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city’s south side over the weekend. New triceps training exercises.
    Two dudes were shoveling tuna fish from one-pound containers. A third sipped on a gray protein drink. Bit into a PowerBar. The idea: to scarf as much protein as possible directly post-workout. Rebuild broken muscle cells into even bigger ones. An unknown face among the guys, a newbie.
    Mrado was big. The new dude: gigantic.
    He defied the regular ritual: Come a few times. Keep to yourself. Check out the scene. Show humility. Show respect. This guy, the giant, sat right smack in the middle. Seemed to think he was one of the guys. At least he’d kept his mouth shut so far.
    Mrado put on his socks. Waited. Was always what he put on last. Wanted his feet to be completely dry.
    “I’ve got a job this weekend, if anyone’s interested.”
    “What is it?” Patrik asked. Swede. Ex-skinhead who’d left his own and been working for Mrado instead for a year now. His Nationalist tattoos were all over the place. Hard to distinguish. A green mess, mostly.
    “Nothing too big. Just need a little help. The usual.”
    “How the hell’re we supposed to work if we don’t know what it is?”
    “Relax, Patrik. Don’t get so worked up you shit yourself. I said it’s the regular.”
    “Sure, Mrado. I’m just fucking around. Sorry. But what’s the deal?”
    “I need some help collecting. You guys know my routes through town.”
    Ratko, a countryman, Mrado’s friend and squire, raised an eyebrow. “Collecting? Something more than the usual? Aren’t they paying up every weekend like they’re supposed to?”
    “Yeah, most of ’em. But not all. You know how it is. Might be some new bars who want us, too.”
    One of the few Arabs at the gym, Mahmud, was smearing wax in his hair. “Sorry, Mrado, I gotta work out. Do another session every night.”
    “You work out too much,” Mrado replied. “You know what Ratko says. There are two things that’ll give you blisters up the ass: being too small in the slammer, so you have to take cock, and always pressing at the gym ’til you shit your pants like a toddler.”
    Ratko laughed. “The job, will it take all night?”
    “I think it might take a while. Ratko, you in? Patrik? Anyone else? I just need some backup. You know, just to make sure I don’t look like I’m alone.”
    No one else offered.
    The new giant opened his mouth, “Seeing how fucking tiny you are, you probably need an entire army of extras.”
    Silence in the locker room.
    Two possible alternatives. The giant thought he was funny, trying to become one of the guys. Or the giant was challenging him. Seeking a confrontation.
    Mrado stared straight out into nothing. Poker-faced. The music from up in the gym was clearly audible. Mrado: the man who could paralyze an entire bodybuilding club.
    “You’re a big guy. I’ll give you that. But lay low.”
    “And why’s that? Is joking not allowed in here, or what?”
    “Just lay low.”
    Ratko tried to defuse the tension. “Hey, you, take it easy. Sure, you can joke around, but—”
    The giant cut him off. “Fuck yourself. I’ll say what I want, when I want.”
    The mood in the locker room like at a wake.
    Same thought in everyone’s head: The new giant is playing Russian roulette.
    Same question on everyone’s mind: Does he want to be carried out on a stretcher?
    Mrado got up. Put his jacket on. “Hey, man, I think it’s best you go upstairs and do what you came here to do.”
    Mrado walked out of the locker room. No problem. Nice and easy.
    Twelve minutes later, in the upstairs gym area. The giant was standing in front of the mirror. A one-hundred-pound dumbbell in each hand. Swaying slightly and rhythmically. Veins like worms along his arms. Biceps as big as soccer balls. Arnold Schwarzenegger—you can hit the showers.
    The guy grunted. Growled. Groaned.
    Counted lifts. Six, seven … 
    It was eleven-thirty at night. The gym was practically empty.
    Mrado was standing by the reception desk,