Capitol Threat

40

In general, Loving knew all the fundamentals of successful arm wrestling. What boy who grew up in a small town in Oklahoma didn’t? It was a survival skill. Only here at Action, it appeared that the arm wrestling would get him access, not information. With luck, it might at best get him into the mysterious and salacious back room, where he might be able to wheedle out some information.

Contrary to the popular opinion of arm wrestling, Loving knew that the most important factor was not brute strength, although strength could certainly come in handy. For the push—the offensive action—what mattered was your shoulders and upper back. For the pull—the defensive action—you needed brawny pecs and biceps. Loving worked out regularly and tried to keep his upper body in shape. At his size, the only choices were muscles or flab, and he preferred muscles. He hadn’t been to the gym since he started this investigation, though, and he knew he wasn’t in prime shape.

“Push ahead,” Trudy said, standing behind him, giving him a little shove. “Take on the boy in black.”

“Nah. He’s the champ.”

“You can take him, you imposing hunk of manhood.”

Loving felt his teeth clench. “Don’t talk to me like that,” he subvocalized.

“I’m just saying what’s true. What’s wrong with that, sugar?”

Loving felt his neck stiffening. “Let me start with one of the newbies. I’ll work up.”

“No, take the top dog while you’re fresh. Get us inside that room.”

“I’m not sure I can take him.”

“I am. I’ll be helping.”

“Right. With your”—his voice dripped with sarcasm—“feminine wiles.”

“Don’t underestimate what you don’t understand.”

“I understand that you’re not—”

“Shhhh!” Trudy gave him a harsh look. “Don’t blow our chances before we’ve started. This match is almost over. The boy in black is going to take that redheaded punk down any second.”

“I’m tellin’ you, I don’t think this is smart.”

“That’s because you don’t know your own strength.” Trudy grabbed his biceps and squeezed. “But I do.”

He shrugged Trudy off. “Will you stop that!”

Trudy pouted. “Don’t you like me at all? Even a little?”

Loving’s lips pressed tightly together. “It’s not that I don’t like you…”

Trudy brightened. “Then you do like me!”

“No! I mean—I just don’t go in for…you know. Your kind.”

Trudy’s eyes widened like limpid pools. “I am what I am, Loving. I can’t help it.”

“I know. I just…you…oh, aarrghh! When do we start with the arm wrestling?”

“When you get in line, sugar.”

“Don’t call me—”

“Go.” She pinched his butt. He jumped into line.

Standing next to the Boy in Black’s table, it was easier for Loving to study his technique. He was obviously experienced. He knew that the key secret was to push with the weight of your shoulder, augmented by your back and chest—not your biceps. By leaning into your opponent, you could throw your entire body weight into the struggle. The biceps you held in reserve, using them only if you had to, probably in defense if the match started to get away from you. The Boy in Black knew all this, and it showed in his current battle against a homunculus with a bushy red mullet. The other guy was probably about twice his size, but the Boy in Black was creaming him.

Beating this dude would require Loving to be more than strong. He would have to be smart—not normally what folks considered his strong suit.

Well, if he couldn’t be smart, he could certainly manage tricky.

After he triumphed over the red mullet, the Boy in Black—dressed in a tight short-sleeved black T-shirt and black pants, sort of a Dukes of Hazzard version of Johnny Cash—took a towel from a barely clad beauty and wiped his face and hands. He grabbed the woman around the waist and pulled her close for a smoocheroo.

“You are so hot,” the woman said breathlessly. She wrapped her hands around his muscular abs.

“Cool it, sweetcakes,” he said. “I’m still working.” A thin smile—almost a sneer—emerged. “Can’t let you get me distracted. Women sap a man’s strength.”

Loving tried not to barf. He decided he didn’t like the Boy in Black, which was good. It would make this so much easier.

“Who’s next?”

“He is!” Trudy said, pushing Loving forward.

The Boy in Black gave Trudy a long, hard, very unsubtle look. He was clearly interested. “Wanna sit by me during the match, baby?”

“Sorry,” Trudy said, clutching Loving’s arm. “I’m with him.”

The Boy in Black frowned, then noticed Loving for the first time. “That right? The tramp’s with you?”

“She’s not a tramp. I mean, she’s not—”

“Why settle for a cheap cut when there’s quality meat inside, pal?”

Loving felt his lip curling of its own volition. “That’s no way to talk about a…lady.”

Trudy beamed.

“I think you owe her an apology, chump.”

The Boy in Black was not intimidated. “Uh-huh. And who exactly is going to make me?”

“Boys, boys, boys,” Trudy said, squeezing between them. “We don’t want any violence. Let’s settle this on the arm-wrestling table.” She turned to Loving and winked. “My hero.”

The Boy in Black sneered. “You think this big lug can take me?”

Trudy’s chin rose. “I think he’ll mop the floor with you.”

“Well, then, let’s get to it.” He stepped up to Loving, sneering. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

“Haven’t been here before,” Loving replied.

“Sure you want to start with me? Be a lot easier to work your way up through the bottom-feeders.”

Exactly the same opinion Loving had expressed a few moments earlier. But now that he had heard this obnoxious jerk say it, he was determined not to do it.

“I’m in a hurry to get inside,” Loving said simply.

“But no one wants you inside.”

“After that cover charge I paid at the door, I don’t much care whether anyone wants me or not. I’m goin’ in.”

“But this room you have to earn, bozo. That’s why they put me in as the gatekeeper.” He grinned, revealing an unpleasant display of poorly cared-for teeth.

If his experience had taught Loving anything, it was that the best weapon against bravado was its polar opposite. He made a strategic about-face. “Well,” he said, shuffling his feet slightly, “you’ll probably humiliate me.”

“He will not!” Trudy insisted.

“But I gotta try,” Loving added sheepishly.

The Boy in Black commiserated. “I understand. Hell of a thing, being pussy-whipped in public.”

Loving managed to keep a straight face.

The Boy in Black gave Trudy one more lascivious look. “Last chance to sit with the champ.”

“No thanks,” she replied, grabbing Loving’s arm. “I told you already. I’m with him.”

He turned to Loving. “That right?”

“Yeah,” Loving said, steely-eyed. “She’s with me.”

Loving lowered himself into the chair.

“Wait a minute,” the Boy in Black’s bimbo said. “You gotta pay to play.”

“I paid a bundle just to get in here.”

“And you’ll pay a bundle more if you want to rumble with my baby.”

Muttering under his breath, Loving pulled out a wad of real money—not scrip Trudy had collected earlier. “That do?”

The Boy in Black swept it away. “That’ll do.” He put his elbow on the table and opened his fingers. “Ready to play?”

Loving was.

He could see almost immediately that they were evenly matched, at least in terms of strength. The Boy in Black could see it—and was surprised and irritated by it—as well. They both grunted and strained, but neither made any headway. At first, Loving had a slight edge: he could feel his opponent’s fist tilting ever so slightly to the side. But the Boy in Black soon corrected the situation. This could potentially go on forever, but Loving knew he couldn’t afford a protracted match. It had been too long since he’d been to the gym, and unless he missed his guess, his obnoxious opponent was a daily visitor. If it turned into a stamina match, he would lose. He needed a different approach. The Drag.

Every bar rat in western Oklahoma knew the Drag, but he was betting that this East Coast pseudo-redneck wouldn’t. At a moment of equilibrium, Loving hooked his wrist around the Boy in Black’s till his palm faced him. Then, pulling with all his strength, he tried to drag his opponent’s wrist, not to the side in the traditional manner, but toward him.

The Boy in Black was not prepared for the Drag. He tried to compensate, but Loving could see it was a struggle. Loving pulled hard, bringing all the strength in his enormous chest, back, and shoulders to bear. In this position, the Boy in Black had to fight back with his biceps, putting him at a distinct disadvantage.

Pull! Loving told himself, trying to force all his might into the maneuver. He could feel sweat dripping down his brow. His arm began to tremble slightly, the first and surest sign that his strength was ebbing. He might have the power position, but maintaining it was tough. The longer this went, the harder it would be. The Boy in Black’s arm descended lower, then lower still…

The kid made a loud grunting noise, heaved himself back, and restored his arm to the upright position. Square one. Loving had taken his best shot—and failed.

He looked up and saw the Boy in Black grinning, those sickening teeth glistening. Damn, he wanted to beat this twerp! But the kid had the edge, and Loving knew it.

“Hang in there, sugar,” he heard a voice whisper in his ear. “We can take this steroid stiff.”

We? Where was the “we”? Loving gritted his teeth and tried to hold on. His opponent had him on the defensive, forcing him to use his biceps to keep himself in play. He couldn’t hold this position for long. He had one more trick in his bag, but he couldn’t implement it while his fist was on the way downward. If he was going to have any chance, he had to get his fist back upright.

Slowly, surely, he righted his fist to the twelve o’clock position. The Boy in Black was sweating a little, which gave Loving no end of pleasure. He had a hunch it had been a good while since this overblown clod had done any real perspiring.

Loving took a deep breath. Time to implement the Roll. This move was designed to take advantage of the weakest part of the opponent’s body—at least, the weakest part in play in an arm-wrestling match: his fingers. Instead of pushing against the other guy’s palm, Loving abruptly switched to pushing the meaty part of his thumb against his opponent’s fingers.

He saw the Boy in Black wince. Good. The Roll was having its desired effect. Ever so slightly, his hand was starting to bend.

Loving twisted his wrist around to roll the primary pressure point of his assault onto the tops of the kid’s fingers. His limp wrist buckled. Loving pushed hard. The Boy’s hand went downward.

Downward, but not down. Loving knew he was close, but not close enough. This arm-wrestling machine had recovered before. He couldn’t allow it to happen again. But what could he do about it?

Once again he heard whispering in his ear. “I’ll take it from here.”

What the hell did that mean? Loving didn’t know, and he certainly couldn’t turn around to ask, but a moment later, he became aware that Trudy was not only standing behind him but…moving. Sashaying, perhaps. Swinging her—his—hips from side to side, no doubt in the most provocative manner possible. Loving could only imagine the facial expressions that accompanied the movement. Correct that: he did not want to imagine the facial expressions that accompanied the movement. He was pleased that he could not see what Trudy was doing.

But the Boy in Black could. He resisted at first, but as the match progressed and the pressure on his fingers became more intense, he glanced away more frequently, distracted by the show taking place behind Loving’s back. It had to be good: several of the other men in the room were watching as well.

The primary tenet of arm wrestling, the single most important factor, is concentration. If your mind isn’t on the game, you’re going to lose. And sure enough, not thirty seconds after Trudy went into action, Loving managed to push the Boy’s hand onto the plush red pillow.

He’d won the match.

The Boy in Black was furious. He leaped out of his chair, then turned on his attending bimbo. “How come you never make moves like that?”

Her face flattened. “I’ve never even…seen moves like that.”

He whirled around to face Loving. “This wasn’t a fair fight.”

“I didn’t break any rules.”

“Yeah, but it still wasn’t…wasn’t…” This guy’s vocabulary didn’t have words for it. Loving wasn’t particularly surprised. He knew the Boy in Black had lost more than a match; he’d probably lost his job as well.

“All right, damn it. You can go in. Both of you.” He sneered as he opened the door. “After all, it was a team effort.”

“Let’s go then, partner.” Trudy offered him an arm.

“I am not taking your arm,” Loving hissed quietly.

“Show some gratitude.”

“I didn’t see you sweatin’ in that chair!”

“I did my part. You know I did.”

“Yeah, well…”

“It’ll look better if we go in together.”

Loving rolled his eyes, feeling as if he might explode at any moment. But the sad truth was—Trudy was right.

His linked his arm around hers. His. Whatever. And they stepped into the inner parlor.