Free On the Ropes: A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery by Tom Schreck Page A

up to give one of my nods to show that I was paying attention and Claudia was in mid-sentence.
    “… which is the biggest challenge we face here and now. It is what will define our agency and ultimately lead to our success or failure. Duffy, can you give our board members and Rhonda three examples of how we’ve already begun to address this issue?”
    “Uh … of course, Claudia. Uh … before I do that though, I would like to point out that we, as an agency, uh, excel in the face of challenge, and to quote Vince Lombardi, ‘Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.’”
    “Thank you, Duffy.” She glared at me. “But please give us three examples.” She knew I wasn’t paying attention and now she wanted to embarrass me.
    “Yes, uh, well first and foremost, it is something that both Monique and I have incorporated into our daily work here. It’s something that she thought of, and I don’t feel right taking the credit for it. Monique, go ahead.”
    She didn’t blink, God bless her.
    “Thanks, Duffy, but you’re being modest. The three things we’ve incorporated that exemplify what Claudia is speaking of are one: peer review of all records; two: monthly self-audits of treatment plans; and three: corrective action within forty-eight hours when outliers occur. It has made a big difference.”
    “It sure has!” I chimed in.
    Claudia barely hid her rage, but she didn’t want to lose her cool in front of the outsiders. Monique saved my ass perfectly. The list of people I owed favors to was getting longer.
    Mercifully, the meeting only went on for another half an hour. I never did get the hippo like I wanted, but the important thing with art is progress. After the meeting, I made sure I finished the death reporting form and put it in the Michelin Woman’s mailbox. The rest of the day I spent catching up on records because I didn’t have any sessions scheduled, which I was grateful for. Walanda’s murder had me feeling less than therapeutic.

    I spent the early evening at the gym listening to Smitty tell me how I threw the hook like a bitch. He drilled me on the footwork to stay away from Suggs’s power. The plan was for me to jab him and keep moving to my right so he couldn’t reach me with his right hand. The problem with that was he could also throw a wicked left hook and I’d be moving directly into that.
    The thing with fight strategies was that they always looked good on paper, but when you’re standing in front of someone set on taking your head off, it didn’t always seem as easy. Smitty’s strategy was the right one, though, and I planned on following it as closely as I could.
    After the workout, we sat in Smitty’s office and watched tape of the guy on Smitty’s old TV console. Suggs was a huge and ripped white guy with a shaved head and a Fu Manchu beard. There was no doubt this guy could fight. The guys who fight in the South and Midwest circuit fight shitty competition, but it doesn’t mean they all suck. Suggs was knocking everyone out and doing it quickly. Sure, a lot of them were tomato cans, but he was making them unconscious. My movement was going to be the key.
    I finished up at the gym and headed home. Once again, Al gave me his customary greeting at the door, but this time I was ready. I intercepted his paws and moved gracefully to my left, deflecting his testicle-seeking charge. Already, I was emphasizing movement.
    It had been a productive day for Al. In between couch gnawing sessions, he busied himself by making a mess with every single newspaper and periodical he could find in the Blue. He got halfway through the second cushion on my couch. I now had one half of a cushion to sit and unwind on at the end of the day. I couldn’t tell if I was imagining it or not, but Al’s early-morning activity that made its way between my toes seemed to linger in the air like some evil potpourri that you’d find in a very special ring of hell.
    I didn’t feel at all like