Near Miss

Trench walked the few blocks to his apartment building. As soon as he was in the elevator, he shook off his pretense of mourning and assumed his normal mien. With Huff gone, he needed new help. He wondered if Bozo was a reliable person. He sat down in his study and made a call to a little man named Joe Rouche, who did errands for him.

“Good morning, Trench,” Joe said. “What can I do you for?”

“I want a thorough check on a man who works at my gym. He’s called Bozo. I don’t know his proper name.”

“I’m on it,” Joe said. “You want it in writing, or just oral?”

“Oral will do,” Trench replied. “I just need to know if he’s a reliable man. If I can trust him with, ah, work of a confidential nature.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Joe said, then hung up.

Joe already knew who Bozo was, and something about his character, which he would describe as dubious. Still, he used his computer to do some research, taking written notes as he worked. He already knew about Huff, too. He imagined that the man had been on an assignment from Trench Molder when he met his fate, and now Molder wished to replace him.

He called Bozo.

“Hey, Joe,” the man said.

“Hey, Bozo. I’ve had a request from an old client to take a look at you and report back. What would you like me to say?”

“I think I know who you mean,” Bozo replied. “Huff was probably working for him when he got himself plugged last night. He’s looking for better help, and that’s me.”

“How much do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him whatever you’ve got. Don’t lie to him because he might have somebody else running another check. I’ll be suitably grateful to you for a positive recommendation.”

“Okay. I’ll report in and leave the ‘suitably grateful’ to you, as long as you treat me right.”

“You can rely on me for that,” Bozo said.

The two men hung up.

Chapter 12

Stone took longer to fully recover from his blow to the head than he had imagined he would. After three days of being dizzy and unsteady on his feet, he called the doctor, who told him to stay off his feet for the rest of the week, unless he used a cane or a walker. Stone flinched at the mention of those two implements. He was also told not to go out for dinner or any other reason.

“It’s this way, Stone,” the doctor said. “If you start strolling around too soon, you’ll fall down. And a fall could do more damage than the blackjack did. Just be a happy invalid until you’re steady again.”

Stone found that his libido suffered, too. Or, rather, Matilda discovered that fact. “You’ve gone off me,” she said, when he failed to salute on demand.

“No, no, no,” Stone said quickly. “I’ve gone off my rocker, but it is only temporarily. I had a talk with my doctor today, and he told me to stay off my feet.”

“What about your back? Are you to stay off that, too?”

“I’m not supposed to exert myself, and you are a walking, talking exertion.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “You see this? It’s not hot in here, but I’m sweating from the effort of just chatting.”

“You want me to leave you alone, then?”

“No. You could give me a back rub, though.”

“I was a masseuse in my extreme youth,” she said.

“There’s a table in my dressing room.” He pointed.

Soon she was kneading away.

“Not my neck,” he said. “That’s still too sore.”

“Turn over on your back,” she said, half an hour later.

Stone managed to get flipped, but he held a pillow over his crotch.

“What’s the matter, is it cold?” she asked.

“It’s cool, and I want it to stay that way. I’ll owe you.”

“You’re going to get so deeply in debt, you’ll never get out from under,” she said, pinching a nipple.

“You stay away from what a friend of mine used to call, ‘the erroneous zones.’ ”

She laughed. “Oh, all right. I’ll wait until you’re fully recovered, then look out!”

“I’ll look forward,” he said.

Dino called in the late afternoon. “Dinner at Clarke’s?”

“No, I’m under doctor’s orders not to go out. He’s afraid I’ll fall down and hurt myself.”

“That’s always a consideration when you drink that 100 proof bourbon you like so much.”

“Come over here for dinner, and bring Viv.”

“All right, see you then.”

Joe Rouche called Trench Molder.

“What have you got for me?” Trench asked.

“Nothing too alarming. Thomas David Bozeman, thirty-two years old, very physically fit — not unusual, given his work. A couple of arrests, one of them for clocking a woman in a restaurant, the other for winning a bar fight. He’s thought, by those who know him best, to be reliable and a pretty good guy. The athletic club promoted him to Huff’s job, and they wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t been okay. Their members don’t like trash working there. There’s been some grumbling about Huff’s use of the blackjack, and Bozo won’t have that. Generally speaking, he does what he says he’ll do, so he’s viewed as trustworthy by those who know him.”

“Okay,” Trench said, “good to know. My man will send you a check.” He hung up and looked at his calendar. Too soon for another shot at Barrington, he thought. He would wait until the memory of Huff’s blackjack faded.