Broken Piano for President (47 page)

Napoleon’s camerawork slows. Huffing lungs stretch behind the lens. Deshler staggers like marching on two broken ankles, then crumbles into the cement.

Near Dean is a bloody body lying inside a halo of orange lamplight.

Napoleon flashes the shot up and down the street. All is empty and black.

“Get back in the car,” Deshler says, his voice hollow and scared. “Dude, just turn around and get…”

The Cliff Drinker lifts up and drags himself out of the scene.

Napoleon zooms on the motionless body in the middle of the street. The shot starts at the leg and works a close-up around the bulged stomach and to the chest. He’s in shirt and tie. There’s a dark sticky pool gathering under the man’s armpit and around his skull. With the streetlamp, the face is lit like a Hollywood glamour shot. The eyes are open and pushing out shocked. The skin is mayo white except for the dark pink and red splotch on the other side of his face, the same glob Napoleon was convinced is psoriasis.

“Napoleon,” Deshler’s distant voice echoes. “We can’t wait here. Get in the car.”

Napoleon holds the tight shot around the CEO’s face. Findlay’s dead teeth pause below purple lips. If Findlay is in a coma, like Lepsic claims, then the atom bomb was just a fancy firecracker.

There’s an engine rumble and Napoleon swings the camera around. The ruby red sports car squeals and Deshler is a set of taillights weaving across traffic lanes without Napoleon.

The film dissolves into an empty screen.

Pandemic sits behind the drum kit wondering why Deshler chose this club of all places.
Not exactly a friendly crowd
, he thinks.
Maybe I should’ve stuck with the Russians.
A few light knocks on the oil drum clear those thoughts.
Nah, then I wouldn’t get to play this gig.
An icy slither commands attention in his throat.
Would the Russians be proud if I stabbed Dad right now? Is there a terrorist cosmonaut code of honor?

They would kill Henry. They’d rip his chubby skull apart.

Is that what the mission objectives were all about?

No. It was probably just a smokescreen, some horseshit line they fed me to keep quiet.
His eyes adjust to the dark and he spots Dad back by the bar.
I was going through withdrawals, not thinking straight
, he decides.
Maybe there was no mission objective. People hallucinate their balls off when kicking. Maybe there was no Space Burger Contest, no cosmonaut terrorists
. His heart slows to a normal thump while he fingers a plastic baggie of white shards hidden under sock elastic.

“Dude, Juan, what’s taking Dean so long?” Henry asks, leaning his guitar against the amp. “We need to get out of sight. This is a huge mistake. I think we should bail.”

“I don’t know,” Pandemic says, realizing the last few days weren’t hallucinations. “Wait, no, no. This is our big chance. This is our opportunity to do something with our lives. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been thinking a lot about responsibility.”

“You’ve what?”

A sudden bath of calm fills its water around Pandemic.
It’s not Henry’s fault Grandpa is dead. It’s Dad’s. I need Henry, because I need the band, because I need a family. These guys—unlike Dad and Grandpa—never asked me to be anyone else.
“I’m tired of being lazy, I want to put my mind to this and make it happen. Even if we don’t get signed, this is what I want. I’ll do anything for it. I’m not a hamburger guy. I don’t want to be my dad or even my grandpa.”

“Yeah,” Hamler sighs and thinks about the last time he saw Pandemic’s grandpa. He doesn’t want to make a living doing that, either. He wants to spend the rest of his life with Martin. “I’m really sorry. I mean that.”

“I know.”

“I would take it back if I could.”

“It’s okay, man. I forgive you. Don’t feel bad. I shouldn’t have been treating you like this.”

“Thanks,” he says, locking eyes, understanding fully what a kind person Juan is. “Maybe you’re right. We should split. I’ll give Dean ten more minutes.”

Pandemic lightly taps his stick to the floor tom skin. Its snap isn’t as deep as normal. He still can’t understand how the drum’s tuning got ruined during its short trip from the practice space to the club.

Timothy Winters/Juan Pandemic lifts the mask and watches Hamler silently mouth, “Oh shit.” He focuses on the entrance, still well lit, where two guys in buzz cuts and cheap ties flash shiny badges to Roland Winters.

Dean swallows a deep breath, fingertips bubbling with numbness—the same guilty pang he used to feel when Mom blamed him for Dad’s behavior. “So, what does this mean?” he manages to spit up before pushing that long breath through his nose.

“How could you?” Malinta’s voice washes away into the chit-chatter of the dark club.

Napoleon folds up the computer. “I’ll give you the original VHS and this, the only copy, for…well…” He tucks the white laptop under a sweaty, tapioca arm. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

Their eyes adjust to the darkness and each body becomes clearer and more carved out. They spend a few silent seconds watching each other’s face.

“Hey, hey, big guy,” McComb says, wedging his body against Deshler’s. “A thousand sorrys. I wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t important, but our friends Toji and Yung-Yung are on their way back to the hotel.”

In Deshler’s skull, he’s already muttered: “Look, man, I need a few minutes here.” But his mouth hasn’t unwound yet. He bites the tip of his tongue as neck muscles tighten. “Wh-what? What does
that
mean?”

“Not trying to scare you, bud, honestly. It’s a good thing. They’re convinced you guys are great.” McComb’s face is close, seeking the singer’s eyes in the dark. “They didn’t want to spoil anything by judging your performance. Must be some Japanese custom-thing, like taking off your shoes.
Anyhow,
don’t let me ramble. Lothario Speedwagon is in. Congratulations. Consider the band signed.” His lips pull tight and a whisper forms just loud enough for the entire group to hear: “And here’s a little taste of your advance.” He presses a small leather satchel into Deshler’s stomach.

Malinta looks at the clock on the wall. She has five minutes to escape. She nearly forgot.

McComb leans behind Dean’s ear. Cold eyeglass frames dig into Deshler’s steaming skin. “A hundred grand up front,” he pokes Deshler’s arm. “Four hundred more when you guys decide which producer to record your debut with.” He pulls back and leaves the bag in Deshler’s arms. “Told you it wouldn’t be in a sack.”

“I don’t—”

“As you were, gang.” McComb disappears into the dark.

Compared to the previous evening Dean spent at the Beef Club, things couldn’t be more different. Silence is replaced with hundreds of rowdy, confused voices. The overhead lights are replaced by dull purplish glow from the stage. Yesterday’s peace and sense of purpose are replaced by some chaotic mess brewing inside.

Everything still smells like stale beer, though.

Napoleon blubbers out a wet, throaty laugh. “That’ll,” he slides into giggles. “That’ll be
just
about right!” The laughs continue, loud and oblong, like some choking animal.

Malinta’s green eyes lock on the tiny bag. “Just let it go, hon,” she says, flicking eyes back at the wall clock. “It’s not the end of the world. But if that tape landed in the wrong hands.”

“Not to scare you,” Napoleon says in a low blubber. “But it
will
if you don’t…you know.” Napoleon’s hairy knuckles slip on the top of the bag. He gives a forceful jerk.

“
Fine
,” Dean says in a tone barely registering as a chirp. He is reminded there is a lot more coming from Moral Compass. He’s reminded he’s not in it for the money. “When, ugh, when’ll I get the tapes?”

The new thousandaire presses a button on the side of the computer. A shiny silver disc pops out and he hands it over. Napoleon reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a black plastic VHS tape. A huge grin hangs between his cheeks.

“Well, I guess,” Deshler says, mustering back his usual growl, his chest full of heat. “I guess this is goodbye forever.
Later
.”

The chunky valet spreads open the leather bag and sees it stacked with green bills. His lips crack a smile. “You bet your ass this is goodbye. All I ever wanted was your attention, man. To be friends on the same level—not Deshler Dean and Sidekick Number One. The way all this came together, it just felt like a good opportunity to prove my point. You know, you’re not the only guy who wants people to listen to him. You just shove away anyone with another voice.”

Eyes finally adjust to the light. Everyone has a hazy red quality about them.

“Boys,” CEO Winters says in his most professional voice. “These gentlemen are from the police department.” He flashes a smile to Lothario’s drummer and bassist.

Guy #1 with a buzzcut says, “I’m Detective Hogan.” He points to Buzzcut #2. “And this is Detective Ireland.”

The meth Pandemic inhaled before setting up still farts around his skull. Pure shit like this owns a momentum independent of anything else. “
Ah, Ireland
,” he slurs in a leprechaun voice. “
That’s a fine Irish name.
”

Roland Winters jabs quick fingers at the rhythm section. “Boys! Take off those stupid masks. This is important.”

“Relax, pop.”

Winters’ shoulders get broad and tense. He leans into his son.

“Why don’t you,” Juan says, “go into the corner and try to pretend you’re grandpa some more?”

“Timothy!”

“Forget it,” Juan leans back, loose. “You don’t understand.”

One detective butts in. Pandemic can’t tell the difference between the two cops. “If we could, we’d like to ask you a few questions about the past couple days.”

The police wait at the foot of the stage. Hogan is close enough to kiss the oil drum. Ireland smells the burning hot vacuum tubes in the back of the bass cabinet.

“We’re busy, can’t you see?” Henry says—wondering what Martin would do in this situation. Martin would’ve stuck up for himself.
Good job
.