Breach of Trust

33

I made it to Cimino’s Building by ten minutes to nine. For some reason, it seemed to make sense to me to be punctual for once.

“How are you?” I said to the Amazon princess at the reception desk. I didn’t know where Cimino found these women.

“You’re actually on time.” Cimino appeared from the hallway, looking immaculate as always in his slick Italian suit and bright tie. He kept walking, past me. “Come on.”

“We’re going somewhere?”

“We’re going somewhere. Sweetheart, tell them to have my car out front?”

I followed Cimino to the elevator. He kept his thoughts to himself. He stared at the doors of the elevator, rocking on the balls of his feet, breathing with some congestion. He probably expected me to break the silence with nervous conversation. He probably also expected that his silence was unnerving me. It wasn’t, other than a fleeting notion, maybe one-in-a-hundred chance, that he was taking me somewhere to be executed. Okay, maybe one in fifty. I’d just make sure that Charlie went first through any door.

We joined a few people on the elevator and took it down to the main floor. Cimino took me out a side door, where a bright yellow Porsche 911 awaited us with an attendant standing sentry.

Cimino handed him a tip and got in. I jumped in the other side. The car was immaculate, with a black leather interior and a top-of-the-line stereo.

“Nice ride,” I said.

Cimino threw the stick into first and turned out onto the street with the fluid precision you’d expect from a Porsche. My first time riding in one of these, and I hoped it wouldn’t be my last.

“Not so great in the winter,” said Cimino. “When it gets slick, I don’t even bother.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You play racquetball?”

Did I play racquetball? “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good.”

“Not well,” I said.

“Even better.” It was a ten-minute ride, and I would have been happy with ten hours in this thing. The leather was so soft, and the ride so smooth, I could have dozed off if I weren’t enjoying myself so much. An air freshener shaped like an evergreen tree, hanging from the rearview mirror, bobbed around as Cimino navigated the car through traffic, injuring a few traffic ordinances in the process. The air freshener seemed a little out of place, a little tacky in a hundred-thousand-dollar sports car, but that seemed appropriate for Charlie Cimino: first-class with a touch of vulgar.

We pulled up to the Gold Coast Athletic Club and got out. “Good morning, Mr. Cimino,” a man in a blue jacket greeted him.

“I don’t have any workout clothes,” I said.

It didn’t seem to trouble Charlie. We took an elevator to the third floor and walked through a well-appointed room with a buffet of fruits and coffee and a sitting area. We entered the men’s locker room and Cimino told an attendant, “My friend needs clothes for racquetball, Jamie.”

“Sure, Mr. Cimino. Shoe size?” he asked me.

“Um, probably thirteen,” I said.

We walked through a few aisles of lockers, the smell of aftershave and soap in the air. By the time Cimino had taken off his shoes, the attendant had arrived with a gray t-shirt, black running shorts, socks and a pair of gym shoes.

I opened a locker and undressed. I threw my shirt and tie on one hook, my suit coat and pants on the other, my shoes and dress socks on the bottom of the locker. I put my wallet, keys, and cell phone on the top rack. The clothes fit pretty well; the shoes were a little snug but it wasn’t worth complaining.

“Size thirteen,” Cimino said. “What are you-six-three? Six-four?”

“Somewhere in there.” Six-three, two hundred thirty in college, when measurements mattered. I hadn’t weighed myself in years.

“You were an athlete?”

“Played some ball in college.”

“What college?”

“State.”

“What position?”

“Wide-out.”

“No shit?”

I closed my locker. “Is there a lock or something?”

He shook his head. “This is the Gold Coast Athletic Club.” Apparently, that was supposed to mean that no locks were necessary. Rich people don’t steal? In my experience, they do it more than anyone.

I was handed a racquet, and I followed Cimino onto a court. It was clear from the outset that he knew how to play the game-he was rather adept at hitting the ball low against the front wall so it bounced twice before I could reach it-but he was pushing fifty years old and he was overweight and, it appeared, was not very athletic even during his heyday. It wasn’t really a challenge. I didn’t hit with the same strategic precision, but I could chase down most balls and force him to run a lot, which he didn’t like doing. It occurred to me that if I worked him hard enough, I could induce cardiac arrest, kill him, and get the feds off my back.

It also occurred to me that Lee Tucker, were he here, would have counseled me to let Cimino win. Keep me on his good side, that kind of thing. But I wasn’t wired that way. Put me in a competitive sport, and you better keep your hands away from the cage.

It felt good. I used to be a workout fanatic, but I had dropped off after everything happened with Talia and Emily. I hadn’t gained weight-if anything, I’d lost some-but my muscles felt loose and flabby and I didn’t have much wind.

“Enough. Fuck. Enough.” Cimino’s gray shirt was plastered to his chest with sweat. He ran a hand towel over his face and then wrapped it around his neck. I followed him back to that reception area, where we drank orange juice and Cimino ate a plate of cantaloupe.

“That was fun,” I said, putting the cool glass against my forehead.

“For you, fuckin’-A it was.”

A man in a sport coat and slacks approached him. “Mr. Cimino, hello.”

“Hey, Rick, how are you?” He shifted upright, with some discomfort, and shook hands.

“Very well,” the man said. He gave Cimino a knowing nod. “Everything’s great.”

“Great, Rick. Good to see you.”

The man left us, and Cimino seemed to focus on me awhile. He finished off his plate of cantaloupe, devouring them with the same enthusiasm he probably brought to any moneymaking scheme he could get his hands on.

“All right, Jason Kolarich,” he said. “Now it’s time we talk.”