by Pete Hautman
The phone began to ring again. He let it go a few times, then answered.
“Is this Joe Crow?” A woman’s voice, deeper than Debrowski’s.
“Yes,” he said.
“Are you okay?”
“Who is this?”
“This is Flowrean. Flo.”
Crow sat up. “Flowrean?”
“I work out at Bigg’s?”
“I know.”
“I saw you at that meeting. Are you okay? I haven’t seen you at the gym. I wondered if you were okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t gone out all week. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Crow said, “How do you know I haven’t gone out all week?”
“I mean, I haven’t seen you at Bigg’s,” Flowrean said quickly. “I just thought, you helped me, I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Like I said, I’m fine. What was that all about, anyway?”
“At that meeting?”
“Yes.”
“You know the lady that got younger?”
Crow nodded. His whiskers scraped the mouthpiece of the phone. “Uh-huh.”
“It wasn’t real.”
“I know that.”
“A man grabbed me. I had to get away.”
“What were you doing there in the first place?”
Flowrean took a moment to reply. “Nothing,” she said.
“You were doing nothing?”
“I’ll tell you. Would you like to go to dinner with me?”
Crow imagined himself sitting in a restaurant, very elegant, watching the flies buzzing about Flowrean’s rotting goldfish. He said, “I’m flattered, but—”
“Lunch,” Flowrean interrupted. “Have lunch with me.”
“Lunch?”
“We have to talk,” said Flowrean.
Crow found Flowrean Peeche already seated at one of Figlio’s sidewalk tables, sipping an ice tea. He had suggested the outdoor restaurant hoping for a breeze, but his precaution turned out to be unnecessary. Flo’s dead-fish necklace was nowhere in evidence. She looked clean and strong and beautiful in a sleeveless chocolate-colored silk top, jeans, and multicolored high-heeled sandals. The midday sun brought out red and blue reflections in her thick black hair. Her eyes were hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses with small octagonal lenses.
Crow sat down across from her.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
“I just got here myself.”
The waiter appeared with menus. Flowrean ordered a salad. Crow scanned the menu, found nothing that interested him, and ordered a Coke and a club sandwich.
“The Figlio Club?” the waiter asked.
“But of course,” sighed Crow. He asked Flowrean how her workouts had been going.
“I’m working on my arms,” she said, squeezing her fists and looking down at her left biceps. “Every other day now.” She looked at her other biceps.
“Your arms are sensational,” said Crow. On most women, arms that size would look freakish, but on Flowrean they looked good. “You ever compete?”
Flowrean shook her head and relaxed. “I do it just for me.”
“That’s best.”
“It’s good to be strong.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I think you’re very strong.”
Crow laughed and shook his head. “Not like some of those guys. Not like Beaut Miller.”
“Beaut is weak.”
“I mean physically. Last time I saw him he looked like his skin was going to burst. He’s got to be on the ’roids.”
“Steroids are for the weak. Beaut is every way weak.” Flowrean leaned forward, hooked a forefinger over the bridge of her sunglasses and pulled them down toward the tip of her nose. “You are strong. That’s why I like you.”
Crow held her eyes for a moment, then looked away. He had made a mistake, coming here. “Tell me,” he said, “how did you happen to be at that anti-aging thing?”
“I followed you,” said Flowrean Peeche.
“You did?”
“Yes. I’ve been stalking you.”
N. W. Flt 222 Arr 6:05 p Friday.
Crow drew a box around the note, then made a decorative border for the box. The phone message from Debrowski had made him lightheaded with pleasure and fear—an erotic stirring combined with breathlessness. How long? Three months? Would it be the same? Would she be the same? His thoughts drifted, settled on the last time he’d seen her, standing on the sidewalk as his cab pulled away. He remembered the sick feeling in his belly. Had she wanted him to stay? No, she was the one who had told him to leave. He had simply suggested the possibility. Wasn’t that how it had happened? Maybe he should have stayed another week, learned a few words of French to please her.
He noticed that he was drawing little croissants. What was this scrap of paper? He turned it over. His invitation to Carmen and Hyatt’s wedding. Saturday. Would Debrowski want to go to a wedding? Would that be too strange? A wedding with jet lag?
Crow stood abruptly and went into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror.
The man sitting in your seat is the one to watch out for.
His body had changed since he had seen her last. Would she like it? He flexed his biceps, then pictured Flowrean Peeche standing beside him, comparing arms. Hers were bigger. Maybe in the morning he’d get over to the gym, get back into his routine.
Flowrean had taken rejection well. He had been as gentle as possible, explaining to her that he was involved in a long-term relationship with another woman. He had told her a few things about Debrowski.
Flowrean listened, eating her salad, her gold eyes moving quickly, scanning him, pausing for an instant on each of his parts. Crow felt them hot on his forehead, his cheek, his neck, his lips. He spoke rapidly, repeating himself, watching the romaine lettuce disappear into her wide mouth, waiting for a sign that she understood, or for her to interrupt him, but Flowrean simply ate and watched him talking.
When he finally ran out of things to say, she dabbed her dark lips with her napkin. “You are very attractive.”
“Well … thank you. You aren’t going to keep following me, are you?”
Flowrean shrugged. “This Debrowski, you really like her?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“What if it doesn’t work out?”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Flowrean pursed her lips and leaned forward. “She makes you more attractive. She is like a fence around you.”
Crow thought he understood, but he was surprised to hear it coming from this young bodybuilder. He bit into his “Figlio Club.” It was pretty good.
“Or maybe she is like a silk tie,” Flowrean continued. “You could take her off for a while.”
Crow shook his head and swallowed. “No, I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”
Flowrean said, “Okay then.” Her shoulders relaxed. She sat back and smiled. “I’m happy for you. I won’t follow you no more.”
Crow believed her. He didn’t know why he believed her, but he did. She seemed relieved that he was not available, as if now she could devote herself to other, more important pursuits. He was slightly miffed. As much as Flowrean’s unwanted attention had disturbed him, he hated to think that her feelings toward him could so easily dissolve.
He said, “You’re a very attractive woman. Under different circumstances, things would be different.”
Flowrean wrinkled her brow. “That sounds like something Beaut would say. If things were different, of course they’d be different.”
Embarrassed, Crow searched his mind for a way out. “Tell me something,” he said. “In the women’s locker room, on the wall that faces Bigg’s office. What’s there?”
Flowrean thought for a moment. “Lockers?”
“You sure?”
She thought some more. “No. That’s where the mirror is.”
Crow nodded. “I thought maybe.”
“Why?”
“It’s just an idea I had. I was wondering why every time you use the locker room Bigg locks himself in his office, that’s all.”
“Oh,” Flowrean said. “Oh!” To Crow’s surprise, she laughed delightedly. “Really? Bigg’s been watching me?”
“That’s what I think.”
“That’s funny.”
“It is?”
“I’ve been spying on you, and Bigg’s been spying on me. Are you spying on anybody, Joe Crow?”
Crow shook his head. “Not anymore.”
It had been awkward, both of them trying to pay the bill, but Crow had walked away feeling as though he’d done right. He had been honest, kind, and had not allowed himself to think of Flowrean Peeche as a potential lover. He could meet Debrowski at the airport without feeling guilty. He imagined himself putting his arms around her, letting her feel his newly hardened body. It would be great to see her again. Really great.
He did not completely understand why the thought of it made him feel a little sick inside. Maybe he was afraid that she had changed, too.
Buck Manelli’s favorite time of day was about 3:15 in the afternoon. His favorite place was the second booth from the back at the Courthouse Bar and Grill, and his favorite level of intoxication arrived midway through his fourth martini. That was when he felt closest to God, adrift in a heavenly fog, floating from one truth to another as a pilgrim visits shrines in the Holy Land, or something like that. He should write some of these things down, use them in a wedding sometime. Or use them in his book The Marriage Maker. He’d thought up the title a few years back. All he needed was to marry a few celebrities, or marry some couple who would get famous somehow, so his name would get picked up by the media. If it ever happened, he would write that book.
Buck waved to Hal, the bartender. He pointed at his depleted martini glass and laughed. “Ha ha ha ha ha!” Hal nodded and set about constructing Buck’s number-four martini, his daily ticket to Nirvana.
Half an hour later Buck found himself on the downslope, trying to level off with a few beers, when Hy the Guy slipped into the seat across from him holding a tall drink with a straw in it and a cherry on top.
Buck said, “What the hell do you call that?” He had become surly during his number-five martini.
“John Collins,” Hyatt said.
“Tom Collins,” Buck corrected, adding, “you fucking idiot.”
That made Hyatt sit back, startled. Buck laughed, “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,” an extended version of his usual outburst. Saying the word “fuck” out loud always made him a little giddy, like a bottle of champagne uncorked.
“Actually,” Hyatt said, looking hurt, “it’s a John Collins. They make it with ginger ale.” He bent over the drink and sipped through the straw.
Buck blinked, not sure what to do with that bit of information. “How the fuck did you know to find me here?”
Hyatt tipped his head, looking amused and puzzled. He said, “When I called you this morning, you said I could meet you here.”
“Oh.” He watched Hyatt eat his cherry, the bright red orb leaving blue-green afterimages on his retinas. “Where the fuck is Maraschino, anyway?” The problem with the “f” word was that it lost power as fast as a sputtering party balloon.
“It’s in California,” Hyatt said. He worked the cherry stem over to the corner of his mouth. “So listen, Buck, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. What I wanted to ask you is—man to man—when you marry us, me and Carmen, is there something you can do? Forget to file some papers, or say the wrong words during the ceremony, you know, so that we aren’t really legally married?”
Buck was offended. “I won’t screw it up,” he said, trading in the “f” word for its more acceptable alternative.
“You don’t understand. I mean, what would it take for you to screw it up? Could you—for instance, if you forget to say ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife’? Would the marriage be illegal then?”
Buck gaped. Was this guy for real?
“You don’t want to get married?” he asked, staring at the cherry stem sticking out from between Hy’s lips.
“I want to get married,” Hyatt said. “I just don’t want to be married.”
31
Raise or fold.
—Crow’s rules
SOPHIE LIT ONE OF her long brown cigarettes and watched her daughter opening envelopes, the last of the RSVPs before they had to let the caterer know how many guests to expect. As each envelope revealed its contents, she could see by the expression on Carmen’s face whether it was a yes or a regrets.
Mostly, the returns had been running in favor of regrets, much to Sophie’s relief.
They had mailed nearly five hundred invitations. Three dozen to Sophie’s friends and relatives, half as many to Axel’s acquaintances, including his bitchy sister in California, another thirty-four to high school friends of Carmen’s, and the remaining four hundred to a list provided by Hyatt Hilton. Sophie had balked when Hyatt had presented his original list, which had contained close to six hundred names.
“I didn’t know you had so many friends,” Sophie had remarked.
“Don’t worry,” he had told her, “most of them won’t be able to come. We probably won’t have to feed more than a couple hundred.”
“Two hundred? There’s no way Axel will pay for that!”
Hyatt had agreed to cut back, but they had still ended up with four hundred names for Hyatt’s side of the aisle.
Later, while addressing the envelopes, she noticed that Hyatt had invited the governor, both Minnesota senators, a horde of local television and radio personalities, and Conrad Hilton who, she thought, had been dead for years. Hyatt had also invited the entire Minnesota Twins baseball team and the CEOs of 3M, General Mills, Cargill, Dayton Hudson, and Honeywell. She almost decided to cull the list herself without saying anything to Hyatt, but the possibility, however slim, that Hyatt actually knew some of those people seduced her into completing her task. The idea of the governor coming to her daughter’s wedding, no matter how unlikely, made the cost and effort worthwhile.
Thus far, the only public figure to have accepted the invitation was Billy Budd, a pro wrestler who was familiar to TV viewers as the spokesperson for Wally Wenger’s Truck Country, a Roseville GMC dealer. Wally Wenger himself had declined. Most of Hyatt’s other invitees had simply not responded.
“How many do we have so far?” Sophie asked.
Carmen consulted a sheet of paper. “About eighty all together. Hy’s going to be real disappointed.”
“It’ll be big enough. There were only about eighteen people at mine.”
“Yeah, and look what happened.”
“The wedding had nothing to do with it. Your father turned out to be a jerk.”
“That won’t happen with Hy.” She laughed. “He’s a jerk already.”
“That’s not funny. Axel’s spending a fortune on this.”
“Axel has money.”
“You’re even getting a limousine. I don’t know why you need a limousine.”
“Trust me, Mom. We need the limo.”
Beaut Miller felt like a six-foot-four-inch hard-on, pumped from his bulging traps to the tip of his half-hard salami, busting out of his black AC/DC T-shirt. A month ago, the shirt had fit him, but that morning, before he’d even started his routine, the shirt had split down the back and the armholes had parted at the seams. He loved it. A hard-on so hard it was busting out of its skin.
Beaut understood that pumping anabolic steroids into his body might have certain undesirable side effects, including liver damage, blood clotting, hypertension, swollen breast tissue, reduced sperm count and shrinkage of the testicles and, most obviously, severe acne. The acne was the only part of it that bothered him, and that would go away. The positive effects from the testosterone—increased strength and endurance, increased muscular hypertrophy, faster recovery time, increased aggressiveness, and enhanced sex drive—were so immediate and profound
, why worry about things he could not see?
Recently, he had added a new exercise to his routine. He called it “slamming.” Grasping a fifty-pound dumbbell in each hand, he swung his arms up over his head and slammed the dumbbells together, producing a loud clang. He then brought the dumbbells down, clanged them again in front of his thighs, and repeated the motion until he could no longer lift them, or until one of the weights went sailing off across the room. He had done as many as twenty-four of them in one set. The exercise gave him an awesome pump, and the feeling of the crashing iron, felt from his wrists to his flared lats, was orgasmic. Afterward, he could almost feel his quivering arms growing.
Because of the occasionally airborne dumbbells, slams could be performed only when Bigg was not on the premises. Beaut liked to do them first thing in the morning, before Bigg showed up. It was a good way to wake up the pencilnecks. He liked the way they watched him, giving him plenty of room. Even the serious bodybuilders found something to do on the far side of the gym when Beaut was slamming. Lately, a lot of them had been waiting till afternoon to visit the gym. This morning, Beaut had the place to himself.
He was on his second set of slams when Joe Crow walked into the gym.
The prudent course of action, Crow knew, would be to stay as far as possible from the pumped-up gym rat with the shredded shirt and the flailing dumbbells. Looking around, he noticed that, except for Beaut, Bigg Bodies was unpopulated—unusual for 7:30 A.M. on a weekday morning. It made him doubly uncomfortable to be around Beaut with no witnesses. While Crow had been recovering from his beating, Beaut had continued to grow at an astonishing rate. He had stretch marks across his chest and shoulders, his back was spattered with pimples, his arms were ropy with enlarged veins, and the way he was slamming those dumbbells together was insane. And dangerous.
Crow decided to add another rule to his ever growing list: Avoid insane, dangerous bodybuilders.
On the other hand, Crow had come to the gym for his first workout in a week. It just wouldn’t feel right to let Beaut scare him off. He had a right to be there, and he needed to get back into his routine. That was the key to getting in shape: no excuses. He waited until Beaut finished his set, then walked over to the rack and picked up a pair of fifteen-pound dumbbells. Beaut, slick with perspiration, gasping for breath, glared red-faced from the other end of the twenty-foot-long rack. Crow turned his back, put Beaut out of his mind, and began a series of slow laternal raises to warm up his shoulders.
