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 beforeI 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.
