The way Edwin sees it, taking a person, or anything else, to eventually get money, is inefficient. If you want money, you should take money. But then if you want money, why steal? There are any number of ways to borrow money. Money can also be earned. Money can be obtained through fraud. As a general rule one should not steal money when in need of money. One should only steal when it is overwhelmingly convenient.
In fact, theft in itself is crude. A remnant of the time when barbarous populations rode across windswept plains to sack entire civilizations. Why go to the trouble of taking something when, with a little imagination and planning, you can convince your victim to give it to you? And the theft of a person is worst of all. People are difficult to transport. Difficult to keep in good condition. And, worst of all, when people are taken, irrational value is attached to them.
“Consider,” Edwin might say when explaining this to a client, “the most obnoxious child you have ever known. Perhaps you have been forced to endure the presence of such a creature at the lawn club luncheon or at a museum benefit. In the midst of your sorbet, you have surely thought, ‘I would pay handsomely to have that brat’s vocal chords removed, table-side, before the desert course.’
“And let us further posit that this is not merely a bad day for this child, but, in fact, he will undoubtedly grow to become the kind of unrestrained boor who laughs too hard at tasteless jokes and will one day beat his wife to death with a nine iron.
“All in all, this person is a benefit only to lawyers, and the apple of only his mother’s well-medicated eye. But if you kidnap this monster, at any point in his obnoxious life-cycle, the sympathy of untold millions will flow towards him. Even though society will be measurably better off without him. For this reason, kidnapping simply isn’t worth the feelings of righteous indignation it evokes among the herd.”
There are so very few truly workable criminal schemes. Edwin views all crimes as recipes. The right amount of this, the correct amount of that and, at the end, money. For all of his clients, Edwin tries to make sure that the amount of money at the end is far, far greater than the cost of the ingredients.
The costliest ingredient in kidnapping is secrecy. Not only do all of the conspirators have to keep quiet about the affair — a virtual impossibility, with more than two people involved — but they also have to maintain the secrecy of the hostage’s location. The entire scheme depends on it as a lever depends on its fulcrum.
So as he sits, shackled in the middle of a pig sty, Edwin has fewer worries than most people in his situation. He is being held at his last known location. And he knows that Agnes will call upon considerable resources to come to his aid. Not that she will have to. In this case, even a call to the local police might sort it out. Edwin smiles when he thinks of the logic of fighting incompetence with incompetence. So in this unusual circumstance, Edwin’s greatest worry is for his suit.
As Edwin was dragged away, he had hoped to have a chance to remove his jacket. But none came. He had been thrown into the sty. And while his landing had been soft, it was also incredibly filthy. Even as Edwin struggled to regain his feet, they had swarmed him and crushed him once again to the liquid filth. Edwin had pleaded with them, “Please. Please, spare the jacket.” But the mob did not listen. Even though he did not resist, several people had sat on him while they chained his feet.
After the initial violence Edwin had been left alone. The pigs, who had wisely retreated from the human foolishness, now inspect the newest member of their sty. They snort and nudge Edwin. They quickly deem him harmless and inedible and return to wallowing in the mud. Filthy animals, some would say, but Edwin recognizes the native intelligence of these beasts. Pigs do not have sweat glands. Edwin’s is not exactly sure how he knows this, but this odd bit of trivium explains a great deal. The cesspool where he finds himself confined is the pig’s air conditioning system. They cover themselves in mud to cool themselves, and protect their skin from sunburn.
Edwin squints at the sun. Sunburn will be a problem. As well as dehydration. Another, more survivally-minded man, would be covering his own delicate skin with mud right now. But Edwin does not descend to such behavior. He does not revert to the level of the savage. Better to die first, he thinks, than to give up what little dignity he has left. Edwin produces a spotless handkerchief from inside his jacket — a minor miracle, considering recent events — and cleans what filth he can from his face, hands and hair.
Edwin stands for as long as he is able, but eventually gravity pulls him down into the mud. The pigs wallow. Edwin broods. The sun moves across the sky. Edwin dozes as best he can while sitting up.
* * * *
“Oh my heavens. Mr. Windsor, bless your heart, you are a sight.”
Edwin opens his eyes and sees Iphagenia holding an absurd parasol over her head. Around her a retinue of slave boys fan their taffeta-wrapped queen. Edwin stands and straightens his ruined apparel as best he can, “Your hospitality, madam, leaves much to be desired.”
“Oh, Mr. Windsor, it is you who have rejected my hospitality with your horrific manners.”
“Whatever was I thinking?”
“Well, that’s what I came here to talk to you about. You see, I believe that you are meant for far better things than this.”
Edwin does not comment on the obvious.
“Do you regret your mistake of spurning me?” asks Iphagenia.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Oh, Edwin, do not play coy with me. Search your feelings. Surely my nobility calls out to you, as yours cries out to mine. Come to your senses, my dear, and I can remove you from this squalor. Elevate you to your proper station. You shall become my consort, one of several, it is true, but we shall rule the world together.”
Edwin had thought he was fully acquainted with all the ways that bad could go to worse, but at this moment he realizes he was mistaken. He clings to his professional demeanor. “While I do pride myself on thorough care of my clients, the arrangement you are suggesting is not a service I provide.”
“But search your feelings. You must admit that you are attracted to me?”
A wave of weariness ripples through Edwin’s legs. He looks long and hard at Iphagenia. On her forehead he sees a droplet of sweat extrude itself through the layers of make up and sludge its way downward. Edwin realizes, with no small amount of horror, that he is more attracted to the pigs. There is no nobility here. Only unrepentant lunacy. All of Edwin’s instincts recoil in horror. Still, he maintains control. He buttons the middle button on his suit jacket, draws himself to his full height and with great formality says, “No.”
Iphagenia says nothing. The scene is still. Even the slave boys pause in their endless fanning. She presses her lips together and gets a far off look in her eye. For a moment it seems that she might cry. But then her hand darts out. A whip makes sharp contact with bare flesh. A slave boy cries out in pain and then the fanning resumes. “You are a fool Edwin Windsor.” With that she turns and walks away, her absurd retinue following in her wake. All but one.
There, with a fresh lump on his forehead, is Eustace, still in the jester’s uniform. He hangs his head and arms over the fence and stares at Edwin. After a while he says, “Hey man, you’re covered in pig shit.”
Eustace sighs and hangs his head over the fence in what must be a gesture of surrender.
“So your mother has let you go,” says Edwin
“Yeah man, she’s busy with her ‘friends.’”
“I’m sure she is.”
“You know, I believed you, man.”
Like a shark smelling blood from miles away, Edwin senses weakness, leverage, an opening. “And you were right to. Your mother does not have half the control she imagines.”
“Aw man, that ain’t nothing but some bullshit. Momma got control. You said bad things about momma. Now momma got you too.” Edwin just smiles. “Man, why you smiling?” asks Eustace, “you ass deep in shit.”
“Your mother does not even have control
of herself.”
“What’s that bullshit mean?”
“Eustace can’t understand,” says Edwin. Gently, he thinks. He must proceed gently.
“You calling me stupid?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that Dr. Loeb knows what I’m talking about.” Edwin hates himself a little for playing such an artless and obvious gambit. But there is no way to put a subtle move on a witless person. “Dr. Loeb understands what Eustace cannot. Ja, mein Herr?”
“Man, you crazy.”
Edwin stands. “I may be chained in the middle of a pit of filth. I may be exhausted. My patience might be wearing thin. But I assure you, my sanity is intact. You are clean, rested, possessed of no self-discipline and more surely a prisoner of your mother than I could ever be.”
Eustace looks away.
“So you have a choice to make. You may remain Eustace Eugene Reilly. Slave to your mother’s desires. Never having a life or will of your own—”
“But I like it here.”
“I’m sure that you do. It is comfortable. It is certain. Most of all, it is familiar. But you have a dream. A dream that you whispered to me in my office.”
“Domination?” Eustace whispers, fearful of even speaking the word.
“Domination. You want control. And I can help you get it. But first you must control yourself. You must help yourself. You must help me.”
“Ya’ll want me to run and go get you a gun?”
“No, I don’t need your help, Eustace. Eustace is weak. Eustace cannot even help himself. I need Dr. Loeb.”
“What?”
“EUSTACE YOU ARE WEAK!”
Eustace jumps back as if he has been slapped. For a moment, Edwin thinks he has overplayed. But Eustace settles back down on the fence. “Yeah man. I sure am,” Eustace admits. Edwin is still in the game.
“You are too weak to overcome your mother.”
“Yeah.”
“But the evil Doctor—” Edwin locks eyes with the awkward boy and says nothing. The moment stretches into a minute. The minute stretches into a time. Slowly, Eustace straightens.
“Ja.” Eustace says quietly
“He is strong.”
“Kampfkraft,” Eustace says a little louder.
“Yes, yes, cunning”
“Ja, JA. That voman is OUTFRAGEOUS!”
“Yes. Now unlock these chains and we can begin.”
“You must promifse sometink first,” says Dr. Loeb.
This is good, thinks Edwin. Dr. Loeb senses weakness and is using it to bargain. Vicious, yet rational. It is the kind of thing that Edwin can twist to his advantage. But Edwin is in a horrible position to negotiate. “What is that, Herr Doctor?”
“Ve vill built a lazer.”
Edwin shakes his head, “We discussed this.”
“There vill be no discuzzion!” Dr. Loeb punctuates each word with a slap of his hand. “YOU VILL HELP ME BUILD A GIANT LAZER IN SPACE!”
Edwin hangs his head and sighs. Under the weight of all this absurdity, he is amazed that he can remain standing.
Chapter Eighteen
Nothing Right for Agnes
Agnes isn’t having a good day. She’s holding it together, but the fact that Edwin is in trouble is wearing on her more than her stiff upper lip will allow her to reveal.
To add to her strain, Topper has insisted upon coming along. “To the rescue!” he cried as he boarded the private jet. That was the first and last useful statement he had to offer. As soon as his little feet touched the lush carpet, an unending stream of bad ideas had rolled out of him.
“A stampede, that will do it.”
“Wait, wait, a stampede of, not of cattle, but of guys dressed as Mexican wrestlers. That’ll confuse the shit out of them.”
“Ah, never mind, too complicated. Did you remember to pack a rocket launcher? No, flamethrower? What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Agnes knows that Edwin relies on Topper from time to time. And that, after his own fashion, Topper is loyal and trustworthy. But she does not approve of him. To Agnes, Topper is an undersized Barbarian with a law degree. She is certain that the little man’s growth has been stunted by nothing other than his own debauchery. Yes, Topper is a good lawyer. But he is not the only good lawyer.
Restraint and perseverance are called for here. There are steps they can take — a great many steps — before it is time to call in the commandos. The important thing is not to increase the risk to Edwin. It is also important not to take action until they know, for certain, what the situation is.
From the plane, she attempts to call the Rielly Residence several times. The phone rings and rings and rings. Agnes is beset by a maddening lack of information.
As the wheels touch down in Alabama, the protocol dictates that she make an appeal to the local authorities. Make the matter seem innocuous. An ordinary missing person case. She does not have a high estimation of local sheriffs, but it is a place to start. Agnes shares this idea with Topper. It is a logical, reasonable first step.
Topper says “Yer outta your old, wrinkly head. These rednecks aren’t going to help you. They’re probably all related. Haven’t you seen any movies?”
“Well, what would you have us do?” asks Agnes, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“You go back home. I’ll find some tanks, roll in there, blow the whole joint up and get him out.”
“NO! You know very well how Edwin feels about senseless destruction.”
“Yeah, but that’s because he’s an egghead. He’s not a get-it-done kind of guy like me.”
Topper cannot not persuade Agnes to see things his way. So with the midget in tow, she marches into the Hims Chapel County Seat, through a door that reads Sheriff’s Department and in a loud voice, asks “Is this the local constabulary?”
Earl, or more formally, Deputy Sheriff Earl Trotter, looks up at Agnes in a way that suggests he has no idea what a constable is, much less a constabulary, but is willing to adopt a shoot-first-ask=questions-later policy towards whatever it might be. His ears are set a little too high and his eyes are set a little too close together. When he asks, “Whut?” his features seem to jump off the top of his head.
“Law enforcement,” says Agnes, “I am seeking the local authorities.”
“That’d be sheriff Jessup.”
“Is he about? I should like to file a complaint.”
“Oh no, ma’am he don’t like complainers.”
“Very well then, a missing persons report. I have reason to believe that my associate is being held to the North of here by –”
“Now just wait a minute Ma’am. Iffn you know where he is, he ain’t exactly missing now is he?” Earl looks at Topper realizing for the first time that there is a midget in the room. None of this makes sense to Earl.
“Deputy, a man is being held against his will!”
Earl’s eyes flash back and forth between Topper and Agnes. “Well, ma’am, we in the profession would call that kidnapping.”
“I care not what you call it.”
“Well, it’s important, cause we’ve got different forms for different things, see if you had lost some livestock –”
“No, no, no. you dolt. A person, a man, has been kidnapped. And I need you to –”
Earl holds up his hand. Feeling that he is exercising his finely tuned powers of observation, Deputy Earl asks, “Ma’am, are you aware you are being tailed by a midget?”
“Painfully,” says Agnes, wringing every bit of emotion out of the word.
“Screw this noise,” says Topper, “This shitkicker’s getting us nowhere.” As Topper walks out, the last thing he hears is Earl saying, “Now ma’am, about how long do you reckon that rude little fella has been surveilling you?”
Agnes tries to explain, once again, about Edwin Windsor being held against his will. Earl wants none of it. “Ma’am, are you sure you don’t want to file a complaint against that rude little fella.”
“No,” say
s Agnes, “Remarkably, that annoying little man is the least of my troubles today. Now about this kidnapping.”
“Oh Ma’am, I can’t do nothing about that. You’re just gonna have to talk to the sheriff.”
“And where is he?”
“He’s out ma’am.”
“When do you expect him to return?”
“Can’t say. He comes and goes a lot. O-fficial business and all.”
Agnes is not the kind of woman who can be dissuaded by a weak-chinned man. “Very well,” she says, “I shall wait.” And she plants herself in a chair as if she has every intention of growing roots.
The hours pass. The deputy is not comfortable with the strange English woman in his workspace. He had thought she would grow tired and bored and leave. But she does not. With each passing moment, Agnes is more at home in her environment. First, she flips through a magazine. Then she gathers all of the magazines in the sitting area, removes the subscription cards, and piles them alphabetically by subject. Next, she organizes the furniture. Wherever she steps, order follows.
The Deputy protests, “Hey, look, now just look, you can’t –”
Agnes counters, “But it is such a frightful mess.”
“But this is important po-lice business.”
“All the more reason that it should not be shoddy.”
Of course, Agnes knows exactly what she is doing. A little more time and she will have broken him completely. As she thinks this, she hears the rumble of heavy equipment. With her innate English instinct for tragedy, she knows Topper is about to ruin everything.
A blast of an air horn rattles the windows in the Hims Chapel Sheriff’s office. Agnes hears the grinding of gears and an unmistakeable high-pitched cackle. The midget is afoot!
“Whut in the hell is that?” asks the deputy as he reaches for his gun belt.
Agnes does not answer. She drops a stack of files and bustles out the door as fast as her proper old feet will carry her.
How To Succeed in Evil Page 9