Broken Piano for President (17 page)

“I can’t afford it.”

“That’s gonna change,” Tony says.

“I doubt that,” Henry says, noticing the glove box doesn’t latch. It hangs open like Dean’s stupid mouth.

“I’m sitting on a lotto ticket with your name on it.”

“What?”

“The boss says kill Malinta.”

Tense, Henry’s feet lock against the floorboard, back shoving into the seat. “Not me.”

“You’re the only one. You’re close. Our inside man. Look, he wanted you to torture her first. Pull out fingernails, burn her with a lighter, play your band’s stupid tape.”

“Hey.”

“But I said no way. I went to bat for you.”

“I said I’m through.” Henry realizes his confidence has taken a leap. He wonders if his new romance might be a bit of the answer. Making out, it seems, is better than therapy. “You promised nothing dirty on this job. No
final
solutions.”

“I don’t remember that precise conversation. We never said
never
.” He pulls that wet red finger out of his mouth with a sigh, marveling at a fleshy chunk.

“Do not make me do this.”

Tony’s voice shifts to calm now: “Henry, it’s done. Tomorrow’s your last day at the office. You found a full-time gig delivering pizzas, so you’re quitting. And then killing that vice president of marketing.”

“No.”

“Or the other way around, I don’t really care.”

Hamler’s head shakes, snorting through his nose like a hay fevered pig.

“Yes.” Tony rubs something gooey on a pantleg and lets the sound of the city and the car’s heater fill the silence for a few blocks. “This isn’t a negotiation. It’s your job.”

“What good will this do? We’ll lose any chance at more info.”

“The boss, Roland Winters himself, says this heart attack program can’t air. We’re banking that it’s only in the development stage and that Redding trumped up its importance. This is top priority shit.”

“I just can’t make myself do that again. It felt all…” Guilty memories claw for air and paint a fresh layer in his mind.

“I told you, Henry.” He looks ahead at old women crossing the street. “This is not a negotiation.”

“Dude, I’ll grab it. Just sit tight,” Napoleon says, out of breath. “I love the German ones.”

Deshler didn’t have time to fix his clothes after leaving Findlay’s condo. The Cliff Drinker’s white jacket arm is torn and his lapel mysteriously stained with cabernet. He’s in jeans instead of black slacks.

I would rather work as a chemical toilet than park another car
, he thinks, shaking off the dents and scratches he’s already embedded on some cars today.
This is not what an artist should be doing. I should be writing a song, not paralleling some asshole’s Beamer. Gibby wouldn’t be caught dead parking cars.

The afternoon brings a charcoal sketch of darkness and aching wind over downtown. Office windows above the street pop white light onto the busy motorway below. There is stillness, loaded thick with chill.

A family pours from the green German SUV. They are a wholesome catalog spread of glossy photos, fixing one another’s jacket collars and adjusting each other’s knitted caps.

“Hey, I brought the paper today,” Napoleon says walking toward the family, then turning. “You can check out the music reviews if you do me a favor.”

Deshler grunts as tired eyelids seal together. He stands and flings the hotel entrance open, nearly knocking the youngest boy to his ass. He apologizes in some raw pirate dialect. “What favor?”

“Here, I transferred some of my films to DVD. Just for you. You really need to check them out.” He gets no reaction from Deshler. “You’re in one.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were kind of drunk.”

Dean grunts.

“But I think it came out pretty sweet. You won’t be disappointed.” Napoleon passes the silver disc in a plastic sleeve along with the newspaper. Next, he trades a valet tag for German keys.

Alone under the awning, Deshler flips open the daily paper. The entertainment section has a sidebar about the band.

Dean sets the DVD on his wooden stool. “Ghrmmmm,” he growls, blindly finding vocal chords. “Interesting.”

He flips the print toward a streetlight. The band’s article is strong-armed to the edge of the paper by a piece about John Cougar Mellencamp coming to town.

The Purple Bottle was packed in anticipation of cult hotshots Lothario Speedwagon. Fans I spoke with were there more to see what happens, rather than hear what happens. This turned out to be the smartest reason to pay the door fee, since there was little to be heard, but plenty to watch.

The band’s pipecleaner-thin drummer sat down first as their homemade light kit flickered (think twenty Black lights on the fritz) and he hammered a tribal riff on his kick drum and the hood of a Chevy Lumina. He was alone, save for the empty bass rig to his left and the flash and pop of lights. His paper mask was a splash of hot lava.

In a heatwave of crowd pushing, Lothario’s singer emerged from behind a curtain to a scatter of howling fans. He appeared to be victim of some horrible kitchen accident. The equally anorexic frontman stumbled out naked to the waist, swinging a flood lamp like a lasso around his head. It gave his body a strobe light effect, which flashed a culinary disaster: Hamburger buns, lettuce, cheese and tomatoes stuck to his flesh, greased in ketchup and mustard.

“Thank you, I love your haircut as well. This is Broken Piano for President,” he said with an Australian accent and face-planted into a song. His Satan-deep voice rattled loose more than a few kidney stones.

At the precise moment the singer flopped into the front row, covering everyone in condiment goo, a stocky guy in a shirt, tie and toxic green mask strapped on the bass. He looked like my psychedelic accountant and created torturous noise fit for ending hostage standoffs.

What happened during the next song was disputed from different fans. As Lothario’s rhythm section stumbled into a sonic mess that’s best described as “car crash rock,” the show was over.

The bass gurgled tuneless notes and drums clunked like garbage cans in a trash compactor. Finally, someone took a swing at the singer. Apparently, one fan didn’t appreciate the mustard-hair treatment given to his date. The vocalist was unconscious for ten minutes as the band rolled on. Finally, the drummer lit his kit on fire, the bassist’s amp blew feedback and someone tossed the singer over a shoulder fireman-style.

It’s safe to say the wheels have fallen off the ol’ Speedwagon. Question is, “Were they ever meant to stick in the first place?” And “Would we want them to?” This is art, kids. Take it or leave it.

Me, personally, I’ll leave it.

“Holy crap,” Deshler says as Napoleon walks back. A popcorn bag of excitement bursts in his chest. “Did you read that thing?”

“Uh, yeah,” Napoleon says, hesitant. “Sorry.”

“Wow, they wrote a lot of stuff about us.”

“But it wasn’t good stuff.”

“No such thing as bad publicity, dude.”

“I don’t know. This seems close.”

A black car pulls in quiet as a dishwasher. A familiar man in a ketchup red coat sloshes out and stares at the pair.

“I think it’s great. It sounds like people were entertained.”

“Dude, seriously?”

Before either looks up from the paper, Roland Winters’ voice dives in: “Hey, there’s my slugger. How goes it, Dean?” He is a walrus with his mustache and heavy coat. “Let’s grab a drink. Take off that ridiculous outfit, buddy.”

Napoleon stumbles to Dean’s side like a first mate. “Oh-um, sorry, Mister Winters, sir,” the plump valet says, fixing his tie. “I’ll be more than happy to put your car in its usual spot.”

Deshler nods and points a finger at the walrus. “Right.” His open mouth converts to a smile, recalling this morning’s naked chat with Malinta. “Roland Winters…yeah.”

“Terrific, Greg,” Winters tells Napoleon.

“It’s Napol—” He quivers before realizing the man is long gone.

The executive’s coat flaps open and his burger belly stretches like a latex glove. “C’mon, Deshler.” A walrus flipper wraps around Dean’s shoulder. “The guys’ve been asking about you lately. We don’t want to lose
The King
.”

Napoleon’s cheeks ripple as if he’s three-fourths swallowed his tongue. Little dragon shots of haze puff through his nose into the freezing air as pink fingers rub Winters’ keychain.

“You know.” Deshler’s eyes drop to the ground. His mouth hangs momentarily confused.
I might as well see what this is all about,
he thinks. “God, yeah, I’d…” He eyes Napoleon. The small valet seems so pathetic. “Alright, forget it, yeah! Napoleon, tell the boss, tell her…you know.”

A yellow SUV and a tiny Italian sedan are behind Winters’ car. Napoleon can’t hear them speak, but the drivers’ lips practice unhappy patterns.

“Dean…whuh?” his partner says, eyes squinting with hurt.

As the glass doors close with Dean and the CEO of Olde-Tyme on the other side, Napoleon hears the executive say something that sounds like, “I think you’d look good in red.”

Napoleon spots the special DVD still atop the wooden stool.