Broken Piano for President Read Online Free PDF

much of one, but you are, technically, an adult.”
    Dean tiptoes around the room’s few open gaps. Their apartment is so tight Deshler regularly gets leg cramps. Each room is so rotten with beer stains and old newspapers that Hamler’s allergies fight constant wars. They’ve shared this place for over a year, but neither has bothered to decorate much beyond plugging in the television.
    “Well, I care. See,” Dean says, feet kicking away microwave dinner boxes. “I got you your favorite.” He tosses a candy bar.
    Inspecting the bright wrapper, Henry perks: “Awesome. You’re not such an abortion after all.” His voice lacks its usual enthusiasm for comparing Dean to terminated pregnancies. Henry’s mind seems to be chewing on bigger things.
    Dean knows he should ask what’s up, but doesn’t. Henry is one of maybe two people Dean hasn’t pushed completely away. Friendly little moments like this only exist with his best friend. Dean knows he’s lucky because of that, but would never admit to the fact.
    “You’re a real sweetheart. Why so dressed up?” Deshler yells from his bedroom. He digs through a clothes pile for his uniform. The bedroom isn’t much larger than the living room. It’s stacked to the knees with clothes and records and empties. Some days it’s more like a birdcage with ashtrays.
    Henry watches his belly stretch the dress shirt buttons, teeth ripping through chocolate and nougat. He notices a dribble of Christopher Winters on the breast pocket. Just a splash where syringe and neck became one. “Job interview,” Henry mumbles, massaging stomach muscles that have been cramping since removing the cufflink from the old man’s flesh.
    “Didn’t go well, huh?” Deshler says, walking out in wrinkled black pants and a red crested white blazer. Hair designed by Tornado Alley.
    “Eh, who can tell?”
    “You’ll land one, don’t sweat it. You’re a smart guy. It’ll happen.”
    “I don’t know if I even want what I’m going after.” Henry lights up another cigarette and dips a finger through the powder. He sticks it in his mouth, closes eyes and melts back into the couch with ecstasy.
    “Dude,” Deshler says, slipping on a tie.
    “Drop it.”
    “Are you eating sugar?”
    “Lay off. I just needed something sweet, you know?”
    “Beyond that candy bar you just wolfed down?” Dean regrets saying that, judging by his roommate’s eyes.
    “Eat shit.”
    “Don’t start snorting it or anything.”
    “It helps me relax.” He frowns. “I need this stuff.” Hamler rolls over. A ghost of cigarette smoke hovers above his body like Christopher Winters haunting him.
    “Okay. So, practice tonight. Seven?” Dean wildly checks pockets for keys until he spots them on the coffee table.
    “No, man, nine-thirty, same time we always rehearse,” Hamler says, questioning Deshler’s dedication to the band. “Don’t miss it. Pandemic was pissed last time.”
    “Right, right, right, sorry, man. I’ll be there. I gotta run to work.” He twirls the keys through the air in a jangly cartwheel. “Apparently rich assholes still can’t park their own cars. Take it easy.”
    “ Nine -thirty. We’ve actually got a gig this week!”
    The door slams and Henry listens to the cigarette burn away in the silence. His stomach is a bucket of snakes. He is always sick with guilt after a job. Why do I get stuck with all the dirty work ?
    These greasy heaves are different than the ones after breaking no-name executives’ fingers and extorting trouble-making branch managers. There’s a powerful urge to apologize.
    Henry feels like Lee Harvey Oswald. He has destroyed an icon.

    Leaving the estate in their fake news van, that kick of sickness worked up Hamler’s chest. “Henry,” Tony said, patting his protégé’s shoulder. “You did an awesome job. You’re getting so good at this. I think soon you’ll be ready to go out on your own. We really trust you. You’re the best junior agent Olde-Tyme