Broken Piano for President (9 page)

“If you weren’t the best I’ve seen since,” the man laughs. His long gray hair scrapes his shoulders, capped off with that black bowler. “Well, since
myself
.” One hand grips Deshler’s collar and one hand locks the back of his belt, holding a Cliff Drinker puppet. “If the boss didn’t have his head buried so deep in your lap.”

Deshler’s toes drag lines into the sidewalk frost as his apartment door comes into focus. “Who’s
the
boss
?”

“Tony Danza, you prick,” the man says and spins Deshler around swift. His ass hits cement stairs. The dense cold swallows his flesh. The man’s face is a garbage bag of wrinkles. He’s probably somebody’s grandpa. Some unfortunate, twisted kid.

The gray-haired guy crouches down to Dean’s level with a creamy look of concern. “Sorry for busting your balls. I’m gonna do you a favor. Listen, the next few weeks are crucial. You’ve shown us a spark in that empty head of yours.” He rises and begins walking away. “You prove there’s a bonfire inside and you’ll be in a good situation. Trust me.” The man slips back into the limo and a steamy breath of exhaust floats into arctic morning air.

In addition to selling their tape online and at gigs, Lothario Speedwagon mailed out free copies of
Broken Piano for President
to magazines and websites they thought would review it. Though, the band is still not sure how Japanese reporters got a hold of the cassette. Here’s what the press has to say:

• “There’s a guy yelling about pianos…maybe…it’s hard to tell because it sounds like he’s underwater. And I think there are a couple other guys destroying a Chevy with hammers. My speakers are bleeding.”
  –Le Bombsquad.org
  

• “Thirteen minutes of uncomfortable hell.”
  

–Standard Times Review

• “The deepest voice this side of the Grinch.”
  

–Tucson Weekly

• (Translated from Japanese) “Lothario bad bad bad noise feels good good good to young ears!!!!”
  

–Nagano Weekly Gazette

• “Who wasted money on this thing getting printed?”
  

–
Squeege Blog.com

• “I don’t get it.”
  –Broken Mirror
  

• “A tape? Seriously? Who makes tapes anymore? I had to go to my grandma’s house just to listen to this stupid thing.”
  

–Imperfect Scrawl

• “In a world where so many bands try very hard to seem insane, you get the vibe Lothario Speedwagon just rolled out of bed that way.”
  –Clap Amp Quarterly
  

• “My first thought was, ‘Eewww, are these fingernails and band aids?’”
  –Static Magic Monthly
  

• “I didn’t hear a guitarist in the mix. However, that doesn’t mean Lothario Speedwagon isn’t torturing one in a dark shed somewhere.”
  –Weekly Observer
  

• “Until now, no band has properly captured the sound of tossing bags of urine at you. Enter Lothario Speedwagon.”
  

–Impact Weekly

• “I want to think these guys are just that cool for making a tape, but my best guess is that they’re just that dumb.”
  

–[YELLOW] Journalism

• (Translated from Japanese) “Ear holes make yummy buzz, melt bubble gum to trashcans. Babies dance! Babies dance!”
  –Tokyo City Blues.com
  

• (Translated from Japanese) “Burn Lothario like nuclear missile of love. Hail, hail, hail, The Anti-Beatles.”
  

–Osaka Daily News

The blankets are tight over Henry’s face when the phone rings. Christopher Winters’ liver spotted skull disappears from behind dream-soaked eyelids. Henry was reliving that sudden head jerk of recognition as poison mixed with the old man’s blood. He relives it five times a day.

“Hello,” he croaks.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“I feel like crap, Tony,” Hamler tells his mentor.

“Henry, last time I’m saying this. You did the right thing. Plus, Winters was ancient, he might have died of old age a split second before you got him. BANG! His heart turns to cement. You probably didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Nice try.” Hamler coughs. “You know, the only thing that makes a person feel guiltier is having someone say they shouldn’t feel guilty at all.”

“Wow. I’ll write that down.”

Maybe, Henry thinks, I wouldn’t feel so guilty if there was someone to tell these problems to. Not a shrink or anything. Just someone to hold in bed. Someone who doesn’t make him feel like shit for crying so much. Loneliness and guilt, Hamler’s observed many times, fit together like some awful sandwich.

Hamler untucks the sheet from around his ears and checks the clock. Lunch was an hour ago.

“I’m just saying it’s possible. Hearts are weird like that. Anyway, put on that nice blue suit of yours, there’s more work today.”

“I called in sick, Tony. There’s…I can’t…I’m not doing shit today. Maybe ever.”

“Oh, good. Drama Club.”

“Don’t, Tony.”

“Look, I told you I understand. That’s why you won’t have to get your hands dirty. You might even enjoy yourself.” A few crackles of dead air fill their talk. “You might even get
laid
.”

Henry sighs against the phone. It swirls into distortion as defenses collapse. “What’re you thinking, exactly?”

“You’ll dig this. It’ll take your mind off things.”

Henry is nearly out of butane and it takes a fair amount of voodoo for a spark. His first cigarette of the day melts both arms to gelatin.
This
, he assumes,
is probably what junkies feel when they shoot up after years on the wagon.
He breathes smoke slow into the receiver.
That feeling of peace.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Just some simple recon work. Get to know a person and pump them for info on their next project,” Tony says. “Nothing sticky or dangerous.”

“I don’t know how to pump people for information.” Deep inside, Henry admits this doesn’t sound so horrible.

“Get ’em drunk, get ’em high, give ’em a foot rub. Who cares? The important thing is, I want you to work alone. No more Junior Agent garbage.”

“You really think I’m ready?” Henry can’t tell whether the bacon sizzle in his chest is excitement or nicotine.

“When I watched you pin-prick that old man I could see it in your eyes. It was love.”

“Love?”

“You love this job, don’t you?”

“Um, let’s not go that far.”

At the start of the next work day, there is a temp named Henry Holgate at America’s second-largest hamburger chain: Bust-A-Gut. He makes copies and fetches cappuccinos like a textbook admin. He makes three trips a day to the candy machine. Once in a while, the young spy plays lost and pokes his head around the office. He briefly catches a glimpse of the target coming out of a meeting and scurries away.
She looks different than the surveillance photo
, Hamler thinks.

“Getting the lay of the land, Henry?” his new boss says. The man’s skin is so smooth Hamler counts the pores. The boss has an obscure title like Assistant Vice Manager of Dairy Acquisitions. It takes Henry until lunch to realize his boss, Martin, is a cheese buyer.

“Totally,” he says with a laugh. “Copy room, coffee maker, mail room—the Big Three.” Secretly, Henry dances with the excitement of actual espionage work.

“You’re a hard worker, Henry. You’ll fit in great here at Bust-A-Gut.” His boss is dressed expensive—black shoes glowing.

“Thanks, it’s really exciting to be somewhere that’s such a big part of my life.”

Martin, deep-skinned and Latino with a tiny black goatee, looks Hamler’s chub up and down. Generously, he ignores the slick gel job hair. “I don’t buy that, Henry. You’re in too good of shape to eat burgers.” The boss’s eyes are a forcefully confident brown. He exudes a damn-near perfect presence except for those uncontrolled nasal snorts every few sentences.

“Monte Cristo is practically my middle name,” he says, rubbing a Santa belly, impressed with how good he is at lying. “Honestly!”

“Whatever you say, Henry.”

“So, I have a weird question,” Hamler says. He’s trying to organize a chain of command for his report to Tony. He doesn’t know what size fish Martin is yet. “How does cheese factor into what goes on here?”

Martin’s brown eyes bulge, wet and offended. “Eh, well, cheese is pretty important to our success.
Frankly
,” his voice lowers as coworkers buzz in all directions. The office is a puzzle of moveable cubicle walls. Daylight is nonexistent in Bust-A-Gut’s home office—replaced overhead by long fluorescent bulbs. “There’s big talk of a Mozzarella Stick Burger. Revolutionary.”

“How is that revolutionary?”

Martin stuffs his tongue deep in his cheek until it pops out like a gumball. He leans in whisper close. “The bread,” his nose snorts, “will be fried mozzarella shaped like a hamburger bun. Ground beef, bacon, cheddar and….well, pickles and shit, all book-ended by fried
cheese
.”

“Wow, that’ll knock people out.” Henry holds for a second, exactly as he learned to lie in spy school. “I’m speechless.”

“Needless to say, it’ll make the competition look like crapped pants.”

“What?”

“Forget it.” Martin spins on his heel and his purple striped tie whips Henry. “Oooooh, here’s a high-roller you’ve got to meet. Kiss her ass, Henry, and you’ll go straight to the top!”

That familiar first-cigarette feeling of peace sinks in deep when Hamler turns and sees the woman he was sent to spy on.

“Not bleeping likely, Martin,” says an insanely tall blonde woman with a bandage wrapped above her ears. “Malinta Redding. Nice to meet you.”