Broken Piano for President (44 page)

The sun is setting earlier every day and the last gray-blue flecks of sky are nearly gone. Deshler sucks in a milkshake-smooth breath of frigid air and walks toward the front doors.

In Dean’s perfect world, Pandemic and Henry are setting the gear up right now. According to his drummer, Henry is totally excited about the gig. Deshler, though, wants to die.

Napoleon’s
never met the band without their masks on. He’s only heard me talk about those guys
, Deshler thinks.
Thank God he won’t recognize them when they load in, if he’s here, that is.

Deshler’s insides twist tight and his toes shrink into fists after turning the corner, staring his old coworker in the face. Their steamy winter breaths mold into one cloud. “Hey buddy, been a while.”

“You could say that,” Napoleon says.

The air under the awning is colder than Dean remembers. It burrows through jacket lining and makes him shiver.

“Look man, I’m really sorry I ditched you and haven’t been around, there’s just been…” he tries not to sound like an asshole. “Some
things
.”

Impatient, Napoleon looks over Dean’s shoulder like a car is coming. “What do you want?”

“I’m just going upstairs.”

“Why don’t you use the back door like usual?”

“How’d you know that?”

“People talk, Dean. People are always watching.”

“Man, I feel like shit. Can I buy you a beer soon and hang out? Make it up to you somehow.”

“How about tonight?”

“I’ve got some
things
going on tonight. Upstairs. I really, really wish I could. But this can’t be ignored.”

Dean, happily, doesn’t feel like an asshole.

There’s a bulge of cars waiting for Napoleon to trade their keys for a valet ticket. One guy in back, with a blue SUV, honks a little hiccup.

“Maybe…listen, unless you’re gonna park cars, I’ll catch you later. I have
things
to do.”

Dean is an asshole.

“Sorry man, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

Napoleon’s face puckers into a knot and the tension in his voice softens. “Yeah, forget it. Maybe I’ll see you later. I really have been wanting to talk. I still have one of my films to show you, okay? Only a couple minutes of your time.”

“Yeah, you bet. That’d be really great. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Great! Okay, when? Deshler? Hey, when?”

Dean is gone.

“God, I’m a pussy,” Pandemic says. “It’s been, what, a couple weeks since we’ve played?”

The Beef Club is empty and everything echoes. “Yeah,” Henry says, huffing, pushing a tall bass amp on the stage. “I know. This shit feels way heavier. The road’ll do that, I guess. Makes you soft.”

“I never said soft.” The last-night fragrance of stale beer is in the air.

“You said pussy. That’s worse.”

“No thanks. You can be soft, asshole. I’ll be a pussy.”

“Okay.”

“You might think you’re off the hook by playing this show.”

“I never said that.”

“Good, because you’re not.”

Minutes pass, Pandemic adjusts his Konkers until they are in perfect chaos. Under the tall windows, gashes and hammer slashes shine through the oil drum’s black paint. He whomps it a few times. “Damn, can a barrel be out of tune? It sounds like crap.” He smacks the floor tom a few times. “Man, this too. I think that gunshot screwed my hearing up. My ears’re ringing bad. Does this sound right?” He hits the floor tom a dozen times.

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know, man. I can hardly tell if I sound okay.”

Hamler’s bass goes:
Blomp-Blomp-Buh-BlompBlomp.
He steps on the distortion pedal, a tiny red light shines to life and his amp explodes with the same noise as their ringing ears.

Hamler cuts the squealing and watches his bandmate. He’s been fighting it—trying to play nice—but Henry can’t hold back. “So you didn’t see
anything
?”

“Man, we’ve been over this.” Pandemic works hard to ignore him.

“Just, come on, play along. Did you see what they did to him?”

“No, man. I told you. I was in my own head pretty deep. Like deeper than I’ve ever really been. It was so intense I was cleaning the little cracks between stereo buttons on the dashboard. I couldn’t stop. I had to.”

“And you didn’t see what they did with Martin?”

“No.”

“Did you hear a scream or a gunshot or a stab?”

“Who hears a stab?”

“Juan.”

“No, man. I spaced it. I don’t know.”

“Just focus…”

“Leave me alone.”

Several more minutes pass. Silent.

“We should set up the black lights,” Pandemic says.

“That’s Deshler’s job, forget it,” Hamler says, picturing bitter thoughts about their last meeting in the practice space.

“Go easy on Dean. We’ll deal with lights later. Let’s just put on the masks before anyone—”

A motherly woman in a wide skirt walks through the door of the silent club. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Just what do you think you’re doing here?”

The sun powers through the windows in wide yellow blocks, bordered by shadow, outlined on the floor. She is standing inside a sunny rectangle.

Pandemic sounds surprised, “Setting up.”

“We’re playing a gig tonight,” Henry says.

“Well, young man, I don’t recall scheduling any
entertainment
for this evening.” She marches toward the stage, in and out of the light.

“Somebody did. We’re going on in a couple hours.”

“We’ve received a few complaints from guests. I’m going to have to ask you both to leave,” she props up a smile. “Immediately.”

Henry and Juan freeze and look at each other, hoping one will make a move and speak up.

“Immediately,” she repeats.

There is nothing but the sound of her toe tapping hardwood. This continues long enough for the bandmates to trade looks and urging eyes, begging the other to speak.

A voice booms through the club, so gritty and huge it could only be one man: “Doris, I can answer all your questions.”

The three turn as Deshler Dean walks to the stage in a suit and tie, that normally wild hair brushed back. He does not look like himself.

“Doris, I hired these fellas. It’s Ed from Accounting’s fortieth anniversary party.” At this point, lies squeeze out of Dean the way cheese oozes from Mozza-Burger buns. “This is the jazz combo I found. Didn’t the night manager tell you any of this?”

“Mister Dean, everything must be okayed through me. Not Randy.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. This is my first big party for the company and, well, gee, Mister Winters will be so disappointed if it doesn’t go off without a hitch.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm.”

“Could you let this slide, just as a favor to an old coworker?” Some amazing, charming look overcomes Dean’s features. It’s confidence. He wears it well.

She holds a breath and looks at the ceiling. The folds of her neck tighten smooth and milky. “Alright, Deshler. But you’re still a valet in my book. Just keep the volume down and finish before eleven, please.”

“Consider it done, Doris. You won’t regret it. You’re making the most powerful man in the city
very
happy.”

The singer watches her leave and spins around. “Hello boys!” Dean bellows. “How were your so-called funerals?”

A few hours later, employees from both hamburger chains nearly spill their drinks at the sight of the young fast-track executive, Deshler Dean, standing on stage with a fat guy and a skinny guy wearing neon pink masks.

If Deshler chopped off every confused corporate face that says: “
Dean
? Is that
Dean
up there
?
” he could fill the bed of a pickup truck.

The Club seems extra packed this Friday. Men and women are lined along the walls, sitting on laps, clustered in clots around the room. There is a ton of space near the stage—everyone leery about getting too close.

A nerdy guy in glasses and a suit, hair greased to a part, walks up. An Asian couple follows, better dressed than any executive at the club.

“Snazzy venue, guys,” he says. “I don’t know if I’ve introduced myself to the rest of the band. Antonio McComb, I’ve been working with our man, Deshler, to get you guys signed to Moral Compass.”

“Hey,” says Henry with a warm smile, lifting his mask.

“Right on, bro,” Pandemic yells and taps on a cymbal. His eyeballs roll around at odd angles through the mask’s holes. Martin’s Flu Burger meth is picking up steam. Getting stronger and stronger, pushing harder. Pandemic likes that.

“This is Toji and Yung-Yung,
The Suits
as we call them at Moral Compass.”

Toji is a paper doll. Henry imagines his bass vibrations blowing the woman across the room. The man is a sharp blade with a deep black mustache.

Hellos are exchanged. The pair walk away and take a brave seat by the stage.

“Okay, it’s up to you guys now,” McComb says to Deshler, resting a wingtip on the edge of the riser. Dean looks deeply at McComb. Big open pores, nervous eye ticks, clipped fingernails—the Cliff Drinker has absolutely no recollection of ever meeting. None. “Impress these two and there’s a sack of cash with your name on it.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“Literally.”

“Literally?”

“The suits deal in cash, because, supposedly, they’re mobbed-up. Maybe. Who knows?”

“Okay.”

“So, literally, a sack of cash. Well, not
literally
, literally. They’re too classy to lug around a sack. But who’s being picky, right?”

Pandemic twists the drum’s tuning peg. He hits it with a hollow thump and scratches his scalp.

“Yeah, well, we’ll just do our thing and see what happens,” Dean says. He catches a glimpse of hundreds of the semi-familiar faces filling the Club. Double Harry, by the window, peers up through wiry bifocals. Thurman Lepsic walks over and shakes Harry’s hand, they grin, chat like old roommates and motion toward the stage. Deshler tries to swallow but his throat is a desert.

Dean realizes he is choosing between work and art, security and happiness.
Actually, the choice is easy. After my bosses see the band, I’m probably fired anyway.

Hamler gobbles a handful of jawbreakers and crackles open a beer can. “Oh shit, beer,” Deshler says to nobody specific. “I’m sober.” A watusi of nerves dance through his chest and stomach. He’s never performed bone-dry before. For the first time in dozens of concerts he wonders if people will get, or possibly hate, Lothario Speedwagon. The nervousness erodes that usual pre-show swagger down to a limp.

Holding a heavy microphone to his lips, Dean gurgles: “Check…test, test, test, mic one, is anybody listening?” It flash-floods against the windows. Cheap drinks shake toward the edge of tables. The entire crowd plugs a finger in its collective ear. Deshler twists the level down a hint.