Broken Piano for President (45 page)

Pulling off that tie and ruffling his hair back into a mushroom cloud, Dean looks up and sees Winters and Napoleon roll in together like a couple of bowling balls.
Malinta trails behind as the ten pin.

Winters makes eye contact, sends a shimmering smile and flicks a rapid wave in the air.
You’ve picked art, you’ve picked art
, Dean reminds himself.
You’ve picked art.

“What would Gibby do?” Deshler accidentally mutters into the microphone. It broadcasts over the heads of anyone who’s anyone in the burger business.

Making his way around the stage, Roland Winters reaches up and grabs the shooting star executive by the shirt. A soap bubble of anxiety expands inside Dean. “You and I are having a nice talk later. A nice long talk about him,” the ketchup red and mustard yellow walrus points to his son. “About this,” he spreads a hand across the entire stage. “And about your future at Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers. But right now, I have bigger potatoes to French fry.”

Dean reminds himself where art needs to rank in life. The soap bubble pops into a shiny spray. “I quit,” slips out Dean’s mouth. The feeling is electric. “Listen, I choose art,” he screams, but the boss has already gone and started yelling at Juan Pandemic. Dean doesn’t mind. A sturdiness builds inside him—he doesn’t need people to listen.

“Just what do you think you’re pulling, champ?” CEO Winters says, kneeling behind his son’s drum kit. “There are a
lot
of people who want to have a word with you. I didn’t even know whether you were alive and I find you
here
.”

“How did you know it was me,” he asks behind a wall of hot pink papier-mâché.

“A father can smell his numbskull son from a mile away.”

Juan’s fingers spin a drumstick with nervous energy. “Well, to answer your question, since you sent some thugs to kill us, I didn’t think it made much difference to you.”

“
Thugs
? What do you mean, thugs?”

The stick-spinning stops when the drummer makes a tight fist. He breathes to slow his mind and focus. “I mean, the guys you had shooting at the bus. The guys Martin thankfully blew up. Those guys on
your
payroll.”

“Oh, you’re an accountant now? You know my payroll?”

“Not to mention having my bandmate murder Grandpa,” Pandemic digs fingernails deep and hard into his scalp. “I don’t want anything to do with this scummy company.”

“Listen, Tim, the police are on their way. Those cosmonauts are dangerous killers. Psychopaths. I understand you’re confused. I’m told it’s called Stockholm Syndrome. It’s when people feel empathy for their kidnappers. It’s perfectly natural.” He places a meaty paw on Pandemic’s shoulder. “Little kids locked in sex dungeons for years can often claim they love their rapists. It’s a messed up world, Tim.”

“Dad, there is some important stuff going on tonight. Not that you care, but I’m a good drummer. Much better than at anything else I do. And if I play my ass off, my band is getting signed to a record label. I can make money playing music. I won’t be your problem anymore. Everyone wins. You can ignore me for the rest of my life and I’ll do the same.”

“Well.” The elder Winters scratches a scatter of chubby chin dimples. “I’m just so glad you and Mister Hamler are alright.”

“I bet.” Juan shuts his eyes and speaks into the darkness. “You know what? I don’t need a dad. I never did. I’m all the dad I need.”

“Super. One more thing, kiddo. There’s a press conference scheduled for tomorrow morning. We need some positive spin from this whole situation. I mean, some uplifting story about how you guys survived would be really helpful.”

“I’m touched you’re so concerned about my wellbeing.”

• 1979
  With the birth of his only son, Roland Winters learns of the monstrous tax breaks from combining wealth and fatherhood.
  

• 1990
  Needing to prove some dominance at the company picnic, he drags Timothy to victory at the Three-Legged Race.
  

• 1992
  Roland wins custody of Timothy after a messy divorce. “This,” he tells a colleague, “is just the thing to teach that bitch a lesson.”
  

“Malinta, you came. That is so awesome.”

“Well, I kind of had to, it is Friday after all. Tonight’s the most important night for, well, so many reasons.” It seems impossible, but Dean swears a blush forms on her cheeks. The urge to kiss it away is strong. “Do you have a second? We need to talk before things start.”

“Totally, tell me at the bar. I really want a drink.” Dean hops from the stage and grabs Malinta’s hand. A gossipy murmur snakes around the club. “Actually, I could use about six.”

“Sweetie, come on,” her voice lifts and bites like needles. “Not tonight, it’s too important.”

“Come on?” Dean glares at his woman and is reminded she doesn’t know about Lothario Speedwagon’s secret ingredient. “Shit, okay, well, let me say something.”

She stares, waiting. The blush has died.

“After tonight, I want to start fresh. I think things are finally getting in order for me. I think I can be a good boyfriend. I just need tonight,” he says and a surrogate Night Train warmth builds inside.

“I know how important all this is to you…and us.”

“I like being around you.” He is careful not to slip with the other L-word. “I need to be around you.”

Her eyes half-close and a soft finger runs up Dean’s side. It wouldn’t feel weird right now, he decides, to plant that kiss.

With all eyes on him, Dean hesitates kissing. Dean’s never hesitated when a crowd is watching, but assumes alcohol had something to do with that.
God, a drink sounds good.

Napoleon pops up before them as Malinta moves in gently closer. “Do you two have a spare second?” the chubby valet says, digging through a backpack. The fleshy smell of sweat comes into clearer focus.

“Um, no dude, I’ve got to sing in a few minutes. Plus, people are starting to look a little worried,” Deshler says, wondering whether he should take off his shirt for the concert. He wonders if the Cliff Drinker would rub peanut butter on his bare chest. He’s not even sure of its symbolism at this point. Though, Deshler’s pretty certain Iggy Pop did it once. “Shit, where’s my mask?”

Malinta says, all nervy: “Does anyone know what time it is?”

“Way after nine-thirty,” Dean says. “We were supposed to start at, like, nine.”

“That all can wait. Come sit with me for a sec,” Napoleon says. His gritty fingers pull out a laptop. “I’ve got a little film you both need to watch. Indie flick. Low budget, but good.”

Deshler and Malinta search the yolks of each other’s eyes. “Look, buddy,” Dean says soft. “I promise I’ll watch them with you, but right now isn’t—”

“Sit, sit, sit, it’ll all be over in a flash. About a minute-thirty to be exact.”

“I really,” Dean is simultaneously unhooking shirt buttons and slinking toward the bar. “Have some things…” He is consumed with intense guilt—equally consumed with Malinta thoughts. The shirt opens and bare chest meets steamy Beef Club air.

“Malinta,” Napoleon says. “Talk to him for me. Pretty please.”

Her green eyes grow more than a little confused.

“You two know each other?” Dean says.

Both look at him like the answer is “yes,” and “yes” is obvious.

Dean stops himself from asking more. “Quick, okay, man.”

The three huddle around the computer in the corner.

“What am I doing? I don’t have time for this, buddy. I’ll check this out after our set, I swear.” Deshler lifts from the seat as Napoleon hits PLAY and the empty screen zaps to life. “I need to find some gin.”

“Hey,” Napoleon uses a commanding voice.

“Or beer…”

“
Hey
.”

“…mouthwash even—”

“You know that touching Arbor Day card, that new baby card, that birthday card, that Thanksgiving card?” Napoleon says, breathing through asthma heavy lungs. “Those are from me. Is that enough to calm you down? Now, I want you to stand still and watch.”

Onscreen, the camera’s focus is hazy. Dean’s baritone rattles through rickety laptop speakers: “F-F-F-Findlay doesn’t know.
That’s
why I have to use the screwdriver, babe.”

The focus clears up and the lighting adjusts. The video shoots from the back seat of a parked red car. The upholstery is smooth white leather. The dash is wood-grained like antique tables.