Ring Game Read Free Page B

Never mind that Bigg had trained three of the last five Mr. Minnesotas. Never mind that he’d been training champions years before those pencilnecks at Bally’s had moved in on the market with their chromium “fitness centers” and spandex discotheques. He’d been to one once. A bunch of geeks standing in line waiting their turn to use the ten-pound dumbbells. No serious bodybuilder had ever worked out twice at a Bally’s.
    Running a gym was a pain in the ass anyways. Up at five-thirty every morning, dealing with all these ’roided-out kids with their big talk and nothing egos, listening to a bunch of pinheads grunting and farting their way through their sets. It was undignified. Work his ass to the bone and then get screwed over by some pencilneck reporter who probably got a free membership to Bally’s for writing the article. Maybe he should close the joint, get into selling amino acids and protein supplements instead. Or buy a couple more stretches, build up his limo business. That was easy money, renting out those white Lincolns to wedding parties and such. Easier than running this damn gym.
    Arling Biggie crumpled the magazine in his meaty fist, dropped it into the overflowing trash can behind the counter. None of his customers read anything but muscle mags anyways.
    Beaut Miller watched his chest in the mirror as he performed his fourteenth set of cable crosses. He wore a fluorescent orange T-shirt with the neck and sleeves cut away, a narrow strip of ragged cloth surmounting each mountainous shoulder, the neck and armholes cut low, almost to his waist, showing his pectorals to maximum effect. An impressive chest, especially in its current pumped condition. He loved the way his serratus muscles popped when he did cable crosses. He wished he had a better audience. He wished some kid he’d known in high school would walk in and get an eyeful. One of those kids who used to give him a hard time, back when he’d been Little Leslie Miller.
    Almost anybody would do for an audience. Anyone other than Miss Stinkypants, who didn’t give a shit about anybody. Beaut sneaked a glance at her in the mirror. Flowrean was on her back, ankles crossed, bare feet in the air, pressing a pair of fifty-pound dumbbells—a lot of weight for a gal her size—giving forth a hoarse grunt of effort with each rep. The bitch was probably on the ’roids. Probably had to shave every morning.
    Beaut tried not to get too close to Flowrean, ever since the time he’d accidentally—well, sort of accidentally—poked his elbow into one of her tits, and she’d jumped him like a psycho bobcat from hell, all claws and screams and kicks—he’d lost about a yard of skin in three seconds. Stone bitch. It was right around that time that she’d started wearing her goldfish necklace. She was still a looker, but nobody’d want her now. A little B.O. was one thing, but those dead fish hangin’ over her tits, that was too much. Beaut couldn’t figure out why anybody’d want to smell that bad. Any other gym, she’d’ve been eighty-sixed, but Bigg, he had a thing for Flowrean Peeche. Bigg was funny that way.
    Looking past her reflection, he saw Crow coming back into the chest room. Beaut hadn’t minded a bit when Bigg asked him to give the pilgrim a hard time. It was a pleasure. He’d about sprained his abs trying not to laugh when those plates had slid off—Ka-clang! Kangkangka-kang! Kuh-chlang! Beaut grinned at Crow’s reflection, performed a final rep with the cables, and let the weight stacks slam back into place. He turned and crossed his arms and waited, wondering what the frozen-faced little wimp had in mind. Waiting for the close-range eye contact. Give him that fuck you look, see what he did with it.
    Crow stopped in front of Beaut, looking up. The moment of eye contact didn’t feel as satisfying as Beaut had expected. Crow’s gaze was too calm. Beaut felt Little Leslie tugging urgently at his frontal lobes. He flexed his jaw muscles