Frozen Solid A Novel

35




“BRANK!” GUILLOTTE EXCLAIMED, WALKING INTO THE STATION’S grimy weight room. Though Guillotte’s expression and tone were friendly, Brank took a step backward. He and Guillotte had not spoken since the incident in the dive shed. Guillotte came forward.

“I am sorry for what happened,” Guillotte said. “We should not let Beakers get between us.” He winked. “And besides, what is the harm in a little drink, right?” He took a flask out of his gym bag, uncapped it, drank, offered it to Brank.

“What is it?”

“Something special. You will like it.”

Brank sipped, gingerly at first, then took a real swig. “Good shit,” he said, licking his lips. “Where’d you get that?”

“Some friends in France make it special. I keep a supply.”

Brank handed the flask back. He wore black sweatpants and a red tank top. A big man, six-two and 220, and strong, but a coat of bearlike fat covered his muscles.

“So,” Guillotte said, extending a hand. “Put that behind us?”

Brank looked suspicious, but only for a second. He shook. “No problem, man. It’s forgot.”

“Do you mind if I work out some, too?”

“Hey, more the merrier,” Brank said. He picked up fifty-pound dumbbells and started pumping out a set.

Guillotte pulled off his gray sweatshirt. Underneath, he was wearing a sleeveless black tank top that was stretched skin-tight over his torso. Brank glanced over, one lifter checking out another; then the two got down to work. Guillotte put on an old pair of fingerless gloves, started with push-ups and sit-ups and dips, then put four 45-pound plates on the bench-press bar, for a total weight of 225.

“Would you spot me for this? I am going up twenty pounds now.”

“Yeah, sure.” Brank was unable to contain a smirk at so little weight. He stood at the head of the bench and kept his hands several inches beneath the bar as Guillotte pushed it up off the rack, balanced it over his chest, and started his reps. After ten his arms started to shake and the bar’s ascent slowed.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Brank urged. “You got another one in there, push it out!”

Guillotte grunted and heaved and got the bar back in place on the uprights. He panted a few times, stood up, massaged his pecs and arms, got some water. Two minutes later he was ready again.

“Watch me close on these,” Guillotte said. “I am feeling shaky.”

“I got you,” Brank said. “Go for it.”

Guillotte managed nine, and half of the tenth. Brank had to help him get the bar back into place. Guillotte stood, red-faced, breathing hard. He patted his chest, grinned. “On fire here.” Brank nodded. He did not seem impressed with the weight. “What are you putting up now?” Guillotte asked.

“Two sixty-five,” Brank said.

“You shit me? No way. Two sixty-five?”

“F*ckin’ A, man. Want to bet?”

Guillotte looked doubtful. “How much?”

“Shit, I don’t care. Twenty bucks.”

“Yes, I bet that. Go ahead. I spot.”

Brank looked smug as he added twenty pounds to either end of the bar and locked down the collars. “Watch now, see how it’s done. You got me?”

“I got you. Go for it.”

Guillotte positioned himself at the head of the bench. Brank started to push the bar up off its rests, then stopped.

“Wait a second,” Brank said. “How many reps?”

“What?”

“How many reps I got to do here?”

“Six.”

Brank grinned. “Piece of cake.” He got the bar up over his chest, lowered it, raised to full extension, and kept going. By the fourth rep his face was scarlet and he was holding his breath on the lifts, rather than exhaling. His whole body shook with the sixth rep’s effort. Just before he set the bar back on its pegs, Guillotte said, “A hundred says you do not have one more in you.”

Brank tried to look back at Guillotte. “Done,” he gasped. He moved the bar over his chest and started lowering it. His face was the color of brick. Guillotte put his hands on top of Brank’s.

“I got it,” Brank said.

Guillotte pulled back, so that the bar was directly over Brank’s face. He began to press down.

“Don’t! What the f*ck are you—” The bar touched the bridge of Brank’s nose, and he stopped talking.

“Frogman?” Guillotte said. “You insult me, and my country? Big mistake, fat f*ck.” He pushed down again, but not very hard. Two hundred and sixty-five pounds did the work. There followed the brittle snaps of cracking bone and a very brief scream.