Broken Piano for President (28 page)

The screen cuts to a shot of Leah and this man sitting on a patio near the eighteenth hole of a golf course. “Dexter Toledo is the spokesman for Health Watch International, a health and wellness advocacy group taking on the impossible task of breaking America’s obsession with all things greasy and beefy.”

“Leah, these are wonderful times we live in,” Toledo says happily. He wears a white and red polo shirt and a straw golf hat.

“That’s not what I expected you to say, sir. Not with thousands of Americans dying from heart failure each year. Not with more children growing morbidly obese by the hour. Not with the restaurants one-upping each other with increasingly outrageous gastronomic stunts every day.”

Toledo closes his eyes and shakes his head the way people do when Jesus enters their hearts on late night church shows. “It’s a wonderful time, young lady, because we have the power to change all that.
All
of it. I’m not happy saving one person from heart disease and kidney failure. I want to save a million. I want to see cancer move ahead of heart disease as America’s big murderer.”

“You
want
people to die of cancer?”

His eyes widen a twitch. “Let me rephrase that. I want to live in a world where we have to worry about real threats like shark attacks, falling from ladders, and coconuts—not what’s for dinner.” His voice is peppy as Santa Claus after a pot of espresso. “Health Watch informs America of its options and how to fight Big Beef where it hurts.”

“Where is that?”

“In its wallet and its image. I want to show America how people are happier and healthier when they eat an apple off the tree, not a hot apple pie from a tiny cardboard box.”

The show concludes with Toledo providing stunning scientific connections between heart attacks and deep-fried bacon cheeseburgers. He calls for all Americans to break their addiction. “America, Health Watch is setting up a center near you. Health Watch challenges Big Beef to come up with more evil foods. In fact we dare them. It’s just going to give us more ammunition.”

“Wow, that’s a powerful message. Any final words, sir?”

Dexter Toledo stares deep into the camera with his first serious face of the interview: “Have no fear,
Healthy Wally
is on the way.”

What would Deshler do?

Dean strolls into work well-rested. Birds chirp new songs, colors reinvent themselves.
The band didn’t work out for a reason
, he thinks.
I can be an artist,
this pauses his walk down the hallway, mouth unhinged a little,
just a hamburger artist. Lothario would waste my time and creativity.

His Gibby-centric orbit is misaligned—maybe permanently. He’s been reading Christopher Winters’ biography and brushing up on Hamburger Philosophy. “I Saw an X-Ray of a Girl Passing Gas” has been pushed into the darkness in favor of “Axis of Edible.”

Dean has a stack of notes under his arm. Ideas for new burgers, more writing than he’s penned during Lothario Speedwagon’s entire lifecycle. His feet skitter across the office floor, excited to speak. Anxious to be heard.

Winters’ Olde-Tyme Development Office is roomy and sterile. People smile when they see Dean. Exotic new burger smells pipe out from under closed office doors.

After pouring coffee and reading email, he decides to check on the new recipe. He sits behind his desk and phones the Olde-Tyme Test Kitchen. “So how does the secret sauce look?”

“Oh, well, sir,” the scientist’s voice cracks. “See, we…see we’re making progress, but I was told you were off the project. Something about, well, the
Nightbeat
show last night.”

“Wait, what? Slow down.”

“Sir, Mister Double Harry asked that we keep a lid on this situation.” The scientist’s voice is antsy to get off the line. “If you have questions, I’d go to him. I’m sorry. I really am.”

Deshler slams the receiver and dials with a swoop of finger punches. Harry answers. “Yep?”

“I just spoke with R and D.” Dean is out of breath, lungs can’t catch up to his confused brain.

“I’m sure you did, kid. Don’t twist yourself up about it. Let the project go. We’ve got lots more to worry over.”

“Ridiculous. Have you talked to Roland about your little move? Harry, this project is my baby.”

“Dean,” the double hamburger inventor says with a sigh. “Do you watch much television these days?”

Harry recaps last night’s
Nightbeat
, saying things like: “Well, now, we can’t prove that it’s anyone we
know
. But it’s pretty easy to narrow down all the gap-toothed employees with a damned scar like that on their chin.”

“Harry, I think I would remember something like that, don’t you?” Deshler rubs the puffy scar tissue below his lips. He regrets going to bed early. He regrets not answering the phone when Malinta’s name came up on the caller ID around eleven last night.

Or did I go to bed early?
he wonders.
Has the Cliff Drinker been out?

Harry isn’t listening and starts speaking before Dean’s lips close. “Now sure,” he says. Deshler can picture the smile on that wrinkled face. “It was most likely an actor, an imposter. But we’ve got to take all the precautions we can. This is top-secret stuff we’re working on. All you have to know is that the sauce prototype is about ready. It’ll be in test markets next week. Now, unless you have a confession to make, I need to go.”

“It couldn’t have been me, Harry. I was home all night. I went to bed early,” he protests, all the while wondering if anyone’s ever gone to therapy for
sleep-drinking
. Our booze werewolf knows he didn’t go on
Nightbeat
last night. But can’t shake the thought that this does sound an awful lot like something a Cliff Drinker would do.

“Do you think I’m stupid? The show is live, but those segments are taped in advance. It could have been yesterday, it could have been shot two weeks ago. Can you account for all that time?”

“Uh, well…”

“Like I said, relax. All you have to know is we’ll be hitting the test markets soon.”

“That seems quick.”

“No, not really. You’d be shocked how promptly we can get things from research to marketplace. It’s being fast-tracked.”

After he hangs up, the rest of the day melts in the palm of Dean’s hand.

At a secret lunch with Thurman Lepsic, Dean’s head sinks into his neck even deeper. “Listen, Deshler, I don’t give a shit what you did on television. Hell yes I saw it,” his second
boss says, voice bursting in brutal Molotov tones. “It stuck a firecracker in all our asses, but we’re moving forward.”

Lepsic sucks in his lunch: a springy lump of tofu and steamed asparagus. Dean doesn’t touch his club sandwich during the forty minute ass chewing.

“You smooth out whatever wrinkles you’ve caused. Just drop this whole
I’m innocent
shtick. It’ll only trip you up. You track down more information about this
Hypothermia
burger. Which reminds me, Findlay and I were discussing your services—”

“Where is Mister Findlay? I haven’t seen him in…” Deshler slows to a hush. He doesn’t remember ever meeting the CEO of Bust-A-Gut. Can’t even picture the boss’s face.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we should hold a family reunion. Never mind. What I need to know is what have you done for us lately?”

“Mister Lepsic…Thurman,” he says, reading a eulogy. “I’ve been spreading myself pretty thin. I haven’t had an—”

Lepsic, with wood-stained tan, flips the last nub of bean curd in his mouth. “Right now, gimme something. Gimme an idea, hotshot.” He wipes large lips and rests behind an empty plate, working a string of asparagus out from his teeth. “I’m not paying you to be a spy. I’m paying you for ideas.”

“Well, sir. We’ve got the Mozzarella Stick Burger. I haven’t read any reports yet, though I’m sure it’ll knock people out. But…”

Lepsic glances at his watch, pulls out a long cigar and lights up. The smell of smoke and the gluey thrill of tobacco squeeze sweat from Deshler’s hands. He hasn’t smoked a cigarette all day—something buried within his genetic code aches for nicotine.

He tries to summon the Drunk Deshler that wowed the Winters management a few days back. “But what if we made the burger even
more
irresistible.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s hear it. Let’s hear it,” Lepsic says, listening, eyebrows dancing.

“We’ve got a big battle to fight with Winters. So what if,” Deshler’s voice curls to a whisper.
Cigarettes…cigarettes…cigarettes.
“What if we put nicotine in the meat? I’m sure there’s some way we can get around the FDA. Restaurants duck those guys all the time. Winters is stroking them right now. If nothing else, just for test markets and maybe the first few weeks of launch. Give people an itch for this product. It’s like subliminal advertising, only
subliminaler
.”

Lepsic counts his fingers and adjusts several shining rings. He rolls the Havana Regulár between thumb and index, letting gray smoke glide to the lights. He gives a corner-of-the-eye glance toward the waiter.

Dean stares for so long that Lepsic takes a second, more concerned, glance. Deshler fills the gap with a low, invisible groan. The VP shifts eyes upward without moving his head. He licks his lips and locks back on Deshler. “Do you read any of our reports?”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean lies, guilty for dipping back into those Gibby-centric ways.

“I find that hard to believe, buddy.”

Deshler can’t get cigarettes off his mind. “It’s a great idea. I can take it to Winters if you don’t like it.” He awards himself a medal. He is a double agent of the highest degree.

A burst of smog flows out Lepsic’s mouth during a laugh: “Yeah, go ahead. Be my guest.”

Deshler stares and waits for the punch line.

“Dean, we already put nicotine in our burgers. Been doing it for years. Go right ahead, let your pal Roland Winters know. Christ, his dad
invented
that idea. We even put that stuff in our milkshakes.”

“Oh.”

“Get the hell out of here. I’m too busy for this shit. You owe me some brilliance, got it? I’m starting a tab.”

“So what does that mean?” Dean says.

“It means that I’m glad you didn’t sign a contract just yet. That little stunt on
Nightbeat
made you untouchable…in public at least. Do you know we have professionals who eliminate bad publicity like you? It makes holding someone off a bridge look like gym class. But I’m just saying. Anyhow, do what you do best. Keep your head low and we’ll keep signing the paychecks for now.”

That evening Deshler sits at a corner table of the Beef Club. The room is nowhere as empty as his drink. Lifting eyes from a fourth Rusty Knife, he catches many stares. Their meaty looks dig deep, their gossip crams his ears. He doesn’t feel drunk. He never does when he’s stressed. But Deshler wants the room to start spinning as fast as possible. Gibby probably would want that. A comfort and familiarity find the Cliff Drinker. He’s sorry for ever thinking about selling those Butthole Surfers bootlegs.