Hostile Takeover

by McLean, Patrick E.

  "Your guys suck." said Topper. "I've been kidnapped by some of the best and I want you to know, your guys suck."

  Topper turned to look at the man who had just removed his blindfold. "Yeah, I said it: ya SUCK! Now get out." He looked back to Smiles, "I mean seriously, if you're gonna let me see your face, why blindfold me in the first place?"

  "They said you asked for it," explained Smiles.

  "Oh, yeah, well, I guess I did. But I didn't ask for these handcuffs," he said, rattling his wrists together. "Whattaya, afraid of little ol' me?"

  "Do you know who I am?" Smiles asked.

  "Other than a rude bastard who won't take off my handcuffs so we can talk like civilized people, no, I don't."

  "My name is Smiles," he said with an eponymous constriction of his face.

  "Well that ain't my fault. Now whattaya want with me?”

  "Just to talk."

  "You must really be some kind of asshole if the only way you can have a conversation is to kidnap somebody and chain them to table so they can't run away. Ever try a phone call? An appointment? Jesus, buy a fella lunch, at least."

  "We are concerned with the company you keep."

  "Yeah, I also have bad manners. But seriously folks, am I under arrest?"

  "Not exactly," said Director Smiles.

  "Then why am I here?"

  "We don't want you, we want Windsor."

  "Hmm lemme see, Windsor? Windsor? Hmm, do you mean Edwin Windsor?"

  Smiles just stared at him.

  "You know, I do know an Edwin Windsor. Having a little bit of trouble with him, are you?"

  Smiles pressed his lips together before he spoke. "Mr. Windsor is about to get in quite a lot of trouble. The only question is, how much of that trouble do you want to avoid?"

  "You think you can take down Edwin Windsor? Lemme tell you something, pencil neck, you can't touch Windsor. He's got the Cromoglodon. He's on the boards of half the Fortune 50. And what's worse, he's got Billy. You know who Billy is?"

  "I'm afraid, I don't know a..." There was a flicker of memory in Smiles' brain.

  "Excelsior? You remember him? He's back. Back from the grave, so to speak. And now, he's working for Windsor." Sure, it was a lie, but what was Topper, some kind of Boy Scout? Besides, Topper needed leverage and disinformation. And he enjoyed watching Smiles deflate right before his eyes. He could actually see the worry and fear ripple across the bureaucrat's fleshy face.

  Of course, Topper thought it was just the prospect of Excelsior being a villain, but for Smiles it was worse than that. All the memories and fear of not being able to control Excelsior flooded back. Gus laughing at him and belittling him. The clawing, desperate, powerless man that he had been. For a moment he felt like the room was falling apart.

  "So ya got me in handcuffs. Big deal. You want Edwin Windsor? I can give him to you. The only question is, what can you give me in return? Do you have the power to make a deal?"

  Smiles nodded, "What do you want?"

  "All of it," Topper said.

  "You mean…?"

  "I mean I want it all. Purple mountains’ majesty, sea-to-shining sea, fat broads, thin broads, trailer parks, mansions, to never have to pay taxes again, to be able to take a crap on the White House lawn—all of it, everything, the brass ring, the key to this city, the whole Magilla, I want the street cars from San Francisco, Maine Lobster, Florida Real Estate—wait, no, you can keep that—but everything else. EVERYTHING ELSE! I got big appetites and I want it ALL!" As he ranted Topper gestured so violently that he dragged the table around by the chains attached to his arms. When he caught his breath he continued, "The only question is, what are you gonna give me?"

  "Well..." began Smiles.

  "Oh, no. You get these handcuffs off me and bring me a root-beer float. And THEN we'll talk."

  "A root-beer float?"

  "Yeah, asshole, a root-beer float. 'Cause I want one. It's probably a pain in your ass to get me one. I figure I don't have much longer to live, so I better enjoy myself while I'm alive."

  "We can protect you."

  "Protect me? From Edwin Windsor? You can't even protect yourself. You know, it wouldn't surprise me if I was dead already. I mean, if I blew up right now, into a thousand little pieces, killing you and your pack of goons under glass there," Topper said, jerking his head towards the one-way mirror, "I think the last thought in my last particle of brain would be, 'Well, that makes sense.' See, that's how far ahead of everybody else Windsor is. He's the kinda guy who'd plant a bomb in the nearest thing to his best friend on the off-chance that he might need him as an involuntary suicide bomber one day. He covers every angle."

  Smiles looked uncomfortable and glanced towards the glass room as if help was to be had there. Topper smelled his fear. "And you, do you cover every angle? Did you scan me to see if I was a human bomb? No, you did not. So the question is, if you didn't think of that? What else didn't you think of?

  "I appreciate what you are trying to do here, but it won't work. You can't protect me, I'm a dead man. A thirsty dead man who could really go for a root beer float with a little nutmeg sprinkled on the vanilla ice cream." Topper smacked his lips together, enjoying his imaginary beverage.

  The door opened and Gus rolled in in his wheelchair. Topper's eyes grew wide. "You! I thought you were dead!" he lied.

  Gus snorted, "Hopin' don't make a thing so. You think you gonna be able to hope your way outta the mess you're in?"

  Topper was confused by the old man's cowboy proverbs, "No. I don't think there's any way out of this mess. No matter what I do, the end has already been written."

  Smiles jumped in. "What are you doing? Haven't you done enough harm already? You're here as an observer!"

  "Yeah, I've done enough harm," Gus rasped. "And now I'm here to undo some. So what about it little man, you gonna go down without a fight? You just gonna roll over and let the bigger and better man get the best of you?"

  Topper knew what Gus was doing, but he still couldn't resist the bait. "I'm not rollin' over, you old leather-faced bastard. I've done all I can."

  "Not the way I see it."

  "It's Edwin WINDSOR! Don't you get it? I tried. I couldn't get through to him. He's not a bad man. He's the guy who does his homework on Saturday night. He's the guy who can't let up on himself. And we're in his way. We don't stand a chance."

  "If you say it, it must be so," Gus said, and then spit on the floor.

  "Hey, this is my interrogation room," protested Smiles.

  "It's not like you clean it, Softhands," growled Gus, never taking his eyes off Topper.

  "Yeah, take it easy on Grandpa, he's old, he can't help it if he drools," said Topper. "Okay, so what do you think I should do?"

  "Keep fightin'. If he's coming after you that means you gotta go after him. He's just a man."

  "Are you sure we're talking about the same guy here, Geritol?"

  "Yeah. As smart as he is, he's just a man. And without his powerful friends, he's easy to hurt. And that's what he overlooks. His hands are too clean. He doesn't know nothing about the hurtin' business."

  "You mean like those early morning aches and pains that are so debilitating at your age?"

  "Say what you want, but there's one thing you can know about somebody my age—he's a survivor."

  "Yeah, so you get three more years at the end. Well, you can keep 'em. Those are the drooling on the floor, shittin' in a bag years."

  "You're just chickenshit."

  "I ain't chickenshit!"

  "That's right," said Gus, "you ain't tall enough to be chickenshit!" With this height-based insult, Topper disintegrated into incoherent fury. He lashed the chains from side to side and flooded the room with spit and profanity.

  "ENOUGH!" yelled Director Smiles, who surprised even himself with the note of command in his voice. "I think your chances are better than you realize. We know that Excelsior isn't helping him anymore."

  "So?"

  "Well that only leaves the Cr
omoglodon. If the Cromoglodon were to be neutralized, all of Windsor's enemies could capitalize on his weakness at once. His corporate "friends" would turn on him. We could make a case against the extortion racket. I think we could put him away forever."

  Topper was still not convinced. He shook his head, "Ehh, I don't think so. He's thought of something for this."

  Gus leaned forward in his chair, "Maybe he has, maybe he hasn't. That ain't the question. The only question is, what are you gonna do?"

  Topper took a deep breath and let it out slow. He had thought it through a million different ways. No matter how he sliced it, no matter what cocktail of chemicals he put in his body when he searched for the answer. It was a clear cut case of him or me. And in the case of Him v. Me, Topper knew there was only one way to decide.

  Topper said, "Okay, on two conditions. Number one: I get immunity. Not that bullshit immunity that you pedal to drug dealers and mafia guys, I mean a complete clean slate. You can't touch me for anything I've ever done. With Edwin or even before that."

  Smiles leaned back in his chair. "And what's number two? A root beer float?"

  "You kill Edwin Windsor."

  Silence hung in the air so long that even it became uncomfortable.

  Smiles finally said, "We're from the government, we're not assassins."

  Topper laughed. "Then ya got no deal."

  "What he means to say," Gus drawled, “is he's from the government, and he's not an assassin."

  "You gotta know what we're talking about here. Goin' the other way on Edwin Windsor? Lemme tell ya. We gotta make him dead. 'Cause if he survives? If he, thinks, even for a minute, that we were in on this, we don't stand a chance."

  Smiles waved dismissively, "I don't see how he could possibly—"

  "Yeah, yeah. That's just it. You don't see how. But Edwin Windsor? He does. He always sees a way. A way other people don't. If we don't do this right…" Topper shook his head and looked as serious as he ever had. "Time will pass, you'll think that things are wrapped up, that there's no way—no possible way. Then," he slapped his hands together sharply, "BANG! The trap will spring. You'll realize that you were a pawn in Edwin's game all along. I've watched him do this for years."

  Gus looked to the side and spit on the floor again. "I think we can agree to number two." Smiles gave him a look that wanted to be a knife. Gus ignored the threat of a soft-handed man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Just like every diamond has a flaw, every fortress has a weakness. So it was that Topper found himself clad in black, wrapped in rope, fighting his way along a cableway that led deep underneath Omdemnity Center One. It had been rough going. Nothing like the movies. After the first fifty feet he gave up on trying to curse quietly. After the next twenty-five, he struggled free of the rope and continued on without it. Why the hell did people always bring rope? Why had he asked for it?

  Originally, his plan had been to sneak in through the air ducts. That was the way these things were done, right? As time-honored as the rope, right? But that was no good. Edwin had seen to it that the air handling system was too small, even for him.

  The facility's weakness was a result of the same cautious nature that rendered the HVAC system impassible. For protection against the Cromoglodon, Edwin had arranged for a substation to be built on the facility so that electrical mains ran directly into the building. That way, in the event that the Cromoglodon became unstable, half of the city's power could be shunted directly into the creature’s brain. Klibanov and the other experts had been pretty sure that would kill him. But, really, when you are dealing with power like that, how could you be sure?

  No matter how much engineering you did, you couldn't shrink power cables and still expect them to carry that kind of current. There was enough room left over for Topper to pass. Not pass gracefully or easily, but, lubricated by curses, he fought his way through.

  Initially, Smiles had insisted on sending in a government team, but when it became obvious that regular-sized humans couldn't get in that way, Gus had growled, "Let Judas earn his silver."

  Topper hadn't liked that. Not one bit. He wasn't anything like Judas. Jesus wasn't trying to kill Judas. The Twelve Apostles weren't trained, heartless killers. Although, Topper had to admit, he would have enjoyed Sunday School a lot more if the gospels had taken advantage of a few story notes like that.

  At the end of the cables was a gigantic transformer. Even though it was only drawing enough current to power the building, it made a loud humming noise. Topper thought that the electrical field was making the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. It was either believe that or recognize the fear.

  He reached up and slowly opened the door to the Cromoglodon's vault.

  Dark and empty. But then, it was always dark down there. This was the first time Topper had been down there when he was sober. As he closed the door on the humming transformer, he was forced to admit to himself, he was scared. The noise didn't help.

  Some terrible, intermittent sound was echoing through the downward-sloping tunnel. It sounded like rock grinding on rock. Or maybe bone grinding on rock. For a minute Topper imagined the Cromoglodon grinding his head against the earth, trying to tunnel his way free. No, that couldn't be right. He was strong, not impervious. He was that stupid though.

  No, not stupid. Just simple, confused and, in a very sad way, innocent. Topper could still remember that the Cromoglodon had once been Barry. He had been strong and uncontrollable, but since when was that a sin? Topper could barely control himself most of the time. But Barry had crossed paths with Edwin Windsor. Now he was chained in a pit in the bowels of the earth. There was some kind of object lesson there, but Topper wasn't interested.

  When Topper reached the door, he realized that the ominous sound was nothing more than the snores of the mighty man-child resonating through the polished concrete hallways.

  Before he mounted the observation platform, Topper made sure that the security camera's red tell-tale light was off. It meant that the Feds were holding up their end. They had seized control of Edwin's network and were siphoning data off onto hard drives conspicuously hidden in a nondescript white van in the parking lot.

  "I hate those vans," Topper muttered. He promised himself that when he was in charge, he would run things better. Somewhere along the way, he had given up on that dream. He had believed in Edwin, because Edwin was a better man than him. And now he was betraying him.

  What had happened? How had it all gone wrong? Well, it hadn't all gone wrong. Topper was still here. Topper was still loyal to the Good Time. It was Edwin who had changed. Yeah, Edwin had betrayed him first. He had sacrificed the souls of everyone at the company to the long-winded god of policy and procedure. And worst of all, he had wanted Topper to follow the rules. No. Topper shook his head. No matter what else happened, that wasn't going to happen.

  Sure, you had to have a few rules. Like Rule #1—don't screw up. But beyond that, Topper couldn't think of many other good rules. A man, a villain, needed to be free to act. To rely on his own initiative. Otherwise he wasn't a villain anymore. He wasn't a man, he was just workin' for The Man.

  It had become too much. There were too many policies. Everyone was too fenced in. And even though Edwin talked about efficiency, that wasn't what he was about. Once upon a time, sure. But now it was about control. Maybe it always had been. And Topper knew about control. He'd been out of it his whole life.

  When you got right down to it, you didn't tell a man what to shoot. Ya gave him a high-caliber handgun and let nature take its course. And just so long as he surprised you with a big fat wad of cash when he came back, what did you care?

  Topper didn't want a business. Topper wanted his own pirate ship. Where men were men and women were plentiful. Where everybody got shares. Where you weren't punished for having an original idea, or panache, or your own friggin' soul. And most of all, where nobody would drive nondescript white vans. Everybody would get a pimped ride, even if it was stolen.
Even better if they stole them from actual pimps.

  But before any of that could happen, there was one unpleasant thing that had to be done.

  Topper dragged a chair over to the control panel and stood on top of it. As he looked down into the pit, he could just make out the shape of the heavily-sedated Cromoglodon, or what was left of him, his chest rising and falling in time with the pleasant rumbling noise of his gigantic snores.

  Topper felt sorry for him. He was, for all his monstrosity, an innocent. Having second thoughts, Topper cast about him for a line of thinking that would justify what he had to do.

  The Cromoglodon hardly ever got to see the light of day anymore. In a way, Topper was going to do him a favor. And hey, it's not like Topper owed him anything. It's not like anybody had ever given Topper a square deal.

  But, still, there was something about the Cromoglodon's soft, child-like snore that brought a tear to Topper's eye. Topper was sorry for everything that Edwin had done to the beast—and he would genuinely miss the Cromoglodon tearing through some rich company's facility because they wouldn't pay protection money. Shit, that had been the best part of many of Topper's days.

  His hand shook as he lifted the plastic cover over a large red button marked “Shunt.” Topper followed the cable and IV tubes that ran from the control room into the back of the Cromoglodon's head. He watched the beast's chest rise and fall.

  This was the price, thought Topper. But still, he didn't want to pay it. He thought about Agnes, cut low by that pointless fight between Excelsior (silly idiot) and the Cromoglodon. Sure, the silly idiot had started it to get back at Edwin, but if the Cromoglodon hadn't been there, Agnes would still be alive.