"No, he can't,” Topper said, as he jammed his finger on a button and rolled up the divider. "He can't because he loves you and he wants you to have a good time. Look, maybe you just need a bump."
"What?"
"You know, just a little lift.” Topper pulled out a small vial containing a white powder.
"COCAINE? I, I could never do that!"
"Why not?" Topper asked, as he tapped some out on the fold-down armrest.
"Do you have any idea how many times I've told kids to stay off drugs?"
"Ah, but you're not a kid."
"But still, drugs are bad for you."
"OK, yes, that's the general rule. But if you check the rule book you'll see that it actually says, 'Drugs are bad for uptight people.'"
"But I'd be going back on my word."
"Look, big strong superhero like you, it probably won't even have any effect."
"Then there's no reason for me to do it."
"Okay," shrugged Topper, "I was just trying to help you out." He put the vial back in his coat. "But, no hard feelings. I tell you what, you change your mind later, I'll have it right here. In the meantime, how about another cocktail?"
"So long as it's legal."
"Ah, it's perfectly legal."
"Are you having one?"
"What, mixed drinks? I never touch 'em," Topper said as he did a line of coke. "Bad for the stomach lining. All those juices and sodas. Just terrible. I'll take my booze straight." He made a drink from the recently reinstalled minibar and watched as Billy took the first sip. He gave a strange little giggle.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, just fine." Topper said hurriedly. "It's just the rush." And then he giggled again. Billy took at deeper drink. It tasted a little funny, but it wasn't bad. He wasn't at all sure about drugs, but for the first time in a long time he was enjoying himself. Topper was making sure of that. He had been spiking Billy's drinks with a powerful designer drug, similar to, but not exactly like Ketamine. The way Topper saw things, when life doesn't work, you medicate until you get the desired effect.
Billy, took another belt of the Mickey. "Where we going?" he asked.
Topper just smiled. As the drug took hold in Billy's liver, Topper's smile twisted and stretched disturbingly. "Third star from the left and straight on 'til morning."
The evening got blurrier and blurrier as Billy swam deeper and deeper into the floating world. Shapes became indistinct, meaning uncertain. But always, there was Topper. He was the only thing that didn't dim or muffle. He was Billy’s aberrant polestar in a darkened, floating world of girls and drugs and liquor. And somewhere in the madness, if only for a little while, Billy forgot who he was.
The next morning, the Adjustors came for Topper again. This time, he was prepared. With him in the womb of hangover he had created in the middle of his bed, he had a set of custom-made, gold-plated brass knuckles. As they yelled at him to get up, he played possum, pretending to be so far gone as to be completely insensate. But when the Adjustors got him on his feet, he swung as hard as he could for the nearest crotch.
Topper had expected the feeling of soft flesh flowing around his fist, and then the hard stop of pelvis as the heavy metal shattered chips off the bone. What he got was a badly sprained wrist. His punch was stopped by the hard ABS plastic of a cup. What happens when spontaneous violence meets meticulous preparation? Violence is rendered useless.
The Adjustor looked down at Topper, who was clutching his hand in pain, and smiled. "He asked for you. And he's upset." Then he chopped his arm into the side of Topper's neck, knocking him unconscious.
When Topper came to, he was propped up on a chair in Edwin's office. The brilliant light of Saturday streamed in through the tall windows.
"Jesus, it's bright in here," said Topper. He shielded his eyes with his hands as his pupils struggled to adjust to the light. After a moment, he could make out Edwin sitting at his desk with a single sheet of newspaper before him. Beside the desk was a flat-screen TV on a rolling cart. "What’s that thing for?" Topper asked, knowing how much Edwin hated TV.
Edwin did not answer. He just sat there and let the brilliant sunlight do his work.
Finally, Topper said, "You ever think about getting some curtains?"
Edwin adjusted a knob beneath his desk. A slight, low-voltage current passed through the walls of glass that surrounded them, and the windows became opaque.
"Oh, thanks, E. My head is killing me. Late night, you know how it is."
"No," Edwin said, not looking up from the page on his desk, "I do not." He ran his elegant hand across the page, smoothing an imperceptible wrinkle.
"Oh. Well, it's like this. You see, a normal person, the kind who busts their hump all week, sometimes they feel the need to tear it up a little. Enjoy themselves."
"Topper."
"Have a few drinks, talk to some girls."
"Topper."
"Pour a few drinks down their necks, maybe get them to dance, take off their clothes, pose with farm animals—"
"Topper!"
Topper was shocked into silence. He could not remember ever hearing Edwin yell, let alone at him. Edwin held up the sheet of newspaper.
In the picture, Billy leaned over a fountain that had been reduced to rubble by the superhuman force of his own vomit. The headline read "UNKNOWN SUPERVANDAL!" Next to the headline was a smaller, blurry yet still recognizable photograph of Billy.
"Holy Lightweight!" Topper said as he convulsed with laughter.
If Edwin had a superpower, an attribute which he possessed to levels above and beyond a normal person, it was patience. He exercised all of it now. When Topper had calmed down, Edwin continued. "Topper. Tell me what happened."
"Looks like he couldn't hold his liquor, Sherlock."
"To repair this, I need to know exactly what you've done."
"You're blaming me? You're blaming me. For this? For this, you're blaming me?" said Topper, his hangover causing him to lapse into Mamet-ian incoherence.
"Yes."
"How can you possibly blame me?"
"Because I know you."
"Oh, come on…" began Topper. As he babbled in his defense, Edwin made the windows transparent once again. Topper writhed in the agony of the intense sunlight. "Okay, okay. Jesus. There's no reason to be uncivilized."
Edwin granted Topper relief.
"Okay, maybe I had something to do with it," said Topper But it's not like I was holding his hair back when he uked."
Edwin waited.
"He asked for it."
Edwin waited some more.
"Okay, we're riding down in the elevator, right? Which I think is hilarious. Cause if you could fly would you take an elevator? Well, you would. But me? or anybody else? Out the window, is what I'm saying. So our boy looks glum. I mean deeply, profoundly glum. So I tell him he needs a drink. So out we go."
"So you got him drunk."
"Got him drunk? You mean, like what you do to a high school cheerleader before you run a train over her? No. I didn't ply him with champagne and drinks with hunks of fruit and little fuzzy hats. No, no, no." Topper touched his right temple and gave his head a little jiggle. "Actually, there might have been champagne. I only get this pain when I drink champagne. But that's not important. I didn't get him drunk. He did that all on his own. Edwin, I SWEAR I had the best of intentions."
"Of course you did Topper," Edwin said as reassuringly as a snake conceals itself in the grass, "Just tell me what happened."
"Well, we went to Scala's for a bite. Nice dinner, just a couple fellas. Everything is going well—and then—right as I'm digging into the calamari, he breaks down crying. He starts telling me he's gone wrong. It's all wrong, it's never going to be right again—all girly and blubbery like that. So I say, hey, big fella—that's my nickname for him—the only thing that's wrong with you is that you're taking life too seriously.
“But in the back of my head, I'm asking myself. Is this guy fag? I mean, he's Excelsior and all, but then I'm thinking about the tights, and the way those colors co-ordinate on his costume. I'm saying, it's questionable, is all. And I'm a little scared. Some people are into dwarves. And even though I'm 4' 5" and a half, and so technically not a dwarf, some people don't keep score. Anyway, he's a big guy and he's taken a liking to me. Let's just say the time-honored phrase, 'running faster than a raped dwarf' came to mind."
"Time-honored phrase?" Edwin asked, against his better judgment.
"But I'm off-track. Anyway, the hostess, Isabella, comes in, and he eyes her pretty good, so I figure, I'm safe for now. Or maybe he's bi and I've got a 50-50 chance. Ha ha ha ha ha… ha." Topper realized that Edwin wasn't laughing. "What, that was funny!"
Edwin glanced down at the news story.
"And that, that vomit fountain is goddammned hilarious—to anybody but you. Hey, if we're going to do this for much longer, can we get some buffered analgesics and a deli menu? Ooh, my head. And, HEY! I'm getting sick of you sending your goons to collect me. You don't own me."
From behind him, he heard someone cough. He looked back and saw the two Adjustors who had dragged him from his apartment standing quietly on either side of the door. Daniel entered the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He looked at Topper and unbuttoned his suit jacket.
The sweat that came to Topper's palms was cold and reeked of liquor. Maybe he had misjudged the situation. This could go bad. It could already have gone bad and he had missed it. The last of Topper's pleasant, still drunken feeling was washed away by the kick of adrenaline the fear sent coursing through his body.
"Okay, seriously, can I get something? I'm really not feeling very good here."
"Perhaps after you tell me what happened."
"What happened? A good time happened. Why are you so uptight?"
"You have managed to get a man who is supposed to be dead plastered all over the newspaper. To say nothing of the cable news networks. This is disastrous."
"This is life. You push somebody, anybody, too hard and they're going to snap."
"What did you do?"
"Eh, I might have drugged him. A little."
"You drugged him? How did you establish a dosage?”
"Dosage? Do you know who I am? I just kept slugging it into him until he was good and loopy. Besides, he's a big boy, his liver's probably invulnerable too—let's triple it."
Edwin shook his head.
"What, you think I should have gone with more?"
"You drugged him and then abandoned him to vandalize the city with the toxic contents of his stomach, do I have that right?" asked Edwin in tones of strained credulity.
"Ah c'mon, we were just having a good time," Topper protested.
"By its very nature, we play a dangerous game. But why do you feel the need to tempt fate so?"
"I made sure they were high-quality drugs."
"Topper, please."
"No, you please. I'm not stupid, okay? Maybe I'm no genius like you, but I get it. Maybe I don't think so hard I need to go soak my head in ice water at the end of the day, but I know the world is all screwed up. Everybody knows that the world is all screwed up. But, no matter how smart you may be, you can't fix it. And I don't think people taking themselves so damn seriously is the answer. So yeah, I drugged him. And you know what? He had a good time. And what you can't seem to get into your supercharged noggin is that a good time," Topper paused, thinking of good times gone by, "a good time is its own justification. You'd be a lot happier if you got that. The whole world would be."
"I agree with you. But my idea of a good time isn't your idea of a good time."
"Your idea of a good time is a bad time."
"Topper," Edwin tried.
"You couldn't find a good time in a whorehouse with both hands."
"A colorful opinion." Edwin looked down at his desk and said nothing.
There was silence for as long as Topper could stand it. "Whattaya gonna do? You gonna kill me? Like you killed Jerry?"
"I didn't kill anybody."
"No, you ordered it done. Your goons did it."
"You are the only goon I knowingly employ."
"Ah, cheap shot, Beanpole. Turning on a guy like that. Pick on the little guy. If you can still see me from all the way up there on your pedestal. This is me Edwin. ME! I'm the guy who's always had your back. ALWAYS!" Topper was so excited, foam flew from the corners of his mouth.
"Always?" asked Edwin. Then he pressed “play” on the remote and Topper realized what the flat screen was there for.
On the screen he saw an image of himself in a room he couldn't quite place. He could clearly see that he was drunk. As he watched himself wobbling on the screen, Topper joked, "It's a good thing I don't have far to fall."
Edwin did not laugh. As Topper walked out of the frame, the view changed to a different surveillance camera. Sound poured from the speakers, it was flat and tinny, highly compressed audio from a surveillance mic, but there was no mistaking it. It was Topper. It was the sunken pit of the Cromoglodon's holding pen.
"Oh. My. God." said Topper. He scrambled to remember the exact substance of that drunken conversation he had had with the Cromoglodon. He had been pretty drunk. He couldn't put the pieces together, but he could remember enough of it to know that it wasn't going to look good.
"I don't know what surprises me more, Topper. The things you said, or the fact that you forgot how meticulous I am."
Through the speaker Topper heard himself say, "There's more to life than work..." His brain went into a full-on, sunny-side up conniption. How was he going to talk his way out of this one? As the entire damning monologue played, he twisted and turned every possible argument.
In the ugly light of a sober morning, he realized his rhetorical experiment with the Cromoglodon hadn't had been as eloquent as he had remembered. He had thought his pauses had been much more insightful. Now he realized that he had passed out during some of them. Most surprising of all, he hadn't remembered that he had ended his soliloquy sobbing on the ground.
For all the rough edges, the gist of the thing came across. And Topper realized that it was more than enough to damn him. For this, there was no defense. There was only the truth. And the truth was rarely a defense lawyer's friend. Topper stared at the screen, trying to find a loophole.