Broken Piano for President (41 page)

That internal focus that won him so much praise in the Statistics Department eventually cost Dad his job. Mom was supporting the group pulling double shifts at the restaurant, developing shaking hands and twitchy eyes in the process.

“Dad, did you hear about that?” “Dad, check this out.” “Dad, Dad, hey Dad.” It was nothing special, but it was the last spark before Father’s wick blew out. All young Dean wanted was a taste of Father’s time. Just a moment where the man would listen. The boys yelled louder and louder until Daddy Dean’s circuits popped.

Sitting over his burger, a perfume of soy in the air, Dean’s father grabbed a chopstick and lanced both eardrums so fast nobody knew why the man was shrieking until blood rained onto his shoulders.

That was the last time Dean saw his father. Later that day, his older brother fed the young Cliff Drinker schnapps and introduced Gibby.

Dean knows he doesn’t need the silence as bad as Dad. But now there is a brief appreciation for that quiet desire. There is such a pleasant electricity running through the world when you don’t want to be heard and nobody is listening, anyhow.

At this hour, most executives are passed out and home. Dean’s eyes wander around and the ice shuffles in his Rusty Knife. The Cliff Drinker’s never noticed the far corner of the Club before. The room is so empty he now sees that end is clearly taller by a foot.

Dean remembers flipping through that pictorial history of the hotel sold in the lobby. The place was once a landmark of elegance. The Club used to be a small ballroom with chandeliers and tall murals and swing bands.

Looking up at the hacksaw patch job on the ceiling, it’s pretty clear where the chandelier hung. Deshler assumes the other end of the Club is the tiny stage where bands jazzed it up.

He takes a quiet, pleasant sip and checks a phone message. “Dean, Thurman Lepsic here. Call us immediately. Mister Findlay wants to strike while the iron’s smoking. I’m sure you’ve heard, but we had to fire Malinta for her participation in that stupid show. Impersonating a Winters employee…well, technically I’m supposed to call the show stupid and careless and disavow any approval. But wow, what a woman. She sacrificed herself for Bust-A-Gut. You’re a lucky bastard. We’ll have to make a statement, of course, but, as you know, people never listen to apologies. Damage’s been done. Anyhow, every news outlet in the country is picking up on this Winters crystal meth story. Their head is through the guillotine. We just need…need to pull the rope, I guess.
Chop.
This is beyond urgent. We have to come up with something hardcore. Or something classy. Which do you think? Call me.”

Next message: “Deshler, it’s Double Harry, holy shit, we’re everywhere. How did we miss this? Jesus, the news is saying that little kids,
eleven-year-olds
, are smoking this stuff. I don’t even know what crystal meth is, let alone that it could’ve been made from hamburgers. Dean, Mister Winters is bouncing off the walls. We haven’t heard from Tony, which means the bus is still in play. I repeat, the
bus
is still in
play
. You need to get here immediately. Jesus H., I don’t know what’s going on. We’ve got PR and Marketing thinking it over. This is DEFCON One stuff. Yes, I said,
one
. Did you know most people misuse that term? Five is the least serious, one actually means
nuclear war imminent
.

“Regardless, get down here immediately, got it?”

Next message is a whisper, barely more than static. Dean strains to listen: “Deshler, old buddy, hey man, hey hey hey, this is Pandemic. I’m making this quick. Everyone else is sleeping except for Sonja. Funny, I can’t get a wink of shuteye, myself,” he sniffles. “Man, I’m totally down with signing a contract and playing a gig. But, um, we’re kind of underground here. I didn’t tell you this before, but I’m the Space Burger winner. Henry and I have been going around the country with some Russian dudes. He’s my bodyguard. It’s a long story. Anyway, I don’t know if the Purple Bottle is the best place for us to be seen. I’m pretty sure we’re wanted by the police. Call me. Oh, we’re back in town now, so let’s get a move on. One more thing, shot in the dark here, but you don’t happen to work for Olde-Tyme Hamburgers or know some one-armed chick named Delia by any chance?” An endless, grainy pause fills the message. “Oh yeah, and Hamler killed my grandpa…he’s a douche bag. Long, long story.”

“Who is
Sonja
,” Dean asks the Rusty Knife. Whiskey soaks into his stomach as he stares around the room. “Right, the cosmonaut chick…the one that’s supposed to come back to the city to kill me.” A weight of fear thunders down his throat and nests in his lap.
Well shit, this complicates things.

The bartender went home a long time ago. Dean is alone, but the silence isn’t so pure now. It’s full of audible hiss, like Lothario’s tape.

He needs something to remind him he’s human. He needs someone to push away all the stress and anxiety of life. He thinks, a bit dreamily, that someone might need him to do likewise, what with losing her job and all. Dean dials the number.

“Hello?”

“Malinta, don’t hang up, okay?”

“Dean, do you have any clue how early it is? I can’t believe you even remembered my phone number. What a huge step.”

Dean works up courage and decides he doesn’t care if this sounds stupid. “I saw you, you know, at that boardroom.”

“
That
boardroom? Sweetie, don’t you think I noticed you, too? The whole place saw you. You looked like an idiot. Thank God they don’t know we’re together.”

“Who were they?” he nearly asks, but figures it’ll just piss her off more. So he keeps quiet and takes a sip. Melting cubes clink.

“Jesus, Dean, you’re drinking?”

“Well, yeah, so?”

“Look, I know you must be stressed with everything finally splattering against the fan. But, I can’t. I can’t put up with this. I really can’t have you calling me. I have to worry about all my responsibilities, too. We need stop seeing each other, I think.”

“Wait.” A nausea plagues his stomach. A sorry sickness worse than a morning after abusing Night Train. His lungs work double.

“We’re not going through this again. I told you, no more guilt trips.”

“I was just wondering.” Deshler takes a deep breath, surprised Malinta hasn’t hung up. “Look, I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary. I’m sorry I forgot us. Things have been…well, really abnormal lately. I’m usually pretty reliable.”

“I know you’ve got a lot on the books. I just have too much going on right now to deal with this, too.”

“Really? I heard you lost your job.”

“Well, yeah, that’s a pretty big piece of our goal. Frankly, I should have done it sooner. Now I can focus on the important stuff.”

He knows Malinta is one wrong word from hanging up, so Dean stores this confusion and gets down to business. “All that doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about work. The reason I called is I need you to see the real me, listen to the real me. Well, part of the real me. Something fantastic is happening in my life right now. Apparently, that record contract was real. We’re playing this incredibly important show tonight and I was hoping you’d come to cheer me on.”

Her voice wilts, “Dean…that’s…that’s really sweet. But...”

Without thinking, a defense spits out. “I can’t do this alone. I can’t be a good person, can’t be
myself
. I can’t make this leap without you.” Dean pauses, realizing it’s true.

She breathes long into the phone, matching Dean’s cigarette exhale. “Alright, when and where? You know I can’t miss something like this.”

“Um, well it was supposed to be at the Purple Bottle, but…”

Dean looks at the end of the Beef Club. He paints a picture of what this ballroom was like in full swing. In its glory. Dean invents an idea so good he wonders if he’s drunk already. He scans the far end where jazz once wailed. He imagines men and women dressed fancy, hot music filling the air, elegant dancing—the high-water mark of class and sophistication in town.
The perfect place
, he thinks,
to puke all over the stage
.

“It’s at the club. The Beef Club.”

“Really?” she sounds fairly impressed. Her voice rises, more wowed with each syllable, “I think I see what you’re getting at. Tonight is Friday. God, that’s good.”

“Yep, that’s the place. Crazy huh? But that’ll be convenient for you. You can’t miss it now.”

“This sounds like trouble. Do you think you can pull it off?”

“Of course. Our concerts are very civilized. They’re practically yoga classes.”

“Okay, I’ll,” her voice dissolves into confusion. “I’ll get the ball rolling and tell our friends about it.”

“Great, oh wow, great. I’ll see you then. Take care.”

“Focus, babe.
Focus
.”

Wrecking ball weight comes down on his shoulders. He sweats and uncontrollably taps toes. After enjoying the return of calming silence, he phones Moral Compass Records to leave a message for Antonio McComb.

Dimitri/Carl Janomi is on a bunk, flesh pale and a soaking red blanket cloaking slumped shoulders.

The bus is behind a truck stop on the city limits. Frosty air leaks through hundreds of bullet holes. It smells like powerful chemical cleaners. From the right angle you can see the lonely city skyscrapers outlined in the darkness—one for each hamburger giant—poking up like dismembered fingers. The gas pumps and chicken fried steak place and gift shop are dark for the night. The only light is a phone booth waffled with cracked windows.

Sonja drags Dimitri to the front of the bus. Helpless, his head swings limp from side to side.

“Is he dead?” Martin whispers.

“I thought so for a while, but now I’m not sure,” Hamler says, shivering. “We haven’t seen him talk or move since Los Angeles.”

Sonja grumbles into Janomi’s ear. Henry can’t make out the words. The dying actor is a shadow in the dim light—his breath visible. Keith comes out with a backpack and slings it around Janomi’s bloody shoulder. They kick open the door and lower him.

Snooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt
.

“Whough…shit,” Pandemic says. His right palm is cupped to his face amongst shadowed light. White powder grains cling to his hand. He gags out wet throat noises. He hacks a few coughs, licks the palm and turns to the pair. “Martin, thanks for this.”

“Don’t mention it.” He leans back, gently rubbing Henry’s thigh. Inscribing little designs with his fingertip.

“What happened to quitting?” Henry says.

“Man,” Pandemic dazes for a minute, face twitchy. He looks at Henry and his voice gets mean. “Like you’d care. My dad wanted me to quit. My grandpa wanted me to quit. But they never figured it out.”

“It?” Henry says.

“I’ve got reasons.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, it does,” Pandemic snarls.

“Yeah,” Martin nods, a surprisingly sympathetic pucker to his lips. “It does.”

“You need to listen to my man, here,” Juan says, offering Martin a fist to bump. “He’s not nearly as big a prick as
some
people.”