Fatal Pose

by Barna William Donovan

  Despite all this, however, one fact remained: at least the modern “physique” women still looked more muscular and stronger than the female bodybuilders of the nineties, back when she used to compete. Laura had often thought about this, and the comparison gave her some small measure of comfort. Standards of appearance were indeed changing over the years, yet for every step forward, the female athletes had to take one step back. They could lift weights, but not too much, and they had better have a face like a beauty queen and sashay around in high heels after doing an exercise routine.

  Laura looked at Brad. “And your point is…?”

  “That I’m not proposing to totally dismantle all the wonderful and very important gains you’ve let WBBF girls make all these years,” he said, his tone unmistakably condescending.

  “And how do you see it that way?”

  “I’m all for these lovely fitness beauties you have on a pro contract at the WBBF. The way I see it is that I’m letting some of your sisterhood of iron have some kind of a professional organization last for a few more years instead of going bankrupt.”

  “Do you?”

  “You can tell people like…uh, what’s the name of that new one you just signed as a pro? Christy Gilmore, right? Tell ‘em they can lay off all the juice and still be in the WBBF. Actually, have a chance of a guy ever wanting to lay his hands on ‘em.”

  “You’re a real class act, Brad,” Laura hissed.

  “You’ve got problems, and you know it.”

  “And you’re going to come in and solve those problems, right?”

  “I’m going to come in—once I’ve won the Sun State in three days, retired from competition for good—and be named the new president of operations just after you announce your retirement. Then I’m going to put the WBBF back on the right track,” Brad said, meeting Laura’s eyes and never once blinking.

  He paused after his recitation, however, continuing to stare into Laura’s eyes, challenging her.

  “Go ahead, Brad, play your hand,” Laura said at length.

  He nodded. “I’m going to take over and take this organization where it has the potential to go. Make the kind of real money the company should be making. Promoting our products and promoting bodybuilders—men!—real bodybuilders, and not sink money into art exhibits that hemorrhage money and feminist empowerment documentaries no one wants to see. And we’re not going to waste time and money and resources on…freak shows, face it.”

  Laura no longer wanted to use the gun on Brad. She wanted to go at him with her two hands. “You didn’t seem to think they were all freaks back when…back when we met, did you? You had no problem trying to get your hands on me.”

  “You were no Christy Gilmore,” Brad said lightly. “And you know, here’s the thing I just can’t understand. You never even looked like or tried to juice so hard back in the old days, so you would ever look like these women—is that what they are?—you’re so hell-bent on promoting today. I mean, what is it? Is it like a sex thing or something like that? Turn on?”

  Laura took a deep but well controlled breath before saying evenly, “I didn’t have the genetics the WBBF rewards now, so there was no point in any more…juicing, was there?”

  Holt raised an eyebrow with a truly confused look.

  “But that doesn’t mean the genetically gifted today shouldn’t be rewarded for living up their best potential.”

  Holt’s expression hardened again. “Get real, Laura. You know what’s driving Bob Holbrook’s organization into the ground. Your obsessive pet projects. And you and I both know women’s bodybuilding is finished.”

  “And just what exactly are you proposing?”

  “All women’s contests only run as a double bill with the men’s and canceling the least profitable ones. We cut the prize money, we stop using those…women in promotions for products, and we cut all magazine features on any of the women ‘builders. Then, that art exhibit thing has to—”

  “That’s barely costing any money!” Laura exclaimed. In fact, she had just noticed, the clippings she held in her hand included a copy of an advertisement for The Amazon in the 21st Century female bodybuilder art exhibit the WBFF was sponsoring at a series of college galleries. Brad didn’t just want to go after her job. He wanted to hurt her and humiliate her in any possible way he could. The real pleasure for him was finding everything she held dear, things she believed in, and trampling on them.

  “It will have to go!”

  “You vindictive bastard—”

  “And your film production ideas. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but there’s no way that’s going to fly…well, not that we’re not going to continue expanding into film, per se.”

  There was that cadaverous imitation of a smile on Brad’s face again.

  “What do you mean?” Laura asked.

  “A WBBF and Brad Holt’s Golden Edge co-production, featuring the ladies of WBBF fitness,” Brad said and swept his hand from left to right like he was tracing a headline written in the air. “WBBF Fitness Beauties Caught in the Buff.”

  “With your…hands on approach to working with your actresses, I suppose.”

  “It’s helped me turn out such outstanding work in the past, don’t you agree?” Brad said and paused with a lecherous grin.

  “And if I announce I’ve decided to stay on in a co-presidential capacity?”

  “You won’t.”

  “I’m supposed to just step down and let you take my job and turn the WBBF into your personal brothel?”

  “You’ll step down immediately after the Sun State Classic! Or the Navajo County District Attorney will be told about the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the death of Billy Webb. Poor kid, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Killed out of a tragic, misguided act of vigilante justice.”

  Laura knew what Brad had over her, but hearing that name let her feel her face flushing like her skin was burning dry in an instant. “You think you can—”

  “Oh, I know I can,” Brad snapped. “And you know I can prove it. I don’t sit down to play unless I’ve got a winning hand, sweetie. I thought you knew that about me. It’s too bad what happened back in Arizona, all those years ago. You and your sister getting…. Well, the fact is you….” He paused and stabbed an accusing finger at Laura. Lowering his voice, he said, “You killed him, and you covered it up. You killed the wrong man, an innocent kid, and you kept quiet about it. See what happens when we take the law into our own hands? All hell starts breaking loose. And eventually, you pay the price. Now, do we have an agreement or not?”

  The moment was here, Laura realized, the blood pounding in her ear. She could just slip her hand into her purse, just like she planned, just like she had practiced the move so many times, draw the Smith and Wesson, and put a 9mm slug through Holt’s brain before he realized what happened.

  “All right,” she said instead.

  A panic alarm in her mind was over-riding the plans. She had to change them right now. Staring into Holt’s ravaged, haggard face, she recognized a better way out of his blackmail. There was a safer alternative than making it look like an obvious murder.

  “At the Sun State, I’ll announce my resignation.”

  Brad flashed one of his predatory smiles. “At the Sun State? I like that. Even under pressure, you’ve got so much style.”

  “And you’re not approaching Bob about any of your plans until—”

  “Until after the show. Of course. We can’t have word of this getting out by accident. Make it look like it had something to do with me winning the contest. Sure, it will be fantastic after the fact, the new WBBF president of operations taking over after his long-shot comeback victory, defeating competitors who are so much younger, so much stronger. But it would look bad if it gets out that I was angling for the job all along.”

  “What if you don’t win?” Laura couldn’t help asking.

>   Holt’s face clouded over, just like she thought it would. “You’re making sure I do,” he said. “Or you better be.”

  “Of course. It’s a handsome purse at stake. You can use the prize money alone to start getting your…your friends off your back, right? Start repaying what you owe before they come threatening you.”

  “Yeah. Until the WBBF and my production company—”

  “Until you start embezzling from Bob Holbrook.”

  Despite his ragged appearance, Holt was shockingly fast as he lunged at Laura and grabbed her arm. His fingers tore into her flesh like talons.

  “Don’t you ever say that again!” he spat. “Those words had better not come out of your mouth again, anywhere, or the Navajo County DA will be the least of your worries.”

  “All right,” Laura said and tried pulling her arm free, but Holt wouldn’t let go. “I told you I agree to everything.”

  Holt released her at last. “Good girl. I’ll see you back in L.A. in two days.”

  As Laura turned around to leave, she was jolted by Brad giving her a quick slap on her rear end.

  “Be careful driving home. Those roads are murder in the dark,” he called after her.

  Laura stopped and turned around. Despite Holt’s threats, she felt surprisingly energized now. “Oh, Brad. And you be careful how much time you spend on that bike in your condition.”

  “What?”

  “You look pretty dehydrated. You remember that contestant who died at the Mr. Empire three years ago?”

  Brad raised his right hand and waved. “I’ll see you in L.A., babe.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “The Sun State classic is one of the premiere events in professional bodybuilding,” Gunnar Marino said, unable to suppress a slight smirk.

  He saw the hulking guy in the Protein Torpedo supplement display booth grinning and winking at Kelly Vaughn. Kelly, standing by Gunnar’s side, shuddered and turned away as the Torpedo salesman tried to improve his impression by flexing his pectorals. Two large waves of dense chest muscle rippled under the big guy’s tight tank top.

  “Professional, huh,” Kelly whimpered and averted her gaze from her new admirer. “I guess you have to be paid to do this kind of stuff, don’t you?”

  Treating his sometime business partner to the World BodyBuilding Federation’s Sun State Classic competition at the Santa Monica Palace Hotel and Convention Center was bound to elicit an unpredictable reaction, Gunnar knew. The sport tended to be an acquired taste.

  “Anyhow, most of the professionals are backstage,” he added.

  “Tell me again how it is we’re here,” Kelly said at length, her attention darting about the expansive room. She was obviously doing her best to analyze, somehow understand a totally alien subculture.

  Gunnar, too, was starting to feel like they were a bit of an odd couple. It wasn’t just their mismatched statures, with Kelly’s five-foot-one-inch frame overshadowed by his own six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-ten pound bulk, but their attire was entirely out of place among a crowd that was made up of mostly amateur bodybuilders, fitness enthusiasts, and a fair share of gym owners. Gunnar sported navy blue slacks and a sports jacket, toned down, however, by an airy Hawaiian shirt. Kelly was even more formal in her light gray business suit, severe pumps, and white blouse. Both had come here straight from work.

  All around, a crowd milled in sweatshirts, T-shirts, jogging suits, and jackets announcing their owners’ affiliation with a number of local gyms. Clothing advertising Future Fitness, Outlaw, Amazon, Gold’s, World, or Olympic gyms was the official regalia uniting bodybuilders as an extended family, almost like the colors of gangs.

  While the majority of the people wearing the gym attire were athletes, there was also a smaller, yet significant, number of men milling about who looked conspicuously scrawny and unexercised. They were the ones here just for the love of watching the sport.

  Gunnar suspected—or hoped, rather—that he was also the only person here who had come armed. The tools of his trade, the Smith and Wesson 637, .38 caliber revolver strapped to his ankle and the Sig Sauer P226 holstered on his right hip, couldn’t exactly have been left behind in his car.

  “And who are the guys who look like they never lifted anything heavier than a pencil?” Kelly kept quizzing Gunnar.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said and nudged her arm. “And we’re here because I got free tickets, and neither of us has anything to do on a Friday night.”

  “Please,” she said, “this place is hard enough to deal with. Don’t make it sound like I have no life to speak of.”

  “It’s all right, babe, neither do I.”

  “What? Couldn’t you hook up with some gym bunny who would have been eternally grateful for a night at the premiere event in professional bodybuilding? Oh, God, I think that woman who just walked by had arms thicker than my thighs.”

  “No, Kelly, I’m not seeing anyone right now,” Gunnar began, then surprised himself when he couldn’t help adding, “My quota of relationships with people who are working as personal trainers—but they’re really actresses—has been met for this year.”

  When Kelly looked up at him, for a moment that was too long and too intense for comic effect, he almost regretted what he’d said.

  “What?” he asked. “I thought you would understand.”

  “Your quota?” Kelly was careful enough to ooze perfect sarcasm. “And it’s only August. So we reach a milestone—”

  “Oh, give it a rest.”

  “We witness Mr. Marino’s taste in relationships maturing. You realize what this means, don’t you? That important time in your life has come at last. The onset of male menopause.”

  “Like I said, we’re both free this Friday night, aren’t we?”

  “So why couldn’t we have taken in a movie?”

  “Come on. I thought you, of all people, would enjoy places where women have bigger biceps than your head.”

  “I would? Why’s that?”

  “The redefinition of patriarchal rules and all that? Isn’t that the phrase you used, or something to that effect, when you made that speech at the women lawyers’ convention?”

  Kelly looked away and shrugged. “Something to that effect. But come on, do you really find a woman with muscles bigger than my head attractive?”

  Amusing, Gunnar thought. Actually, he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard Kelly say. “What I find attractive is irrelevant. This is a sport. You mean an athlete’s abilities don’t matter as long as—”

  “Shut up!” Kelly cut him off with a mock-angry tone.

  “Besides, I wanted to show my appreciation for you hiring me back as your investigator.”

  “I never fired you,” Kelly said. “Although I don’t know why. I’m getting tired enough of your wise-cracks.”

  “Because you know you love me,” Gunnar said and slapped her on her shoulder.

  “I don’t love you,” Kelly said and pressed further through the crowds migrating from one fitness supplement booth to another. “I put up with you because you can break the jaws of my clients’ sick freak husbands better than any other P.I. I’ve worked with so far.”

  “Now I think I’m taking offense,” Gunnar tried to deadpan. After he and Kelly parted company a month ago because of a disagreement over a case, he certainly wasn’t obligated to come back and make a surveillance run past the old apartment building her law firm helped fund as a halfway house for battered women. Even as he found himself intervening when one of the residents was assaulted by her parolee ex-husband, Gunnar wasn’t sure Kelly was interested in mending fences. Of course, Kelly did ask him to come back on the payroll—which suited him just fine—but he preferred not to have to discuss it. “You’re saying I’m nothing more than hired muscle, and that offends me.”

  “Why?” Kelly asked and glanced over her shoulder, a glint in
her eye.

  “I want to be appreciated for my brilliant, deductive, investigative faculties, not just my fantastic body.”

  “Well, let me ask you this: Just how long did your fantastic body compete in these professional extravaganzas?”

  “I never reached the professional ranks.”

  Kelly’s gaze swept over Gunnar, obviously appraising his build looming over her petite figure. He was proud of the fact that he held remarkable thickness and dimension despite having stopped competing years ago.

  “They’re tough ranks to crack,” Gunnar said. “The people here are the best in the business.”

  Kelly cocked a contemplative eyebrow. Then she seemed to notice some commotion across the hall. “What’s going on?”

  Gunnar glanced to the right and pointed in the same direction. There they saw a pair of life-size cardboard paper displays of the Sun State Classic’s special guest attractions. One of the displays showed a male bodybuilder effecting a “most muscular” pose. He held his right arm in front of his marbled obstacle of an upper body, bent at the elbow and contracting an astonishing bicep. His left arm was behind his back, deltoids twisted and flexing like the steel mooring cables of a freighter ship, all the while his chest and abdominals contracted into a rolling landscape of steely flesh. The man’s legs were bent just the slightest degree at the knees, heels turned inward to show off his blocky calf muscles underneath the superhuman, fanning mass of muscle comprising his hamstrings. More than possessing mind-blowing size and mass, the bodybuilder’s physique was a perfectly constructed ideal. The athlete’s muscle groups flowed into one another. Each complemented the other. The man was good, very good. But looking at the name underneath the picture, Gunnar knew who the event’s special guest had to be. SPECIAL GUEST: 3 TIME MR. EMPIRE, ARNOLD TEMPELTON, the sign read. Having a name like Arnold in bodybuilding was akin to a boxer going under the name of “Sugar Ray” or “Rocky.”