Patrick McLean - How To Succeed in Evil

In the awkward pause. Dr. Loeb attempts to excuse himself. “I must see to my verk.”

“Is that any way to greet your mother?” Iphagenia 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 MomMMA!”

Iphagenia dismisses him with a wave of his 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.

Iphagenia 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 a ornate silver tray. Iphagenia 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?” Iphagenia 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 cut peoke tea, surely brewed from bags. 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,” Iphagenia 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?” Iphagenia 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 Iphagenia finds irresistible. In this moment she sees him to be an intelligent, cultured man. She is not sure what the tall man’s game was, 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.” Iphagenia 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?” Iphagenia says, unable to contain herself.

“Profitiable.” Edwin says as if the word 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 further. 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 is 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 is excellent for my business. 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?” Iphagenia is on her guard again.

“Dear woman,” Edwin says through a shark’s smile, “All I want is for your son to be happy.”

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.