Authors: S.D. Thames
He stopped and turned, annoyed. “I’m his driver and trainer.”
“Like his personal trainer?”
He nodded. Stepped closer. “Look, Mr. Pilka had to do a lot of convincing to have his membership accepted here. You screw this up, you’ll pay for it.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I followed him nonetheless into the gym to the beat of a top-40s pop song. To my right there was a large room filled with ladies dancing with light dumbbells in their hands and weights strapped around their ankles. I scanned the weight room. Not too bad for a country club gym. At least there was a real squat rack. Unfortunately, the dumbbells only went up to eighty pounds.
I followed Jace to the cardio area. He led me to a portly man struggling to lower the incline grade on the treadmill. Jace stepped next to the machine, checked its display, and then lowered the grade for him. “Good. Now take a cool down.”
“Is he here?” Pilka struggled to ask.
Jace gestured for me to come around, and I did.
If one word could describe Pilka, it would be doughy. On the upside: thick hair, the shade of silver I hoped to have one day if I lived long enough to turn gray. His was long and tied in a ponytail. The downside: man boobs that galloped on the treadmill, even as his pace approached zero. No muscle mass to be seen on his upper body or legs. Worse yet, he wore a tank top that put his lack of definition on full display.
Pilka made a weak leap and put his feet on the edge of the treadmill, gasping even more. “Why are you here, Mr. Porter?”
“To help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Help your dealings with McSwain.” I took a step closer. “Wilcox is having me look into what happened to Scalzo.”
“Yes, Jace told me that. I still don’t understand why you’re here.”
“Have you heard from the police yet?”
“Yes. I talked to a couple of detectives last night. They came by in a far less intrusive fashion than you have today.”
“Rodriguez and Shields?”
He leapt off the machine and landed next to me. Standing side-by-side, I could see he hovered right under 5’10. He looked up to me and said, “That sounds about right.”
“What’d they ask?”
“The usual. If I knew anyone with a grudge against Mr. Scalzo, where I was Sunday night.”
“What’d you tell them?”
Jace handed him a towel to wipe his face and a sleek container with a dark red drink. “Regarding Scalzo, I said I could think of at least a hundred people who’d have a grudge against that guy. Anyone who’d actually kill him for it, I draw a blank.”
“What about you? They ask you about your falling out?”
He took a drink of the bottle. “Falling out?”
“You and Scalzo, how he left you?”
“Scalzo didn’t leave me. He was never
with
me. We had a venture. It still exists. He was pursuing other opportunities. We were never wed. I didn’t have a problem with that.”
“What’s that you’re drinking?” I couldn’t help but ask. I looked to Jace.
“Peri-nutrition,” Jace said. “Dextrose and branch-chain aminos. To replenish his glycogen.”
Oh, the fallacies of bro-science. “From his stroll on the treadmill? Are you kidding me? The last thing Mr. Pilka needs is a spike to his insulin.”
“I tell him that all the time,” Pilka complained.
“Don’t give him any reason to slack off,” Jace said.
“I’m not, but I hate anyone to waste their time in the gym because they’re fed bullshit by someone like you.”
“Hey, don’t talk that way to me.” Jace was turning red.
But Pilka was smiling. “Please explain, Mr. Porter.”
“What exactly does Jace here have you doing and eating every day?”
“Well, let’s see. For breakfast it was oatmeal and egg whites. Then in here, we started out over there on the squat machine. Then we did that leg machine. Or two of them.”
I’d heard enough. “Hold it. What do you mean, that squat machine?”
He pointed to it. I walked toward it. “This, the Smith machine?” The Smith machine is an assisted contraption where the bar moves up and down on a track. While it may have its uses in strength training, back squatting is not one of them.
Jace’s baby blues clashed with the fiery hue of his cheeks. “Yeah, what about it?”
I pointed to the machine. “Mr. Pilka, could you please demonstrate what, exactly, Jace has you doing on this machine?”
Pilka groaned. “Well, my legs are weak, but I’ll try.” He got under the bar and proceeded to do a quarter squat. And he struggled with that.
“I’ve seen enough,” I told him. “Please step out. Mr. Pilka, I suggest you fire Jace immediately. He’s wasting your time, and probably causing you injury.”
“Fuck you,” Jace hissed. He spread his arms and flexed his pecs like a peacock spreading his tail quills.
Pilka waved him off. “I’ll hear him out.”
So I continued. “Squats in the Smith machine are a recipe for disaster. That machine obstructs the natural path the bar needs to travel when you squat.”
Pilka glared at his trainer. “I told you it felt unnatural.”
“He has bad knees,” Jace protested.
Of course. “And that brings me to my next point. Your squat depth, especially in that machine, is going to put extra stress on your knees.”
Pilka grunted. “I told him they were hurting.”
“I’d say your assistant here is
trying
to hurt you, Mr. Pilka. Follow me.” I led them over to the real squat rack. A thin man with white buds jutting from his ears was getting ready to do a barbell curl there (an act that would get you banned, if not beaten, at Rico’s), but when he saw me approaching he dropped the bar and scurried away. I got under the bar. “Watch this,” I said, and I walked the bar out and squatted down. I held it in the bottom position. “See this, Jace? See how much different this looks? My thighs are below parallel. My knees are out but tracking my toes. My lower back is tight. Then when I drive up.” I came up. “I drive it with my ass, my lower back. The posterior chain. That’s going to build more muscle than anything else you can do.” I racked the bar and turned to Pilka. “Do that lift. It’ll strengthen your core better than the planks and hanging cartwheels Jace has you doing. Do it right and it’s easy on the knees, and it’s the safest way to raise your T-levels naturally.”
“T-levels?” Pilka asked, still nodding in awe.
“Testosterone.”
Pilka’s eyes flashed with envy.
“Now, on the other hand, here’s what you were doing.” I took the bar again, narrowed my stance, and did quarter squats. “We call these sissy squats. They do nothing but burn a few calories and put stress on your knees.”
“Sissy squats,” he hissed at Jace.
“But a real squat,” I said while taking the bar low again, “will build muscle and keep you burning calories all day.” I racked the bar again and stepped out of the rack. “I’m sorry, Jace. I have a hard time tolerating the injustice you’ve been putting this man through.”
Pilka glared at Jace for a moment, and then he turned to me. “Mr. Porter, I would like to thank you. It seems you were able to help me after all.”
“I coach at a gym called Rico’s House of Pain in Seminole Heights. You’re welcome to come by anytime for a free lesson or two.”
Pilka pondered that for a moment before he seemed to wince at the notion of pain. “I’ve a better idea.” He looked to his trainer. “Jace, I want you to train with Mr. Porter at his gym, this place of pain. I want you to be able to train me in this type of squat.”
I nodded. “We get this down, then we’ll start on the dead lift.”
“His back can’t take the dead lift,” Jace protested again.
“Not yet. But give me a few months.”
Jace stood dumbfounded for a moment. I thought he was going to say he quit. But he didn’t.
I didn’t want to add insult to injury, but I told Jace: “You could use a lot of lower body work yourself. You’re all ’roided up on top, but you got legs like a chicken. You’d be easy to swipe.”
“Are you done?” Jace asked me.
I was starting to feel bad for the guy. I nodded. “Done with talk of training.” I looked to Pilka, whom I hoped trusted me a little more now. “So, where did you tell Rodriguez and Shields you were Sunday night?”
“We were at the Straz Center.
Wicked
was in town for a few days.”
“And who is
we
?”
“Me, my wife Anne, and Don Alexi and his wife, Bev.”
“The Straz Center?”
Just two blocks from Scalzo’s condo
, I thought.
“That’s right. And we didn’t see or hear from Scalzo all night.”
“They ask you if Alexi ever disappeared?”
“In so many words. And they asked whether I did. I told them we were all together the entire night.” He glanced at Jace. “Jace here can confirm that. He was driving us.”
Jace nodded late, apparently still contemplating the training session with me that now lay ahead.
“What about after the Straz Center? What did you all do then?”
“We went back to my place.” Pilka seemed guarded all of a sudden.
I recalled what Alexi had told me about their partying that night. “Did Don leave your house early?”
“He might have run an errand at some point,” Pilka said, almost defensively.
“That stuff’ll kill you, Mr. Pilka.” I gave him my best glare.
He nodded reluctantly. “Honestly, I’m not a big fan of it, either. Don, on the other hand… well, I’d be surprised if the guy has a septum left.”
“From what I hear, he has a pretty expensive habit,” I said. It was rank speculation, but I wanted to see where it took the conversation.
“That’s an understatement. I’d hate to know what he spends on the stuff.”
That would explain his need to sell a cadre of firearms for some quick cash. “You think he might have been dealing any on the side?”
Jace stepped between us, eyes glancing in every direction. “Listen, that’s enough. We don’t need to have this conversation here.”
Pilka still answered, “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“What about Scalzo, he into that type of thing?”
Pilka shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Pilka pushed Jace aside. “Anything else, Mr. Porter? I’ve worked up another appetite.”
“That’s due to the insulin spike Jace gave you with that breakfast today and the sugar water he’s feeding you. We’ll talk diet later. But I do have just one more question.” I made sure I had his full attention, and his eyes told me I did. “What can you tell me about this girl Angie who worked for Scalzo?”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t know an Angie.”
“Well, what about one named Evie?”
Pilka glanced at Jace, and then he seemed to stare at my beard. “I don’t know an Evie either.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pilka.”
Our talk had gone so well. I was disappointed he’d ended it with a lie.
I arrived fifteen minutes before noon. As expected, Datz was already in full lunch-rush mode. Datz prided itself as a foodie theme park. I’d never identified myself with the foodie crowd, but as far as social movements go, it did have its virtues—the love of bacon being chief among them. Datz’s cherry-smoked bacon was among the best I’ve ever had. Fortunately, they put it on and in about everything on the menu. The beer selection wasn’t bad either; a good assortment of local brews. While waiting for Kara, I enjoyed a new release from Coppertail Brewing, a rising star in the Tampa beer scene that had just opened a new tasting room where I liked to hang out when in the Ybor area. Today I sampled their Florida crab-claw stout, which really had been made with actual crab claws. It was delicious, and don’t worry—I didn’t taste any crab.
I’d nearly finished my first beer when Kara arrived. She was dressed for the office: tight black capris and a sleeveless metallic blouse. She seemed to take good care of her body, or at least her physique, but her eyes were red and swollen.
“Morning,” I said as she settled into her seat across from me. “Sleep well?”
“Not really.”
“How’s the trial prep going?”
With that, she almost broke down crying. “You can’t tell Mattie about any of this, okay?”
“Any of what?”
“He has no idea what’s going on in this case. I’m not even sure I do.”
The waitress appeared and asked what Kara wanted to drink. Kara evidently didn’t notice her, so I said we’d take two waters and a minute to order.
“What do you know about the case, Kara?”
She shook her head slowly, as if trying to figure out where to start. “It’s not about the case.” She laughed at the apparent absurdity of what she’d just said.
“What isn’t?”
She took a breath. “The case isn’t.”
“The case isn’t about the case?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. This case was never about the lease. It was supposed to be some kind of publicity stunt.”
“About what?”
She shook her head. “I never quite understood what. Whatever it was, it was supposed to have happened by now.”
“So who’s in on this publicity stunt, whatever it is?”
“I’m not sure. I know Mattie and Pilka are not really part of it.”
“Don Alexi?”
She shook her head. “Could be, but I doubt it.”
“And it takes two to tango. So McSwain has to be—”
She was still nodding. “I know from what I’ve overheard Chad saying that McSwain is in on it. He was supposed to get some kind of cut.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know,” she said, fighting tears again.
The waitress returned with our waters and asked if we were ready. Since I’d skipped breakfast, I ordered French toast, three eggs over easy, and a side of bacon.
The waitress looked to Kara, who shook her head and said, “I’m not hungry.”
I waited for the waitress to leave. “You need to eat,” I told Kara, noticing that the one hand above the table trembled. “Are you taking something?”
She raised the other hand and clasped them both. “No.”
“So how’d you get involved in all this?”
She sat up straight and regained her composure. “I’ve worked for Pilka for a few years.”
“What do you do?”
She glanced around before answering. “I model.”