Hard Rain

said in Japanese, my hands up, palms forward in a placating
    gesture. "I was hoping someone might be here. I was going to come by
    earlier but got held up. You think I could squeeze in a quick one?
    Just while you're here, no longer than that."
    He hesitated, then shrugged and turned to go back inside. I followed
    him in.
    "How much longer have you got to go?" I asked, dropping my gear bag
    and changing out of my unobtrusive khakis, blue oxford-cloth shirt, and
    navy blazer. I had already slipped on the gloves, as I always did
    before coming to the club, but the jakuza hadn't noticed this detail.
    "So I can time my workout."
    He walked over to the squat station. "Forty-five minutes,
    maybe an hour," he said, getting into position under the weight.
    Squats. What he usually did when he was finished bench-pressing.
    Shit.
    I slipped into shorts and a sweatshirt, then warmed up with some
    push-ups and other calisthenics while he did his sets of squats. The
    warm-up might actually be useful, I reali2ed, depending on the extent
    of his struggles. A small advantage, but I don't give anything away
    for free.
    When he was through, I asked, "Already done benching?"
    "Aa." Yeah.
    "How much you put up tonight?"
    He shrugged, but I detected a slight puffing of his chest that told me
    his vanity had been kindled.
    "Not so much. Hundred and forty kilos. Could have done more, but with
    that much weight, it's better to have someone spot you."
    Perfect. "Hey, I'll spot you."
    "Nah, I'm already done." (
    "C'mon, do another set. It inspires me. What are you putting up,
    twice your body weight?" My underestimate was deliberate.
    "More."
    "Shit, more than twice your body weight? That's what I'm talking
    about, I'm not even close to that. Do me a favor, do one more set,
    it'll motivate me. I'll spot you, fair enough?"
    He hesitated, then shrugged and started walking over to the bench-press
    station.
    The bar was already set up with the hundred and forty kilos he'd been
    using earlier. "Think you can handle a hundred and sixty?" I asked,
    my tone doubtful.
    He looked at me, and I could tell from his eyes that his ego had
    engaged. "I can handle it."
    "Okay, this I've got to see," I said, pulling two ten-kilo plates off
    the weight tree and sliding them onto the ends of the bar. I stood
    behind the bench and gripped the bar about shoulder-width with both
    hands. "Let me know when you're ready."
    He sat at the foot of the bench, his shoulders hunched forward, and
    rotated his neck from side to side. He swung his arms back and forth
    and I heard a series of short, forceful exhalations. Then he lay back
    and took hold of the bar.
    "Give me a lift on three," he said.
    I nodded.
    There were several additional sharp exhalations. Then: "One ... two
    ... three!"
    I helped him get the bar into the air and steady it over his chest. He
    was staring at the bar as though enraged by it, his chin sunk into his
    neck in preparation for the effort.
    Then he let it drop, controlling its descent but allowing enough
    momentum to ensure a good bounce off his massive chest. Two thirds of
    the way up, the bar almost stopped, suspended between the drag of
    gravity and the power of his steroid-fueled muscles, but it continued
    its shaky ascent until his elbows were straightened. His arms were
    trembling from the effort. There was no way he had another one in
    him.
    "One more, one more," I urged. "C'mon, you can do it."
    There was a pause, and I prepared to try some fresh exhortations. But
    he was only mentally preparing for the effort. He took three quick
    breaths, then dropped the bar to his chest. It rose a few centimeters
    from the impact, then a few more from the northward shove that
    followed, but a second later it stopped and began to move inexorably
    downward.
    iTetsudatte kure? he grunted. Help. But calmly, expecting immediate
    assistance.
    The bar continued downward and settled against his chest. "Oi, tanomu?
    he said again, more sharply this time.
    I pushed downward instead.
    His eyes popped open, searching for mine.
    Between the weight of the bar and plates and the pressure I was
    delivering, he was now struggling with almost two hundred kilos.
    I focused on the bar and his torso, but in my peripheral vision I saw
    his eyes bulging in confusion, then fear. He made no sound. I
    continued to concentrate on the clinical downward pressure.
    With his teeth clenched shut, his chin almost buried in his neck, he
    threw everything he had into moving the bar. In