“He already went crazy,” Michelle said. “I don’t know how much crazier you can go than shooting coke all day. Do two more. Two, one, okay! One more set, then some abs and you’re through.”

“Well,” said Suzanne, “he had a lot of practice shooting steroids.”

“And he even lied about that,” said Michelle. “Like someone could get a neck like a ham with just good old-fashioned exercise. He had a neck like a ham. You need help to get a neck like that. Ready?”

Suzanne did her last set in silence, trying to concentrate on something high on the wall so she didn’t have to look at herself in the mirror. She had done eight repetitions when she started to give up.

“Go!” cried Michelle. “You’re almost there!”

“No!” screamed Suzanne, embarrassing herself and finishing anyway, then letting the weight fall with a clunk. She did several unenthusiastic sets of abs, after which Michelle walked her to her car.

At the door they met Chad Paley, the Rams linebacker. “Hey, Sunshine,” he greeted Suzanne.

“Chad,” she said, “I bet you know. Who is that big black guy over there on the shoulder machine?”

He stared into the gym in the direction she had pointed, and his face darkened. “Keep away from him,” he said, glowering. “He’s bad news.”

“Why?” asked Michelle. “What did he—?”

“He served time for manslaughter, for one thing,” Chad said. “And for another thing, he’s gay. You can see him most nights on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“Oh,” said Suzanne meekly.

“You stay away from him,” warned Chad paternally. He chucked Suzanne under the chin and strode back to the Life-cycles. The girls walked out without looking back at the silent man pumping iron for Hollywood Boulevard. “Stay away from him,” Suzanne said. “What was I gonna do, date him?”

They walked up to Suzanne’s BMW. “Tomorrow,” she said, confidently. “Legs.”

Michelle nodded. “And stick to your diet,” she said.

“I will,” said Suzanne, turning off the alarm and getting into her car.

“You will not,” Michelle said.

“Probably a little of both,” said Suzanne, starting her engine. “I will and I will not. The Zen diet.”

“And you’ll end up looking like a Buddha,” shouted Michelle over Don Henley’s “All She Wants to Do Is Dance” on the radio as Suzanne waved and drove off.

She went home to wash her hair and change clothes for her lunch with Al Hawkins, some manager who wanted to handle her career. Her friend Bob Becker had set up the lunch, and she was not looking forward to it.