How To Succeed in Evil (3 page)

Next on the wall is the Voodoin’. Edwin had been able to persuade him that the proper use of powers was to provide Zombies as cheap temporary labor to large manufacturing concerns. It had been an exceptionally profitable scheme. But the Voodoin’ had no love for business. He retired to his native Haiti where he indulged his first love, the sport of baseball. He exhumed the bodies of many famous baseball players and reanimated them so he could watch them play on his own bizarre field of dreams hidden deep within the mountains.

Perhaps, most absurd among the collection, is the Carolignian, a man who had the power to transform himself into a warrior monk from the time of Charlemagne by rubbing a bit of dead flesh that he claimed was the foreskin of St. Paul. Edwin had not asked questions. He had merely harnessed the man’s powers to make money. But, soon after the money started rolling in, the Carolignian had disregarded Edwin’s advice, demanding of him, “Since God is for me, who can be against me?” As it turned out, a great many people could be against him. Edwin had never known the victory of secular humanism to be so bittersweet.

And finally, Brainitar. Brainitar had cost Edwin dearly. Both financially and personally. He admitted, only to himself, that he had made a terrible mistake when he had been sucked in by Doctor Grapewigget’s mad obsession. Steven Grapewigget had invented a way to remove his brain from his perfectly healthy body and implant it in an ageless, multi-function robotic pod. He hoped to prolong his life indefinitely and prove that this was the next logical stage in human evolution.

Edwin cared for none of that. But with the vast parallel processing resources of the human brain now in a machine interface, he devised a way for Brainitar to plug directly into the futures market. Using a combination of Brainitar’s unique insight and a massive array of supercomputers, he had devised a seemingly infallible trading scheme.

But it had never been implemented. A factor unknown and perhaps unknowable had ruined everything – The phantom itch. It was a phenomenon experienced by amputees, in which the missing limb was still felt to be there to such an extent that the amputee would feel heat, cold or itching sensations. As an unforeseen side effect of his transplant, the memory of his entire body became an itch he could not scratch. The brain inside the jar was driven insane by ceaseless and uncontrollable sensation.

Long nights had Edwin lay awake, wondering what he could have done differently. How could he have detected this madness. Insanity was hard enough to see in a normal person who was attempting to cover it up, but how do you read it into the folds of a brain suspended in liquid? There were no facial expressions. No chance of human warmth or contact. None of the thousand bits of information that we all to rely on in our everyday exchanges with others.

None of Edwin’s clients had ever really followed his advice. But it was Brainitar who was most to blame for the spot Edwin found himself in now. A great portion of Edwin’s own fortune had been tied up in Braintiar’s scheme. And when Brainitar had decided, inexplicably, to hold a large dam hostage, Edwin’s investment was lost.

Because of Brainitar, Edwin now had cash flow problems. Once again Edwin is forced to wade through the sludge at the bottom of the barrel of evil as he searches for an untapped resource. Someone with talent. Someone with potential. Someone completely unlike Dr. Loeb.

Right now, Edwin wants to know how Dr. Loeb made it through his screening process.

Chapter Four 

A Child of Faded Empire

In the midst of the cavernous, modern lobby, Edwin’s secretary sits behind an Early Victorian partner’s desk. The herringbone accents, brass fittings and top inlaid with hand-tooled leather is at odds with the modernist decor. But, as Agnes is fond of saying, one mustn’t surrender to the modern merely because it is
here
. It is important to put up some kind of a fight.

Agnes is dignified, gracefully age’d and looks a trifle like Winston Churchill in drag. If you mentioned the resemblance to Agnes, she would be flattered. She is an unreconstructed Limey and, as they say on the island seat of that lost empire, frightfully proud of it. There is no dual citizenship for Agnes. Heavens no. Her loyalty is to the crown and what it stands and stood for. And her prolonged stay in this heathen country has only strengthened her upper lip and her determination to set a more civilized example for this wayward colony.

At one time, an unfortunate person had seen fit to refer to Agnes as an “executive assistant.” Agnes would have none of it. She denounced the term as a “barbarous jargon.” And declared herself uncomfortable with the prominence of the syllable “ass.” She is a secretary. She does not merely assist. She keeps order. And perhaps it is her smoldering, blue-haired rage for order that prevents her from jumping as Edwin storms into the lobby. Or perhaps, it is that, after her long years of service to Edwin, she has seen it all.

“What is that?” Edwin asks, gesturing towards his office.

Agnes shuffles a few papers and ignores him.

“Agnes? How did that waste of time find its way on to my schedule?”

“I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

Agnes carefully collates the papers on her desk into a stack. She folds her hands and looks to Edwin with her chin high in the air. “Now, how can I help you, Mister Windsor.”

“That lout in my office.”

“Dr. Loeb, yes, what of him?”

“Why am I wasting my time on him? He has no powers. He’s obviously an idiot. There’s no potential there for us to make any money. Why did you not prune him from my schedule?”

“I’m not sure I care for your tone.”

“Agnes, please.”

“It’s true,” Agnes grants, “he is a trifle substandard. But we are in something of a dire strait here. Clients have been dropping left and right. Dr. Spocktopolis has gone completely around the bend. He is refusing his latest invoice.”

“That’s a collections issue.”

“Yes, a matter for the Unstoppable Auger. Unfortunately, he seems to have let his name go to his head and has been stopped, rather decisively, by the authorities.”

“Ah,” says Edwin. He does not like mundane details. He likes them even less these days, when all the details are less than flattering.

“Ah, indeed,” says Agnes, not without sympathy “These are trying times for us all.”

“Yes, but there is simply no way that buffoon can help us. And why does he effect such a horrible Austrian accent?”

“The accent is horrible and out of place. Many of your clients want to be something they aren’t, but, I have a good feeling about this Dr. Loeb.”

And there it is. A feeling. Agnes is very old and very dear to Edwin, but a feeling? Edwin has no time for feelings. Feelings are fickle, fallible. Feelings fall apart, melt away or reverse without the slightest warning or provocation. To build a decision on feelings is to set a foundation in quicksand. Feelings! Even data can be falsified or misleading. But logic was something you could always rely on. Logic is the bedrock upon which Edwin constructs his world.

“He’s not a Doctor,” says Edwin, “This is lunacy. Show the man from my office. I’m going to the club.”

“Edwin! Please! This is no time for golf.” Agnes protests. The elevator doors close behind Edwin and she falls silent. She is old, but she is determined to keep from talking to herself for as long as she can manage.

She turns back to her desk, and finds Dr. Loeb staring at her. “Excusing me, but vhere is Mr. I mean, Herr Windsor-- Vindsor. Where did he go?”

“Mr. Windsor has been called away on urgent business. But fear not, he has left instructions for me to reschedule your appointment for a later date.”

Dr. Loeb jumps up and down enthusiastically. Oh dear, Agnes thinks, I must discover how this will pay. She smiles at the odd man in the Neru jacket, swallows her distaste and asks him if he would care for a cup of tea.

Chapter Five 

It's a Par Four Life

Right now, the most important thing for you to know is that the midget is insane.

At one point in his life, this midget was wound very, very tight. He was driven. Consumed by the ambition to be the best trial lawyer ever. When he graduated top of his class from law school, no one made the obvious jokes. They were all afraid that someday they might have to face him in a courtroom. And they didn’t want the midget angry at them. But all of his classmates thought to themselves, “Y’know, one day that midget is going to snap.” The drive, the insane pressure, the self-denial, and the fact that the midget in question was named Topper, all pointed in that direction.

And snap he did. A shrink might call it a psychotic break. A fat Italian guy named Tony might tell you that Topper had become a real menefreghista — a guy who just doesn’t give a damn. But both Tony and the psychiatrist would miss the whole truth. The truth is, that one day, the midget looked back over the terrain of his life and realized that he hadn’t had any fun. He hadn’t had a life. What he’d had was an obsession. An obsession that he didn’t want anymore. So he decided to get a new one. Topper decided it was time to have some fun. Actually, Topper decided it was time to have all the fun.

Sure, Topper has his problems. Topper has his demons. And, as I said, he’s insane. But the second most important thing for you to know is — the midget has more fun than anyone else involved in this story. Including you.

And right now, he’s playing golf.

Topper waddles up to center of the tee box and stabs a tee into the ground as if putting the finishing touches on a back-alley murder. He clutches his driver as if he is afraid it’s going to wriggle free from his grasp and abscond with his wallet. He waggles forward. He waggles backwards. He heaves the club at the ball in a bizarre jerking motion that only the most generous observer would call a swing. The club misses the ball completely.

Standing at a safe distance, Edwin says, “One.” Topper does not hear him. Topper is already swinging again. And missing again. And again. After surviving three of Topper’s attempts, the ball takes on an air of invulnerability. Topper searches for a way to play the whole thing off.

“Are you giving me strokes on this hole?” Topper asks.

“If it will help, I won’t count those last three,” says Edwin.

“What? Those were a practice swings! Practice swings!”

This illustrates the most fundamental difference between Edwin and his lawyer. To Edwin’s way of thinking, if you are going to cheat at golf, why bother playing at all? The way Topper sees it, if you’re going to play a game, you should go the extra mile and cheat at it. Winning is way more fun than practice. And the best way to win without practicing is to cheat. Ergo… It is the simple, irrefutable logic of Topper’s overcooked little brain.

Topper lines his left eye up on his ball and closes his right. He thinks he’s doing this to maintain alignment at the point of impact, but it reads as a bad Clint Eastwood impersonation. “Okay ball,” Topper says, “Time to go for the big ride.” Somehow Topper connects with the ball. It squibs along the right side of the fairway and comes to rest within bounds. Barely.

Topper turns and holds up his club. “You know. I don’t think it’s me. Seriously, I think this club is warped.” Of course, Topper is deluding himself, but that’s more fun than dealing with reality.

Edwin takes the tee. He always gives Topper the honor of going first on the first hole. For the rest of the round, the order is determined by who had the lowest score on the previous hole. And, for the rest of the round, that will be Edwin. As Edwin surveys the hole, the wrinkle in between his eyebrows disappears. Something inside him unclenches. This, more than anywhere else, is where the tall man is at home. There are no low door frames, no undersized chairs. This is a game on his scale. It is not measured in feet and inches, but in yards. And every shot is accounted for. That is important to Edwin. Everything must be accounted for.

The tall man stays within himself as he swings. The hinges of his tall form all conspire to describe a perfect arc with the head of the golf club. As the club makes contact, Edwin can feel the ball compress against the face of the club. The ball climbs into the long light of the afternoon, seeming to defy physics.

Topper mutters, “Nice drive.” As they make their way down the fairway, Topper asks, “So what happened with your meeting?”

“Complete waste of time. He was an idiot.”

“Hey, hey,” says Topper, “complete idiots are some of my best clients. Excepting you of course.” There is no joke here. Edwin is so smart that sometimes Topper gets a headache just from standing next to him. Topper doesn’t want to think anymore than he has to. Not anymore. He’s done with all that.”

“He had no talent whatsoever.”

“No superpowers!” protested Topper, “Was he in the wrong office? How can somebody expect to be a villain if they don’t have superpowers? Was he an idiot?”

Topper is so Topper that sometimes Edwin gets a headache just from standing next to him. Mostly from Topper’s voice. It is a high, shrieking, Long Island patois that increases in pitch with Topper’s excitement. Topper is crude and uncouth and loud. Very, very loud. Edwin is not sure why he enjoys Topper’s company.

If you asks Edwin about this, he will tell you that he maintains his association with Topper because the little man is such a good lawyer. A man in Edwin’s profession certainly needs a good lawyer. But Topper is very emotional. Edwin does not want to snub him in any way. Topper’s destructive potential is enormous, and Edwin wants to be sure that Topper is harnessed for his purposes. But this is all rationalization. The smarter we are the more we trick ourselves.

The truth is, Topper has learned to suck every last drop of joy from the marrow of life. Edwin doesn’t even know he is supposed to crack open the bones. You and I would call it depression. Edwin thinks it protects the clarity of his analysis. But however it is described, Topper’s happiness, though often misguided and destructive, is infectious.

Edwin is silent for several holes. But then he says, as if it is a great unburdening, “It’s always the same.”

Topper is taken aback by this uncharacteristic display of emotion. “The same?”