Broken Piano for President (22 page)

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 hope 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.”

“We’ve actually met, chief,” Double Harry says with a grin. “Haven’t we, guy?”

Deshler’s hand trembles and extends. “Yep, sure h-have.”

“Ha, I should have known. Wonderful,” Winters says.

“Nice chin,” Harry whispers. “Sorry, we got a little rough with initiation. All in fun, okay?”

“And this little lady is managing the entire Cosmonaut campaign. She’s really taken your baby and run with it, Dean.”

Her crow’s feet blossom and she wipes a gray flash of hair from an eye. “Delia Ellery, pleased to meet you,” she says, extending the good arm and focusing in on Dean’s swollen face and gashed chin.

Dean gives her the wrong hand and uncomfortably shakes a backward greeting.

There is more chatter over drinks and business plans.

After a few sips of soda, Dean agrees to work exclusively for Winters Olde-Tyme Burgers.

“Well, mister Vice President of Development,” Winters says with an intimidating seriousness, pretending he is a former governor. “What do you have for us? This Cosmonaut thing is only gonna last so long. We’ll move into our Christopher Winters Memorial campaign and then…” He looks at Double Harry.

“It’s your pageant kid,” Harry says, dead enough to win an Oscar.

Another executive crashes out a coughing jag and excuses herself. The table gapes at its newest member—wrinkled, pungent clothes and all—waiting for an answer. In the silence, half the room sniffles and sucks back the mucus of an early cold and flu season. One man looks like a baseball bat named
influenza
smashed him across the eyes. He sweats and breathes hard. He winces while swallowing.

Deshler suddenly gets hungry. “Flu…” his eyes close and this new job feels like it is falling through the slats in the floor. A miserable lifetime of valeting jams between his ears. A lifetime without Malinta. But, he reminds himself, there’s still the band.

So it’s over before it really started
, he thinks.
Big deal, right?

“Um, Flu Burgers.”

Winters squeezes his eyes together and kicks back a white wine. The sweaty CEO then softly blows his nose.

Double Harry rubs rugged cheeks. “What, Deshler?”

“Look, everyone is getting sick right now, right? What if we…what if there was a delicious hamburger that made your cold and flu symptoms go away? Medicine and meat, together.” All his recent lying habits start paying off. These words rip through the room like forest fires. This is how he writes song lyrics, just stream of consciousness. This, he assumes, is the Deshler Dean they know. The smooth, drunk Deshler. The guy who embraces a challenge. “Nobody’s ever fought hunger and sickness in one stroke. This will revolutionize the industry.”

Dean has no clue where this came from. Never in his life has he considered putting beef and medicine together. He’s never thought about grinding Tums into tacos or Halls in a hotdog, but here it is, rushing out of him like it’s printed on cue cards.

“What will revolutionize the industry?”

“We’re a little late in the game to get these out on time, cold weather’s already here, but if these hit during the dead of winter, we’ll destroy the competition for the rest of the fiscal year.” Deshler gulps soda, he’s never mentioned the words
fiscal
and
year
together, either. He’s pretty positive he’s never even said the word
fiscal
in any context. But, again, there it is, feeling kind of comfortable. “We’re the only restaurant that cares about serving great food and making our customers feel better. It can’t fail. Our clientele will go bananas.”

The group takes a sip from their drinks and focuses on Dean’s stained jeans. Winters and Double Harry give each other a glance and a nod that doesn’t say yes or no. The rest of the table stares at the two leaders, waiting for a sign.

In the lull, Dean notices he’s out of breath. His muscles are tensed from top to bottom. It’s a strange moment when he admits that he really wants this to work.

The CEO and Double Harry stand.

There’s a moment of tense nothing.

The leaders give a hearty clap. The rest of the table erupts like a homerun is hit. Someone actually shouts, “Go team.”