Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  Squinting, Jake barely made out the fuzzy letters.

  pantaloon: a pair of tight trousers; a buffoon in a pantomime.

  “Trousers,” he muttered. He’d been close enough.

  While on the same page, he looked up the definition of pantomime.

  Then he turned the tissue-thin pages of the book to another section and looked up a new meaning.

  Sweet Judas, he could hardly recognize a syllable. Craning his head, he looked out the door into the gym. All clear.He snuck his glasses out and put them on, keeping hold of the temples in case he had to whip them off.

  The dictionary’s tiny type was in sharp focus now.

  flippant: characterized by thoughtless levity of speech or pertness.

  Hell, what did levity mean?

  He thumbed the pages to the “L” section: la, le, lev. He dragged his fingertip down the column.

  levity: lightness of disposition, conduct, etc.; trifling.

  Jake lifted his head. She thought he was being a smart aleck.

  Shrugging, he closed the dictionary.

  Flippant. It fit him. That’s what he’d been.

  “Hey, Bruiser!” Milton’s voice sounded through the office.

  The spectacles were off Jake’s ears in seconds flat and quickly returned to his drawer.

  “Come on out here,” Milton said. “We’re ready to see what you think.”

  Jake hid his dictionary, then rolled the chair from behind his desk and went into the gym. He stopped cold.

  “Holy shit,” he said as he took in the Barbell Club. They wore leopard-skin bathing trunks, flesh-tone tights, and Roman sandals and were rubbed up with so much posing oil that their naked chests shined like bacon grease.

  “This should get the judges’ attention, huh, Bruiser?” Gig Debolski stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips.

  “Yeah, Gig, you fellows will definitely get attention,” Jake commented dryly. “The wrong kind.”

  “What do you mean, Bruiser?” Milton asked. His chest was puffed and basted like a turkey’s. Swirling coarse black hair covered him from his neck to his navel. “I think we look like a bunch of swells.”

  Lou Bernard concurred. “Yeah.” The train porter had come over to the gym and signed up. “Any one of us has a chance at that trophy.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Lou.” Milton corrected his assumption, making a fist. “I’m going to win the trophy, but you gents can give it a try anyway.”

  Jake absently cracked his knuckles. “I hate to disappoint you, Milt, but you’re wrong. The Mr. Physique contest isn’t a”—a swanky word came to him that he would never use, but it was fresh in his mind and the definition applied—“pantomime.”

  “I told you, Milton, we look like jackasses.” August Gray was the only one of the bunch who had a chance if the contest were tomorrow. His muscle development was coming along. All he needed was to add more definition on his upper arms and calves.

  “What’s wrong with us?” Milton objected. “Sandow wears trunks like these, and tights.All this was listed in Muscle Builder—his exact costume. I got a shipping discount for buying a half dozen. You mean to tell me I’ve been misled by Sandow the Magnificent?”

  The reigning belt holder, Eugen Sandow, was the best bodybuilder there ever was. He’d all but invented the sport and still enjoyed phenomenal success. Jake didn’t want to discount Sandow’s fame and glory, but he refused to wear the popular skins in competitions. He’d tried them once. Fur next to his balls made him antsy; it had felt as if his parts weren’t hanging right in the leopard drawers. Instead, he chose cotton for his trunks, a fabric that hugged and gave when he moved in various poses.

  “Damn you, Milton, I said you should have ordered fig leaves,” Walfred Kudlock remarked. Standing at five feet two inches and with thighs like fire plugs, Walfred resembled an ape man. The depth of the recession of his hairline left half his scalp bald, and a heavily waxed handlebar mustache rode on his upper lip. He held onto of pair of rock maple Indian clubs as props.

  “Sandow didn’t mislead you, Milton.” Jake left for a brief moment to go into his office; then he returned with an amber-tinted jar. “What works for him can’t be argued with. I personally don’t happen to believe in leopard skin and all that Grecian oil.” He held out the jar for them to see the label: HAMMERHEAD’S BODY DEFINITION POWDER. “Here’s what you want.”

  “What is it?” Milton asked, stepping forward for a closer look.

  “A trick I learned when I was boxing professionally.” Jake wore a union shirt with the sleeves cut out, his biceps and forearms bare. In the last wash, the neckline placket had gotten caught in the ringer, ripping the buttons off. Now the faded cotton hung loosely over his chest, leaving more skin exposed than concealed. “I’ll show you how this stuff works.”

  He unscrewed the jar’s lid and dusted his fingers in some of the burnt sienna powder; then he liberally coated his arm.

  “What the hell does that do?” Milton asked.

  “You’ll see.” Jake grabbed a towel off one of the benches and buffed powder from his skin in all the smooth places. In the others, where the bulge of his forearm flexors formed, the crease on his inner arm, the middle head of his biceps, and his deltoid and triceps ridges, he left just enough of the dark residue to create a three-dimensional image. When his arm was pumped, the artistry deceived the onlooker into thinking his muscles swelled larger than they actually were.

  “I’ll be damned.” August came forward. “It’s like magic. You’ve put on muscle with no weights.”

  “This isn’t a substitute for training, August.” Jake put the lid back on the jar and set it down on the bench. “You still have to lift iron for results.”

  Lou complained, “We do?”

  “Yeah.” Milton bent at the knees and grabbed a barbell. The weight wasn’t right for his body type, but he strained and groaned to lift it high over his head and hold it there. His arms quivered and his belly jiggled. Then he attempted to lower the barbell but dropped it—marginally missing his toes.

  “I’ve said it before, you don’t have to have Herculean powers to win a trophy.” Jake racked the weight and selected another one for Milton. Fifty pounds lighter. “Palookas push heavy weights and knock themselves out. Putting up twenty-pound dumbbells isn’t smart.”

  “Yeah, but you can put up twenty-pound dumbbells.”

  “I can also bring you down in one punch, but that doesn’t mean it’s wise for me to do it.”

  Milton’s face blanched. “You wouldn’t slug me, would you, Bruiser?”

  “Christ, what do you take me for, Milton? A bonehead?”

  “N-no, Bruiser. Not at all. I was just making sure.”

  “Right now,you need to make sure you can lift weight without dropping it like a woman.” Jake motioned to the dumbbells, barbells, and kettle weight irons. “Everybody pick up something fifty pounds lighter than you’re used to and give me three sets of fifteen.”

  The men went into action, hoisting and lifting and grunting and making god-awful faces of agony. Sweaty oil added a high polish to their bodies that made their red skin look like ripe McIntosh apples, and the gnashing of teeth could be heard through the metal clunk and thump of heaving and hefting.

  While the men worked through their reps, Jake went to the bag platform to limber up his fists. The single-end striking bag was thirty-three inches around and suspended from the ceiling by a top rope. Because it was anchored to a solid platform, it had a true swing from all sides.

  Chalking his hands, Jake didn’t bother with his gloves. The skin on his palms and the tops of his hands was leather tough, the joints large and hard from years of abuse. Positioning himself and balancing on the balls of his feet, he began to give the heavy calfskin blow after blow after blow.

  From the vigorous physical effort he expended, perspiration formed on his body. His hair grew wet at the scalp; droplets trickled down his forehead. The hollow of his underarms dampened. The gathered
waistband of his calf-length sport trousers clung just below his navel.

  The intensity with which he concentrated on hitting the striking bag had him unaware his name was being called until the shout sounded through the gymnasium.

  “Bruiser!” Milton hollered, getting his attention.

  Jake lowered his arms and turned, his breathing coming hard and fast.

  “Say, Bruiser, I was just thinking.” Milt came up to him, his face ruddy. “What about testicle juice?”

  Through the frantic thump of his heartbeat echoing loudly in his ears, Jake thought he hadn’t heard Milt correctly. “What was that?”

  “Steer testicle juice.” Milt’s expression was stone sober. “I was reading about it in Vigorous Male magazine. It says man is a human animal.”

  “I don’t think of myself as an animal, Milton.”

  “Sorry, Bruiser, I wasn’t referring to you. I was thinking more along the lines of us guys who don’t have all that you have”—he slapped a fist against his pasty chest—“here. See, this article said that testicular extract—”

  August broke in. “Uh . . . Bruiser . . .”

  “Just a minute, August,” Jake replied, not glancing toward the men. In the last few seconds, they’d grown extremely quiet, as if wanting to know what kind of edge they could get in the contest. “Milt is telling me about something he thinks could be beneficial to you. I want to hear it.”

  Milton rubbed the back of his hand across his sweating forehead. “Well, this testicular extract has been known to increase mental and physical vigor.”

  “And how do you take this . . . steer extract?” But the method by which a snake oil bottler got that extract out of the bull didn’t matter. Jake wouldn’t put something like that in his body for anything.

  Lifting his shoulders, Milt mumbled, “You drink it in an elixir.”

  “I’m not drinking no bull gravy,” Walfred stated loudly.

  “Uh, Bruiser . . .” August said once more.

  Jake held a hand up to him. “Now just a minute, August. We’re trying to figure out this steer testicle elixir Milt is telling us about.”

  “I haven’t bought any yet.” A momentary look of discomfort crossed Milton’s face. “But I was thinking about buying some if you thought it was a good idea, Bruiser.”

  “Um, Bruiser,” Lou broke in, “somebody’s here to see you. And she’s been standing there awhile.”

  Jake inclined his head in the direction of the business door entry and saw who it was that Lou was talking about.

  Truvy Valentine.

  Wearing one of those Gibson-collared suit waists and a pleated lilac skirt, she gave the room a ray of cheerful color on a cloudy day. A soft blush had caught on her cheekbones. She held onto a thick book so tightly, he could see the strain in her fingers through her kid gloves. She raised her hand to the brim of her hat as if to shelter her eyes.

  Stepping back, he viewed the room through her gaze.

  Half-dressed men gawking at her in leopard-skin trunks. Tights. High-leg Roman sandals. Surrounding them: exercise equipment, Indian clubs, dumbbells, barbells, kettle weights. And body oil that enhanced the musky scent of masculine sweat.

  This was the last place he’d ever thought of Truvy visiting.

  “Miss Valentine,” he managed to say, knowing she’d heard everything they’d been saying. He kicked himself in the ass for leading Milt on about that steer juice. “What can I do for you?”

  “I . . . I . . . Mr. Brewster. I’ve”—she thrust her arm out—“brought you a book from Mrs.Wolcott. She said you wanted to read it.”

  Jake couldn’t make out the title, but he figured that by its size and weight, the volume had to be a three-pounder. He’d read so few books, he couldn’t guess which one he was supposedly interested in. And if he was, he wouldn’t pick a book so thick. It would take him a year to struggle through all those pages. Edwina was up to something. If he wanted the details, he’d have to get Miss Valentine alone.

  “I’d like to examine that, Miss Valentine. Step into my office.”

  “But I—”

  Jake put his hand on her elbow and steered her in the direction he wanted. He called out, “Ten minutes on the jump ropes, boys.”

  Walfred grumbled, “One minute about kills me, Bruiser.”

  “You need to do it. Jumping builds your stamina and exercises your heart.”

  Once inside his office, Jake debated closing the door. He kind of figured that if he shut out the noise coming from the gym, she’d get all worked up over his motives, take it like he was trying to pull the fast and light on her. As it was, discomfort and distaste made her body go rigid. And her expression worsened when she was in the middle of the office and saw his Venus.

  Remmy had come through Harmony last year and painted her for him. Just like he wanted her. The goddess took up an entire wall in a pallet of lifelike colors. Her facial features—tilted eyes and full pink lips—were seductive. Long golden hair flowed, as if windblown, around her voluptuous figure.A toga swirled in a transparent curtain over her generous bosom and rounded hips.

  Venus might as well have been naked.

  Truvy transferred her gaze from the painting to him. “I take it this is your idea of femininity. Yet another man looking for the perfect woman.”

  Arching a brow, Jake remarked with a half smile, “I’m always looking for the perfect woman.”

  “Then maybe you’d better try drinking some of that elixir so you won’t have to dream about a painting on your wall, Mr. Bruiser.”

  One. Two. A left jab followed by a hard right cross. And an uppercut—calling him Mr. Bruiser.

  She didn’t pull any punches. She told it like she saw it. Which wasn’t the truth, but what the hell. He didn’t dream about Venus. Lately, he’d been dreaming about legs—

  He looked at Truvy.

  Her eyes swept over the large, gilt-framed posters he’d nailed on the other three paneled walls.

  Eugen Sandow in a cabinet photograph with a Greek pillar as a prop to draw attention to Sandow’s impressive biceps.

  George Hackenschmidt, in short trunks, in a strongman pose.

  Peter Maher in full boxing regalia—gloves, trunks, and canvas athletic shoes—with his dukes up and ready to wallop.

  Tom Sharkey, bare-chested, with his famous star-and-ship tattoo on his chest and a block-shaped head with a cauliflower ear.

  Jake rolled his chair away from the desk. “Have a seat, Miss Valentine, and we can talk about the book.”

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Sure you can.”

  She assessed the walls once more, as if she felt she were being watched by a bunch of strongarms and a naked lady. “No, I couldn’t possibly.”

  Masking his disappointment, he pushed his chair back in. He wouldn’t sit if she wouldn’t. “Then you can stand and tell me what you’ve brought.”

  “Crime and Punishment.”

  He’d never heard of it. The title suggested the story was about some bad hombres. He didn’t think Edwina kept that kind of reading material.

  Snagging a Turkish towel from a bar above the radiator, Jake wiped the perspiration from his face. He shared a gaze with Truvy. He didn’t miss her obvious examination; he felt her observant eyes trail over his flesh as distinct as a touch. The memory of her body in his embrace captured him. He could still smell the scent of her hair, feel the texture of her skin. Slowly and seductively, he slid the towel up his neck, then down. She followed his hand.

  Her lashes seemed thicker to him. Longer. The brown of her eyes was nearly swallowed by the darkness of her pupils. He lowered his hand to the swell of his chest through the open slash cut in his shirt. He was flattered by her interest and totally entranced by her. His lungs felt tight, his throat dry.

  “Want a beer?” he asked, draping the towel behind his neck so the ends hung over his shoulders. He was dying of thirst, but he wasn’t a thoughtless bum to drink a Heinrich in front of her without offering her on
e, too.

  It was several seconds before she replied, “No, thank you.”

  “Well, I’m going to grab one.” Hell, he shouldn’t have, but he didn’t go for that self-sacrifice polite society crap.

  “I really don’t care what you do. I have to be going. Now if you’ll—”

  “Hold that thought.” He was halfway through the connecting door that led from his office and living quarters. Right inside the entry, he had a small kitchen with a stove and icebox. He tugged on the handle to the refrigerator chest and took a Heinrich’s lager beer. Using the wooden countertop for leverage as an opener, he whacked the flat of his hand across the bottlecap and sent it flying onto the floor.

  While taking a drink, he stepped back into his office. “So tell me, what’s the deal with this crime and punishment book? Some outlaws do hard time in the penitentiary?”

  The coolness in her tone said she wasn’t amused. “From the nickninny expression on your face, I don’t believe the book is suited to your tastes. But since Edwina asked me to bring it to you, I have.” Extending her arm,Truvy added,“Here you are.” She set the brick-thick publication on his desk, smack over the latest issue of the Sporting Life. “I don’t want to keep you from your . . .”—she paused, looking hard at his beer, then at him—“. . . strapping activities.”

  She was going to leave, and he should have let her, because Bruiser’s wasn’t a suitable place for a lady. But all he could think of was how to get her to stay, if only for a few more minutes. “What do you think of Teddy inviting Booker T. Washington to the White House?”

  Her astonishment was evident by the way she straightened her posture. “Pardon?”

  Jake took pleasure in having thrown her off. Strapping activities. The words irritated him like a rock in his shoe. Jesus H.—did she really think he was a dense dumbbell to the core?

  In a level voice, he calmly repeated the facts—slow and easy—as if he discussed this kind of news all the time. “Teddy Roosevelt invited Booker T. Washington for dinner at the White House.”

  “I know that.”