Poles Apart (32 page)

Both Beverley and my father suggested I stay at my dad’s condo that night. Why would I go back to the apartment? I could see the logic in their proposal, but in my state of mind, logic wasn’t necessarily the dominant actor. Frankly, looking back across a lifetime of decisions, logic has seldom enjoyed the influence it so clearly deserves. My computer, the source of my currently
inflated income, was at the apartment. All my clothes, my toothbrush, all my other stuff, and a six-pack of Corona were all back at my apartment. No steroid-addled bronzed blond muscle for hire was going to keep me from my own apartment. Of course, it was easier to make such a bold decision when the pumped-up enforcer wasn’t holding me up against the wall of a stall with one hand. I headed home, anyway.

I drove the wrong way for a while, turning every couple of blocks, then corkscrewing through a labyrinth of residential side streets before finally meandering my way back toward my apartment on lesser populated roads running parallel to the major thoroughfares. I’m not sure why I took these precautions given that my muscular friend already knew where I lived. But I was a little foggy-headed. I remembered along the way that I needed groceries, so I stopped at a supermarket when I was almost home.

I pushed my cart around the aisles, doubling back in the middle of frozen foods and again in canned goods to make sure no other shopping cart was shadowing me. All clear, I thought. I picked up enough provisions to get me through the next several days, including a nice New York strip loin from the butcher’s counter that I figured I’d earned. As I turned to push my groceries to the checkout, I caught a flash of movement in the corner of my eye. A young man on a mission was moving my way. I took off down the cereal aisle, my shopping cart fishtailing in front of me.

“Hey!” the man said as I sprinted ahead of him. “Hey, buddy! Wait!”

I wasn’t sticking around for round two of “Let’s Bully Everett.”

“Wait, your phone! Your phone!” he shouted as I skidded into the juice and pop aisle.

Yeah, right. There was no way I was going to fall for the old “You left your phone on the butcher counter” gambit. No way. I’m no greenhorn. Then I slowed down and finally stopped. I’d left my phone on the butcher counter. The young man finally caught up, breathing hard.

“You left your phone …”

“I know, on the butcher counter,” I interrupted, accepting the phone from him. “Thanks so much, I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached.”

“Hey, are you okay? You look a little spooked.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Rough day. Sorry about bolting on you there. I, um, thought you were someone else.”

“No worries,” he said. “You’re fast. Glad I caught you.”

“Me too. Thanks again.”

I’d been home for about half an hour. It wasn’t until after I’d loaded my groceries into the fridge and cupboards that I noticed it. Now that I’d spied it, I wondered why I hadn’t seen it sooner. A small yellow Post-it note stuck to the closed lid of my laptop. I hadn’t put it there. I didn’t even have any yellow Post-it
notes. I felt queasy all of a sudden. Everything went quiet in the apartment. I was too far away to read what it said on the little yellow square. I just stood there, frozen at the fridge, my steak half in the meat drawer and half out. I let go of the steak and it slid the rest of the way in. I closed the drawer and then the fridge. I stayed where I was, listening. I could hear the kitchen crew downstairs getting ready for the night ahead, but there was not a sound in the apartment. From my spot by the fridge, I scanned every inch of my space for other telltale signs of a home invasion. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing seemed amiss.

I then forced myself to tiptoe over to my bedroom door. The room was empty. With a level of stealth I didn’t know I possessed, I eased over to my closet and yanked open the door with considerable force. Nothing. Good thing. What would I have done if bulging beach boy had been in there waiting for me? I mean, after changing my pants, what would I have done? I clearly wasn’t thinking straight. After checking everywhere, from under my living room couch to under my kitchen sink, I concluded that there was no longer an intruder in my apartment. There were no signs of forced entry. Both my front and fire escape doors were locked.

Finally, I inched over to my laptop and focused on the little yellow note stuck to the middle of the lid.

“Do what he wants.”

That’s all it said in relatively neat capital letters. I don’t know
why I delicately flicked at the note with my finger. Maybe I thought it was a trigger of some kind, a tripwire for an explosive device inside. Ridiculous, I know. I came to my senses and opened the laptop. A larger yellow Post-it note graced the touchpad inside.

“So this is where you make the magic. Well, get ready to make some more.”

I was beginning to rethink the “sleepover at Dad’s condo” idea. I did another thorough search of the apartment. Again, I found nothing out of the ordinary, except perhaps for the two-week-old slice of pizza I discovered under my bed. Over the last couple of days, I’d wondered about that faint oregano scent in the room.

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.

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 reporters 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.”