Broken Piano for President (16 page)

“We sincerely apologize for the delay.

“A Winters representative assured me that even though they are rescheduling the broadcast, it will be quite worth the wait. This is an exclusive here, the winner will be revealed in a prime-time special reuniting the wayward spacemen and the lucky hero whose love of hamburgers saved the Russians. A once-in-a-lifetime television event. If you miss this you might as well turn in your citizenship. You may not love freedom as much as you think. Please tune in, folks.

“And next, a preview of tonight’s
can’t miss
edition of
Nightbeat
.”

“So they’re hitting below the belt?” Tony says. The hot water in his mug swallows a green teabag and turns morbid colors.

“I guess, I mean.” Hamler fishes through a leather shoulder bag for a cigarette. “If what Malinta Redding says is for real, they’re only doing research on heart attacks. Big deal.” There’s a casualness in his voice, a softening of once-jagged edges.

The coffee shop Tony chose is silent during this weekday lull. It’s dark for the afternoon and full of hanging plants. The barista reads a book, jawing some gum.

“Tell me the truth here.” Tony sips from the cup and puckers his face. “Are they in production on this heart disease piece? Do they have families of dead guys spilling their guts? Doctors, scientists, whoever else producers get for this shit?”

“Can’t say.”

“Did you ask her?”

He thinks about Martin’s five o’clock shadow sandpapering his lips. “No, Tony. She was shitty drunk. Like, five scotches.”

“That’s the
perfect
time.”

Martin’s hands were strong, felt dangerous. “Yeah right, I was lucky
that
slipped. I’d like to see you do your job as tanked as we were.” That strength and danger transferred to Hamler like an anti-anxiety mainline. His lips were ready to fall off. They’d been so lonely until Martin.

But now it’s that beating, kicking, uppercutting muscle in his chest that threatens to skip town.

“Look.” The calm coffee date snaps and falls to Henry’s feet. The bare anger of a man trying to do his job stares back at the young spy. “I’ve done my duties bouncing off the walls on angel dust because
that’s
what the situation called for,” Tony says through grinding teeth. “I do not miss Bonzo the Burger Clown.”

“Jesus. You did that?
You
killed him?”

“Not important. My point is, I did my job. And I did it well.”

A steamy snake from Henry’s coffee charms up between the men. Hamler’s shoulders drop soft. “You’re right, I’ve got a lot to learn I guess,” Henry says, hoping to cool his boss down a few hundred degrees.

“There is no room for sentimentality in the workplace.” Tony’s finger darts to his mouth, working a nail between teeth. He closes his jaw and sucks on nothing.

“You’re right. I can’t let obstacles stand between me and—”

La Cucaracha
plinks from Tony’s cell phone. He fetches it from a coat pocket and answers without a flinch.

Henry jerks back to the Purple Bottle’s stage last night. He remembers fumbling through a few notes of
La Cucaracha
on his bass while Pandemic lit his cymbals on fire with rubbing alcohol. The crowd went into mob-mode, half stomping up the exit stairs and half launching buns and vegetables at the band. Henry called it a night after a tomato exploded off his chest. Being in a band didn’t feel like a lot of fun at that moment.

Hamler’s boss stands and walks into the restroom, whispering to the phone.

The Lothario show was packed. Hamler was incredibly late, but when he stepped on the short stage a sweaty fog rose to the ceiling from the bodies. They only finished a few songs, though. Before turning off the bass amp, there was a lot of pushing near the front—someone pissed about mustard in a girlfriend’s hair.

Dean was face-down at the lip of the stage, unconscious, sweat glossed across bare shoulder blades. Day-Glo mask nothing but shreds around his ears. The black lights amplified papier-mâché scraps into nuclear chunks. The blood from Dean’s mouth was a growing dark pool of motor oil under the purple gleam.

Hamler sparks a cigarette and listens to his ears squeal in the silent coffee shop. He probably isn’t supposed to smoke here, but it’s not his first worry.

Henry’s ears began ringing when he set the guitar against a giant speaker cabinet and clicked on the distortion pedal. The gutter symphony of feedback was enough to rattle Dean to limp consciousness.

In a move as traditional as the band’s psychedelic tribal masks, Hamler lugged the vocalist over his shoulders and carried him offstage. Roll credits.

Maybe I should have missed that whole gig
, he thinks. Flashbacks of Martin’s scruffy face remind Henry why he nearly missed it, originally. The scent of the cheese buyer’s hair stays fresh in Henry’s mind.

Hamler sips coffee and asks,
Is it worth it? I mean, when we walked off the stage nobody clapped. Were they entertained? It was art, but they didn’t cheer. I guess it was art.
He realizes it would feel nice to make art
and
have people enjoy themselves.
There has to be
a mixture. But is that art? Are people supposed to cheer for art?

Maybe I’m not a band guy
.

Maybe I’m not an art guy. Deshler’s an art guy.

I don’t even like playing bass. Whose idea was that?

Lothario Speedwagon’s a dumb name. God, I’ve been wasting the last six months. I could have been working overtime or something.

I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.

Tony returns and speaks like a coach offering to buy the little league team a pizza, “Okay, guy, you need a ride.” He slices a fingernail back between teeth.

“My bus ticket is still good, thanks.” Henry is unusually feisty today.

“No, you misunderstood. You-Need-A-Ride. As in, you and I are going to ride in my car together.” He picks up a coat and briefcase, tonguing something toothy. “Now.”

Tony’s car is disappointing. Hamler assumed it would be a sleek spy cruiser. Something incognito and fast. Henry always figured if he stuck with this gig long enough, the big payday would arrive. Instead, his boss drives a heavily dented Japanese sedan. Tony picks up a fistful of Bust-A-Gut drive-through bags from the passenger side. “Research,” he says. Everything smells like French fries. It smells like good fries, like grease.

They pull around the block. “God,” he says, picking a tooth, blood on the fingertip. “I hate steak.”