“Ohhh,” he holds this noise for a breath. Her last words punt away lonely sensations like a boot in the abdomen. “Oh, you’ll believe anything you read on the bathroom wall.”
“Look, I’ve never told you this before. I didn’t want to give you a big head.” She tops off his coffee. “But I’d never seen anything like it when you staggered into the Beef Club six months ago.”
Deshler looks at her in a twist of confusion.
“I mean, yeah, you were just some dipshit valet from downstairs and the place was packed with execs.”
“Why didn’t they just kick me out?”
“Remember what you said to Christopher Winters? I hadn’t seen the old retired bastard—gentleman—look so pleased in years. You walked around like you owned the place. Kind of sexy.”
“The Christopher Winters? The governor and the hamburger guy? The dude who invented the electric toothbrush?”
“God, he loved you. You’re such an idiot. I mean, how would you not think Clifford Findlay would get goo-goo eyes, too?”
Playing along, nodding. “That was so long ago. I don’t even feel like the same person. I hardly remember it.”
“Yeah, no wonder. You’re always drunk. Lucky for you nobody notices. The others are just as hammered.”
“I don’t—” he gives up in embarrassment.
“Remember that night you got in an argument with our accounting chief about the world’s most delicious sandwich?”
“Of…course.”
“I can’t believe he claimed the club sandwich was perfect. And, hah,” a fast hand covers her mouth to stop laughing. “And your response, I never told you, but it’s kind of a catchphrase around work now.”
Deshler’s fingernails ruffle his scalp, wishing this morning was over. He anticipates a cringe. Forgotten Cliff Drinking stories always get embarrassing fast.
“You told Greenie Bowling, the head accountant guy, that ‘compared to a Monte Cristo sandwich, the club tastes like crapped pants.’”
A breath of relief sneaks in. This story isn’t so bad. “Does that even make sense?”
“You tell me. In less than a month we were deep frying Monte Cristo burgers in fifteen test markets. And then, well, boom!”
She smiles in a way that makes the room a few shades clearer. Her face graduates from faintly flirty to plain flirty. Deshler’s heart smacks. An ashy thought of kissing her reshuffles the information about Beef Clubs and executives and fried sandwiches.
“Oh, that old thing,” Dean mumbles. He suddenly cools down with the need to sleep. Lying, he quickly learns, is exhausting. “That was just an accident, you know? Anybody could have done…what it is I do.”
“Don’t be modest.” Before Deshler takes another hot black sip, her fingers are massaging his shoulders. “Lots of stuff comes about on accident. Bubble gum, thousand island dressing…”
“Thanks, that’s a big help.”
Malinta stops rubbing, leans over his shoulder and kisses his forehead. “Wow, you really are an idiot.”
He steadies himself and stands. “I’d rather not talk about it.” Fingers go shaky touching her hips through the robe.
Before Dean finishes speaking, Malinta pulls back, arms and hands darting again. “Oh, this again? Not so fast. I still haven’t forgiven you for letting Winters sink in his claws. What a jerk.”
“Easy, have some respect, that guy just died.”
“Duh, Roland. What did he say to get you on their side?”
“Side? Like a fight?”
“It’s bigger than a fight, dummy,” she says. Dean loses concentration when her robe unties a bit and showcases some thigh. “Don’t act like the slut of the hamburger world doesn’t know it’s a fight.”
“Slut?”
“Slut’s not a bad word.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Playing both sides of the Beef Club. Mister double agent.”
“Oh, crap,” he catches these words as they slip out. He turns the lie crank in his head and, “Sometimes I forget that stuff,” plops out.
“It works. You really saved your own ass coming up with the Space Burger and that whole cosmonaut thing.” Noticing Dean’s wandering thigh eyes, she cinches the robe in a yank. “You are shattering what used to be a friendly rivalry.”
“How me? Don’t blame me.”
“When you swung back to Bust-A-Gut’s side, I saw a change in management. Like, joy or something. That fried mozzarella burger is going to destroy Winters. It’s the next logical step. Plus, I’ve been working on projects of my own, you know?”
Gulping, head dizzy, he sits back down. “I need something to eat. I need aspirin. Or cyanide.”
“Do me a huge favor, Deshler. Come with me to the club tonight. Don’t drink, just hang out sober. I want to try an experiment.”
“I think it’d be best if I stayed away for a while.”
“Oh, mister responsibility, now? Just do it, come for me. Sober.”
“I’ll try. What time is it?”
“Like, three.”
“Shit, I’m late.”
Our tightly manicured anchor seduces the business-end of a camera.
“Welcome to Cosmonaut Watch. Big day for these heroes, so let’s just get down to the action, shall we?
“After safely splashing down near the Black Sea, the five stranded cosmonauts were welcomed home. A tickertape parade stretching the length of Moscow was held yesterday. In a ceremony that night, Russian Premiere Michael Medvedev gave the space travelers the nation’s highest honor, the Order of St. Andrew.
“The cosmonauts’ ordeal, which played out right here on national television and internet broadcasts, became the number-one program in America during Sweeps Week.
“According to Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers, the final contestant to guide the suit home, and winner of the contest, will be announced as soon as he or she is located. The company is having more difficulty than previously anticipated tracking down this hero.
“We sincerely apologize for the delay.
“A Winters representative assured me that even though they are rescheduling the broadcast, it will be quite worth the wait. This is an exclusive here, the winner will be revealed in a prime-time special reuniting the wayward spacemen and the lucky hero whose love of hamburgers saved the Russians. A once-in-a-lifetime television event. If you miss this you might as well turn in your citizenship. You may not love freedom as much as you think. Please tune in, folks.
“And next, a preview of tonight’s can’t miss edition of Nightbeat.”
“So they’re hitting below the belt?” Tony says. The hot water in his mug swallows a green teabag and turns morbid colors.
“I guess, I mean.” Hamler fishes through a leather shoulder bag for a cigarette. “If what Malinta Redding says is for real, they’re only doing research on heart attacks. Big deal.” There’s a casualness in his voice, a softening of once-jagged edges.
The coffee shop Tony chose is silent during this weekday lull. It’s dark for the afternoon and full of hanging plants. The barista reads a book, jawing some gum.
“Tell me the truth here.” Tony sips from the cup and puckers his face. “Are they in production on this heart disease piece? Do they have families of dead guys spilling their guts? Doctors, scientists, whoever else producers get for this shit?”
“Can’t say.”
“Did you ask her?”
He thinks about Martin’s five o’clock shadow sandpapering his lips. “No, Tony. She was shitty drunk. Like, five scotches.”
“That’s the perfect time.”
Martin’s hands were strong, felt dangerous. “Yeah right, I was lucky that slipped. I’d like to see you do your job as tanked as we were.” That strength and danger transferred to Hamler like an anti-anxiety mainline. His lips were ready to fall off. They’d been so lonely until Martin.
But now it’s that beating, kicking, uppercutting muscle in his chest that threatens to skip town.
“Loo
k.” The calm coffee date snaps and falls to Henry’s feet. The bare anger of a man trying to do his job stares back at the young spy. “I’ve done my duties bouncing off the walls on angel dust because that’s what the situation called for,” Tony says through grinding teeth. “I do not miss Bonzo the Burger Clown.”
“Jesus. You did that? You killed him?”
“Not important. My point is, I did my job. And I did it well.”
A steamy snake from Henry’s coffee charms up between the men. Hamler’s shoulders drop soft. “You’re right, I’ve got a lot to learn I guess,” Henry says, hoping to cool his boss down a few hundred degrees.
“There is no room for sentimentality in the workplace.” Tony’s finger darts to his mouth, working a nail between teeth. He closes his jaw and sucks on nothing.
“You’re right. I can’t let obstacles stand between me and—”
La Cucaracha plinks from Tony’s cell phone. He fetches it from a coat pocket and answers without a flinch.
Henry jerks back to the Purple Bottle’s stage last night. He remembers fumbling through a few notes of La Cucaracha on his bass while Pandemic lit his cymbals on fire with rubbing alcohol. The crowd went into mob-mode, half stomping up the exit stairs and half launching buns and vegetables at the band. Henry called it a night after a tomato exploded off his chest. Being in a band didn’t feel like a lot of fun at that moment.
Hamler’s boss stands and walks into the restroom, whispering to the phone.
The Lothario show was packed. Hamler was incredibly late, but when he stepped on the short stage a sweaty fog rose to the ceiling from the bodies. They only finished a few songs, though. Before turning off the bass amp, there was a lot of pushing near the front—someone pissed about mustard in a girlfriend’s hair.
Dean was face-down at the lip of the stage, unconscious, sweat glossed across bare shoulder blades. Day-Glo mask nothing but shreds around his ears. The black lights amplified papier-mâché scraps into nuclear chunks. The blood from Dean’s mouth was a growing dark pool of motor oil under the purple gleam.
Hamler sparks a cigarette and listens to his ears squeal in the silent coffee shop. He probably isn’t supposed to smoke here, but it’s not his first worry.
Henry’s ears began ringing when he set the guitar against a giant speaker cabinet and clicked on the distortion pedal. The gutter symphony of feedback was enough to rattle Dean to limp consciousness.
In a move as traditional as the band’s psychedelic tribal masks, Hamler lugged the vocalist over his shoulders and carried him offstage. Roll credits.
Maybe I should have missed that whole gig, he thinks. Flashbacks of Martin’s scruffy face remind Henry why he nearly missed it, originally. The scent of the cheese buyer’s hair stays fresh in Henry’s mind.
Hamler sips coffee and asks, Is it worth it? I mean, when we walked off the stage nobody clapped. Were they entertained? It was art, but they didn’t cheer. I guess it was art. He realizes it would feel nice to make art and have people enjoy themselves. There has to be a mixture. But is that art? Are people supposed to cheer for art?
Maybe I’m not a band guy.
Maybe I’m not an art guy. Deshler’s an art guy.
I don’t even like playing bass. Whose idea was that?
Lothario Speedwagon’s a dumb name. God, I’ve been wasting the last six months. I could have been working overtime or something.
I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.
Tony returns and speaks like a coach offering to buy the little league team a pizza, “Okay, guy, you need a ride.” He slices a fingernail back between teeth.
“My bus ticket is still good, thanks.” Henry is unusually feisty today.
“No, you misunderstood. You-Need-A-Ride. As in, you and I are going to ride in my car together.” He picks up a coat and briefcase, tonguing something toothy. “Now.”
Tony’s car is disappointing. Hamler assumed it would be a sleek spy cruiser. Something incognito and fast. Henry always figured if he stuck with this gig long enough, the big payday would arrive. Instead, his boss drives a heavily dented Japanese sedan. Tony picks up a fistful of Bust-A-Gut drive-through bags from the passenger side. “Research,” he says. Everything smells like French fries. It smells like good fries, like grease.
They pull around the block. “God,” he says, picking a tooth, blood on the fingertip. “I hate steak.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“That’s gonna change,” Tony says.
“I doubt that,” Henry says, noticing the glove box doesn’t latch. It hangs open like Dean’s stupid mouth.
“I’m sitting on a lotto ticket with your name on it.”
“What?”
“The boss says kill Malinta.”
Tense, Henry’s feet lock against the floorboard, back shoving into the seat. “Not me.”
“You’re the only one. You’re close. Our inside man. Look, he wanted you to torture her first. Pull out fingernails, burn her with a lighter, play your band’s stupid tape.”
“Hey.”
“But I said no way. I went to bat for you.”
“I said I’m through.” Henry realizes his confidence has taken a leap. He wonders if his new romance might be a bit of the answer. Making out, it seems, is better than therapy. “You promised nothing dirty on this job. No final solutions.”
“I don’t remember that precise conversation. We never said never.” He pulls that wet red finger out of his mouth with a sigh, marveling at a fleshy chunk.
“Do not make me do this.”
Tony’s voice shifts to calm now: “Henry, it’s done. Tomorrow’s your last day at the office. You found a full-time gig delivering pizzas, so you’re quitting. And then killing that vice president of marketing.”
“No.”
“Or the other way around, I don’t really care.”
Hamler’s head shakes, snorting through his nose like a hay fevered pig.
“Yes.” Tony rubs something gooey on a pantleg and lets the sound of the city and the car’s heater fill the silence for a few blocks. “This isn’t a negotiation. It’s your job.”
“What good will this do? We’ll lose any chance at more info.”
“The boss, Roland Winters himself, says this heart attack program can’t air. We’re banking that it’s only in the development stage and that Redding trumped up its importance. This is top priority shit.”
“I just can’t make myself do that again. It felt all…” Guilty memories claw for air and paint a fresh layer in his mind.
“I told you, Henry.” He looks ahead at old women crossing the street. “This is not a negotiation.”
“Dude, I’ll grab it. Just sit tight,” Napoleon says, out of breath. “I love the German ones.”
Deshler didn’t have time to fix his clothes after leaving Findlay’s condo. The Cliff Drinker’s white jacket arm is torn and his lapel mysteriously stained with cabernet. He’s in jeans instead of black slacks.
I would rather work as a chemical toilet than park another car, he thinks, shaking off the dents and scratches he’s already embedded on some cars today. This is not what an artist should be doing. I should be writing a song, not paralleling some asshole’s Beamer. Gibby wouldn’t be caught dead parking cars.
The afternoon brings a charcoal sketch of darkness and aching wind over downtown. Office windows above the street pop white light onto the busy motorway below. There is stillness, loaded thick with chill.
A family pours from the green German SUV. They are a wholesome catalog spread of glossy photos, fixing one another’s jacket collars and adjusting each other’s knitted caps.
“Hey, I brought the paper today,” Napoleon says walking toward the family, then turning. “You can check out the music reviews if you do me a favor.”
Deshler grunts as tired eyelids seal together. He stands and flings the hotel entrance open, nearly knocking the youngest boy to his ass. He apologizes in some raw pirate dialect. “What favor?”
>
“Here, I transferred some of my films to DVD. Just for you. You really need to check them out.” He gets no reaction from Deshler. “You’re in one.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were kind of drunk.”
Dean grunts.
“But I think it came out pretty sweet. You won’t be disappointed.” Napoleon passes the silver disc in a plastic sleeve along with the newspaper. Next, he trades a valet tag for German keys.
Alone under the awning, Deshler flips open the daily paper. The entertainment section has a sidebar about the band.
Dean sets the DVD on his wooden stool. “Ghrmmmm,” he growls, blindly finding vocal chords. “Interesting.”
He flips the print toward a streetlight. The band’s article is strong-armed to the edge of the paper by a piece about John Cougar Mellencamp coming to town.
The Purple Bottle was packed in anticipation of cult hotshots Lothario Speedwagon. Fans I spoke with were there more to see what happens, rather than hear what happens. This turned out to be the smartest reason to pay the door fee, since there was little to be heard, but plenty to watch.
The band’s pipecleaner-thin drummer sat down first as their homemade light kit flickered (think twenty Black lights on the fritz) and he hammered a tribal riff on his kick drum and the hood of a Chevy Lumina. He was alone, save for the empty bass rig to his left and the flash and pop of lights. His paper mask was a splash of hot lava.
In a heatwave of crowd pushing, Lothario’s singer emerged from behind a curtain to a scatter of howling fans. He appeared to be victim of some horrible kitchen accident. The equally anorexic frontman stumbled out naked to the waist, swinging a flood lamp like a lasso around his head. It gave his body a strobe light effect, which flashed a culinary disaster: Hamburger buns, lettuce, cheese and tomatoes stuck to his flesh, greased in ketchup and mustard.
“Thank you, I love your haircut as well. This is Broken Piano for President,” he said with an Australian accent and face-planted into a song. His Satan-deep voice rattled loose more than a few kidney stones.
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