Poles Apart (33 page)

“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 skin 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.”

“How can you work for him?”

“Look, man, I told you before, I got to earn a living. It’s not
always fun. But I got a job. And it’s tough for guys like to me to get jobs. I got limited options. For now, I got this gig.”

“Do you know this Derek guy, too?”

“Sure, I know Derek. He specializes in finding people who don’t want to be found. He’s a whiz with a computer. You ought to see his fingers flying over that keyboard. It’s a blur, man. And when he finds whoever he’s been hired to find, it sure helps that he’s big. He usually gets his way.”

“No shit.”

“He’s gone home, now. Left this morning after giving his report to the B-man. He did his job. He won’t be bothering you no more.”

“And I was just getting to know him. We were quite close there for a bit yesterday.”

We sat there in silence for a moment or two, until Lewis looked at me, hard. He pointed his finger at me to hold my attention.

“Hey, Ever-man, you’re going to want to write what Mr. B’s telling you to write. Really, I’m telling you straight. Just swallow it, and do it. Then we can all go back to living our lives.”

He gathered his cosmetics, brushes, and applicators, rolled it all back up, and secured the fabric tie. Then he stood up and moved to the door. I stood up, too, and met him there.

“I’ll think it over, Lewis,” I said, my hand disappearing into his as we shook. “And thanks, you know, for not breaking my ribs for real, but making it look like you did a really serious number on them.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for sitting still when I was working.”

I pulled up my shirt again to survey his masterpiece.

“That is true art, my friend. Hey, how do I get it off?”

“Leave it for a few days, just to be sure. Then just use some cold cream to lift it. I’ll bring some up later.”

“Thanks, Lewis.”

While I was thinking it all through, I made myself useful by sweeping up the corn flakes. Then I ate the one small bowl full that was still left in the box. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Would it be so bad to draft a lukewarm, semi-positive post pointing out the innovations Mason Bennington had introduced? One could argue that he had made the lives of those young working women better than if they’d still been stuck dancing in sleazy dives where the rough clientele expected more than stripping. The security measures, the no-touching rules, the better pay, the retirement plans could all be positioned as significant improvements in working conditions over historical norms. I even started crafting the kinds of lines I’d use to introduce and carry the post. I’d need to lean on phrases like “It’s possible I was a bit hasty and narrow-minded in an earlier post,” or “upon further reflection,” or “giving credit where credit is due.” You know, words by which to backpedal, backfill, um, reverse one’s self.

If I made this one little concession, I could be free of all this
unpleasantness, keep the blog, and most importantly, preserve my anonymity. Under these unusual circumstances, and keeping my longer-term goals in mind, it seemed like the right call. By that, I mean it
sounded
like the right call, and it
looked
like the right call. The real problem that emerged from my deliberations was that it just never, not for one instant,
felt
like the right call.