Ring Game Read Free Page A

shaven scalp and thick sideburns that began in front of his ears and followed the line of his jaw to the tips of his Fu Manchu mustache. The look, Crow believed, was designed to make people want to laugh—then think better of it. Bigg’s round, unblinking blue eyes, a little white showing all the way around the iris, had a reptilian quality that belied his clownish whiskers.
    Bigg considered Crow’s comment. He raised his short, thick eyebrows, pushed out his lower lip, and contracted his trapezius muscles. His thick neck disappeared, and his cantaloupe shoulders rose a full three inches. He held the pose for an instant, then relaxed. Crow took it for a shrug.
    “Beaut’s not so bad, once you get used to him. It’s like with Flowrean: Once you get used to the smell, you kinda get to like it.”
    “I can hold my breath around Flowrean. Beaut’s tougher to ignore.”
    Bigg smiled and nodded. “I know what you mean. But when Beaut’s doing his workout, he’s on his own time. Just another member. Technically speaking, he hasn’t broken any of our rules.” He ticked off the three Bigg Bodies rules on his stumpy fingers. “One: Beaut racks his weights. Two: Beaut gives a spot if you ask him nice. Three: Beaut pays his dues on time.” He laughed. “Course, they come right out of his paycheck.” He gave Crow a flat smile. “Unlike some of our members, who pay no dues whatsofuckingever.”
    “You should’ve thought about that when you bet those queens.”
    “You’re the luckiest son-of-a-bitch I ever played cards with,” Bigg said.
    Crow stopped climbing. The treads sank to the floor, bringing him down to Bigg’s level. “Is that what this is about?” he asked.
    Bigg looked over his shoulder into the chest room. Crow followed his gaze, saw Beaut watching them, a white grin shimmering on his tanned face.
    If that Joe Crow had started working out ten, fifteen years ago, Bigg thought, he might’ve been one hell of a powerlifter. He had the classic powerlifter’s build: small and compact, with muscular thighs, short arms, and naturally sloped shoulders. He’d never make it now, of course. Not at his age. A guy couldn’t expect to walk into a gym for the first time at thirtysomething and expect to compete, no matter how good his genes. Crow had pissed away his life when he could’ve been a champion. A real shame. Bigg had been a competitive powerlifter until 1979, when, a few days after squatting nine hundred twenty pounds in the Tri-State, he’d blown out his left knee. Playing golf, of all things. He’d gone on to a brief career on the pro wrestling circuit under the name “Studly Doo-Rite,” then spent a few years working as a personal trainer, occasionally collecting bills for a furniture rental company just for laughs. Eight years ago, at the age of forty, he’d bought Smithy’s Auto Body and turned it into Bigg Bodies, the Choice of Twin Cities Bodybuilders.
    Bigg gave Crow a cuff on the shoulder and returned to his stool behind the counter. Crow continued his climb to nowhere on the Stairmaster again, that dreamy, blank look returning to his face. It was the same look he’d had when Bigg had bet those three queens, the same look he’d had when he’d shown Bigg his straight and won himself a lifetime membership to Bigg Bodies. In fact, it was pretty much the same look Crow always had. Bigg found such complacency to be enormously irritating.
    Maybe he should tell Beaut to turn up the heat, drop a plate on Crow’s head or something. That might be interesting. He’d have to think about that. One thing for sure, he didn’t want to watch Crow working out for free every day for the rest of his life.
    He picked up the magazine he had been reading, but nothing had changed. Bigg Bodies had failed, once again, to make the Mpls./St. Paul magazine list of “Best Twin Cities Workouts.” Not even a mention. In fact, no one who worked at the magazine had ever visited Bigg’s, much less worked out there.