by Robb T White
By six o’clock that evening, he was enrolled in Joe’s Gym & Dojo with his crappy Iowa identity and new name. He made a three months’ initial payment and began his first workout since he returned to Providence. The gym was an old L-shaped building from the 1920s. The tin ceiling panels were well preserved but the shiplapped walls were recent. The original cornices and stained glass halfround window conveyed a happy harvest theme; the building’s current owner oblivious to its value on eBay.
He moved between the bench press, a preacher’s bench, and one of the gym’s three ancient Nautilus machines. Years ago, when his father paid his lifetime membership at the swankiest gym in Providence, they informed him a lunk alarm was in effect; a member caught grunting at the weights had his membership revoked after a second violation. This place was all clang of iron punctuated by grunts from every corner.
By closing time at nine p.m., he felt exhausted, the muscles in his back, arms, and shoulders quivered from exertion. He slept well that night, better than he had in weeks, but the little FBI agent appeared from the dark as he moved into REM sleep.
Chapter 38
‘I DON’T THINK YOU’RE up to it,’ Gilker said.
‘My recovery is almost complete, sir. I have a signed note from my therapist—’
‘This isn’t middle school, Agent Hui.’
‘Sir, I’m grateful for your concern—’
‘Your psychological health is what concerns me,’ Gilker interrupted again. ‘I’m not putting you back in the field yet.’
‘I followed your suggestion—’
‘It wasn’t a suggestion,’ Gilker stated. His arms were crossed over his chest and he moved back to his desk. ‘You were supposed to attend six sessions, Agent Hui. A mandatory six sessions, minimum.’
‘Yes, sir, I recall. Dr. Martin felt my progress warranted reinstatement to active duty.’
She had badgered the woman until she finally relented but it meant nothing without Gilker’s signed approval.
‘Hui, you can be insubordinate when you’re sirring me to death,’ Gilker fumed.
‘I apologize, sir.’
‘Please let me think about this. I’ve got your Chicago SAC on my answering machine and the one before that—where was it?’
‘Minneapolis.’
‘Yes, they all say glowing things about your character, but it’s odd none of them wants you in their field office.’
That was a little cruel. She thought it would be best to let that one go.
‘Just—just give me time,’ Gilker said.
She returned to her carrel, careful not to slam the door. Worst case, he’d hold her to three more sessions. She’d let him stew a while and wait for him to come around.
Meanwhile she had a tray full of paperwork to get to. She could write reports with her eyes closed. Why is it no TV cop was ever shown writing reports? Gilker, to be fair, kept her busy, but he wasn’t going to let her chase down drug dealers and surveilling mosques much longer. The Fayetteville, Pittsburgh, and Buffalo field offices were too heavily invested in catching the sandwich man, and she was vital to that, whether Gilker liked it or not.
Her dentures were a good fit. She was surprised by her ‘new look,’ as Cee called it, when she drove in for a girls’ night out—pizza and beer at a club situated in a nearby mall. The slight overbite was gone, her face less concave, all thanks to a pair of plumb-bob straight, shiny new ceramic teeth.
‘You should have insisted on gold,’ Shaughnessy teased. ‘Think of the street cred.’
‘Nothing they can do for this, though,’ Jade said and touched the slight dent from the fractured cheekbone.
‘Gives you character.’ Cee laughed. ‘You earned that. No honor without scars, as they say.’
Maybe but her SAC was right about the psychological healing. That took longer. The night sweats were easing up and she had no reservations about picking up the chase. She was an unofficial clearing house for progress, but that was too unsatisfying. She had to be there when they took him down.
‘OK if we switch to wine?’
‘Still a snob,’ Cee said. ‘Your turn to buy.’
It was good to get out of the apartment, although she took some convincing. Jade caught Cee sneaking a look at her, checking her out for signs of PTSD.
‘I can’t believe you brought a book to a bar,’ Shaughnessy said.
‘It’s his. It’s part of his character. Maybe it’s a part of his motivation. We might as well ask why antimatter destroys matter. It does. That’s all there is to know.’
Shaughnessy took the book from her, glanced at the cover, and looked at the first page. She riffled through the rest of the book and tossed it onto the table between them.
‘What the fuck, you’re kidding, right?’
‘I wish I knew,’ Jade said. ‘I think some traumatic event occurred. He’s looking for something.’
‘We’re all looking for something, babe,’ Shaughnessy said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jade said. ‘If I get the chance, I’ll put a slug in his twisted brain.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Cee said. ‘Screw all that psychobabble about their mommas didn’t potty train them or love them. Who gives a shit?’
‘They taught us in law school not to waste time worrying about motivation, right? It’s all about the evidence.’
‘Gilker talked to Chicago today,’ Jade said. ‘He wants to send me back.’
‘You’re the only one who knows this guy,’ Shaughnessy said.
Three professionally dressed women in the de rigueur fashion of female executives stared at them from a nearby table. A stage whisper: ‘… lesbians.’
Shaughnessy looked at Jade, stood up, drink in hand, and casually approached the women’s table.
‘I am,’ Shaughnessy said to the one who had said it. ‘The woman I’m with isn’t. That’s a pretty sheath dress you’re wearing. I like the appliqué but the plunging neckline doesn’t work. You should go for an A-line, hon. It won’t call so much attention to your pointy little tits.’
Back at Jade’s apartment, they relaxed with more drinks and talked about everything but work.
‘Back at the bar,’ Shaughnessy said. ‘I’m sorry. You’re the last person who needs somebody to defend her.’
They hugged at the door.
‘Watch out for cops on the way home,’ Jade said.
‘Not to worry,’ Shaughnessy replied. ‘I’ll just badge them and watch ’em do cartwheels.’
‘If they don’t?’
‘I’ll tell them to suck my dick,’ Cee said and waved.
‘Then call me from the booking station,’ Jade called. ‘I’ll do bail.’
For the first night since she’d left the hospital, Jade had no night terrors.
Chapter 39
SHE WAS THERE AGAIN. This was the third time this week she showed up to work out at the same time. He decided to change the time on his next trip to the gym. She was attractive despite something white-trashy about her, mainly in the dark roots beneath the dyed blonde hair, which looked as if she hadn’t bothered to comb it out, but no question, she was fit, tight stomach on display; they bunched into rows of banded muscle when she did sit-ups with the 20-pound weight behind her neck. He wondered if she’d take a hard punch to the solar plexus. He’d jolted that FBI agent hard and she managed to keep fighting.
Some musclehead with sleeve tatts and blue Samoan glyphs on his thick neck kept coming around while she worked out. He was there with one or two friends, all bulked. They didn’t talk much—she hardly at all. At first, it sounded like boyfriend-girlfriend chat; then it sounded more like unhappy ex than indifferent girlfriend. A couple of times, the man glanced his way while he was working the speed bag or the big punching bag; both bags had as much duct tape as leather. Puffs of dust like ash issued from fissures in the floorboards every time weights dropped.
Some of his strength lost on the road came back, the tremors easing but not going away.
If sh
e happened to pass him while he was on the bench, he’d catch her looking. Once, she said ‘nice lift’ and went on to her next work station. Last night’s workout was crazy intense. She seemed to be in all his areas.
On the bench, lifting for max, she asked if he wanted her to spot. The management didn’t care if you dropped weights on your head and ended life as a vegetable.
He said, ‘Thanks,’ and she took her place behind him. He made the lift, topping his best by five pounds. While he sat on the bench taking deep breaths, she headed over to the floor mats. Just as he turned, he caught the ex-boyfriend scowling at him while he did dead lifts with what looked like a half-ton on the bar.
He finished with a light stretching workout and prepared to leave. Musclehead and his crew were gone. Usually they were here before he arrived and remained afterward. The same girl clerking at the desk didn’t bother looking up from her work. The whole place was grimy and pock-marked with water stains. It reeked of liniment clear out to the front. He had had staph infections from places far cleaner.
He was almost at his car when Musclehead and two of his friends appeared from either side of his vehicle.
‘Hang on there,’ Musclehead said.
‘Yes?’
He knew what was going to be said before the words came out of the big man’s mouth.
‘What do you think you’re doing, pervert?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Getting a boner while my girl is spotting you, you freak. I oughta beat the living shit out of you.’
‘You’re mistaken,’ Wöissell said.
Wöissell caught his signal, but he allowed it. His two pals each grabbed a bicep and pinned him against his car.
Musclehead clipped him on the jaw but he saw it coming and knew how to roll with it to take the force out of what could have been a damaging punch. Charley slumped down the side of the car, thinking this would be all and he could go on about his business. The two hoisted him to his feet. Charley added a theatric moan, hoping it would satisfy.
‘You fuckin’ pussy,’ Musclehead said.
‘Hit him again, man,’ one of them said.
‘Teach the little faggot,’ the other one said.
‘Stay away from my girl,’ Musclehead hissed in his face. ‘Or I’ll cut your dick off and shove it down your throat.’
Musclehead to his boys, ‘Hold the fucker up!’
His punch to the side of Wöissell’s head was better. He’d bruise, but he’d be fine. The trouble was that a blinding red mist came over his eyes and he just caught himself in time.
The three swaggered off, probably to a bar to celebrate their masculinity and ritualize fealty to their leader. Stupid apes. Chimpanzees, not even bonobos. Wöissell felt nothing.
Every time he tried to get back on track, something happened. That FBI woman had done this to him. He was sure that, if he went about it right, even an FBI agent’s life could be an open book. He had some homework to do, and as ever, there were public libraries and willing staff everywhere to help him do it.
Chapter 40
‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE you doing here, you little prick?’
‘I’m a dues-paying member,’ Wöissell said.
Musclehead, he’d discovered, wasn’t. Some kind of quid pro quo work under the table for the owner. Sleazy work, Charley assumed.
‘No, you ain’t, motherfucker,’ Musclehead said. ‘This is my gym and you don’t belong here. I’m provoking your membership as of now.’
‘It’s revoking,’ Charley said. ‘Maybe you should lay off cycling steroids for a while. They could be doing something besides shrinking your testicles.’
‘I don’t give a fuck what it’s—you little shit, what did you just say?’
Musclehead’s name was Steve.
Charley had come in expecting to be hassled. The girl wasn’t even here tonight.
‘Tell you what,’ Steve said. ‘If you can sling more iron than me, I’ll let you stay.’
‘Here’s a better idea,’ Wöissell said, ‘let’s see if you can knock me off the mat. If you do, I’ll leave.’
‘You fuckin’ serious?’
‘Serious as stage four brain cancer,’ Charley said.
Nick and Corey, the bookend sidekicks, sidled over, glistening sweat from their workouts.
‘You hear that? Set those floor mats up, over there. Nicky, stand by the desk. Make sure nobody bothers us.’
‘Fuck, man,’ Nick complained. ‘I wanna watch the dumbass get his dick beat into the ground.’
Wöissell watched them drag the weights stands off to one side and place the practice mats close to a spot where they wouldn’t be seen by anyone entering this part of the gym.
When the mats were set up, Steve stripped off his Gold’s tee. He exchanged his sweats for boxer briefs. The tattoo sleeve of one arm bulged when he flexed. His other arm bore a Polish eagle on his shoulder. His frog-legged thighs were sculpted from the thousands of reps of squats with 200 pounds on the Nautilus.
Wöissell stepped into the center intersection of the mats and set his feet. Without looking directly at his opponent, he said in a low voice, ‘Let’s make this a mixed martial arts contest.’
Steve’s broad face broke into a sly smile. ‘I’m gonna fuck you up but good.’
The girl at the desk heard about the parking lot incident from a witness. She told Charley to watch out. ‘He’s a straight-up cage fighter.’
‘You ready?’
‘Stop talking, Fuck-You-Up,’ Wöissell said.
He pivoted on the mat, finding his center of gravity, a matador facing a bull set to charge.
‘This is gonna be fun,’ Steve said. He glanced at his boys.
A couple of men in wifebeaters at a bench press walked over to see.
Steve sprinted toward Charley like the all-state linebacker he was in high school, arms up, fists at chest level, clenched.
‘Get him, Stevie,’ Nick called from the other room.
Wöissell looked about to be flattened, a deer on a highway when he made a last second, balletically graceful move that left Steve clutching fistfuls of air instead of his sweatshirt.
He charged again. The same result except that Charley made a half-turn at the last second with a hip thrust that knocked Steve off balance and sent him sprawling head first across the mat. It was the next part that stunned onlookers. Wöissell had wrapped himself around his back with an arm lock across Steve’s throat. There wasn’t a fraction of an inch between his body and Steve’s; it looked as if he’d been grafted onto the big man’s back.
‘Shake him off, Stevie!’
‘C’mon, Stevie boy, he’s a mosquito on your ass. Throw him!’
Steve was powerful, with or without steroids. He rose and staggered on the mat like a buffalo trapped in thick mud. His face was turning a deeper shade as the suffused blood had nowhere to go.
‘Throw him, man! Throw him!’
Wöissell was a boa constrictor. Steve wasted a precious few seconds flailing with his arms, trying to grab Wöissell’s clothing, skin, anything his fingers could reach. He ripped the sweatshirt off Wöissell’s body with a desperate grab and left a triple line of fingernail scratches.
Steve lumbered toward a Nautilus, thinking to scrape his opponent against it. Time was working against him. He had no choice but to throw himself down onto his back so that his massive body weight would do the trick. Wöissell waited for it, Steve’s back muscles rippled for the launch and body slam. Wöissell, however, timed it with an Aikido forward shoulder roll that enabled him to swing over Steve’s flattened body; he tucked his head under him into a leg scissor lock.
Steve was in big trouble. Everyone saw it now. His friends bellowed encouragement, but Steve’s brain was starved for oxygen. Wöissell’s legs obscured half of Steve’s face, flushed crimson, and locked tight under his chin. Steve’s face deepened to beet-red as Wöissell squeezed harder. Charley once practiced walking around his room with a fishbowl of water tucked between his thighs.
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Steve, somehow with a final effort from his body, struggled to his feet, a miniature atlas trying desperately to shrug off the invader hanging from his neck. On the floor or suspended in the air, it didn’t diminish Charley’s ability to squeeze, squeeze, squeeze even harder.
No one expected it, least of all Steve. Wöissell reared up and brought his hands high over his head. It resembled the referee’s safety signal in football. He slammed the palms of his hands over Steve’s ears, popping his eardrums; the effect was described by a Special Forces instructor in one of Charley’s self-defense manuals as ‘having an icepick rammed into your brain.’
Steve dropped to his knees, then face first, with Charley riding him all the way to the floor. Steve’s outstretched hands tried to pound the mat in the sign of submission.
Wöissell kept squeezing.
‘Let him up, you crazy fuck!’ Corey hollered.
‘Better call the police,’ one bystander said.
‘Better get an ambulance, too,’ another said.
Wöissell held up his hands in a who, me? gesture and smiled at the small crowd gathered around the mats. Steve was bucking but not with enough force to dislodge him.
‘Jesus Christ, he’s fuckin’ choking to death!’
A chorus of ‘Let him up! Let him up!’ echoed around the room. The desk clerk girl came over to see what the ruckus was all about, when she saw Wöissell calmly sitting astride an unrecognizable mass on the floor with a bright red object she suddenly perceived to be a human face wearing an expression no horror film ever captured. Her hand shot to her mouth.
Cops, Charley figured. Better end it. White foam came out of Steve’s mouth. His lips were blue as a corpse’s, which made a startling contrast to the fiery face.
Wöissell did a smooth backward roll off Steve and stood up in a fighting stance. A show-off move he would have disdained another time. Without looking back at his defeated opponent, he bent down and slipped his shredded sweatshirt over his neck.
Steve’s ex-girlfriend stood motionless near a rack of weights. He hadn’t noticed her come in. She stared at him. One hand fidgeted with the band of her Lycra workout shorts, exposing the cloven bump of her pudenda. The look on her face wasn’t one of fright or disgust.