Ring Game Read Free

water into his mouth. “A guy oughta ask for a spot if he’s not sure he can handle it.” His pale blue eyes widened, as if a new thought had entered his mind. “A guy could get hurt.”
    Neither bodybuilder nor powerlifter, Beaut was your basic gym rat—whatever part of his body he could see in the bathroom mirror bulged meatily, including his prognathous jaw. He made no effort to achieve a symmetrical physique, choosing to conceal his less-than-impressive legs beneath billowing leopard-skin-patterned Zubaz and relying on his jutting chest to divert attention from his spongy abdomen. Beaut wanted mass and, at six-three and upward of two hundred sixty pounds, he had it. With his double-wide shoulders, his twenty-inch biceps, his deep tan, and his curly bleached locks, Beaut cut an impressive figure at the local T.G.I. Friday’s.
    Crow wondered how Beaut would respond to a ten-pound plate thrown at his head. Probably just let it bounce off his skull, then try to dismember the thrower. Maybe it would be worth it.
    Flowrean, sitting at the pec deck, had paused in her workout to watch the two men facing one another. She caught Crow’s eye, then looked quickly away, her mop of black hair whipping across her face. Crow wished she wasn’t there, watching. Having an audience, especially a female audience, made him want to do something stupid. He called up another of his rules, forced himself to look at it: Never act in anger.
    Beaut held out the water bottle toward Crow. “You want some?”
    Crow stood up and walked away. Walk away from bad hands early. He proceeded into the main room, a large open area that contained most of the back, shoulder, and arm equipment, and the cardio gear—four stationary bikes, a pair of Stairmasters, and a rowing machine. He remembered the first time he’d walked into Bigg Bodies and seen the long rows of weight-training equipment, the padded benches covered in cherry-red vinyl, rack after rack of neatly stacked iron plates, a two-tiered rack of dumbbells stretching out across a sea of pebble-gray carpeting. He had quickly realized that the size of the gym was exaggerated by the mirrored walls, but somehow that knowledge had not taken away from the majesty of it. He still liked to imagine himself in an endless room, an illusion shattered only when he encountered a reflection of himself.
    Behind the counter near the entrance sat Arling Biggie, better known as Bigg, reading a magazine, wearing his usual red, white, and blue silk warm-ups. He looked up from his reading, caught Crow’s eye, smiled, and winked. From his perch behind the counter, Bigg had a view into every corner of his mirrored establishment. Crow was sure he had seen Beaut’s little trick with the water bottle.
    Crow stepped onto one of the Stairmasters and began climbing, determined to think about something peaceful, like fishing, which was what he planned to do as soon as he finished his workout. Drive up to Whiting Lake to his old man’s cabin. Throw a line in the water. It was a three-hour drive, but he’d be there by four o’clock, plenty of time to land a monster. Throw out a buzz bait, reel it in. Throw it out, reel it in. If the buzz bait didn’t work he could maybe try a spoon, or even one of those weird lures his father made out of spark plugs or strips of auto body. Load up his line with a twisted scrap of Dodge minivan, throw it out, reel it in.
    According to the computer readout on the Stairmaster, Crow had climbed seventeen floors when Arling Biggie leaned a meaty forearm on the handrail and looked up at Crow. “Beaut give you a hard time there, Crow?”
    Crow let the fishing thing go and pulled himself back to the here and now. “You saw that?”
    “I thought you guys were going to go at it.”
    Crow nodded. “So did I.”
    “Probably a good thing you didn’t.”
    “Maybe. How come you keep him around? He must cost you business.”
    Bigg looked like a short, aging version of the Incredible Hulk with a