“Ah, Tony, thanks for coming so quickly. This must be agent Hamler, perfect. You look like a man I can trust. Come in, come in.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Hamler says, shaking the CEO’s surprisingly limp hand.
Down an oak hallway lined with photos of Henry’s first kill, Roland Winters hacks and dices his arms while speaking. “Okay, so you’ve been briefed, yes? We have some nuggets. Apparently Bust-A-Gut’s intelligence corps is going to try something funny. We don’t have any concrete info, but with those heartless savages, anything’s possible. We need someone to be a bodyguard of sorts.”
“I’m your man, sir.”
“Henry is really showing lots of promise, chief. He was, uh,” Tony searches for the politically correct way to say boss murderer. “The main man with the C.W. thing, you know?”
Holding the doorknob to his office, Winters drops a solemn church nod. A brief memory of okaying his father’s assassination. “Nasty work, but important. I thank you, son.”
When Henry enters, he is swamped by heat—a thermostat stuck on broil. Four men and one woman lounge around in blue jumpsuits. They each nibble doughnuts. Black coffee is in the air. Another guy, standing at the window with a huge pompadour and thick glasses turns and stares. The man’s skin is colored like circus peanuts. Hamler suddenly craves a handful of the mushy orange candies.
“I trust you know who these gentlemen and lady are,” Winters says as the cosmonauts line up to shake hands, wiping powdered sugar from fingers. Compared to television, their faces are weird. Three have chin waddles and muscles and real tans. The other guy and a girl are pale and thin with horrible teeth. “This is Dimitri, Yuri, Pavel, Sonja and Keith. The, huh,” he laughs, “Moscow Five, I think we are promoting them as.”
Hamler shakes hands and says hello.
“Okay, so you’ll be around this crew all day, every day. You don’t let them get into any trouble. Anyone suspicious walks within an acre, you solve the problem with a gun if you have to. Got it? There are millions of dollars riding on this tour’s success. We’ll start tonight with the big television shindig, then nail both coasts for promotion. Be back in a week, you hear?”
“Absolutely.”
Delia Ellery, leaning against the wall with her stump to the bookcase, clears her throat. The CEO turns around and rolls his eyes.
“And this,” Roland says, faking forgetfulness. “This is the big winner of the contest. Henry Hamler, please meet…” Winters eases a heavy sigh, “Mister Juan Pandemic.”
America’s newest hero steps up. His black hair is a horrible wig, his tan is fake, his glasses have no glass. It takes the young spy three blinks to figure everything out. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, shaking his drummer’s hand.
The Cliff Drinker wakes, shocked to be in his bed, neatly tucked and warm. He looks around the room: no pools, trails or specks of blood. So far, so successful, Dean thinks, kind of proud. He gropes the soft skin around his face—a night’s rest without being beaten by one-armed marketing execs works wonders for swelling.
Deshler gets up and dresses. After wrestling a comb through wild hair, he slips off to Winters headquarters. His first real day at work hums by without incident. People claw at each other to get near the new hotshot. Dean is shocked to see everyone stop and listen whenever his mouth opens.
Early in the morning, leaving Winters’ dark wood office after a meeting, Deshler has a breakthrough. “Mister Dean,” the head of the test kitchen says. “You can’t just mix cough syrup and raw ground beef. There is no amount of breadcrumbs we could add to keep this from cooking into sludge.”
“Damn,” Deshler says. “Well, hmm, what if we marinated the onions in cold medicine?”
“I don’t think that would mask the eucalyptus flavor well enough. That is our goal, sir, to make this healthful and edible.”
Getting into the elevator, another sober idea cartwheels through Dean’s head: “I’m thinking we can make it a sauce,” he growls deep and nervous—Isaac Hayes on a first date. “Like ketchup and Nyquil.”
“Well, gosh, sir.” This takes Dean by surprise, the man calling him sir is fifteen years older, easily. “That seems feasible, we could have a prototype ready by the end of the day tomorrow.”
A cheek-burning smile plants itself across Dean’s face. People are listening for once and he doesn’t have to cover them in mustard or bellow into a microphone. The foreign whip of satisfaction zings through his nervous system. He draws it in close.
What would Gibby do? he thinks.
Nothing.
Come on, this always works. What would he do next?
Nada.
You know, that’s a load of horseshit, he thinks. What would Deshler do? Now that’s a question. This new perspective toughens Dean’s posture. It doesn’t actually make him stand straighter, but it certainly feels like it.
Eager to keep this good luck and not wanting to run into Napoleon near the Beef Club, Dean chooses to eat dinner down the street from the Olde-Tyme office. He walks through the snowy dark, whistling something upbeat and unknown before slipping into a cramped Italian restaurant. Alive with garlic and fresh bread air, his stomach calls for the entire menu.
A glass of wine and a table for one, he stops to appreciate today. Did he feel this good turning eighteen, leaving foster care behind? No. Did he feel this alive when that box of Broken Piano for President tapes arrived from the printer, smelling new and full of promise? Close, very close. But, still, no. Was turning twenty-one this rewarding, tossing his fake ID and buying that first legal case of beer? He doesn’t remember.
There, gnawing on a buttery breadstick, Dean sees this could be the first entry into a new Hall of Fame.
Today.
Today.
Today.
Today.
Today.
Sunning himself in the warm tones of satisfaction, Deshler’s solid gold streak crashes just after the shrimp fettuccine arrives.
“Well, there you are,” a woman hisses, sing-songy.
Dean’s chin lifts with a noodle swinging from his lips. Malinta—tall as a basketball pro—and Thurman Lepsic—in a three-button suit tight enough to cut off circulation—hover over the table.
“Malinta, your head looks great.”
She tucks a blonde bundle behind her ear. “You’re a popular man today. Your name is on everyone’s lips—everyone’s.”
Lepsic checks his hair in the window. Bust-A-Gut’s intimidating VP next plants himself across the table and Deshler determines his skin soaks under ultraviolet heat lamps most of the day.
“Didn’t see you parking cars,” Lepsic says. “Your nitwit friend seems to have some theories, though.”
A subterranean guilt stiffens inside him. The feeling of being on someone’s shit list without even knowing. It feels not unlike the day paramedics wheeled Dad off, leaving a wet red trail from the dining room to the front door to the driveway. Deshler never knew so much blood could come out the ears. But young Dean’s guilt didn’t start pushing until Mom began pointing fingers. Fortunately, on the first night of that lifetime grounding, Deshler’s brother snuck him and a flask of schnapps into a Butthole Surfers show. His posture felt tougher that night, too.
Dean drops his fork. He’s hot and itchy, like being caught in a lie. His mouth is leather. “Oh, you don’t say,” is all he manages. Wait, I didn’t do anything wrong.
“You and I had an understanding, Dean,” Lepsic says. His five o’clock shadow spreads across his face like an action star. “If you think this is a bargaining chip, guess again. You’re lucky I don’t hang you from your ankles over the bridge.”
Malinta’s red wool coat goes to her bare knees. Her arms are crossed and it’s obvious they will not end up in bed tonight. Lepsic clears his throat, deep and ugly.
“Can I order anyone a drink?” Deshler says, hoping to defuse this bomb and buy some time.
“Mister Findlay gives you such opportunities. Such a li
fe,” Lepsic says and flashes a menu open. “You stay at the Bust-A-Gut penthouse for a weekend, we give you massive freedom and this is how you repay us? Jumping ship. Come on, the Globo-Goodness Corporation Family of Corporations deserves better than this. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“They deserve only the finest,” Dean says, not totally knowing where this comes from. He’s riffing again, the same way Broken Piano for President was written.
“Just tell me, just whisper in my ear,” Lepsic says, cupping a hand to the side of his head. “Just say this horseshit isn’t true and I’ll leave you alone. Malinta will probably stick around and order a drink, too. Just promise me that I’ve been lied to by…” He looks at the ceiling and licks pink collagen lips. “Let’s see, by my coworkers, by my assistant, Jesus, even my acupuncturist.”
The restaurant spins to life. Lepsic moves slow as the entire room chases its tail. Dean grows nauseous sorting a big idea out between his ears. This lie folds into a beautiful origami swan, so neat and perfect Dean is positive it won’t work.
Malinta stamps her foot but still manages to look calm. “Well, Dean?” She locks hands on hips, “Well?”
“What exactly have you heard, Mister Lepsic?”
“Oh, jeez, Mister Lepsic,” he wipes his forehead with a napkin and pokes a fork in the air toward our hero. “It’s me, Thurman. I’m your friend. Haven’t we built a trust? Oh God, when people start talking like this I get really nervous. And then, once in a while, when those nerves start to chew on my brain, I hang people from their ankles over the bridge.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Dean says. He’s unfolded and refolded his big plan, he likes the shape. “Okay, Thurman, what have you heard?”
Lepsic rolls his shoulders and neck until they crackle. “Heard you’re the VP of Development at Winters. Heard you took Bust-A-Gut’s job offer and crapped all over it. Heard Clifford Findlay, your rightful boss might I remind you, the CEO of this company, isn’t too happy either.”
“Furious is a better way to F-ing put it,” Malinta adds.
“What?” Lepsic turns sharp to his sidekick. “Stop that. You sound like a little kid. You used to swear like a prison guard.”
“Sorry.”
“I liked that.”
“I’m sorry.”
Returning focus to Dean: “Let’s just say he’s pissed.”
“Ticked.”
“He is not a man you want to tick off—” Lepsic shoots Malinta another look. “Piss off.”
Deshler nods. The whirlwind room draws tighter, waitresses make a breeze as they blur past. Steam pipes of customer noise wail louder than before. Malinta leans forward so she doesn’t miss a vowel.
“Would either of you like something to eat?” Dean says. “Supposedly they have a New York strip that will make you cum.”
“Get serious,” Lepsic says, running a palm over his cake frosting hair. “You know I don’t eat that garbage.”
“Shrimp fettuccine is a knockout, too.”
“C’mon, quit clowning around.”
“Meatballs?”
“You know I’m vegan. Haven’t eaten anything born with eyes…hell, anything born period, in fifteen years.”
The room washes in silence again. There is a tickle in Dean’s throat. That confused face reappears—jaw swinging open. He restocks that origami genius plan for a moment. “Wait, so the vice president of the second biggest hamburger restaurant in America doesn’t eat meat?”
Lepsic’s eyes roll until they are blank white bulbs.
“Seriously?”
“I think you said it best once, ‘Doesn’t matter if I’m selling beef or balance beams: it’s just a job.’ You know me, Dean, I’m into the logistics, into the challenge.” The man softens a little in the face and shoulders. “I’m certainly not here because my daddy gave me a title like that idiot, Winters.” Lepsic’s bare fingers pinch out the candle between them. “Which brings me back to my point, we hear you’re lead-off hitter on Olde-Tyme’s development team.”
All the noise, all the rattling plates, all the servers babbling out tonight’s special are swallowed by a wall of quiet in Dean’s head. The only sound he picks up are ears ringing and a growing heartbeat.
A couple guys have gotten tough and macho like this at Lothario Speedwagon shows. Dean has defended himself with mixed results.
Q: “Why don’t you assholes stop making all that noise and play some Zeppelin?”
A: Dean stopped the band to belch through an a cappella version of Dancin’ Days. He reached the second line of the song before the man broke the singer’s rib with a fist.
Q: “Hey fag, why don’t you come over here so I can kick you in that stupid pink mask?”
A: Dean walked to the edge of the stage in between songs—during the usual confused silence—lifted that pink mask and vomited back a cheap bottle of cabernet atop the heckler.
Q: “Hey, why did you get all this mustard in my wife’s hair?”
A: Dean didn’t have time to answer because the man’s fist immediately followed the word “hair” and smashed his teeth.
“Well, Dean,” Lepsic says, his face growing distant. “Are you on Winters’ team?”
Without the distinct height advantage of a stage or a vomit-cannon full of red wine, Dean decides this is a time for peace, not war. He unrolls his plan, studies it one last time and decides to give it a try. What would Deshler do? He thinks.
Here is the answer.
“You bet your ass I’m on their team,” Deshler says and pops the shrimp in his mouth. Dean hears dishes rattle and orders taken again. The pair across the table grows redder with anger every second he spends chewing. Dean pushes one last shrimp around the plate and lets the fork squeal across cloud white china. “That’s exactly how I hoped it would look.” The room’s tension begins to deflate.
Lepsic clears his throat. Malinta straightens her skirt with a tug. Deshler swallows and their eyes laser on him again. “Go on,” the muscle bulged vice president growls, unsure.
“How better to stay ahead of the competition than having one of us in the development department?” Despite what Malinta told him, Deshler is still about thirty percent sure he’s never worked for Bust-A-Gut. But judging from Lepsic’s face bending into a grin, this is the right answer.
The space between his shirt buttons spreads as his chest takes dramatic breaths. Dean begins to wonder if he can survive a drop off the bridge. Hopes the water isn’t too cold, because it’s a long swim. “Then what do we have Corporate Intelligence for?” Lepsic says.
“Good question. Why do you?”
“Cut the cutie pie business.”
“How deep are your agents? What do you have, some janitors and some mailroom clerks? I guarantee I’m the only VP at Winters who is a…” Deshler grins. “What’s the title you offered me at Bust-A-Gut?” He lets that one sink in, stunned that it actually fell from his mouth. Dean wishes he had a beer. “At any rate, I’m the only Bust-A-Gut employee who’s a VP at Winters, I’ll bet your sister’s virginity on that one, Mister Lepsic.”
Dean doesn’t look, but it seems like every customer and waiter in the room pauses. The puddling sweat on his body senses it.
Lepsic rocket launches a laugh, it rattles icicles loose above the entrance. “Look at this guy,” he says to Malinta. “When does he sleep? When does he turn off?”
“I’m a natural, what can I say?” That one also slips out unannounced. Jesus, I’m really good at this bullshit, he thinks. Being a singer or an artist or whatever isn’t my calling. For sure.
“He certainly,” Malinta carefully mouths the words. “Is one-of-a-kind.”
“I’ll have HR whip up a contract outlining all this, of course. I mean, how do I know you’re not pulling the same stunt on us? Mister Findlay is never pleased with deception. Unless, of course, he’s the one doing the deceiving.”
Deshler twists some pasta around the fork. “You know I’m not pulling the old switcheroo because Winters is a fool,
Thurman. Plus, you’ll kick my ass if I do anything like that, am I right?”
“My man,” Lepsic says and sniffles.
The room’s tension is totally out of air and Dean relaxes. He starts wondering how much cash he can get if he sells all those Butthole Surfers records and bootleg videos. Who needs Gibby? he thinks.
“So where is Mister Findlay anyway? I haven’t seen him in…”
“You need a mustache or a beard. Sideburns. Something to fatten your face,” the CEO of Olde-Tyme Hamburgers tells his son through chubby cheeks and push broom mustache. “That wig and those glasses aren’t cutting the ketchup.”
They are alone in Roland’s oak cave office. Pandemic plucks a brandy bottle off a shelf, sniffs and glugs it like soda. He flushed his meth down the toilet days ago and it’s rearranging his brain cells. He’s actually been thinking a lot about what Dad had to say during that original late-night meeting. Most days, Juan Pandemic or Timothy Winters or whatever name he’s going by, is so filled with anger his shoulders ache from stress. Most days only a sweet pipe to his lips can cure it. But lately, he’s been upbeat and it feels great.
“People don’t want a junkie for a contest winner. A skinny, ungrateful drug addict. They want the all-American hero. They want your grandpa. Everyone wants Christopher Winters.”
“Look, Dad,” he says. A sudden snake of nostalgia twists between Pandemic’s lungs, wrapping around the heart, laying eggs of fond memories and family pride. His mouth soaks in the familiar juices of Grandpa Winters’ backyard barbecues. Juan remembers the warm fuzz of superiority when kids at school made a big deal every time he brought the governor for career day. He’d never felt so good or so superior to others. “I’ve been thinking. And, you know, I’m sorry. I’ll help, I’ll go around and say whatever you want me to say. I’ll kiss babies and shake hands with Russians. I’ll help.”
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