Dead Lift Read Free

suitcase open at her feet. I smelled toast and coffee.
    “I meant to shop for your birthday,” she said, “But I ended up shopping for myself. Happens.”
    She removed a cashmere sweater from a bag, folded it neatly, and added it to a stack of other new merchandise in her now very-full bag on wheels. “Saved you some brunch though.”
    I looked over her new clothes. “You got an early start.”
    “The boutiques were calling me.”
    I dropped my generic purse on the coffee table next to her Louis Vuitton tote. Unbuttoning my sleeveless blouse, I headed for the hall. “I need a run to clear my head.”
    “Silly girl,” she said. “Coffee clears your head, not exercise.”
    When I didn’t answer, she followed me into my bedroom. “If you’re going to run, you might as well do it at that fancy club, right? Get the 4-1-1 on Diana King?”
    I pulled on a dirty pair of shorts and an ancient tank top. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes.”
    Claire’s and Diana’s hoity-toity, women’s only gym had denied my membership request on the spot. When I’d tried to join, the front desk attendant, Starr, took a little too much pleasure in explaining that membership was by invitation only. Her sideways glances at my clothes and hair translated the euphemism for me: I wasn’t rich or pretty enough.
    Jeannie disappeared for a moment and returned with a luxurious envelope. She extracted the card inside and presented it with a flourish. Pressed flowers adorned the paper, through which a sheer ribbon had been woven. It looked like a wedding invitation.
    I read its message, incredulous. “They let
you
in?”
    “Of course. And now you’ll be my guest. Happy?” Her self-indulgent smile said she certainly was.
    “No,” I said. “I’m pissed.”
    “We have appointments at one.”
    She vanished into the hallway.
    I knelt on the floor and reached under my bed for a stray running shoe. Behind it I found an abandoned bowl of goldfish crackers and a cow flashlight that mooed when I grabbed it. “What kind of appointments?”
    She hollered from the kitchen. “Nails!” A cupboard slammed.
    My irritation edged up a notch. I laced up my shoes and reminded myself she was only trying to be nice. Then I got an idea and, still on my knees, reached for the phone.
    Richard sounded relieved to hear from me. “I thought you might call.”
    “I’ll help with your case.”
    “Good! That’s—”
    “On my terms.”
    He hesitated. “But you’re not—”
    “Yeah, I know I’m not. But that’s my condition. Unless you plan to suddenly go transgender, I’m your only ticket inside that gym. You need me.”
    Jeannie reappeared with a cup of coffee and set it on the floor next to me. She watched, impassive, and waited to openly eavesdrop on whatever was being said.
    “I thought you said they wouldn’t let you in,” Richard said.
    “I’m in now. Yes or no?”
    Jeannie smirked.
    “How’d you get in?”
    I didn’t answer.
    “What ‘terms’ do you mean?”
    “I don’t want to follow Diana anymore. It’s boring.”
    “I’ll find somebody else.”
    “And I want to attend any meetings with Mick Young.”
    He was silent.
    “Richard?”
    “That’s a bad idea.”
    “You need somebody on the inside of that club.”
    He muttered something. I thought he called me stubborn.
    “I’m sorry, was that a yes?” I said.
    “Good luck at the club.” He clicked off the line.
    I passed the phone to Jeannie, who returned it to my night stand, and then I leaned back against my box springs and mattress.
    “What’s up?” she said.
    “I went to the jail.”
    “Cool.”
    “Not really. Claire Gaston’s kind of…I can’t figure her out. She’s represented by Brighton and Young.”
    Jeannie’s lip curled in obvious disgust.
    “Richard didn’t tell me,” I added. “I found out during the interview. Found out a lot of things he left out.”
    She sat on the floor across from me. “Men and details,” she said. “Like men and