Broken Piano for President (30 page)

“I can’t do this, I can’t…” He rolled over and his back convulsed with sobs.

Delia stomped up and pulled Pandemic’s leg. She convinced the heir to go and stand on the flimsy stage with the other five, then come back and be a bawl baby later.

The crowd goes nuts. A line spills out the restaurant doors. People whisper about hoping there are enough Space Burgers to go around. American hero Juan Pandemic looks confused. He looks like he’s wearing a disguise.

At the core of the mayhem, near the back of the stage, Sonja slinks behind Yuri and wraps his body in a Russian military submission hold. The unsuspecting cosmonaut’s limbs twist at bizarre angles, his face burns fluorescent tones.

The audience waves banners: “Cosmonaut Fever,” “From Russia with Love,” “I Heart Space Burgers.” There is a flurry of excitement, jumpy and electric in the air. The noise speaks in tongues.

Keith reaches into the cargo pocket of his jumpsuit. He slips behind Pavel before Yuri drops. In a kung-fu quick move, Keith’s foot buckles the backside of Pavel’s knee. Keith floats behind the now-kneeling spaceman and shoves the barrel of a black handgun shallow in the plump cosmonaut’s ear. He pulls the trigger.

The crowd noise strangles the huge gun crack quiet, down to a finger-snap. But every television crew in the greater Los Angeles area captures the murder as a fire hose of blood and chunks spray loose.

Dimitri drops his waving hand. On the nightly news footage, he smiles along, like missing a prank. He turns back to Delia for direction. Her clipboard clatters to the ground.

Skinny little Keith, his blue jumpsuit covered with a wet flash of red, turns and stuffs the gun in Yuri’s mouth and pulls the trigger with similar results.

On the shaky video flashing across eleven o’clock televisions tonight, contest winner Juan Pandemic flops his hands at the crowd, oblivious to the carnage and splatter around him. His mind on another planet.

Like choreography, Sonja grabs Dimitri’s limp arm, tugs it and trips their leader to the ground. The now silent crowd blocks all but Keith’s upper body in every camera shot. The beef-crazed mob stands motionless as the struggle tumbles across their view. The gun is clearly pointed toward the body of the chief cosmonaut. With the crowd noise at zero, three shots pop.

By the final bullet, Juan Pandemic is now in a headlock. He’s so weak he might crumble into sand under Sonja’s surprisingly muscular arms. Keith, standing lean and edgy, motions for Hamler to leap onstage.

Hamler recalls the violently ill feelings from murdering Christopher Winters. That disgusting stomach and chest seem like a game of double dutch standing at the edge of the stage, a mist of blood nesting in his beard.

A tiny voice, stop-drop-and-rolling in the back of his brain, whispers crucial spy training: “
Grab your gun. Save the day. They are not your friends.”
Henry tightens his spine and goes for the holster. Suddenly, the firearm in Keith’s hand looks familiar. Suddenly, the sting of failure is all his body knows.

Hamler lets out a defeated sigh.

The bloody cosmonaut whispers in Little Henry’s ear.

Defenseless, Hamler steps to the microphone and speaks in a shaky voice. “The Moscow Two want the world to know the truth. Do not attempt to stop them,” he says, nodding while Keith whispers more, jerking and angry. “Or they will begin ending civilian lives, as well. These three were not innocent. Do not attempt to stop the Moscow Two. They wish for all police to…” his voice echoes through the parking lot and dissolves into Los Angeles smog.

A whirlwind mob grows from the center of the crowd. News cameras capture a stampede of burger-loving, death-fearing Americans. This is the point most cameramen are trampled—their feed whipping into a thrashing blur and growl of static.

One camera’s sound rolls amongst the retreating avalanche. When it plays on
Nightbeat
, Hamler’s voice booms over the PA: “Please, these two say they only want justice.” There is a lot of static and the meaty slap of skin slamming skin. “These two say you do not know the real truth about outer space and Winters hamburgers.”

Each heartbeat stomps into Deshler’s brain, swelling it larger—larger—larger. He pokes open an eye and recognizes all the posters. His bedroom smells moist, forest moist.

Coiled into a ball on the bed, Dean is still tightly wrapped in clean office clothes. A necktie chokes across his Adam’s apple. He’s fifty percent sure he’ll find no bloodstains.

The napalm power of
Broken Piano for President
shakes through Dean’s memory, jiggling the jelly of his eyeballs.

He checks the nightstand and finds both wallet and keys in sight. This is looking like another Hall of Fame morning. Already, it’s one hundred percent better than yesterday at work.

Though Deshler’s insides attempt a somersault, his lips burst open a large grin, thinking maybe he’s finally getting the hang of Cliff Drinking. Thinking maybe he can be a responsible drunk.

Deshler reaches for the wallet to see how much money was blown last night, but instead picks up a folded sheet of white paper beneath it. A murky splotch of stale beer has spidered toward the edge and dried:

Moral Compass Records

2613 SE Pine St

Portland, OR 97214

503-234-6990

This contract hereby employs the musical services of
Lothario Speedwagon
to
Moral Compass Records
. Upon signing, the artist(s) will receive a monetary advance of $
500,000
against all future record sales. All profits from said recordings shall proceed directly to
Moral Compass Records
until the advanced sum is balanced. All profits after this point will be divided fifty percent (50%) to
Moral Compass Records
, twenty-five percent (25%) to Artists and Repertoire representative
Antonio McComb
and the remaining twenty-five percent (25%) to the artist(s)
Lothario Speedwagon
.

This contract represents a legal commitment on behalf of the artist(s)
Lothario Speedwagon
to render all master recordings and copyrights for
three (3)
albums and/or
eight (8)
years of service to
Moral Compass Records
. In return,
Moral Compass Records
will handle all manufacturing, marketing and distribution costs for said recordings.

Deshler Dean
11-29-11

(Signature of Artist #1) (Date)

___________________ _______

(Signature of Artist #2) (Date)

___________________ _______

(Signature of Artist #3) (Date)

Antonio McComb
11-29-11

(A&R Representative) (Date)

Malinta Redding
11-29-11

(Witness) (Date)

“This is so fake,” Dean’s diesel engine rattles. He recalls other bizarre things he’s written with help from his muse, whiskey. His band’s keynote song, for one.

He reads the letter three times before rubbing fingers over the Braille-like notary seal and second guesses.

“Could I have?” he growls and grabs a sip of warm High-Life by the bed. Dean coughs and swallows the old ale. “This, this is…a record deal,” he says, a little more lubricated.

He turns on the clock radio and slips in a cigarette. John Cougar Mellencamp sings about R-O-C-K in the USA. The cigarette tastes like blood.

This takes the cake as the strangest note Deshler has ever woken up with. However, it is a close race:

Notes

• Three Months Ago:
  “Sir, your leotard is back from the dry cleaner.”
  

• Twelve Months Ago:
  “Call me. Franklin Delano Roosevelt – 416-278-1233”
  

• Forty-eight Months Ago:
  A medical bill for the birth of twin girls. $13,755.
  

• Six Months Ago:
  “Healthy Wally’s: 4442 S. Elm Street. 2:00 PM -
  DO not miss
  .”
  

• Twenty-two Months Ago:
  “Dean, give me back the keys to the Wiener Mobile.”
  

“Well, I guess you’re still alive,” Malinta says from the doorway, looking like she tripped a landmine. Her hair is what friends call
frizzy
and hairdressers classify as
beyond repair
. The wound on her blonde head is naked and opened back up. It is pink and meaty in the dim light.

“Hello, Miss
Witness
,” Dean says, feeling usual embarrassment disappear. “Can you maybe tell me what happened last night?” Deshler flaps the contract at her.

“I can’t believe you never told me you are in a mother F-ing band, Dean. How long have we been
working
together?”

“God, I don’t know.” The truth sounds lonesome.

“What other mysteries are you keeping? Where’s the pile of skulls in your closet? Where’s the string of illegitimate kids? How many other secret jobs do you have?”

“Beats me.” More lonesome still.

“It’s like every time I get anywhere near you, you shove me away.”

“I know. I wish I didn’t.”

“So just don’t.”

“My head,” he holds said throbber with two hands, “doesn’t work that easily.”

“That is nowhere near funny, babe. You’ve got too much riding on this to screw up now.” Her voice fizzles into a sleepy hum.