The Incumbent: Chapter 22

ZDNet Australia is proud to bring you a serialised version of Phil Dobbie's novel The Incumbent. A new chapter will be published here as part of his blog each week on Tuesday. You can also buy the entire book by clicking here.

When Buffet saw Parsons walk into his office he hardly recognised him. For a start he was orange. Not just the orange of an English daytime TV chat show host, he was the colour of a citrus fruit and it stretched to every inch of his visible body. Even his nails were orange. They strangely blended into his fingers.

'The underworld is all about identity,' Spicer the Slicer had told him the night before. Ideally, he would have enlisted Parsons on a six-week intensive drama course, where he could be fully trained in character development, but he knew time was of the essence.

'You need to become someone you're not,' he'd said. He believed only then could someone adapt to life as a ruthless killer. You had to assume a persona that had no scruples and would do anything for money. It hadn't occurred to Spicer that, as a management consultant, Parsons was pretty much doing that already.

As a baby he had wriggled so much through his circumcision that the Mohel declared that he was allergic to the idea of being Jewish and decided to just cut his fingernails instead.

Spicer argued that you needed to ensure that the two personalities were very different, so you could easily detach yourself from the ruthless side of your life. Only then, he suggested, could you live with yourself. It's a technique he had seen used to great effect by people who worked in the tax office, for example. And the use of a prop of some kind helped in creating this new identity.

'Steel-legged Eddie, what do you remember about him?' Spicer had asked

'Steel leg,' offered Parsons immediately.

Spicer explained that outside his regular hours of crime, he'd take off his steel leg and replaced it with a less remarkable health-care model that didn't fit too well.

'The steel leg was his point of difference,' Spicer explained.

Nobody considered that the healthcare-limbed Eddie could be a killer, even though there had been a spate of recent murders that had all taken place in buildings with excellent disabled access.

Spicer had suggested a similar approach for Parsons, although both agreed it was a bit extreme to remove a leg.

'At least initially,' said Spicer.

'What do you mean initially? There's no way I'm having a leg taken off, ever.'

'Well maybe a hand,' suggested Spicer. 'You've got to distinguish yourself. You need a hook of some kind.'

'Well it's not going to be the kind you get at the end of your arm.'

Spicer didn't blame him. Personally, he hated the sight of blood. And the thought of someone sawing through bone repulsed him. In fact, the prospect of any form of surgery was too ghastly to contemplate. As a baby he had wriggled so much through his circumcision that the Mohel declared that he was allergic to the idea of being Jewish and decided to just cut his fingernails instead. Of course, Spicer's colleagues in the underworld were unaware of how squeamish he was. Most believed he was the meanest man who'd ever lived, although to put it in perspective, they'd never dealt with those people in the tax office.

'It's all about your personal brand,' Spicer had said, coming out with the sort of meaningless jargon that management consultants are all too familiar with. They'd been working through the night on the presentation they would be giving to Buffet and Parsons knew the VastTel chief loved trendy mumbo jumbo. If they could focus the meeting on reaching agreement on what sort of characteristics would form the personality of the new, underworld version of Parsons, they would buy enough time to consider how they were going to pursue the task at hand — the murder of Damien Woodburner.

In fact, the two men became so fixated with image, they forgot all about the killing. In part this was because they both doubted that they would really see it through. Parsons assumed, like with anything he did, circumstances would somehow change and the job would be cancelled.

'You're never going to be a rough diamond,' said Spicer, still working on Parson's underworld image. 'We can't make you look as though you're from the tough part of town. It just won't wash with anyone.'

It was true. Parsons wasn't even sure where the rough part of town was. He assumed it was anywhere with public transport.

'Instead,' suggested Spicer, 'we'll go for wealth. We will make you look fabulously rich.' His rationale was that people feared a successful underworld character. Most of them were after money, and would be in awe of anyone who was well-off, either through illegal means or from working in banking. Of course, not every underworld character was in it just for the money; some were in search of notoriety, hoping that their story would be turned into a Hollywood blockbuster in which they'd be played by Robert DeNiro or Jack Nicholson. Or William Shatner if it was a B-grade assassin.

Parsons liked the idea; a cosmopolitan murderer, a James Bond persona. It sounded sophisticated.

Many of these wannabes would blog about their exploits, hoping to be picked up by a screenwriter, but were usually picked up by the police. Their blogs always exaggerated reality — most hadn't gone as far as exceeding the speed limit by more than 15km per hour, yet on their websites they were mass murderers, responsible for an exhaustive list of unsolved crimes. They were charged accordingly, but refused to plead innocence for fear that it might wreck their (yet to be established) movie careers. Hence, prisons were filling up with innocent bloggers, often using solitary confinement to dream up even more horrendous crimes, described in excruciating detail on blogs that sadly, like most, were never read by anyone.

'I can do wealthy,' agreed Parsons, wondering how this new character would differ from his real self. He already was well moneyed, although considerably less experienced at showing it. The art of being a management consultant was to overcharge clients without extravagantly displaying the wealth that ensued. He drove a mid-range family car, avoided the absolute top end of Italian designer suits, and would always wear the cheapest Rolex in his collection. And he was always careful to ensure no one saw him when his private jet took off from Bankstown airport for the family holiday home in Bora Bora.

'Let's keep the wealthy look,' Spicer had suggested, 'but perhaps add a slight tan. So you look a little more international.'

Parsons liked the idea; a cosmopolitan murderer, a James Bond persona. It sounded sophisticated. That night he started applying the spray tan, but when it didn't have an immediate impact he sprayed on more, a different brand this time, and repeated the process until, eventually, he started to see a healthy glow. By then, of course, he was soaked deep in the various concoctions and his skin's melanin was in overdrive.

'I like it,' said Spicer, when Parsons stopped by to pick him up in a stretch limousine the next morning. 'I see you haven't taken the wealthy option I suggested. But I like it.'

Parsons looked upset. He had spent a lot of money on the sharply tailored pin stripe suit and hand-made deep-chestnut calf leather shoes, not to mention the thick, diamond-encrusted watch. He was a walking demonstration of how money doesn't necessarily equate with good taste.

'Yes. I love the skin disorder. No one will want to mess with you in case it's infectious,' Spicer said. 'Brilliant.'

'It's a tan,' explained Parsons.

'Well it looks infectious,' said Spicer, who thought for a few moments. 'But I like the name. That's what we'll call you,' he said. 'The Tan. You need a name.'

Parsons thought about it too. He could live with it. It did have the ring of an underworld heavyweight.

'Yes,' said Parsons, liking it the more he said the name over in his mind. 'No one is going to mess with The Tan!'

'No they won't! said Spicer, adding under his breath, 'or they might catch something.'

Despite their enthusiasm, the first try-out of his new identity had prompted a lacklustre response when he was introduced to Twistie Buffet's personal assistant.

'Hello. I'm The Tan,' he said, with a white moustache and sunglasses reinforcing his new look.

'Yes,' said the PA matter of factly, before calling through to the VastTel CEO. 'Jeremy Parsons is here to see you Mr Buffet.'

'Damn,' thought Parsons. 'Am I really that identifiable.'

'He's got Mr Spicer with him,' she continued.

'What?' said Parsons. How the hell did Buffet know Spicer the Slicer?

The PA looked up and gave him one of those dismissive glances that only women can. She sighed too, as if talking had all of a sudden become too hard to bother with.

'He spoke at our last quarterly management meeting on Hamilton Island,' she explained eventually.

'Yes,' Spicer interjected, before admitting, 'I do a bit of motivational speaking on the side.'

'Ten Golden Rules to Make You a Better Manager,' said the PA.

'The whole underworld thing doesn't always pay as well as you'd imagine,' explained Spicer, a little sheepishly.

'I risked my life walking into the most notoriously rough drinking hole in Sydney and I walk out with a motivational speaker,' thought Parsons, but he didn't say anything. The Tan, he had decided, was a man of few words.

They were motioned into Buffet's office. Buffet was genuinely pleased to see Spicer and greeted him with a firm handshake.

'Great presentation on Hamilton Island,' he said. 'We're still talking about it here.'

'Thank you,' said Spicer.

'"Five Easy Ways to Improve the Bottom Line," wasn't it?' asked Buffet.

'That's right,' said Spicer, who couldn't actually remember. He tended to steal his talks from the internet, or out of those management text books that everyone has but no one takes the time to read. Spicer would read them, though, and repeat them parrot fashion, in his talks, paying little attention to what he was actually saying.

'You certainly got our attention with that opening line,' smiled Buffet, looking enthusiastically at him. 'What was it again?' he said, prompting himself. 'I remember. You said "Hello I'm Jack Welch."' He laughed out loud. 'Brilliant.'

'Thank you,' said Spicer, who did a lot of talks at off-sites. It gave him a few nights away from the family and, though he wouldn't make a lot of money from the presentation itself, he made a motza selling hard drugs to the senior management team.

'And all those references to your part at General Electric. For a while there we thought we were listening to the Jack Welch.'

'Yes,' said Spicer, who didn't know who Jack Welch was, but made a mental note never to use any of his speeches again.

'Someone pointed out to me later that Welch now uses your speech himself sometimes. Amazing.'

There was no sarcasm in Buffet's voice. He really was that gullible. Some would say stupid. In fact, most people.

'So tell me,' asked Spicer, 'did it have any impact? Did it change anything?'

Buffet looked a bit uneasy at such a direct question. He hated the 'change' word and it was rarely used within the building. 'Well, it's still early days,' he muttered, keen to change the subject, motioning the two men to sit down in front of his large mahogany desk.

Buffet continued to talk up how mobile phones were actually good for you, and how electromagnetic energy created convulsions that actually stimulated your brain.