Broken Piano for President (37 page)

Juicy gasoline stink floats into the cabin as the drummer exits. Sonja and Keith motion for Henry to fill the tank. “Hey, Mister Pandemic,” Henry hollers, noticing the place is empty and silent. “Can we borrow your credit card again? Preferably the Timothy Winters one, since I’m guessing it’s the only card that wasn’t canceled years ago.”

Juan Pandemic hovers above the grimy plastic trash barrel between gas pumps. Breathing heavy, Hamler swears Pandemic’s ribs poke through his thin shirt. Henry pickpockets the drummer as a throaty voice splits the air from behind him.

“Pardon me, young fella,” it sings familiar in Hamler’s ear. The bodyguard is wrist-deep in another man’s back pocket. “How about I buy this tank?” it says, smooth, husky and sexy. The kind of voice attached to dark skin and a neatly manicured goatee.

Hamler spins on his heel, chest all jumbled.

“What are the odds, huh, Henry?” says Martin, wearing a smaller white bandage over his nose bridge.

A wild jerk of time whips through Henry Hamler. This, he assumes, is what it’s like getting a money-shot from resuscitation paddles. His body seemingly expands to zeppelin-size, then shrinks to a shirt button. Back and forth, repeat—repeat—repeat.

Slowing down significantly, the simple pitter-patter of the heart plucks Hamler out of the ditch he’s been hiding in since leaving Martin. Guilt washes off like summer mud, fear disappears like steam. Paranoia, however, plants a flag in his brain and claims the land for its own.

According to Hamler’s corporate espionage training manual, when a Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers agent encounters a possible hostile adversary—such as an ex-boss from the company you spied on—the agent is supposed to perform one of four defenses in the first moments of the conflict:

• Use
  Sweep Kick #5
  , rendering the opponent helpless and obtaining higher ground.
  

• Use
  Submission Hold #17
  by twisting the left wrist of the hostile agent until you feel that distinct
  pop
  . This should put the opposition in a state of shock long enough to further assess the situation.
  

• If the enemy appears immediately aggressive, use the heel of your palm to break the enemy’s nose, hopefully jamming the cartilage into the brain, thus ensuring death: Also known as
  Hostility Defense #1
  .
  

• Run.
  

The enemy has been in contact with Henry for a dozen seconds. The young agent hasn’t employed any of the four recommended defenses. Rather, he stares and smiles into Martin’s perfect, chocolaty eyes—praying his hair isn’t a mess.

Hamler reminds himself to relax. Hamler reminds himself this is a coincidence. Hamler reminds himself not to stir Martin’s brain with the bone of his once-beautiful nose. “Wha…Mart…I…Oh, shit.”

“You’re surprised, huh? That’s okay. I don’t normally hang out at gas stations.”
God, that smile
. “But I’m here on good terms.”

Hamler’s temples pool wetness. He remembers watching a training video with Tony. In that flick, a bad guy secret agent tells the good guy this same line. There are five key words that signal deceit. Martin just said all five.

“Martin, you shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s okay, Mister Findlay sent me.”

“Findlay?”

“Henry, you’re not the only one around here who knows how to spy.”

“No, this is just another temp job. The pizza delivery thing didn’t pan out…sorry I didn’t call you.”

Between the gas pumps, Pandemic’s dry heaves sound like gears grinding on a manual transmission.

“Henry, cut it out. I know you’re a spy. I knew all along. I was supposed to spy on
you
. Pretty stupid, huh?”

“But the cheese.”

“I’m a man of many talents. Dairy acquisitions is simply one of them. I just happen to be a little better at espionage.” Martin leans against the bus’s side, arms folded, radioactive charm just dancing from his body.

Hamler inches closer, debating the merits of Sweep Kick #5. Martin’s soul patch is a perfect rectangle below his lip. Henry is hypnotized.

“So the thing between you and I…it was just an act?”

“I didn’t say anything about that.”

“So?”

“Me? I had a good time.”

“M—me too.”

“I like you, honestly, I like you.” His tough hands swallow Henry’s softies.

The Russians yell out the door. They keep faces hidden. Their voices are eager, demanding to know why gas isn’t pumping.

“Tell them Clifford Findlay’s called the cavalry,” Martin says with a smile. His dimple nearly sucks in the entire goatee. “Does that translate?”

“Martin.”

“Listen, you’ve got to trust me here.” Martin puts his manly-strong hand on Hamler’s doughy shoulder. “Bust-A-Gut sent me to help get you back to the city in one piece. In case you didn’t notice, the police aren’t trying very hard to stop you guys, but Winters is.”

“No.” Henry’s skin is overcome with the cold air. He’s not wearing a jacket and pinpricks form along his flesh.

“Who do you think shot out your window and your driver?”

“What are you saying?” Hamler doesn’t really care what Martin says as long as he keeps grasping that shoulder. A heart-shaped sonic boom passes through Henry’s body.

“This is why I like you so much. You’re so damn innocent. It’s really cute.”

“Innocent?”
Cute?
The thought gives his heart more fizz.

“Henry, you four are
bad
publicity. Horrible. Every second this fiasco is on the news, Winters loses money and market share. There are a lot of people trying to stop this bus. I’m here to help.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does. Bad press for Winters is good news for Bust-A-Gut. Get it?”

Martin uncaps the tank and starts filling. The fuel pumps slow like pudding.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Martin. No offense.” Hamler sucks on his cheek. It gives him a stomachache to say. “But I don’t think you should be here. With us. It’s my responsibility to protect—”

“Okay,” Martin’s voice trails off.

Pandemic crawls between them. Oil stains soak into his jeans. Martin grins like a proud papa watching baby’s first scoot across the carpet.

“Look, I’ll lay it out for you,” he continues. “If you guys don’t let me help, you’ll probably be dead. Not just the Russians, all of you.”

“How can I trust you?”

“Trust your gut.”

Hamler’s gut is a sprinkler system.

“Come on little guy,” Martin says to the crawling bug of a hamburger heir. He lifts Pandemic the way he does milk jugs. “In you go.” Playful swat on the ass. “You’re going to be the worst publicity of all.”

Propping frail Timothy Winters on the bus step, Martin digs in a coat pocket. Hamler tenses. If this man wasn’t adorable, he tells himself, Submission Hold #17 would be in order. That pocket could house a gun or a knife or a bomb.

Instead, Martin pulls out a plastic baggie, knotted into a tight egg of white dust.

“I know you’re hurting, man. Listen up, this is some serious shit. Hey, hey—” Martin shakes Pandemic until his pained eye slits zero in. “It’s produced from
very
pure sources,” Martin says, palming the lump into Juan Pandemic’s fist. “Careful with this, I don’t want your heart blowing out.”

Some color leaks back into Pandemic’s rice paper cheeks. Eye slits widen. A meth-tooth smile zigzags across his face.

Henry watches this drug deal go down without swallowing a breath. His stomach problems aren’t getting better. Empty cold breeze flaps his clothes.

Henry and Martin let the numbers on the gas pump rise and watch one another carefully. Something bright and starlit and beautiful glows inside Henry’s chest. He knows he shouldn’t trust what Martin says, but is powerless.
Kiss him
,
kiss him
,
kiss him
repeats in his mind, but he holds still. The pump clicks off and Martin steps close to Hamler, maybe aiming to connect lips.
Kiss him
.

Hamler doesn’t fully fall in love with Martin until around the fourth bullet rips through the gas station air. Martin, mouth puckered and ready, takes note when two dime-sized holes magically appear on the shell of the bus. Martin yanks back, tosses Henry inside, and leaves a stack of twenty-dollar bills for the gas. The perfect gentleman.

Inside, Martin shoves Sonja into the driver’s seat as bullets shatter the side mirror and the head of a gas pump. That’s when Hamler discovers a jawbreaker in his pocket. That’s when Henry’s heart starts purring for Martin again. Louder than ever before.

Let’s take another quick break. We’ll catch you up if anything noteworthy happens to Juan or Deshler or Hamler in the next few minutes. Cool?

So, let’s pretend you and I just met for coffee and are making small talk. Yes, my wife’s fine. She says hi. How’s the job treating you these days? Oh, I say with a pouty face, hang in there, things’ll get better.

But, let’s not waste time, okay? Let’s slice directly into the turkey breast of this talk. “So, what’s the deal with this crystal meth?” you say. “I watch the reports and read investigative newspaper articles. I know American teenagers ingest it like termites in a Louisville Slugger warehouse. But what
is it
?” you ask.

Other questions include: “Is it
bad
for you?” “What’s it made from?” and “Where can
I
get some?”

Whoa, easy. One question at a time. Anxious, aren’t we?

Let me tell you what I know. Methamphetamine is classified as a psychostimulant by the FDA. This drug is once-in-a-great-while prescribed to narcoleptics and overactive tots with ADHD. It was originally seen as a medical breakthrough and extremely useful by doctors everywhere. But, like most useful medical breakthroughs, some industrious American learned how to steal it, boil it down into nuggets and smoke it.

Crystal
meth is a colorless rock version of the above. And in case you don’t watch the news or read investigative reports, it is very popular. And the vast majority of users, unlike medicinal Methamphetamine fans, aren’t concerned with curing their narcolepsy. These adventurous boys and girls are more interested in staying awake for days at a time and screwing like their genitals are carved from marble.

“Wait, hold on,” you say. “What are
Psychostimulants
?”

Let me break it down for you. Remember when you used to pop a Yellowjacket during finals week to stay up until dawn and study? Yeah, that’s right: Speed. Well, crystal meth and speed are practically kissing cousins. Just think of your little study-buddy as a Roman candle and Crystal as the booster rocket that propels cosmonauts into orbit.

Former users claim the drug is one hundred times more addictive than heroin or cocaine, which could explain meth’s popularity since the beginning ticks of the twenty-first century. Another no-brainer is directly related to its cheap production costs. Unlike more exotic narcotics—your heroins, your cocaines, which must be imported—crystal meth is as American as baseball and obesity. Armchair chemists from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon set out to decode this prescription drug’s contents and were happy to discover whipping up a batch was as easy as a drive to the nearest Wal-Mart.

The drug can be produced cheaply by combining household cleaners and over-the-counter medicine. The battery that powers this amphetamine juggernaut is called pseudoephedrine. Go look in your medicine cabinet right now, chances are some tiny plastic bottles with this magic drug are right in front of you. So, with pseudoephedrine, a coffee pot, some lye and a little American elbow grease, you could be cooking your first batch of meth instead of reading this book.