Broken Piano for President (25 page)

• Today.
  
• Today.
  
• Today.
  
• Today.
  
• Today.
  

Sunning himself in the warm tones of satisfaction, Deshler’s solid gold streak crashes just after the shrimp fettuccine arrives.

“Well, there you are,” a woman hisses, sing-songy.

Dean’s chin lifts with a noodle swinging from his lips. Malinta—tall as a basketball pro—and Thurman Lepsic—in a three-button suit tight enough to cut off circulation—hover over the table.

“Malinta, your head looks great.”

She tucks a blonde bundle behind her ear. “You’re a popular man today. Your name is on everyone’s lips—
everyone’s
.”

Lepsic checks his hair in the window. Bust-A-Gut’s intimidating VP next plants himself across the table and Deshler determines his skin soaks under ultraviolet heat lamps most of the day.

“Didn’t see you parking cars,” Lepsic says. “Your nitwit friend seems to have some theories, though.”

A subterranean guilt stiffens inside him. The feeling of being on someone’s shit list without even knowing. It feels not unlike the day paramedics wheeled Dad off, leaving a wet red trail from the dining room to the front door to the driveway. Deshler never knew so much blood could come out the ears. But young Dean’s guilt didn’t start pushing until Mom began pointing fingers. Fortunately, on the first night of that lifetime grounding, Deshler’s brother snuck him and a flask of schnapps into a Butthole Surfers show. His posture felt tougher that night, too.

Dean drops his fork. He’s hot and itchy, like being caught in a lie. His mouth is leather. “Oh, you don’t say,” is all he manages.
Wait, I didn’t do anything wrong.

“You and I had an understanding, Dean,” Lepsic says. His five o’clock shadow spreads across his face like an action star. “If you think this is a bargaining chip, guess again. You’re lucky I don’t hang you from your ankles over the bridge.”

Malinta’s red wool coat goes to her bare knees. Her arms are crossed and it’s obvious they will not end up in bed tonight. Lepsic clears his throat, deep and ugly.

“Can I order anyone a drink?” Deshler says, hoping to defuse this bomb and buy some time.

“Mister Findlay gives you such opportunities. Such a life,” Lepsic says and flashes a menu open. “You stay at the Bust-A-Gut penthouse for a weekend, we give you massive freedom and this is how you repay us? Jumping ship. Come on, the Globo-Goodness Corporation Family of Corporations deserves better than this. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“They deserve only the finest,” Dean says, not totally knowing where this comes from. He’s riffing again, the same way
Broken Piano for President
was written.

“Just tell me, just whisper in my ear,” Lepsic says, cupping a hand to the side of his head. “Just say this horseshit isn’t true and I’ll leave you alone. Malinta will probably stick around and order a drink, too. Just promise me that I’ve been lied to by…” He looks at the ceiling and licks pink collagen lips. “Let’s see, by my coworkers, by my assistant, Jesus, even my acupuncturist.”

The restaurant spins to life. Lepsic moves slow as the entire room chases its tail. Dean grows nauseous sorting a big idea out between his ears. This lie folds into a beautiful origami swan, so neat and perfect Dean is positive it won’t work.

Malinta stamps her foot but still manages to look calm. “Well, Dean?” She locks hands on hips, “
Well
?”

“What exactly have you heard, Mister Lepsic?”

“Oh, jeez,
Mister Lepsic
,” he wipes his forehead with a napkin and pokes a fork in the air toward our hero. “It’s me, Thurman. I’m your friend. Haven’t we built a trust? Oh God, when people start talking like this I get really nervous. And then, once in a while, when those nerves start to chew on my brain, I hang people from their ankles over the bridge.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Dean says. He’s unfolded and refolded his big plan, he likes the shape. “Okay,
Thurman
, what have you heard?”

Lepsic rolls his shoulders and neck until they crackle. “Heard you’re the VP of Development at Winters. Heard you took Bust-A-Gut’s job offer and crapped all over it. Heard Clifford Findlay, your rightful boss might I remind you, the CEO of this company, isn’t too happy either.”

“
Furious
is a better way to F-ing put it,” Malinta adds.

“What?” Lepsic turns sharp to his sidekick. “Stop that. You sound like a little kid. You used to swear like a prison guard.”

“Sorry.”

“I liked that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Returning focus to Dean: “Let’s just say he’s pissed.”

“
Ticked
.”

“He is not a man you want to tick off—” Lepsic shoots Malinta another look. “Piss off.”

Deshler nods. The whirlwind room draws tighter, waitresses make a breeze as they blur past. Steam pipes of customer noise wail louder than before. Malinta leans forward so she doesn’t miss a vowel.

“Would either of you like something to eat?” Dean says. “Supposedly they have a New York strip that will make you cum.”

“Get serious,” Lepsic says, running a palm over his cake frosting hair. “You know I don’t eat that garbage.”

“Shrimp fettuccine is a knockout, too.”

“C’mon, quit clowning around.”

“Meatballs?”

“You know I’m vegan. Haven’t eaten anything born with eyes…hell, anything
born
period, in fifteen years.”

The room washes in silence again. There is a tickle in Dean’s throat. That confused face reappears—jaw swinging open. He restocks that origami genius plan for a moment. “Wait, so the vice president of the second biggest
hamburger
restaurant in America doesn’t eat meat?”

Lepsic’s eyes roll until they are blank white bulbs.

“Seriously?”

“I think you said it best once, ‘Doesn’t matter if I’m selling beef or balance beams: it’s just a job.’ You know me, Dean, I’m into the logistics, into the challenge.” The man softens a little in the face and shoulders. “I’m certainly not here because my daddy gave me a title like that idiot, Winters.” Lepsic’s bare fingers pinch out the candle between them. “Which brings me back to my point, we hear you’re lead-off hitter on Olde-Tyme’s development team.”

All the noise, all the rattling plates, all the servers babbling out tonight’s special are swallowed by a wall of quiet in Dean’s head. The only sound he picks up are ears ringing and a growing heartbeat.

A couple guys have gotten tough and macho like this at Lothario Speedwagon shows. Dean has defended himself with mixed results.

• Q:
  “Why don’t you assholes stop making all that noise and play some Zeppelin?”
  

A:
Dean stopped the band to belch through an a cappella version of
Dancin’ Days
. He reached the second line of the song before the man broke the singer’s rib with a fist.

• Q:
  “Hey fag, why don’t you come over here so I can kick you in that stupid pink mask?”
  

A:
Dean walked to the edge of the stage in between songs—during the usual confused silence—lifted that pink mask and vomited back a cheap bottle of cabernet atop the heckler.

• Q:
  “Hey, why did you get all this mustard in my wife’s hair?”
  

A:
Dean didn’t have time to answer because the man’s fist immediately followed the word “hair” and smashed his teeth.

“Well, Dean,” Lepsic says, his face growing distant. “Are you on Winters’ team?”

Without the distinct height advantage of a stage or a vomit-cannon full of red wine, Dean decides this is a time for peace, not war. He unrolls his plan, studies it one last time and decides to give it a try.
What would Deshler do?
He thinks.

Here is the answer.

“You bet your ass I’m on their team,” Deshler says and pops the shrimp in his mouth. Dean hears dishes rattle and orders taken again. The pair across the table grows redder with anger every second he spends chewing. Dean pushes one last shrimp around the plate and lets the fork squeal across cloud white china. “That’s exactly how I hoped it would look.” The room’s tension begins to deflate.

Lepsic clears his throat. Malinta straightens her skirt with a tug. Deshler swallows and their eyes laser on him again. “Go on,” the muscle bulged vice president growls, unsure.

“How better to stay ahead of the competition than having one of
us
in the development department?” Despite what Malinta told him, Deshler is still about thirty percent sure he’s never worked for Bust-A-Gut. But judging from Lepsic’s face bending into a grin, this is the right answer.

The space between his shirt buttons spreads as his chest takes dramatic breaths. Dean begins to wonder if he can survive a drop off the bridge. Hopes the water isn’t too cold, because it’s a long swim. “Then what do we have Corporate Intelligence for?” Lepsic says.

“Good question. Why do you?”

“Cut the cutie pie business.”

“How deep are your agents? What do you have, some janitors and some mailroom clerks? I guarantee I’m the only VP at Winters who is a…” Deshler grins. “What’s the title you offered me at Bust-A-Gut?” He lets that one sink in, stunned that it actually fell from his mouth. Dean wishes he had a beer. “At any rate, I’m the only Bust-A-Gut employee who’s a VP at Winters, I’ll bet your sister’s virginity on that one,
Mister
Lepsic.”

Dean doesn’t look, but it seems like every customer and waiter in the room pauses. The puddling sweat on his body senses it.

Lepsic rocket launches a laugh, it rattles icicles loose above the entrance. “Look at this guy,” he says to Malinta. “When does he sleep? When does he turn off?”

“I’m a natural, what can I say?” That one also slips out unannounced.
Jesus, I’m really good at this bullshit
, he thinks.
Being a singer or an artist or whatever isn’t my calling. For sure.

“He certainly,” Malinta carefully mouths the words. “Is one-of-a-kind.”

“I’ll have HR whip up a contract outlining all this, of course. I mean, how do I know you’re not pulling the same stunt on us? Mister Findlay is never pleased with deception. Unless, of course, he’s the one doing the deceiving.”

Deshler twists some pasta around the fork. “You know I’m not pulling the old switcheroo because Winters is a fool, Thurman. Plus, you’ll kick my ass if I do anything like that, am I right?”

“My man,” Lepsic says and sniffles.

The room’s tension is totally out of air and Dean relaxes. He starts wondering how much cash he can get if he sells all those Butthole Surfers records and bootleg videos.
Who needs Gibby
? he thinks.

“So where is Mister Findlay anyway? I haven’t seen him in…”