Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Rikki
I’ m not in the habit of ogling men, but with Blond Elvis, I’d be almost rude not to.
He walks toward me with the air of someone who is so used to standing out that he gives it little thought, like the only swan in a duck pond.
His enormous arms confirm his credentials, and the rest of him, clad in those butt-hugging shorts, is just as impressive.
The hair isn’t really Elvis, shorter on the sides, and the pompadour in front is flatter, secured by spray.
The half smile that borders on a smirk makes me wonder which came first, the attitude or the nickname.
So, this is the rich women’s personal trainer.
At least, you’d be motivated to show up for class.
He has one of those Laguna complexions that some have been known to deride as boring, only on him, it works. His blue eyes and shock of white-blond hair illuminate a tan that looks as if it was acquired the old-fashioned, politically incorrect way—in the sun.
“You’re Raymond Scott,” I say.
“Only when I’m having a bad day.”
His voice is a surprise, soft, borderline effeminate, although he is anything but.
It’s the secretive, musical voice of a confidant, someone who’s witnessed as many confessions as a family priest. His accent is more rainy night in Georgia than California dreaming.
Although he may have embraced the accoutrements of our state, he’s no native.
“And what kind of day are you having?”
“That depends on what I can do for you.” He gives me a friendly and somehow asexual undressing with his eyes. “You’re in good shape. What are you looking for? Upper body?”
Now I’m embarrassed, but I’m also tempted to continue the charade. Instead, I put out my hand and say, “Rikki Fitzpatrick. I’m a newspaper reporter. And you’re called Blond Elvis, aren’t you?”
“A reporter? Cool.” He shakes my hand, lowers his conspiratorial voice. “Blond, for short.”
“I want to talk to you about one of your clients,” I begin.
“No can do. Believe it or not, my job is as confidential as a shrink’s, and probably just as weird at times.”
He smiles, and I am struck by the fact that even my car when it was new was never as white as his teeth.
I look around the open gym, the assortment of shapes and sizes on their machines, the generally friendly atmosphere.
“None of these people seem ashamed to be seen here,” I say.
“Most of my clients aren’t. Those who are hide out in the posing rooms.” He starts moving in the direction of the waist-high wooden desk at the front counter, a polite way of kicking me out before I can ask any more questions.
“You, for instance. If you decided you wanted to work with me, and it was okay with you, I’d use you as a reference.
But even then, I’d never, ever share anything you told me with anyone. ”
“You must be very good at your job,” I say.
He accepts it as his due. “It’s why I can charge top dollar. That and the fact that I get results. If I can do it, you can do it. That kind of thing. Think about it. I know journalists aren’t exactly in the high-income bracket, but an investment in your body is an investment in your life.”
“You sound more like a young Bobby Warren,” I say.
“Bobbo’s good people. He’s the one you ought to interview. Has a million stories about bodybuilding in the old days, and he just loves the press.”
“I’ve talked to Mr. Warren.” We’ve reached the front desk, and I stop. “This isn’t a very good time for him.”
Not only is his face pretty; it’s also as easy to read as a book with oversize print. Right now, it telegraphs panic.
“I don’t know anything about Bobbo’s problems. Haven’t seen him for several months, now that I think about it.”
“When was the last time you saw Julie?”
“Julie, who?”
“Come on, Blond. I know you’re her trainer. Do you want to talk to me, or do you want to talk to the police?” I don’t know where the threat came from, but I let it push me through the question. Based on his expression, it seems to work.
“You tell the cops I don’t know nothing, lady. I’m just her trainer.”
“That’s what I want to talk about,” I say.
After my mention of police, Blond Elvis decides to grant me an audience, after all.
He leads me into a small room in the back, past the Employees Only sign, and we settle on a horrendous turquoise bench that reminds me of those that used to line the balcony of the public swimming pool when I was growing up in Pleasant View.
Mirrors line every wall. More mirrors on short stands fill the middle.
“So this is a posing room,” I say, trying to avoid my own reflection.
“Spare me the stereotype,” he says. “We don’t come in here to admire ourselves. We come to see if we’re doing it right.” He’s dropped his people-pleasing role and cuts to the chase before I can answer. “Don’t cause trouble for Julie, okay? She doesn’t need any more shit in her life right now.”
“Do you know where she is?” I ask.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can you tell me if she left on her own?”
He licks his lips and shakes his head. “Not if you’re going to put it in the newspaper.”
I realize he must think I work for the Times. I don’t correct him. Instead, I turn to face him and press my palms into the bench.
“I’m not looking for a sensational story,” I say. “I just want to know that Julie’s okay.”
Damn. I realize I mean it. I really am past that blind, limiting need to help my aunt avenge my cousin. I’ve been all the way out, and now I feel I’m part of the way back.
“I think she is. Julie’s a fighter.”
“What’s she fighting?”
“Do I look like Unsolved Mysteries to you?” He gets up, impatient, I can see, to be out of here, away from me. “I can’t tell you much about her, couldn’t if I wanted to. That’s because I don’t know her that well, not that I didn’t try.”
There’s no mistaking the gleam in his inky-blue eyes.
“You were interested in her?” I ask.
“Interested, shit. I dug her, okay?” The gleam disappears into pools of anger. “I’m good at my job, you know? Maybe twice I got interested, as you put it, in someone I was training. Walked away from more than most men get in a lifetime.”
“Was the interest returned?”
“Not in Julie’s case.” He sits back down on the far end of the bench. “That’s okay with me, though, because I got myself something better out of it. I got myself a friend.”
“You consider Julie Larimore your friend?”
“Damned straight.” He lifts his chin, threatening me to challenge him. “I helped her, and she helped me. We’re friends. Best thing for her if she doesn’t come back.”
“Why not?”
“Too much pressure,” he says quickly. Then, more slowly, “Can you imagine what a bitch it is to be in the spotlight like that, day and night, not to mention at old Bobbo’s beck and call?”
“You don’t like Mr. Warren?”
“I love the guy, but, hey, he’s a tyrant.”
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and turn away, but not before I realize I need to make an appointment with a real hairdresser instead of my own scissors. Damn, how do these people live with the constant self-scrutiny?
“Julie obviously had great respect for you,” I say. “Don’t you know where she is?”
“I don’t, and I don’t want to. It’s her business. When she’s ready—if she’s ready—she’ll come on back.”
Our exchange is so rapid, and his staccato responses so distracting, that I’m unable to detect how much is honesty and how much is him blowing smoke.
“Do you know where she was from, what her real name is?”
His sweet little face caves in. “What do you mean her real name?”
“That’s all I know for sure. Her real name is not Julie Larimore.”
“But it was on her checks. Printed right there, with her address and phone number.”
“Doesn’t matter. You can sign your checks Elmer Fudd, if you’re not doing it with criminal intent. Doesn’t bother the banks in the least.”
“No shit?” He rests his chin in his left hand, raking his thumb across his lower lip, left to right, left to right.
“Hey, Blond. Where the hell you been?” A trim African-American woman stops just inside the door, not sure if she should venture farther.
“I’m here now, so what do you need, Shirley?”
“You, baby. Rochelle’s on the phone for you and not about to hang up. Can you take it?”
He lifts his hand to block the thought. “No way.”
“She said it’s important.”
“Important to Rochelle could be chipped toenail polish. Tell her I’ll call her later.” Then, as an afterthought, in a more gentle voice, “And tell her to give Megan a big hug for me.”
“Will do.” The woman departs as abruptly as she arrived.
“Clients,” he says to me, but my head is spinning with what I’ve just heard.
“You work with Rochelle McArthur?”
“She’s not ashamed of it, so why should I be? I’ve been her trainer for more than a year.”
“Does she know you’re Julie’s trainer, as well?”
“That’s between them. I never talk to clients about other clients. Got to be that way since I do a lot of the Killer Body people.”
He says it with pride, and I can tell he’s committed to his job. That pride might be one way to get him to talk.
“It’s clear your clients trust you. I’ll bet you hear some stories.”
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Has Julie ever talked to you about her life before Killer Body?”
“You mean like where she worked?”
“Anything. Has she ever talked about it?”
He shakes his head. “I think she went to school in Santa Barbara, but that’s not where she was raised.
She told me she grew up in a small town between there and Santa Maria.
” He frowns and closes his eyes. “You know the place. The Davy Crockett guy started a winery or something there, bought a hotel.”
“Fess Parker?” I ask.
“That sounds right.”
“It’s Los Olivos, isn’t it?” Although I’ve never been there, I’ve seen it touted on press releases from the Santa Barbara Visitors Bureau. “Isn’t it kind of an artists’ colony?”
“You mean like Solvang?”
“I’m thinking more rustic,” I say. “Bams, old buildings converted to art galleries. That kind of thing.”
“I don’t know about that. She said it was laid back, not very many people, didn’t even have a high school. Her dad worked in a winery.” His eyes lapse into sadness. “But if she lied about her name, maybe she lied about the town, too.”
“She’d have no reason to do that,” I say. “She might have had a reason to lie about her name.”
“Then it was Los Olivos, right off of 101,” he says. “Why is it so important?”
“Because someone there might remember her. They might know who she really is.”
“I thought I knew.” His pumped-up body seems deflated by our conversation. “They can get anyone to be the Killer Body spokesmodel. I’ve met several who could do it. It’s Julie I care about, and I hope she dumps the gig.”
“What do you think makes a good spokesmodel?” I ask.
“Drive. Ambition. And willingness to do whatever it takes, including kiss Bobbo’s ass. Julie’s got all that, but she has all the money she needs. She ought to just step down, let someone else take over the pressure cooker.”
“And you really don’t know where she is right now?”
“Couldn’t tell you if I did. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
He stands up, gives me the Elvis sneer-smile, and I know I’ve gotten all that I’m going to out of him.
“If you ever change your mind about training with me, just call.” He makes one of those tongue-clicking noises I don’t usually associate with anyone over the age of twelve. “You could be awesome.”
“Thanks.” I follow him to the hallway. “I do have one question, though?”
“What?”
“Your teeth?” I say. “I have to ask.”
“Trade secret.” He gives me the grin again. “But because I like you, I’ll give you the card of the chick who bleaches them. Debra’s her name. We trade services. Nothing unethical about that. Everyone does it in this business.”
At the door, he reaches out, touches my arm. It’s a far cry from physical contact with Lucas, more like being touched by the brittle branch of a tree you pass on a narrow sidewalk. There’s that little life in it.
“Tell me the truth, okay?” If homeless people could learn how to plead with their eyes like this, they’d all be earning what he is and could afford to laminate their Will-Work-For signs.
“About her. Are you absolutely sure she isn’t Julie Larimore? Is even her name a lie?”
“Damned straight,” I say, and walk out onto the street, leaving him to return to the room of mirrors and think about what it all means.