spotless, the whole place shimmers like a space station. The woman at the desk smiles and hands them each two small white towels and calls for Carlos to show them around.
“We were referred by a guy,” Jimmy tells Carlos. “Guy we play ball with.”
“Basketball.”
“Yeah. Young guy named Sam.” Carlos shakes his head. “I’m sure you know him. Kind of light-skinned black guy, bushy hair, freckles, long arms. Wears shiny red sweats, stripes.”
If this perp talk surprises him, Carlos doesn’t let on. “There so many people come through here, man? I bet I’d recognize him, though. But when you join, we’ll be sure he gets a credit. We’re all about referrals. That’s how we stay we, you know?”
“Sure,” Jimmy says, winking at Shane with unusual restraint.
Carlos leads them upstairs to tour the thermoclimed incubation room for heated yoga; a dance studio where salsa hopscotch kickboxing is transformed into aerobics; a big room with eternal stair climbers, quadraceptors, bikes with Internet screens attached, treadmills with private televisions; an interior cellblock with closed doors and no windows for imaginary bike rides, where an unseen instructor is screaming at her stationary cycling cult. A thick-scented pollen of sweat wafts out under the door. Shane looks around carefully, not seeing Sam but feeling something familiar.
“This used to be a basketball court up here, huh.”
Carlos frowns. “Yeah,” he admits. “The place was a dump, they tell me.”
“My buddies used to come here, back when it was Mike’s.”
“That so.” Carlos looks unhappy. Carlos knows this isn’t working out. He takes them downstairs, points them in the right direction, and lets them go.
Downstairs is better, a huge open space with machines and free weights, ample room for stretching. Light streams in from all sides. Despite the prettiness of it all, there are some big guys here, too, lording over the workday rabble, men staring at their blood-engorged muscles in the mirror, their mouths slack, examining their own thighs with a kind of exhausted, bovine lust. The music pumps in steadily overhead, a huge bass and beat with a single piece of high-pitched chorus looped a thousand times.
They tour slowly, looking for something Sam. Jimmy shrugs and settles down on a bench press, lying flat while Shane sets up the bar for him. It’s a very reasonable weight but his brother lifts it up and down just four times before his arms begin to shake. Shane leans forward, ready to spot if necessary. Jimmy glares at him, clanks the bar unevenly back to rest.
“I am a little pussy boy,” he says. “I’m such a little bitch.”
“Jimmy.”
“Take some weight off.” Jimmy jabs a finger at the weights above him. “I don’t have those muscles, I mean, what’s the point of them anyway?” He bangs on his chest, punching his failed pecs. “Is it just cosmetic? I mean, it’s like, am I ever going to be in a prone situation where suddenly I have to lift a heavy object up and down? Ten times. With just my arms. For what, for earthquakes, when you’re trapped under a large chunk of ceiling?”
“You could end up with a really fat chick.”
“That’s a good point,” Jimmy says. “There must be practical applications for all these weird machines.” He looks around thoughtfully. “But what the hell was Sam doing here?”
“Getting big.”
“Yeah, but here? With the Narcissus boys and the richie rich? You see the dues on this place? You either gotta have bank or be here every day to make it worth it.”
“Maybe Rex is wrong.”
“Maybe.” Jimmy sits up. “One way to find out.”
Jimmy heads off to talk to management with some cockamamie story while Shane lingers near the entrance to watch who comes and goes. Across town, at the Firehouse, the first game is getting under way. Maybe Sam is over there, just arriving, calling winners. That’s where Shane should be, for sure.
Someone says his name and he shakes
“We were referred by a guy,” Jimmy tells Carlos. “Guy we play ball with.”
“Basketball.”
“Yeah. Young guy named Sam.” Carlos shakes his head. “I’m sure you know him. Kind of light-skinned black guy, bushy hair, freckles, long arms. Wears shiny red sweats, stripes.”
If this perp talk surprises him, Carlos doesn’t let on. “There so many people come through here, man? I bet I’d recognize him, though. But when you join, we’ll be sure he gets a credit. We’re all about referrals. That’s how we stay we, you know?”
“Sure,” Jimmy says, winking at Shane with unusual restraint.
Carlos leads them upstairs to tour the thermoclimed incubation room for heated yoga; a dance studio where salsa hopscotch kickboxing is transformed into aerobics; a big room with eternal stair climbers, quadraceptors, bikes with Internet screens attached, treadmills with private televisions; an interior cellblock with closed doors and no windows for imaginary bike rides, where an unseen instructor is screaming at her stationary cycling cult. A thick-scented pollen of sweat wafts out under the door. Shane looks around carefully, not seeing Sam but feeling something familiar.
“This used to be a basketball court up here, huh.”
Carlos frowns. “Yeah,” he admits. “The place was a dump, they tell me.”
“My buddies used to come here, back when it was Mike’s.”
“That so.” Carlos looks unhappy. Carlos knows this isn’t working out. He takes them downstairs, points them in the right direction, and lets them go.
Downstairs is better, a huge open space with machines and free weights, ample room for stretching. Light streams in from all sides. Despite the prettiness of it all, there are some big guys here, too, lording over the workday rabble, men staring at their blood-engorged muscles in the mirror, their mouths slack, examining their own thighs with a kind of exhausted, bovine lust. The music pumps in steadily overhead, a huge bass and beat with a single piece of high-pitched chorus looped a thousand times.
They tour slowly, looking for something Sam. Jimmy shrugs and settles down on a bench press, lying flat while Shane sets up the bar for him. It’s a very reasonable weight but his brother lifts it up and down just four times before his arms begin to shake. Shane leans forward, ready to spot if necessary. Jimmy glares at him, clanks the bar unevenly back to rest.
“I am a little pussy boy,” he says. “I’m such a little bitch.”
“Jimmy.”
“Take some weight off.” Jimmy jabs a finger at the weights above him. “I don’t have those muscles, I mean, what’s the point of them anyway?” He bangs on his chest, punching his failed pecs. “Is it just cosmetic? I mean, it’s like, am I ever going to be in a prone situation where suddenly I have to lift a heavy object up and down? Ten times. With just my arms. For what, for earthquakes, when you’re trapped under a large chunk of ceiling?”
“You could end up with a really fat chick.”
“That’s a good point,” Jimmy says. “There must be practical applications for all these weird machines.” He looks around thoughtfully. “But what the hell was Sam doing here?”
“Getting big.”
“Yeah, but here? With the Narcissus boys and the richie rich? You see the dues on this place? You either gotta have bank or be here every day to make it worth it.”
“Maybe Rex is wrong.”
“Maybe.” Jimmy sits up. “One way to find out.”
Jimmy heads off to talk to management with some cockamamie story while Shane lingers near the entrance to watch who comes and goes. Across town, at the Firehouse, the first game is getting under way. Maybe Sam is over there, just arriving, calling winners. That’s where Shane should be, for sure.
Someone says his name and he shakes
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