Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“I hope the meeting wasn’t important, Edgar,” I said. “Buying the Empire State Building?”

“Just the West Side,” he said. “Listen, Didier, what about Spain? Shouldn’t we move into that market?”

“Well, we do have … That is, earlier, you know, the old company, had pretty good sales there,” Didier said.

“Didier,” Edgar said. “You should have Rafe come over to Paris and consult. Stick can tell you how helpful he’s been to him.”

“Yes?” Didier said, looking at Stick.

“Oh yeah,” Stick had to clear his throat. He hadn’t gotten a word in for over an hour. “Terrific.”

“You’re a psychiatrist?” Didier asked me doubtfully.

Edgar nudged him with an elbow. Didier was startled. “He’s figured out how to make those misfits in the labs happy. What’s up, anyway, Rafe? You bored with us? Stick wants you to work full-time. You done with your research? Lost interest in us greedy capitalists?”

I smiled at Edgar and then glanced at Stick. I searched for nervousness. His stern gaunt face showed nothing, merely a steady watchful gaze. He’s dangerous, I thought. He’s a different breed than Halley. In the final analysis, her narcissism was a defense against an unloving father; his sadism was a counterattack.

“If you are a capitalist,” Didier asked me, “you should be greedy, no?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Anything else would be neurotic.”

“Now there’s a book for you to write,” Edgar said to me. “For a while there in the eighties, greed was developing a good reputation. But what we need is a first-rate psychological defense of greed.”

“History’s on your side, Edgar,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

“So what’s the verdict, Rafe?” Edgar insisted, his eyes straying to Stick. “Are you going to continue consulting for us?”

“He’s consulting for me,” Stick said softly. “It was my idea.” He stared at Edgar.

Good for you, I thought. You’re not really scared of the great Edgar Levin. You’re using him, and if you’re given the chance, you’ll beat him too.

“I’m glad we had this lunch,” I said, interrupting their staring contest. “Before I decide whether to stay on and lead the fall retreat, I’d like you, Edgar, to answer a question as carefully and precisely as you can.”

He whistled. “Wow. This sounds good. What is it?”

“You’ve made a big bet on Stick’s management abilities, is that right?”

“Medium-sized bet.”

“Congratulations, Edgar.”

“On making money? That doesn’t sound like you, Rafe.”

“Congratulations on the scale of your world. Here’s my question. What if — remember, this is hypothetical — what if I told you that I believed Minotaur could run just as well, perhaps better, without Stick?” Didier, who was facing me, opened his eyes very wide. I didn’t check on Stick’s reaction. I smiled pleasantly at Edgar and continued, “That he isn’t responsible for creating their products or how they are marketed?”

Edgar tried to lean back. He bumped his bald spot against the mirrored wall. The breezy blustering rich boy was gone. He frowned at me with the disgust of a commander-in-chief confronted by a deserter. “That’s your question?”

“Assuming you believed me, what would you do?”

“I don’t run Minotaur,” Edgar said, winking at Stick. “I’m just an investor.”

“If you could,” I insisted. “Are you scared of answering truthful—?”

Edgar cut that off. “Nothing,” he said grimly.

“Take your time, Edgar.”

“I don’t need time. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Just because I don’t need a man, you think I should fire him? Jesus, you haven’t fallen for this downsizing crap, have you? If you fired every American who isn’t obviously necessary half the country would be unemployed.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re not taking my question seriously. Let me ask it another way. Granting my premise — entirely hypothetical of course — that Stick doesn’t contribute to how Minotaur’s products are made or sold, what use is he?”

Edgar laughed. “Maybe you should withdraw your offer, Stick.”

At my elbow I heard Copley’s low tones, barely above a mumble, “It’s an interesting question. I don’t mind him asking.”

Didier shook his head. “This is strange,” he commented.

“Well, Edgar? You promised an answer.”

“You’re right. Let’s see … He is useful …” he paused, thinking, and then came out with an answer as if it had just occurred to him, “because he’s greedy.”

“No joking, Edgar.”

“I’m not joking. As you would say, he’s all id. Stick came to me for the money to take over from bozos who were too chicken to take on IBM and Toshiba toe-to-toe. If you’re right and he’s got no talent, then his coming to me is even more impressive — imagine having the balls to ask to run a company with someone else’s money when you really don’t have any skill at making or selling its product? The people under him at Minotaur may be talented but they’re not greedy. Or, at least, I don’t know that they’re greedy.”

I slapped the table. I was pleased that all three of them jumped. “Well. Then I’m in for the fall retreat. And I’ve got a basis for a psychological defense of greed, Edgar. I may write that book for you after all. Thanks a lot.” I put my hand on Stick’s bony shoulder. I squeezed. “I’ve got my mandate. I should head back to the labs to get started.” I squeezed harder.

He didn’t wince although it must have hurt — I’m not that weak. He looked at my fingers and smiled as if their presence was a delight. “Tennis on Saturday?” he asked. “There’s a round-robin tournament at my club and I’m allowed a guest for a partner.”

I let go. His eyes closed halfway, showing relief. “Definitely,” I said. “Together we’ll crush them.”

THE GREATEST SURPRISE OF THIS TREATMENT WAS THAT IT WAS BOTH RAPID and effective. The difficulties of its unorthodox nature, such as how to create the regular, defined sessions of psychotherapy, were easily surmounted. I had already established a twice-weekly meeting with Stick, supposedly to debrief him on employee morale. In addition, we had the doubles game one night a week and I became a regular on Saturdays at his country club in Westchester. Each of these four weekly encounters had the shape of a therapeutic hour. It was a simple matter to feed Copley’s sadistic tendency to paranoia, as opposed to exploring its irrationality.

A typical exchange would go like this: “Andy is excited about presenting Centaur at the convention,” I said and frowned.

“Of course,” Stick commented.

“I guess it’s because he has many old friends he’ll get a chance to catch up with.” I maintained the frown.

“Old friends?”

I laughed. “He is a little young to have old friends. Do you have many friends in the business?”

“Not many.”

“How about George Jellick? He hired you at Flashworks? Do you get together?” This was a reminder of Copley’s betrayal of a boss. Stick had left Jellick’s company abruptly, taking with him the training and sales contacts he had acquired and raiding Flashworks for half the staff of engineers, including Gene, and several key marketers, Jack Truman being one. “Jellick’s retired,” Stick said. “Who is Andy excited about seeing?”

“Are the names important?”

“I’d like to know.”

“I’ll find out. I guess it’s natural that there’s a lot of socializing between rival companies at the conventions. Much of it seems to be competitive, not really friendly. There’s one reunion Andy isn’t looking forward to — with a buddy from college who’s made millions designing video games. Andy says he used to be brilliant at programming. He regrets going into machine design. ‘It’s a dead end,’ he says.”