Broken Piano for President

by Patrick Wensink

  “Dude,” Hamler says with a cardiologist’s seriousness, “I’m so sorry.” Hamler assumes Bust-A-Gut’s thugs have targeted his best friend.

  Deshler has a gash in the shape of a seven on his chin. It is carved typewriter-perfect.

  “Yeah, me too. Shit, the last thing I remember was having a drink with this girl at a club. Gorgeous, tall girl.” He holds out hands in measurement. A sharp whistle jets through the gap in his teeth. “She kind of got pissed at me, so I think I had some more drinks.”

  “You think?”

  “Real funny. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the alley behind the hotel getting my ribs and face worked over.”

  “Who? I mean, what did they look like?”

  “One was this skinny-ass son-of-a-bitch with long gray hair and a black bowler. I think I’ve seen him before.” Dean decides to leave out the part about sharing a limo. “One guy was this Mexican dude with a soul patch, I think. I mean, look, time flies when you’re getting beaten.”

  A cluster of Henry’s belly muscles clench. Shock? Love? Anger? More like disappointment. “What did you do to him?”

  “What did I do?”

  “Sorry. Why were they doing this?”

  “Man, I don’t know. I don’t remember. I didn’t even get a look at the third one. I managed to kick one guy in the face, though. I mean I landed my foot square, heard his nose crunch and everything. Then they all just walked away. Left me to die.”

  “To die?”

  “Well, to suffer. Ground’s cold, man.”

  “You don’t look that bad, really,” Henry says, hoping to make up for the beating he secretly takes responsibility for. “I mean if we wash the blood off, you can hardly tell your eye is doing that thing. You’ll be cool.”

  Dean grunts and lies on the couch. “Forget it. Not the first time, not the last, right?” He grabs Hamler’s pack of smokes and lights up. “Why are you so dressed up? Are you still working that temp job?”

  Hamler sucks in a freezing cold breath. It stings the teeth. “Yeah, but it’s my last day.” His shattered insides reform and sour at the thought of using the poison gun and never seeing Martin again. He unwraps melty Hershey’s Miniatures from a pocket and turns toward the door. “Gotta run.”

  Morning holds an ancient quiet at Bust-A-Gut. The World Headquarters is a haunted library at the bottom of the ocean—nobody is home.

  Hamler needs to throw up. He also craves a Snickers, but needs to throw up worse. The old ghost of Christopher Winters’ bald, dying head blows raspberries on his stomach. A record-setting queasiness burrows deep. Henry thinks about having to give Martin a resignation letter. Add a murder to the To-Do list and it all shades that gut an ugly green.

  Hamler weaves around a maze of cubicle walls looking for a bathroom. Each partition painted company colors—blue and yellow, blue and yellow, blue and yellow. The men’s and women’s rooms are down a long hallway directly next to one another.

  A meteor shower falls in Henry’s belly. The reality of unrolling that cufflink and wrapping it around Malinta’s neck is repetitive and punishing. Hamler’s knee joints go Jell-O.

  Ten paces from the restroom and vomit freedom, he rounds the final corner and a stick of dysentery TNT explodes within.

  “Henry, I’ve got some stuff to talk to you about today. There might be an opening in our department…full time! If you’re interested, I mean,” Malinta says. She has a small band-aid over that old head wound. She stares down at Hamler from white high heels and a matching dress. His throat ties into a knot and his bowels go granite. She flies toward the women’s room and turns around at the door. “Oh, and good morning. You look really handsome today.”

  His cufflinks burn holes at the wrists. The spider-bite contraption is a ball and chain. Hamler’s heart rate punches while the white noise of the office explodes through his ears.

  The innocent liver spots on Christopher Winters’ scalp come back. He pictures tiny white kitten whiskers sprouting from America’s hero’s head. It reminds Hamler of the pink scar soon to be around Malinta’s neck.

  He stops thinking about death and his breathing returns. A fresh memory buzzes loud in Hamler’s head. Sensations of accomplishment are dusted off and spit-shined. His stomachache is gone, recalling that brief electric zap of success after they moved Christopher Winters’ body to the couch. The look of approval on Tony’s face leaving Winters’ estate was a thrill that, until now, Henry pushed into the dark. It wasn’t that bad, he thinks. Actually, it was kind of cool. Easy, in fact.

  Stop being such a chicken and do this. Just like the other night with Martin, he swallows dry, just jump into the fun.

  By the time Henry starts paying attention, his feet are floating across the women’s room tiles. Malinta quietly pisses. He sees bone white heels under the stall. Hamler’s training has conditioned him to mentally simulate several angles at once.

  He can quickly slide beneath the toilet wall and spider bite her ankle. Though, Tony harped on the importance of plunging the tiny gun near the heart.

  He can jump over the stall and wrap the wire around her head while she sits. This, too, requires some gymnastics.

  Hamler can play possum and walk into the stall nearest her and wait. When Malinta finishes, he can exit behind her and choose the cufflinks or the little pistol.

  Option three sounds best and he walks slowly to the toilet, trying not to make a sound. The door is cold against the pumping blood in Hamler’s fingers. Before he twists the knob, Malinta’s toilet flushes and her door swings open. Close enough to smell each other’s breakfast, those green marble eyes lock onto Hamler’s face.

  Oh, shit. Henry’s courage fizzles, now his stomach is full of Pop Rocks and Pepsi—throwing up sounds like a great idea again.

  Malinta slowly shakes her head with a hint of a grin. Hamler’s training manual taught him to assess this situation, as well. It is possible one of three things can happen:

  She thinks you are a pervert and will scream.

  She knows you are a murderer and will scream.

  She thinks you are a perverted murderer and will scream.

  Her warm breath and the sting of perfume floods Henry’s face as her mouth opens in slow motion, teeth shine in the dull light. “In-appropriate,” she purrs. “Mister Holgate.”

  Henry fumbles with the cufflink. It won’t slip through its hole. He gently pulls so as not to frighten his prey. But those fingers are stiff.

  “What the bleep would your boyfriend say?” she asks. Henry’s mouth cracks open, lips dry. Malinta swoops down, dive bombing Henry’s face. The kiss stops all wrist fidgeting. Malinta’s mouth is odd. It reminds Hamler of kissing Grandma.

  “I want a baby, but not this bad,” Malinta grins.

  “N-nnn,” the dictionary in Henry’s head is filled with blank sheets. “No-ooooo.”

  “I won’t tell,” she says with a wink.

  Henry watches Malinta and her tight white dress walk out the door. The cufflink pops impotently from his wrist in a dental floss dangle.

  He gathers it up, stuffs the metal thread in a pocket and walks into the men’s room. Henry’s throat is wrung tight and scratchy. He’s disappointed and relieved about the failed execution. More disappointed than relieved, he realizes. That scares him cold.

  Henry turns on the faucet and watches shiny water disappear.

  What is wrong with you?

  What is wrong with you?

  What is wrong with you?

  Hamler’s cell phone rings before water splashes his face. “Have you taken care of our problem yet?” Tony says. There is a pause as Hamler debates taking a drink. “Hello? Did you hear me, Henry?”

  “I didn’t get a chance yet, sorry.” He palms water to his mouth.

  “Perfect.”

  Embarrassed, he repeats, “I’m sorry.”

  “No, really, it’s perfect. Your mission objectives have changed. Drastically. Get the hell out of there. Don’t kill anyone, don’t swat a b
ug…don’t even clean up your desk. Hear me?”

  “Y-yeah, sure. But—”

  “Just move. We obtained some files last night. That bitch, Malinta, lied to you. Bust-A-Gut isn’t planning a smear campaign. I don’t know where she got off telling you that,” Tony chirps out a laugh. “God, we need some drug addicts. Drunks are unreliable informants. Never thought I’d miss cokeheads.”

  Henry walks toward the door, phone between shoulder and ear. “So what’s going on, then?” All disappointment has vanished. Henry realizes he was lying to himself. Being a murderer is not who he is.

  “Okay, I’ll fill you in more when you get here. But Mister Winters personally asked me to set this up. It’s big.”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever babysat before?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to travel?”

  He thinks about Martin’s scruffy chin and the chance of rescuing their infant relationship from the fire: “No.”

  “You speak Russian, right?”

  “Tony, seriously.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour. You’re doing great work, Henry. People are paying attention.”

  “Tony,” he whines.

  “Bring your translation dictionary.” Tony hangs up.

  The office remains silent. His feet against thin carpet are the loudest thing imaginable. Henry hits the elevator down arrow and waits. Adrenaline and bile pedal through his body, mute compared to a few minutes ago, but constantly rearranging themselves.

  The bell plings and metal doors slide apart. A crush of young executives squeeze out. When it clears, Martin stands across from Henry. His brown skin has a tanning lotion sheen and his perfect black hair gives off a dry warmth. Oddly, he has a huge bandage across his nose.

  “Just the guy I wanted to see.”

  “Hey.”

  “What’s up, Henry? You feeling okay?”

  “What happened to your face?”

  Martin smiles. His teeth are distractingly straight. Henry’s seasickness sloshes back with love. “You aren’t leaving me, are you?” Martin says with a laugh.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice says on the other end. “Is this Mister Dean?”

  The phone’s hard plastic is an icicle against the Cliff Drinker’s ear. Buried under a quilt, he’s just drifted to sleep after three cigarettes and a few specks of Vicodin. His face throbs raw and sore.

  “Yep, yeah, who’s this?”

  “Hi, sir, this is Deb, Mister Winters’ assistant. Roland wants to confirm that you two are still on for lunch today.”

  “Oh, shit, um.” He releases a lungful of air and feels the swollen eye bulge. “Okay, sure, where?”

  “Twelve-thirty at the Club.”

  “Should’ve guessed. What time is it now?”

  “It’s eleven-fifty-two, sir. Sorry I didn’t confirm earlier.”

  Deshler hangs up and digs through a pile of shirts. The room is stale with unwashed clothes and dead circulation. He pulls out a pair of wrinkled jeans and a stained sweater.

  Dean daydreams about Malinta while brushing his teeth. He wants to kiss her with these clean lips. He wants to nibble her ear. He can’t remember entirely, but is kind of sure they didn’t part on the best terms last night.

  Henry is right, Dean thinks after washing blood from his face. I don’t look horrible. The eye is a balloon and his chin is stenciled like a quarterback’s jersey.

  Cleaning up, he mentally ties together the previous night. Rusty knives and Malinta’s face juggle in and out of the darkness. His shoe kicks someone’s nose with a crack felt all the way back to his teeth. Staring deep into the sink, looking at the blood mix with stains from Henry’s shaving accident, Dean remembers a woman.

  The sun wasn’t totally up and orange streetlamps still flooded the alley. The men focused on pounding him in the stomach and ribs. A long-haired lady floated in the darkness and leapt forward in a panther bounce. She swung and connected with Deshler’s eye. Before impact he saw her other sleeve flop like empty hosing. No arm.

  Downtown, Deshler parks around the corner and out of Napoleon’s sight. He kept the hotel’s backdoor key and slips through the employee entrance. He avoids stepping on the dried stains of his blood in the alley.

  Upstairs, the Club is completely empty of its usual guests and clean from whatever mess happened the previous evening. Noon sun gives everything a glow. Winters’ long table is packed near the back. Roland is dressed casual: his red suit and yellow shirt, but no tie. No matter how casual, it still fits poorly. The CEO introduces the Vice President of this and the Director of that. Everyone seems familiar with Deshler.

  “Dean, this is Olde-Tyme’s core. These are the people you’ll be working with,” Roland says with some authority. “These are the smartest folks in the business.”

  “So I hear,” Deshler says. A self-conscious surge drowns him. Everyone wears a suit, though none as flamboyant as the boss’s. Dean can sharpen a knife on the women’s skirts. The men’s ties are centered with elaborate, perfect knots. Deshler shifts in a chair, realizing something smells mildly like the zoo’s monkey house.

  He is that something.

  “We want you exclusively, son.”

  “No more freelancing,” a guy says.

  “We want those ideas,” a middle-aged woman says. Deshler forgets her name and title. A late-stage hangover settles between the Cliff Drinker’s ears. It makes concentration impossible. His chest and stomach puff with gas and swelling.

  “I’ll say,” a spectacled man with chins agrees. “We need to keep him away from those Bust-A-Gut pricks. That mozzarella stick thing is gonna kill us.”

  A maternal-looking woman drops a wet cough into the air.

  “My dad, God rest his soul, once said something about the hamburger being the heart of this country…and maybe the fries being the fingers. I don’t know what all that meant, I was really going somewhere with this. Anyhow, I have to apologize, Deshler. This isn’t my normal style,” Winters says with a heavy grin. His mustache is glazed wet. “But we all agreed an intervention is our best bet. I’m not gonna twist your balls here, but we want you on our side.” He slowly rotates his thick head around at the other execs. “We need you here.”

  There is a quiet lull. The room seems empty except for this table—those shabby couches pushed to the walls. Winters sneezes into a napkin. A foreign emotion breathes lightly in Dean’s ear. Flattery has been almost non-existent in his life since that time he won a spelling bee as a kid. He realizes, just a little, it feels good to be wanted.

  “You’d better take care of that,” a young waitress says. “Flu’s going around. Can I get everyone’s drink orders?”

  Beginning with the CEO, the table orders either beer or wine. Sitting next to the boss, Deshler is last in the rotation. The hangover takes hammer-swings at his brain’s mushy gray space. That head is Hamler’s pumping bass speaker. One more drink, he thinks, and I’ll collapse.

  “I’ll, uh…” Dean swallows hard, everyone watches. His stomach shrivels to a fiery lump. “Just have a Dr. Pepper.”

  Ten pairs of eyes glare in confusion. “Dean,” the CEO says very publicly. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Maybe he means a Flaming Dr. Pepper?” a man whispers across the table.

  Deshler’s shoulders tense into a thick rope of muscle. “I’m fighting…a cold myself. I’m trying to go easy.”

  “Oh, God, you scared us for a second, Dean.” The table clucks with laughs.

  “No worries.”

  The woman returns with drinks remarkably quick. Winters waits for her to leave before speaking again. “Okay, let’s get down to business. Name your price. Company car? You bet. Stock options are all there. Free range of the executive condo in Turks and Caicos. I’ll even let you borrow my jet.” Winters halts for drama’s sake. “We’re that serious, Dean.”

  Deshler sips soda and waits for all the eyes to stop burning through him. He wonders how he got to this point. God, I hop
e Malinta isn’t pissed. Signing on with Winters pretty much ruins any other shot of sex. He wonders how he ever came up with those original burger ideas…or if he came up with the original ideas.

  This table seems convinced he did.

  “Oh Christ, sorry we’re late, team,” a familiar voice at the entrance says. Everyone at the table, including Dean and Winters, turns around to see who’s so apologetic. “We…oh, gosh, there’s no excuse. My apologies,” says the skinny man from the limo with gray hair to his shoulders and a black bowler. Dean bangs knees together and a spritz of sweat builds under his arms. That swollen eye somehow stings worse.

  An older woman trails. Her long hair also gray. She is dressed in a saggy, frumpy suit with one arm swinging full and the other sleeve empty.

  For the first time in a long while, things are starting to look familiar to the Cliff Drinker. He doesn’t like that. Don’t panic, he thinks. Maybe this isn’t what it looks like. There are other reasonable possibilities.

  This is a reality TV gag. This is the final episode and somehow Dean just won a million dollars.

  Well, that’s really it. Dean can’t focus on other possibilities for fear of unloading his bowels.

  “No problem, guys,” Roland says with warmth. “We’re just getting to the good part.” He stands and nudges Dean, “Deshler, this man is royalty. Meet Harold ‘Double Harry’ Dobbs. He’s a legend. He invented the double hamburger back in the fifties. What was your place called, Lard Boy?”

  “Beef Boy, boss. Quit pulling Dean’s leg. You know as well as anyone.”

  “Well, my father scooped Harry up, just like I am with you, and he’s run our Development Department ever since. Also created the Lunch on a Bun way back when. God, we sold a million of those pieces of trash. You’re good, kid, but you can learn a lot from this fella.”