go.”
“Sure. We can talk about it later.”
“Okay, good.”
I couldn’t be sure if Patrick was gone for good, but I had the sense that I would never know that in this job. I considered closing the door for some privacy, but it was my first day, and the other offices had their doors open, so it didn’t seem like a good idea.
After giving Patrick ten minutes to pop back in, I started looking through the files for the contract Adalbert Wozniak’s company, ABW Hospitality, bid on in 2005. I looked through all of the file cabinets and even made a passing attempt at finding things on the computer, but I was out of luck. I’d have to wait for Patrick to scare the shit out of me again and show me where to look.
I had to prepare memoranda on the five contracts by the day’s end. If you had looked up “bureaucratic hell” in the dictionary, you would have found my assignment, which included these thrilling topics: “Asbestos Abatement Materials” for the Department of Corrections; “Collection Cups for Random Drug Testing” for the Department of Corrections; “HIV-1 Oral Fluid Transmucosal Exudate Collection Devices” for the Department of Public Health; “Asphalt Crack and Joint Filler” for the Department of Transportation; and “Passenger School Buses and Wheelchair Lift Buses” for the State Board of Education. I would’ve had more fun watching water freeze. The Internal Revenue Code was a coloring book by comparison.
Just as I’d finished the final memorandum for Patrick, he popped back into my office. “One more thing, Jason, okay? Mr. Cimino might call for you sometimes. He likes you to go to his office.”
“He has some official position here?”
That one stumped Patrick. He stared at the carpet for a long time before saying, “He’ll give you instructions sometime.”
“At his office.”
“Yeah, you have to see him in person. He doesn’t like phones.”
“A man of mystery,” I said.
His eyes shot up, briefly, to meet mine. “Okay, I have to go.”
He vanished. I’d have to wait to access the ABW file I was seeking. I gathered my stuff together, including the memoranda I had drafted, calculating a full day’s work at three hundred an hour—a nice pocket of twenty-four hundred dollars, which rivaled what I was making in a month thus far in my erstwhile law practice.
As I was gearing up to leave, my phone rang. I hadn’t even noticed the archaic black contraption in the corner of my desk.
“Mr. Kolarich?” A woman’s voice. “Mr. Cimino would like to see you tomorrow at ten A.M.”
20
I MADE IT INTO THE LOBBY OF CHARLIE CIMINO’S building at the appointed hour, 10:00 A.M. I picked up a pack of gum and looked over a newspaper for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Then I took the elevator up to his office.
Don’t ask me why I do some of the things I do. After all, my whole reason for doing this job with the PCB was to get inside and see what I could discover about Adalbert Wozniak’s and Ernesto Ramirez’s murders. You’d think, with that mission, I’d be looking to get along with people like Cimino. But I didn’t like the guy, and I didn’t like being summoned to his office, so I decided that a little tardiness was in order.
At least I got to follow the swimsuit model down the hallway again to his office, which made the whole trip worthwhile.
“You’re late.” Cimino was wearing that headset again and standing at the opposite end of his airplane hangar of an office. He started talking again into his headset, something about a general contractor running behind schedule. I helped myself to a chair and waited for this asshole to finish trying to impress me, himself, and the guy on the other end of the phone call.
“The bus contract,” Cimino said. “Hey, the bus contract.” It took me a moment before I realized he was talking to me. “The bus contract? The Board of Ed? Hang on, Henry.” He snapped his fingers at me. “Kolarich—”
“The bus contract,
“Sure. We can talk about it later.”
“Okay, good.”
I couldn’t be sure if Patrick was gone for good, but I had the sense that I would never know that in this job. I considered closing the door for some privacy, but it was my first day, and the other offices had their doors open, so it didn’t seem like a good idea.
After giving Patrick ten minutes to pop back in, I started looking through the files for the contract Adalbert Wozniak’s company, ABW Hospitality, bid on in 2005. I looked through all of the file cabinets and even made a passing attempt at finding things on the computer, but I was out of luck. I’d have to wait for Patrick to scare the shit out of me again and show me where to look.
I had to prepare memoranda on the five contracts by the day’s end. If you had looked up “bureaucratic hell” in the dictionary, you would have found my assignment, which included these thrilling topics: “Asbestos Abatement Materials” for the Department of Corrections; “Collection Cups for Random Drug Testing” for the Department of Corrections; “HIV-1 Oral Fluid Transmucosal Exudate Collection Devices” for the Department of Public Health; “Asphalt Crack and Joint Filler” for the Department of Transportation; and “Passenger School Buses and Wheelchair Lift Buses” for the State Board of Education. I would’ve had more fun watching water freeze. The Internal Revenue Code was a coloring book by comparison.
Just as I’d finished the final memorandum for Patrick, he popped back into my office. “One more thing, Jason, okay? Mr. Cimino might call for you sometimes. He likes you to go to his office.”
“He has some official position here?”
That one stumped Patrick. He stared at the carpet for a long time before saying, “He’ll give you instructions sometime.”
“At his office.”
“Yeah, you have to see him in person. He doesn’t like phones.”
“A man of mystery,” I said.
His eyes shot up, briefly, to meet mine. “Okay, I have to go.”
He vanished. I’d have to wait to access the ABW file I was seeking. I gathered my stuff together, including the memoranda I had drafted, calculating a full day’s work at three hundred an hour—a nice pocket of twenty-four hundred dollars, which rivaled what I was making in a month thus far in my erstwhile law practice.
As I was gearing up to leave, my phone rang. I hadn’t even noticed the archaic black contraption in the corner of my desk.
“Mr. Kolarich?” A woman’s voice. “Mr. Cimino would like to see you tomorrow at ten A.M.”
20
I MADE IT INTO THE LOBBY OF CHARLIE CIMINO’S building at the appointed hour, 10:00 A.M. I picked up a pack of gum and looked over a newspaper for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Then I took the elevator up to his office.
Don’t ask me why I do some of the things I do. After all, my whole reason for doing this job with the PCB was to get inside and see what I could discover about Adalbert Wozniak’s and Ernesto Ramirez’s murders. You’d think, with that mission, I’d be looking to get along with people like Cimino. But I didn’t like the guy, and I didn’t like being summoned to his office, so I decided that a little tardiness was in order.
At least I got to follow the swimsuit model down the hallway again to his office, which made the whole trip worthwhile.
“You’re late.” Cimino was wearing that headset again and standing at the opposite end of his airplane hangar of an office. He started talking again into his headset, something about a general contractor running behind schedule. I helped myself to a chair and waited for this asshole to finish trying to impress me, himself, and the guy on the other end of the phone call.
“The bus contract,” Cimino said. “Hey, the bus contract.” It took me a moment before I realized he was talking to me. “The bus contract? The Board of Ed? Hang on, Henry.” He snapped his fingers at me. “Kolarich—”
“The bus contract,
Similar Books
