around him as he sleeps. Perhaps it is just his childlike size. But this veil of innocence is perforated by boozy snores that presage the titanic hangover condensing within him.
In his exhaustion, Edwin paces around the terminal. There is little point in sitting in one of the plastic terminal chairs. They are too small. Everything built for the public is simply the wrong scale for him. And Edwin, exhausted though he may be, will not offend dignity by sitting on the floor. Even the prospect of a rest seems as if it will be small consolation.
It is optimism (as much an analytical sin as pessimism) that has cost Edwin one of the few truly great bespoke tailored suits in the world. As great generals look back on massacres, Edwin considers the events that have led to the destruction of his suit. How could he have been so blind? How could he have thought that he was dealing with civilized people?
When Agnes asks such questions he brushes them off. But as Edwin paces the terminal, these questions hang on him like medals of defeat. Was he wrong to assume that people could be even remotely rational? Why does he see the world in a way foreign to those around him? Are the tasks he sets himself inherently hopeless?
Despair drapes the great man like a shroud. Of course, Edwin has made money. He always manages to make money. But what he can never seem to do is make sense of the world. Even as he thinks these things, he knows it is the fatigue thinking them. But he cannot stop himself. He cannot even stop his pacing. Just like he cannot stop trying to talk sense to the insensible.
He crosses his hands behind his back and bows his head. Chin touching his chest he considers the tattered remnants of his suit pants. The light grey and clean, rational lines have been horribly blotted and marred by all manner of filth. The left pant is torn halfway up the calf. This is the garb of some sweaty, maladjusted and weak- minded adventurer. Can his current state really be the reward for his long efforts?
He hears the automatic door behind him open and close. As the crisp, measured clicks of dress shoe heels draw closer to him, he turns. The afternoon light reduces the approaching figure to a silhouette. The outline of a man in a bowler hat, carrying something draped across his arm.
Edwin smiles. Truly, Agnes thinks of everything.
“Mr. Giles,” says Edwin, “I am so glad you can join us.”
Mr. Giles returns a withering gaze that speak volumes. “Mr. Windsor, you look a fright. What have you done to my suit?”
“It is not my fault, I assure you. But I have, you should be glad to know, escaped unharmed.”
Mr. Giles does not reply. Instead he removes his hat and drapes the garment bag across a row of seats. “I have heard of your plight. And, at the request of your secretary, I have traveled a great distance in a short time.”
Edwin appraises himself in the mirror and likes what he sees. He has scrubbed his skin and now it glows a rosy pink. His time in the sun has given him a little color, and it lends him, if only temporarily, the air of a healthier, more physically adventuresome man. Perhaps, one who enjoys the tedious pastime of yachting.
Mr. Giles has a different assessment. The jacket lies improperly across Edwin’s shoulders. No one else may ever notice this flaw in the work, but for Mr. Giles, it cries out for adjustment. He is keenly aware that he only has a finite amount of suits left in him. And he wants each to be better than the last. “Shall have to tune the jacket a little,” he says in a tone that attempts to downplay the seriousness of the matter.
“What’s wrong with it?” Edwin asks as he turns and smoothes the jacket across his midsection. The dark blue fabric moves like a second skin. The suit is magnificent.
“Hmm,” says Giles. “You can wear it back to the city, but then you must give me some time with it.”
“Very well.” Edwin tugs gently on his shirt cuffs. He takes a moment to enjoy the somber, dark blue. Edwin has slogged through the filth and the absurdity to find himself in command of vast financial resources once again. Now, he can fund any scheme he deems reasonable. No more small time. No more attempting to explain the quality of the opportunities he can create to investors blinded by troublesome and antiquated morals.
“I should like another suit,” Edwin says.
“Very good Mr. Windsor.”
“Black, I should think.”
“And the cut? And the collar?”
“I leave it in your capable hands, Mr. Giles.”
Agnes enters the room. “The plane is ready.” Edwin nods. Of course the plane is ready. Everything is ready. Now it is time to begin.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cotton Candy
If the rain falls on the just and the unjust alike, then does it not follow that the warmth of the sun fail to lift every even the crudest spirit.
It’s the kind of a question that a thinking person ponders as he or she goes for a stroll through the city after a light spring rain, filling lungs with a rare breath of fresh air, and seeking the common thread of humanity in the endless faces that stream by on a freshly washed sidewalk. It is not, however, what Barry is thinking. As he lumbers down the sidewalk, Barry is thinking about Cotton Candy.
Barry has been thinking about Cotton Candy for three weeks. Not off and on, but straight. At night he goes to sleep with visions of spun sugar dancing in his head. And when he wakes in the morning, the pink confection is still at the front of his mind. No matter where he goes or what he does, the thought of cotton candy is with him.
This thought had been introduced by an attempt at hypnotherapy. You see, Barry is a very violent man. And, as a condition of his parole, he has been ordered to see a psychiatrist. At his last visit, the psychiatrist asked Barry to think of a pleasant memory from his childhood. Barry had responded “Cotton candy.”
“What is it about cotton candy?” asked the psychiatrist, feeling that he was finally getting somewhere with a difficult and uncommunicative patient.
“Stacy bought.”
Now the psychiatrist is excited. Barry never really speaks in sentences longer than two words. To get two, two-word sentences in one session — let alone in a row — well, the shrink feels like he’s really getting somewhere. So he decides to dig a little deeper in search of the mother lode. “Can you tell me another pleasant memory about Stacy?”
Unfortunately for the psychiatrist, and more unfortunately for his office, Barry doesn’t have any other pleasant memories of Stacy. And as he searches for them through his small, yet very unorganized brain, he becomes uncomfortable. Barry starts breathing erratically. He snorts and shakes his head from side to side. “This is good,” says the psychiatrist, “Work through it. Let it come.”
Barry has no idea what this means. To be fair, even the shrink doesn’t know what it means. It’s just one of those things he says. But when Barry leaves his office by walking directly through a brick wall, all his clever mental health cliches desert him.
Barry has been recommended to Edwin Windsor by a former client who is currently being held in EnSuMac. EnSuMac is the unofficial term for the Enhanced Super Maximum prison where Barry was incarcerated. Edwin has developed an outstanding relationship with a few of the guards and inmates who have the eye and aptitude to spot talents that a man like Edwin can exploit. Barry shows remarkable potential. No one really knows how strong or destructive Barry really is, but in prison the guards went to great pains to make sure Barry didn’t get angry.
The rumor is that Barry had been granted early release, not because he had reformed or changed in any way, but because the warden was not at all sure his prison could contain Barry. And the warden is smart enough to know, it’s better not to have Barry’s eventual escape on his record. Ship the problem to someone else. Even if someone else turns out to be a defenseless and unsuspecting public.
All of this information only serves to heighten Edwin’s interest. He has watched Barry from afar, but has yet to interfere. Edwin believes that every man must make his own choices. All he can do is to present the options
