Broken Piano for President (32 page)

The bald cameraman sobs like asphyxiation, peppered with squeaky mumbles.

Keith, stripped to tight white underwear, yells from the bedroom at the rear of the bus. Sonja hollers over to Hamler.

Henry keeps an eye on both ends of the cabin. “Sir,” he tells the weeping newsman. “
Dude
, knock that crying shit off right now.” Hamler hardly remembers letting the Russians check out his gun. It makes his palms wet and salty. A few days ago, Pandemic called Henry the world’s best bodyguard. Now two people are dead, and maybe more to come, thanks to him. Hamler needs to think of a plan. It’s his responsibility.

His head drops.
I’ll just screw things up even worse if I try something. Innocent people die. Just sit tight and this thing’ll work out. Don’t get involved.

“I’ve just never—” the shiny-skulled cameraman peeps. “Guns are so scary…I don’t want to die, man.”

“Yeah, I know.” Henry hardly has the energy to speak, bobbing around in such a soup of dread, drowning. “None of us do. Look, the one in the back is getting dressed. They say they want you to film them. They just want to make a movie. They wouldn’t kill the only person who can operate the camera, would they?” Henry bites his cheek for being so nice. Babysitting this guy is not part of the job description. Though, he’s pretty sure his daily duties just swirled down the toilet.

“I guess not.” The man’s face is gooey and dark.

“Just pull your shit together and stop crying. Don’t give anyone reason to start shooting.”

Keith finds a clean blue jumper and wanders back into the main compartment. The two Russians stand like old comrades discussing the rising value of the ruble. The temper in their voices unwinds. Both whisper and look at their interpreter. (Tell the cameraman we’re ready,) Sonja says, showing off those horribly twisted teeth. (We will film exactly where you are sitting.)

Hamler relays the message.

Outside, the city moves fast, a shuffle of blurred buildings.

The sweaty cameraman breathes heavy, lungs groaning like tight rubber. Pandemic stands and lets him take a seat.

(No, no, we want Mister Juan in shot too. Up, up, up, please.)

Hamler relays the message.

“You know, I’m,
ahhhh
, not feeling it.” Pandemic sounds spaced, digging fingernails under his wig. “I don’t think this is for me. Tell the, the space guys, you know,
thanks for not killing me
, but I’m going to go put my head in an oven or something.”

After some intense discussion and gun cocking, Juan Pandemic reconsiders. Delia is ripped from her bunk and plopped next to them.

Finally, the cosmonauts remember Dimitri on the floor, full of messy holes. Two shoulder shots and one through the hand, it appears. White towels and blankets sponge up the blood in a peppermint candy swirl. His large, scared eyes watch the girl with the gun.

Henry overhears them address their victim: (Sit up here, Dimitri,) Keith says, giving the space commander a hand. (Are you feeling well? Do you need water or more bandages? We want you to look your most handsome when you
spill your guts,
yes?)

In a sitcom-perfect American drawl—the kind owned by countless southern farmboys—Dimitri’s Russian vocal chords scurry off and disappear like the Los Angeles crowd. “No, dude. Christ,
owwwwww
. Y’all win. Put the gun away. You guys win.”

“Whoa,” Pandemic whispers.

Jaw shaking and voice full of anger, Dimitri speaks more: “Surprise! I ain’t Russian, asshole.”

“Dimitri…you’re…wait,” Hamler says. The self-proclaimed spy master can’t believe he missed that one. “Shit.”

“I know what they want. Jesus, you bastards didn’t have to shoot me. I was gonna quit soon anyhow. I was going back to help Daddy with the chickens.” He rattles the same off in Russian. The cosmonauts stare at him with bored, skinny faces.

Like a family portrait—Pandemic, Dimitri and Delia sit between Keith and Sonja. Hamler stands a shade off camera relaying translations. “Uhm, okay, I’ve got enough battery for, like, five minutes,” the cameraman whispers.

Hamler relays this message.

“Okay, we’re rolling.”

Keith speaks slowly and professionally, looking into the camera. Sonja digs the firearm into Dimitri’s temple.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we understand our actions today at the Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers restaurant must have seemed,” Hamler waits to find the right translation.

The cameraman points to the ceiling, mouthing the words: “Speak louder.”

Hamler clears his throat. “Must have seemed
irrational
. Clearly, these are acts of rebellion and uncivil disobedience. I, Second Lieutenant Keith Kassabova and Captain Sonja Kassabova, wish to inform the American people and the citizens of the world, that the Space Burger drama you have witnessed was a lie.” Hamler pauses as Keith holds for dramatic effect.

Delia quietly sobs. Her cheeks are burning hot coals.

Sonja tells Dimitri to read a statement or receive a fourth bullet. She passes a note card full of Russian scribbles. In a sharecropper’s Alabama mumble, he says: “The men you know as Lieutenant Pavel Telingrad, Lieutenant Yuri Kassirimov and Captain Dimitri Nimov,
who is me
, were paid actors. We was never in space like Sonja and Keith.” He winces and wobbles, nearly ready to pass out. “The truth is, the original three spacemen died from starvation. Their seventeen days spent without food due to the negligent Winters Hamburger Company proved overwhelming. In the interest of the public, Keith and Sonja,
the only survivors
, were silenced and the three of us took the deceased’s places back on Earth.” Dimitri slumps his head. “My real name is Carl Janomi, I’m a double major in drama and Russian language studies at Mississippi State.”

Sonja’s speech swells again. Henry translates it for the camera: “Our actions today were the only conceivable way to relay this message past the corporate censors who murdered our fellow space travelers. Forgive us.”

There is another pause. Pandemic gawks with the wet, plastic eyes of an orphan meeting his real father.

“Please also forgive our future actions. We understand we have broken many of your American laws today. Do not attempt to send the police. We have several hostages and will not hesitate to execute them…” Hamler trails off. Sonja gives him two evil eyes. “Execute them if an attempt to capture us is made. We only require safe passage back to Russia in order for the hostages’ lives to be spared. However, we will take any violent steps necessary to ensure our security.”

“Oh lord, please save me,” Delia squeals. Her head slumps against the fold-out table and glosses it in tears.

“That’s it, that’s all the battery strength I have. I’ll need a new one if they want to record more,” the cameraman squeaks.

Hamler translates the message. The interpreter notices the city buildings are whipping by the windows. There is a glassy rattle coming from the cupboards as speed builds.

Keith responds.

“They say that’s cool, they said what they need to.”

A gray film of annoyance covers Sonja’s face. She clutches Delia’s bony neck and yanks it back. In thick, wet syllables she growls to Hamler. “Sonja says, Delia, that if you don’t, you know, shut up, she’ll kill you. She says that, oh Jeez, she says they should kill you anyhow for getting them into this situation.”

“Why me?” She butchers the word
me
into six syllables. Delia’s eyes are a wiry, ruby mess of veins. “I’m just the tour manager. I didn’t come up with any of this.”

Pandemic leans in close to Keith. “Dude, I,
hey,
Keith,
comrade
…” Practically wrestling their hands together, Pandemic manages to give him a hearty handshake.

The bus slows and the bodies jerk forward. Fingers randomly clutch tabletops and walls.

Hamler translates for Delia.

“Yo, Henry, hey, tell Keith that I know what he’s talking about,” Pandemic says with a bounce. His face is more alive than in the three years he and Hamler have been friends.

“Timothy…
Juan
, I don’t have time for this.”

“No, man, please, tell the cosmonauts I’m on their side. Tell them I’ll do whatever needs to be done to get back at my dad. Tell them that…that…that I can be a
big
help,” he says, stretching arms wide.

Hamler, eyes rolled, translates Pandemic’s wish.

The translator shifts focus back to the women. “Delia, Sonja says, ‘if you’re not responsible for this ordeal, then who is?’ She says, ‘if you’re not the one they should kill, then who?’”

Keith waves at Hamler and rattles off some words.

“Dude, just a sec.”

Delia’s mouth drops. Keith’s voice drowns out the one-armed tour manager.

“Ugh, fine. Pandemic, Keith says he likes you and appreciates what you just said. He certainly has much work for you to do. And basically, what translates into,
welcome aboard
.”

“Hell yeah,” Pandemic says, rubbing tender lip flesh.

“Hen…Henry,” Delia says, politely raising a hand. “Can you tell them…” Hamler gets a headache, his eyes burn and his blood pressure rages to Astrodome proportions. The urge for caramel and nuts and milk chocolate swells inside him. “Tell the cosmonauts if they want someone to blame…um, you know, someone to
kill
,” she says the final word in a hush. “That they should find a man named Deshler Dean.”

“You’re kidding?” Pandemic says.

“Wh…what did you say?”

“Deshler Dean. He’s the reason their friends died. He’s the reason for this tour. He’s such a little shit. He’s the one they should be mad at, not me.”

Juan Pandemic and Henry Hamler lose all breath. Their heads grow fuzzy. The police sirens behind the bus fade away with all other noise. Hamler knows all the Snickers on earth won’t fix him this time.

Walking into Winters Corporate Headquarters, Vice President of Hamburger Development, Deshler Dean half expects his keycard swipe to glow red and security to shoo him away. Probably crack him in the ear with a baton.

Deshler catches a breath opening the office door. He pictures a Deshler Dean mimic making calls from his desk. If he’s not fired yet, the cramps in Dean’s stomach say he will be soon. His assistant, a guy a few years older named Austin, says, “Hey Skipper, did you see the Browns game last night?” Austin has a brushy goatee that makes baby-faced Deshler jealous.

“Missed it…I was…” Deshler tries to think of something to say other than wasted. “Working.”

“Gotcha, bossman,” the beardy assistant says with a
rock-on
fist. “Have a killer day.”

Dean stands over his desk for a few minutes without breathing. All his belongings are returned to their original location. His stapler, his snowglobe, each pen is back in order. There is, however, a new addition.

The newcomer on Deshler’s shiny maple desk
looks
like a hamburger. But under sterilizing white office lights, he’s not convinced. “Is that.” He pauses to stoop down and twist his neck. “Toothpaste?”

A cold lump of meat coated in neon blue gel peeks from between sesame seed buns. Dean is convinced this is the equivalent of a severed horse head under his quilt or a salmon wrapped in newspaper.
I’m as good as dead
, he decides.

“Whatever you do,” his shadowy lungs rumble through the silent morning office. “You are not eating that.”

Dean yawns and takes a closer inspection.
This hamburger-type-thing is something Henry would snap down in a second.
The blue slime looks like candy—some sugary paste his former bassist would suck through a straw. Deshler wonders if Hamler and Pandemic got his voice mails. The least I can do, Dean figures, is let those guys know the band has a contract. If there still is a band. That is, if the contract is even legitimate.