The Harbor Health Club began as a boxer's gym on the waterfront, before the waterfront went upscale. It was owned by Henry Cimoli who had once been a lightweight fighter. Hawk and I used to work out there a long time ago when we were fighters, before we too went upscale. There had been a ring with spit buckets, and heavy bags, and speed bags and an assortment of those little skeeter bags, which I had trouble hitting, and on which Hawk could play Ravel's Bolero.
Now the waterfront was chic and the Harbor Health Club was even chic-er. Henry strolled around in white satin sweats, with Henry embroidered in gold above the pocket, and asked people if they were having a good workout. The clientele had every imaginable piece of workout gear. Designer sweatbands, wristbands, fingerless leather gloves, brilliant leotards and the absolute latest in high-tech sneakers. Most of the people who came in were so fashionable that they didn't sweat. All the exercise equipment was gleaming with chrome and flashing lights. Ergonomically engineered.
But as a nod, perhaps to his youth, and maybe Hawk's and mine, Henry, in a small side room with a window on the harbor, kept one heavy bag, one speed bag, and one skeeter bag. No ring, no spit buckets.
Hawk wasn't in the boxing room. He was doing dips in the main part of the gym. People looked at him covertly. Hawk would notice this. He noticed everything. But he didn't show that he noticed. He never showed anything, except maybe a slightly pleasant menace.
'I got us a gig out west in the desert,' I said.
'That usually means I get no money,' Hawk said. 'And somebody shoots at me, but I got to travel a long way.'
He did the dips very strictly, going way down and back up to full extension slowly. The muscles moved ominously under his dark skin.
'Not this one,' I said. 'I have a big budget and I'm paying handsomely.'
'But somebody is still likely to shoot at me,' Hawk said.
The dips seemed effortless. His voice showed no strain. But there was a glisten of sweat on his face and arms.
'Well, yeah,' I said.
'So what we got to do?'
'Find out who killed a guy. Rescue the town from a big gang of mountain trash.'
Henry Cimoli wandered by. He seemed to be bursting, in a small way, out of his form-fitting white health-club suit.
'You guys want to go into the back room,' Henry said. 'You're scaring my clients.'
'Clients?' I said.
'Gyms have customers,' Henry said. 'Health clubs have clients.'
'Health clubs run by little guys dressed like Liberace?' Hawk said, moving his body up and down on the bars.
'I try to maintain a certain image,' Henry said.
'You too little to have an image,' Hawk said.
'You keep ragging on me,' Henry said, 'and I'll up your membership fees.'
'Henry,' I said. 'We come here free.'
'Well if the Deadly Night Shade here don't watch his mouth it'll be twice that.'
'Racial invective,' Hawk said.
'Whatever the fuck that is,' Henry said.
A middle-aged woman sitting at a chest press machine in pink knit sweats called to Henry. He hustled over.
'Yes, m'am,' he said, all smiles. 'How can we help you?'
'Is this too much weight?' the woman said. Henry checked the air-pressure dial.
'How many reps can you do at this resistance?' Henry said.
'Oh, I can do a lot, but I don't want to get big and muscley.'
Henry let his glance slide over at us for a moment. 'That weight is fine, ma'am. Most women don't bulk up. They don't have the biology for it.'
'Really?'
Henry nodded thoughtfully.
'Yes, m' am. Testosterone and all that.'
'Really.'
'You can use that weight, maybe even add some.'
'Thank you,' the woman said and began pumping the iron. Henry strolled back over to us.
'How much weight she have on there?' Hawk said.
'Ten pounds,' Henry said.
His face remained perfectly blank. Behind us the woman did five reps and stopped and drank from her water
