“Yes,” he says, “domination.”
“Domination,” says Edwin.
Tears of gratitude well up in Eustace’s eyes. Then the fear comes over him again. “Can we really do it?”
Edwin is going to explain that if Eustace will listen to him, and hire the right kind of lawyer, they have a very good chance of success. But he is interrupted by an explosion at the back of the room.
“MOTHER!” cries Eustace in terror.
The dust settles. At the other end of the room is a figure clad in spandex. “It is I, Superlative Man!”
“He iz come to do battle with me!” Eustace cries with joy in his voice. “I am ze villain, ze sinister Dr. Loeb, and he must stop me. You take your life in your hands when you tangle mit ze fearsome intellect of ZE LOEB!”
Edwin tries. “Uh, Superlative Man, is it? It’s not clear that my client is guilty of breaking any laws.”
Superlative Man doesn’t buy it. “What are you trying to say? He's evil. Just look at him. No self-respecting or law-abiding citizen would dare dress like that.”
Insanely, Dr. Loeb agrees with him. “I am EVIL! He must stop me before I strike again! Manful COMBAT!”
Edwin tries again. “Eustace, that is, Dr. Loeb, you might want to rethink this. He’s got a good 40 pounds on you and he just shouldered his way through a wall.”
But it is no use. The high redoubts of Fort Reason are overwhelmed when the man clad in spandex yells, “Superlative Man, into the fray!”
Edwin pushes his chair back from the table. As the two men brawl, Edwin uses the intercom. “Agnes. Things are winding down in here. I’ll need a full contract package — ”
Superlative Man holds Dr. Loeb over his head and slams him into the conference room table.
“What was that? Yes, yes, absolutely — an accidental death and dismemberment waiver. And I believe Dr. Loeb will require prompt medical attention. Thank you.”
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 sticking out at an absurd angle behind his back. 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 take it?”
“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 is 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 needed a way to earn Dr. Loeb’s trust beyond all question. He doesn’t think that this farce is a bad solution, but he feels that he has somehow fallen short. He feels that, if he’d 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 develop and discipline 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.”
“Heavens, 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. You always predict disaster. You have long been calling for the downfall of Western Civilization.”
“No, no, Edwin. Not calling for. Bemoaning. Bewailing. I am 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. Outside, 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 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 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 than 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 simply prefers 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 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 60s presents herself on the balcony. She waves to them with the corner of her white shawl. She speaks, in the rich, broad tones of a 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, wearing 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 Iphigenia 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?” Iphigenia 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 Mom-MA!”
Iphigenia dismisses him with a wave of her 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.
Iphigenia 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 an ornate silver tray. Iphigenia 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?” Iphigenia 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 pekoe tea, surely brewed from 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,” Iphigenia 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?” Iphigenia 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 Iphigenia finds irresistible. In this moment she sees him to be an intelligent, cultured man. She is not sure what the tall man’s game is, 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.” Iphigenia 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?” Iphigenia says, unable to contain herself.
“Profitiable.” Edwin says the word as if it 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 farther. 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 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 makes an excellent object lesson. 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?” Iphigenia 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. He reels it back in. What is he thinking? He is 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.
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