Broken Piano for President (13 page)

“Luckily,” the man with perfect teeth and a non-regional American dialect tells us, “we can still communicate with the cosmonauts via radio.”

“We did not think we would ever eat again,” says a voice the viewer is told belongs to Dimitri. He sounds squeakier—less diplomatic than before. Something has changed in this man and not for the good. “Thankfully, many brave Americans guided our Space Burgers home.”

“Now, Dimitri,” our anchor says smoothly. “Just who is that lucky person? I’m told you are the only ones with equipment to determine the winner.”

“Ah, yes, yes,” the squeaky voice says, like stepping on a canary. “But our Russian space equipment is much slower and weaker than your state-of-the-art American computers. We will not have answer until eight PM, Eastern Standard Time tomorrow.”

“Well, Mister Cosmonaut,” our anchor says. “We’ll all be tuned in with baited breath for the results. Any final words before we sign off tonight?”

“Yes,” Dimitri says. “Thank you America, but thanks also to Winters Olde-Tyme Space Burgers for saving our lives. It is truly the finest hamburger in the galaxy.”

“Ha, well gosh,” our anchor says. “There you have it folks, we did it. We saved the cosmonauts and it’s all thanks to you and Space Burgers. Don’t forget, tomorrow at eight PM, five Western, we’ll announce the results. Please stay tuned for another thrilling edition of
Nightbeat
.”

The bar Malinta picks looks wet. The floor and seats and tables have a greasy black vinyl glow. Henry runs palms along the booth to check that it’s dry before sliding in. The light fixtures sweat a delicate blue light below.

“I’m thinking gin for you,” Malinta says, rummaging through her purse. “Gin and tonic. Rocks maybe.”

Henry has a sweet tooth for dessert wine, but spy training has taught him to adjust. “Wow, you got me nailed. Gin and tonic has been my drink since I was eleven.”

“You should try and branch out. Have you had a good scotch? That’s my top dod gamn choice. Gin, well, people should only drink clear liquor at the beach.”

“I’m up for anything.”

The scotch is old enough for middle school and boils down his throat. “It’s good.” Henry exhales nuclear breath. “I’ve been missing out my whole life.” He slips fingers into his shoulder bag and rubs a Peppermint Pattie between his fingers, knowing it would cool his stomach the way it did after the Christopher Winters job.
Unlike love
, he thinks,
candy never disappoints
.

“Yeah,” she purrs.

Oddly, Henry Hamler isn’t nearly as frustrated with this job as he imagined. In fact, the last few days have been fun. He enjoys being someone else. When he’s Henry Holgate, he’s not the guy who murdered Winters. He’s not the romantic equivalent of bowel cancer. Not to mention, he hasn’t even thought about Lothario Speedwagon.

Instead, Henry’s a stealthy Serengeti predator. Something soundless creeping through the brush. A mouth filled with dagger teeth. He’s an obsessed animal, getting closer and closer to Malinta. Wooing her into the jaws of espionage.

Or so he tells himself.

“How’s it been going,” Henry says, “being a better person?”

“Hard.”

“Really? You seem pretty good to me.”

“Maybe I am. I don’t know. I think everyone is toughest on themselves. I just sometimes look at the mirror and think,
this girl isn’t very nice
.
This girl would be a terrible mother
.” Outside of the office, Malinta slows down a gear or two. Where normally she spoke in a long string of sentences, she now breathes and pauses and closes her eyes in between.

“Kids?”

“Yeah, I think I want to be a mom. I mean, not like today, but someday soon. I never used to think that. I used to only want the fanciest title possible at work. But, I think a little kid would be cool. That’s not scary, is it?”

“Yes.”

She laughs and nods. “Tell me about yourself, Henry. Why are you working here?”

He holds back a cough just like the first time he smoked grass. The sting of scotch turns Henry’s mind surprisingly fast. Instantly, Henry invents an interest in working for a good American product that makes people happy. He is really into global logistics. His family grew up surrounded by memories of burgers…plus, he’s a spy.

“Aren’t we all,” she says. “I just killed a KGB operative in my bedroom last night.”

“They’re tough,” Henry says, kicking himself for letting the booze break down his honesty. “That cold Russian blood pours out like honey, I hear.”

“Among other things.”

“So…” Henry takes an airy pause for drama, gracefully changing the subject. “Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me how this place works.”

“Runs itself really,” she says, blowing blonde hair from her eyes. “I just collect a paycheck.”

“That’s not what I hear.” He leans across the table, eye contact the whole way.

“Well, temps hear a lot of stuff,” she sucks an ice cube from the empty glass. “Mostly the hum of copy machines.” She laughs at her joke. A little, tight burst.

The after-work crowd fills the tiny room. Men in shiny shoes and women with haircuts the price of jewelry compare martinis. Gradually, Henry and Malinta have to raise their voices. Six empty scotch tumblers spread across the table by the time Henry’s boss slips in the booth.

“Well, look at this group,” Martin says. In the low blue light his Puerto Rican skin is espresso dark. The boss gives Hamler a once-over before his thin hips scoot the spy against the booth wall. “I didn’t expect either of you here.”

“I’m just getting to know our new employee, Marty.”

“You’ve already forgotten my name, Ms. Redding?”

She grins and crushes a cube between her teeth.

“Well, Henry, catch me up to speed about yourself,” his boss says. “Tell me the dirty secrets.”

“Actually,” Henry says, wagging a half-full glass over the table. “Malinta here was going to spill the beans about Bust-A-Gut.” His jaw grinds, feeling this interrogation get complicated.

“There are a lot of beans, eh, Malinta?”

“More than you can count.” She orders another scotch with fingers in the air. “What’s new in gouda?”

“See, Henry, Malinta and I started together. Has it been two years? Some of us gave blowjobs for promotions and others plan cheese now.”

“It’s not like you don’t have skills to offer.”

Henry dives in and practically screams over the increasingly sharp chit-chat. “Let’s not get off the subject here. I was promised dirt. You know, blackmail material.”

“Okay…”

“Like real dirt.”

Her eye hooks upward, thinking. “Well, my odds of dying from a snakebite are three and a half million-to-one,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But your chances of dying from a heart attack are two-point-five-to-one. That’s forty percent of this entire room. How’s that for blackmail, Henry?”

“Way to blow the safe open.” Martin supplies a golf clap.

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Hamler says, not sure whether that was sarcasm or not.

“Seriously, someone in this country dies from heart failure every two minutes,” her left eye staggers closed. “Every third is a son-of-a-bitching.” She cringes. “Son-of-a-
bleep
ing
Winters
customer.”

Martin and Henry take a drink and cautiously eye one another.

“What about Bust-A-Gut customers?” Henry says.

“Who cares? Especially when we green-light my next campaign. Instead of thirty-second commercials, think thirty-minute news magazines blabbering about the deadly effects of Space Burgers.” Her whiskey-soaked eyes squint and see two confused faces staring back. “Let me dumb it down for you boys. What if someone said Pepsi and Coke give you hemorrhoids? Instantly everyone will buy Dr. Pepper. Nobody asks if Dr. Pepper does too.”

“If Winters is Pepsi, who’s Coke?”

“More important,” Martin says. “Who’s Dr. Pepper?”

Henry kicks back the rest of the drink. His body is overcome once again with that first-cigarette feeling. He makes a mental note and lets Malinta ramble. He pulls out his cell and checks the clock. Lothario Speedwagon has a show in three hours.
When Malinta is done
, he thinks,
I’ll bail out of here.

The strong grip of his boss’s right hand locks on Henry’s thigh, tight enough to count the veins in that baby fat leg. Henry slowly glances toward Martin and blows smoke over his face.

In twenty minutes Malinta is sleeping in the booth while boss and temp kiss.

*Excerpt from an eye-rolling conversation between Deshler and a friend.

DEAN:
The longest I ever waited? I once had to wait three months for a video to arrive.

FRIEND:
That’s ridiculous. Was it something kinky from Thailand? Ping-pong balls or orangutans and stuff?

DEAN:
No, better than that. It was this rare Butthole Surfers tape.

FRIEND:
Oh, dude, don’t start…

DEAN:
Gibby was wild as shit at this concert, Milwaukee or something. There was smoke, a small pile of burning trash on the stage, an old medical school film of a penile transplant playing behind the drummers—

FRIEND:
Drummers
? As in plural?

DEAN:
Yes, they had two. I’ve told you this. Anyway, he was singing real nasty. Gibby just ripped apart this mannequin and there were chunky plastic limbs everywhere. He took out this wiffleball bat…

FRIEND:
Dude, come on, this was only interesting the first hundred times you told me.

DEAN:
Gibby’d pissed in the bat’s tiny opening earlier, and was swinging it around. Called it his Piss Wand. It splattered the audience. He was singing “The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey’s Grave.”

FRIEND:
And this guy’s your hero? That’s kind of messed up.

DEAN:
No, not at all. Look, I needed that. When I bought that video my brother and I were staying at, at, at this relative’s place. My folks were…you know.

FRIEND:
Gone?

DEAN:
In several senses. Anyhow, Gibby burned into my skin like a fog lamp. He was up there doing it, bringing people to their knees like a puke-stained preacher.

FRIEND:
You’re sick. I need to go home. Can you grab my coat? You should really try watching some of that Thai porno. Sounds like you need a little culture.

DEAN:
Gibby broke the rules. He did everything, so now anything is possible. His art was so over the top that he clear-cut a forest for the rest of us to march through. I can do anything I want. My art is free, thanks to him.