Holding a heavy microphone to his lips, Dean gurgles: “Check…test, test, test, mic one, is anybody listening?” It flash-floods against the windows. Cheap drinks shake toward the edge of tables. The entire crowd plugs a finger in its collective ear. Deshler twists the level down a hint.
Pulling off that tie and ruffling his hair back into a mushroom cloud, Dean looks up and sees Winters and Napoleon roll in together like a couple of bowling balls. Malinta trails behind as the ten pin.
Winters makes eye contact, sends a shimmering smile and flicks a rapid wave in the air. You’ve picked art, you’ve picked art, Dean reminds himself. You’ve picked art.
“What would Gibby do?” Deshler accidentally mutters into the microphone. It broadcasts over the heads of anyone who’s anyone in the burger business.
Making his way around the stage, Roland Winters reaches up and grabs the shooting star executive by the shirt. A soap bubble of anxiety expands inside Dean. “You and I are having a nice talk later. A nice long talk about him,” the ketchup red and mustard yellow walrus points to his son. “About this,” he spreads a hand across the entire stage. “And about your future at Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers. But right now, I have bigger potatoes to French fry.”
Dean reminds himself where art needs to rank in life. The soap bubble pops into a shiny spray. “I quit,” slips out Dean’s mouth. The feeling is electric. “Listen, I choose art,” he screams, but the boss has already gone and started yelling at Juan Pandemic. Dean doesn’t mind. A sturdiness builds inside him—he doesn’t need people to listen.
“Just what do you think you’re pulling, champ?” CEO Winters says, kneeling behind his son’s drum kit. “There are a lot of people who want to have a word with you. I didn’t even know whether you were alive and I find you here.”
“How did you know it was me,” he asks behind a wall of hot pink papier-mâché.
“A father can smell his numbskull son from a mile away.”
Juan’s fingers spin a drumstick with nervous energy. “Well, to answer your question, since you sent some thugs to kill us, I didn’t think it made much difference to you.”
“Thugs? What do you mean, thugs?”
The stick-spinning stops when the drummer makes a tight fist. He breathes to slow his mind and focus. “I mean, the guys you had shooting at the bus. The guys Martin thankfully blew up. Those guys on your payroll.”
“Oh, you’re an accountant now? You know my payroll?”
“Not to mention having my bandmate murder Grandpa,” Pandemic digs fingernails deep and hard into his scalp. “I don’t want anything to do with this scummy company.”
“Listen, Tim, the police are on their way. Those cosmonauts are dangerous killers. Psychopaths. I understand you’re confused. I’m told it’s called Stockholm Syndrome. It’s when people feel empathy for their kidnappers. It’s perfectly natural.” He places a meaty paw on Pandemic’s shoulder. “Little kids locked in sex dungeons for years can often claim they love their rapists. It’s a messed up world, Tim.”
“Dad, there is some important stuff going on tonight. Not that you care, but I’m a good drummer. Much better than at anything else I do. And if I play my ass off, my band is getting signed to a record label. I can make money playing music. I won’t be your problem anymore. Everyone wins. You can ignore me for the rest of my life and I’ll do the same.”
“Well.” The elder Winters scratches a scatter of chubby chin dimples. “I’m just so glad you and Mister Hamler are alright.”
“I bet.” Juan shuts his eyes and speaks into the darkness. “You know what? I don’t need a dad. I never did. I’m all the dad I need.”
“Super. One more thing, kiddo. There’s a press conference scheduled for tomorrow morning. We need some positive spin from this whole situation. I mean, some uplifting story about how you guys survived would be really helpful.”
“I’m touched you’re so concerned about my wellbeing.”
1979 With the birth of his only son, Roland Winters learns of the monstrous tax breaks from combining wealth and fatherhood.
1990 Needing to prove some dominance at the company picnic, he drags Timothy to victory at the Three-Legged Race.
1992 Roland wins custody of Timothy after a messy divorce. “This,” he tells a colleague, “is just the thing to teach that bitch a lesson.”
“Malinta, you came. That is so awesome.”
“Well, I kind of had to, it is Friday after all. Tonight’s the most important night for, well, so many reasons.” It seems impossible, but Dean swears a blush forms on her cheeks. The urge to kiss it away is strong. “Do you have a second? We need to talk before things start.”
“Totally, tell me at the bar. I really want a drink.” Dean hops from the stage and grabs Malinta’s hand. A gossipy murmur snakes around the club. “Actually, I could use about six.”
“Sweetie, come on,” her voice lifts and bites like needles. “Not tonight, it’s too important.”
“Come on?” Dean glares at his woman and is reminded she doesn’t know about Lothario Speedwagon’s secret ingredient. “Shit, okay, well, let me say something.”
She stares, waiting. The blush has died.
“After tonight, I want to start fresh. I think things are finally getting in order for me. I think I can be a good boyfriend. I just need tonight,” he says and a surrogate Night Train warmth builds inside.
“I know how important all this is to you…and us.”
“I like being around you.” He is careful not to slip with the other L-word. “I need to be around you.”
Her eyes half-close and a soft finger runs up Dean’s side. It wouldn’t feel weird right now, he decides, to plant that kiss.
With all eyes on him, Dean hesitates kissing. Dean’s never hesitated when a crowd is watching, but assumes alcohol had something to do with that. God, a drink sounds good.
Napoleon pops up before them as Malinta moves in gently closer. “Do you two have a spare second?” the chubby valet says, digging through a backpack. The fleshy smell of sweat comes into clearer focus.
“Um, no dude, I’ve got to sing in a few minutes. Plus, people are starting to look a little worried,” Deshler says, wondering whether he should take off his shirt for the concert. He wonders if the Cliff Drinker would rub peanut butter on his bare chest. He’s not even sure of its symbolism at this point. Though, Deshler’s pretty certain Iggy Pop did it once. “Shit, where’s my mask?”
Malinta says, all nervy: “Does anyone know what time it is?”
“Way after nine-thirty,” Dean says. “We were supposed to start at, like, nine.”
“That all can wait. Come sit with me for a sec,” Napoleon says. His gritty fingers pull out a laptop. “I’ve got a little film you both need to watch. Indie flick. Low budget, but good.”
Deshler and Malinta search the yolks of each other’s eyes. “Look, buddy,” Dean says soft. “I promise I’ll watch them with you, but right now isn’t—”
“Sit, sit, sit, it’ll all be over in a flash. About a minute-thirty to be exact.”
“I really,” Dean is simultaneously unhooking shirt buttons and slinking toward the bar. “Have some things…” He is consumed with intense guilt—equally consumed with Malinta thoughts. The shirt opens and bare chest meets steamy Beef Club air.
“Malinta,” Napoleon says. “Talk to him for me. Pretty please.”
Her green eyes grow more than a little confused.
“You two know each other?” Dean says.
Both look at him like the answer is “yes,” and “yes” is obvious.
Dean stops himself from asking more. “Quick, okay, man.”
The three huddle around the computer in the corner.
“What am I doing? I don’t have time for this, buddy. I’ll check this out after our set, I swear.” Deshler lifts from the seat as Napoleon hits PLAY and the empty screen zaps to life. “I need to find some gin.”
“Hey,” Napoleon uses a commanding voice.<
br />
“Or beer…”
“Hey.”
“…mouthwash even—”
“You know that touching Arbor Day card, that new baby card, that birthday card, that Thanksgiving card?” Napoleon says, breathing through asthma heavy lungs. “Those are from me. Is that enough to calm you down? Now, I want you to stand still and watch.”
Onscreen, the camera’s focus is hazy. Dean’s baritone rattles through rickety laptop speakers: “F-F-F-Findlay doesn’t know. That’s why I have to use the screwdriver, babe.”
The focus clears up and the lighting adjusts. The video shoots from the back seat of a parked red car. The upholstery is smooth white leather. The dash is wood-grained like antique tables.
“Wouldn’t you have the keys if Mister Findlay said it was alright to borrow his car?” Malinta says. The camera nauseatingly swings to her blonde head. Thin shoulders pop through a floaty black outfit.
“Napoleon saw him,” Deshler says, full of Cliff Drinking stutters and slurs. The camera focuses on the driver’s seat again. Dean’s skull wobbles back and forth. He hacks at the steering column with a screwdriver, stabbing it to death. “Tell her, tell Malinta that the lovely Mister Clifford Findlay,” Deshler’s voice slurs and chops in a way that says too many dollar beers tonight. “With his fat ass and birthmarked face, said, ‘Yes, you can borrow my shitty German car that only starts with a screwdriver.’” He lifts the tool—“A blunt object,” newscasters and reporters could call it.
In the heat of the Beef Club, Deshler squints at the screen where his body is broken into a thousand pellets of light. Onscreen, a golden hamburger swings from a thin chain around the rearview and captures Dean’s attention. So familiar. It locks his eyes for a few moments—he’s seen it before. His head trembles, he doesn’t remember this happening. The Cliff Drinker forgets about gin and beer and mouthwash.
Back onscreen, the camera jumps around. Napoleon’s voice comes from behind the lens, “Well, is it a birthmark? I always thought it was, like, a skin disease. You know how it’s all red and pink around his left eye? I just assumed Clifford Findlay had psoriasis or something, not a birthmark.”
“Dude,” the driver stutters, taking a break with the screwdriver. “Just tell Malinta what the bossman said, please.”
“Oh, yeah, Mister Findlay said to borrow the car. He said he’d do anything for Deshler. But Findlay never gave any of us keys, I don’t think. Can you believe that? Isn’t that cool? I’ve parked this car a million times.”
“Good enough,” Malinta says, making a pouty face. “Let’s just go. I want to score some—” She looks back at the camera and whispers like a little girl stealing candy. “D-R-U-G-S.”
There’s a heavy plastic crack. The camera jerks to Deshler’s wavy head. “Ahhh Haaa!” The engine kicks to a meaty sports car start. “I knew I had the key somewhere.” The shot zooms to the screwdriver’s blue plastic handle sticking out from the ignition like a broken arm in a cast. Dean chugs the rest of a beer bottle and tosses it out the window with a shatter.
At the Beef Club, Deshler’s throat hurts: “Napoleon…turn-this-off.”
Cannonball words drop from Malinta’s mouth. “What are you trying to do here? This is stupid, just, just…” Napoleon flashes a quick glance at her. Malinta’s green eyes balloon with tears.
“What is this, dude?” Deshler asks, their hands lovingly clasped in fright. “I don’t remember ever—”
“Just watch, it’s getting good,” Napoleon says.
Henry’s bass cuts through everyone’s concentration: Blomp-Blomp-b-blomp-SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE.
“Let’s go, let’s go, I’m so bored,” Malinta says in Napoleon’s directorial debut.
“Dude, put that thing away, I don’t…” Deshler’s voice trails as he slams the gearshift into reverse. “Want to be on camera.”
The video drives through a parking garage and out the wide mouth of an exit.
“After this,” Malinta says. “I’m done.”
“Yeah, right,” Dean chuckles.
“I’m serious. Good people don’t use drugs.”
“You, a good person?” Napoleon says, laughing.
“Shut up. Do you want me to call my guy?” Malinta says. “Or, Napoleon, honey, should we use yours?”
Deshler plunges the gas pedal completely down. The engine opens and sprays horsepower.
“Whoa, easy, easy,” Napoleon says, steadying the shot. The screen looks out between the two front seats as the stolen car screeches onto the street.
Pandemic slams the kick drum. He hammers a roll on the car hood. The thick metallic punches rattle Napoleon’s laptop. Someone cuts the lights. The room is dark and everyone hushes. The computer screen blossoms with intense clarity. A purple black light glow springs up around the stage. Two neon masks float in the darkness.
Staring between Dean and Napoleon, Malinta clutches a hand over her heart, bunching her shirt in a fist. The other hand goes cold and moist within Dean’s palm. “Oh…my…God.”
“Hey Napoleon,” Deshler says, turning around, looking into the camera, still driving. “Remember that time you and I skipped work—”
The screen jerks out of control in a flash. The soundtrack for this intense lurch is an empty aluminum thud, much like Pandemic beating a car hood—hollow metal gongs. Then, thick weighty slaps—like raw brisket dropping on the sidewalk. Hot burning rubber noises distort the cheap speaker into fuzz before the camera goes black.
The screen is darkness for only a beat.
The video starts up again. Napoleon jumps out of the back seat and pans around the empty downtown lit with streetlamps. The shot bobbles to the open passenger side window. He steadies the camera on Malinta’s bloody head. “Whoa, shit,” the cameraman barely utters. She has a deep cut on the left side of her head. Her blonde hair sponges the extra blood. She’s unconscious.
Napoleon runs and the camera bounces with the sound of sneakers across wet pavement.
The backside of Deshler’s head, hair all tangled, is clearly lit under an orange streetlamp. He looks down at the limp body stretched across the cement. The one he just smashed with Findlay’s car.
The Japanese record moguls huddle shoulder-to-shoulder in a booth. They speak about Lothario Speedwagon in an airy native tongue. The online rumors of the band’s breakup are obviously false, they say with a teenage thrill.
(Can you feel it?) the man says. (That excitement when we’re on the verge of something great. I can’t believe some valet left Lothario Speedwagon’s CD in my car last time I was visiting. This feels like destiny.)
(They’re still a cult band back home, but with the right advertising,) the woman grins. (They will be huge.)
(Marketing says Broken Piano for President is so hot the tape fetches sixty dollars at record stores in Tokyo.)
(A&R told me bootleg MP3s eclipsed twenty thousand downloads last week.)
(This is an easy sale. I almost don’t want to hear the band,) the man says confidently. (I think the idea in my head will be impossible to live up to. It’s happened so many times before.) The man’s frown has a gravity—a hungry, swallowing sadness.
They playfully eye one another. She reaches under the table and pulls out a black leather bag.
Napoleon’s camerawork slows. Huffing lungs stretch behind the lens. Deshler staggers like marching on two broken ankles, then crumbles into the cement.
Near Dean is a bloody body lying inside a halo of orange lamplight.
Napoleon flashes the shot up and down the street. All is empty and black.
“Get back in the car,” Deshler says, his voice hollow and scared. “Dude, just turn around and get…”
The Cliff Drinker lifts up and drags himself out of the scene.
Napoleon zooms on the motionless body in the middle of the street. The shot starts at the leg and works a close-up around the bulged stomach and to the chest. He’s in shirt and tie. There’s a dark sticky pool gathering under the man’s armpit and around his
skull. With the streetlamp, the face is lit like a Hollywood glamour shot. The eyes are open and pushing out shocked. The skin is mayo white except for the dark pink and red splotch on the other side of his face, the same glob Napoleon was convinced is psoriasis.
“Napoleon,” Deshler’s distant voice echoes. “We can’t wait here. Get in the car.”
Napoleon holds the tight shot around the CEO’s face. Findlay’s dead teeth pause below purple lips. If Findlay is in a coma, like Lepsic claims, then the atom bomb was just a fancy firecracker.
There’s an engine rumble and Napoleon swings the camera around. The ruby red sports car squeals and Deshler is a set of taillights weaving across traffic lanes without Napoleon.
The film dissolves into an empty screen.
Pandemic sits behind the drum kit wondering why Deshler chose this club of all places. Not exactly a friendly crowd, he thinks. Maybe I should’ve stuck with the Russians. A few light knocks on the oil drum clear those thoughts. Nah, then I wouldn’t get to play this gig. An icy slither commands attention in his throat. Would the Russians be proud if I stabbed Dad right now? Is there a terrorist cosmonaut code of honor?
They would kill Henry. They’d rip his chubby skull apart.
Is that what the mission objectives were all about?
No. It was probably just a smokescreen, some horseshit line they fed me to keep quiet. His eyes adjust to the dark and he spots Dad back by the bar. I was going through withdrawals, not thinking straight, he decides. Maybe there was no mission objective. People hallucinate their balls off when kicking. Maybe there was no Space Burger Contest, no cosmonaut terrorists. His heart slows to a normal thump while he fingers a plastic baggie of white shards hidden under sock elastic.
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