Authors: David Stukas
Biceps Of Death (3 page)
Michael smiled confidently.
“Eric isn’t going to tell them a thing, Robert. The guy is two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle and has big tattoos on his biceps. He’s not going to talk.”
“Michael, just last week, Eric pinched his hand in one of the weight machines and he screamed like a baby. I think we’re sunk. I guess we shouldn’t go back to the gym for a while.”
“Oh great. Can’t go the gym?!” Michael stated as if I had just told him that he would never walk again. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“Well,” I said, scrambling for an answer, “join another gym for a while. You can afford it. I can’t—you paid for my membership to Club M and I can’t afford to join another.”
“I just can’t go to another gym, Robert. This gym and I are in synch with each other.”
Then I remembered something. “You’re right. You can’t go to another gym—you’ve been thrown out of all the others because they caught you having sex in the shower room.”
“Sort of,” Michael confessed. “You know how I hate it when you’re right, Robert.”
“The only course of action is to lay low for now, which, for you, Michael, shouldn’t be much of an effort.”
“Ha, ha,” he replied sarcastically.
“So I’ll just leave the CD here ...” I said, laying the CD case down on Michael’s table and preparing to leave.
“Oh no you don’t,” Michael said, flying into action. He shoved the CD case back into my hand and clamped my fingers down on it with his iron grip.
Oh well, you can’t blame a guy for passing the booby prize off on someone else. I snatched the CD and left Michael’s apartment. It wasn’t just because I was trying to protect Michael that I took the CD home with me. I figured if I was accosted by the two goons in the gym, at least I would have something to give them. Michael could only plead in agony as they put his feet into cement galoshes and dropped him in the East River. On the way home in a cab, I chuckled to myself over and over at the mental picture of the henchmen trying to sink Michael as his pectoral and penile implants kept him bobbing up to the surface. I would have kept on laughing all night long if it weren’t for the fact that the next morning, I caught the news and found that Eric Bogert made headlines. It seemed that he, too, had tried to fly off his apartment balcony and forgot to pack a parachute.
2
If Life Hands You a Hot Potato, Make French Fries
T
he press had a field day with Eric’s death. One headline screamed,
BODYBUILDER SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE
? I tried to ignore the story, except that as I perused the article, there was my name as the proud recipient of the CD-ROM that contained unnamed VIPs in compromising positions. Great. Now the press, lawyers, and assorted psychos had a clear road map to my door. I was a sitting duck.
he press had a field day with Eric’s death. One headline screamed,
BODYBUILDER SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE
? I tried to ignore the story, except that as I perused the article, there was my name as the proud recipient of the CD-ROM that contained unnamed VIPs in compromising positions. Great. Now the press, lawyers, and assorted psychos had a clear road map to my door. I was a sitting duck.
I sat in stunned silence. How the fuck did the press get hold of that information when I was sure that only the pavement-kissing Eric Bogert, Michael Stark, and I knew who held the dreaded disk? I would never again underestimate the power of the Fourth Estate. For years, I had reveled in celebrity dirt exposed, but now
I
had been exposed and I knew exactly how Jackie O. felt when the press snapped pictures of her changing from a swimsuit into her beach clothes after a swim in the waters off Martha’s Vineyard: I felt naked for all the world to see.
I
had been exposed and I knew exactly how Jackie O. felt when the press snapped pictures of her changing from a swimsuit into her beach clothes after a swim in the waters off Martha’s Vineyard: I felt naked for all the world to see.
In times of crisis, I did what I did best: I panicked. Then I slapped myself and picked up the phone and called Monette O’Reilley, towering lesbian, amateur sleuth, and the person most likely to get me out of this mess.
She answered the phone with a psychic sense of intuition that it would be me. The woman didn’t need caller I.D.
“Jeeeeeeesus, Robert! What have you gotten yourself into this time?” she whooped into the phone. “This makes your adventure in Berlin look like child’s play.”
“Thank you for reminding me that someone just pulled the rug out from under my feet and that my life, dismal though it often seems, is now bleak with a capital B.”
“Now, now Robert,” she chided me. “There is another way of looking at this matter.”
“And what, pray tell, might that be?”
“A lot of people are willing to pay dearly for those photos: the tabloids, corporate competitors, but mostly the guys whose photographs are on the CD you now hold. You’re a rich man, Robert.”
Monette had a point, bless her. I didn’t know the legalities of selling the photographs and figured that blackmail wouldn’t be looked upon too favorably by the law, but this was America, goddamnit, and the entrepreneurial spirit that allowed some poor slob like me to make a fortune off the misfortunes of others was a part of what made this nation great. After all, the Vanderbilts and the Rockefellers had built empires off the same principle of taking advantage of a situation and muscling others out of the way with threats and intimidation.
My life was about to become
Gourmet
magazine and
Vanity Fair
all rolled into one. My life would be perfect. I would live in a fabulous downtown loft made of glass and I would wear clothing made entirely of titanium that was comfortable as well as practical. I would listen to jazz and classical masterpieces from microchips inserted into my ears so I wouldn’t have to listen to all the stupid shit that people said. I would be driven around Manhattan by my gorgeous bodyguard and sidekick, Ito, in a hydrogen-powered SUV while I dined on Himalayan Mountain chickens and drank champagne and tossed garbage out the window at the feet of people like Donald Trump. I would—
Gourmet
magazine and
Vanity Fair
all rolled into one. My life would be perfect. I would live in a fabulous downtown loft made of glass and I would wear clothing made entirely of titanium that was comfortable as well as practical. I would listen to jazz and classical masterpieces from microchips inserted into my ears so I wouldn’t have to listen to all the stupid shit that people said. I would be driven around Manhattan by my gorgeous bodyguard and sidekick, Ito, in a hydrogen-powered SUV while I dined on Himalayan Mountain chickens and drank champagne and tossed garbage out the window at the feet of people like Donald Trump. I would—
“Robert, come back to earth,” Monette said, breaking in on my pleasant daydream. “I can tell you’re tripping off on some fantasy. Hello?”
“I’m here,” I sadly admitted, savoring that last bite of grated Gila monster gonads sautéed in sage butter before I came back to reality. “So what’s my next step, Monette?”
“Did you make a backup copy of the disk and store it somewhere safe?”
“Yup.”
“And the copy is where?”
“On the Internet in my extra-large Yahoo mailbox.”
“Good, because you’re probably going to have to turn over the original to the police as evidence. You might consider putting the copy in the bank temporarily—in a safe-deposit box. You might consider renting one.”
“I already have a box at the bank,” I said proudly.
“I’ll bet you have all your insurance papers there, a videotape of your possessions, your will, and the U.S. savings bonds your granny gave you when you were three that have grown from twenty-five dollars each to eighty thousand dollars apiece.”
“My grandmother didn’t give me savings bonds. She was from the Old Country, so she gave me old calendars with the Pope’s picture on it. She was afraid to throw them away because they were like holy relics to her, so I ended up with them—like I was going to frame them or something. Just what I wanted on my bedroom walls, Pope Pius grimacing down on me from the year 1957. He still gives me nightmares.”
“Are you through?”
“Am I ever?”
“Okay, Robbie my boy, you need to contact the police with your information—if they aren’t on their way to you right now. Actually, I’d make another copy of the disk and give the original to the police ... and handle the real one carefully so you don’t smudge the fingerprints on it.”
“I think that ship has sailed. Michael was pawing it like Rush Limbaugh after a bottle of painkillers.”
“Okay, get off the phone, call the police, and tell me what happened later.”
Click. She didn’t even wait for me to say goodbye.
I picked up the phone book and looked through the dozens of police phone numbers precinct by precinct. Should I be calling the precinct the gym was in? Or where Eric was murdered? Shit, I forgot how high up on Madison Avenue Eric lived. What if Eric’s apartment was in one precinct, but when he hit the pavement, he ended up in another? Or should I call the precinct where
I
live? By the time I figured out the proper precinct to call, I could be murdered.
I
live? By the time I figured out the proper precinct to call, I could be murdered.
I picked up the phone and dialed 911. I informed the operator who answered my call for help that this wasn’t an emergency
per se,
but it was extremely important. I was bounced from precinct to precinct, from department to department. Then I finally neared my quest. An officer told me to hold the line—he would put me in contact with the detective assigned to the Bogert murder.
per se,
but it was extremely important. I was bounced from precinct to precinct, from department to department. Then I finally neared my quest. An officer told me to hold the line—he would put me in contact with the detective assigned to the Bogert murder.
The phone was answered by a man with a gravelly voice that had undoubtedly been mellowed and seasoned by years of whiskey and cigarettes. Was I talking to Philip Marlowe? Or was it Sam Spade?
“Detective McMillan here. How can I help you?”
Short, to the point, I thought.
“My name is Robert Wilsop ...” I began to say, expecting that he would pick up the trail and run with it, telling me that he knew all about me, where I’d been to lately, what clubs I couldn’t get into, and how many of my former dates had criminal records. But there was nothing of the sort.
“Yes?” he offered.
“I have the CD-ROM that Eric Bogert gave to me ... the one with all the photos on it.”
“Oh,
that!
” he exclaimed as if he had forgotten something important. “Yes, yes, I would like to meet you ASAP. Can you meet me at the Club M gym in half an hour? I’m doing an investigation there.”
that!
” he exclaimed as if he had forgotten something important. “Yes, yes, I would like to meet you ASAP. Can you meet me at the Club M gym in half an hour? I’m doing an investigation there.”
Before I left, I made a copy of the original disk and left it on my work desk next to my computer. Then I grabbed my gym bag and workout clothes, and headed down the stairs.
The gym was the last place on earth I wanted to go, especially with a CD-ROM that half of New York wanted to get their hands on, but felt it would probably be safe with policemen everywhere. This erroneous thought was probably the same one that Lee Harvey Oswald had had just moments before he met up with Jack Ruby.
H
olding my gym bag tightly, I walked out of my building to take the subway downtown. The moment I stepped out into the street, I knew that my life would never be the same again. I was hit by hundreds of tiny flashes, blinding me. It wasn’t a bomb or even a gun—it was much worse. Dozens of members of the press stood outside like a school of starving barracudas. The questions started flying like shrapnel.
olding my gym bag tightly, I walked out of my building to take the subway downtown. The moment I stepped out into the street, I knew that my life would never be the same again. I was hit by hundreds of tiny flashes, blinding me. It wasn’t a bomb or even a gun—it was much worse. Dozens of members of the press stood outside like a school of starving barracudas. The questions started flying like shrapnel.
“MR. WILSOP, WERE YOU FRIENDS WITH THE MURDERED PERSONAL TRAINERS CODY WALKER OR ERIC BOGERT?”
“DID YOU AT ANY TIME HAVE SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH ANY OF THE TWO MURDERED PERSONAL TRAINERS?”
“MR. WILSOP, MR. WILSOP ... COULD YOU GIVE US THE NAMES OF ANY OF THE PROMINENT NEW YORKERS WHOSE PICTURES ARE ON THE CD YOU HAVE IN YOUR PROSSESSION?”
Now I knew how Princess Diana felt. The reporters rushed me, shoving microphones in my face and clamoring for answers. The only difference between me and the late princess was that I didn’t have a single member of the British Secret Service to push the phalanx away from me. One of the reporters actually grabbed my belt and tried to keep me from running away from the questions she peppered me with. I was going to whack her red talon-finger away from me, but I spotted the television cameras capturing my every move, so I thought it best not to strike the bitch down. (My belt-grabbing reporter was clever enough to keep her tether on me hidden from the cameras—she must have been a seasoned pro.)
I felt that I should say something, but every time I saw someone on television utter “No comment,” I assumed they were guilty as hell. So I said nothing. I was going to take the subway, but opted for a cab, since I doubted that the wolves would give chase. They didn’t. On the ride down, I tried to unruffle my feathers, smoothing my shirt and pants and discovering that when I ran my hand over my ass, my wallet was missing. I decided that the cursed CD was bringing me nothing but bad luck and I wanted nothing more than to ditch the goddamned thing as soon as I could.
When I arrived at the gym, the police were swarming all over the place, going over everything with a fine-tooth comb. I asked several policemen as to the whereabouts of Detective McMillan and was finally told that he hadn’t yet arrived. I asked them to inform McMillan that I would be on the treadmill when he showed up.
Not wanting to waste good gym time waiting, I went into the locker room and changed into my workout clothing, then trotted (healthy people trot) to the treadmill for some cardiovascular exercise. As I bobbed up and down on the treadmill trying desperately to drop some extra carbs, I realized that I was about to tell a New York City detective that I was turning over the only copy of the CD-ROM when, in fact, I was keeping the ability to make thousands. The more I thought about it, the guiltier I felt. I was turning into Barbara Stanwyck and Fred McMurray in
Double Indemnity
. The guilty can run, but they can’t hide, and it would only be a matter of time before the police surrounded me, ordering me to drop my weapon. I would burst out of the locker room in a desperate attempt at freedom, whereupon I would die in a hail of bullets. The chief lieutenant, lighting up another Lucky Strike filterless cigarette, would roll my lifeless body over with the toe of his black-and-white wing-tipped oxford and proclaim that if only I had given up all copies of the CD sooner, he would have put in a good word for me so I wouldn’t get life in Sing Sing, playing boy-toy to an inmate named Mugsy.
Double Indemnity
. The guilty can run, but they can’t hide, and it would only be a matter of time before the police surrounded me, ordering me to drop my weapon. I would burst out of the locker room in a desperate attempt at freedom, whereupon I would die in a hail of bullets. The chief lieutenant, lighting up another Lucky Strike filterless cigarette, would roll my lifeless body over with the toe of his black-and-white wing-tipped oxford and proclaim that if only I had given up all copies of the CD sooner, he would have put in a good word for me so I wouldn’t get life in Sing Sing, playing boy-toy to an inmate named Mugsy.
There was a loud bang and I dropped to the floor faster than a government informer in Sicily, which wasn’t as simple as it may seem. Since I was on a treadmill, I fell on the moving belt and was ungraciously ejected off to the rear of the machine with a great series of clattering thumps followed by a skin-burning skid. Ow.
I wasn’t shot. Nor was anyone else. The guy next to me had dropped the book he was reading, and like books have a tendency to do, it had landed flat as a pancake on the rubber floor and produced a deafening crack. I looked at the title of the book:
Wearing Black to the White Party
. I instantly hated this book and wished ill on its author.
Wearing Black to the White Party
. I instantly hated this book and wished ill on its author.
One of the investigators came running up to me, asking me if I was all right and helping me to my feet. He was everything I thought a homicide detective should be. His jaw was square and hard—with a five-o’clock shadow thick enough that you could grate parmesan on it. His hair was thick, black, and wavy—the kind you could run your fingers through during a bout of passionate lovemaking. And his eyes ... they were as blue as Lake Tahoe on a placid day. His olive complexion hinted of Italian-American roots. I could even overlook something that normally bothered me—hairy knuckles. On him, they seemed the very essence of a man engaged in dangerous work. Plus, there was always electrolysis. He was also the right age. I guessed him to be about forty, maybe forty-five. Very sexy, very mature—very tempting. McMillan was not my usual cup of tea, but for some reason I felt very attracted to him. He helped me up.
But I had to resist temptation. I was still in a cross-country relationship with Marc Baldwin, the event planner in Palm Springs with whom I had struck up a relationship after my last visit less than a year ago.
“I’m Detective Luke McMillan, homicide,” he said like he was a member of
Dragnet.
Dragnet.
“Robert Wilsop,” I said, “clumsy gym member.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he began. “Mr. Wilsop ...”
“Robert, please,” I corrected him.
“Robert ... sorry I didn’t connect your name with Eric Bogert’s murder right away. So tell me, Robert, how did the press get hold of your name so quickly? Did you call them?”
“No, it was a complete surprise when I saw my name in the story.”
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