Page 17 of Near Miss

Chapter 11

Trench Molder walked into the weight room of the East Side Athletic Club and looked around. He hoped to give the appearance that he was looking for Huff to help him with the weights. Huff’s assistant manager, known as Bozo, approached.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Molder.”

“Good afternoon, Bozo. Is Huff off today?”

“I take it you have not watched the morning news or read thePost.”

“You are correct, but why are you concerned with my viewing and reading habits?”

“Because, if you had been viewing—or reading, for that matter—you would know that Huff was shot dead on Park Avenue last evening.”

Trench’s eyes widen. “Surely, you jest.”

“I do not,” Bozo said. “All we know is that he seems to havehit someone with a blackjack—I know he had one, because he showed it to me, once—and the man’s driver pulled a gun and shot him dead.”

Trench sat down heavily on the bench and put the back of a hand to his forehead.

Bozo lowered his voice, and said, “I know, I know. This was nothing to do with the club. This was freelance work that Huff sometimes took on. I assisted him, once or twice.”

“Was his killer arrested?” Trench asked.

“Apparently not. According to thePost, he was questioned at the scene, then released to drive his employer—who had suffered the blackjack attack—to the ER. Then he was questioned again and released again. The police judgment was that the shooting was legal and justified, in the circumstances.”

“Who was the man Huff attacked?”

“Someone named Barrington, a lawyer.”

“I’ve heard the name.”

“Apparently, Huff knew him well enough to hate him.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, sir, I don’t.” Bozo looked around to be sure no one was within earshot. “I would like you to know, though, that should you require the kind of assistance you once received from Huff, I would be glad to step into the breach.”

“Good to know, Bozo,” Trench said. “I think I’ll skip my workout today and just hit the showers.”

“I understand, sir,” Bozo said.

Trench left the club, freshly showered, but still pretending to be upset about Huff’s fate. He was, in fact, upset. How could Huffget close enough to the man to blackjack him, but not to finish the job? It didn’t make any sense. He made a note to himself that Barrington’s driver was armed and dangerous to anyone who approached.

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.

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