Body Blows by Marc Strange Page A

grin.
    â€œI’m sure there are. Wouldn’t have to fight them all, would I?”
    â€œJust the toughest one,” he says.
    â€œAnd who would that be?”
    â€œThat would be me,” says Pazzano.
    â€œFigured,” I say.
    A familiar face is coming into the detective’s room. Sergeant of Detectives Norman Quincy Weed is wearing his finest green suit. It must be getting close to St. Patrick’s Day. He’s wearing a brown tie and brown shoes. He looks like a hedge. Norman has his own sense of style.
    The detective’s room has a new Bunn-O-Matic. They’re very proud of it. It grinds fresh beans every time.
    â€œDid you get a coffee?”
    â€œI could use another one,” I say. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
    Weed sips, makes a face. He misses the old hotplate. “You want stuff in that?” He offers me a sugar packet.
    â€œJust the caffeine,” I say. The coffee tastes fine to me.
    He checks out the bruise on my jawbone. “You been brawling again?”
    â€œChasing shadows,” I say. “One of them tried to run me over.”
    â€œWhere’s your boss?” he asks.
    â€œInterview room. It’s hit him pretty hard.”
    â€œUn hunh,” he says. He doesn’t sound too sympathetic. “They were close, weren’t they?”
    â€œI think he was closer to her than anyone in his world.”
    â€œGot any ideas?” he asks.
    â€œNot a clue. It looked like a break-in, all the damage. She was a fighter. She probably threw one of them over the side.”
    â€œAnything stolen?”
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” I say. “They didn’t get into the safe. I don’t think they were up there to rip off the TV-set.”
    â€œTough place to burglarize,” Weed agrees. “You need a special elevator key, don’t you?”
    â€œIt was a fortress,” I say. “See if you can find out how they got in, will you?”
    â€œNot my case, Joe.”
    â€œI know that. But when it won’t break the rules or kick you back down to crossing guard, you might pass me the word, right?”
    â€œSure, Joe,” he says. Norman’s a friend. He’s also the ranking detective in this room.
    â€œYou identified the other guy?”
    â€œI wouldn’t know.”
    â€œBut he was up there, right?”
    â€œI’ll wait till I get a report from my detectives,” he says. “After that … I might not tell you anyway.”
    â€œThanks,” I say. “The lead guy, Mooney, he’s competent?”
    â€œOh, yeah,” Weed says. “So’s his partner. They’ll do a good job.”
    â€œLeo really wants to know who did this.”
    â€œSure he does. And if he asks you to meddle, pretend you didn’t hear him.”
    â€œI’m just trying to watch his back,” I say.
    â€œMmm hmmm.” My response hasn’t satisfied him much. “How much do you know about your boss?”
    â€œNot that much. He’s a private person.”
    â€œYeah, well, he’s got a lot to be private about.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    He sips his coffee, adds more sugar. “You’re working for a pirate, pal,” he says. “That’s all I’m saying.” He tries his new coffee combination and deems it passable. “A real buccaneer.”
    I remember him saying something similar when I first met him.
    Eight years ago.
    Second day in the hospital, a sleepy-eyed guy rolls into the room wearing an orange and green tie and a cerulean blue suit. He sits down beside the bed without being asked and helps himself to my juice box.
    I say, “Help yourself.”
    â€œWere you drinking this?”
    â€œHadn’t started.”
    â€œThey’ll get you another one. The doc tells me you missed getting your ticket punched by about an inch and a half.”
    â€œI don’t think it was that close.”
    â€œClose