How To Succeed in Evil (12 page)

“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,” says 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.

Outside she sees a flatbed truck with a bulldozer on it accelerating hard towards the north end of town. As the truck roars past her, Topper throws her a little wave. He appears to be standing high above the wheel on a naked woman’s lap.

“Oh my God,” says Agnes. She is certain that she has just seen the first Harbinger of the Apocalypse.

At the far end of main street, Topper flattens a few parking meters and a defenseless shrub. Squeezed onto the bench seat next to Topper, are the Sheriff and a man named Clarence Johnson. The Sheriff is laughing so hard Topper can’t even hear the engine. Hims Chapel is a very small, and very dull, place. This evening is already the third best time the Sheriff has ever had. And, just like the stripper that Topper is using to work the pedals for him, this night is frighteningly young.

After taking out the parking meters Topper overcorrects, hops a curb, mangles a stop sign and then manages to wrestle the rig back onto to the road.

“Whattya call this thing?” asks Topper.

“Suicide Knob,” answers Clarence. He should know, it’s his truck.

“I LIKE IT!” cries Topper.

From the reasonable end of town, Agnes watches the truck disappear. Coins from the parking meters rain down on the pavement, spinning and shimmering to a rest. As the sound of the truck fades into the distance Agnes asks the night, “How did this happen?”

The night does not answer. But in small towns, boredom is always to blame.

So it was that Topper, Clarence Johnson, and Sheriff Cooper wound up drinking together in a small sad strip club off Alabama State highway 109. They bought each other lap dances, talked the coarse language of men and generally enjoyed themselves.

After he was pretty sure the Sheriff was drunk enough to tell the truth, Topper asks, “So whattya know about this Rielly woman?” Despite intoxication, Topper was still very much on the job.

“She owns most of the county. But I never did like her though. Rich. And not just rich, thinks she’s better than everybody else. Looks down on people,” slurs Sheriff Cooper.

“I hate people who look down on me,” says Topper. They all laughed. “Except for her,” Topper says, pointing at one of the women, “she can look down on me anytime.”

“You a’right boy, you all right,” says Sheriff Cooper. “I like a fella knows how to enjoy himself.” Glasses of brown liquor clink together and dive down throats.

“It’s just a shame you’re only half a man,” says Clarence, needling Topper out of pure boredom.

“Half a man? Sheriff, you need to arrest this man. He’s got bullshit pouring out of his mouth. Can’t be sanitary.” The men roar in laughter.

“No, no, I like you and everything little man, but it’s not like you can do an honest days work,” says Clarence.

“Honest day’s work!” cries Topper. “I’m a friggin lawyer. If I did an honest days work, I’d be out of a job.” Topper points to the sheriff, “And so would he!” More laughter.

Topper indicates a half-naked women walking by. “Finally, they bring out the good looking ones.” The other men grunt their agreement. The women have not changed at all. The liquor has just worked its sacred and profane magic.

Clarence still won’t let it go. “Yeah, you’d have to be a lawyer. Me? I made my way by driving a truck. Then I bought a truck. Then I bought another truck and got somebody to drive the first one. I’m a self-made man.”

“Not me,” says the sheriff as he stares at pair of giant breasts, “My uncle got me this job.”

Clarence points at Topper. His finger floats and bobs in time with the slow waltz of alcohol sieving through his liver. “But you, little man, you couldn’t drive a truck. No way.” He holds his hand out over the floor, “You must be at least this tall to ride this ride.”

The Sheriff laughs a little too loud.

“Whattya mean I can’t drive a truck?” Topper says, suddenly very serious.

“No way. No how.”

“You mean like one of those trucks you’ve got out front? I can’t drive one of those trucks? Is that what you mean?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“You gonna put some money behind that, or are you all talk?” Topper asks.

This gets the Sheriff’s attention. “Boys, boys, I’m afraid I can’t let you gamble in this county, unless I’m in on it. I got 500 says the midget can’t drive.”

“I got five thousand says the midget can’t drive. If anybody will cover it,” says Clarence, thinking that he is calling Topper’s bluff.

Topper smiles and pulls a gigantic roll of bills out of his pocket. “I’ll cover all the action.”

“There ain’t no way in hell,” says Clarence.

“Ah, bullshit. I’ll drive your Tonka truck, all I need is a good pair of legs,” Topper says, slapping the nearest stripper on the thigh. He peels off a couple hundred and says, “C’mon Darlin’, now I’m going to sit on your lap for a while.”

Chapter Nineteen 

Excelsior Fights the Hurricane

This time it is a hurricane. Whatever, thinks Excelsior. He is still pissed at that snotty waiter from that French restaurant. He’s ready to uncork on just about anybody or anything. It’s odd though, in 70 years they’ve never asked him to fight a hurricane.

Excelsior isn’t sure he can pull it off. But so what? If he fails, maybe they’ll stop calling him all the time. And then a black thought – What if he messes up on purpose? Just drops the ball? Would it be over? Could he take a night off? Love a woman? Have a family? Would they take the pager back? Maybe throwing the game is the smart thing to do. Because if he stops this hurricane, will they call him for every hurricane? But deep inside, he knows he can’t throw the game.

Nobody understands. Nobody appreciates his situation. All those crazy bastards with gadgets and powers coming out of the woodwork. And he has to stop them. He doesn’t know how his powers work, not really. And he certainly doesn’t how some freaky alien ray gun works. And what about chemical warfare? His skin might be impenetrable but what about his lungs? The whole thing is risky. Excelsior meant higher, not indestructible. Not necessarily. And when he gets hit, or shot or bombed, it hurts. Excelsior is a good deal more nervous than most people know.

Last year, he had been hit with a beam weapon and was unable to feel his leg for two months. And then, after the “incident” with Sinestro, he forgot all the words he knew that began with the letter ‘r’. He’s still not sure he has them all back yet. At least he no longer locks up when somebody asks him if he needs a receipt.

Coming across the panhandle, Excelsior slows a little. Daytona rushes past him on the left. Orlando on his right. He skims the ground at 150 feet. Less chance of getting messed up in air traffic down here. The worst he might do is rattle some windows. He decides he doesn’t care. A flick of a thought and he has broken the sound barrier. He can feel the air compress in a wedge in front of him. What is a mere mathematical consideration for students of aerodynamics is something he can actually feel with his fingertips. It’s good. He’s going to need to move a lot of air tonight.

Thinking it might be useful, he rips the top off a water tower in Hollywood, FL. But who knows? It’s not like there’s a playbook for this kind of thing. He grips the wedge of metal so tightly that steel seeps between his fingers. Then he sets his heroic jaw and accelerates.