all his might. It sailed far and high over the river until all eyes were transfixed, then began its descent in a slow, gentle arc. The rock picked up speed as the angle of its descent grew sharper and then plummeted towards the river in a near vertical drop.

A pair of ducks swam closely together out near the middle. Frank’s rock bounced off the head of the female, and she flipped upside down in the water. The male tried frantically to right her, but she turned over again and again. His quacking intensified, then assumed a sobbing quality more human than duck. All present were humbled by the pain and grief and loss expressed by so simple a creature, and each turned an accusing eye to the boy in the leisure suit.

“A keg,” Frank said to break the silence. You can’t float down the river for two days without a keg of beer on ice. He checked his watch; there was time. He jumped off the boat and waded to shore.

At nine-thirty Frank saw Trembly’s car pull into the Burger King parking lot. Barger was in the passenger seat, and Frank saw that his eyes were closed. Trembly looked ashen as Frank approached the car.

“Terrific morning, eh?” said Frank, peering into the back seat of Trembly’s car. A man in a blaze orange suit stared back at him.

“Our guide,” explained Trembly to John.

“The river is straight ahead,” said Frank. “Three blocks. I’ll meet you there.”

Frank climbed back into his car and followed them to the boat launch. As he pulled to a stop, he noticed that the man in the orange coveralls was struggling to free himself from the back seat. Then Frank saw that the safety belt was caught on a huge knife dangling from the man’s hip. Oh, shit, he thought.

Frank got out of the car and approached him. “I’m Frank,” he said as the man freed himself and stood up.

“Where’s your survival suit?” demanded John. “No one shoots the Mississippi without one.”

Frank thought for a moment. “I forgot to bring it,” he said at last.

“So did those two morons,” said John. “I’m not going to be responsible for what happens out there.” It was hot in his suit, and John noted that the others wore only T-shirts and shorts. “Where’s the raft?” he asked, looking directly at the pontoon. “We don’t have to inflate it ourselves, do we?”

“A rubber raft would be torn to shreds out there,” said Frank. “We’re taking a metal raft. A pontoon boat.”

John and Frank walked down to the river’s edge and surveyed the boat while Trembly and Barger unloaded Trembly’s car. “Looks like it’s been through hell,” said John nervously.
“And back,” Frank replied. He had wrapped the boat and trailer around a tree in his father’s driveway when he was sixteen. “Come on board,” said Frank. He noticed John was wearing dress shoes. “You’ll have to wade.”

John sat down on the bank to remove his shoes and socks. “What are these tracks?” he asked Frank. Frank came over and saw tiny, indecipherable footprints in the sand.

“Baby cougar,” said Frank. “The mother must be somewhere near.”

“Lets get on that boat,” said John. He and Frank waded out to the pontoon and climbed aboard. John noticed the big plastic garbage can covered with life jackets. “Why so many life jackets?” he asked Frank.

“There’s only four life jackets.”

“Then what’s in the garbage can?”

“Emergency medical supplies.”

* * *

John felt a little less nervous. Frank exuded confidence, as if the trip ahead was no more dangerous than a ferry ride to Ellis Island. John caressed the handle of his knife, and he felt even better. I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought. Claire had been out of her mind with worry. A man has to take chances, he explained to her, just to know he’s alive. Did you know you were alive when we made love last night? she had asked him bitterly. Maybe, he told her.

“Keep it moving,” John called to Trembly and Barger from the boat. John sat down in a lawn chair as Trembly and Barger waded out with tents, sleeping bags, flashlights, and boxes filled with chips, hot dogs, buns, soda, bug spray, sunblock, Scotch and cigars. “What’s that?” John asked Barger.

“My guitar,” he replied.

“Leave it here,” said John. “The last thing I need is some amateur folk singer hack wrecking my trip.”

Barger blushed, and waded back towards the car. Trembly and Frank looked down. Thank God, they thought.

* * *

When Barger returned Frank ordered everyone off the boat so they could push it off the bottom. When the water was not quite knee-deep he told them to climb back on, then shoved the boat into deeper water and hopped aboard himself. He started the engine on the third pull, and they chugged in a cloud of smoke to the middle of the river. Then he stopped the engine and removed the beach towel from the rail. “We’re here,” he announced.

“How long until we hit the rapids?” asked John.

“It’s quite a ways down,” said Frank. “We won’t see the worst of it until tomorrow.” He could tell John looked disappointed. “But keep alert. There’s plenty of danger between here and there.”

“It looks like we’re floating through the goddam suburbs,” said John.

“Wait and see,” Frank replied. He eased back in his chair and felt the sun on his face. Within a half hour the houses began to diminish in number and size. The boat turned slowly clockwise as they floated downstream, and the river reflected blue sky and white clouds. Soon both sides of the river were encased in the deep green of midsummer oak and maple and willow. It must have looked like this two hundred years ago, thought Frank as the Jet Ski roared up behind them.

“Led Zeppelin rules!” shouted the driver as he careened within six feet of the pontoon at forty miles an hour.

John and Trembly leapt to their feet and made identical obscene gestures at the man. John looked at Trembly. “Ever been to New York?” he asked, as the Jet Ski disappeared around the bend.

“Sure,” said Trembly. “For discovery on patent litigation. In fact, I’ve been in your offices. But I don’t think we’ve met before now.”

“Did you get a chance to see the sights?”

“You’re kidding, right?” asked Trembly. “When I go to New York I sit in a back room digging through bankers’ boxes for corporate records until two in the morning. That’s what litigation is about for associates. Thank God I don’t do it full-time. I’m in . . . ”

“That’s why I’m in securities,” Barger interrupted. “It’s a nice little specialty niche. You prepare filings, fill out forms, draft documents. I don’t have to jump up and down and scream at anyone. I just come to work, prepare filings, fill out forms, draft documents.”

“Sounds like fun,” said John. “What kind of lawyer are you, Frank?”

“I review retirement annuity plans for agricultural cooperatives.”

“Huh,” said John. “Ever try a murder case?”

“No.”

“Huh,” said John. “Why did you ever get into law, Frank?”

Frank remembered the day with perfect clarity. He and his best friend, Seamus Killian, had been at the edge of the Mississippi during early spring. The ice had broken up in the middle, but large sheets of thick ice still clung to the shore. He and Seamus were chopping away at a sheet of ice, breaking it free. Just as it moved into the current, Seamus jumped aboard. “Come on,” he shouted to Frank, but Frank was chicken.

Frank ran along the river’s edge, following Seamus as the current pulled him along. Seamus had a long pole, and used it to push himself farther out. Just like Huckleberry Finn, thought Frank. Huckleberry Finn had been banned from the middle school library due to its depiction of underage tobacco use. Frank was reading it on the sly.

At the bend ahead, he saw a policeman standing on the bank. Some rotten neighbor had called the cops. “Get in here right now!” roared the cop. Seamus didn’t answer. “Get in to shore right now!” the cop repeated. Frank then heard the single most brilliant legal retort of his life.
“Show me the law,” shouted Seamus. “Show me the law that says I can’t ride ice.”

The sheet of ice split into two pieces, spilling Seamus into the river. They never found his hat. But at that moment, Frank had the calling.

“Perry Mason,” he lied. “He was fat and ugly, but he drove the chicks wild.”

The men fell silent again and they watched the riverbank drift by.

“I’ll give you this,” said John, breaking the silence. “It’s beautiful out here.” A farm field slowly appeared on the bank to their right. “What kind of crazy plants are those?”

“Corn,” said Barger.

As they turned the next bend, Frank heard a splash and children’s voices. The bank had eroded away into a steep, thirty-foot cliff. I know this place, thought Frank. A huge, gnarled oak grew just to the right of the cliff, and kids had tied a thick rope to one of its branches. A young boy scrambled up the roots of the big oak to the top of the cliff, pulling the rope behind him with a long piece of twine. The men watched as the boy gathered in the twine at the top of the cliff, gripped the rope, and swung out over the river. He let go at the peak of the swing and plummeted feet-first into the water.

“We’re pulling in,” said Frank, stubbing out his cigar.

“Why?” asked Trembly. “What for?”

“I’m going to take a turn,” said Frank. He started the engine and chugged towards shore.
Frank studied the kids as the boat drew near: long hair, covered with mud from climbing up the bank, scowling. River rats, he concluded. “Watch yourselves,” he warned the men. Frank gunned the engine, hit the kill switch, and leaped to shore with a rope. A rock bounced off the boat.

“Police!” he yelled. “Freeze!” He heard the kids scramble away in the underbrush.

“I get to go first,” said John.

“You better let me test it,” said Frank. He wanted to go first.

John ignored him. He took off his knife and started for the cliff. He’s going to wear that stupid suit in the water, thought Frank. The muddy bank was wet and slippery, and John nearly lost his footing near the top. But soon he was standing on the cliff with the rope, looking down.
Frank caught his breath. Then released it. Go, he thought. John wasn’t moving. He was staring intensely at the boat.

“C’mon!” yelled Trembly. “Jump!” John broke his gaze. He adjusted his grip, and stepped into the air.

For the first few seconds he fell straight down. Then the rope began to tighten and swing him towards the river; his face revealed panic and childlike joy. The branch released a low groan and bent deeply. Then it snapped.

John smashed spread eagle into the center of the boat with booming “thud!” Trembly and Barger and Frank stood perfectly still. John didn’t move, either.

“Nice one,” said Trembly at last.

At precisely that moment, a small rock bounced off Trembly’s head. He stumbled backward over a lawn chair. Frank jumped off the boat, untied the rope, and pushed off. A hail of rocks rained down around them. He heard Barger yelp. Frank started the engine in one pull and floored it in reverse as the boys rushed down the bank for a better shot. Soon they were safely out of range, and Frank surveyed the damage.

Barger was hovering over John. “He’s trying to speak,” he said to Frank. Barger put his ear to John’s mouth. Frank could see John move his lips slowly. Barger sat up and looked directly at Frank. “He wants to know what the hell is painted on the boat,” he said.

Trembly stood up rubbing his head. He and Barger walked to the port side of the boat and leaned over the rail. They turned and stared at Frank.

“It’s a mural,” said Frank. “From Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy album.” Trembly and Barger ran to the other side of the boat. “From the greatest hits album,” said Frank.

“You’re an unbelievable moron,” said Trembly. Barger was laughing.

“Just hang a beach towel over the rail if you don’t like it,” said Frank. Tasteless bastards, he thought. Trembly and Barger immediately went for the towels. Frank saw that John was trying to sit up. He helped him to a lawn chair.

“You had the wind knocked out of you,” said Frank. “Don’t try to speak. I’ve got just the thing for this.”

John watched as Frank scrambled for the tall plastic garbage can. He threw the life jackets off the top and picked up a metal cylinder. Oxygen, thought John. This guy is prepared for anything. John noticed that Frank seemed to be pressing the cylinder into the garbage can, and he heard a hissing noise. Then Frank returned, beaming, with a large plastic cup full of beer.

“Beer?” rasped John. Frank nodded, handing him the beer. “You brought a keg of beer white-water rafting?”

“Way to go Frank!” said Trembly. He and Barger jostled for position at the garbage can.

“We need our wits about us!” said John, taking a long drink.

“You want to be loose when we hit the rough stuff,” said Frank. “Or you’ll sprain your neck.”

“I already sprained my goddam neck!” John shouted. “What kind of a river guide lets his client jump off a cliff?”

Frank liked how that sounded: his client. “Moose!” he shouted, pointing at the bank. John snapped his head towards the shore and moaned. Trembly and Barger didn’t bother to look. “It submerged,” said Frank. “They can stay under for hours.”

CHAPTER 9

“You know what?” asked John, staring at Frank. “I don’t believe a moose can stay under water for hours. I think you lied about that fucking moose.”

Trembly changed the subject. “Why are you such an asshole, John?”

John’s eyes flashed. “Because of people like you, and you, and you,” he said, pointing to each of them. “People who read magazines instead of carrying bags. People who won’t push a button in an elevator. People who lie to you about moose. About baby cougars.” John considered his blaze orange suit, and he blushed. His voice softened. “You can’t trust friends. That’s a given. They get on a plane or get married or graduate from college and you never see them again. But you have to trust people to do their jobs. You have to! And your job,” he said, pointing at Frank, “is to guide me down this goddam river. Safely. Now do your fucking job!”

Trembly stood up, red-faced. “You’re going for a swim,” he said. But Frank grabbed his arm. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.” A speedboat was racing towards them.

“River pirates?” asked John.

“Doctors,” Frank replied. A hush fell over the group.

The boat was a new Ski Nautique with a 200 horsepower Mercury outboard. John could see four men, all in thick, black eyeglasses. “We must be near Mercy Hospital,” said Frank. “A lot of them have homes on the river.”

The speedboat slowed as it approached and the driver stared at them. He’s looking at Trembly’s haircut, thought Frank. “How are you doing?” asked the driver, shutting down the engine. “Are you guys from around here?”

“We put in at Elk River,” said Frank. “We’re just passing through.”

“We’re white-water rafting,” added John.

The driver muttered something to one of the passengers, then addressed John. “The deer opener isn’t until October. You’re not shooting deer, are you?”

“No,” said John, gripping his knife. “But I’ll defend myself if they attack.”

The driver laughed. “I told you it was a New York accent,” he said to the passenger. “Have you seen a guy on a Jet Ski?”

“Son of a bitch almost killed us,” said John.

“Sounds like Dr. Mort,” said the driver with a smile. “He has a strange sense of humor.”

John bristled. “The intentional infliction of emotional distress is never funny.”

The men in the speedboat traded glances. “Lawyers!” shouted the driver. He started the speedboat and roared aside of the pontoon. “Get ‘em, boys!” The doctors leaped to their feet and grabbed the pontoon boat by the rail, knocking down a beach towel. “Hand me the sauce, Bones!” shouted the driver. Bones reached into the speedboat and handed the driver a large, beat-up fire extinguisher.

“Are we supposed to be afraid of that?” asked Trembly. Frank knew better and was cowering by the keg.

“Pepper spray,” smirked the driver as he released the pin. “I brew my own.”

Trembly, Barger and John dived for cover. Laughing, the driver leaped from the bow of his boat to the front of the pontoon.

“Hold on a minute,” said one of the doctors. He was staring at the Houses of the Holy mural. “I know this boat.” He peered through his thick glasses at the lawyers, and singled one out.

“Frank?”

Frank scrutinized the balding, overweight man in glasses. “Andy?”

“Frank!” said Andy. “You’re a lawyer!” He hopped over the rail and extended his hand.

“You’re a pathologist!” said Frank, noting Andy’s missing index finger.

They shook hands. “No more fighting,” Andy said to the other doctors. “Frank is a friend of mine. He can be a lawyer if he wants. He can even have lawyer friends. He and his lawyer friends can snoop around here for assets to satisfy malpractice judgments whenever they like. They can file liens against our homes, our boats, whatever they damn well--”

“Have a beer,” Frank interrupted. “We just tapped a keg.” The rest of the men clambered aboard, and soon the two groups found common ground. Golf. Fishing. Tax evasion. Barger found himself talking to the driver of the speedboat, who introduced himself as Dr. Nooley. “We’re so much alike,” said Barger. “Why do doctors hate lawyers?”

“Why do lions hate hyenas?” said Dr. Nooley. “You feed off our kills.”

At the other end of the boat, Frank and Andy were talking about the old days. “Remember when we took Nell Oslon waterskiing and she lost the bottom of her bikini and we somehow lost her towel in the river too and she had to wear a potato chip bag for pants?” asked Andy. “God, she was hot!” Frank recalled the beating he had taken from Nell’s brother the next day. “Remember when you tried to buy liquor by darkening your peach fuzz mustache with mascara?” asked Andy.

“You gave me blue mascara,” said Frank. Andy roared with laughter.

“Remember when I saved that girl from drowning?” asked Frank.

“No,” said Andy, still laughing. He left to fill another beer.

It had been Jay Johnson’s last night before entering the Navy. They threw a party for him on the pontoon boat. About ten guys showed up on Frank’s dock, and someone managed to talk five or six cheerleaders from Coon Rapids into meeting them down by the rope swing. It was a cool, clear night with a full moon, and they floated down the river laughing, shouting, drinking and throwing each other off the boat. Frank had spotted the girl struggling in the water about forty feet up river.

He stripped down to his underwear and pushed his way through the crowd to the front of the pontoon. Nobody noticed that he was undressed. He dove off the bow into the cool, black water and struck out for the girl. Recalling his lessons, he submerged, found her ankles, turned her around, moved hand over hand up her body, and put her in a cross-chest hold. She struggled wildly as they broke the surface, but Frank held her tight. He reached the boat, exhausted, and pushed her up the swimming ladder before climbing aboard himself. He looked into her eyes.

“You pervert!” she screamed, slapping Frank in the face. A few of the guys stopped talking and watched with interest. “This creep just pulled me underwater and felt me up!” she told them. “Oh gross he’s in his underwear!”

John was standing alone by the keg when Andy walked up to pour a beer. “That’s a fine-looking boat,” he said to Andy. “What’s the roll bar for?”

“It’s not a roll bar,” said Andy. “It’s a brace for the waterski rope.” Andy smiled. “Do you want to go waterskiing?”

“I better not,” said John, rubbing his neck. “I’ve never tried it.”

“Have you ever tried air-mattressing?” asked Andy. John shook his head. Andy motioned him over to the speedboat and pointed out an ordinary-looking air mattress on the floor. “All you do is lay down on the mattress, reach underneath it, and grab the rope,” said Andy. “It’s fun!”

Frank heard the speedboat start, and at first he was relieved. Then he saw the boat pull away from the pontoon with Andy and John on board. “Wait! Wait!” shouted Frank, but it was too late. He said a silent Hail Mary for John as the boat disappeared around the bend.

CHAPTER 10

The bear climbed slowly out of the Dumpster behind Taco Bell on the Champlin side of the river. His black, matted fur coat dripped with a thick glaze of day-old taco grease, and he dropped to the dirt to begin the task of licking himself clean. He was not a particularly tall bear, but he was wide, and always hungry. A low moan escaped from his jowls as his tongue scooped up the remnants of a Burrito Supreme under his left hind leg.

A clattering of bicycles and human voices disturbed his repose, and he sauntered into the thick weeds on the riverbank. He plodded down to the river, and nestled in among discarded boxes and tires. He rested his head on his paws and closed his eyes.

He awoke to the high wail of a speedboat, and his hind leg began to twitch. The boat roared by close to shore, and as the sound of the engine faded it was replaced with a high-pitched shriek. The bear sat up and sniffed the air. He looked out over the river and saw that the boat was circling back. It dragged a shrieking thing in a high plume of water far behind it. The bear pawed the air and grunted. As the boat roared past shore again, the shrieking thing tore through a thicket of willow branches hanging down into the water. The bear buried his head beneath his paws.

* * *

Thirty nine lashes! thought Andy with a grin. It had been years since he applied the “lashes” to someone dragging behind his boat, and the thought warmed him. He zoomed on, impressed with John’s stamina. Most people let go after the lashes, he thought.

John, meanwhile, was beginning to lose consciousness. His life jacket was hopelessly tangled in the ski rope. Blood flowed freely from the shredded sleeves of his survival suit. The air mattress was somewhere upriver. Then John thought he could smell bread. No, it was cookies.

They were peanut butter cookies, John’s favorite. He was in his mother’s kitchen. “These cookies are not for you,” she warned him. She placed them on a plate to cool, then left the room. John stared at them. He touched one. His mother was still gone. He picked up a cookie and jammed it in his mouth. Then another. Another. Something was odd. The taste was familiar, but wrong. “Playdough,” said John’s mother with a laugh from the doorway. “You just ate cooked Playdough. That’ll teach you to steal, you little shit.”

* * *

The boat was circling back, and the bear stood. He dropped to all fours in the weeds and followed the river downstream. He stopped once or twice to lick grease from his fur, then continued his journey. At last he came to a place where the river widened to accommodate a small island. The bear swam the channel to Killian’s Island, and stretched out in the sun to dry. He fell asleep.

CHAPTER 11

“You’re goddam lucky we’re doctors,” said Andy. John was lying on his back on the pontoon floor. Andy and several other doctors were standing above him, sipping their beers. “Anyone else would panic if they saw all this blood.”

John turned to his side and choked up brown river water. From the corner of his eye he saw Trembly, Barger and Frank hanging back by the keg. He sat up, and examined his arms. Someone had cut off the sleeves of his survival suit and wrapped his arms with beach towels. They were damp with blood.

“I never saw a guy take the lashes like that,” said Andy. “You were great!”

John struggled to his feet. The boat rocked gently, and he fell to his knees. He rose again. Andy appeared before him like a mirage rippling in the desert heat. John reached behind him, and thought for a moment that he would fall again. Then he lurched forward and slammed his fist into Andy’s face.

The blow caught Andy off guard, and he stumbled backwards into Bones. Bones pushed Andy back towards John, and the fight began in earnest. John reached for Andy’s hair but found that the few remaining wisps were inadequate for a handhold. Andy hit him in the kidneys and knocked him in the nose with his forehead. Blood gushed. The two men grappled and fell to the floor of the boat.

Barger made a move towards the fighters but Trembly held him back. “This is too great,” he said. None of the doctors moved, either. Andy and John rolled across the boat, punching and kicking each other. John got his hands around Andy’s throat and began to choke him. Andy grabbed John’s ears and rolled him onto his back. Then Andy grabbed a big bag of Cheetos and smashed it into John’s face, smothering him.

“That’s enough,” Frank said at last. He waded into the fighters, grabbed John by his survival suit and pushed Andy off with his foot. “Cheetos don’t grow on trees, you know.”

Both men were bleeding from the nose, mouth and ears. “I’m going to sue your ass!” screamed John. “Assault! Battery!” He picked up the bag of Cheetos and shook it. “Assault with a deadly weapon!” Andy said nothing, and John saw that he was he was nursing the bleeding stump of his finger.

“I didn’t bite off his finger,” said John, suddenly nervous. “You’re all witnesses.”

The men on the boat were silent.

“I cut if off myself,” said Andy at last. “Three months ago. It was almost healed and you reopened it.”

John felt a sliver of remorse. “Now I’m sorry I didn’t bite it off. If that ski rope hadn’t broken when I hit the pontoon boat I’d be dead.”

Frank peered over the side of the boat and surveyed the man-sized dent in the left pontoon.
“So you got a little owie,” said Andy. “Big deal. It’s your own goddam fault. Why didn’t you just let go of the rope?”

“The rope was tangled in my life jacket!”

“Oh.” Andy paused for a moment to study the bloody stump on his hand. “You’re a hell of a fighter, John. Almost a river rat.”

“How’d you cut off your finger?” asked Barger. Frank winced.

“I was building a birdhouse. The saw didn’t have any of the usual safety features for that kind of job. It was a medical bandsaw; I used it at work for autopsies. But the company that sold it included instructions for building a birdhouse, so I thought it was safe. And now I’m screwed. I can’t hold a scalpel.”

“Thank God your patients are already dead,” said Bones.

“So I’m suing those fuckers for five million dollars,” Andy continued. “I can’t believe I finally found a use for lawyers.” He turned to John. “What kind of lawyer are you?”

“What do you mean, I fight like a river rat?”

Frank jumped in. “The term ‘river rat’ is a title. Like knighthood. Take it as a compliment.”

“Are you a river rat?” John asked Frank.

“I was once,” he replied.

“Frank was the greatest river rat this stretch has ever seen,” said Andy. Frank looked embarrassed, so Andy continued. “He made rat when he was only ten years old. Most of us didn’t make rat until we were teenagers. Some are still trying.”

Bones looked at his feet.

“Is it a gang?” asked John. “Are you a gangbanger, Frank?”

“Like I said, it’s a title. You have to earn it.”

“What do you have to do to be a rat, steal candy?”

Frank scowled at him. “You have to prove yourself. Rise to the challenges laid down by other rats. Test your courage. Face your fears.”

“How did you make rat so young?” asked Barger.

“I stole some candy.”

“Tell them what you really did, Frank,” said Andy.

A warm breeze blew across the river, and Frank sat down in a lawn chair. He closed his eyes and felt the boat rocking gently. It had been a long time since he told the tale, but he remembered. He would always remember. He began.

“It was a dark and stormy night. . .”

“You’re so full of shit, Frank,” Barger interrupted.

“Shut up, man,” said Bones. Barger growled at Bones but saw that he was transfixed, staring at Frank with a kind of awe. He’s heard this story before, thought Barger.

“Brent Anderson and Jay Johnson and I went down to the Coon Rapids dam in Brent’s fishing boat,” Frank continued. “We were going to ‘yank the chain.’”

Andy explained. “He means blow the air horn outside the lockmaster’s shack. It’s loud as hell. They use it to warn boats out of the restricted zone in front of the dam.”

“They only had one security guard at night,” said Frank. “And he was usually asleep. So we’d blow the horn to wake him up, then run down to the river and push off in our boats.”

“Sort of like Doorbell Ditch,” mused Barger.

It was a rite of passage for river rats,” said Andy. “Everybody had to do it once.”

“On that night,” continued Frank, “we drove the boat into the restricted zone and tied up about a hundred feet above the dam. The other guys stayed with the boat, and I snuck up to the shack. But this time, instead of just pulling the chain, I tied some fishing line to it and played out about thirty yards. Then I found a spot in the bushes where the guard would never see me and blasted the horn from there.”

“It’s the same kind of air horn they use on semi trucks, maybe louder. Ten seconds after I blasted the horn the guard ran out of the shack rubbing his eyes and fell flat on his face in the dirt. I couldn’t believe my luck. He looked around in the bushes for a few minutes, then he gave up and went back in. As soon as he shut the door, I blasted the horn again.”

“Of course he jumped right back out, thinking he had me. Then he ran around the back of the shack shouting and swearing, saying he was going to kill me and cut me up and throw me off the dam. I was only ten, so it was pretty scary. But he couldn’t see the fishing line in the dark and he finally gave up. And as soon as he closed the door -- zap! I honked it again.”

“Cool,” said Barger.

“We played cat and mouse for about ten minutes. Every time he went back in, or walked out of sight around the shack, I gave it blast. Finally he pulled up a chair right under the air horn. I was afraid he’d see me, so I froze. It only took about ten minutes before I heard it.”

“What?” asked John.

“Snoring,” said Frank. “It was one of those moments you dream about your entire life. The horn was less than a foot from his head. I wrapped the fishing line around my hand and held my breath. Then I blasted that thing like the dam was breaking.”

“What happened?” asked Barger.

“He fell out of his chair and flipped around in the dirt holding his ears,” said Frank. “It was terrific. I laughed so hard I teared up and couldn’t see a thing. I didn’t notice that he found the line until he was running right at me.”

“I hope he taught you a lesson, you little shit,” said John.

“He didn’t catch me,” said Frank. “I took off down the bank. But when I finally got to where the boat was supposed to be, it was gone. So I dove in.”

“In the restricted zone,” said Andy solemnly.

“Above the water,” Frank continued, “the Coon Rapids dam looks like a waterfall with a 30-foot drop. But under the waterline, giant pipes suck massive amounts of water through turbines. It creates an incredible undertow -- everything sucked through those pipes gets chopped to pieces. And the closer you get to the dam, the faster the current. You can’t swim away from it.

“You did,” said Andy.

“Pure adrenaline,” said Frank. “You’ve all heard the stories -- ninety-pound mother throws teenager through wall -- it happens every day. But even with all that adrenaline, I only made it half-way across. I was being sucked under; it felt a lot like someone was grabbing my ankles. Brent and Jay picked me up in the boat less than fifty feet from the spillway -- hell, we almost went over the dam together.”

“They made you a rat because you almost drowned?” asked John. “That means I’m qualified right now.” He glared at Andy.

“Drowning doesn’t make you a rat,” said Frank. “Courage does. Honor. Integrity. I proved all that with the fishing line maneuver.”

“Oh, what crock of shit,” moaned John. But he was intrigued.

CHAPTER 12

Mike Snike glared at his caddy. He pulled a nine iron out of his bag and shifted it from hand to hand.

“You might want to try a wood for this shot, sir,” said the caddy nervously. “It’s three hundred and forty yards.”

“I followed your advice on the last hole,” snarled Snike. He switched to a baseball grip and swung the club at head level. “You told me to use my three wood when I should have used a three iron.” He swung again, watching his caddy from the corner of his eye.

The old fart swings like a girl, thought the caddy.

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” ordered Snike. His deep voice echoed across the fairway like the voice of God. As the state’s finest trial lawyer, the voice came naturally: it rolled from his chest like thunder.

The caddy burst out laughing.

“You’ve just lost your cart privileges,” Snike announced. He could see this had little effect on his caddy. “And if you can’t keep up -- if you’re not ready with my clubs when I reach the ball -- you’ll lose your tip.” The effect was more to his liking.

Snike traded his nine iron for his driver, and teed up. A single ray of sunlight cut through the morning mist like a beacon from heaven, and highlighted the green with a mysterious glow. Snike closed his eyes, and could see his ball floating to the green in a high, perfect arc, two hundred, three hundred yards, then drifting down, slowly, slowly. . . it’s me God, he prayed, little Mike Snike, intervene for me Lord, oh please –

“Swing goddamit!” shouted Oslo Anderson.

Snike swung, and the ball dribbled fifty yards down the fairway. He tried not to watch as Oslo danced an Irish jig in his matching green outfit and cap.

Oslo enjoyed his relationship with Snike. He referred millions of dollars of work to him, and Autopsy Saw Corporation was the sweetest deal yet. The golf outings made it all worthwhile.

“Don’t bend your knees so much,” he said. “You swing like a girl.”

Oslo teed off, and knocked the ball two hundred and fifty yards. He always golfed his best with Mike Snike along. The caddy bolted down the fairway towards Snike’s ball with the golf bag strapped across his chest.

“Why use a caddy when we’ve got a cart?” asked Oslo, though he knew the answer.

“I guess I like working with young people,” said Snike. “They need role models. Mentors. It doesn’t take much to make a big difference in their lives.” He looked down the fairway. “Let’s catch that bastard before he gets to my ball.”

Oslo moved with exaggerated slowness: he picked up his tee, brushed the dirt from his club, sauntered towards the cart, stopped to knock mud off his cleats (first the left, then the right), carefully placed his club in the bag, stopped to stretch, then to yawn, he looked up, and the caddy was at Snike’s ball. Snike’s face was bright red when Oslo climbed into the cart, but he was smiling. Oslo smiled back. “Onward,” he commanded.

“What part of the Mississippi do you suppose they’re floating down?” asked Snike as they rolled down the fairway.

“Couldn’t be Lake Pepin,” said Oslo. “No white water.”

“There’s no white water anywhere,” said Snike. “It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I told Trembly to make sure he has a wilderness experience,” Oslo continued. “That rules out anything from Minneapolis on down. Too much barge traffic. I bet they’re North of the Coon Rapids dam.”

Snike thought his caddy looked a little too smug as they pulled up. “Give me the three iron,” he growled. He lined up his shot and swung before Oslo had a chance to rattle him. The ball soared down the fairway at least two hundred yards. Snike dropped his club and leaped into the cart.
“Nice shot,” said Oslo as they raced down the fairway. He looked back to see the caddy losing ground behind them. “I bet he could keep up if he didn’t have to carry your golf bag,” he said.

“We must be going six or seven miles an hour,” said Snike. “No one can run this fast for more than a few seconds.”

It didn’t look so fast to Oslo. “I could,” he said. “I bet I could jump out right now, hit the ground running, and jump back in. It’s a question of being in shape, yes?” He punctuated this last word by grabbing the flesh under Snike’s chin and forcing him to nod.

Snike was outraged. He bit back curses and tears. “All you’re trying to do is slow me down,” he said at last. “So I’ll have to tip that smug little bugger. Go ahead and jump. Try it. I dare you. But I’m not stopping if you fall.”

Oslo didn’t really want to jump out of the cart. He was sixty-eight years old. But now he felt he had to try. “Hold my arm,” he told Snike. Snike steadied him as he stood.

The caddy watched in amazement as Snike appeared to throw Oslo Anderson off the cart. Oslo took two big steps, then stumbled forward onto his face. His little green body continued to roll forward and the caddy heard his neck snap loudly. Snike just kept driving, as if nothing had happened. As the caddy reached the dying man, in fact, Snike was preparing his next shot. He was using Oslo’s tiny clubs. He hit the ball over a rise, then climbed back into the cart and continued down the fairway without looking back. “There goes your tip, buddy!” the caddy heard him shout.

Snike reached his ball, still fuming. A small hill blocked his view of Oslo and the caddy. He waited. Then he pulled out his cell phone.

“Tom? Mike Snike. It’s Saturday. Why the hell aren’t you in the office?”

“It’s like I told you yesterday, sir,” said a sleepy voice. “My law school graduation is today. I have family coming in from all over Minnesota.”

“Well skip it!” said Snike. “I need a fifty-state survey on my desk Monday morning. I want you to summarize all laws and pending bills in every state relating to telemarketing activity. Don’t forget Puerto Rico and Guam.” Snike hated having his dinner interrupted by telemarketers. A good survey would give him shouting ammo.

“Can it wait until Tuesday?”

“Team players don’t wait until Tuesday, Tom. Team players have their fifty-state surveys on my desk by Monday morning. Are you a team player, Tom?”

“Yes, sir,” said Tom.

“And one more thing,” said Snike. “Drive down to Jeff’s Jet Skis on Hennepin Avenue. He owes me money. Get a Jet Ski for the day and put in north of the Coon Rapids dam on the Mississippi. Take a cell phone. I want you to stop every boat you see and ask for John Walker. He’s the general counsel for Autopsy Saw Corporation, out of New York City. Don’t talk to him. I’m launching the Squid Pro Quo at Anoka. As soon as you find him, call me with his location. Then get to work on that survey. Any questions?”

The line was silent.

“Good,” said Snike. “I thought I hired a team player. Now prove it.”

Snike still couldn’t see Oslo or the caddy. I hope that dumbass broke his neck, he thought as he turned the cart towards the clubhouse.

CHAPTER 13

Word of the keg leaked out when Dr. Mort dropped by the pontoon on his Jet Ski for a beer on his way to an emergency appendectomy. The ambulance driver, Finney, heard it from one of the nurses, who smelled it on Dr. Mort. “I tell you, it was draft beer,” she whispered.

Finney was nearing the end of his shift. He called his friend Jake, who had a duck boat in his garage. At the mention of beer, Jake decided not to wait for Finney to finish his shift. He and his neighbor Blake launched the boat within twenty minutes. They ran into Floyd Olsen in his new Lund under the Champlin Bridge.

“Heard you bought one of those underwater video cameras for fishing,” said Jake.

“Fifteen hundred bucks,” said Floyd. “You can watch the little bastards sniffing your hook. Can’t always make ‘em bite, though. I would have bought one last year but the wife made me pay off the global positioning system first.”

“What the hell do you need a GPS for?” asked Blake. “You’ve been fishing this exact same spot under the bridge for twenty years. All you ever catch is carp.”

Floyd reached down in his boat and held up a ten pound walleye.

“Holy shit!” said Blake.

Floyd felt smug satisfaction as he lowered the lifelike rubber walleye out of sight. It came with the video camera. That moment alone was worth fifteen hundred bucks, he thought.

“Where’re you heading?” he asked.

“Upriver,” said Jake. “Somebody’s having a kegger.”

“Have fun,” said Floyd as Jake and Blake chugged onward. He was already eyeing the next boat, a Crestliner with an orange stripe and an 85-horse Merc. The Kinney sisters waved at Floyd as they passed under the bridge. “Kegger upriver!” he shouted. And so it went.

Back on the pontoon, the doctors and lawyers were surprised to see a man swimming towards them from the far side of the river. The current moved him downriver at about the same rate as the boats, and he made slow but steady progress. It seemed to take forever, but at last Bones pulled a thin, exhausted man aboard onto the front of the pontoon. “Finney!” he shouted.

“Now I know I’m at the right place,” panted Finney. “Good to see ya, doc.” He eyed the keg. “Do you mind?”

“Help yourself,” said Frank.

At that moment the whine of a large outboard sounded over the river. The men looked downriver just in time to see a Crestliner with an orange stripe carelessly swamp a small duck boat. “The Kinney sisters,” observed Bones. Seconds later, an aluminum canoe with a 35-horse Evinrude streaked past the Crestliner like a rocket. Two older model pontoon boats were not far behind. Within an hour, fifteen boats were loosely tied together in a rag-tag flotilla, swirling counterclockwise down the muddy river. People jumped from boat to boat, drinking beer and comparing all manner of fishing equipment, navigation aids and scathing sunburns.

Frank found himself talking to a local politician, Charles Winterlund.

“I chair a political action committee for the christening of new discoveries in deep space,” said Charles. “We encourage NASA to consider the interests of children when selecting names for interstellar bodies.”

“What a great idea,” said Frank. “Do you hold contests in the local schools to come up with names? I bet the kids love it.”

“We don’t teach astronomy in this district,” sighed Charles. “That’s the whole point. The names are all wrong. Uranus, for example. Phonetically, it’s the most disgusting object in the solar system. Hell, it’s worse than the Pole Star. Do we really want our children training their telescopes at Uranus? I don’t think so. We’ve been lobbying for a name change for years.”
“What would you call it?”

“Our counterparts out East want to name it ‘Little Cleveland,’” said Charles. “It has a nice American ring to it, but we’re aiming higher. How do you feel about Reaganoid?”

“I like Little Cleveland,” said Frank, and excused himself.

John was talking to one of the Kinney sisters. “What happened to your arms?” she asked.
“Cougar attack,” said John. “Up by Elk River.”

“But the scratches are so small.”

“They were baby cougars,” said John. “Thank God I had my knife.”

Frank heard the woman shouting at John and tried to ignore it. He walked to the back of the pontoon and gazed out over the river. Twenty years folded and disappeared. College. Law School. Marriage. Divorce. It never happened. None of it. Frank gripped the rail of the boat and leaned out over the water. The rail gave way and he tumbled in.

The water was welcoming and warm. He made for the surface and took a deep breath of air before opening his eyes. Then he maneuvered through the tangle of boats to the edge of the flotilla. He struck out into the open and swam downriver with the current. Ahead of the flotilla, he stopped and treaded water, watching the trees drift by.

Frank had laughed when the big fish pulled Seamus Killian’s pole right out of his hand. It was a long cane pole, and Frank dived off the dock after it. He was a strong swimmer for a twelve-year-old, but the pole quickly moved out towards the middle and he was tired by the time he reached it. Frank held it high above the water with one hand and Seamus waved. By now the current had him and he was several hundred yards downriver. He felt a powerful tug on the line.
As best he could in the water, he tugged back, fighting the fish. Huge, he realized. Then the line went slack. Because it was a cane pole, there no reel; and in the water, there was no leverage. He wondered if there was a channel cat on the line -- some went 100 pounds. Sturgeon, he knew, could be even larger. Frank struck out for shore with one arm, gripping the pole with the other. He still felt nothing on the line. Then something brushed his leg.

The panic surged back and Frank started towards the flotilla with an overhead crawl. He had wept when his wife left him, but he never called her. He worked eighty-hour weeks, instead. The divorce papers were a ruse, he thought. Leverage for the next argument. She’ll call. As hands pulled him aboard a speedboat at the edge of the flotilla, it struck him that she hadn’t called. Two years, thought Frank. Is her dialing finger broken?

CHAPTER 14

Tom turned too sharply and flipped over the handlebars. The Jet Ski was designed to circle back when it threw its rider, but the current moved it in strange elliptic orbits, eluding Tom again and again. It was the tenth time he had fallen off, and he was exhausted. I’m a team player, he told himself. Team player. He visualized Mike Snike. Snike was smiling. Swim, he heard Snike say. Tom swallowed more water. Swim, boy. I need that fifty-state survey. Swim!

Tom found the strength. He clambered aboard the machine and collapsed across the seat, coughing up water. His vision was blurred. He heard voices. He pulled himself to a seating position and peered upriver. He saw boats.

* * *

Barger was arguing with Finney and Bones about how to make a perfect key lime pie when a young man zoomed up on a Jet Ski, fell off, and began to drown. Finney acted fast -- he leaped off the bow of the pontoon and just managed to grab the Jet Ski before the current swept it out of reach. Then he took it for a spin. Barger threw the man a life jacket, but Tom didn’t have the strength to swim it in to the boat. So Bones untied the anchor line and threw it to Tom. Bones stopped pulling him in when he was several yards from the boat.

“What’s the recipe for key lime pie?” demanded Bones.

Tom’s fingers were slipping. “Graham cracker crust?” he asked weakly.

Barger could see that Tom was in real trouble. “Just tell us if you use lime Kool Aid or lime Jello,” he said.

“One part lime Kool Aid,” gasped Tom. “Two parts Cool Whip.”

Bones dropped the rope in disgust and stormed off, and Barger pulled the man on board. “How can I ever thank you?” asked Barger.

“I’m looking for a man,” said Tom.

“I’m married,” Barger responded. “But thanks anyway.”

“John Walker,” said Tom. “I’m trying to find John Walker. Is he here?”

Barger looked over the boats and spotted John in his blaze orange suit at the other side of the flotilla. “I’ll ask around,” he said. He made his way over two Lunds and a Bayliner to Trembly. “There’s a guy looking for John,” he said. Together they found Frank.

“I bet he’s from Dorsal and Whiplash,” said Barger. “I heard they stake out family reunions for assault cases.” The men laughed.

“They put radio collars on vultures,” said Trembly. The men laughed again.

“They read the obituaries for deaths involving negligence,” laughed Frank. Trembly and Barger looked out over the river. “Anyway,” said Frank, “I’m sure he’s a spy. Let’s interrogate him.”

Tom was standing in line for a beer when Trembly approached. “Heard you’re looking for John Walker,” said Trembly. “Tell me what he looks like and I’ll try to find him.”

“I don’t know what he looks like,” said Tom. “I just know he’s general counsel for Autopsy Saw Corporation.”

“Shhhhhh,” whispered Trembly. He glanced around anxiously. Andy and Bones were rifling through the trip supplies at the back of the pontoon, and Trembly breathed a sigh of relief when they didn’t look up. “Don’t mention that company out here,” Trembly hissed. “A doctor might hear you.”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” said Tom. But he made a mental note not to mention Autopsy Saw Company again. Deep down, he feared doctors. Shots, he reflected. That’s the power they lord over all of us. Without shots, doctors would be as tame as engineers. It’s those goddam shots.

He wished lawyers could give shots. Truth serum, maybe. They’d inoculate the whole population. Starting with babies. Boosters in second grade. Hell, every grade. He pictured the children standing in long straight lines while their classmates screamed in agony. I can’t find a vein, his paralegal would complain. Tom smiled. They’d respect us then, he thought. There’d be no lawyer jokes. Not with shots. Not if we started them young enough.

“Tom!”

He looked behind him. It was Frank from agricultural annuities.

“Frank? What are you doing here? Did Mr. Snike send you too?”

“Snike?” asked Frank. “He sent you looking for John Walker?”

“Looks like you have a little competition, Frank,” said Barger.

“A little competition?” said Frank. “It’s over. Even if I bring in the deal I won’t get credit for it.” He collapsed into a lawn chair. “The great Mike Snike,” he said. “I don’t have a chance.”

“Anyone have a cell phone?” asked Tom cheerfully. “I lost mine in the river.”

“How did he know we were out here?” asked Frank.

“He didn’t say,” said Tom. “He just told me to find John Walker somewhere north of the Coon Rapids dam. Then I have to prepare a fifty-state survey for Monday morning. Do you have a phone? I’d like to stay, but I’m busy. Where’s my Jet Ski? Snike said Monday morning. Fifty-state survey, you know. Telemarketing. What are you guys laughing at?”

“Mr. Snike already called,” said Trembly. “He wants you to mow his lawn first.”

Damn!” said Tom. “Wait a minute. How did he know where to call? I don’t understand it.”

Trembly sent a burst of laughter and beer through his nose. “Is this guy for real?” he asked Frank.

“Tom’s all right,” said Frank, smiling. “He’s just new. He hasn’t even taken the bar exam yet.”

“What the hell is so funny?” Tom demanded. “I’m just following orders. Mike Snike is the best trial lawyer in Minnesota. I’ll do whatever he asks me to do.”

“But will he respect you in the morning?” asked Trembly.

Tom didn’t blink. “If I do my job, he will.”

“I hate to break it to you,” said Frank in fatherly voice. “But no, he won’t. Every year Snike picks some new law school grad to be his lackey. I’ve seen it. If you let it happen, you won’t last six months. Last year he fired a guy from Stanford, Paul Gimmer, for overwatering his Begonias.”

Tom didn’t blink. “It’s almost impossible to overwater Begonias,” he said. “Gimmer must have been a complete idiot.”

Gimmer had paid Frank fifty dollars to take care of Snike’s lawn when Snike was in Des Moines. Frank spent the afternoon in Snike’s hot tub, shouting commands to an imaginary Gimmer while downing Snike’s Scotch. He still felt bad about leaving the hose on the Begonias overnight. And he felt bad that Gimmer lost his job. But he didn’t like being called a complete idiot.

“Give him your phone, Barger,” said Frank.

“If I were you,” said Barger, “I’d tell Snike you’ll finish his fifty-state survey when you’re damn good and ready.”

“And that you won’t be ready for three weeks,” added Trembly.

“And that he should go fuck himself,” added Andy, clamping a Big Sheba in his teeth.

“I don’t know if I’d -- “ Frank began. “Stay out of this,” he said to Andy coldly. “You don’t even know what we’re talking about.”

“Something devious, I’m sure,” said Andy with a grin. He wandered back to Dr. Nooley and Bones.

“You guys are just mad that I crashed your little party,” said Tom. “We can talk about this more when Snike gets here.”

“He’s on the river?” asked Frank.

“With the Squid Pro Quo,” said Tom with a hint of pride. Barger handed him his cell phone. “Now may I have some privacy, please?”

* * *

Mike Snike rode tall in the captain’s chair as the hot wind whipped his steel gray hair. He gently nudged the throttle, and the Squid Pro Quo roared like a lioness in heat. He threw his head back and laughed as a ridiculous aluminum fishing boat swamped in his wake. “Catch anything?” he shouted to the wind.

To Snike, the boat was more than a toy. It was an extension of his soul, a physical manifestation of his ethereal self. Perhaps it was the teak bookshelf and built-in marble fireplace. The bookshelf served as a repository for one of his prize possessions, a special edition of Minnesota Statutes Annotated bound in ostrich leather. He had shot the ostrich himself at a game farm in Winona. Never mind that the rancher had to hold the ostrich down before he could hit it.
Or perhaps it was the satellite dish and big-screen TV. In the privacy of his boat, Snike could peruse hundreds of channels that his wife might find objectionable. The Playboy channel. The Penthouse channel. And more recently, in a development that made Snike slightly uncomfortable, the figure skating channel.

Whatever the reason, his bond with the Squid ran deep. He lavished her with gifts. On their first anniversary, he surprised her with a diamond studded compass, followed by a deep wax rub. For their second anniversary, he commissioned silk lingerie seat covers for their private, moonlit cruises on the lower St. Croix. Their third anniversary was approaching fast, and Snike racked his brains for the perfect gift as he plied the muddy water. A toaster? His cell phone began to ring.

“Snike,” he announced.

“Mr. Snike? It’s Tom. I found John Walker.”

“Where is he?”

“About two miles North of the Champlin bridge. And Mr. Snike, Frank’s out there, too.”

“Frank who?”

“Frank from agricultural annuities,” said Tom. “The associate who bounced a bottle of Scotch off your daughter’s head.”

“He what?” roared Snike.

“Never mind that. He’s trying to steal your client.”

“He’s what?” roared Snike.

“And he said you don’t respect me.”

“He said what?” roared Snike. What’s your point, he wondered. “Good work, Tom. Bring the Jet Ski back. And Tom, I just remembered I left the hose running on my Begonias. Drop by my house on your way home and turn it off.”

There was a long pause.

“Go fuck yourself!” Tom screamed, and hung up.

Snike was stunned. Then a smile spread slowly across his face. He stopped the boat, went below, and poured himself a shot of carrot juice. “A litigator is born,” he announced, and knocked it back. He polished the glass and set it back on the bar. Then he sat down to consider Frank.
He tried to picture him but couldn’t. He could see Frank’s office door. And in his mind’s eye he visualized a shadowy figure, slinking down the halls, plotting, scheming. There was something about his daughter. He heard Paul Gimmer’s voice, ‘Frank! It was Frank!’ And now this. A hot-shot New York lawyer had stood him up. He was with Frank. Frank who, he asked himself.

* * *

Back on the pontoon, Frank, Trembly and Barger stared at Tom in amazement. “Way to go, man!” said Trembly as he walked across the deck with his hand extended. Tom spurned him, turned, and spit in the river. At that moment, Finney zoomed up on the Jet Ski.

“Boy, I wish I had one of these,” said Finney, bobbing along next to the pontoon.

“Give me a ride to my car,” said Tom, “and you can keep it.”

CHAPTER 15

John didn’t notice Tom and Finney as they sped downriver on the jet ski. He was too engrossed in conversation with Charles Winterlund. “What about Mars?” he asked.

“Mars was the god of war,” said Charles. “What sort of message does that send to our kids?

There’s a wonderful planet in our solar system, and by the way kids, we named it ‘God of War’? We might as well name the moon ‘Beelzebub.’ Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“No,” laughed John. He gripped the handle of his knife and looked carefully around him. Too crowded. He turned his back on Charles and made his way to a tri-hulled Lund speedboat. He climbed onto the front and swung his legs over the bow. Below him, two men in a duck boat were digging through a massive tackle box. They were soaking wet.

“Looks like you’ve been swimming,” said John. Neither man looked up, and John saw they were carefully drying fishing lures with one of the towels from Frank’s boat. “Aren’t those things supposed to get wet?” he asked.

Blake picked up a lure and shook it at John. “This lure was a wedding present,” he said. “It’s solid gold. The eyes are sapphires. I’ve been oiling it with a drop of fish scent every night for ten years. The day I wet this lure is the day I’ll catch the biggest fucking walleye you’ve ever seen. Those damn Kinney sisters. . . “ he trailed off, choking back a sob.

“What’s the gun for?” asked John, pointing to a .38 caliber revolver in the tackle box.
“That’s for when I catch the state record sturgeon,” said Blake. “It’ll never fit in my boat. I’ll have to shoot it and tow it in.”

“What if you miss and shoot the line?” asked John.

“Then I’ll use the gun to blow my brains out,” Blake answered.

“Every good fisherman carries a gun,” said Jake. “Don’t you know anything?”

“I’ve never been fishing,” said John. “I just don’t like guns.”

“You’ve never been fishing?” asked Jake.

“You talk funny,” added Blake with a hint of suspicion. “Are you from Wisconsin?”

“New York City.”

Five minutes later the three men were cruising along the shoreline in the duck boat. John sat in the middle. “You have a fishing license, right?” asked Jake.

“A learner’s permit,” John lied. “What are we trying to catch?”

“Smallies,” said Blake, as he cast his lure towards shore.

“I don’t want to catch smallies,” complained John. “I want to catch biggies.”

“A ‘smallie’ is a smallmouth bass,” said Blake. “Pound for pound they’re one of the world’s best fighting fish.”

“How do I work this thing?” asked John. He noticed his fishing pole was much smaller than the others. And he wasn’t sure what to think of the Snoopy logo on the reel. Suddenly Blake’s pole bent double.

The fish leaped high into the air, sending a shower of spray into the sunlight. “It’s huge!” yelled Blake. He frantically reeled in slack and adjusted his drag. The reel began to scream as the fish pulled out line. “Start the engine! Start the engine!” Blake shouted. Jake started the engine and drove the boat slowly in the direction of the fish.

The fish jumped again. It shone silver in the sun as it twisted upward, shaking its head to loosen the hook. “It’s moving in!” Blake yelled. “Get the net!” John reached for the net but Jake beat him to it. He moved to John’s seat, pushing him aside.

“Get out of the way,” Jake snarled at John. “Move up front.”

John took the gun from the tackle box, then stood and stumbled, nearly tipping the small boat. He crawled on his hands and knees to the front seat.

Blake brought the fish in close to the boat. “Now!” he yelled. Jake dipped the net into the water and it came up empty. The fish darted away from the boat and Blake’s reel screamed again as the fish pulled out more line.

“You missed, asshole!” shouted Blake.

“It’s the biggest smallie I’ve ever seen!” Jake gasped. “A state record!”

“Just get ready,” said Blake. He reeled the fish in close again and brought the end of his pole towards Jake. Jake readied himself with the net, and the fish rose from the murky river to the surface.

Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

Blake said nothing. He reached in and lifted the fish out of the water by the gills. Most of the weight was gone. It was a huge smallie, all right. At least thirty seven inches. But for the gaping bloody holes it was easily a state record.

“How many shots did you fire?” he asked John.

“Five,” said John proudly. “All hits.”

“Then there’s one bullet left,” said Blake. “Enough to blow my brains out.” He lunged for the gun, but John held it out of reach. Blake scrambled over Jake and grabbed John’s wrist. Jake grabbed the barrel of the gun and the three of them fell to the floor of the boat, struggling for the weapon.
Blam!

The bullet tore a hole through the hull and water began to spout upward. “Bail!” screamed Blake. John obeyed, leaping out of the boat and into the river. Then he struck out for the flotilla with a sidestroke he had learned at the Y. Oh God, he prayed as he swam, I hope this day never ends.

CHAPTER 16

“What’s that?” Frank exclaimed when he heard the shots.

“It’s probably just Blake and Jake shooting at carp again,” said Bones.

“Then why is John in the river?”

“Maybe he doesn’t like guns,” said Bones. “Some people are nuts that way.”

Frank watched John swimming weakly towards the flotilla, and his eyes drifted downriver. A patch of water sparkled in the afternoon sun, breaking the smooth surface with tiny whitecaps, six inches high. Cross current, thought Frank, but he didn’t know for certain. This part of the river had odd spots. Though it was deep, there were stretches where the water acted strangely, even confused. White water. Kind of like white water. “White water!” he screamed. “Swim, John, swim!”

John heard Frank’s cry in the distance, and he stopped, treading water. He heard it again. ‘White water!’ Other voices joined in, excited. ‘White water!’

At eye level, the river stretched out before him like a piece of glass, first brown, then blue. Up ahead, there was a change. The glass began to ripple and shatter. It was like the edge of the world, and the first of the boats were going over.

Trembly and Barger rocked the Crestliner so violently it almost flipped. The Kinney sisters screamed in terror as they tried in vain not to spill their beers. Charles Winterlund leaped from boat to boat raising the alarm, “White water! White water!” Charles grew more excited as the party took up the cry. He jumped from the stern of the Ski Nautique to the pontoon, then off the bow of the pontoon to the middle seat of a big aluminum canoe. “White water!” he screamed in real panic as the canoe tipped and he flew forward into the rail of another boat. His shirt snagged on the rail and left him dangling as the wildly rocking Crestliner smashed into his thighs.
Andy and Bones traded glances as Charles’s screams echoed over the flotilla. “That almost sounds real,” said Andy.

“Remember the guy who was hit by lightning at Greenhaven Golf Course?” asked Bones. “You were on duty that night. Do him!”

Andy took a deep breath, and let loose an eerie howl, punctuated with short screams. He took another breath and split the air with wild staccato yelps. Dr. Nooley tried it, then Bones.

* * *

Mike Snike stared at the flotilla from the captain’s chair of the Squid Pro Quo, his scalp tingling. Why are they rocking those boats? he wondered. He studied the expressions of three howling men on an old pontoon boat, and knew there would be no simple answers. But he had a feeling, and a bad one, that the phenomenon had something to do with Frank.

* * *

Frank reached out his hand and helped John into the boat. “You missed it,” he said. “It was the roughest spot I’ve hit in years.”

“It looked bad from my angle,” said John. “Can we motor up and hit it again?”

“No,” said Frank. “We have injuries.” He motioned to the pontoon, where the doctors were busy strapping canoe paddles to Charles Winterlund’s legs.

Andy pulled a bottle of 12-year-old Scotch from the trip supplies. He returned to the other two doctors, who were comforting Charles. “Found it,” he announced. He passed the bottle to Bones, who took a long drink.

“He’s going into shock,” Bones noted, handing the bottle to Dr. Nooley.

“Not surprising,” said Dr. Nooley. “Just look at his legs. I’m going into shock, too.”

“What’s wrong with my legs?” demanded Charles. “Are they broken? Badly?”

The three doctors snickered. “They’re hairless,” said Andy. “Oh, they’re badly broken too. But they’re smooth as silk.”

“Silk?” Charles lost consciousness, a faint smile tracing his lips.

“We better take him in,” said Bones. He and Dr. Nooley picked up Charles and carefully laid him across the transom of the Ski Nautique. “Are you coming with us?” he asked Andy.

Andy looked to Charles Winterlund, then to the keg, then to Frank. “Can I stay, Frank?” he shouted. “Can I stay?”

Frank jumped from the Crestliner to the pontoon, eyeing the Squid Pro Quo as it eased up to the starboard side. “No,” he told Andy.

“You’ve got half a keg left, you cheap bastard!”

“Look,” Frank began. “I’m here on a business trip. We can get together some other day. You’re better off --”

“Ahoy!”

CHAPTER 17

Mike Snike recognized the unremarkable figure of Frank as he pulled up aside the pontoon. Frank looked up calmly, which Snike found slightly disturbing. He should appear more contrite, apologetic; after all, he was caught in the act of stealing his client. Nonetheless, Snike felt the surge of quiet confidence that always accompanied his discourse with other human beings. Over the years, he had developed the skill of guessing what people will say, before they actually say it, in order to prepare the perfect response. He knew that Frank would say ‘Hello, Mr. Snike, what a surprise,’ or ‘Hello sir, fancy meeting you here.’ Snike gazed at Frank as he racked his brains for a saucy comeback.

“Get that piece of shit away from my boat,” barked Frank.

Snike froze, confused. Then he saw Frank use a lawn chair to push away a piece of driftwood that did, in fact, resemble human feces.

“Hello, sir, what a surprise,” said Frank.

Snike had not prepared his response. “I. . . I. . .” he stuttered. He stuttered! “I’m glad to see you, Frank.” Not saucy enough! “Climb aboard.”

“Let me tie up the boats first, sir.” Frank tied all five orange life jackets to the rail of his pontoon, then to the gunwales of the Squid Pro Quo. He took pride in his knots, most of which he invented for river use. This one allowed the life jackets to hang between the boats in order to cushion any blows from the gentle rocking of the river. Each knot would come undone with a slight tug on the left belt of the life jacket. Until then, they would hold in a hurricane.

Snike watched, trying to avoid eye contact with the man in the sleeveless orange coveralls. He noted the machete-like knife at the man’s hip, and the thin red scratches on his arms. He looked up only once, and the man stared back at him coldly, unsmiling. Snike smiled meekly, and gave a little half-wave. No response.

He spotted the three men who were howling moments ago. Now, they were lashing an unconscious man to the back of a speedboat. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, Snike vowed not to ask any questions. His curiosity, he knew, would only empower them: they would draw him into their strange day; the man in the orange coveralls would hurt him; and Frank would steal his client.

Instead, Snike busied himself by surveying the boats in the flotilla. None were worth more than a few thousand dollars, and he stood a little taller. Except for the man in orange, no one looked directly at his boat. He stood a little straighter. It was a compliment, he realized, a Minnesota compliment. It meant that his boat, in their eyes, was a crude, ostentatious display of wealth. But deep down, he knew, they were burning with envy. The women desired him. The men hated and feared him.

And in fact, he was right.

Even Frank felt envy as he secured the final life jacket to the cleat above the creamy fiberglass hull of the Squid Pro Quo. He allowed his fingers to trace the gentle curves, and he thought of his wife. He used to touch her like that. She used to let him. The Squid dipped gracefully in the water in response to his touch. Or perhaps someone just climbed aboard. “Oh, shit!” said Frank, scrambling to his feet.

“Nice rig, buddy.” The Ski Nautique roared out of sight as Andy handed Snike a beer. “What’d it cost ya? Forty-five? Fifty?”

Snike sneered, but Andy chatted on. “I see you have one of those underwater video cameras for fishing. My friend Floyd Olsen just bought one. He said you can see the fish swim right up to your hook, but you can’t make ‘em bite.”

“How can he see them?” asked Snike.

“Well, with the camera,” said Andy, frowning.

“He puts the camera in the water?”

“Of course.”

“No wonder he can’t make ‘em bite,” snorted Snike.

Frank joined them. “I thought you were leaving with the other doctors,” he said to Andy.
Andy ignored him. “The point is, although you can see the fish, the technology doesn’t help a bit.”

“That hasn’t been my experience.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Your friend has it backwards,” said Snike. “When I use the camera, I put the television set in the water and broadcast my image to the bottom of the lake. Then I order the fish to bite. Simple as that. Never had better fishing.”

“Andy, this is Mike Snike,” said Frank. The men shook hands. “Andy’s a doctor. A pathologist.”
Snike’s face registered nothing. “Good specialty,” he said. “Dead patients. Low malpractice risk. Christ, I wish my clients were dead.”

“Mr. Snike is a partner in my law firm,” said Frank. “He’s here on business. So if you’ll excuse us. . .”

The boat dipped slightly again, and Frank turned. It was John. Snike seemed to shrink as John walked towards them. Frank made the introduction.

“ Mike Snike, John Walker.”

Snike gasped, and then gasped that he gasped. He bit back the urge to gasp again. Tailspin, he told himself. Pull up, pull up! Think of something! “Good God, man,” he said at last. “What happened to your arms?”

“Cougar attack,” said John. “Up by Elk River.”

“But the scratches are so small.”

“They were baby cougars,” John explained. “I took them to the humane society.”

“I see you have a huge knife,” said Snike, gaining confidence. “Why didn’t you just kill the little bastards?”

John blushed. He should have just killed the little bastards. “I had them gassed at the humane society,” he said.

Snike grunted his approval. “What happened to your eye?”

“River rats,” said John.

“Where? Where?” Snike looked around anxiously.

“I afraid he means me,” said Andy. “John and I got off on the wrong foot.”

“You’re a river rat?” asked Snike, his eyes widening.

“Sure. So is Frank.” He slapped Frank on the back. “Frank was the greatest river rat this stretch has ever seen.”

Tailspin! Snike closed his eyes briefly, and took a deep breath. Frank a river rat. He turned to look at him. The eyes were expressionless. River rat. His image flickered in the sun and seemed to fade. A goddam river rat. “I thought Seamus Killian was the greatest river rat,” he said at last.

“What do know about Seamus?” asked Andy with a hint of surprise.

“What do you know about him?” Snike responded.

“Seamus Killian was my best friend. Frank’s too.”

“Wait a minute,” said John. “What the hell are we talking about? Isn’t this just a bunch of hooey? River rats? Come on.”

“Well, it’s mostly legend,” said Snike. “You hear the stories when you’re boating on the Mississippi or the St. Croix. But there’s some truth to it. I knew Seamus Killian’s father. Good man. Seamus was a river rat, all right.” He paused, turning to Andy and John. “Will you two excuse us for a moment? Frank and I have a little business to discuss below.”

Andy and John stood alone on the deck of the Squid Pro Quo. John turned to Andy. “How do you become a river rat?” he asked.

* * *

“Would you like a drink, Frank?” Snike moved around the passenger compartment lighting little faux gas lanterns with a little faux torch. The walnut paneling glowed warmly, and he was beginning to feel like his old self again.

“Yes, sir, milk, please.”

Associates always pretended to like milk, and Snike had a ready response. “Skim, two percent, whole or chocolate?”

“Chocolate. With a twist of lime.”

Snike didn’t have chocolate milk, so he mixed some cocoa in lime vodka. “Hope you like it with a little kick,” he said.

Frank sat politely in a leather armchair, trying not to gag as he sipped his drink. “You have a beautiful boat, sir,” he said.

I knew he would say that, thought Snike. “It’s more than a boat. It’s one hundred and fifty billable hours, at three hundred and fifty dollars an hour. It’s three weeks of blood, sweat and tears defending America’s great corporations against the greed, stupidity and clumsiness of their customers – especially their clumsiness. I might never have bought the Squid if an old lady hadn’t tripped over her walker and asphyxiated on cake.”

“You’re talking about old Mrs. Swenson, right? Estate of Swenson versus Meat, Pie and I?

“Wasn’t it a hoot?”

Frank chuckled politely.

Snike walked behind the bar, and unlocked a small drawer containing a loaded .45. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, so he decided to ask him flat out.

“I’m not sure how to broach the subject, Frank, so I’m going to ask you flat out.”

“Shoot.”

He shuffled uneasily. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Frank hesitated, then smiled broadly. “Nine people, if you count my sixth-grade teacher.”
Snike stared at the carnivorous grin. His arms froze. He knows I have a gun, thought Snike. He knows.

“Of course I’m just kidding.”

Snike chuckled politely.

“Funny thing to ask, though.”

Snike’s throat felt constricted, and he began slowly. “My brother Mort was the Anoka County prosecutor for ten years. During the last five years of his tenure there was a crime wave. Liquor stores robbed. Police cars stolen. Missing persons. Rats. That’s what the police said. River rats. Couldn’t prove a thing, of course. But the police knew it. That was twenty years ago. How old were you, Frank?”

“Fifteen, I guess. But sir, we never --”

“And now you’re all grown up. River rat turned lawyer. Pure evil with a law degree. I’m not surprised you’re trying to steal my client. I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried to kill me right here. But that’s the only way you’ll ever represent Autopsy Saw Corporation.” He slammed the .45 on the bar. “Over my dead body.”

CHAPTER 19

John, Trembly and Barger formed a semi-circle of lawn chairs near the back of the pontoon. Andy began.

“The Mississippi River stretches more than 2,350 miles from Itasca State Park in Northern Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico. It’s the mightiest river on earth.”

“What about the Nile?” asked Trembly. “Or the Amazon?”

“You don’t judge a river by size alone,” said Andy. “You judge it by the civilizations that spring from its banks. Let’s take the Nile. Pyramids. Big fucking deal. The IDS Center in Minneapolis is five times higher than the tallest pyramid. It’s air-conditioned. It has elevators. Show me an air-conditioned pyramid with elevators and I’ll be impressed.”

The men said nothing.

“Same with the Amazon. Oh sure, it spawned the Aztecs. They cut out the beating hearts of prisoners and burned them to the gods. But the Mississippi has Mayo Clinic, down in Rochester. They cut out the beating hearts of accountants and burn the insurance companies. Again, there’s no comparison.”

“What about the Yangtze?” asked John.

“Fine. The Chinese. Five thousand years of civilization and they end up Commies. That’s the Yangtze for you.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little superficial?” asked Barger.

“Sometimes the truth is superficial,” said Andy. “But that’s not my point. My point is that the Mississippi is the mightiest river in the world. I’ll beat the crap out of any man who says otherwise.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?” asked Barger.

Andy turned on him and scowled. “No self-respecting river rat gives a shit about the Nile or the Amazon or for Christ sakes the Yangtze!” He paused. “I can see you’re not serious about this.”
“Serious about what?” asked Trembly.

“River rats,” said John. “We’re joining the river rats. Now shut the hell up.”

* * *

Frank took a drink of his chocolate milk before answering Snike. “I won’t deny that I was a river rat. But the river rats stood for courage, honor and integrity. I’m shocked to hear that the police suspected us of wrongdoing.” “The police never talked to you about Seamus Killian?”

“Of course they did. Seamus was my best friend.”

“He was trying to join the river rats, wasn’t he?”

“He succeeded,” said Frank.

Snike studied the man across from him. Brown hair, blue eyes. There was something funny about his eyes, perhaps -- a sly, subtle look that hinted of danger. But in every other respect, he was quite ordinary. Maybe the gun thing was a bit over the top, he thought.

Frank explained that he met John Walker through Trembly. “I was trying to bring in Autopsy Saw Corporation as a client,” he admitted. “But I would have handed the matter over to you. After all, litigation is war. I’m not even a soldier.”

“You’re not even a drummer boy.”

“I’ve been with the firm for five years,” Frank continued. “In two years, I’ll be up for partnership.”

Snike snorted.

“I thought if I brought in a big client, it might make a difference.”

“So you want to be a rainmaker.” Snike picked up the gun and put it back in its drawer. “Allow me to share a pearl of marketing wisdom. Take your clients to a nice restaurant. Treat them to a round of golf. Don’t beat and humiliate your clients. They don’t like it.”

Frank looked at the floor.

“I’m going to invite Mr. Walker below. Ten minutes later, we’ll be leaving. And Frank, I want you in my office first thing Monday morning. We need to talk about your future with the firm.”
Frank winced, then winced that he had winced. He took a deep breath. “There’s one more thing I should mention,” he said. “The doctor I introduced you to. The pathologist. He’s one of the plaintiffs in the Autopsy Saw litigation.”

Snike leaped to the balls of his feet. “You invited the enemy into our camp? Jesus Christ Frank if you fucked up our representation I’ll burn you in this town. You won’t find a job suing parents of kids who bite other kids in daycare!”

“He doesn’t know,” said Frank.

“Who doesn’t know what?” asked Snike. “Speak in English you fucking moron!”

Frank felt anger well up inside him but kept his tone level. “Andy doesn’t know that John Walker works for Autopsy Saw Corporation,” he said slowly. “He doesn’t know that I may be involved in Autopsy Saw’s defense. He’s just a friend of mine. We met him out here by chance.”

Snike’s eyes narrowed. “Chance, eh?” The sense that Frank was something more than he appeared began to return. But instead of fear, he felt opportunity. “Drill him,” he ordered. “Find out how it happened. How it felt. How it affects his practice. His love life. His penmanship. I want everything on this guy.”

“He’s a friend of mine, sir,” Frank began. “And he’s represented by counsel. Don’t the Rules of Professional Conduct prohibit us from talking to him about the case?”

“We don’t represent Autopsy Saw Corporation. Not yet. Until they sign we can do whatever the hell we like, and you know it.” Snike smiled. “You’re a sly son-of-a-bitch, Frank. I almost like you. You want to keep your job? Then do it. Do your fucking job.”

When they appeared on deck Snike summoned John below. Frank stepped down onto the pontoon boat as the Champlin bridge came into view around the bend. He pulled up a lawn chair close to the hull of the Squid Pro Quo, and soon heard Snike’s deep, soothing voice. He heard Snike shout “White water?” and explode in laughter. He tried not to listen to Andy.

“A river rat draws power from the river,” Andy was saying. “And this stretch of the river is the most powerful in the world.”

“More powerful than the Colorado?” asked Trembly.

Andy ignored him. “Below the Coon Rapids dam, the river has to work. It carries sewage out of Minneapolis. It generates electricity, drinking water, and a smell you wouldn’t believe. It’s kind of like us. Life is good until you turn fifteen. Then you get a job. You start taking shit. You smell bad. You – “

“Don’t you think those analogies are a little disingenuous?" interrupted Barger.

“They suck,” observed Trembly.

Andy nodded, and looked at them expectantly.

“Sometimes the truth sucks,” said the three men together.

“The fact is,” said Andy, “we’re on the last unspoiled stretch of the mightiest river on earth. There’s magic here. River rats can tap it.”

“Leave them alone,” complained Frank. But Andy droned on loudly, and Frank gave up trying to hear Snike and John through the hull of the Squid. He felt like he was back in sixth grade, in the corner again. By the fish.

Mr. Bulvar had held his beloved tropical fish captive in a 500-gallon salt-water tank at the front of the class. A straight-backed chair sat adjacent to the tank, and day after day he sent Frank to the chair as punishment for one minor offense or another. Each time Frank sat down by the tank he pounded it, just once. Frank hated Mr. Bulvar and his fish.

That day, Mr. Bulvar sent Frank to the chair for throwing a porky ball at Butch Wilson. Porky balls were made by pushing numerous straight pins through a wad of tape; and Butch let out a yell that killed one of the weaker gerbils. Of course, Frank acted in self-defense. But as usual, there was no investigation, no hearing, no justice. Only punishment. He pounded the tank and sat down.

Frank pounded the hull of the Squid Pro Quo. “The bridge! The bridge!”

The tank exploded outward into the classroom.

All the boaters moved at once. Each span of the Champlin bridge measured thirty feet, and the flotilla was three times that wide. The flotilla had to be dismantled or the boats would be crushed on the bridge supports. Snike poked his head out of the cabin and let out a high pitched squeal. He jumped down to the pontoon and began tugging at the lifejackets connecting it to the Squid.

“Frank!” he screamed.

“Frank!” screamed Mr. Bulvar. He picked up a fish in each hand, ran to his desk, then ran back to the broken tank. He set the fish on Molly Malcolm’s desk and they flopped into her lap.
“Goddamit Frank untie these knots!” screamed Snike. But Frank was on the far side of the flotilla, working to free the Kinney sisters’ Crestliner from the tri-hulled Lund.

Mr. Bulvar picked up two more fish. He ran to the sink then back to the broken tank and then dropped them on Molly Malcolm’s desk. They flopped into her lap. “Goddamit Frank!” he shouted.

Snike tugged helplessly at the life jackets. The bridge loomed to within fifty feet. “Fraaaank!” he shouted.

Mr. Bulvar picked up two more fish and stopped. He dropped to his knees on the wet floor. He began to sob. That was all the class could take. They burst out laughing.

“Stand back,” John ordered as he wielded the knife above his head. An arc of steel sliced through the air and cut deeply into the life jacket, inches from Snike’s fingers. John swung again and cleaved the life jacket in two. Then he jumped to the next life jacket, and the next. The knife shone in the sun as he cut and slashed. In another time and place he could have been St. George, or Sir Lancelot. But now he was Iron John, killing orange baby cougars. “Take that you orange son of a bitch!” he muttered as he sliced the last life jacket apart.

Snike jumped aboard the Squid and fired up the engine just in time to pull away from the flotilla and move upriver. Frank was able to free the Crestliner, and the rest of the flotilla unraveled itself.

John found himself alone on the pontoon, and he drifted silently under the old stone bridge. “Hello!” he shouted, hoping for an echo. ‘Hello!’ shouted the bridge, with astonishing clarity. John looked up and saw a kid on the bridge, waving.

Frank floated through next. He waved to the kid on the bridge. “Hello!” echoed John’s deep voice in response. Frank smiled. Delayed reaction, he thought.

A few moments later, Mike Snike floated through. “Hello!” he shouted, expecting an echo. “Get off my river,” boomed the bridge in a voice that resembled Frank’s. Snike cringed. He saw that Frank was far downriver, and he closed his eyes. The sense of foreboding returned. He opened his eyes, and saw that John had started the pontoon boat. “Motor up!” he shouted.

John found the throttle next to the steering wheel, and pushed it all the way down. Without a crew, the boat nearly jumped out of the water. Soon he was traveling at twenty miles an hour. John had never driven a boat, so he turned it left, and then right, and then left again. He made a hard right and pulled the boat into a tight circle.

A single bead of sweat rolled down Snike’s nose. He saw that Frank was perched silently on the bow of the Lund. Like a vulture, he realized.

John closed the gap between the pontoon and the Squid in two minutes. Snike stood on the deck and waved his arms; slow down, he motioned. John didn’t slow down. When he was thirty feet from the Squid’s bow, he dropped the throttle into neutral and reached for the brake. He didn’t find one. The pontoon continued forward. John threw the throttle into reverse, but the momentum was too great. The front left pontoon punched a hole ten inches wide in the hull of the Squid Pro Quo. The blow knocked Snike off his feet.

Like spectators to a bloody accident, the other boats inched their way towards the Squid, jostling for space. Only Frank continued to hang back, still motionless on the Lund. Snike found his feet and peered over the edge of the deck. John could see that Snike’s face was bright red, and that he was smiling.

“Guess I put a little nick in it,” said John. “Sorry.”

Snike mustered all of his strength to keep his rage in check. “Just a scratch, John, don’t worry a bit.” Just an extra hour or two on your bill, you bastard, he told himself. Hell, five hours. I’ll buy that toaster for the Squid. The finest toaster ever made. She deserves it, after this. The urge to scream rose in his chest and he swallowed, pretending to eat toast. Then he thought about the crumbs. He’d have to add a few more billable hours for a top-of-the-line vacuum cleaner. A few more for a walnut chest to store the vacuum cleaner in. A few more for headphones to wear while he’s vacuuming. And more for a new stereo to plug the headphones into. Consequential damages, he thought. Directly foreseeable, consequential damages.

Frank roared up in the Lund, stopping ten feet short of the Squid. His wake rolled past him and splashed against the Squid’s hull, sending gallons of river water into the hole. “You better get off the river, sir,” he said. “That hole’s right above the waterline. You’ll take on water if it gets choppy.”

Snike started the engine. “John, would you like to join me for a round of golf?”

“No thanks,” said John. “I just learned how to drive a boat. It’s fun. But I need to practice. I’ll call you Monday when I’m back in New York.”

Snike turned his red face towards Frank. “Don’t forget our little meeting on Monday morning, Frank. And take good care of my friend John. He and I still have much to talk about. Right John?”

“Right.” The two men met eyes and nodded, and Snike knew they had a deal. He put the Squid in gear and steered slowly past the other boats. He looked back once and saw Frank boarding the pontoon. Frank’s back was to him, but Snike knew he was concealing a grin. River rat, thought Snike, shaking his head. A goddam river rat.

CHAPTER 20

Andy nearly fell out of the boat when they turned the bend at Riverside Park and saw the Ferris wheel. “It’s Father Hennepin Week! Father Hennepin Week!” he shouted.

Father Louis Hennepin was a French missionary who visited Minneapolis by canoe in 1680. Many river towns in the area, Frank knew, still claimed him as a founding father of sorts. Anoka had Father HennepInn, an aging motel on Highway 10 notorious for its sordid rendezvous. And Champlin had Father Hennepin Week, a small town celebration notorious for its sordid carnival. The carnival was in full swing.

Frank weighed his options. The sun was going down, and he wanted to set up camp. Still, he thought, it might be a good place to ditch Andy. “Pull up there,” he said, pointing to a spot on the bank.

Most of Riverside Park was obscured from the river by a hill covered with thick brush and trees. The lower level of the park served as a boat landing. John eased up on the throttle and made a perfect landing. The smell of corn dogs wafted down the wooded hill, and Frank felt a sense of nostalgic trepidation. He jumped to shore with the anchor rope and tied the boat to a tree.
Andy found a can of beer in the cooler and stuffed it in the front pocket of his baggy shorts. John took off his knife. They all jumped to shore after Frank, and gazed up at the carnival lights blinking through the trees.

“Let’s keep in mind that we’re officers of the court,” said Barger. “Try to avoid the appearance of impropriety up there.”

“Right,” said Andy, scanning the woods. “No one will see us if we kick in the fence behind that oak.” He marched up to an old wooden fence and began kicking it.

“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Barger.

“Sneaking in,” said Andy. “River rats don’t pay to get into the Father Hennepin Week carnival. It would be blasphemous.”

John stepped forward and tore a loose board from the fence. Trembly started kicking the board next to it, and even Barger made a hesitant flying drop kick, knocking down three feet of fence. “I guess that’s enough,” said Andy. The men peeked through, looking for security guards. There were none, and they crept silently into the woods. “Where’s Frank?” asked Andy.

Frank was taking the long way around to the front gate, lost in thought about Monday morning’s meeting with Mike Snike. He knew he would have to deliver John Walker on a silver platter. But Andy? What exactly did Snike expect him to do? He plowed through a small crowd of teens at the entrance.

“Get back in line, you old fart!” one yelled. Others shouted in agreement.

Frank glanced around nervously for Mike Snike, then realized they were talking to him. “I’m an adult,” he responded angrily. “I lost my manners in a stroke. So piss off.”

The kids backed down. They were used to parents and teachers, not lawyers. Not yet anyway. Most had never even been sued, Frank guessed.

He inhaled deeply as he walked through the entrance. The smell of corn dogs was tempered now with mini-donuts, sweat, stale beer and vomit. It made him hungry and sick. Throngs of teens strolled past with far too much makeup, jewelry and exposed skin. The girls were just as bad. Frank felt embarrassed for them, and for their parents, and he thanked God he didn’t have children. Then he remembered the dream.

* * *

In his dream he saw a young man walking through a museum. The man stopped in front of an exhibit called “Life in the 20th Century.” Frank hovered above the exhibit, which contained two wax figures in business suits shaking hands. They were the best wax figures he had ever seen, almost perfect -- until he looked closer and saw that they were real. Taxidermy had replaced wax as the medium of choice for preserving relics.

Now Frank floated next to the young man in his dream. The specimens in the exhibit clasped hands eagerly, as though closing a deal. Each sported a frozen grin. Beneath the exhibit, a small plaque read “Lawyers: Hunted to Extinction in 2045.”

The man in the dream pulled a photograph from his wallet and studied it carefully. He stared for a long time at the older man in the exhibit. “Grandpa,” he whispered at last. Frank stared at the old man too. It’s me, he realized. It’s me. I have a grandson!

* * *

“Frank?”

The voice was familiar: lyrical, sweet, hoarse from cigarettes. He turned slowly. “Judith!” The girl he didn’t have the guts to kiss. He stared at her heaving lips.

“I haven’t seen you since seventh grade, Frank! How are you doing?”

“I’m pretty busy these days,” he replied. “I’m a lawyer. And President of the ABA.”

“The American Bar Association? Wow.”

Frank didn’t correct her. Being President of the American Bear Association had few perks, and this was one of them. His term was due to expire soon anyway, and he didn’t plan on seeking another. It used to be fun, back when Vince was around. Vince was an old logger who fed stale donuts to bears outside his trailer near Orr, Minnesota, until every black bear in Minnesota knew his address. The American Bear Association took over when Vince got sick; they cleaned up the site and switched from donuts to bagels, which are healthier for bears. But now that Vince was in a nursing home, there were rules. No more hand-feeding the bears. No riding them. No kissing bears on the lips.

Frank only kissed a bear once, when he was still a kid. He put a donut in his mouth and coaxed one of the thirty or so bears milling around Vince’s trailer to press its lips against his. Later that summer, he found himself standing alone in a pine grove with Judith. He held her hand, and she moved closer. He looked into her eyes. She moved closer. He didn’t need a donut hanging out of his mouth, and he knew it. But the tension was too great. “Let’s go egg the cops,” he said.

“Are you still in touch with Andy?” Judith asked. “I heard he’s a doctor.” Andy and Judith started dating shortly after Frank failed to kiss her.

“He’s having a little trouble adjusting to life without his, well, you know, his member,” said Frank. “Woodworking accident.”

Judith looked queasy. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“How about you?” asked Frank. “Are you married? Kids? What’s your story?”

“I was a lesbian for many years,” Judith confessed. “Then I found Christ. Now I’m bisexual.” She smiled. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

“I’m divorced,” said Frank. “Sort of. The final papers went through the dishwasher. But I’ll sign them when I get a new set.” Her lips were full and red, and they undulated gently in the hot night.

“Are you here alone?” she asked.

Frank nodded. "You?”

“I’m here with my mother, but she’s in the bingo tent. It’s the only way I can get her out of the casino.”

They wandered over to the game aisle and Frank went straight to the booth with the biggest prizes: life-sized velvet moose heads.

“How do I win a moose head?” he asked the carnival barker.

“All you have to do is knock down three cement milk cartons with a baseball. It’s that easy.”
Frank turned to Judith. “I hope you’re ready to carry a giant moose head around all night.” I’ll make her kiss me for it, he thought, as he tossed the baseball from hand to hand. He squinted at the target and began his windup. From the corner of his eye he saw Barger run behind them, clenching a corn dog in each fist. A large tattooed man was right on his heels. Frank stopped his windup, and watched as John stepped out of the crowd and grabbed the tattooed man by the shoulders. “Did somebody steal your corn dogs?” he asked, shaking the man. The man broke free and Trembly tackled him. “I think someone just stole your corn dogs!” Trembly shouted. Frank tried to ignore them, and threw the ball as hard as he could. It bounced off the carnival barker’s knee.

The barker screamed and collapsed into the milk cartons, knocking all three down. “You did it!” said Judith.

Frank grabbed Judith by the arm and they melted into the crowd. River rat initiation rites, he realized with disgust. Andy was going to get them all arrested. But at that moment Judith slipped her hand into Frank’s, and his cares were forgotten. “Lets get something to eat,” she said, pursing her lips hungrily.

They ordered batter-fried chicken, flash-fried shrimp and deep-fried pork chops. Judith had a cup of lard on the side. Frank chewed his chicken slowly, savoring the thought that he was eating a dead animal. His wife used to cook chicken the same way, he recalled, before she became a vegetarian. After that it was nothing but deep-fried bean sprouts. “They’ll kill you just as fast,” she used to say. “But you won’t die a murderer.”

He tried to picture his wife but couldn’t. They had met in college, at a basketball game between the University of Minnesota and Bethel Bible College. The Bethel gym was filled to capacity, and Frank was angry that the game had sold out before he arrived. He was standing outside, minding his own business, not bothering anyone, when the fire alarm went off in the gym. The police seized Frank and left him handcuffed him to the front door as two thousand angry fans filed out of the building. Each fan cursed, kicked or spit at him.

Frank’s future wife cursed him too, and kicked him. But she returned later and swore to the police that Frank had been with her the entire time. “I couldn’t help it,” she told him that night. “You looked like an animal in a trap.”

Frank chewed his chicken thoughtfully. He could see the chicken now, as it pecked around the henhouse, clucking cheerfully, not noticing the shadow of the man with the ax as it loomed over the barnyard. Then he saw the chicken hovering in the corner of her henhouse as the man with the ax approached. “Defend yourself!” Frank wanted to shout. “Go for the eyes! The eyes!”
“Penny for your thoughts?” asked Judith.

Frank hesitated. It was his wife’s fault. He couldn’t eat meat anymore without seeing the creature’s last moments. Even a simple hamburger brought to mind the final struggle between rancher, hunting dogs and steer. “Good chicken,” Frank responded.

CHAPTER 21

The Hammer stopped just short of turning a full revolution, and suspended its riders upside down for three long seconds. Then it swooped back down in the other direction, gears screeching, paint chips flying, rivets popping, slowing as it reached the top again but this time turning all the way over and zooming down with enough acceleration to complete the loop again and again and again before slowing and starting all over in reverse.

“No fucking way,” said John.

“I’m sorry but it’s mandatory,” said Andy. “Nobody ever made river rat without riding the Hammer.” He stepped in line in front of a twelve-year-old, and Barger and Trembly followed grimly. John dug his heels into the soft dirt and crossed his arms.

“Are you a rat or a mouse?” taunted Trembly.

John studied the carnival worker who was operating the ride, and felt slightly more at ease. He stepped forward grudgingly.

The carnival worker was a serious-looking young man in a neatly pressed three-piece suit. John appreciated the worker’s brisk, business-like manner as he helped the riders off, and noted that he lent his handkerchief to a young man who had vomited on his shirt. “Keep it, old boy,” said the worker as he drew a fresh handkerchief from a large cardboard box at his feet and folded it neatly into his left breast pocket. He reminded John of the Harvard Law School students he had interviewed for his old firm. John looked closer. It was, in fact, one of the Harvard Law School students he had interviewed for his old firm.

The interviews had been grueling. The firm expected him to interview twenty students in a single day, but he had become sick of it after five minutes. So he started asking difficult questions. “Tell me about your most embarrassing moment,” he asked them while still shaking hands. Then, as the interview wound down, he asked, "Who have you hurt worst in your life, and why?”

The most embarrassing moment for the carnival worker, John recalled, was when he caught his grandparents naked in the shower. He hurt his brother worst, when he pressed felony theft charges against him for stealing his motorcycle, even though he had had permission to ride it. He did it because his brother had slept with his girlfriend. “White trash,” John wrote on his legal pad in letters bold enough for the student to see. “No offer.”

The job had gone to a young man whose most embarrassing moment was when he was crowned homecoming king (after all, he was already valedictorian and captain of the rowing team). He hurt his father the worst, when he announced his desire to be a lawyer rather than a doctor. He chose law because he thought he could help more people fighting for justice than writing prescriptions for Valium. John last heard that he made partner with the firm’s hostile takeover group.

The carnival worker looked directly at John, and then past him to the next in line. He doesn’t recognize me, John thought with relief. Then he noticed the cop walking towards them.

“We’re up!” said Andy.

The ride consisted of two cars on either end of a beam. Each car held four passengers: two facing backward, and two facing forward. Trembly sat with Barger, facing backward, and John sat with Andy, facing forward. The carnival worker approached and began latching the doors shut. John couldn’t help himself.

“Tough job market, eh?” he said with a wink.

The worker seemed to ignore him, but closed the latch with a ‘bang’. Behind him, John heard retching. Barger was already throwing up.

“Get me out of here!” screamed Trembly, and the ride began.

The vomit floated gently out of Barger’s mouth as the car turned upside down. For a moment or two it hung there, suspended in front of Trembly along with several loose coins. Then it slammed into Trembly’s chest as the car made another revolution. “Stop the ride!” screamed Trembly.
“Stop the ride!” John added twenty minutes later. Andy was starting to bounce around the car like a rag doll. The can of beer he had brought from the pontoon worked its way loose from his pocket and floated gently out the window. John watched it sail down into the crowd, and noted the policeman staring up at them.

Frank and Judith strolled through the crowd, laughing and sharing memories of seventh-grade teachers and friends. Every woman in the crowd seemed to glare at Frank with disapproval, as if they knew his wife and planned to report him. It’s been two years, Frank told himself. She’s probably with another guy right now. The thought crushed him.

“I can’t believe we met again after all these years,” said Judith. “It’s like Christ gave us a second chance to be together. Do you remember that night in the pines?”

“I think about it every day,” said Frank. He held her hand, and she moved closer. He looked into her eyes. She moved closer. He didn’t need a donut hanging out of his mouth, and he knew it. But the can of beer exploded against his head with sufficient force to render him unconscious.

CHAPTER 22

“The beer goes in here,” said Finney, pointing to Frank’s mouth. “Not here.” He touched the large bump on Frank’s head.

Frank realized he was sitting in the back of an ambulance. “Where’s Judith?” he asked, leaping to his feet.

“Please lie down,” said Finney in a concerned voice. “You’ve had a serious head injury. As soon as I stop the bleeding I’m taking you to Mercy Hospital.”

“No you’re not,” said Frank. “I must kiss Judith now.” He threw Finney against the ambulance wall and jumped out the back. Judith was nowhere in sight. He ran down the midway, pushing people aside. No Judith. He slowed to a stop, then sat down on a bench as warm blood trickled down his neck. He closed his eyes.

It started so easy, his life. Sunny days on the river. Cold pop. Free turtles. It was boring, sometimes, sure. But it didn’t hurt.

Suddenly Judith appeared out of the crowd, followed by a cop and the carnival barker he hit with the baseball. She kissed Frank on the cheek, and the cop pulled him to his feet.

“That’s him,” said the carnival barker.

“Judith, must you betray me with a kiss?” asked Frank.

“I didn’t know you were part of a gang,” said Judith. “For Pete’s sake, Frank, aren’t you a little old for that kind of thing?” She began to walk away, but stopped and looked back. “I ran into Andy,” she hissed. “You lied to me about his penis!”

* * *

“What’s going on here, officer?” asked Frank as Judith disappeared into the crowd.
“You assaulted this man with a baseball,” said the cop.

“It was an accident.”

“It was a diversion!” shouted the barker. “You’re with those guys who were stealing corn dogs!”
“Let’s find out,” said the cop. He grabbed Frank by the nape of his neck and marched him through the crowd to a concession stand run by the tattooed man. Trembly, Barger, John and Andy stood huddled together beneath an awning. The cop held Frank in front of them.

“Do you know this man?”

“No,” said Trembly.

“No,” said Barger.

“No,” said John.

“Jesus, Frank, what happened to your head?” asked Andy.

“I told you they know him,” snarled the barker, rubbing his knee. “You’re nailed, buddy!”

The cop pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. “What’s your name?” he asked Frank.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t read me my rights.”

The cop looked annoyed. “You have the right to remain silent,” he began.

“I pick that one,” Frank interrupted. “At least until I talk to my lawyer.” He nodded towards Barger.

“He’s your lawyer?” asked the cop. “OK, Mr. Lawyer, what’s your name?”

“You’ll have to speak to my lawyer about that,” said Barger, nodding towards Trembly.

“Let me guess, you’re all lawyers.”

“No,” said Andy. “One of us is a doctor.”

“You’re a doctor?” asked the cop.

“My lawyer will handle that question,” said Andy, motioning to John.

The cop pulled out his baton. “Tell me your names right now,” he snarled, “or I’ll beat the shit out of every one of you.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” The deep voice of Mike Snike boomed over the midway, and Frank felt relief wash over him like a cold shower. Snike stepped out of the shadows, brilliant in a white summer jacket and matching straw hat. “I represent these men,” said Snike. “All except him,” he added, pointing to Andy.

“Thank goodness,” said Frank. “How did you find us out here?”

“One of our new associates just happened to be operating the Hammer tonight,” said Snike. “He called me on a separate matter and mentioned you were here.”

The cop interrupted. “Are you going to tell me your name? Or do you need to consult a fucking lawyer?”

“My name, good sir, is Mike Snike.”

“The Mike Snike? The big-time trial lawyer from Minneapolis?”

“The very one.” Snike seemed to glow. He grew taller, and his eyes sparkled like diamonds. Even the small town cops in this godforsaken shithole knew his name, and he couldn’t help but smile. The cop hit him across the head with his baton and knocked him to the ground.

“You’re under arrest!” shouted the cop. “For the murder of Oslo Anderson on Greenhaven Golf Course.” He leaped on Snike and wrestled his limp body for effect. Then he handcuffed him and yanked him to his feet.

Snike was bright red. “I’ll have your badge for this, you stupid bastard!”

The cop pushed Snike to the ground again. Then he used his heel to draw a circle in the dirt around the others. “I’m taking your lawyer to my car for a little talk about manners,” he said gruffly. “When I get back we’re going to start fresh. And if any one of you steps outside this circle while I’m gone, I will personally kick your ass.”

Snike stared at Frank. “I don’t know how you do it, Frank,” he said. “I have to admit I’m impressed. Now call him off.” The cop pushed Snike towards the parking lot. “Frank,” he called out pathetically. “Frank!”

Frank looked away. His jaw hurt from the blow. He had broken his jaw when he was only seven. He and Seamus Killian were having a contest on a big cement culvert where the Rum River enters the Mississippi. They were trying to see how close they could stand to the edge without falling onto the rocks twelve feet below. Seamus stood with his toes over the edge, arms outstretched. Frank went further, putting half of his tennis shoes over the edge. Seamus matched him, then inched out so that he was balancing on his heels. Frank balanced on the corner of his heels, but only for a moment. That’s when he fell.

He remembered falling through the air more clearly than smashing his head against the rocks. It wasn’t like jumping off the high dive at George Green pool. The outcome was more uncertain; he was afraid, but also filled with wonder. The sense of rapture he felt in that moment returned to him now. He looked at his feet, and saw that his heels just grazed the outside of the circle drawn by the cop.

“Run for it!” he shouted.

His voice rang with such power and authority that not a single man there thought to disobey. Even the carnival barker and the tattooed man ran a few steps before realizing they had nothing to run from. The pontoon crew dashed on through the midway, past the beer gardens, across the parking lot and through the woods. They all ran through the hole in the fence, except for Frank, who didn’t see the hole and hit the fence straight on. He bounced off into the weeds.

“Police! Freeze!” yelled the cop as Frank pulled himself to his feet. He must have seen us cross the parking lot, Frank realized. The cop’s flashlight pinned him against the fence, but also illuminated the three-foot hole to his right. Frank ran for it and hopped through. “Push off! Push off!” he screamed as he ran down the wooded hill to the boat landing. The cop was only ten yards behind him, and gaining.

Andy untied the anchor rope and pushed the boat off the sandy bottom. John started the engine and motored the boat off shore. Now the cop was just a few feet behind Frank, but Frank made a final sprint to the edge of the bank. He dove right in without slowing and swam rapidly out towards the middle.

The cop watched Frank swim. I bet its cool in there, he thought. Then he turned his mind to Mike Snike, lying in the back seat of his squad car with both eyes blackened. I’ll make captain, he realized. What a collar. He pulled out his revolver and fired a round into the air, just for fun. Out in the river, Frank swallowed a mouthful of water.

“He’s the greatest river rat this stretch has ever seen,” said Andy in a reverent tone as Frank pulled himself aboard. The others watched him silently. Frank walked to the steering column and reached beneath it. The others heard a static click. Suddenly the booming sound of Ted Nugent Live echoed across the river. They danced wildly as the boat floated under the moon.

CHAPTER 23

The bear watched the moon rise over the trees before pulling himself up on his haunches. He smelled tacos, then realized the odor was coming from his foot. He sucked his toes ferociously, with some success, though he failed to procure enough substance for a meal. The nearest food, he knew, was in the dumpster behind Embers Restaurant in Champlin. But dining out required that he swim the channel from Killian’s Island to shore, and he didn’t quite have the energy. Not yet. He laid down in the bushes and closed his eyes.

Out on the river, the pontoon hit a sandbar and eased to a stop. Trembly and Barger stepped off into the warm, knee-deep water to wash Barger’s vomit off their clothes. Frank lit a cigar, and joined Andy and John on the bow.

“Hell of a thing about Oslo Anderson,” said John. “I worked with him for five years. He sent me these ridiculous, inflated bills. I had the company pay them, though. It was worth it just to hear his stories about the wilds of Minnesota.” He looked up at the glow of headlights from West River Road. “Now I see he was full of shit.”

“No he wasn’t,” said Andy. “Minnesota is the wildest spot in America. Oh, it has the same fast food joints as Indiana or Ohio or Wisconsin. You’ll find the same housing developments and parks. But you won’t find river rats in those places. Or lawyers who kill each other on the golf course.”

“Mr. Snike didn’t kill anyone,” Frank interjected.

Trembly climbed on board, scowling and wet. “Sure, stick up for him. He only murdered my boss. Most of my work came from Oslo, and I’ll never get any more without him.” He watched John out of the corner of his eye but detected no reaction. “Of course, Oslo never did any of the work himself. Especially around St. Patrick’s Day. Whenever the going got tough, he’d call me in to –“

“Do you think he used an iron or a wood?” interrupted Barger as he pulled himself aboard.

“He didn’t kill anyone,” Frank insisted.

“Probably a sand wedge,” said Andy. “That’s what I would use.”

“Even if he did kill him,” Frank conceded, “they’ll never convict him. Mike Snike is the greatest trial lawyer in the State of Minnesota. He’ll represent himself and win an acquittal.”

“How many jury trials has he had?” asked John.

Frank paused. “Hundreds, I’m sure.”

“Name a specific case.”

Frank paused again. “Estate of Swenson versus Meat, Pie and I. That case -- ”

“Mrs. Swenson was my mother’s best friend,” interrupted Barger. “The statute of limitations ran on the claim. There was never a trial.”

“What about Grabinski versus Grabinskis?” asked Frank. “I read about it in law school. Ted Grabinski became a quadriplegic after a skiing accident, so Mike Snike sued Ted’s parents for wrongful birth. He won ten million dollars.”

“It was overturned on appeal,” said Barger. “Twenty years ago.”

“But he won the jury trial,” said Frank. “That’s what counts.”

“Twenty years ago,” Barger repeated.

“So what if it was twenty years ago,” said Frank. “Ninety-eight percent of all cases settle before trial, and judges dismiss the rest. One jury trial is all it takes to prove you’re a winner.”

“What do trial lawyers do when they’re not trying cases?” asked Andy.

“They bill hundreds of thousands of dollars preparing for trials,” said John. “They make motions, and cross motions, and criss-cross motions, and hold depositions, and spend days pouring over thousands of documents, and by the time the trial is six months away their clients are broke and ready to settle. The job of a good trial lawyer is to keep the matter from going to trial. Don’t you know anything?”

“No,” said Andy and Frank.

“My cousin Bodie files fifty lawsuits a year and never goes to trial,” said Barger.

“What type of litigation does he practice?” asked Andy.

“He sues the parents of kids who bite other kids in day care. Goes for the homeowners insurance. If they won’t settle for the limits of the policy, he insists on deposing the biter. He’s a big, fat, mean-looking guy, and kids start bawling as soon as they smell him. Settlement follows.”
“Sounds like a real asshole,” said Andy.

“And a pro,” John said. “The best trial lawyers are ten times more likely to be struck by lightning on the golf course than to end up in a trial. If Snike is as good as you say, he won’t have a clue how to handle a jury.”

“He’s gonna fry,” said Trembly.

“He needs a lawyer,” said Barger.

“But not a trial lawyer,” said Andy.

“He needs a criminal defense lawyer,” said John. “The problem is that ninety-eight percent of criminal cases are plea bargained. The remaining defendants escape before trial. Criminal lawyers don’t have experience with juries either.”

“He’s gonna fry,” said Trembly.

“He’s gonna fry,” said Barger.

“There’s no death penalty in Minnesota, so shut up!” said Frank. He turned to John. “There must be someone in the state with jury trial experience.”

“Mike Snike,” said John. “I had my secretary look it up. The last jury trial in the State of Minnesota was twenty years ago. Grabinski versus Grabinskis.”

Andy stared at the stump of his missing finger. “Why should I pay my lawyer one third of the recovery just for being an asshole? I don’t need any help with that. As of this moment, that bastard is fired.”

“Good for you,” said John with a warm smile. He stood and poured a beer for Andy. “Tell me, Andy, what’s it like to have your finger hacked off?”

Andy sipped his beer before responding. “To begin with, there’s excruciating, unbelievable pain. It shoots up your arm and down your spine like burning oil. After the initial shock, you have phantom pain. One minute you think your finger’s being chewed off by squirrels, and the next minute, badgers. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” said John. “Couldn’t they sew it back on?”

“I passed out from the pain, and didn’t wake up for thirty-six hours.”

“So?”

“So leave some raw hamburger out for thirty-six hours and you’ll understand.”

Frank couldn’t help himself. “Do you keep it in a jar?”

Andy stared at him. “It’s in a box in my freezer. Just like the ‘mummy’s finger.’”

“Cool,” said Frank.

“Mummy’s finger is a game you play with your mother,” Andy explained to the others. “You push your finger through a hole in the bottom of a small box and pour ketchup on it. On Mother’s Day, you pretend you’ve brought her a gift. When she opens the lid, she sees the bloody finger and screams.”

“I’ve played it,” said John.

“Well now I can play mummy’s finger for real. Mom doesn’t like it much, but it’s my only consolation. That and the five million bucks I’ll get from Autopsy Saw Corporation.”

“Has chopping off your finger affected your sex life?” The words tumbled out of Frank’s mouth involuntarily, as though spoken by Mike Snike himself.

“My missing finger,” said Andy, raising his voice, “was the focal point of every sexual encounter I’ve ever had in my life. It had its own reputation, and not a very good one, I might add. I used to date four women a week. Now I’m down to three. There’s nothing left of my old sex life but a box of edible finger puppets.”

“What flavor?” asked Trembly.

Andy looked at him suspiciously. “That sounds like something a lawyer might ask.”

“Beautiful moon,” noted Frank, and they looked to the sky.

CHAPTER 24

They pushed off the sandbar and drifted down past Killian’s Island. From the middle of the river, it looked like a small, round peninsula jutting out from shore. When they approached the island from the downriver side, however, a channel opened up. Huge trees from the island blocked the moon as the boat chugged upriver, hugging the shore. But for the cheerful smell of tacos, the darkness would have been foreboding.

“It reminds me of Mexico,” commented John.

They pulled up to a small sand beach, and Frank fished out his flashlight. At the heart of the island, he knew, was a clearing big enough for tents and a bonfire. The rest of the island was choked with thorny brambles, burrs, poison ivy, poison oak, itchweed, whipweed, and ditchweed. The latter Frank had planted himself, years earlier. He found the trail near the base of an old willow, and a slight breeze caused the willow to bow in greeting. “Everybody grab something,” he said. “And stay on the trail.”

The men set off purposefully through the underbrush. Except for Andy, who was groaning and complaining under the weight of the keg, the group could have been trekking through the Amazon basin. Birds chattered and screeched overhead. Squirrels scrambled from branch to branch. The smell of tacos gave the whole experience a Central American feel.

“What’s for dinner?” asked John.

“A feast,” said Barger proudly. He carried a small microwave oven under his left arm, and unraveled an electrical cord with his right. The cord was attached, through an adaptor, to a car battery on the boat.

John’s mouth watered.

The clearing was just where Frank remembered. It was thirty feet in diameter, and the ground was mostly sand. He directed Barger and Trembly to set up the tents on the perimeter, where topsoil had been allowed to gain purchase and tent stakes would hold. Andy set off to find driftwood for the fire, and John went back to the boat for more supplies. Frank unloaded supplies, then hiked down to the boat for a cup of gasoline. “Starving,” John said as they passed each other on the path.

By the time Frank returned, the men were standing around the fire pit, staring at a waist-high pile of firewood. “You don’t have any kindling,” Trembly noted. Frank tossed the gasoline on the wood, then pulled a cigar from Trembly’s mouth and threw it on the pile. Five-foot flames split the night.

“River rats don’t use kindling,” said Andy.

The men stared at the flames. “What’s for dinner?” John asked again.

Barger beamed. “T-bone steaks, for starters.” He opened a cooler and held up a beautiful steak for all to inspect.

“Did you bring a grill?” asked Frank.

“What for?” Barger plugged in the microwave and stuffed five steaks inside it. He used his fist to punch the last steak in. Then he placed the microwave on top of the cooler – taking a moment to wipe off the blood dripping down from the microwave door – and set the timer for ten minutes. He pushed start.

The next ten minutes were the longest of Frank’s life. Little microwave bells kept ringing in his head, causing him to salivate uncontrollably. He poured himself a beer, and recognized he was becoming quite intoxicated. I just need a little food, he told himself.

In his mind, a 2,000 pound bull galloped across a field, thrashing its head back and forth and snorting white foam from its nostrils. For the first time in years, Frank imagined himself as killer rather than witness. He fired at the bull from a helicopter with an AK-47. Bullets ripped through the beast and he felt a surge of joy; he was a hunter now, he killed his own meat. The microwave bell rang cheerfully.

“Sorry,” said Barger. “We didn’t bring plates.” The men jostled each other for position in front of the microwave. Barger handed out thick slabs of reddish-gray meat and the men began to bolt it down, barely chewing. “Hold it! Hold it!” said Barger. “Let’s say grace.”

Trembly lowered his steak and stared at Barger. “Grace? At a time like this?”

“I was born again last Sunday. I meant to tell you.”

“You can’t be born again, you’re a Catholic,” said Trembly.

“Now I’m Southern Baptist. They let me play my guitar during the service.”

Trembly stared at him with disbelief. “Does that mean you have to take the Bible seriously?”
“You mean literally. Yes.”

“Even the story of Adam and Eve?”

“Of course.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Trembly sarcastically. “Adam was bored, so God gave him a naked lady. Then they ate the ‘forbidden fruit,’ and we all know what that means. What was God thinking?”

“That’s not a fair question,” Barger replied. “You either take the Bible literally or figuratively. But you have to be consistent. If you take it literally, Adam and Eve really ate forbidden fruit. That’s all. If you take it figuratively, God never gave Adam a naked lady. She probably had underwear on, at least.”

“If you take it literally,” said Andy between bites, “Eve’s punishment was the pain of childbirth. I guess God never heard of anaesthesiology.”

“And even if it hurts,” added Trembly, “it’s a stupid punishment. Having kids is the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m pretty sure my wife feels the same way. God didn’t punish Eve for eating the forbidden fruit, he blessed her.”

“That’s blasphemy,” said Barger.

“It’s a literal interpretation,” said Trembly.

“It’s why my wife left me,” Frank confessed.

“Because you’re blasphemous?” asked Barger.

“Because we couldn’t have kids.”

The others chewed their steaks in silence.

“I thought she left you because you wouldn’t shave your beard,” said Trembly at last.

“That too.”

“Why couldn’t you have kids?” asked Barger.

“There was nothing wrong with either of us, but the doctor had a theory.” He cast a sidelong glance at Andy. “He said my sperm weren’t trying hard enough.”

Andy coughed. “Not every member of the medical profession is as sensitive as I am,” he said.

“It caused a lot of friction in my marriage.”

“Literally or figuratively?” asked Andy.

“She wanted to go to a sperm bank, and I wouldn’t let her. I couldn’t stand the thought of her conceiving another man’s child.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Andy. “What do you think, John?”

John was far away, in his bedroom in Manhattan. His two young daughters and his wife were under the comforter, and he could hear their breathing. He stood there in the darkness, silent, looking down. He would have given anything to be with them. “I have lung cancer,” he said. “My wife doesn’t know it yet. I start chemotherapy next week.”

The men chewed their steaks in silence.

“All right,” said Trembly at last. He rose to his feet. “John has lung cancer. Frank can’t have children. Barger is a Southern Baptist. As for me, my cholesterol is 375.” He took a huge bite of his bloody steak. “Let’s have it, Andy. What’s your confession?”

Andy walked over to the trip supplies, and dug deep. He pulled out a bottle of Scotch, opened it, and topped off his beer. Then he sat down on a log by the fire. “I’m an alcoholic,” he said at last.
The others let out a collective gasp.

“I was so loaded the night I cut my finger off that I didn’t even feel it,” he bragged. “I couldn’t go in to the hospital to get it sewed back on because I had just been reprimanded for coming to work with alcohol on my breath. I dressed the wound as best I could, and made another drink. Then I passed out for thirty-six hours.”

“What made you change your religion, Barger?” asked Frank.

“I bet if they tested my chopped-off finger today they’d still find a blood alcohol level of .25.”

“Do you really believe in a literal interpretation of Genesis?”

“The worst part is that half the town saw me puking my guts out in front of Billy’s Pub right before the accident. If the lawyers. . . .”

”I believe in God,” Frank interrupted. “But not that Adam and Eve stuff. My theory is that we evolved from apes.”

“Good theory,” said Andy. “Did you think of it yourself?”

“The problem is that we stopped evolving two hundred thousand years ago.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because we evolved to survive attacks by saber-tooth tigers, and they had teeth like bananas, only sharper. We evolved to hunt buffalo the size of elephants. To battle Neanderthals. Hell, this river had beavers larger than Jeeps. One beaver used to supply the top hats for a whole tribe.”

“So what’s your point?”

“We were the toughest mammals this planet has ever seen. That’s why we stopped evolving.

And that’s why we’re so fucked up today.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Barger.

“I will. Just look at me. I could kill a wooly mammoth with a stick. I was bred for it. Instead I spend my days in a tiny office reading annuity retirement plans for agricultural cooperatives. My brain spins counter-clockwise while my body disintegrates. If not for the river rats, I’d be a living fossil. Like you.”

John perked up at the mention of river rats. “What do the river rats have to do with it?”

“River rats understand that human beings are the fiercest beasts on earth, and that God made us in his image,” said Frank. “They draw power from God’s genetic blueprint. It’s part of all of us, but only a few can read it. River rats are among the few.”

Trembly tossed him a can of beans. “If you’re so tough, open this can with your teeth.”

“River rats only use their power to do God’s will.”

“Since when have you done God’s will?” asked Barger.

“I’m on call,” Frank replied.

More silent chewing.

“I don’t remember God having anything to do with the river rats,” said Andy at last.

“It just occurred to me,” said Frank defensively.

John rose and tossed the remainder of his steak in the fire. The smell of cooking meat soon permeated the campsite. “When do Trembly and Barger and I get to be river rats?” he asked. “We passed the initiation, right?”

“Right,” said Andy.

“So where do we sign?”

“It’s not that simple,” Andy replied. “You still need to prove your worth in a defining moment.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have to do something so outrageous that it’s obvious to everyone you’re a rat.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t tell you. You have to create your own defining moment. If genuine river rats agree it’s outrageous enough, you can join. If it’s not outrageous enough, you have to think of something else.”

“There must be something we can do to get in for sure,” said John.

Andy and Frank met eyes over the fire, and both men looked away. “There’s only one sure way to become a river rat,” said Andy, “but it’s far too dangerous for married men.”

“What’s the one sure way?” asked John.

“Drive a boat over the Coon Rapids Dam.”

“Who makes up these fucking rules anyway?” asked Trembly angrily.

“The river rats,” said Andy.

“How many river rats are there?”

“Just two. Me and Frank.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Did anyone ever take a boat over the dam just to join the rats?” asked John.

“A guy named Seamus Killian went over in a canoe,” said Andy. “This island was named for him.”

“Was he hurt?”

“They never found his body. He either capsized at the top, and was sucked into the turbines, or he drowned at the bottom of the falls. They found his canoe in the crusher -- that’s the part of the dam that crushes up fallen trees and other debris from the spring floods. His bones are probably rolling around in the backwash as we speak.”

“Let me get this straight,” said John. “In order to become a river rat, I have to have a defining moment. One way to have a defining moment is to take a boat over the dam. Otherwise, I have to engage in some kind of outrageous conduct which, in your sole discretion, is sufficiently egregious to justify the title.” He was slurring his words.

“That’s right.”

* * *

The bear watched the firelight flicker over the faces of the men. He saw blood on their chins and hands, and strange expressions on their faces. They didn’t look like the humans at the Taco Bell, he thought. The bear was afraid, but hungry, and the smell of meat was everywhere. He sniffed the air, once, twice, and could take no more. He stood on his hind legs and stepped out into the firelight. He let out a mighty roar.

Andy dropped his beer. The others were equally startled, and Frank picked up a small rock. He threw the rock at the bear and hit him between the eyes. “Get out of here!” Frank yelled.

The bear staggered backward a step, then forward two more. He dropped to his knees. “I’ll sue you for that, you bastard!” screamed the bear.

“Bodie!” said Barger.

“Bodie!” said Trembly.

“Bodie!” said Frank.

“Now’s your chance,” said Andy.

John drew his knife. “It’s God’s will,” he said, and the chase began.

CHAPTER 25

It all sounded like fun when Barger first brought him the costume: scare the shit out of a few guys, he told him, and I’ll treat you to a pancake breakfast every Sunday for a month. Bodie was a big man, three hundred pounds on a good day, and the suit fit him perfectly. The idea was to send them running, raid the cooler, and trundle off with a few snacks. Barger specifically packed Little Angel Snack Cakes for him; it was part of the deal.

Now as he crashed through the bushes the deal didn’t seem worth it. The man in orange was clearly going to kill him. He ploughed through the underbrush like a bulldozer, using his suit for protection against the brambles. Attempted first-degree murder, he realized. Assault with a deadly weapon. Intentional infliction of emotional distress. He ticked off more counts as he ran, bouncing off trees in the darkness. Oh God, he prayed, save me and I’ll never sue another child for biting other children. Unless they break the skin, he added in a footnote.

John ran through the woods after Bodie, thrashing his knife ahead of him like a machete. He could hear Andy’s footsteps behind him. The urge to kill arose from his gut in wave after wave of exhilaration and rage. It was a new feeling for him. He liked it. He would kill that bear, and skin it, and wear a bear-skin coat to work.

Frank followed closely behind Andy. He knew his ankles would be covered with poison ivy the next day, and his body with scars from the itchweed, whipweed and weltweed. But he didn’t feel it now, or care. His body was just a shell, it belonged to the world. He willed his body through the bushes to the kill.

Back at the campsite, Barger and Trembly made popcorn in the microwave oven.

Bodie stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and heard thrashing behind him. He lurched forward again through the brush and emerged onto a small, sandy beach at the North end of the island. He wasn’t sure whether to swim for shore or reason it out with the man in orange. Then he remembered his cell phone, and pulled it from a pocket in his suit. He dialed 911.

“Hello?” said the 911 operator.

“I’m being threatened by a man with a large Bowie knife.”

“Where are you now, sir?”

“On an island in the Mississippi river. North of the Coon Rapids dam. I’m wearing a bear suit.”

“What is the street address, sir?”

“It’s a goddam fucking island in the middle of the fucking river!”

Click.

Bodie dialed 911 again.

“Hello?” said the 911 operator.

“I’m sorry,” said Bodie. “I’m sorry you’re so stupid. I’m sorry I’ll have to sue you now and . . . .”

Click.

Bodie dialed 911 again.

“Look,” he said.

Click.

Bodie began to cry.

John stepped onto the beach and circled around Bodie to the left. He watched the bear throw an object into the river. I didn’t know they could throw like that, he thought. The bear spotted him and whirled about.

“Please don’t kill me,” begged the bear.

“Too late,” said John. “You interrupted our meal.” He felt a little confused. Then he saw a blur to his right; it was Andy running across the sand. Andy hit the bear with a flying cross-check, and together they tumbled into the river. John stood on the beach, swaying, as Andy and the bear struggled in six inches of water. Andy finally had him. He sat on the bear’s massive stomach, pinning the bear’s arms to the river bottom with his knees.

“C’mon, John! I’m holding him down for you!”

John hesitated. He knew it was his defining moment. There could be nothing more outrageous than killing a talking bear. He held the knife up in front of him. It was so beautiful in the moonlight he could have wept. He waded into the shallow water and knelt above the bear with his back to the island. Talking bear. He raised his arms above his head, gripping the knife tightly with both hands. He didn’t know they could talk. “Sue me for this!” he said as he plunged the knife downward.

Frank caught John’s arm from behind at the last possible moment. John pulled him over and Frank fell onto Bodie and Andy. “Stop biting! Stop biting!” screamed Bodie, and the water churned. But Frank held on tight, and he eventually managed to wrestle the knife from John’s hands. Then he stood and threw the knife far over the moonlit river. It landed out deep, in the shadows of the waves.

CHAPTER 26

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” shouted John as Bodie took off the bear mask.

“You knew I wasn’t a bear,” Bodie choked.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” said John. “I was talking to Frank. That was my best knife, Frank!” He looked at Bodie, then turned back to Frank. “Am I in trouble here?” he whispered.

“Yes,” said Frank quietly.

“I hope you have insurance for this sort of thing,” hissed Bodie.

“Don’t push your luck,” Frank advised.

Bodie stood up and slogged across the beach. He disappeared into the bushes without looking back.

“If what I’ve heard about Bodie is true,” said Frank, “you both just bought yourself a lawsuit.”

“The guy was dressed up like a bear,” said John, his heart pounding. “It was self-defense.”

“Bodie might argue that bears don’t talk,” said Frank.

John stared at the sand. “At least I’m a river rat now,” he said. “The night’s not a total loss.”

“I’m sorry,” said Andy. “But you don’t get to be a rat just for waving a knife around. You have to do something outrageous with it.”

“No you don’t,” said Frank. “River rats stand for courage, honor and integrity. You don’t have to knife anyone.” He stared at Andy. “I don’t know what you’re still doing on the river after all these years. But I don’t like it. You’re fucking up the whole river rat theme.”

“What theme?” Asked Andy. “What theme? Think about it, Frank. We were right here on this beach when we first thought up the river rats. Hell, you thought up the river rats. It was a stroke of genius. What was the theme that night, Frank? Do you remember?”

Frank remembered. Seamus Killian had stolen the heroin from his dad, a prominent Minneapolis stockbroker. Seamus watched his dad shoot up every night, and he thought he had it all figured out. But he was fourteen, too young for his father’s dose. Now he lay dead in his sleeping bag at the campsite. The theme that night on the beach was how to make Seamus’s death look accidental. “We can’t let anyone know he O.D.’d on heroin,” Frank insisted. They would assume the worst. “We’ll get kicked off the tennis team,” he pleaded. Andy sat across from him in the sand, tears streaming down his face.

They agreed to send him over the dam. It would chew his body to bits. But they needed a reason. No one who knew Seamus would believe it was suicide. Everyone who knew Seamus would believe he did it for fun. Or on a dare. Frank and Andy needed a dare.

“What did you do to get in the river rats, Andy?” John asked. He watched Andy closely; this better be good, he told himself.

“I stole a police car and rammed it through the front of a liquor store,” Andy replied. “Made off with a six-pack of beer, too.”

“I don’t believe you,” said John.

“Frank was with me,” said Andy, laughing. “Remember, Frank?”

Frank nodded vaguely. He could see Seamus now as they dragged him out of the sleeping bag and down to the beach. They put him in Frank’s big aluminum canoe. Then at three in the morning, they towed him down to the dam. Frank cut the engines just north of the restricted zone and pulled the canoe up next to the pontoon. He untied the rope, and held on to the side of the canoe. Seamus lay on the floor of the canoe staring upward into space, and Frank felt his childhood roar past him like a train.

The alarms didn’t sound when Seamus drifted through the restricted zone. The lockmaster was undoubtably asleep. Frank and Andy drove north without looking back, until the sound of the engine blocked out the roar of the falls.

“Let’s get back to camp,” said Frank. “Maybe Bodie won’t sue if you apologize now.”

“I’m not worried about Bodie,” said Andy. “You can represent me if he sues, Frank.” He slapped Frank on the back. “You’re the greatest river rat this stretch has ever seen, remember? That makes you the greatest lawyer ever born.”

John cleared his throat. “Frank can’t represent you,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’ve already hired him.”

Frank felt dizzying elation.

“Why can’t he represent us both?” asked Andy.

“Because I’m general counsel for Autopsy Saw Corporation,” said John. “Frank is defending my company against your frivolous lawsuit. It would be unethical for Frank to represent us both in the same suit.”

Andy stared at them.

“I know it’s hard to understand,” said Frank. “But attorneys are governed by the Code of Professional Responsibility and . . . .”

Andy stomped off, tracing Bodie’s footsteps across the beach. He disappeared into the bushes without looking back.

John and Frank stayed on the beach, talking strategy late into the night. They would find the people who saw Andy vomiting outside Billy’s pub on the night of the accident. They would subpoena the finger from Andy’s freezer and have it tested for alcohol. Barger and Trembly would testify as to Andy’s confession. His case would never make it past summary judgment. Of course, there were other plaintiffs. But John felt confident in Frank’s ability to dispose of them as effectively as Andy. As dawn grew near, Frank stretched out on the sand. I’ll make partner, he realized. Partner! The sun peeked over the horizon, and he fell asleep.

CHAPTER 27

Frank felt a slight tingling in his arms and legs. It was a nibbling, gnawing sensation. The feeling spread to his hands and face, including his ears. His nose felt twisted and pinched. He opened one eye; the old duck had his nose in its beak.

Frank was being swarmed. Ducks pulled at his clothing, hair and every inch of exposed flesh. He resisted the urge to scream, and lay perfectly still. There was no doubt the duck pulling his nose was the same duck whose mate he had killed years before. He sensed the passionate hatred, the rage. After all these years they had him. Pinned on the beach. It was payback time.

He wondered why God made ducks so spiteful, but failed to provide them with teeth or claws. Even their beaks were blunt. Frank sensed their frustration as his flesh failed to leave the bone; the worst they could do, he realized, was annoy him. For years, he had feared this duck. Do your worst, he thought now, and fell back asleep.

He awoke at noon. The old duck lay draped across this chest, a victim of its own exhaustion. Frank dug a shallow grave in the sand, and gently placed the bird at the bottom.

Then he stood. His brain felt like a stack of pancakes with too much syrup. The thought sickened him, and he dropped to his knees, vomiting until he had the dry heaves. He hadn’t been this hung over for years. Months, at least. Actually, he felt much like he had every Sunday morning for the last two years. He wished he was back in his own bed. Then he remembered.

He was a trial lawyer now.

He stood up straight and threw his shoulders back. “Objection, your honor! Point of parliamentary procedure!” He paced back and forth in the sand. “Tell me, Mrs. Fritz. Do you ever wear underwear?” He whirled to face a witness on an imaginary stand: “Where were you on the night of the murder, Mr. Appleby? Sleeping, I suppose?” Frank paused to vomit again, then began the trek back to camp.

When he pushed his way through the bushes into the camp, the tents, coolers and supplies were gone. Barger and Trembly were nowhere in sight. Bodie lay stretched out face down in the middle of camp, wearing his full bear costume. An empty bottle of Scotch rested near his head. John lay in the sand on West side of the camp, and Andy lay on the East. All were sound asleep. Frank walked down to the boat, but there was no sign of Trembly or Barger. They had abandoned him, he realized.

He walked back to the camp. “Rise and shine!” he shouted in his most cheerful voice.
Bodie, John and Andy let out simultaneous moans.

“Get up! Get up!” John and Andy dragged themselves to sitting positions. Bodie rolled over on his side and kept sleeping.

“Where are the others?” asked John.

“Gone. They must have taken Bodie’s boat.”

“Why the hell didn’t they take Bodie with them?” asked John. “He stinks.”

Bodie moved slightly and Frank fell to one knee. The smell of rotten Mexican food encased him in an invisible, hellish cloud. He tried to resist the urge to vomit again, but knew it was useless. Frank had a weak stomach.

When he was five years old, his grandfather brought him to see the circus at the St. Paul Civic Center. It was the same day he learned that his older brother would not be returning from Vietnam. He and his grandpa were way up in the cheap seats when the elephants walked into the ring. From across the stadium, the lead elephant looked to Frank no bigger than a mouse. But there was no mistaking what came out of its rear. Even though Frank could not possibly have smelled the elephant from his seat, the knowledge of what had just transpired in the ring was enough to send his stomach reeling. He vomited cotton candy and root beer. And his grandfather, from whom Frank must have inherited his weak stomach, followed suit. Just as Andy and John were vomiting that moment.

“Jesus Christ!” said Andy. He picked up a long stick and poked Bodie. “Wake up! Go jump in the river!” But Bodie didn’t respond. Frank took Andy’s sleeping bag, unzipped it into a blanket, and tossed it over Bodie.

“He drank a whole bottle of Scotch,” said John. “The lousy drunk.” An awkward silence ensued.

“Take me home,” said Andy at last. He walked down the path to the boat.

“What do we do with him?” asked John, motioning to Bodie.

“We can’t just leave him,” Frank replied. “Barger and Trembly took his boat. And he might need medical attention.” The two men struggled to pick up Bodie, still wrapped in the sleeping bag. “Son-of-a-bitch must weigh three hundred pounds,” huffed Frank as they hoisted him up. They stumbled down the path to the boat and dumped him on the bow with a loud thud. “Thanks for your help, Andy,” said Frank sarcastically. Andy ignored him.

* * *

On the West end of the island, Barger and Trembly launched Bodie’s boat in search of a good pancake breakfast. They paused before pushing off into the current, and Trembly waved at something on the shore. Bodie appeared from the bushes -- miserable, cold and fat in his boxer shorts. He looked carefully around and made a mad dash through the shallows to the boat.
Bodie had buried the costume the night before, shortly after the incident on the beach. No one would mistake him for an animal again. Not ever.

“You look like a beached whale,” said Trembly.

Bodie laughed uproariously. He intended to sue Trembly, along with Barger, Frank, Andy and John -- especially John. He still wasn’t exactly sure what transpired on the island the night before. But he was willing to bet that one of their dental records matched the human bite marks on his arm.

* * *

Frank untied the pontoon boat and pushed off. They floated downstream for a few minutes, and John started the engine. He drove it full throttle to the middle, and the engine quit. Frank walked to the stern and lifted the gas tank. “Empty,” he announced.

“What do we do now?” asked John.

“It’ll take about two hours to float to my parent’s house from here,” said Frank. “I’ll swim the boat in to shore then. Sleep, if you want. You look like you could use it.”

“You sleep,” said John. “I’ll steer the boat.” He gripped the steering wheel and looked out over the river as the boat began a slow revolution in the current.

Frank sat back in his lawn chair and watched the river bank drift by. They floated past homesteads he knew well: the Swensons, the Carlsons, the Smiths. The children he played with from these families were gone, he realized. Their dogs and cats were almost certainly dead. Hamsters and gerbils, forget it. He wondered if the same families owned these homes, if all was still well. The river moved on.

The boat floated down past the junior college, past the dock where Frank and his friends once met cheerleaders on a summer night, past Frank’s parents’ house. John’s head rested on the steering column, and his snoring reverberated through the aluminum pontoons like a jackhammer. It was loud enough to cause a stir beneath the sleeping bag on the bow; it was so loud, in fact, that Frank didn’t hear the air horn on the lockmaster’s shack. Not at first.

CHAPTER 28

The Coon Rapids dam was built in 1948 to generate electricity for the northern suburbs of Minneapolis. The project was massive: two million cubic yards of concrete, seven workers dead. Actually, the seven workers died in a gas leak at the engineer’s primary offices in Louisville, Kentucky. But an astute cost accountant allocated them to the Minnesota project in order to enhance its mystique. When the dam opened, a billion cubic feet of water per year pushed giant turbines below the waterline like gnashing teeth. The river finally had a purpose: it powered the TV sets of fifty thousand families.

They had built the dam with a lock, then welded it shut when barge traffic failed to materialize. The position of lockmaster was nonetheless mandated by federal law, and every lockmaster on the river had vied for the job. The winner was a man named Ed Perkins, who had taken early retirement from his job as a fireman on the Burlington Northern Railroad. Ed spotted the pontoon about a half mile upriver and gave a warning blast on the air horn. There was no visible response, so he tried again. Nothing. He called the sheriff at once. “I hate this job,” he began.

Out on the river, Frank faded in and out of consciousness. Judith was trying to kiss him, a red warning buoy drifted past, Frank puckered up, Judith drifted past, John’s snoring sounded like an air horn, he pitied John’s wife. He opened his eyes and looked to the riverbank, trying to get his bearings. The shore seemed far away. Then the air horn sounded again and Frank looked downriver. The dam. The dam!

It stretched across the river like the jagged lower jaw of a prehistoric beast. Between blasts from the air horn he could hear the distant rumbling of the falls. “Wake up!” he screamed as he ran for the engine and began frantically pulling the starter cord. The engine turned over on the fifth pull and Frank gunned the throttle. They made thirty feet before it died again. Even in emergencies, the engine needed gas.

Andy and John stood silently on the deck now, wide awake. “Drop anchor!” Frank ordered. John picked up the anchor and threw it overboard. Andy helped. “Tie the rope on first, you morons!” said Frank. He ran for the life jacket container and pulled out several ragged orange pieces. “Put these on!” He looked more closely, then emptied the life jacket container on the floor. “My God,” he said. “Who chopped up the life jackets?” No one volunteered a response. He gauged the distance and speed – just under a half mile, six miles an hour. They had about five minutes. “We’ll have to swim for it,” he announced.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said John. “They’ve already spotted us. They’ll send a boat.”

“If they send a boat they can pick us up in the water,” said Frank. “We can’t wait any longer.”

Andy took off his shirt, stepped over the sleeping bag and prepared to dive in off the bow.

“Hold it!” said Frank. “I need your help with Bodie.”

Andy stopped, then turned slowly. He was smiling. “Bodie? Help with Bodie? Bodie’s going to sue me, remember? If he goes over the dam I’m off the hook.”

“I can’t believe you said that. You’re a doctor.”

“I can’t believe I trusted you,” Andy retorted. “I thought we were friends. You betrayed a fellow river rat, Frank. For money. I hope you all go over the fucking dam.”

Frank bowed his head as Andy dove off the boat. Then he turned to John. “Help me wake up Bodie. Quick.” They shook the dark mass under the sleeping bag, but it was no use. Frank pounded on Bodie’s mask. Nothing. “I’ll have to swim him in,” said Frank. He doubted there was time. “Can you help?”

“I can’t even swim that far myself,” said John. The thought of being sucked down into the turbines was more than he could take.

“I can’t drag you both to shore.” “I know,” said John. “I’m going for rat.”

“You have to swim for it!”

“I’m going for rat.”

By now a small crowd of fishermen, bicyclists and others had gathered on the walkway over the lock, drawn by the air horn. Police sirens sounded in the distance. “Help me get Bodie in the water,” said Frank. He and John rolled the heavy pile of fur to the edge of the boat, and Frank jumped in first. “If you survive the drop,” said Frank as he treaded water, “dive to the bottom, into the current. Otherwise, the backwash will suck you into the falls. There’s too much air in the water under the falls. You can’t float there. You can’t breathe. So dive.” John rolled the unconscious body off the boat, and Frank grabbed a handful of fur. He put it in a cross-chest hold. “One more thing,” Frank called as he started for shore. “I resign.”

John stood on the deck of the pontoon and faced the dam. He felt the river pick up speed as he drew closer to the edge. The air horn continued to blast, to the point of annoyance. Turn that damn thing off, he thought. Meanwhile, everyone standing on the walkway began to wave frantically. I see you, he thought. Now send a boat! He watched in relief as two squad cars pulled up to the bank. Deputies from the Hennepin County Sheriff’s office ran out onto the walkway. They joined the crowd of onlookers, and began to wave frantically. I really am going to die, thought John.

I’m going to live, thought Frank as the bank drew nearer. Then the bear turned in Frank's arms and they rolled in the water before it broke free. “C’mon Bodie!” he yelled. The bear began dog-paddling towards the middle of the river and Frank went after it. He reached over its shoulders and pulled it onto its back while it thrashed and kicked. “Try to relax,” said Frank. “Relax!” The bear found Frank’s leg with its right paw and scratched him deeply. Frank let go again. “You bastard!” He considered the distance to the dam, and to the shore, then the speed of the current, and how fast he could swim – both with and without Bodie. He considered how he flunked math in seventh grade because of his difficulties with word problems. Oh hell, he thought, and went after Bodie.

On the walkway, the onlookers forgot to wave at John as they watched Frank struggle with the bear. “Just look at that fucking idiot,” said one of the deputies with admiration.

John was nearing the edge. “What do you mean, you resign?” He shouted towards Frank. “You can’t resign. I’ll have you disbarred! Goddamit Frank, it’s on your conscience, not mine! You’re the lawyer! You’re his friend! I’m not going over the dam until I hear it from you! Frank! Frank!” He went over the dam.

On dry land, an ordinary bear could have ripped Frank to shreds. But in the water, it was a close match. The bear gripped Frank’s shoulder with its teeth, then was forced to let go when Frank pulled it under. Each time the bear broke free and headed for the middle, Frank grabbed it from behind. They wrestled underwater until Frank and the bear became exhausted and released each other for air. Frank swallowed water. He felt vibrations from the turbines. He feared his life would pass before his eyes.

Then something pulled him under.

Seamus, he thought. The bony hands gripped his ankles, pulling him deep into the brown river, down towards the turbines. Seamus moved hand over hand up his body, and put him in a cross-chest hold. Then they shot to the surface together and he could smell Seamus’s foul breath. It smelled boozy.

“Andy? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need saving. Bodie does.”

The bear was floating face down in the water. Andy and Frank each took an arm and started for shore. But by then, it was too late. They were going over. Andy and Frank stopped swimming, and waited for the drop.

“I slept with Judith,” Andy confessed.

"You what?" roared Frank. What's your point, he wondered.

The rope landed between them when they were fifteen feet from the edge. They held on with all their strength, and the lockmaster looped his end around a tree. Bicyclists and fishermen pulled them to shore while the deputies waved frantically. They made land, and Frank pulled Bodie out of the water.

The bear regained consciousness and scrambled up the bank. It bowled over the lockmaster and savagely bit his arm before scampering off into the brush. “I hate this job!” wailed the lockmaster. Andy and Frank stared after the bear with open mouths, and Frank collapsed from loss of blood.

Chapter 29

Under the dam, John’s body rolled in the backwash. He felt a slight tingling in his arms and legs. It was a nibbling, gnawing sensation. The feeling spread to his hands and face, including his ears. Even his nose felt funny. He was turning into a rat. A river rat. He could read God’s genetic blueprint. He dove.

The helicopter spotted him just before dusk, hopelessly tangled in a pile of brush two miles below the dam. But for his survival suit, the crew assured him, he would have fed the racoons. They took him to Mercy hospital, where Bones met him in the emergency room. He took an X ray. “You can stop whining now,” said Bones as he scanned the results.

“What happened to the others?” asked John.

“Frank severed an artery.”

Chapter 30

“River rats owe each other the highest duty of loyalty,” said Andy to John. “It's the duty owned by a knight to his king. It transcends human laws, especially the rules of professional conduct for lawyers."

"Shhhhh!"

Andy ignored the shusher, a long-haired member of the honor guard sent by the American Bear Association.

"All I want is a measly five million bucks. My missing finger was the focal point of every sexual encounter I've ever had in my life!"

"Show some respect!" hissed Frank's former wife. Her eyes were red from crying. Andy bowed his head; John took a loud hit of bottled oxygen.

Father Markey glared at the men. He wished he could kill them. He wished he could kill Mrs. Barker, too. Mrs. Barker was in charge of fruit salads for events such as this. She collected fruit salads from other parishioners and let them sit in her garage for weeks. Then she brought them to the church basement and he could smell rotten fruit all the way from the altar. Father Markey relied on a strict regimen of kick-boxing and prayer to control his fiery temper; now his eyes rolled back in his head as he prayed for a machete. Of course, having Bodie in his church didn't help one bit. Neither did his undiagnosed brain tumor.

He forced a smile. It was Bodie all right. Third row, second seat. "You may kiss the bride."

Frank swept Judith into his arms and kissed her, right on the lips. He was in the pine grove again; he was twelve years old. There would be no more missed opportunities for Frank, nor lingering regrets. He would take God's gifts without question and without fear. Judith turned smiling to the congregation, and Frank's eyes drifted to her swollen belly. Their evening together at the carnival had been more than a little special. He had only his penetrating gaze to blame.

He took Judith's arm and started down the aisle. It felt wonderful to be alive, and he was grateful. He had nearly died on the river, having lost half his blood. And in fact he heard that a man involved in his rescue had been killed. The lockmaster for the Coon Rapids Dam had suffered a heart attack after being mauled by a bear. The National Park Service investigators told him all about it as they grilled him for hours from his hospital bed, slapping him awake from time to time and picking at his lime Jello. They took voluminous notes, and Frank lost track of time as the story spilled out. The interrogation alone nearly killed him.

But he felt strong now. He was making changes. After his recovery, he took Andy out for drinks at Billy's Pub. Six hours later, he carried him to the Hennepin County Sheriff's Department.

Andy wept while Frank told the story of Seamus Killian's death and their disposal of his body.
The statute of limitations had long since expired on the crime of tampering with a dead body, but the sheriff's department initiated an in-depth homicide investigation. Based on new information provided them by Andy and Frank, divers located skeletal remains in a protective screen just below the waterline. A forensic pathologist identified Seamus by his dental records. But there was no hard evidence of homicide, and the county prosecutor declined to press charges.

Nor to Frank’s great relief did they have to face Seamus's parents. Fortunately, they had died years earlier in a murder-suicide. No further apologies or confessions were required of Frank.

But still the guilt lingered.

The county buried Seamus Killian in a simple ceremony attended only by Father Markey, Andy and Frank. As they lowered Seamus's casket into the ground, Andy and Frank looked to Father Markey for a few comforting words. Anything. Father Markey hesitated for what seemed an eternity. At last he spoke.

"Yikes,” said Father Markey.

Frank and Andy only nodded. It wasn’t perfect, but it was over. Frank was surprised to find his eyes blurred with tears. Moving speeches had that effect on him.

* * *

Now as he walked down the aisle with Judith, Frank gave the “thumbs up” to Barger, Trembly and Bodie, along with a genuine smile. Bodie scowled back at him.

Bodie was still bitter about that night on the island. He had been forced to drop his lawsuit against Frank, John and Andy when none of their dental records matched the human bite marks on his arm. His sole compensation for all of his pain and suffering, in fact, was the pancake brunch to follow Frank's wedding. And now Father Markey was pushing through the crowd with a gold-plated candlestick in his hand. Bodie jumped to his feet and made for the door.

* * *

Andy and John negotiated all through the pancake brunch and well into the evening, when the party moved to Billy's Pub. Andy drank heavily; John stuck to bottled oxygen. As the clock struck twelve they reached a settlement. Autopsy Saw Corporation would pay Andy two hundred thousand dollars. It was the largest sum ever paid in Minnesota for the loss of a single finger, and Andy was pleased. It was less than five million, of course, but more than enough to buy the Squid Pro Quo from Mike Snike. Snike didn’t need the vessel at his new residence, the Saint Cloud State Penitentiary.

There was a catch to the settlement, however -- a private condition. Andy had to agree to take John on a two-day cruise down the Mississippi River every summer for the rest of their lives. The condition caught Andy off guard at first, and he objected strongly. But in the end he agreed to the condition in exchange for more cash. After all, he had seen the X rays Bones took at Mercy Hospital. John had six months to live if he was lucky. Of course, John didn't tell Andy that the cancer was in remission. Nor did he tell him that the bottled oxygen was all Frank's idea.

Frank had no intention of representing Autopsy Saw Corporation, not after his experience on the river. But John called him almost daily, and Frank finally raised the matter with his law firm’s ethics committee. As he pointed out to the committee, associates should not be expected to compromise their principles solely to advance the firm's financial position. Partners, he noted, had a little more flexibility in such matters.

Frank was a partner now, and hit his fork against the wine glass with authority. The room grew quite, and he held his glass high. "To riding ice."

Epilogue

The investigation by the National Park Service into the death of the lockmaster would appear complete, with all questions and doubts put to rest, but for a hastily written note to the file from Mack Finstead, forensic pathologist. Finstead was hired by the County to identify Seamus Killian’s remains from his dental records. He was also hired by Bodie to compare the bite marks in his arm with the dental records of Frank, John and Andy. The handwritten note from Mr. Finstead exhibits signs of physical stress. It has been folded over and over as if carried around and read time and again. It is stained with what appears to be dried Scotch. The contents of the note further suggest that Mr. Finstead is in need of a long rest from the pressures of his chosen profession. In barely legible scrawl the note reads as follows:

“Seamus bit Bodie.”