“Yeah, we were discussing work.”
“Deshler,” she says with a shocked frown. “What about Clifford Findlay? What about Bust-A-Gut? Where’s your allegiance this week?”
“I’m trying to figure that one out myself.” He glances down. The whiskey and cherry are gone. His chest sparks with sour mash heartburn.
“You’re gonna blow it. I just know it.” She leans back, shoulders and confidence slackening. “Forget Bust-A-Gut, what about us?”
The waitress delivers another drink. Deshler looks at his hands and the tumbler, they shake in and out of focus. A tiny earthquake.
“It’s like every time I start to trust you, I get shoved away. Like you want to hurt my feelings.”
“That’s not it.”
“Well then?”
“Um…um…” it’s there now—the why. Dean never quite saw the why all these years until now. He sees it, but is too embarrassed to explain that he pushes in hopes that someone, anyone, will return. “Um…” It hasn’t worked with his parents, or his brother, or countless friends and girlfriends. Why would it take off now?
“It’s always um, um, um,” she snaps and stands. “Close your mouth.”
Pandemic thrashes under the covers. It’s the bull’s-eye of frosty early winter weather, but his air conditioner is cranked up to eight. He is sweating through boxer shorts. The bedroom window is painted black with a layer of aluminum foil taped to the glass, blocking out this evening’s fading daylight. The drummer has been up for nearly three days straight.
Pandemic can’t purge the angry amphetamine juices from his body. Growing up, experimenting with drugs provided a clean perspective. One his father didn’t understand or condone. Now, he smokes it and doesn’t remember why. His jaw clenches enough to grind chicken bones to sand. His teeth are grains of rice. His muscles ache. His temper is spring-loaded and sensitive most days.
Juan is not who he used to be.
This thought, mixed among a dozen others cycling through his mind at once, causes him to pause. Pandemic knows his old self, but draws a dark curtain in his mind around that man. You are better now than before, he thinks. You are the best drummer on earth. You are the handsomest dude in town. You are smarter than, like, Einstein and— This pause escapes when the quiet bedroom explodes in metallic hammering. Pandemic’s doorbell is a retired school alarm he wired in order to hear during drum practices. An icy silence fills the drafty house for a few moments. His eyes are wide open in the dark room now. Cool air touches his cheeks. There’s soft knocking at the door, then the bell rings another carpet bomb across Pandemic’s head.
“I’m busy here,” he yells.
A few minutes later, those massive, scarred hands pull the front door open. Two people in matching green shirts tense at the sight of a skeleton in its underwear. They twist up noses and jerk back from the rotten odor floating from the living room.
The porch floorboards bend down hard. The paint is chipped and mildewed over. Shimmering webbing hangs overhead.
“I said I was busy,” he sniffles. Pandemic’s face is vanilla pudding skin.
The short black guy cranes up his neck. “Sir, sorry to bother you so late, is this the, uh—” He snaps a fast glance to his left. His partner is old and bored. The guy clears his throat. “Is this the home of Timothy Winters?”
Frigid evening air washes over Pandemic’s body, balls slink upward and chest pigments burst into a light, rosy Rorschach.
“Are you Timothy Winters?” the older woman demands.
“Wrong house, fellas. Get off my porch before I buy a gun and learn to use it,” the malnourished drummer says, knees shivering. He wraps blade-of-grass arms around that chest.
The man and woman bite lips and wait. Two cars pass the porch.
“Then,” the man says with a fake smile. “Is this the home of Juan Pandemic?”
Pandemic flashes veiny eyes, dropped far back in his skull, between the two strangers. The older lady shifts a fist in her jacket pocket, the coat’s breast slips open revealing a gray patch stitched into her green polo.
Pandemic knows what the shirt says and dreads the idea of continuing this conversation. “Shoo.” That shirt gives him a jolt of a scare. It’s one of the few things on this planet that can. “Shoo.”
“Is that your name?”
“Vamos.”
“Is. It?” The woman’s voice is big now.
“Possibly.”
“Well, sir, we’ve got some news,” the woman says, not offering a fake smile. “May we come in?”
The living room is dark and smells like old refrigerators and rotting vegetables and untrained cats. Metal folding chairs are scattered, some on their feet, some flipped over. A stack of newspapers as tall as a toddler sits under the window, spoiling into yellow parchment.
“Mister Pandemic,” the short man says. He sits nearest the door and rests a briefcase on his lap. “We have to get some things out of the way before we can tell you exactly why we’re here.”
Pandemic grumbles and wraps a blanket, freckled with cigarette-burns, around his shoulders.
“You need to tell us the truth.” The lady sits next to the newspapers, absently scanning for a publication date.
“You guys aren’t the cops, I’m not stupid.” His neck cocks, “Or intimidated.”
“No, we are not, sir.”
“I’m not scared.” He mumbles lower, with less pep. “I see your shirts.”
The black man pops the case open and sifts through papers. “Good, this will be a lot easier then.”
“Timothy, we need you to verify that that’s your name,” the gray-haired woman says, scooting her chair in Pandemic’s direction.
“It’s Juan. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”
“Now it’s Juan. It used to be Timothy, right?”
“I’m calling my lawyer.”
“Come on, kid. Look at this nest you call home,” the lady says, switching her voice to motherly and caring. “You know you deserve better than this. Don’t you, Tim?”
Pandemic bites his tongue and scratches a shoulder deep. It leaves red map lines from untrimmed fingernails. He can’t make eye contact—can’t even come up with an insult.
“What you tell us is confidential. There are only a few people who know about this. One being your father, of course.”
His dry mouth swallows. It tastes like two rice-kernel teeth slid down with it. Juan can’t fight who he is, so he gives up. “Yeah, I used to be Tim,” he says, staring at the naked floorboards. “I changed it legally. So what? I’m better than Tim now.”
“Yes, clearly.” The man is calm, watching a mouse sniff its way across the floor. “That’s Timothy James Winters, right?”
“Your dad is Roland,” the woman says. “Your grandpa is Christopher, correct?”
“Uhm, yer, yes, I suppose. Yes.” He jitters under the blanket, shifting his head from corner to corner of the room in a meth-twitch. A nervousness he hasn’t shown in years.
“Son, we’re from Olde-Tyme Hamburgers,” the wrinkled woman says. “I’m Delia and this is Pierre.”
Pandemic claws at raw scalp scabs. He notices for the first time the woman’s left coat sleeve is empty. Delia is missing an arm.
“Son, your father wants to see you.”
Wrapping the blanket tighter, Pandemic sneezes and lets the globby mess simply hang. “No way, I don’t need that. I…I’m cool.”
“It’s—” Delia begins.
Pierre flicks one finger to stop. “Tim, it’s complicated. It’s not just for a family reunion, you see. Your dad tells me he is really excited to spend time with you and wishes that he did more often. But, you see, there’s more to it than just that.”
“What? The old man needs a kidney or some bone marrow? That’d be just about perfect.” His voice gets unvarnished and nasty. “You tell him my kidney isn’t for sale and I hope he dies—”
“Settle down,” Pierre’s voice is louder, more commanding. “It’s
nothing like kidneys.”
“Son,” Delia tweets. “You won the Space Burger contest. You’re an international hero.”
Since Cosmonaut Recap aired, Winters’ Space Burger gets all the attention. Bust-A-Gut is combating with a media blitz praising rival burger magnate Christopher Winters. Three different ads air hourly on the major networks during primetime.
Commercial one involves a montage of Winters photos from his days in the Army (nothing summer camp-like, thankfully), his rise to fame as benevolent hamburger baron and his stint as governor.
Commercial two and three are basically the same thing. A woman walks through a gallery of photos of the dead man and says some witty, caring words about each stage of his life. All the commercials end with a touching portrait of Christopher Winters with his wife, son, Roland, daughter-in-law and grandson, Timothy.
Immediately following these ads in every American market, another commercial appears. This one begins with a heart monitor’s bouncing blue-green spike—bleep…bleep…bleep…bleep.
The monitor suddenly stops and an intense electric death wails for an uncomfortable ten seconds.
A male voiceover, deep and carved from authority, breaks open the ad: “Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers and Bust-A-Gut want you dead.”
The voice pauses for a breath. The strong skree holds steady throughout. “Find out more about their plot to kill you at www.healthwatchinternational.com. Sign up for the newsletter and receive a free tote bag.”
Another sitcom begins.
“Big surprise, you look like the black plague,” Roland Winters says, stomping into his office, ripping off a coat.
“We’re not black,” his son says.
Pandemic—born Timothy James Winters—sits in a heavy leather chair. He picks at the moon-surface of fleshy sores on his scalp. He wears a pair of clean slacks and a blue button-up shirt three sizes too large. A bony sternum pops through the gap in the collar. A man with long gray hair and a black hat forced Pandemic to slip into this outfit before setting foot in the corporate headquarters.
The CEO’s office is an oven. It’s huge and dark and constantly kept at body temperature. Pandemic doesn’t know whether to curl up and go to bed or sprinkle garlic powder on his ribs and keep baking.
“I couldn’t have made this up if I wanted to,” the walrusian CEO says, summoning the same frightening, near-Hitler-capturing intensity Christopher used back when Roland was in trouble. “My father dies and Bust-A-Gut beats us to the punch in honoring him with a commercial. Then my drug addict son wins the big contest for everyone to see. And to top it off, he’s about as thin as his crackpipe.”
“Dad, I don’t want to be the winner,” he says, pinching eyes shut. “And I don’t smoke crack.”
“I’m sure fame and fortune is killing you, Tim,” the father says, sitting across the desk, pulling a mustard tie completely loose. “That’s why you played the game. That’s why you are sabotaging Grandpa’s—” He frowns and lowers the finger pointed toward heaven. “My company.” He pulls the tie completely out from the collar.
“Look, it was an accident. I was just trying to do something nice. I was trying to help someone. You wouldn’t know anything about that kind of shit.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter what I know, now. You’ve got a television date with some cosmonauts. Let’s make the best of this.”
“Cross me off that list,” he says, scanning for the exit. All the doors look the same and there’s about five of them. “Find someone else. Some other clown.”
“Your uncle Jimmy was a clown. Elephant killed him, you know that. Have a heart.”
The man with long gray hair and a black hat stands to the side, motionless. Winters shoots him a look, but that garbage bag wrinkled face doesn’t budge.
“Tim, I’ve let you suck your thumb long enough. Your mother and I let you play in this rock group and we…I…turn the other cheek with the drugs. God, it would kill her. I look the other way, son.”
“I’d classify Beth as a step-mother.” Pandemic smacks gums and runs his tongue along the mouth’s border, daydreaming about going home and smoking. “Speaking of elephants, how is Beth?”
“Damn it, Tim,” he says, counting the ceiling beams and wheezing a tired breath until his blood pressure mellows. Roland’s mustache flutters when the eruption begins again. “Pay attention to me. You either do this or you never come home again. I’m asking a favor here. I need you now, son. This is important.” Roland Winters’ imitation of his father crumbles and his mind scurries into a corner labeled: Public Relations. That fatherly growl softens to something smooth. “You won fair and square and you’re gonna go through with this. Maybe not you, exactly.”
Pandemic picks some rocky yellow crust from an eye. He slouches deeper into the chair. “No.”
“You’re in or you’re out of the family. No more trust fund. Got it?”
The hands of an ancient grandfather clock chop away. Its gears fill the room with mechanical chunks.
Pandemic looks older, maybe more so than his father. A face beaten with too much of everything. “I suppose, I mean…I…” He has never been able to stand up to Dad and feels weak remembering past battles.
“Good enough,” Roland snaps, rising and moving to the opposite side of the desk. “No drugs, got it? You’ll say what we tell you to. You’ll be the perfect spokesman, because you have to be. When this fiasco is over, you can run away to Timbuktu and I’ll keep you afloat. I don’t give a damn what you do, then. But I need you this time, kiddo. The company is at war.”
“Uhm…wait…um…”
“Jesus, you’re falling apart. Look at your head. Double Harry is going to get on the phone right now and find someone to patch you up.” He rests a hand on his son’s shoulder. “And find someone to keep an eye on you.”
The father’s hand pinches Pandemic’s flesh. The son slouches deeper.
“Isn’t that right, Harry?”
Deshler opens the mail. There’s a letter from his zip code. It’s a Halloween card with Snoopy doing something cute. It’s too late for Halloween. Plus, who sends a card for Halloween in the first place?
I’ve got the time. You’ve got the trouble. We should talk. Malinta’s skull would agree, don’t you think?
The morning sun cracks through blinds as the apartment whistles from steam heat registers. Henry washes his face at the bathroom sink. The cool water burns like Aqua Velva. He takes time shaving and makes sure nothing dribbles on his shirt or tie. It’s important to look perfect on your last day, he thinks, dreaming of Martin and that thing he does with his tongue.
Henry carefully twists on cufflinks and adjusts the holster around his ankle. “By the end of the day,” his boss, Tony, told him, “Malinta Redding—Bust-A-Gut’s vice president of marketing—must be dead. Period.”
The cufflinks uncoil into metal wire strong enough to choke a yeti.
“I know what her job title is. You don’t have to be so dramatic.”
“I don’t have time for smart asses.”
“At least tell me, does our budget go beyond cufflinks?” Henry, still feisty with love, snapped at headquarters.
Tony, scalp glimmering beneath a sad lattice of hair, sneered, “Here, smart ass.” He passed the young spy a small green water pistol. “Get her with this and the autopsy will look like a poisonous spider bit her. No joke.”
The gun is heavier than Hamler anticipated. The holster slips around his sock and pokes its grassy colored snout below the pant leg.
An all-too-familiar seasickness swirls Henry’s stomach. The same weightless paranoia that preceded the Christopher Winters interview pounds on his conscience’s entrance. He doesn’t know how he’ll kill another human being. Henry prays, in the back of his brain, that Malinta’s odds of dying from a ladder fall finally pay off.
When the apartment door shakes and bangs, Henry’s peaceful despair blasts away. Hamler nicks his chin with the razor. Instantly, a spittle of blood rivers down the porcelain
. The door gives a wooden cough and squeaks open.
Henry’s so tense his blood pressure could power a windmill. He inches toward the living room and estimates the seconds it will take to remove the spider-bite gun and stop this burglar.
There is a rustling near the couch, empty cereal bowls clattering, newspapers tossing against the wall. Tony warned his protégé about the other company’s spies, how they are blood-thirsty thugs and, yes, it’s not impossible Henry could be an assassination target.
Hamler is convinced just such evil is flipping through the magazines, making a mess.
Before poking a head around the corner, he wonders how he’ll explain to the police that a complete stranger died from a black widow attack in the living room. There is no chapter in the Olde-Tyme Espionage Handbook about that.
Wounded goat moans rumble from the room. Henry is a flash-second from storming in and filling this monster with venom. The newspapers stir again and the assassin roars as if a devil’s pitchfork digs into its back.
Henry bounces around the corner in a police takedown stance, ready for anything.
“Oh, shit, there you are,” Deshler says, sounding like Louis Armstrong with strep throat. “You getting ready for wrestling practice or something?”
Hamler’s teeth tense, fists tight. They hurt a little. “I almost killed you, Dean.”
Deshler wobbles, holding a clump of business section over his face. “Sure, dude,” Dean slurs with a laugh, voice muffled by newspaper. “Kill me with kindness.” The paper soaks up a wet red stain around his mouth.
“No, I was.” Hamler loosens the fingernails from his palms and flattens his fists out. “Never mind. What happened to you? It’s like seven o’clock, are you aware of this?”
“Well, Henry, yes and no,” he says peeling sticky newsprint from his face, revealing a bulging right eye and a smear of blood across his chin. The white work uniform speckled dry brown. “I assume, since the sun is out, that it’s early. But no, I didn’t catch the time when I woke up to three people beating the shit out of me in an alley.”
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