portraits. “Eustace’s father and grandfather. Seems the great-great grandfather founded the LAP.”
“Lap. So, big deal. If he had founded the lap dance, that would be something.”
“Lower Alabama Power.”
“They have power in Lower Alabama?”
Topper has done it again. He has managed to irritate Edwin. Edwin is not aware that Topper lives for this. That Topper believes he is loosening up his overworked friend. “Please Topper, this isn’t a cross-country trip. If you keep interrupting me…”
“I gotcha, I gotcha, the family made a lot of money in power.”
Edwin flips to the last page of the file. “Take the idea of a lot of money and then double it.”
“I bet their car has a minibar,” says Topper.
Still Edwin bravely soldiers on, “The father continued to build on the fortune—”
“Edwin, my liver is shrinking. You can’t imagine how painful it is.”
“—Father deceased, mother, and only son surviving—”
“A sad tale,” says Topper, as he eyes his dry glass mournfully.
“And within two generations, this fortune will be gone. A large portion will be absorbed in taxes. The rest will have found its way into the hands of people who use money as a tool. A tool to make more money.”
“Yeah, yeah. So why were you laughing?”
“I was laughing because I realized, that we don’t have to wait. We can liberate that useful money right now. No reason not to make an efficient process, more efficient.”
“You’ve got a strange sense of humor, E. So how are we gonna do it? We gonna steal the money?” Topper is genuinely excited by the prospect of some action.
“You mean like a smash and grab job?”
“Yeah, yeah! Smash and grab. Squealing tires. Mini-bar in the getaway car.”
“No Topper, no smash and grab job. No squealing tires. How do you get something you want from someone?”
“Take it!”
“That’s usually difficult, expensive—”
“And FUN!” Topper jumps up on the seat, unable to contain his excitement.
“And there is always a chance, usually a good chance that a robbery will fail. It’s much easier to figure out what someone wants — really wants, deep down in those places people don’t talk about — and then sell it to them.”
“What if they want the money?”
“Rich children only want the money when it’s gone.”
“Well, how do you figure out what they want?”
“You ask them.” Edwin laughs again. This one is scarier than the first. For all the chit-chat, Topper still doesn’t understand what’s going on. But he knows Edwin well enough to know that somebody is in trouble.
And with that the conversation is finished and the sound of the car rolling over the road fills the space between the two men. In the silence, Topper wonders what it is Edwin really wants, deep down in those places people don’t talk about.
Chapter Seven. Excelsior on the Beach
“Ah shit, where is he?” Gus asks one of the men who is guarding the dark, empty beach.
“Over there, sir.”
Gus spits on the general principle of it, and trudges into the soft sand. Gus hates beaches. A beach is a place that Marines charge onto to die. Active duty Marines. Gus is retired. He’s got no business charging anywhere. And at this point in his life, he shouldn’t have to put up with things he doesn’t like. Especially beaches.
Gus is so old that most of his friends are dead. But the ones who aren’t, they just sit around. They get to be grumpy all in one spot. They get to complain about whatever they like. In fact, they’re so old, they get away with saying anything they want. Not Gus. He’s still in the harness. Still in the service of his country. He’s linked by history and affection to the world’s most powerful man, Excelsior.
Excelsior. Big friggin’ baby. And Gus is too old to be dealing with babies. He’s too old to measure his words. He’s just too old. But he’s one of the few people Excelsior listens to. Maybe the only one he trusts. So it falls to Gus. Gus is saddled with handling the big dope. But who will take over when Gus is gone? What will happen when Gus dies? Gus doesn’t like to think about dying. Especially not on a beach. So he spits again.
The light leaks onto the sand from the small beach town above. Gus makes out the silhouette of a man sitting, hunched over himself in the dunes. Gus can see that the man is shaking. Jesus Christ. Gus hopes he isn’t crying again. Gus can’t stand it when Excelsior cries.
People often marvel at how Excelsior hasn’t gotten any older with the passing years. Gus wonders why the big freak never became a man. Guess he didn’t have to. God only knows what the public would do if they ever found out how moody and insecure their mighty hero really is.
Gus stands next to Excelsior and looks out to sea. After a moment, Gus realizes that there is a severed arm lying on the sand next to Excelsior. Gus grunts and lights a cigarette. The flash from the lighter makes the wrinkles on his face seem deeper than Abraham Lincoln’s. After a long drag, Gus says, “Anybody see it?”
“Those things will kill you,” mumbles Excelsior.
“Yeah? Is that right? Is that what did him in?” Gus points at the severed arm with his cigarette.
“No, I did,” mumbles Excelsior
“What did you do?”
Excelsior looks up at Gus. His eyes are brimming with fresh tears. Gus tries not to sneer. “I ripped his arm off. I couldn’t save him, Gus. I couldn’t save any of them.”
Gus feels awful about his next question, but it’s his job. “Anybody get pictures of it?”
“Is that all you care about?”
“No, I care about a lot of things,” this is a lie. Gus really doesn’t really care about much anymore. As far as he is concerned the world can go to hell in a handbasket. Just so long as it’s quiet about it. Sure, Gus wants to do the right thing. For most of his life he has been fervently patriotic. He’s done more right and noble things than an ordinary person has even thought of. But, honestly, he just can’t bear the goddamned aggravation anymore. He takes a long drag on the cigarette and let’s the smoke out with the words, “So what’s it gonna take?”
Excelsior blinks twice, not sure what’s going on. “What?” Excelsior asks.
“What’s it gonna take this time? What’s it gonna take to get you up off your ass and back in the game?”
“Game? You think it was a game to those people on that plane?”
In fact, Gus does think it’s a game. It’s all a big game with rules that aren’t fair. In fact, the game is so unfair, Gus can’t even quit. But Gus knows it’s the wrong thing to say. So he lies. “No. I don’t think it was a game to them. I know their count. I’ve read their names. But I don’t give a damn about them. And neither do you. You know why? They’re dead. They’re of absolutely no use to me or anybody else. In fact, now they are just a giant pain in the ass. We’re gonna have to raise the plane from the bottom of the ocean, recover the flight recorders and comb the wreckage for remains. Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass it is to salvage a plane from those depths?”
“I’ll do it.”
“No you won’t either. That’s why there are dive teams. That’s why there are aeronautical boards. You gonna find out what went wrong with the plane or the pilot? You gonna redesign a jet engine? Rewrite a service manual? Retrain pilots?”
“No,” says Excelsior, as if he was a sullen teenager.
“That’s right, because you’re not any good at those things are you?”
“No.”
“You’ve never even been to college.”
