Broken Piano for President (3 page)

He recalculates his percentages.

Deshler’s bass player and roommate, Henry Hamler, wishes America’s most famous man was already dead.

Henry wishes this sour stomach would disappear.

More importantly, he wishes he could figure out where the candy is stashed.

An hour ago, Henry and his partner rolled up to Christopher Winters’ estate: an enormous green and gray eyesore. Hanna-Barbera’s idea of a Victorian mansion. The pair flashed credentials to a guard, walked into the home and set up shop.

Christopher Winters’ biography bulges with success in politics, food service and even a dabble of oral hygiene. One financial magazine called him: “Ben Franklin arm wrestling Colonel Sanders with four-out-of-five dentists cheering them on.”

Henry scratched nervous trails across his arms in preparation for this first face-to-face.

Now the young man stuffs a hand into suit pockets while wandering the halls, pretending to admire artwork painted before Ben Franklin flew his first kite. Henry rubs a thick beard and sighs. This dress shirt fits like spandex and these old slacks squeeze his junk. Henry pecks at M&Ms to hold off the shakes, but doesn’t realize he’s doing it until those sausage fingers scrape his lips. Shards of sugar coating stick to that mousy brown beard.

Winters’ massive oak den reminds Henry of ornate cathedrals with its tall ceiling and odd stained glass shadows. Books and dark wood wrap around the room. Across from a desk, Tony, the cameraman and producer for this mission, untangles the sound equipment. His scalp shines through thin hair. Those clothes are a decade out of style.

Watching Tony work, realizing there’s no turning back, Henry’s lungs mimic rusty mufflers. Tony, always a professional, ignores the noise pollution. A tall grandfather clock swings deep and its ticks reverberate among the rafters. Soft relaxation hums when a sweet smell reminds Henry of Grandpa Hamler: pipe smoke.

The clock clangs ten and Winters strolls into the office on cue, slipping a pipe into a pocket. Henry and Tony don’t need introductions. You don’t grow up in this country without knowing three faces by heart: George Washington, Babe Ruth, and Christopher Winters.

Winters is flimsy now, not the robust governor Hamler remembers. The man’s skin is stained with liver spots and his entire body gives the impression it was scotch-taped together. That trademark red suit is as faded as grandma’s drapes. In its prime, the three-piece was stunning like crushed tomatoes. For decades, Winters hasn’t been seen in public without it.

Winters looks so small in this huge room.
Henry thinks.
So helpless.

The old man rattles around hollow and drags his body behind a desk, settling into a soft chair.

“Mister Winters, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Henry says, jellybean cheeks glowing. The inexperienced interviewer tenses his stomach and smoothes coarse hair. Styling gel makes everything itchy.

“Hello, hello, good morning, hello,” the wrinkled star says. Voice-over men make careers mimicking that folksy growl. “My, you’re a big one.”

“Sir?” Henry’s confidence curls into a ball, sucks its thumb.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

Tony dusts a little makeup on the millionaire’s face before being swatted off. Henry scans the long mahogany hallway for witnesses and locks the door—the three are alone.

Fingers knot up and flex, knot up and flex.
If my life were a tasty Winters Hamburger
, Henry quizzes himself.

Hamler doesn’t want this job. If we’re being honest, he’s scared to do this job. But before this opportunity fell into his lap, doing important company work was all he ever dreamed about.

“Enough of this bologna, son, let’s get down to the ground beef. What makes you think…” Winters says as Tony clips a tiny microphone to the washed-out red lapel. The old man’s signature mustard yellow dress shirt is wrinkled and the matching tie knotted crudely like a shoelace. “There needs to be
another
documentary made about me?” The old man lifts a half-empty bottle of bourbon from under the desk.

If my life were a tasty Winters Hamburger
.

Dressed in the only suit he owns, Henry gulps just off camera. “Well sir, you’re the most important American in the last…” Henry fiddles with a cufflink he’s never worn and his beer keg stomach goes violent.

“Goodyear,” the old man’s throat chugs. “Ask yourself, if your life was a tasty Winters Hamburger, would you be the bun or the beef?”

“
Goodyear
?”

“It’s a blimp. Maybe an uncle of yours.” Winters takes a long sip, tired eyes locked on Henry’s midsection. “Now, if your life was a hamburger…”

Hamler sputters: “That’s a good question.” He’s always felt more like a bun. More like the bland foundation and less of the main attraction. Nothing like the guy people count on in these situations.

Henry scolds:
Get the guts to do a good job
.

“Hello? Hello? Earth-to-interviewer.” Winters speaks up: “Son, I’m going to be dead soon. Wouldn’t you feel bad…” His gummy throat clears. “If you wasted the last precious seconds of my life on something redundant?”

“I would never do that.” Hamler tells himself this is a mistake.
Once a bun, always a bun
. He considers running down the hall, out the door and straight onto a beef patty.

Henry shuffles note cards for the right question, but it’s all an act. A heat finds his chest and shoulders.
Forget it,
he thinks.
You need this job, you are locked in. You aren’t going anywhere. Just ignore how ugly this is going to get.

Tony fiddles with the camera. “Okay,” he says. “We’re ready to roll in five, four, three, two…”

Henry really doesn’t have to ask any questions. The old man has done thousands of these interviews and yawns through his life story.

The Life Story of a Burger Baron

• Winters nearly captured Hitler in the final days of World War Two.
  

• His patriotic celebrity parlayed into a small fortune after inventing the electric toothbrush.
  

• He loved to barbecue for his friends and used that financial freedom to open a chain of hamburger stands.
  

Winters peppers his speech with slogans like, “A burger a day keeps the Nazis away,” and constantly refers to something called
the Axis of Edible
.

In America, it’s impossible to visit an airport, mall or interstate exit without a gray Victorian mansion outlined in green neon staring down your stomach. It’s the unmistakable sign you’ve stumbled onto a Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers. Each restaurant is modeled after the founder’s home, but with slightly more neon.

“Which,” Winters says, running tongue over pale lips. “Led to my interest in politics. And as you probably know…” The man’s deflated sigh fills the room.

“Please continue, sir,” Henry does his best journalist imitation, sensing boredom. His legs fidget as blood tingles for more sugar.

“I was the governor.” Winters waves a lazy hand, lets out a mile-long breath and stares dull into Henry’s face. Babies are born, have families and die in that uncomfortable silence. It reminds Henry of when the band finishes playing a song—the audience never claps or cheers. Without fail, that familiar deep, dumb silence fills the room. It fills Henry, too. “And then I wasn’t the governor.”

This has to work out
, Henry thinks as the old man slugs bourbon. The honey liquid glimmers against the morning sun. Through the enormous picture window, sculpted shrubbery waves on the lawn.
This is my last chance
.
I’m fired if I don’t go through with this. God, I’m an unlucky bastard.

“A few years ago, I retired and my son, Roland, took charge of the restaurants. He’s a good boy and I love what he’s done with the company. I’m told he’s really given my Victorian mansions a modern image.” Winters unloads a verbatim press release but stops after he empties the whiskey glass. “We’re taking a break. I remember more as I run through things.”

Winters takes actual minutes to stand, forcing the camera crew to look away and fidget. Eventually, he wanders off.

During the downtime Tony assures Hamler things are going well, but he needs to start swinging for the fences. Henry needs to ask the question they came to ask. The same question that makes Henry’s insides moldy with disgust.

“It’s time to rise to the occasion, you know?” Tony says, giving his reporter a confident shoulder punch. The cameraman’s voice echoes in the canyon of Winters’ oak office.

Henry breathes deep and wraps two arms around his ballooning body. The last time Hamler felt this uncomfortable, a crowded rock club threw full beer cans at Lothario Speedwagon.
That wasn’t all so bad
, he smirks.
Someone also
hit me with a Baby Ruth.

Winters returns slow and achy. His creased head wobbles from ear to ear. For the first time Henry realizes the American legend is a little drunk.

“My life,” the burger baron grumbles, shaking the lone ice cube in the glass,
pling-pling-pling
. “Has been a complete and utter lie.”

The old man looks pissed. His liver spots grow dark red and brown.

Scared to move this interview forward, Henry stammers. Hamler seriously doubts anyone will save the day and throw a Baby Ruth at his head this time.

Winters’ voice stumbles. “Honestly, it starts before I was a toothbrush-whatever-you-call-it,” he says, breath rushing through his nose like a bubbling teapot. The old man’s voice is now wonderfully vibrant. “I
did
nearly capture Hitler. I was able to arrest many of his staff, people not mentioned in history books. Good God, I did things that made concentration camps look like summer camps. And,” he says, looking daydreamy, “instead of being court-martialed, as I should have been, the Army tells me they appreciate my service. And they would like to help my bank account.”

“My, that’s quite a story.” Henry keeps it skeptical, remembering his training. “Can you prove any of this?” Hamler tugs on that cufflink. He twists it. He runs fingers over every groove and dimple. It’s silver with a black pearl inlay and on loan.

“Quite.” Winters snuffs. “My men all took photos. There are documents, though I assume they are still classified.”

The interviewer gathers a breath and wipes his forehead with a sleeve.

The old man’s eyes shrink to oil stains. “I wish that was all,” he says, vigor fading fast. That once-famous face soaks with tears.

Henry slowly digs a finger into his jacket pocket and pulls out the last M&M. He lets the sugar melt under his tongue until Winters’ drunken vowels ooze and his voice-over purr crashes into a blubber. Winters claims the government reward for his World War Two service was a patent for the electric toothbrush.

“I was also given the recipe for the Winters Burger after a certain politician took a bullet in the sixties. I hired the gunman. I trained him myself. I didn’t pull the trigger.” He stops for nearly a minute to let bourbon touch those shaky lips. “But I may as well have. The CIA was very grateful. Don’t make that face, that’s how they pay under the table. Listen, son, the American people need to know. I’m a horrible person and they must learn.” Winters’ face begs for attention.