Going Dark(9)
He raised the club again and took aim at Thorn’s hood, then thought better of it and lowered it to his side. “You’re not one of them, huh?”
“I was coming to see Mr. Prince on a different matter. I’ll be happy to move my car.”
“He ain’t there.” The old man bent down and ran a finger over the fresh dents he’d put in Thorn’s hood, looking mildly pleased at his work. “Ain’t been there for a few weeks. But does that stop the muscle boys from using his illegal gym? No, sir, it don’t. They’re back there twenty-four/seven clanking away with them weights.”
“Hasn’t been home in weeks?”
“Fucker goes off like that. Out to his island. Stays weeks at a time. Camping on that godforsaken spit of land.”
“His island?”
“Prince Key, it’s out in the bay somewhere.”
“Oh,” Thorn said, “he’s that Prince.”
“You’re sure you’re not one of them muscle heads?”
“No, sir. Big muscles, they only get in the way.”
The man squinted at Thorn. Relaxing his grip on the club. “I like that, Only get in the way. Yeah, that’s good. What’d you say your name was, kid?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir. Good luck with the muscle boys.”
Thorn got back in the VW, eased around the old man and his anger, circled back, and parked the VW behind a flashy, low-slung sports car sitting at the curb in front of Prince’s house.
He walked down the driveway following the clang of metal.
In the back he found a black woman not more than five feet tall wearing a string bikini, lying flat on her back on the weight bench pressing what looked like three or four times Thorn’s weight above her chest, raising it, lowering it. Puffing out huge breaths. Striated bands of muscle quivered beneath her shiny flesh. She wore earbuds and the music she was listening to was turned so loud Thorn could hear the hip-hop’s lyrics from several feet away. Thugs and bitches, knife in the heart. Killing my love.
She pumped away, eyes open, but never cutting a look at Thorn.
The outdoor gym was simply a concrete slab with a roof of translucent plastic and walled on three sides by flimsy sheets of lattice. The backyard was overgrown and hedged with ancient coco plums and fishtail palms. Aside from the free weights scattered about, there was a single Nautilus machine with its adjustable seat and stack of weights.
Hanging on the lattice were dozens of black-and-white photos, some shots taken at bodybuilding contests, men and women holding up trophies. But mostly beefcake shots of the denizens of the backyard gym. Men in their twenties and thirties, a couple of women, a few older folks. All of them gleaming with sweat, their eyes glowing with that narcotic high that came from pushing their bodies beyond human limits for hours on end. Cameron Prince was in most of the photos, smiling, stripped down to a skimpy thong. A massive pulsing specimen. The impresario of brawn.
Thorn was about to leave when one of the photos stopped him. He turned back, stepped closer to the wall. Behind him was the thumping beat of the rap, matching the pulse of his heart.
The photo was smaller than the others, taken on a sunny day. Standing next to Cameron in almost the same spot where Thorn stood now was a man in his late twenties. He was shirtless, wearing only yellow gym shorts, and though his body was well proportioned, he wasn’t in the same muscular league as the others.
His sandy hair was the color and coarse texture of Thorn’s, but unlike Thorn’s it was precisely and fashionably trimmed. He had a stern set to his brow, and the solemn eyes of one plagued by grueling dreams. Standing alongside Cameron Prince’s bulk, the young man seemed boyishly slender. But his stance was resolute, his head high, a shoulder-back posture.
It was Flynn Moss. Thorn’s son. The young man he barely knew.
Thorn reached out and ran his finger along the edge of the photograph, his hand trembling, the ground vibrating beneath him.
* * *
From a pay phone outside a convenience store on Bird Road, Thorn called the only number he had for Flynn. After three rings his voice mail picked up and Flynn spoke in a rushed, anxious voice, saying he was going away for a while, taking a hiatus from his TV show, not sure when he’d return, telling his mom not to worry, something had come up, and he would be taking on a challenge he’d wanted to do for a long time, something important. She’d hear all about it soon. Leave a message if you want, then the beep.
Thorn broke the connection, dropped in another coin, and dialed April Moss, Flynn’s mother. He let it reach ten rings before cutting off. He didn’t remember her cell number, so he set the phone back, went to the VW, and drove the several miles north to her house along the Miami River.