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fucking cab it!” Putte roared.
    It was time to get going.
    Putte called a taxi.
    JW wondered how he would be able to afford the whole night with the boyz.

3
    The gym: Serb hangout. Anabola-fixated. Bouncer farm.
Summa summarum:
Radovan-impregnated.
    Mrado’d hung out at Fitness Club for four years.
    He loved the place even though the machines were shitty. Made by Nordic Gym—an old brand. The walls weren’t too clean. From Mrado’s perspective: didn’t matter. The free weights and the clientele mattered. The overall interior: ordinary gym kitsch. Plastic plants in two white buckets with fake dirt. A TV tuned to Eurosport screwed into the wall above two stationary bikes. Constant Eurotechno from the speakers. A poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger posing from 1992, another of Ove Rytter from the 1994 World Gym Championships. Two posters of Christel Hansson, the chick with a six-pack and silicone tits. Sexy? Not Mrado’s style.
    Niche: big guys. But not the biggest training freaks—those guys weren’t made of the right stuff.
    Niche: guys who care about their bodies, size, and muscle mass but who also realize that some things trump training. Work can take priority. Honor takes priority. The right stings have priority. Highest priority always—Mr. R.
    Radovan was in on 33 percent of the gym. Brilliant business concept. Open 24/7, all year round. Mrado’d even seen guys roaring in front of the mirrors on New Year’s Eve. Putting up big plates while the rest of the country watched fireworks and drank bubbly. Mrado was never there on nights like that. He had his business to run. His own standard times were between nine-thirty and eleven at night. The gym then: perfect.
    The place was an asset in other ways. Recruitment base. Information magnet. Training camp. Mrado kept his eye on the meatheads.
    The moment right after the workout in the locker room—one of the day’s best for Mrado. Body still warm from the workout, hair wet. The steam from the showers. The smell of shower gel and spray-on deodorant. The ache in his muscles.
    Relaxation.
    He put on his shirt. Left it unbuttoned. They didn’t make shirt collars wide enough for Mrado. The definition of a bull neck.
    His workout for the day: focus on back, front of the thighs, and biceps. Worked a machine for his back. Slow pulling motions for the muscles in the small of his back. Important not to pull with your arms. Then back-ups. Training for the back, lower region. After that, thighs. Seven hundred and seventy pounds on the bar. He lay on his back and pushed upward. The angle between your lower leg and foot isn’t supposed to change, they say. According to Mrado: crap they tell rookies—if you know what you’re doing, you can stretch it out a little more. Maximum results. Concentration. Almost shat himself.
    The last part: biceps. Muscle of all muscles. Mrado only used free weights.
    Tomorrow: neck, triceps, and back of the thighs. Stomach: every day. It couldn’t get too much.
    He kept a log with daily notes from every workout session at the reception desk. Mrado’s goals were clear. To go from 270 to 290 of pure muscle before February. Then change up his strategy. Shred. Burn fat. By summertime: only muscle. Clean, without surface fat. Would look damn good.
    He trained at another place, too, the fighting club, Pancrease Gym. Once or twice a week. Guilt got to him. Should go more often. Important to build muscle power. But the power had to be used for something. Mrado’s work tool: fear. He went far on size alone. In the end, he went even further on what he learned at Pancrease: to break bones.
    He usually hung around for about twenty minutes in the locker room. Soaked up that special amity that exists between big guys at a gym. They see each other, nod in recognition, exchange a few words about the training schedge for the day. Become friends. Here also: a gathering of Radovan honchos.
    Big boy talking points: BMW’s latest 5 series. A shoot-out on the