For all his posturing, things aren’t going well for Dr. Loeb. He is pinned under Superlative man’s knee. In pain he gives up on all pretense and distress. An uninterrupted stream of Lower Alabama profanity pours forth from Eustace’s slobbering gob-hole. Such filth, thinks Edwin. Such a remarkable knowledge of the anatomy of farm animals.
Superlative Man wrenches Dr. Loeb’s arm hard against its socket. “Yield villain, Yield!” Dr. Loeb’s shoulder lets go with a sickening crunch. The profanity drops off to a whimper.
Ah, that’s nice, thinks Edwin. And then he produces a small nickel-plated pistol from his desk drawer and shoots Superlative Man in the leg. Superlative Man, cries out in shock and surprise. The blood drains from his face and he collapses on the floor.
“You shot me!?!” he says, in firm command of the obvious.
Dr. Loeb looks at Edwin through a haze of pain. His arm sticks out from behind his back from an absurd angle. Before he loses consciousness he says, “Thank you.”
Edwin replaces the gun in the drawer. “No thanks required. It will be added to your bill.”
“You have been busy,” says Agnes as she stands in the doorway and surveys the carnage. “Is that the tang of cordite in the air? Destructive meeting I trust?”
“No, no. An excellent meeting. However, it has left Dr. Loeb in need of medical attention...”
“And what shall we do with this other poor unfortunate?” Agnes dials 911 as she speaks.
Edwin looks down at the man in the costume. Superlative Man. Of course, he was no superhero. There is nothing superlative about him whatsoever. He is an out-of-work actor trying to earn some extra cash. Edwin feels a stirring of some unidentifiable emotion for him. Not pity. Of course not pity. Whatever it is, he puts it from his mind.
“He should be handled with some discretion,” says Edwin. No doubt when the actor returns to consciousness, he will be terribly upset about being shot. It is not Edwin’s fault that the actor did not thoroughly read the death and dismemberment rider.
Edwin does not approve of violence. It is too unpredictable, too hard to control. But he had needed a way to earn Dr. Loeb’s trust beyond all question. He doesn’t think that this farce was a bad solution, but he feels that he has somehow fallen short. He feels that, if he had a little more time, he would have been able to develop a more elegant solution.
“He has bled rather a lot,” Edwin observes.
Agnes covers the phone with her hand and says, “Yes dear, that is my next phone call. Unfortunately, 911 does not dispatch carpet cleaning services.” Agnes pauses thoughtfully. “But when you think of it. Excuse me, do you —” an outraged squawking comes through the phone. “Well then, we’ll just have the ambulance.”
Agnes hangs up the phone. “You see, this is precisely what happens when you do not take the time to enforce and develop a quality serving class. That woman was unapologetically rude. I will never understand why such a bright, sensitive man such as yourself has chosen to make this savage country your home.”
“It’s where the work is,” Edwin says, “and now it seems I must go to Alabama.”
“Heaven’s no! Edwin I forbid you to go.”
Edwin looks at her.
“Of course, what I mean to say is.”
“I know what you mean to say. It will be fine, Agnes.”
“I predict disaster. I predict disaster.”
“Yes, my dear, but you always predict disaster. You have long called for the downfall of Western Civilization.”
“No, no, Edwin. Not calling for. Bemoaning. Bewailing. Cassandra crying out in the savage wilderness of America.”
Chapter Nine. What Do You Want Mr. Windsor?
Edwin ducks as he exits the jet. He feels a pain in his back. There’s not an airplane door in the world that was built for someone of his stature. The atmosphere of the place hits him. The humidity, the heavy sweetness in the air, the sharp tang of aviation fuel – All of it combines to make it known, not just intellectually, but physically that Edwin has come to Lower Alabama. He watches Dr. Loeb’s shaven head reflecting sunlight as the odd man he rushes to the car.
Edwin rolls his neck, trying to loosen the muscles in the middle of his back. Halfway down the stairs, the heat and the humidity really kick in. Edwin mops his forehead with his handkerchief. There is a voice in his head that tells him that this trip is a mistake. Edwin tries to ignore it. It is not easy.
The city slides by the car windows and soon they are in the country. Here there are ill-omens. A possum dead and strung out across the road. Vultures that hop out of the way rather struggle to rise in the thick air. The trees, gnarled and ancient, disturb Edwin in a way he cannot articulate.
It’s not that Edwin dislikes nature. He does prefer the clean lines and precise angles of the city. Art, Architecture, Commerce, all the higher functions of mankind are displayed to maximum advantage in a city. Here things burble and suck. They feed on one another and swell in the heat. How could anyone hold a crease in a suit in this climate? How could one even hold a thought? Edwin wonders if the humidity is swelling his brain.
As they pull off the road onto a tree-lined private drive, Dr. Loeb says, “Ah, vee ar hear!” In a reaction to this bizarre homecoming, Eustace has intensified his accent. His words are now so thick and imprecise that Edwin cannot understand what the odd man says. This is a comfort to Edwin.
As a rule, Edwin does not think about clichés. He inhabits a world of possible cause and probable effect. So, the magnitude of cliché at the end of the tree-lined drive is lost on him. There is a two-story white plantation house that has been built, rebuilt and restored to the specifications of an antebellum wet dream. It has white columns, a white balcony and countless other frilly touches of extra whiteness that seem to be tacked on just in case you forget what color person is in charge around here.
As they exit the car, a well-kept woman in her 60’s presents herself on the balcony. She waves to them with the corner of her white shawl. When she speaks, in the rich, broad tones of gracious, educated and sugary Southern accent, “Why Eustace, you have returned.” It almost sounds like she is a loving mother who has missed her son. Almost.
At the sight of his mother and the sound of his real name, Dr. Loeb becomes embarrassed and defensive. “Rease porgive zizz voman,” he says awkwardly, “Xhee iz de-rang-d. Sinks xhee izt moin marver.”
“And I see you have brought a friend,” Eustace’s mother exclaims with delight.
“Zizz ist Herr Vindsor!”
“I must confess. I haven’t the slightest idea what the strange fruit of my loins just said.”
“I am Edwin Windsor. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Mr. Windsor, please forgive my son. He’s de-ranged. But I expect you already knew that. Come in, come in. I shall be glad to receive you in the fo-yay.”
A large black man, who wears a long-suffering expression as if it is his uniform, emerges from the house and takes the luggage. Edwin follows.
As he enters, Edwin is slapped with a wave of cold air created by unseen air conditioning units. He is further assaulted by the sight of Iphangenia Reilly floating down a curved staircase in a pretty fair approximation of “Gone with the Wind.” This cliché is also lost on Edwin. But he can see that this woman is going to be formidable. Or, at the very least, formidably ridiculous.
In the awkward pause. Dr. Loeb attempts to excuse himself. “I must see to my verk.”
“Is that any way to greet your mother?” Iphagenia asks. “You don’t call. You don’t write. And you know how I worry.”
“High vas avsorbed mit verk. I Vust Vee to it kuh-now.”
“You will not see to your work or anything else. Alabaster, take him to his room and see that he does not leave. I will deal with him later.” The large black man tucks Eustace under his arm and walks away.
Dr. Loeb breaks character. “But MomMMA!”
Iphagenia dismisses him with a wave of his hand and then turns her attention to Edwin.
“I am sorry you had to see that. He was so sweet when he was just a boy. But as he grew... bless his heart.” Edwin is very careful to maintain a neutral expression. The entire game could be lost right here.
Iphagenia leads Edwin into a painfully formal sitting room. “Do you have any children Mr. Windsor?”
“No.”
“Well you simply must have some. They are such a delight,” she looks out the window, “when they are young.” Now she turns back to Edwin, and with the full wattage of charm that only generations of gracious living can provide she says, “But heavens, where are my manners? Would you care for some tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She rings a small bell and soon Alabaster arrives with two glasses of iced tea on a ornate silver tray. Iphagenia takes a sip and sighs with theatrical delight. “Now Mr. Windsor, tell me, how is it that you have come to know my su-suss--uh…” unable to finish the word son, she trails off when she sees that Edwin is holding his glass of iced tea between his thumb and forefinger as if it is a dead thing he has found underneath his chair.
“This tea is cold,” Edwin says.
“Iced. It’s called iced tea.”
“Would it be possible to have a proper cup of tea? A Darjeeling or an Earl Grey perhaps?”
“Alabaster, what other kinds of tea do we have?”
“Pekoe,” the large man says clearly, but without expression.
“Will that suffice?” Iphagenia asks in a way that seems hospitable, yet somehow winds up indicating that she thinks Edwin is horribly rude.
Edwin, is unable to hide his distaste. Orange cut peoke tea, surely brewed from bags. Tea bags which invariably contain the lowest grade of tea. It would be little more than the dust and twigs and foot sweat from the floor of an Indian tea sorting room. “That will be fine,” Edwin manages to say.
Alabaster leaves. “His family has been in my family for five generations,” Iphagenia explains with pride. “But, how rude of me. You haven’t come here to discuss history, have you? Tell me, how is it that a man like you has become,” and here she pauses for effect, “friends with my son.”
“Your son has sought me out for my advice.”
“And you have advised him to continue with his costume and ridiculous accent?” Iphagenia asks.
“Of course not,” Edwin says as he accepts a cup of tea. His delicate fingers direct the cup to his mouth. Edwin drinks with a refinement that Iphagenia finds irresistible. In this moment she sees him to be an intelligent, cultured man. She is not sure what the tall man’s game was, but those three short, sensible words, have begun an attraction. “I have tried to rid your son of any delusions or affectations,” Edwin says as he replaces the teacup in its saucer. “Evil is not a game. It is serious and profitable business.”
“You know, there are so few truly tall men in Lower Alabama.” Iphagenia blushes. She thinks that she must seem silly, so she tries to play it off. “I’m afraid I find it simply too hot for regular tea. I’ve found, that in this climate, there’s little else to do but drink iced tea, fan oneself and commit indiscretions.”
Edwin doesn’t understand what’s going on. The hideous woman’s advances are a piece of data that fit no known set. Perhaps later this observation will be of some use. For now, he sips his tea and allows the silence work on her.
“So what exactly is it that you do Mr. Windsor?”
“I am an Evil Efficiency Consultant. I help villains become more—”
“Villainous?” Iphagenia says, unable to contain herself.
“Profitiable.” Edwin says as if the word is motive and justification all in one.
“Terrorism, Extortion, Kidnapping, Revenge, that sort of thing?”
“On occasion, but most of those cash acquisition strategies are far, far too crude. Take, for example, a man who can run very, very fast. Say, twice the speed of sound.”
“You mean like the Fla—”
“Names are unimportant, but yes, the Flamer is one such man. And his problem is not learning to run faster or further. He has mastered his power. The question is where should he run and why?”
“I’m not sure I follow you. If I recall, the Flamer is a hero.”
“Ah, propaganda. The Flamer is confused. Not a bad man, but hardly what I would consider a hero. What do you know about hospitals?”
“Ah have endowed several,” she says magnanimously.
“Then consider the problem of an emergency room. On any given night an emergency room has far fewer doctors than patients. All of the patients require medical care. But not all of them can be seen at the same time. So which patient goes first?”
“Well, the person who is the most hurt.”
“Exactly. The term is Triage.”
“Oh, that is French. You know my ancestors were French.”
“Yes, from the verb trier, to sort or sift. To discriminate. In my eyes, this word means to use a scarce resource for the greatest profit. The Flamer has no triage. He enjoys stopping street crime. So that’s what he does. In his mind that is what is being a hero is all about.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. As far as it goes. Which is not nearly far enough. But he is excellent for my business. I encourage my clients not to waste their time on small, violent crimes. There’s not enough money in them. That way, I remove irresponsible and self-serving nuisances like the Flamer from their path.”
“But his outfits are so colorful.”
“Yes, but he does not help others from a selfless motive. He helps others only because it suits him.”
“But he does help people.”
“In a limited and irrelevant fashion, yes.”
“So you want my son to become a villain? Your kind of villain?” Iphagenia is on her guard again.
“Dear woman,” Edwin says through a shark’s smile, “All I want is for your son to be happy.”
Chapter Ten. Cindi with an 'i'
Excelsior hates the sound of silverware scraping across plates. Silverware contacting teeth is even worse. It puts him on edge. He’s trying to enjoy a nice dinner with a beautiful woman. But every slurp and suck, burp and gargle in the busy restaurant is right in his ear. His hearing seems to get better when he’s dressed in ordinary clothes. And he’s traveling incognito tonight, just trying to be an ordinary schmuck like the rest of us.
Beautiful women throw themselves at Excelsior all the time. He doesn’t quite understand it, but, like rockstars, daredevils, fighters, and all men of power, it works in his favor. So he doesn’t ask too many questions.
The problem is that these women aren’t interested in him. They want the symbol. They want to make love to a force of nature. Not to him. Not to who he really is. Not whoever he might be without the powers or the costume. And the thing that scares Excelsior, deep down, is that he can’t remember who he is without the cape. And he wants to know. He wants someone to love him. Whatever he is when he’s not being a symbol.
So, he takes off the costume and poses as an ordinary man. A man who must face the age-old problem of finding a mate. Her name is Cindi, with an ‘i’. She makes a point of explaining that to people. As if it was some kind of bizarre Indian name. Two Elk. Clouds against the Moon. Cindi with an ‘i’. She is attractive (if you’re not picky), charming (if you’re not listening) and young (by candlelight). As they look at the menu, she giggles at nothing at all.
Still giggling, she holds up an appetizer fork. “Tiny,” she says. More giggles.
“Yeah, it’s small,” Excelsior says awkwardly. He looks at the menu. He can’t read it. It’s in French. But looking at the menu gives him something to do.
“Yeah!” More giggles.
The waiter knows, instinctively, that they don’t belong there. He drapes his contempt in kindness. “Take all the time you need with the menu, Monsieur.” This gets Excelsior. He’s not used to people being snotty to him. He feels the heat build up behind his eyes. All he has to do is let it go to reduce this guy to cinders. H
e reels it back in. What was he thinking? He was a hero. The good guys don’t do that kind of thing. Besides, he’s taking a night off. Doesn’t he deserve a night off? A long weekend now and again? Nobody can work all the time. How are you supposed to make friends, have a relationship? Or even just get your rocks off? Excelsior isn’t exactly human, but, he has needs.
Excelsior orders the cheapest bottle of champagne and some oysters. Cindi with an ‘i’ doesn’t like oysters, so Excelsior orders her some french fries. The waiter nods and says “Pomme Frites,” with a judicious balance of agreement and contempt. What a jerk. Excelsior doesn’t want frites. He want fries. But after a few drinks, a few oysters, the evening is almost agreeable. He seems to be making progress with Cindi with an ‘i’.
Then the pager goes off.
When he’s not in costume, Excelsior often gets teased about carrying a pager. “Call me old fashioned. It works,” is what he says. But works isn’t the half of it. The box clipped to his belt will receive a signal anywhere on the globe. Not only does it work under 300 feet of solid rock, it will even work when 300 feet of solid rock is trying to crush it. It will even receive a signal on the moon. Excelsior is pretty sure he can destroy it, but it has to be the toughest man-made object he’s ever encountered. In a perverse way, he’s proud of the device.
Excelsior has never consciously considered that the pager is the wrong end of the leash, but once he dreamed that he threw it into the furnace of the sun. Even in his dream the pager had gone off. It had called him away from it’s own destruction.
When the pager goes off, it means that he has to go. Whatever is on the other end of that vibration, it is important. If he doesn’t go, right now, people will die. They may be brave men struggling for their lives, or innocents and children, but whoever they are, they are in danger. To be fair, they never use this thing frivolously. And isn’t a privilege to carry this pager? To be able to help? Then why is he so angry?
How To Succeed in Evil Page 5