A thump. The door opened. Rennel wore pajama bottoms. A thin fine sweat stood out on his body. He glared and pouted until he saw Carlotta, and then he switched to a more seductive expression. “Well?”

“Carlotta’s moving in with me and we wondered if you’d come with the car to carry the stuff,” Sam said.

He raised his eyebrows. A speculative pout. He motioned us in. I ignored him and he ignored me. There was a mattress on the floor, a door across two sawhorses for a desk. On one wall a life-sized poster of a retouched world champion heavyweight lifter. The morning glory wallpaper was peeling.

Rennel picked up a barbell from the floor and sat on a bench in front of the full-length mirror. “I’m doing localized lifts. Build up my forearms. I’ve got a cousin who can do one-armed pull-ups.” He posed with his elbow on his knee, curled his arm until the weight met his shoulder. He peeked slyly at himself in the mirror as he uncurled, glanced at Carlotta to see how she was taking it in.

Sam crouched in front of him, watched the whole operation. “How many do you do?”

“Twenty with each arm. The principle is light, repetitive exercise to develop optimum functional strength. The key word there is ‘functional.’”

“How much does it weigh? Can I try?”

I sat in the chair at the desk and watched. Carlotta glanced at me. Her gray eyes were framed with black brows and lashes. Her skin was pale and pitted with pockmarks, acne scars. Still, a nice face, strong features elegantly assembled. She wore a long rawhide tunic and moccasins on her high, arched feet.

She glanced at Rennel, then back to me, then wrinkled her nose to see if I agreed. I grinned, not a little. Carlotta came over to me. Peered at the paper in Rennel’s portable electric typewriter on the desk.

“‘Dear Mother and Dad.’” She smiled and sat down on the floor. “Do you know Omar’s parents?”

Her voice was low and pleasant. I hadn’t heard it that much.

“I’ve talked to them on the phone. Never met them.”

“What are they like?”

“Well, they only call me when they’re upset. Sam gave them my number for messages, because he doesn’t have a phone.”

She waited patiently for the explanation.

“They’re kosher, you know,” I offered.

“Yes.”

“Well, his mother’s kind of hysterical. I always speak to Mr. Rosen. He’s the one who calls.”

“Is that his last name? Rosen?” She smiled as if she’d discovered a secret.