by Terry Fallis
To calm my nerves, I drank three beers in quick succession. It almost met the definition of chugging. After unleashing a window-rattling burp, I sat down on the couch and hauled out my cellphone. I’d texted Megan earlier in the afternoon just to let her know I was thinking of her. I figured she’d want to know such important news. I know she’s a busy lawyer and all, but I was a little surprised that I still hadn’t heard back from her. I texted her again, reiterating what a wonderful time I’d had last night – though it felt to me like a very long time ago. I noted again how happy I was that we’d be seeing each other again on Friday night. I signed off with “Good night, Ev.” Half an hour later, there was still no reply. She was probably already asleep. I could wait until tomorrow.
Taking a page from the Hardy Boys’ Detective Handbook, I then dumped half a box of corn flakes onto the kitchen floor, near the front door and over by the fire escape door. I carefully spread the cereal around, covering the floor as evenly as three guzzled beers would permit. I thought it was all quite ingenious. No uninvited guest could ever make it to my bedroom without waking me up with a cacophony of crackling corn flakes underfoot. Think of it as my own Distant Early Warning System. Feeling good, I then downed the remaining three beers to calm my nerves and went to bed.
Eight hours later, I awoke to a violent pounding in my head. It took me a moment or two more to realize there was also a violent pounding on my front door.
CHAPTER 13
I can attest to the cacophony made by walking through corn flakes scattered carefully on the floor. It definitely woke me up. What I had not anticipated was how awful it would feel on my bare feet as I shuffled to answer the front door. Given the violence of the blows raining on the door, I wondered if the building were on fire and this was the firefighters’ evacuation notice. I know it seems strange, but this was the only possible explanation I could come up with while half-asleep, walking through corn flakes. I opened the door.
Lewis was raising his fist to take another shot at punching his way through my front door. He looked angry. Really angry.
“Lewis! What gives? It’s only …”
He stepped back for the big reveal. Mason Bennington, dressed in a black pinstriped suit looking like the quintessential Chicago mobster, was standing behind him. And “reveal” is the right word. Lewis is so gargantuan that Mason Bennington’s immediate family could have been back there with him and I’d never have known.
“Sure we’d like to come in,” Mason Bennington said. “Thanks for asking.”
He pushed past me into my apartment.
“Hey, you can’t just barge into my apartment. This is private property,” I protested, as I opened the door a little wider to admit Lewis, his rage face still in place.
“Oh really? Is that so? Well, I’m standing in your apartment, numbnuts. So it looks like I can actually barge into your apartment,” Bennington said, leaning in, his index finger tapping my sternum.
Standing so close, I could smell his hair product. Or maybe it was his aftershave. No. No aftershave could be that bad. I looked at Lewis, but he just stood there with his legs spread, his hands clasped beyond his back in what looked like the security guards classic “ready” position. Lewis seemed to have finally gained control over his asshole index.
I decided it was in my interest to dial down the hostility and amp up the hospitality.
“Yes, well, be that as it may, I’m always happy to have visitors in the morning,” I said.
“Looks like we interrupted your breakfast,” Bennington said, taking in the corn flakes strewn about the kitchen floor. “They have these things now called bowls. You should get yourself one. Makes eating cereal much easier.”
“Thanks for the tip. Now what can I do for you gentlemen?” I asked.
“We haven’t met formally. I’m Mason Bennington, and it’s a good thing I wasn’t able to buy this building or you’d be out on your ass by now.”
This felt different from being roughed up in a gas station bathroom stall by the blond Hulk. I knew Lewis Small, and I was standing in my own apartment – home field advantage. Plus, Mason Bennington is not that intimidating a physical presence. After all, I could make direct eye contact with him without looking up.
“Oh. I see. Have there been noise complaints? Have I been playing my Gordon Lightfoot too loud? Has it been drowning out the European electro-crap that’s been shaking me awake since you opened? Sorry about that.”
“So you’re a smart ass as well as a wordsmith, are you?” he said.
“What?”
Intellectually, I’d of course already made the link between yesterday’s bloated beach-boy bouncer and Mason Bennington. But it didn’t feel real until that moment, as I shifted uneasily from one foot to the next, making corn flake crunching sounds.
“Look Kane, let’s lose the preliminaries and cut to the main event. I have now determined beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are the sole author of a little blog known as Eve of Equality. I also know that you have gone to great lengths to protect your anonymity. I don’t know why you don’t want your name on it, but you clearly don’t.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. I’m a freelance writer. I write stories for trade magazines. That’s what I do.”
“He’s right on that score, Mr. B. I seen a few of his articles,” Lewis chimed in, breaking character for just a second.
“Shut up, Lurch!” Bennington snapped, turning to Lewis. “You’re supposed to be the strong silent type. How about a little more of the silent part!”
Lewis nodded once, reset his face into a malevolent scowl, and looked straight ahead.
“Hold that thought,” I said, holding up my hand like a Stop sign. “I’ll be right back.”
I zipped back into my bedroom, conferred with my cellphone, pocketed it, and returned to my guests in the kitchen.
“You were saying?” I said to Mason Bennington.
“You can cut the innocent-ignorant act, Kane. You’re our guy. I’ve got enough computer geeks on the payroll to break into the Pentagon. We’ve got you. All electronic roads lead directly to that laptop computer, right there. There’s no point in denying it. Why waste the time. We’re going to end up in the same place.”
“So you’re the guy who strong-armed my blog-hosting service,” I said, as it all fell into place.
“I didn’t strong-arm anybody. I have people to do my strong-arming for me. Besides, money works better than muscle. That guy sang like a baby when we flashed a few Benjamins in his face. He rolled over fast. After that, it was just a matter of time till my boys could tighten the noose around your neck.”
“I think the phrase is ‘sang like a bird’ but I get your point,” I said. “And do your boys include the Californian bodybuilder you sicced on me yesterday?”
“His name is Derek, and believe it or not, he’s more than just a body builder from Wisconsin. He’s also a grade-A computer nerd.”
“Well, that’s weird,” I said. “Anyway, the point is, it’s perfectly legal to create and write an anonymous blog to help redress an extreme historical social inequity. There’s no law against it.”
“Listen, Everett Luther King, if there were a law against it, my lawyers would already be so far up your ass they’d be counting your teeth as they shut down your precious little blog. But the law can’t help us much in this case. Believe me, I tried,” Bennington said. “So a little more creativity is required before I can get the justice I require. You see, you wrote a piece about me that made me stark-raving crazy. It made me insane. I’m minding my own business, trying like hell to clean up a very dirty and dangerous business for dancing girls in this country, and you, you little shit, start taking shots at me, insulting me, and questioning my motives. It drove me nuts, didn’t it, Lurch?”
“Yes sir, it surely did, Mr. B,” Lewis replied, still looking straight ahead.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “But what you’re doing is fair game for report
ers or bloggers, or for anyone to comment on. Why don’t you just start your own blog if you want to refute something I’ve written on mine? Or why don’t you write a guest post presenting your side? If it’s any good, I’ll run it. That’s what reasonable, law-abiding adults would do.”
“I thought of that. But I think it would be better if you wrote a second post, taking back what you wrote the first time. You know, after sober second thought, and learning more about XY and more about me, and what we’re doing for girls in the trade, you’ve decided it’s a good thing, and the girls are in a better and safer place.”
“Women.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Whatever,” Bennington said. “How about you write a post like that, put it up there on your little blog, we’ll call it square, and that’ll be the end of it?”
“What? You want me to say what you’re doing with this little chain of strip joints, where rich men buy the chance to see women take off their clothes, is good for women? Why would I do that? It runs counter to everything I believe in. Wait, I get it. You’re going to have Lewis or Derek or Brawn ‘persuade’ me to write it. Is that the plan?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Bennington replied. “But that is not my plan, though I do have one. We don’t need to resort to violence, or not much violence, anyway. I’m hoping we don’t need to go there at all. There’s another reason for you to warm up your fingers and start writing the ‘Mason Bennington is a great American’ article. You see, if you don’t, I’ll blow your cover. The entire world will know that the ever-popular Eve of Equality blog, this beacon of social justice, is written by a smartass writer with a dick in his pants, named Everett Kane, who uses his so-called feminism to get laid. There’s no law against using all of my considerable resources to push out that story far and wide.”
“You know that’s not true. You can’t just make stuff up and call it the truth,” I said.
“You mean there’s stuff on the Internet that’s not true? I’m horrified.” Bennington recoiled with his hands in front of his mouth.
“This isn’t how the world works. We have free speech in this country. You can’t just threaten people into doing your bidding.”
“Actually, I’ve found that threats can be a very effective strategy. Right, Lurch?”
“Right, Mr. B.”
“Now you listen very carefully to me, Everett fucking Kane. I’m only going to say this one more time. I always get what I want. Always. It’d be much cleaner and less painful for you, in every way, if you just whipped up a nice puff piece about me, and what I’m doing to support good American girls in the exotic dancing trade. And then it’s done. We’re done. You can go on with your little crusade and write your precious little blog for all I care. Just don’t ever mention my name again, or I’ll be back. You have five days to post the positive piece about me or the world will know that Eve is really Everett.”
He stepped close, very close, so we were quite literally toe to toe and eye to eye. Then he again pressed his finger onto my sternum. I pushed my chest forward to hold my ground.
“Five days. That’s it. And the blog post better be nice and positive, because I’m still holding all the cards. And every last one of them says ‘Hey everybody, Everett Kane is actually Eve of Equality.’ I’ll be watching for your post every day, for the next five days. I’d better see it, or we’re nowhere near done.”
He stepped back and turned toward the door.
“Give him a little something to help him remember our visit, will you, Lurch?”
“I’ve got my implements of persuasion right here, Mr. B,” Lewis said, as he whipped out from behind his back what looked like a roll of fabric secured with a tie. He must have had it stashed in the waistband of his pants.
“Don’t show me your tools, you vacuous gronk!” Bennington snapped. “Leave me the hell out of it. I pay you to leave me out of it. Remember?”
Lewis quickly concealed the fabric roll behind his back again.
“Yes sir, Mr. B. Sorry, Mr. B.”
Mason Bennington shook his head, walked out of my apartment, and slammed the door behind him.
“Okay, Ever-man, have a seat and let’s get this over with,” Lewis said in his enforcer voice while still redlining on the asshole index.
He put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me down into a kitchen chair. I had no choice in the matter. I suddenly felt as I did in the bathroom stall the day before – scared, and wondering about the odds of bumping into so many really, really large people, lately.
“Hey, Lewis, friend. Where’s the happy-go-lucky giant I’ve come to know and love?”
“Shut up!” Lewis shouted, the ferocity of his command making me twitch in the chair.
He slammed the fabric cylinder onto the kitchen table in front of me, loosened the tie, and unrolled it. With visions of the Marathon Man torture scene in my head, I expected to see an array of dental instruments designed to inflict maximum pain but leave no visible marks. Instead, I saw lots of fabric sleeves holding various brushes, powders, mascara, eye shadow, and a few tubes of what, I don’t know. This was a make-up artist’s portable cosmetics kit.
“I got you good, didn’t I?” Lewis said, bursting out laughing.
He immediately pressed his hand to his mouth and looked toward the door. He darted over, opened the door a crack, peeked out, and then closed it again.
“All clear,” he reported. “Man, I had you going but good. Admit it. You were about to start begging for your life, right?”
Lewis was holding his stomach and laughing. I was still staring at the make-up kit with my mouth open. I don’t think I looked too happy.
“I’m so sorry, Ever-man, but I had to play my part when Mr. B was in the room. I had no choice. My ass was on the line.”
“Well, you played it pretty well. You were very, um, convincing,” I said, finally finding my voice. Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out my cellphone, and stopped the digital recording I’d made of the entire encounter.
“Man, just be glad I was the guy in the room today. Brawn is usually Mr. B’s go-to muscle, but he’s up in New Jersey at his sister’s wedding. So I got the nod today. Lucky for you.”
Lewis slapped the table, hard, and knocked over another kitchen chair, making a big noise. Then he started banging the floor with his foot.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Putting on a good show in case Mr. B is still downstairs. I’ve got a reputation to uphold and a job to keep,” he replied. “Okay, Ever-man, let’s get this down, dusted, and done.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean that Mr. B likes to see evidence that his orders have been filled. I owe him an iPhone photo of my handiwork. So let’s get started. Lift up your shirt. This is a rib job. He didn’t want anything visible on the face.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Trust me, Ev. We got to do this or we’re both in trouble,” he said as he pulled a chair over to sit directly in front of me.
He motioned for me to lift up my shirt. I finally understood. I did as I was told, hoisting the hem of my shirt. He immediately grabbed a selection of powders in a variety of shades and got to work. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I could feel his brushes, creams, powders, and eye shadow being applied, shaded, even sculpted. He actually tickled me a few times as he worked his magic. It took him about fifteen minutes before he pulled back and admired his handiwork. He leaned in again to put on the finishing touches, before pushing back his chair and standing up.
“Okay, Ever-man, you can check it out now.”
I looked down and almost doubled over in pain, because it looked liked I’d suffered a serious thoracic injury. This could hardly be called handiwork. No, this was pure, unadulterated artistry. Two large multicoloured contusions, with shades of red, purple, yellow, and a little blue, graced the left side of my rib cage. They almost looked 3-D in their standout perfection. I touched the s
kin around the “bruises” to make sure that the 3-D swelling I was seeing was just an optical illusion. It was. There was even the shiny liquid slickness of bleeding, yet it was all dry to the touch. I swear my “wounds” started to hurt as I stared at them.
“Lewis, that is amazing! Stunning. Looking at it makes it hurt to breathe. You need to do this on YouTube. You’d be a viral star in no time,” I said. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“I’ve been painting people for years. I used to work in film and TV out in LA, but there didn’t seem to be enough work for a big black guy with make-up skills. So I caught on at the XY in Hollywood. Now I help out whenever a new club opens. Plus I get to make up the dancers. That’s really what gets me up in the morning. And that’s why they look so smokin’ hot out there on stage.”
“You’re their make-up man? You make Shawna look like that every night?”
“Shawna and the rest of them, too. I couldn’t handle the other parts of my job if I couldn’t do their faces every night. Keeps me sane.”
“You are one interesting dude, Lewis Small.”
“Okay, say cheese,” Lewis said, as he unholstered his iPhone. “Don’t worry, your face won’t be in the shot. I just want to capture my rib work for Mr. B.”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’d like one, too. Just email it to me. Why not put it in your portfolio, too? It’s truly a work of art. I just had no idea the big security dude was also a talented make-up artist.”
“Yeah, well I had no idea the guy who was making Mr. B so mad was living in the apartment right upstairs. How strange is that?”
I held up my shirt and he snapped a few photos.
“I guess we all have our secrets,” I said. “So, Lewis. Is Bennington really serious about his threat? It’s blackmail, you know.”
“Ever-man, I’ve never known Mr. B to be anything but serious when he threatens people. Trust me. Blackmail is just the first step. You don’t want to know what comes next.”