Body Blows by Marc Strange Page B

enough,” he says.
    â€œYou’re a cop.”
    â€œDetective,” he says. “Norman Weed, middle name Quincy for some reason. My mother was coy on the subject.”
    â€œI never got a look at the shooter,” I say. “He was over the wall by the time I turned around.”
    â€œYeah. People are either staring at the gun or diving for cover. Your boss says he saw the guy’s face but didn’t recognize him. A stranger, he says.”
    â€œAnyone else get hurt?”
    â€œOne guy got dinged in the leg by a ricochet. Not serious. He’ll be dancing again in a week.”
    â€œAny leads?”
    â€œYeah, well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Whoever it was, he was there to shoot your boss, but your boss isn’t very forthcoming.”
    â€œAbout?”
    â€œAbout why someone would be gunning for him.”
    â€œI don’t think he was expecting anything that serious.”
    â€œBecause?”
    â€œHe just wanted someone to watch his back.”
    â€œBecause?”
    â€œDidn’t say. I asked him what he was worried about, just so I’d have some idea what to look for, and he said he’d had a phone call.”
    â€œThat’s it?”
    â€œThat’s it. I assumed it was a threat of some kind but he wasn’t specific.”
    â€œMysterious guy.”
    â€œWish I could help you. First time anybody took a shot at me.”
    â€œFive shots. Three of them drew blood.”
    â€œSuit was too good for me anyway.”
    He stands up and puts my empty juice box back on the tray. “Here’s my card if anything comes to mind.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œNice talking to you.”
    â€œYou know Manny Bigalow?” I ask him.
    â€œWho’s he?”
    â€œSells suits,” I say. “He told me never to wear bright blue. It doesn’t go with anything.”
    â€œYeah, well, I have my own sense of style,” says Norman Quincy Weed.
    Leo is coming out of the interview room. He’s not the same man I saw doing the tango with the classy divorcée last night. He’s running low on vital juices, folding inside himself, not as tall.
    Leo and Weed don’t shake hands.
    â€œSorry for your loss,” Weed says to Leo.
    â€œShe was just the best person,” Leo says.
    Pazzano is standing in the background, watching us. Mooney is already at his desk, transcribing notes, making phone calls.
    I take Leo’s arm and start to move him toward the exit. I can feel his shoulders shaking.
    Margo Traynor is waiting to escort us to the Ambassador Suite. She has Leo’s messages collated according to import and substance, all neatly clipped together. “Nothing that can’t wait,” she says. “And I’d be happy to attend to any responses you don’t want to make personally.”
    â€œEither of my sons call?”
    â€œNo, sir. They may not have heard. Would you like me to get in touch with them?”
    â€œIt can wait.” Leo has a look around the suite, his home away from home. “They did a passable job with the decor, don’t you think?” He checks out the bedrooms, the new fixtures in the master bath, doesn’t appear impressed. “Fifty million doesn’t buy a lot these days,” he says wearily.
    Margo says, “The police have assured me they will be finished with the … finished with your floor by this afternoon, sir.”
    â€œI can’t go back up there,” he says. “Not for a while.”
    â€œOf course. But we’ll be able to collect anything you might need and have it brought down here.”
    â€œJoseph can do that,” he says. “I’ll give him a list. I want him to check things out.”
    â€œIn the meantime,” Margo says, “Anything else you might need …”
    â€œThank you, Ms. Traynor,” Leo says. “May I say that I’m grateful you handled this yourself. I don’t think I