How To Succeed in Evil (32 page)

Edwin plays a fairway wood for another 230 yards. This leaves him a straightforward pitch into the green. Topper watches it with a frown, “No imagination. No daring,” Topper says.

“Would you be content with a hole in one?” asks Edwin.

“Only if it had style.”

In spite of himself, Excelsior is beginning to like Topper. At least he was game. Unlike the bloodless ghoul he is matched against. What’s the point of winning if you can’t enjoy it? This time, Excelsior steps up to his ball with total confidence. His caddy hands him an iron as if it is some mighty weapon from a Norse saga with a string of unpronounceable consonants for a name.

And then, in the long light of the early morning, with the strength of a god and perfect lie, Excelsior swings. The club head coiled around his body, even as his hips and shoulders begin to turn in the opposite direction. By the time the club head starts down, the momentum of the swing is transformed into a force of nature. His wrists unlock at the perfect moment. And, as the full power of the motion is about to be transferred into the ball, Excelsior lifts his head and contacts the ground three inches behind the ball. The ball squibs its way 30 yards down the fairway.

Excelsior realizes that he is going to lose this hole. And the next hole. And all the holes after that. And he will have to play all of them. Even though he knows how it will turn out. He sneaks a furtive look at the judge and wonders which rule and paragraph covered slaughter?

He tries to steady himself. He hates this game with every fiber of his being. It is a devilish creation. A way for the weak and decadent to mock the strong and virtuous. He could reduce this golf course to a wasteland with three quick passes.

His caddy taps him on the shoulder, “Yer still away.” Make that four passes, thinks Excelsior. A fourth pass just to make sure all the caddies are dead.

Miraculously, mercifully, Excelsior’s third shot makes the green. He misses his putt and leaves it 6 feet past the hole.

“Would you like to know what your problem is?” Edwin asks.

“People like you who make money off the misery and suffering of others?” Excelsior returns.

“No, no, no. With your game. You’re not used to working at anything, it’s all been given to you.”

“How about you play your ball and I’ll play my ball and you play a little side game of shut up,” Excelsior counters.

Edwin sinks his putt. “Birdie,” he says, as he wins another hole.

Now Excelsior thinks about losing. Losing the side, losing the match, losing the bet. He will have to grant Windsor a free rein, allow him and his clients to operate with impunity. With each step it sinks in a little more. Because of him, the good guys are going to lose.

Chapter Fifty-Three 

The Turn

By the eighth hole, Edwin feels that he has the entire match within his grasp. Tie it on 9, win it on 10 does not seem out of the question. Then he will have the privilege of playing out the rest of the holes by himself. Just for the enjoyment of it.

You might think it would be a rare treat for Edwin to best someone with superpowers. But it is not. Excelsior has proved to be so little competition that Edwin isn’t finding much joy in the game. It feels like uninspired work. Like hanging siding or bagging groceries. Something that requires a person to wear a one-piece jumpsuit. Edwin shudders at the thought.

He can not fathom why Excelsior has accepted this wager. It must be some vestigial sense of honor, highly irrational, yet still active in the herd. It doesn’t really matter. Edwin knows how to exploit a lucky bounce when he gets it. And impunity from the world’s most powerful superhero — and the ability to sell that protection — is certainly a lucky bounce. Some might see this as a license to steal, but Edwin doesn’t think of it like that. He thinks of it as a license to print money. Steal, and you may get rich. Print money and you have power.

Edwin addresses his ball. He has never been more certain of his swing. But as the club makes contact with the ball, he feels a queer sensation in his hands. The ball leaves the tee with a frightening amount of topspin. The club head separates from the shaft and flies straight up. Something has gone horribly, horribly wrong.

There is Excelsior, grinning at Edwin’s misfortune. Edwin ignores him. He’s looking at his club. No defect is visible, but the shaft is twisted and mangled. It is unexplainable, undeniable. Somehow a perfect swing has resulted in an awful shot.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Topper asks. He grabs the club out of Edwin’s hand. “What happened?” Edwin ignores Topper. His only concern is what to do now.

“I guess you’ll just have to start hitting the driver,” says Topper.

“Four wood,” says Edwin.

“Four wood? FOUR WOOD! Are you out of your mind!” Topper asks.

“I know I’ll hit it straight.”

“And you’ll still have 220 yards left to go!”

“Then I will hit it again.”

“Take the driver. Please, please take the driver.”

“No matter what I hit, I’m not going to get it on the green. But I can put it in the fairway,” says Edwin. With strain he adds, “It’s not like I need better than a bogey to beat him on this hole.”

“Exactly. And you’re so far ahead —”

“Not as far ahead as I’m going to be.” It is a controlling principle in Edwin’s life to never leave a contest unsettled. He does not believe in leaving adversaries to dangle over shark-filled tanks. When he finishes business, he likes it to be concluded utterly and beyond redemption. The match will be over when Excelsior has lost. Not before. No matter how far ahead he gets, both hands will stay firmly on the club. Never mind Excelsior, golf itself is too cruel a game to take chances with.

Edwin banishes the freak accident from his mind. He is going to knock this one stiff, close with a bogey, and put the hole behind him. Or so he thinks. This time, the club head flies off at the top of his backswing. It bounces off the next tee box and rolls into the fairway. Edwin is aghast. How can this happen? Twice?

Excelsior tries to hold it in, but he cannot. A giggle slips out.

“Do you mind?” Edwin asks. Excelsior just keeps laughing.

“Hey! Body suit! Spandex. Yeah, Jazzercize. I’m talking to you,” Topper says. “Man’s trying to play a game here. Keep your yap shut.” Excelsior holds his sides. He bites his lips. He tries thinking of a thousand other things. But it is no use. The giggles just keep coming. Tears stream down his face. He makes slobbery, slurping noises in the corners of his mouth as he fights for control. The judge is about to reprimand him, but it’s so bad he asks, “Are you okay?”

Excelsior nods and lies with his head. He is very far from okay. He is GREAT. The best he’s been in, well, forever really. He HAS CHEATED! It is the first time he has broken the rules and it feels GREAT!

At the top of Edwin’s backswing, Excelsior had used his heat vision, for just an instant, to melt the shaft. And no one realizes. He is going to get away with it. He has gotten away with it! Twice. Now he just can’t stop giggling about it.

As best they can, the golfing party ignores Excelsior’s breakdown.

“Does that count as a stroke?” Edwin asks the judge.

“Did you start on the downswing?”

“No, but I intended to hit the ball.”

“AHHHHHHH,” shrieks Topper, “AHHHHHH! You never answer more than you absolutely have to. Any defense lawyer can tell you that!”

“He’s right son,” says the Judge

“So I’m lying three?”

“That is correct,” says the Judge, “Still your shot.”

Edwin considers his next move very carefully. The situation is fluid, uncertain. Causes are unknown. Outcomes are unclear. And, for the first time, he reappraises how much is at stake. “Three iron.”

“Edwin, please, I’m begging you. Please, please, please hit the driver. Just blast it,” says Topper. Edwin gets his own club and plays the hole. He finishes with a triple-bogey while Excelsior manages to hole a 30-foot putt for a double. 

The hero has won a hole.

Chapter Fifty-Four 

The Back Nine

It’s driving Topper crazy. He knows Excelsior is cheating. Topper doesn’t know exactly how, but he knows that Excelsior has sabotaged Edwin’s clubs. What bothers Topper about this situation is not the cheating. It’s that it is unfair in an unfair way. Cheating is there so the little guy can level the playing field. It’s not supposed to make the strong guys stronger or the fast guys faster. Excelsior is clearly breaking all the rules of breaking the rules. It’s just wrong.

The judge doesn’t care. The rules of golf weren’t written with superpowers in mind. There is nothing about improving the path of a ball in flight; nothing about blowing your opponent’s ball of course.

The worst is that Edwin refuses to even notice, As his position in the match degenerates, Edwin speaks less and less. Surely that means that his powerful brain is working. But it doesn’t take a genius to see that there is no thinking your way out of this situation. Something has to be done. And that something is cheating back.

As they walk to the next hole, Topper asks, “E, E, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Look, we gotta do something. What’s the play?”

“Everything is fine.”

“I know how we can get him.”

“By having a lower score on each hole,” says Edwin, “I am aware of this already.”

“Edwin,” says Topper, clawing at the tall man’s pant leg, “he’s moving things with his mind!”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“E, you gotta know that he’s cheating!”

Edwin says, “Please Topper, I’m in the middle of the match.” Edwin lengthens his stride and leaves his little lawyer behind. That’s when Topper decides it’s his job to save the day.

On the eleventh hole, in the middle of Excelsior’s backswing, Topper kicks Edwin’s golf bag out of the caddy’s hands. The bag crashes to the ground. This noise causes Excelsior to yank his drive high and way left.

“Do you MIND!” Topper snaps at the caddy in mock horror, “Man’s’ trying to play a match here. You do that again and you’re fired.”

Edwin raises an eyebrow. The judge says nothing, but surely he too must have his suspicions.

Excelsior’s badly struck drive has sent his ball far out into a lake. It has come down behind a small island. Topper could not see the splash from where he was standing, but he knows there is no way the ball is dry. Excelsior confers with his caddy for a moment and then announces, “I’m just going to have a look.” He flies over to the island.

“Sonofabitch!” Topper thinks “That ball is in the water. No way it’s on that island, but he’s going to go over there where no one can see. Pretend to look for a minute and—”

Excelsior cries out, “Found it!”

“That’s my trick,” thinks Topper. “He’s going to beat us with my own trick!” The little man is fit to burst. Rage is always a destructive emotion. Topper’s rage doubly so.

As everyone else makes their way down the fairway, Topper lags behind with Excelsior’s weathered old caddy. “So,” Topper asks, a little out of breath from his struggle to keep up with the taller man’s, “You like this guy?”

“He’s all right,” the Caddy says noncommittally

“C’mon, all right. Get outta here, he’s like everybody’s hero. I mean the guy can fly.”

“Noticed that. Not much of a golfer though.”

“Yeah, yeah, so don’t you think it’s kind of strange that he’s winning?”

“Seen a lotta strange things on the golf course,,” he says. He let’s his gaze linger on Topper.

“Well sure, I mean, you. You seen it all right?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d be coming to a point young sir. It’s my man’s swing.”

Excelsior hacks at his ball. It’s an ugly swing for an ugly shot. But the ball leaps free of the swampy island and lands 20 yards short of the green. This island hop has shaved a great deal of length off the hole.

Edwin, bereft of fairway woods, plays two irons and a pitch to reach the green. A brilliant putt brings him within three feet of the cup. Par seems within reach. And par should be good enough to win the hole. Sure, Excelsior has a putt for birdie, but it’s so far from the hole, there is no way he can make it. Is there?

The man in spandex hunches his mighty frame over his tiny putter. In the midst of intense concentration, Excelsior looks quite absurd. But he strikes the ball well, and it rolls to the very edge of the cup. “Birdie!” he cries out even before the ball goes in. But, in one of those impossible, heartbreaking moments that golf always seems to deliver, the ball hangs on the edge of the cup.

“A shame,” says Edwin, “a good putt.” He starts to knock the ball in with his putter. But Excelsior says, “Wait.” He squats down about ten yards behind the ball and looks at it. He blinks, and the ball jumps in.

“Didn’t you see that!” screams Topper. Tell me somebody saw that!” He runs over to the judge and asks, “Did you see that?”

“Yes. This hole to Excelsior. He’s up by one.”

“That was amazing. That was fantastic. That was TOTALLY UNREASONABLE!” says Topper.

On the next hole, Edwin, hits a long, low, knock down shot. It is away and over the hill before Excelsior can do anything about it. Topper’s heart soars. Edwin isn’t stupid. He can keep it up. He can win. Barring any high lobs over water, Edwin could be home free playing a bump-and-run kind of game. But on his second shot, right before Edwin makes contact with his ball, Topper sees a small whiff of smoke rise from the grass. Edwin’s ball flies funny and lands in the sand trap just short of the green.

“Edwin,” Topper says.

“If you won’t let me concentrate on my game, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Damn that man, thinks Topper. Why won’t he let himself be helped? Is Topper not good enough to help him?

On the seventeenth hole, Excelsior gives Topper his chance. The hole is a 210 yard par 3. The back of the green closely guarded by heavy woods. Edwin hits a 4 iron, playing it to the short side. It’s safe, disciplined play, just like the rest of the round. But Topper doesn’t watch the ball. Topper watches Excelsior. He sees him puff up his cheeks and blow out a puff of air.

This zephyr hits Edwin’s ball and knocks it over the back of the green. The ball makes a horrible sound as it crashes into the trees. It is hopelessly lost. Edwin hits a provisional, and Excelsior pulls the same trick AGAIN. Topper is so angry, he can barely stand still.