Free Murder on the Yellow Brick Road by Stuart M. Kaminsky

like a caricature of Tarzan. His muscles were enormous and bulging with veins. His tee shirt could hardly contain him, which was probably why he wore it. I thought of asking if there was a man inside the mannikin before me, but I wasn’t sure if he would take it as a joke, and I didn’t want to get started on the wrong foot.
    â€œBarney Grundy?” I asked.
    He put out his hand and grinned. It was an infectious boyish grin and his grasp was firm but not bone-breaking. I had a feeling that he was holding back out of politeness. A second look told me he wasn’t as young as he first appeared. I would have taken him for mid-twenties with a first look. I added ten years to the estimate on second look.
    â€œYou must be Peters,” he said standing back to let me in. “Mr. Hoff told me you might want to talk. Come on in.”
    I came on in. There were photographs on the wall in the wide room. The wall was filled with them. Most of them were women, big prints, framed and mounted. I recognized a few of the women as movie stars and almost stars. There was no carpet on the finely polished wooden floor, and the furniture was minimal. The room was clean and bright. Three stairs led up to another level that looked like a combination livingroom-bedroom, and kitchen. There were a couple of doors beyond it where I guessed he did his work.
    â€œHey, listen,” Grundy said in a soft tenor, “I was on the way out to get some breakfast. You want to come with me?”
    I said yes, and he put his towel carefully over a chair and led the way out.
    â€œYou’re in good shape,” I said as we went down the stairs.
    â€œI work out every day for an hour or two with weights in a place down in Santa Monica,” he explained leading the way out. “There are about a dozen of us. It’s a kind of competition to see who can develop the best muscle tone.”
    We walked down Melrose to LaBrea and I asked,
    â€œDon’t you get musclebound?”
    â€œNo,” he grinned, “that’s something made up by people who don’t know what they’re talking about. I can run a six minute mile, touch my nose with my big toe and please ladies. You look like you’re in fair shape yourself.”
    â€œY.M.C.A.,” I said. “I run a little and play handball.”
    I didn’t add that my total miles per week had dropped to five and my handball partner was a sixty-year-old doctor who was well ahead of me in games, but a damn good player.
    Grundy led me into a coffee shop on La Brea, and we sat in a booth. The waitress recognized him, and he flashed her a smile. She was an overworked, washed-out creature with frizzy hair. The smile from Grundy made her day.
    We ordered, and I asked, “Why do you do it?”
    â€œBody build?” he said, “Compensation in a way, Mr. Peters. It started when I realized that I wasn’t going to make it as a camera operator or cinematographer with a studio. That was what I wanted. I was born a few miles from here. I’ve passed those studios all my life. I wanted to be behind a camera, even prepared by becoming a still photographer, taking movie courses. But it never happened. I never got the break. I guess I started the weights when I knew it wasn’t going to happen. No one has said I’m not good enough. Maybe I’m just the right guy in the wrong place.”
    â€œSo,” I continued, “you make up for it by doing stills for studios when you can get the work and building your body.”
    â€œThat’s about it,” he agreed, welcoming his plate of four fried eggs and half pound of bacon from the waitress who smiled at him while she served. She had forgotten my coffee, but went back for it quickly.
    â€œMost of my work is baby pictures and some industrial stuff,” he explained between bites. “Once in a while I get to do spillover work for a studio or a small industrial movie, nothing much; but I live