The place reeked of sweat and testosterone and antiseptic cleaner.
There wasn’t a Stairmaster or an elliptical or a rowing machine in sight. Not even a treadmill.
What there was was a lot of dumbbells.
And I’m not just talking about the clientele.
There were bench presses and barbells and kettlebells and pull up bars and squat racks. There were tires wrenched from the chassis of eighteen wheelers.
And weights. Lots and lots of weights.
Nothing fancy or new about them. They were old and worn and mostly made of cast iron.
No frills, but they’d fulfill Matthew’s promise to manufacture muscles if used consistently and properly.
It was dusky in there, dust motes filling the air beneath overhead bulky canisters made of plastic and metal housing harsh oversized lights illuminating the equipment like an off-off-off-Broadway stage. The floor was a faded, stained black-and-white linoleum, with chunks of it worn away or ripped asunder.
A half-dozen men were working out, either slinging free weights or grunting and straining on bench presses.
I spotted a white door in the back fronting a small office with a glass wall. I threaded my way through the equipment, which seemed to be arranged as a kind of parcourse, a test of agility. The stench of body odor was as strong as the stink of urine coming from the homeless man outside.
The door was unmarked and half-open, and I gave it a nudge and stepped through into a roughly eight by ten space crammed with bookshelves holding office supplies and a few faded paperback body building books. A bunch of metal filing cabinets filled up wall space, along with dust mops, an ancient Hoover vacuum cleaner, and a small metal desk shoved beside the door.
The desk was immaculately clean. It sported all the usual accouterments like pens and staplers and paper clips, along with a photo of a lovely young auburn-haired woman holding a Havanese puppy in front of what looked like Lake Tahoe. A Mac laptop centered the desk.
Sitting at it was a man probably in his mid-fifties, bald, and shredded like a chunk of granite meticulously molded by Michelangelo.
I can play the alliteration game too.
The man looked up from his laptop and frowned. He had a nose that had been broken in several places and a prominent brow, along with thin lips and a strong chin. His eyes were dark. They’d seen it all and remained unimpressed.
“Matthew?” I tried.
“He’s dead,” the man replied in a shockingly high-pitched voice that probably was the reason he started weightlifting. All that being made fun of in middle school for having a girly voice.
No one was going to mess with him now.
He just stared at me with an annoyed expression on his face, not bothering to introduce himself or welcome me to his little gym.
“My name is Max Plank.”
That didn’t alter his expression.
“Are you the owner?”
He waited a long time but eventually said, “Yeah. I guess so.”
I was surprised there wasn’t a line of hopeful lifters threading all the way out the door and spilling into the street, clamoring to get into this customer-friendly place.
“There’s a homeless man outside, lying in front of your front door. Looks like he’s hurt.”
“Yeah?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said back. “Didn’t you have to step over him to get in here this morning?”
He raised his eyebrows, and his rock-like facial structure tightened. He put a foot out and rolled his chair away from the desk and toward me. He crossed his arms across his chest, displaying pectorals bursting beneath his tight black Matthew’s Manufacturing Muscles t-shirt. His biceps bulged like balloons.
It was an impressive display, and I reacted accordingly.
“So they called you a sissy a lot when you were in school.”
That expanded his range of retorts. “What the fuckin’ hell?”
His face flushed crimson, and his massive hands clutched the chair’s armrests. He leapt to his feet and stood trembling in front of me.
He hadn’t made peace with his past. I doubt he’d even seen a therapist.
I like to make a strong first impression on people, but, as Marsh tells me, sometimes I get a little carried away.
“Lookit, I meant no insult. What you’ve done with yourself in the face of all that bullying is admirable. And there’s nothing wrong with being a sissy anyway, is there, really?”
I thought he was going to lunge at me with a fist, and I shifted my right foot subtly forward, preparing myself.
But he surprised me. He released his clenched fists, snorted through his nose, and chuckled. He was consciously calming himself.
Maybe he had seen a therapist or was a practitioner of meditation.
All that remarkable musculature seemed to relax, and he eased back down into the chair. He sat there for a few seconds, gathering himself, and then looked at me with a half-smile and muttered, “What the fuck you want?”
“Thinking about joining your gym. Friend of mine recommended it.”
“Fuck,” he said.
Nothing wrong with the words “fuck” or “yeah,” but this guy was taking the fine art of conversation to a whole new level of brute conciseness.
“Yeah. Bobby Fenderdale. He comes here and told me I should check it out. So here I am. I like what you’ve done with the place.” I turned and looked back out at the gym. “Simple, old-fashioned, but to-the-point.”
“We’re full,” he mumbled.
I turned and looked at him, then turned back and looked out through the glass, then looked back at him, then back out, then back at him, then back out.
He caught my drift. “Funny guy. Just cuz there ain’t a lot of guys here now doesn’t mean we aren’t full. We’re full. Damn full. Give me your name and I’ll put you on our list. Anybody quits, I call you when your turn comes.”
“That sounds amazing,” I said. This hadn’t gone as I expected. I’d chosen the wrong tack. “All right. Let me be honest with you. You know Bobby, right?”
He was shuffling around in his desk, probably looking for a waiting list I was sure didn’t exist. He didn’t answer me.
“Bobby’s disappeared and I’m looking for him. Could you tell me the last time he was here? The last time you saw him?”
He stopped rifling through papers and looked up at me. “I don’t know.”
“Look, I apologize. Sometimes I put my foot in my mouth. It’s a bad habit.”
He looked up at me reflectively and said, “Foot in mouth disease.”
Wow. I’d completely misjudged him. He had wit, if not charm. “May I ask your name?”
He stifled a little sigh and murmured, “Leslie. Leslie Meadows.”
I almost lost it, but with a great force of will, restrained myself. It must have been hell for him. Sounding like Truman Capote and saddled with a girl’s name. The brutally long hours he’d spent sculpting his body must have seemed an appropriate response, an overcompensation that fixed what you could see but probably made what you couldn’t worse.
I have a bachelor's degree in Psychology, obviously.
“Leslie, really, Bobby’s daughter and brother and friends are really worried about him and would really appreciate any information you could provide.”
“Bobby has a daughter?” he said.
I nodded. I remembered her telling me she’d visited this place a couple of times recently to talk to people here about her father. Why hadn’t she chatted up the inimitable Leslie?
“Yes. Do you remember the last time you saw him?”
“Couple weeks ago.”
“How often did he come in?”
“Two, three times a week.”
“For how long has he been coming here?”
“Few months.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be now?”
He shook his head.
“Do you know any places he used to hang out? Anything he mentioned, things he liked to do?”
<
br /> Leslie lowered his chin. “We weren’t best buddies or anything. I showed him how to lift. We shot the breeze a few times. I don’t know much about him other than that.”
“Anything you can remember about how he acted or what he said the last time he was here?”
He screwed up his face, racking his brain for memories. “Naw. Nothing.”
“Was he friends with any of your other clients?” I turned and pointed to the lifters outside. “Any of those guys?”
“Probably. He was a talker. Talked too much as far as I was concerned. I’d ask Carlos out there, the Latin dude with the slicked-back hair. He’s a big talker too, and the two of them sometimes did more chatting than lifting.”
“Thanks,” I said as sincerely as I could manage. "Can I give you my number?” I didn’t wait for a response, just dropped my card on his desk. A simple blue card suggestive of the sea with my name and cell phone number. “If you remember anything at all about Bobby, call me. His family would really be grateful.”
He picked up a pair of reading glasses and squinted at the card. “You a friend of his or some kind of detective or something?”
“A little of both,” I said.
I turned away, and as I passed out of the threshold to his office, he called out, “Hey, he used to go across the street to eat now and then. Don’t know if he played the tables there or not. But he liked their breakfast special.”
“Great. Thanks. You’ve helped.”
“Yeah. The breakfast special’s good. Two eggs any style, bacon, hash browns, toast, juice, all for $2.99.”
Suddenly Leslie had turned chummy for no reason I could fathom. I had a tendency to grow on people, but this seemed odd.
“I’ll give it a try. Thanks,” I said.
As I reached out to grab the door, Leslie added, “I called the cops to come and help out with Robert out front. He’s a regular here, but he must have gotten into trouble last night. They’re slow to react these days when it comes to the homeless.”
I turned back and smiled at him. “Good man,” I said and went out to talk to Carlos, the Latin dude.
Six
Carlos was eager to help, but had little to add to Leslie’s information.
He confirmed that he and Bobby had been gym buddies, but he knew little about his life outside the gym. They talked mostly about politics, the 49ers, women, and lifting.
They agreed that politics was crazier than anything, except for women, and that lifting was life-changing, and the 49ers were shit.
Carlos liked Bobby but thought he had some troubles. He couldn’t elaborate, just mentioned he was anxious, especially recently. They rarely saw each other outside of the gym, only a few meals together across the street at the casino.
He also knew nothing about Bobby having a grown daughter.
I wondered if Paula had been telling me the truth about coming here to find her father. I didn’t know why she’d lie, but I didn’t like it. I was glad that Marsh would check her out.
On my way out, I called the San Bruno police department to report the sad condition of Robert the homeless. I figured a follow-up call to Leslie’s might light a fire under them. I checked on Robert once more, stuffed a ten-dollar bill in his coat pocket, and then wandered across the street to check out the breakfast special at Fred’s Flapjack Casino.
I promised myself that this would be it. My search for Bobby would end right here at Fred’s. Anything I turned up, I’d hand back over to his daughter and whatever investigator she hired. I needed to get home and get ready for Hawaii. I needed to call Alexandra and…well, tell her…
But that could probably wait until we were in Aloha land.
It turned out I was ten minutes past the twelve-noon cutoff time for the special. I could still get eggs and all sorts of pancakes, but the price was no longer special.
I ate some oatmeal pancakes and had a big cup of burnt coffee in a well-used white mug while taking stock of my surroundings. Just like Matthew’s gym, Fred’s was a throwback.
It was more a card club than a full-fledged casino. There were poker and blackjack and Baccarat tables. The place was dimly lit, gaudily carpeted, and, at least, at the moment, a sparsely populated gambling den.
There were about twenty tables altogether with dealers at only three of them and only a dozen patrons present. There were two restaurants, the coffee shop I was in, and an Italian spot, Frederico’s Villa, on the other side of the casino.
In the middle of the main floor beneath a large neo-Baroque candelabra was a glass-enclosed booth with flashing neon lights proclaiming Jackpots! A bored-looking young blond-haired woman in a black evening dress leaned against the side of the booth studying her iPhone.
A grand piano sat beneath a gauzy spotlight near the western wall. A nook beside it featured a bar covered in black vinyl with large metallic nails holding it down. A backdrop of mirrored shelves stowing liquor bottles glistened in the half-light. A tall, slim attractive older woman, also wearing a black dress with a pronounced V-cut, polished beer mugs at the bar while a distinguished looking black man in a tuxedo sat at the piano playing notes softly and singing to himself.
I finished my flapjacks, paid my bill, and wandered over to the bar.
The bartender tendered a sweet smile and a welcoming hello. There were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips. She was probably in her mid-forties and looking good. The low-cut dress allowed a view of the top of a small but nicely shaped bosom.
“Selma,” I said, reading the name tag pinned right beside her cleavage. “Can I bother you for a cranberry juice?”
“My pleasure,” she said, in a rich, husky voice. She fixed it up for me all fancy with a twist of lime and a little rainbow-colored umbrella floating amidst the ice cubes. Looking at her creation, I felt kinda special.
When she handed it to me, I thanked her and introduced myself with a proffered hand. “I’m Max.”
She looked at it for a moment, then touched her fingers lightly to mine.
“How long have you been working here, Selma?”
Her eyes sparkled, or maybe it was just the light. “Almost five years.”
“Like it?”
“Mostly. Meet some interesting characters.”
“You like that? Meeting characters.”
“Sure. Beats working in an office.”
“I hear you. Selma, could I ask you a question?”
“Ask away.” She picked up another beer mug, held it up the light, and polished it.
“I was wondering if you remember one particular guy who’s been coming in here now and then, name of Bobby Fenderdale?”
She stopped rubbing, scrutinized my face for a moment, trying to figure out who I was. She didn’t ask the question I expected though. “What’s he look like?”
I described him in brief, and Selma said there were more than a few who resembled that description, but she couldn’t say she knew much about any of them.
“There’s a steady stream of men who come here, especially at night.”
“Bobby was here mostly in the mornings. He liked the breakfast special.”
A man stepped out from a darkened hallway behind the bar. It was dark back there in the nook, and I hadn’t noticed the passageway. He was young, in his twenties, and had long sideburns and a handlebar mustache. He wore a cheap suit and a skinny red tie over a blue denim shirt. He looked at me for a moment longer than he should have and then barked at Selma, “Did you finish everything up for the party tonight?”
“Mostly. I still have to check on the printed menus and make sure the extra liquor is delivered and go pick up the favors and then do the flapjack thing on the napkins,” Selma said.
“Don’t you think you should get moving then?”
“It’s under control, Randy.”
“Better be,” he growled, smirked at me, and disappeared back in the hole he’d crawled out of.
Selma sighed.
“That the boss?”
“His son.
The boss has got class that wasn’t passed down to Randy.”
“Who’s the boss?”
“Fred, Jr.”
“Fred Flapjack, Jr.”
She laughed. “Yeah. That’s him. Only he goes by the last name Coleman.”
“Do you think the piano player might know the guy I’m looking for?”
She looked over at the man seated at the piano, who was gently stroking the keys and singing “Stormy Weather” in a soft voice. She shrugged.
“What’s his name?”
“That’s Maximum Joe. He’s been playing piano here and all over the Bay Area for the past hundred years.”
“Nice talking with you. And thanks for the cranberry juice.” I offered my hand again, and this time she gave me her whole palm and the benefit of her thumb running along the side of my baby finger.
“Aren’t you going to ask me out?” she said, her voice even huskier than before.
I felt my cheeks redden, and I left my hand in hers for a few seconds as her nice thumb continued to play footsie with my finger. “Sorry. I’m going to be getting on a plane to go with my girlfriend to Hawaii tomorrow.
“Tomorrow is tomorrow. Now is now,” she said, her thumb no longer rubbing, but lifted just above my hand, a promise if I responded properly to her common sense observation about the nature of time.
“I don’t think my girlfriend would see it that way.”
She pursed her lips into a pout. Slipped her hand out from beneath mine. I felt a little pang of loss. “Just my luck,” she said.
“Selma, you dodged a bullet. Don’t give me another thought.”
“Bye, Max,” she said, her voice purring, her eyes twinkling. “Just in case you need more cranberry juice, I’m here Tuesday through Saturday, six to midnight.”
“Nice to know,” I said. I may have grinned stupidly before I turned away.
I stood next to the piano and waited for Maximum Joe to finish “Stormy Weather.” He was almost whispering the song, but his voice was still full of warmth and pathos. When he finished the last lyric about how it was “‘rainin’, ‘rainin all the damn time,” I took out my wallet and put a twenty-dollar bill in the glass jar on the piano.
Devil's Arcade Page 4