Broken Piano for President

by Patrick Wensink

  “Who is Sonja,” Dean asks the Rusty Knife. Whiskey soaks into his stomach as he stares around the room. “Right, the cosmonaut chick…the one that’s supposed to come back to the city to kill me.” A weight of fear thunders down his throat and nests in his lap. Well shit, this complicates things.

  The bartender went home a long time ago. Dean is alone, but the silence isn’t so pure now. It’s full of audible hiss, like Lothario’s tape.

  He needs something to remind him he’s human. He needs someone to push away all the stress and anxiety of life. He thinks, a bit dreamily, that someone might need him to do likewise, what with losing her job and all. Dean dials the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Malinta, don’t hang up, okay?”

  “Dean, do you have any clue how early it is? I can’t believe you even remembered my phone number. What a huge step.”

  Dean works up courage and decides he doesn’t care if this sounds stupid. “I saw you, you know, at that boardroom.”

  “That boardroom? Sweetie, don’t you think I noticed you, too? The whole place saw you. You looked like an idiot. Thank God they don’t know we’re together.”

  “Who were they?” he nearly asks, but figures it’ll just piss her off more. So he keeps quiet and takes a sip. Melting cubes clink.

  “Jesus, Dean, you’re drinking?”

  “Well, yeah, so?”

  “Look, I know you must be stressed with everything finally splattering against the fan. But, I can’t. I can’t put up with this. I really can’t have you calling me. I have to worry about all my responsibilities, too. We need stop seeing each other, I think.”

  “Wait.” A nausea plagues his stomach. A sorry sickness worse than a morning after abusing Night Train. His lungs work double.

  “We’re not going through this again. I told you, no more guilt trips.”

  “I was just wondering.” Deshler takes a deep breath, surprised Malinta hasn’t hung up. “Look, I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary. I’m sorry I forgot us. Things have been…well, really abnormal lately. I’m usually pretty reliable.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot on the books. I just have too much going on right now to deal with this, too.”

  “Really? I heard you lost your job.”

  “Well, yeah, that’s a pretty big piece of our goal. Frankly, I should have done it sooner. Now I can focus on the important stuff.”

  He knows Malinta is one wrong word from hanging up, so Dean stores this confusion and gets down to business. “All that doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about work. The reason I called is I need you to see the real me, listen to the real me. Well, part of the real me. Something fantastic is happening in my life right now. Apparently, that record contract was real. We’re playing this incredibly important show tonight and I was hoping you’d come to cheer me on.”

  Her voice wilts, “Dean…that’s…that’s really sweet. But...”

  Without thinking, a defense spits out. “I can’t do this alone. I can’t be a good person, can’t be myself. I can’t make this leap without you.” Dean pauses, realizing it’s true.

  She breathes long into the phone, matching Dean’s cigarette exhale. “Alright, when and where? You know I can’t miss something like this.”

  “Um, well it was supposed to be at the Purple Bottle, but…”

  Dean looks at the end of the Beef Club. He paints a picture of what this ballroom was like in full swing. In its glory. Dean invents an idea so good he wonders if he’s drunk already. He scans the far end where jazz once wailed. He imagines men and women dressed fancy, hot music filling the air, elegant dancing—the high-water mark of class and sophistication in town. The perfect place, he thinks, to puke all over the stage.

  “It’s at the club. The Beef Club.”

  “Really?” she sounds fairly impressed. Her voice rises, more wowed with each syllable, “I think I see what you’re getting at. Tonight is Friday. God, that’s good.”

  “Yep, that’s the place. Crazy huh? But that’ll be convenient for you. You can’t miss it now.”

  “This sounds like trouble. Do you think you can pull it off?”

  “Of course. Our concerts are very civilized. They’re practically yoga classes.”

  “Okay, I’ll,” her voice dissolves into confusion. “I’ll get the ball rolling and tell our friends about it.”

  “Great, oh wow, great. I’ll see you then. Take care.”

  “Focus, babe. Focus.”

  Wrecking ball weight comes down on his shoulders. He sweats and uncontrollably taps toes. After enjoying the return of calming silence, he phones Moral Compass Records to leave a message for Antonio McComb.

  Dimitri/Carl Janomi is on a bunk, flesh pale and a soaking red blanket cloaking slumped shoulders.

  The bus is behind a truck stop on the city limits. Frosty air leaks through hundreds of bullet holes. It smells like powerful chemical cleaners. From the right angle you can see the lonely city skyscrapers outlined in the darkness—one for each hamburger giant—poking up like dismembered fingers. The gas pumps and chicken fried steak place and gift shop are dark for the night. The only light is a phone booth waffled with cracked windows.

  Sonja drags Dimitri to the front of the bus. Helpless, his head swings limp from side to side.

  “Is he dead?” Martin whispers.

  “I thought so for a while, but now I’m not sure,” Hamler says, shivering. “We haven’t seen him talk or move since Los Angeles.”

  Sonja grumbles into Janomi’s ear. Henry can’t make out the words. The dying actor is a shadow in the dim light—his breath visible. Keith comes out with a backpack and slings it around Janomi’s bloody shoulder. They kick open the door and lower him.

  Snooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.

  “Whough…shit,” Pandemic says. His right palm is cupped to his face amongst shadowed light. White powder grains cling to his hand. He gags out wet throat noises. He hacks a few coughs, licks the palm and turns to the pair. “Martin, thanks for this.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He leans back, gently rubbing Henry’s thigh. Inscribing little designs with his fingertip.

  “What happened to quitting?” Henry says.

  “Man,” Pandemic dazes for a minute, face twitchy. He looks at Henry and his voice gets mean. “Like you’d care. My dad wanted me to quit. My grandpa wanted me to quit. But they never figured it out.”

  “It?” Henry says.

  “I’ve got reasons.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yeah, it does,” Pandemic snarls.

  “Yeah,” Martin nods, a surprisingly sympathetic pucker to his lips. “It does.”

  “You need to listen to my man, here,” Juan says, offering Martin a fist to bump. “He’s not nearly as big a prick as some people.”

  “I’ll do that,” Henry says. “It still doesn’t explain—”

  “Long story short, dick, is I’ll quit when I say. Not them. What’ll that fix?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Got that right.” He’s still waiting for the fist bump. “I needed this bad, Martin. It’s top shelf. Who do you buy from? Can I have his beeper number?”

  Martin finally trades knuckle taps and says: “You don’t want to know.”

  Henry watches Martin speak—so casual, so laid back. There is tons to learn from his love.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I do.”

  He gives Henry a look. “Bust-A-Gut.”

  “What?”

  “Our lab made it from Winters hamburgers, actually.”

  “Dude, did you poison me?”

  “I said you didn’t want to know.”

  “Dude.”

  “Relax, it’s pure. It’s just from the Flu Burger syrup.”

  “Oh, right on, I’ll buy that.” Pandemic’s eyes poke from his face like a couple of fishbowls. They are trapped in Hamler’s apologetic stare. “I forgot, you and I are not talking, dude.�
��

  “Juan, I’m sorry, man. I can explain,” Henry says. He stands, hands shaky. “I didn’t know it was your grandpa.”

  Pandemic concentrates on Lothario Speedwagon as a tornado of nerve endings build behind his nose, meth soaking into the gooey tissue near the brain. “I am going to gouge out your eyes. See these fingers? They’re pupil-bound. So, until I blind you, we are not speaking.”

  “Dude, Juan, come on. I…” He steps close, but Juan shoves him hard. Henry stumbles back, but Martin steadies him.

  There’s a crash outside the bus. The Russians leave Dimitri against the inside of the phone booth. His blanket stains the cracked windows with sticky blood.

  (Ask your friend, does he have any handcuff?) Sonja says, shutting the door.

  The van rumbles to life with Keith behind the wheel.

  “Martin, do you have any handcuffs in your bag, they want to know.”

  “I don’t.”

  The bus lurches forward and Sonja fumbles with Martin’s wrists and a bungee cord. She yells at the spy.

  “Martin, she says to loosen up. Not to struggle or you’ll be killed. Listen to her, please. I need you.”

  “Henry, we’re going to be okay.”

  “Just, please, for me. For us.”

  “These guys don’t speak English, right?”

  Henry shakes his head.

  “These guys aren’t Russian military. They’re too clumsy. They’re too—”

  Sonja elbows Martin in the skull. It makes a dull, meaty thump. He leans back on the bench, tongue resting funny.

  “Hey!” Henry yells.

  In a flash, Martin’s hands are a nest of rubbery bungee cords. He’s led, pings of light bursting in his eyesight, to the bedroom at the rear of the bus.

  (What are you doing? He’s not a threat,) Henry yells to the cosmonauts. (He’s helping us. You are getting the stupid?)

  Sonja’s voice is so heavy, Henry’s skin tingles with a thousand needles: (You are our prisoner, I am thinking you are forgetting. We are needing no help. Your boyfriend has outstayed his welcome. He is fortunate we have not put bullet through his eye.)

  (Bullshit, I’m knowing you weren’t even a Russian soldier,) he says. (Or a cosmonaut. You’re too stupid. Too dumb.) Henry stands and says the final two words eye-to-eye with the spacewoman.

  Henry Hamler has never been pistol whipped. In all honesty, he’s never really been in a fight. His older sister knocked him around some as a kid, but for the most part his skull has always been blunt-force-free. That is, until the hind end of a cosmonaut terrorist’s 9mm digs into his forehead.

  For a moment all he can grasp is that sharp chemical smell in the air.

  It takes a few blinks to figure out what just happened. It doesn’t hurt at first: He is fly before swatter. Matador before bull. Baseball before bat. Suddenly, a spotlight burns behind his eyes. His neck snaps back and up. When Hamler’s vision fizzles, root-canal pain pours through his skull.

  Henry flops back onto the bench and goes to sleep as a bubble of skin grows around the pistol’s point of impact.

  Bright and early, the Public Relations Director for Bust-A-Gut claims this is a once-in-a-lifetime stumble from the competition. The sun is just rising orange through skyscraper windows. “First the cosmonaut thing,” she says. “Now this crystal meth fiasco. We look like chocolate bunny rabbits. Let’s get Mister Findlay’s approval ASAP.”

  “Gosh,” a woman says. “Where’s the old man been? I haven’t seen him in forever.”

  The Marketing Director claims they can position a new ad campaign during prime time as early as next Wednesday. “As long as we get a plan established by the close of business today. It being Friday—expect to work all weekend.”

  The team clears out and a few minutes later, Lepsic and Dean sit alone in the boardroom. Every surface shines with freshly waxed wood and morning light. The room is warm and soap-scented.

  The veins in the VP’s normally creamy face are a ball of yarn. “Deshler, I’m worried” Lepsic says. His eyes are wet and ready to pop. His unshaven jaw is a bristle broom.

  “About what?”

  “Ethically, you know. I don’t know what move to make here.”

  “Really, worried about ethics? Well, I guess, what does the boss think, Thurman?”

  “That’s just it.”

  “What’s just it?”

  “You may have noticed I’ve been calling all the shots for a few weeks. You have to promise your silence on this one.” Lepsic’s mouth is wrapped tight, clinching his teeth.

  Dean’s never seen him so vulnerable, so strung-out. If there was ever a time to hang Thurman from his ankles over the bridge, it’s right now. Dean exercises control, though. “Okay.”

  Lepsic pulls apart his tie until it makes a scarf. The skin around his nose and eyes is cracked and peeling. He runs an unsteady hand through once-perfect hair. “He’s…Mister Findlay is in a coma. Doctors don’t think he’ll ever recover. We’ve just been keeping things under wraps. I’ve been, well, I guess pretending to be him since then.”

  “Thurman, what are you saying, what happened?”

  “Don’t know. We just found him lying in the street near the Club a while back. His car was stolen. It’s a miracle the news has been suffocated this well. Nighbeat would flip its wig.”

  “Whoa.”

  Lepsic’s confession reminds Dean of spending the rest of his teenage years pretending Gibby was a parent. It helped while he and his brother cried themselves to sleep, thinking they caused their real father’s breakdown. It didn’t help that Dean’s mother would remind the pair every time she lost patience.

  However, around sixteen, Dean learned a valuable lesson: No matter how screwed up things get, there’s always a logical explanation. “Truth is,” a relative told him at Christmas that year. “Your dad had mental problems, didn’t you know? Had them since before you were even born. When he’d forget to take his medicine the poor guy always stuffed things into his ears. Started with fingers and pens, then graduated to raisins and your toys, and then…I’m sorry…that chopstick. Said he heard voices chattering, telling knock-knocks, but mostly numbers. Said he heard endless streams of statistics. Numbers, numbers, numbers. You boys had nothing to do with it.” By the time Dean learned this tidbit, Mom refused to leave her room and her sons were sent to foster care. Gibby was Dad.

  “That’s not the problem, though,” Lepsic continues. “The trouble is I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what Findlay would do. This is a great opportunity, but God, we’ve really been straying from our mission statement lately. This is uncharted water for me. Where does it end? When I stepped in, I was hoping I could clean this company up a little, you know? Make us honest. But, Christ, is that what Findlay would do?”

  A fog crowds between Dean’s ears—he’s not shocked, just disappointed he didn’t figure it out sooner. “Wow, Thurman. You’ll make the right choice. I trust you.”

  “What would you do?”

  Deshler realizes he’s late for a meeting at Winters. Then something cracks open and surges through him like smelling salts. A crunchy clarity, more perfect than last night’s silence. A blood-and-guts kind of thinking. Dean smashes his career to pieces with a gap-toothed grin. “Go for the throat, that’s my advice. Destroy them—put your boot between their teeth. Which reminds me, I’ve got a dentist appointment. I’ll be back later. We’ll solve this, okay?”

  Hamler’s fingers are balled up cold and tight when his eyes open again. He has no idea what time it is, but the sun is up. His shoulders shake with shivers. The cosmonauts stand on Pandemic’s porch as the home’s owner jabs at the lock with unsteady fingers. Keith props Henry up, leaning him against the house numbers.

  Sonja lugs the duffel bag over one shoulder. She scans down the street for cars. The rising sun snuggles neighborhood rooftops.

  The key clicks, the door opens. Inside, the cosmonauts moan and breathe heavy through their mouths. The stale urine belch of meth
cookery hangs in a thick, permanent cloud.

  (Put ice on your head and go to sleep, Little Henry. We are nearly complete with the mission objectives,) says Sonja, holding an elbow over her nose.

  (What are you talking about? What is this mission? You haven’t told us,) Henry says, regaining some vision through his foggy mind.

  The two Russians plug their eyes together across the room. Keith takes quick breaths through his mouth, careful not to use his nasal passage. (Your friend knows, he is helping soon. You have no worries. Just translate.)

  (Pandemic?) Suddenly, his mind is clear and his heart asks its first question. (Wait, what did you do with Martin?)

  (He is no longer part of the mission,) Keith says. (We have parted ways.)

  Entering from the kitchen, Pandemic brings a glass of water for both cosmonauts. “Don’t murder anyone before you go to bed, dick.”

  (Go to sleep, Little Henry. We have very few hours until Mission is complete. You must rest. We will rest also.)

  Recalls, refunds and rehab are the orders of the day. Olde-Tyme PR says: claim ignorance, offer sympathy and, for God’s sake, stop serving the Flu Burger! Call the FDA and help with their investigation. “We are not,” they emphasize during a meeting Dean is thirty minutes late for. “Going to look good no matter what happens.”

  “Our finances,” the accounting guy says. “Are drilling a hole to China.” According to his team’s predictions, the company could be bankrupt in a year. Maybe less. “This,” he says with a sour mouth. “Is an Enron-sized nosedive. Possibly worse.”

  On top of everything, marketing informs the group that the cosmonauts are still loose. They still have Juan Pandemic captive, as well as the translator. Most of Tony, the undercover agent, was found in a barbecued wreck early this morning, fifty miles outside of town. “What is the high road if these Russian psychopaths return to the office with machine guns?” they ask.

  A file folder containing photos of all those on board the bus is passed around. Two look surprisingly familiar. Funerals my ass, Dean thinks.