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Rough Cut Ch. 01

By: Desdmona



Rough Cut: A Moe Gafferson Mystery

Edited By Poison Ivan

Chapter 1

Moe Gafferson tried to sit up, but a fiery stab sliced through his ribs, he slumped back down against the starched white sheets. "Fuck," he said to an empty room. 

Moe had never been laid this low. Sure, he'd had a few scuffles over the years, like when he was ten years old and Mickey Bolls held him down while Larry Beason rearranged his nose, or that sucker punch from the jealous boyfriend, or even a couple of broken ribs from a goon he shouldn't have squeezed. But this was different. Before, it was just fists that did the damage. This last guy was tougher, sneakier, and chose a dodgier toy. Moe had been out, way out, seeing the white light out. A visit to oblivion was not a trip he'd want to take again soon. 

Eating through a straw, pissing through a tube—these were dealings for old men. Moe Gafferson ate red meat, warm and rare, pissed in alleys when it suited him, and he surely wasn't old, not yet. Moe wouldn't stay down for long. Not now, not with all the motivators lining up in his head. Being stretched out in a bed and so gowed up he didn't know day from night wouldn't get the rent paid. And it wouldn't teach the hood with the shiv that Moe Gafferson was not a guy to be fucked with. Yeah, Moe had a real mission now. 

The blade had been inches from showing Moe a Harlem sunset. A longer knife, or an extra twist, and Moe would've bled to death before the meat wagon arrived. As it was, Moe's gut saw some jigsaw duty. Luckily, the pieces all fit back together, only now the picture wasn't so pretty. He'd been laid up for three days. The doc said his stint could be as long as two weeks, but not if Moe had anything to say about it. Hospitals were for delicates. If Moe wanted to lie dormy he'd go to the top floor at Flamingo's and have a sweet little charity girl cuddled up at his side. 

He wasn't complaining about the services at Christ Hospital. Not exactly. The place had one thing going for it: the dames wore less paint and covered more flesh than Moe was used to, but there were still some he found easy on the eyes. One gal in particular, Mona Dale, even had Moe looking forward to the early morning wake-up call. But there was only so much lying around doing nothing a man like Moe could take. Hot dame or no.

There was a job to do. Namely, find the SOB that had landed him here in the first place. Moe was still a little sketchy on the details. He had been doing some easy snooping, following Mrs. Kitty Winslow, married to Mr. Winslow, Mr. Dutch Winslow, proprietor of Flamingo's, the poshest hotel and nightclub in Cincinnati. Dutch also happened to be a friend of Moe's, and as a personal favor, Moe was tracking the missus. It seemed Kitty had taken to sharing the goods with another boy. Dutch never did like sharing.

"Find out what she's up to, Moe," Dutch told him, his knuckles whitening as he squeezed his 14K gold cigarette lighter.

"You want the overview or the period to period?"

"I want it all. Every breath she takes."

"Sounds like love, Dutch."

"What's love got to do with it?" Dutch took his time lighting a cigarette and taking the first hit off of it. "She's mine, and no two-bit grifter is gonna move in on what's mine."

Moe fingered the lucky shell casing he kept in his pant's pocket. "You sure she's stepping out?" he asked.

"No doubt about it. Kitty's got a few good qualities. Most of them you see upfront." Dutch paused long enough for Moe to visualize Mrs. Winslow's endowments and then went on. "Being the brightest jewel in the crown ain't one of those qualities."

Dutch Winslow wasn't afraid to let a man know where he stood, a dame either for that matter. Moe had seen it a few times with some of the broads Dutch had working for him at Flamingo's. Dutch couldn't afford his waitresses coming across like pro skirts. If one of them got too edgy, Dutch would take care of it. Many a kitten came back from Dutch's office with scared rabbit eyes and an adjusted attitude. 

Dutch also played it straight with Moe. Gave him a drink when he needed it and a place to flop when a landlord got nasty about Moe's rent. Dutch could be a good Joe, especially to someone he considered a friend. Moe was obliged to return the favor.

"Sure, Dutch. I'll tag her for awhile," Moe said.

"Tomorrow," Dutch said. "And get pictures. Lots of them."

***

Trailing Kitty had started out easy, eggs in the coffee. Kitty liked shopping, going to the salon, and dancing—a regular high class dame. She dropped off a bundle at Chang's Laundromat, bought a sexy black number from Singer's, the swank dress shop uptown, got her hair spit and shined at the Curl-n-Go, and then by evening, she found a place that offered cool drinks and fast music. Mongo's, a place where you wouldn't expect to find the wife of Dutch Winslow. But Kitty seemed right at home. She sauntered in and found an empty table like it had her name on it. The rest of the joint was packed. Moe hunkered down in a back corner where it was dark and the waitresses seemed to forget about you. 

A couple of jokers, too full of alcohol, were arguing the politics of joining the war. Liquor and politics didn't make for good bedfellows, not in times like these. The sousepots ended up duking it out. Moe might have stepped in, just for the heck of it, if he hadn't been sleuthing. Fortunately, Mongo's three hundred pound gorilla earned his keep and tossed the buffoons out on their axles. While all eyes followed the gorilla, Moe shifted to the buffoons vacated table. He picked up a half-empty drink and pretended it was his. This spot had a better view of where Kitty had parked but still gave him a little distance.

The Winslow broad didn't seem to be meeting anyone in particular. She sat at her table, sipped on some tonsil paint, and waited. The law of averages said a dame who looked like Kitty—shimmery midnight hair, great gams and a pair of maracas that could haunt a man at night—wouldn't have to wait long.

Sure enough, her dance card quickly filled. She swayed with one man after another, building a healthy sheen that made her glow under the dim lights. The GIs and the college boys that jammed into places like Mongo's were goo-goo eyed at dancing with a dame like her. Kitty kept them interested enough to keep them trying. She let them all get close, run their hands along her bare back, sniff at her perfume, and maybe even steal a kiss, but none of them got a second dance. 

Moe had pretty much figured on an early night when a mug in glad rags, classier than all the others, escorted Kitty to the dance floor. This guy's gray suit was a little too tailored for this dive, and his hands a little too clean. Kitty allowed the guy the same liberties she'd allowed all the others, but when the song ended, she didn't send him on his way. A few words passed between them that Moe couldn't catch, but his gut told him the night wasn't over. Kitty and Mr. Smooth parted after the second dance. She went back to her table. Mr. Smooth slipped out the door. Moe watched as Kitty made her way to the dance floor again. This time she was awkward and jumpy, like the dance couldn't be over fast enough. This last bastard never even got close enough to feel her tits against his chest or grab a handful of her ass. With the last note barely blown, Kitty rushed to the exit. 

A '37 Studebaker coupe was waiting.

Moe followed Kitty and the suit back to a dump Over the Rhine, a greasier side of town, where in the light of day, Kitty Winslow would stand out like a cherry in a bowl of lemons. Moe parked at the corner and waited while the pair hustled from the car and through the worn door of a small cottage. The lights in the house flipped on as Moe got out of his car and circled around back. The windows were open. The shades were up. It was easy. Too easy. Warning bells should have been ringing in Moe's skull. Maybe they were, but Moe's attention was instantly drawn onstage, where things had gotten juicy real quick.

By the time Moe found a perfect perch, Kitty was naked except for black stockings and high heels. It was easy to see why Dutch had taken a shine to her. Kitty was what you call voluptuous. Grable style: high kicking legs, handful spilling tits, and an hourglass waist. It didn't hurt that all that body was housed in porcelain white skin. 

Mr. Smooth hadn't wasted any time either. He was slipping out of his skivvies just as Moe lined up his brownie and snapped the first picture. Moe kept his eye on the action during the camera wind up, partly for business, partly for pleasure.

They didn't wait to find a bed. Kitty had her back to the wall with Mr. Smooth pinning her hands above her head. She didn't seem to mind. Her eyes drooped shut and her head fell to the side, exposing a long, lean stretch of neck. Mr. Smooth nestled in, licking and sucking, with his chin resting on her tit. Moe snapped another picture. Too bad her flushed red skin wouldn't show on the black and white photograph. Moe liked the color of an excited woman, although he was sure Dutch would be less appreciative.

Kitty lifted her leg and wrapped it around the guy's waist. Nothing clumsy about this dance. It was practiced and effortless like only familiar partners can do. He released her hands and they went immediately around his shoulders. Her freshly manicured nails streaked along his muscled back while the heel of her shoe excavated the edge of his ass.

Moe grabbed a couple more pictures, a close-up of Kitty and Mr. Smooth lip-locked, and another close-up that featured body parts without the faces. He figured he had enough evidence but decided to stick around for the grand finale. 

Just then, Kitty's eyes popped open and looked right in Moe's direction. Finale or not, it was time for him to scram. 

Moe never saw it coming. The burning stab sliced into his skin as easy as butter. The second stab was easier, less burning, less surprise. Moe tried to focus on who or what had snuck up on him so easily. But it was too dark, too hazy. He was falling and he couldn't stop. The slap of his body hitting pavement echoed in Moe's ears. He heard a loud crack and wasn't sure if it was his camera or his skull. 

The next thing Moe knew, he was being poked and prodded by a dish dressed in white with red hair and the greenest eyes Moe had ever seen. An angel for sure. 

"We in heaven?" Moe croaked.

The angel laughed. A husky, sexy laugh, and Moe knew he was still alive. Heaven wasn't in the cards for a guy like Moe Gafferson.

That was three days ago. The angel's name was Mona Dale, R.N., and with her help, Moe was finally feeling human. Human enough to know he'd underestimated either Kitty or her lover. From what Dutch had told him, Moe figured Kitty for diamonds on the outside but paste everywhere else. So it must have been the lover. Mr. Smooth wasn't a fly-by-nighter. He had at least one friend. A friend with a shiv that had carved a calling card into Moe Gafferson.

Rough Cut Ch. 01



Chapter One - Sammi's Story

Sammi Quinn held the quarter tightly in her left hand as she scratched the lottery ticket in front of her. She was determined that this was the one that would change her life. She taught art history at a small Midwestern liberal arts college which meant everything in her world was small - even her classes! She taught classes five days a week, usually with less than 10 students in any one class. 

Sammi, Samantha Jane (O'Reilly) Quinn, was born in a small town. She grew up in a small town and went to the local branch of the State University, majoring in Art History. She had been interested in art from an early age. Her mother was always showing her photos of the great art works of the world and read her stories of the artists so art history was a natural choice of major.

In her sophomore year, she met Henry Blankenship, the resident art history guru in the university town. Henry held impromptu classes for students at his art store and regaled them with stories of artists past, little known facts that brought art alive, at least to Sammi. In her junior year, she moved in with Henry and essentially traded sex for art history education. 

She continuously hounded him with her "why" questions about Manet, Monet, Van Gogh, and a host of others. Although she cared about the art itself, she was more interested in what drove them to create the art they left behind. In exchange, she was his all too willing accomplice in whatever sexual adventure he wanted to pursue, except for doing drugs which she absolutely refused.

Sometimes he would tie her up and tickle her. Other times, he was the most gentle lover and drove her to multiple orgasms before letting her rest. By the end of her senior year, Henry was exhausted both mentally and physically. He could no longer keep up with her amazing appetite for love-making nor could he stand her continuous barrage of questions. Just before her graduation, they ended their unusual relationship by mutual consent.

Sammi enrolled in graduate school and, due to her constant questioning of Henry, breezed through with a straight "A" average and was easily accepted into the Doctorate program. That was when she met Ian, the bookworm. Something about his quiet manner intrigued her and they dated off and on through her Doctorate years and ended up getting married soon after she completed her studies. Now she was the teacher trying to pass on her love of art to her students. 

Ian, the bookworm, passed his CPA exams and went to work for the State as an auditor. He seemed to be doing well in his job as his income continued to increase along with the long hours, mostly in travel to small towns. He was always attentive when he was home but lately his job took him out of town more and more often.

Two years ago, to make up for his many absences, Ian had an in ground pool installed in their back yard along with a six foot high fence insuring privacy for Sammi as she liked to sun bathe nude when possible. 

Thus it was that Sammi found herself wearing her tiny bikini, laying back on a chaise lounge by the pool in mid-April, getting an early start on her summer tan and trying to win something on this scratch ticket.

"Damn", she said out loud, "Only $5. Oh well, at least I got my money back. Maybe next time."

She lay back on the chaise and untied the top of her bikini, letting it fall to the ground next to her. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander as the sun's rays began to warm her body. Ten minutes later, her cell phone rang and she jumped to answer it on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sammi, what are you up to today?" her friend Debra asked. Debra was a fellow teacher at the university in the Social Sciences Dept.

"Not much, Deb, just getting a little sun. And you?"

"Just finished grading my mid-terms. Do you have any plans for dinner?"

"Not really. Ian's out of town and I haven't given it any thought. What did you have in mind?"

"There's a new art exhibit down at the waterfront. I was thinking of going and finding a new place to eat, if you're interested."

"Sounds good, Deb, what time and where?"

"How about my place around 6-ish, ok?"

"Deal. I'll see you then. Bye."

Sammi checked the time on her cell phone and found she had over three hours so she lay back on the chaise, closed her eyes and once again began to dream. An hour later she was startled out of her dream by the nearby barking of a dog. She shook her head to become fully awake, thankful that the events she was experiencing were only in a dream. 

She bent down and retrieved her top and her cell phone, then rose from the chaise and walked into the house. She needed a shower and a fresh set of clothes before driving across town to meet Debra. 

When the two women arrived at the waterfront, they parked in the lot and walked thru to the display area. Debra was already eyeing the available males while Sammi's eye caught a display quite unlike the others. She tugged Deb's arm and angled them toward the edge of the display area. She stopped in front of a long, wooden boat, a scull really, and marveled at the design.

As she reached out her hand to run it over the apparently smooth boat, she heard a warning shout just as her finger was pierced by a splinter of wood.

"Ouch", she said, "that smarts."

"Sorry," he said, "I tried to warn you. I guess I should put up a sign saying "Rough Cut". It still needs a lot of sanding but I just didn't have the time before the show. How's your hand?"

"Ok, I guess, I think I got just a small splinter."

"Here, let me see your hand."

He gently took hold of her hand as she extended it to him. With his other hand, he extracted a small tweezers from his pocket and quickly extracted the small piece of wood from her finger.

"Thank you.", she said. "I'm Samantha Quinn and this is my friend Debra Johnson."

"Pleased to meet you both." he replied. "I'm Rick Stanton. Are you looking for a scull?"

"Heavens, no." Sammi replied. "We're just here to see the artwork."

Sammi noticed his expression change as she spoke.

"Is your boat for sale?"

"When it's finished it might be, if I can find someone who will love it and give it a good home. Even tho she's a traditional scull she isn't really meant for racing."

"Why not? She has very graceful lines. I'd imagine she would do very well on the water."

"Thank you, but today's sculls are mostly fiberglass or lightweight aluminum and they would leave this beauty in their wake. No, this is just for enjoying the freedom of gliding over the water."

"Well, thank you for the information, Rick. If I'm ever in the market for a beautiful scull, I'll certainly look you up. Do you have a card or something?"

"Sure do. Here you are. Thanks for stopping by."

Sammi slipped Rick's card into the pocket of her jeans and looked around for Debra, who she found several stalls away looking at some paintings. She walked towards Debra, swinging her hips provocatively for the drooling Rick.

When she caught up to Debra, she pretended interest in the shawls that were available until they were more or less alone.

"Thanks for leaving me stranded back there."

"No problem. I'm not the boating kind. Besides, he was definitely taking an interest in you. Don't think I didn't notice that sexy walk on your way over here."

"Debra Ann, I'm a married woman! But he was kind of cute."

They continued through the stalls then went to dinner at a local cafe. When Sammi dropped Debra off at her apartment around 10 pm, she still felt a little restless. She smiled as she remembered the look on Rick's face as she walked away but quickly put the thought out of her head and went straight home. As she was undressing for bed, she discovered Rick's card in the pocket of her jeans. Slipping the card into her wallet, she grinned again and whispered "maybe someday". The vision of Rick's smiling face was the last thing she remembered as she drifted off to sleep.



Rough Cut Ch. 02



Chapter 2

“Mr. Gafferson! What do you think you’re doing?”

It’d taken some effort, but Moe had finally got past the three-month-old baby stage. He was sitting up. Sort of. His legs hung limply over the side of the bed like packaged meat. Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip. And if he let go of the side rail he’d probably play patty cake with the floor. But at least he was upright. 

“I’m busting out,” he panted. “This place gives me the creeps.” Moe hated the weak, breathy sound of his voice.

Mona Dale’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, really? How far do you think you’ll get before those stitches pop and you lose what little blood you have left?” 

“Far enough to get a good meal. A man’s last meal shouldn’t be carrots he sipped through a straw.”

Mona Dale grinned. Not an ordinary nurse, this dame. Most of the Nightingales would have been in a lather, pushing Moe back to bed. Not her. Miss Dale’s green eyes sparkled as she leaned against the doorjamb like she was posing for a pin-up. “All right,” she said. “I’ll wait here. Bring me back a ham and swiss.”

Moe could have stared all day at the way her feminine curves fought with the starched white uniform. “They don’t serve deli food where I’m going,” he said.

“What if I can swing a plate of mashed potatoes? Would you consider staying with us a little longer?”

Moe liked her style: soft with some bite around the edges. The slim hope that her tits might win the battle against her buttons didn’t hurt either. But the dealmakers that had him acquiescing was the killer pain in his side, the nausea in his gut, and the weakness in his legs. 

“Gravy, too?” he groaned.

“Only if you promise to stay in bed.”

“Yes, Mama.” Moe felt like a little boy being put to bed, except no mamas in his neighborhood ever looked like this frill. His body might not be up to do-si-do-ing with the nursing staff, but it couldn’t hurt to lay some groundwork for the future. Moe wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of Mona Dale when just lifting his head didn’t feel like work.

“You got something special planned for me, Miss Dale?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she sashayed over, felt Moe’s forehead with the back of her hand, and stuck a thermometer in his mouth. Five minutes later, Moe was back under his blanket, feeling like he’d climbed twelve stories to the penthouse suite. 

“Mr. Gafferson...” she read the thermometer and scribbled on her clipboard. “I figure you for a man who wouldn’t care to hear the percentage of people who die, not from their stab wounds, but from the infection they get afterward.” 

“You figure that right.”

She didn’t look up. “Then I’ll save that speech for the next guy.” 

She finished her Red Cross routine by reaching behind Moe and fluffing his pillow. A man would have to be dead not to notice the sweet smell of Miss Dale, or the sweet swell of her breast against his shoulder.

“What do you do when you’re not bashing pillows and pushing mercury sticks, doll?”

Before Mona could answer, a tough cop from uptown Cincy, Officer Harold Murphy, waltzed into the room. Murphy could be a poster boy for Irish Catholic cops, except the Irish brogue had evaporated from his family a couple of generations ago. 

“Hitting on the nurses, Gafferson?” Murphy smirked. “I guess the story you was shadowboxing with Lucifer was a little premature?”

Officer Murphy and Moe had butt heads on more than one occasion. Murphy didn’t like anyone playing John Law unless he carried the right kind of badge and wore the right color of blue. Moe wore mostly gray and kept his PI license in a drawer in his office.

“I wondered how long before a flatfoot would show up. Draw the short straw again, Murphy?”

“Apparently not as short as you, Gafferson. You ain’t lookin’ so good.”

Moe wasn’t feeling so good either, but that was none of Murphy’s business. 

Mona Dale stepped up like a tiger protecting her cub. “Officer Murphy, is it?” 

Murphy removed his hat and nodded politely. “Uh, yes, ma’am. Harold Murphy. Please to make your acquaintance.” Murphy’s pale Irish skin bloomed red. Moe had never seen this side of the guy, the side that went all squashy with manners. Beautiful dames could be powerful.

“Officer Murphy, this man has been through a great deal. I won’t allow you to upset him.”

“No, ma’am. I wasn’t planning to. But I do have to ask him a few questions.”

“I’m trusting you to be a man of your word.” She gave Murphy the Mother Superior look and then turned to Moe. “I’ll just go see about some potatoes.”

She left the room with two pair of eyes glued to her caboose and a momentary silence in shared appreciation.

When there was nothing else to look at, Moe spoke first. “What took you boys so long, Murphy? I figured you’d be here writing my epitaph.”

“We’ve been busy writing one for the other stiff.”

Moe took a second take. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t bust my chops, Gafferson. You know who I mean. The stiff in the house where you was snooping.”

Moe played the reel-to-reel in his head. The last thing he remembered was Mr. Smooth giving it to Kitty. Who was dead? 

“What’s this stiff to me?”

Murphy closed in until he could touch the side of the bed. “You were there. He was there. You boys wasn’t playing tiddly-winks.” Murphy paused. “Or maybe you was.” He let his shoulders relax. “I never figured you for a daisy, Moe.”

So the stiff wasn’t Kitty Winslow. Moe let free the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I never stepped foot inside that house.”

“Oh, no? Well, he was playing footsies with someone. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

“How should I know? I don’t even know the gink’s name.” 

“You was playing Private Dick, Moe, you always are. We find a man naked and spent and the smell of sex still dripping in the air, we figure he wasn’t alone at the climax. What was on that broken camera of yours anyway?”

“Vacation pictures.”

“Don’t be a wise-ass, Gafferson. You’re in up to your neck in this one. You better come clean.”

Moe glanced down at the bandages covering him from armpit-to-armpit. “I thought I was the victim.” 

“That’s what happens to guys who stick their nose where it don’t belong.”

“All choked up, aren’t you Murphy?”

Murphy shrugged. “I ain’t got time for handing out handkerchiefs.”

Moe rubbed his hands over his face. He’d had enough chit-chatting with Murphy, and he wasn’t above milking a predicament when he needed to. “My mind’s a little jingle-brained, Murphy. Facing a coffin will do that.”

“Your mind’s as clear as rain water, Gafferson. You better spill what you know.”

“I think the nurse is coming, Murphy. You want to stick around to show off your manners, or maybe change my bandages?”

Murphy glimpsed over his shoulder. “Nah, I got better things to do than squeezing gimps like you. But something you oughta remember, Moe.” He put his hat on and walked toward the door, whistling. “Killers don’t like leaving jobs undone.”

Murphy continued whistling all the way down the hall. A perfect rendition of Taps.

“Have a nice day, Murphy,” Moe yelled after him. A sharp pain in his gut told him he wasn’t ready to do much yelling, not yet. 

Moe closed his eyes. His body wanted to snooze, but his brain was working overtime. If Mr. Smooth was the one bumped, that muddied up the water. In Moe’s experience, goons with knives didn’t work alone. Moe had figured his attacker was a pal of Mr. Smooth’s. So if Smooth wasn’t the goon’s dance partner, who was? Moe could only drum up two possibilities. 

Dutch Winslow didn’t fit right—murder wasn’t in his line-up. Dutch might have wanted Mr. Smooth out of the picture, but slicing up Moe in the process made no sense. 

That left Kitty. But why would she want to off her lover? 

Minutes later, the drugs in his body won the tug-of-war, and like it or not, Moe was snoozing.

***

Moe opened his eyes to the bright light of the mid-day sun shining through the lone window in his room. The tick-tock of the clock reminded him how much time he was wasting. He didn’t sleep this much after an all-nighter with a belly full of hooch.

Must have been the mashed potatoes. That red-hot tomato parading as a nurse had proved true to her word and brought Moe a plateful. Moe had woken up just long enough to spoon down the spuds and contemplate how mouthwatering Mona Dale was. He had dozed back off thinking about how her soft and smooth and creamy skin. 

Moe wished his door was open. He might have caught a glimpse of her as she traipsed up and down the hallway, working her nurse’s tush off. On the other hand, with all this privacy, he could try to get out of bed again without getting his knuckles rapped. Just as he’d mustered up the strength to do it, the door swung open.

“Hello Moe.”

Moe had been ready to box with Mona over getting out of bed. He wasn’t prepared to see Dutch Winslow.

“What are you doing here, Dutch?”

“I heard rumors you were barely alive.”

“Yeah? Who told you?”

“A man hears things when he keeps his ears open.”

Moe tried to get to his feet, but he was as wobbly as a fork standing in pudding. Sweat trickled down his chest and worked its way into his wound, stinging the hell of him.

“How about giving a guy a hand, Dutch?”

Dutch held out an arm and Moe leveled upright against him. The burning pain shot deep, but it didn’t cripple him over this time. It was getting better. Or maybe Moe was getting used to it.

Moe steadied himself and tried to show some semblance of dignity. “What else you hear, Dutch?” he gasped.

“That you were luckier than the other guy.”

Moe stood steady for a minute but figured he’d had enough exercise when his legs started to shake, and he thought he saw two of Dutch. He slumped back onto the bed. Dutch was staring at him.

“Not a pretty site, is it?” Moe said.

“I’ve seen worse.”

There was something off about Dutch. He was dressed to the nine’s as always: tailored pinstripe suit, starched white shirt, gold cuff links. But he had a look about him—a little more strain around the eyes, a little less punch in his step, and he was fiddling with the hat in his hands like a nervous groom.

“How’s your wife, Dutch?”

“Listen, Moe, that’s what I want to talk to you about.” Dutch reached in his suit, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it on the bed. “Kitty’s fine. I won’t be needing your services any more.”

“Is that so?”

“You’ll find your standard fee, plus an extra bonus.”

Moe looked at the envelope. It was fat. A lot fatter than it should have been. “That’s got the markings of a pay-off, Dutch.”

Dutch fiddled with his hat some more. But his eyes never left Moe’s. “What do you mean?” 

“You want me to spell it out for you?”

Dutch’s jaw tightened. “Maybe you should, Moe.” 

“All right. There were four people at that house. One is dead and one is in the hospital. That leaves two unaccounted for. Is it getting any clearer, Dutch?”

“Kitty’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Says who?”

“Says me, that’s who.” 

“I wonder if the police will feel the same way, Dutch.”

Dutch’s hands tightened into fists, pinching the rim of his hat. “Are you threatening me, Moe?”

“Me? I’m a man who can barely take a piss without someone’s help, what kind of threat am I?”

Uneasy silence, like a bad first date, hung in the room. Moe’s brain fumbled for some answers. The job was over, that much he understood, but Dutch was hiding something. Something he wanted buried six feet under. Moe would have bet his life on it.

“Just let it go, Moe. Take the money. Fly to Atlantic City. Pay some bills, whatever.”

“And the police?”

“Tell them whatever you’ve got to tell them.” 

Moe might have asked if that meant tell the police what they want to know, tell them that Kitty Winslow was who they were looking for. But Mona came into the room, carrying a stethoscope and a medicine cup.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a few things I have to take care of.”

“That’s okay. I was just leaving.” Dutch stepped away, crammed his hat on his head, and hurried toward the door, never looking at Nurse Dale. Moe didn’t try to stop him.

“I didn’t mean to rush him off, but…” 

Moe interrupted. “He’s a busy man.” 

“You promised to stay put,” she finished, as she helped ease Moe back under the covers.

Moe picked up the envelope and turned it over in his hands. Yeah, it was fat, fat enough to hold two G’s. Moe was disgusted. Disgusted with himself for being a patsy. Disgusted that he was forced to lie here like an invalid. And disgusted that he couldn’t do a damn thing about any of it, including handling the pretty feline that was leaning in close with cherry lips just inches from his, listening to his chest with her stethoscope. 

“I’ve got to get out of here, Mona.”

“Shh.”

“I mean it.”

“Mr. Gafferson...”

“Call me, Moe.”

“All right, Moe.” She left the bell of the stethoscope on his chest but took the prongs out of her ears. “You can’t rush these things.” 

“I’m going to end up in the nuthatch. Lying in bed with no purpose can drive a man crazy.”

“You need a purpose?” Mona’s hand remained on his bare chest, warm and soft like a cuddling kitten. “You’re making nice progress. Who knows, if you’re a good boy, tomorrow we might try sitting in the chair.”

“I’d rather be sitting at a bar drinking a Jack D.”

“And I’d rather be dancing, but I’ve got work to do. And you need to concentrate on getting better.”

Her green eyes stared straight into his baby blues. Her tongue darted out and took a long, slow tour of her lips. This wasn’t part of any nursing job Moe knew of. He forced himself to swallow.

“So you like to dance, huh?”

“I like to do a lot of things, Moe.”

It wasn’t as much what she said as how she said it—like hot syrup poured over a stack of cakes. The dame was stirring up flames that had no way to burn.

“Mona...”

A throat clearing interrupted them. Mona’s eyes shifted past Moe to look toward the door.

“You’re a popular man today,” Mona whispered.

Moe followed Mona’s gaze and saw the last person on earth he expected to see.

Kitty Winslow.



Rough Cut Ch. 02



Chapter Two - Ian's Story

Ian Quinn was a bookworm. He inherited a talent for numbers from his father so math was his best subject in school. Growing up in a small towm in the Midwest, Ian made a name for himself with his phenomenal ability with numbers.

Early in high school, he established himself as the guru of math and easily made extra money tutoring other students. Occasionally, his fee for tutoring included some extra-ciricular activity when the student was a good looking female. As he earned money for college, Ian was becoming quite adept at manipulating young women.

As his skill increased, so did his fee for services rendered and not all of his services were tutorial in nature. There was no love involved in what he did, it was strictly for the money and for the thrill it gave him to have georgeous women do things for him that they wouldn't otherwise have done with anyone.

By the time he got to college, he began to organize various enterprises designed to create wealth for himself as well as maintian a level of sexual activity he deemed appropriate. He was the "go-to" guy for whatever others in his fraternity wanted. His forays into the world of gaming brought him into contact with several not-so-clean police officers in the local town.

As time went on, Ian became the brains behind schemes designed to separate unsuspecting wealthy citizens from part of their wealth while at the same time leaving them no avenue of appeal. If you wanted to gamble, Ian could get you a game of whatever, at a price. His price didn't include your right to win. If you wanted companionship, Ian could provide the women, or men, who would be willing to cater to your every need, for a price.

Ian graduated college with a straight "A" average and quickly enrolled in graduate school. These days a Master's Degree was the minumum requirement for success in the business world. As he was finishing his graduate studies and preparing for the CPA exam, he met Sammi.

Ian was smitten immediately. Although he trafficked in women and other things, Sammi was something special. By some strange quirk of fate, it seemed that she was also taken with him. Ian nourished her favor with kind gestures, presents, and promises of "someday". Due to his network of informers, he was well aware of Sammi's time with Henry but considered it to be a kind of training period. Sammi would be the perfect front for his continuing operations after graduation.

When he interviewed with the State for a job as an auditor, Ian knew he had found his niche. One of the members of the interview board was one of Ian's clients and proved very influential in placing Ian in the traveling auditor role after being promised continuing client services. About the same time, Ian met a man who ran a drug distribution ring and the two became partners with Ian handling the management and audit duties while his partner ran the day to day operations of the distribution business.

Over the first few years of their marriage, Ian and Sammi discovered that neither of them wanted children and, in fact, Sammi was biologically incapable of conceiving. Ian quickly learned the depth of Sammi's desire for sex and proposed that she satisfy her desires while he was away, if she so chose. Sammi told Ian that experimenting was behind her and that she was more or less content to be true to him as she promised in her wedding vows.

Ian believed her and tried his best to see that she was, in fact, content with him. He lavished gifts on her, vacations, a nice house and an inground pool with a privacy fence for her personal use. He was careful not to overspend since his primary job was as State Auditor. He felt secure in the idea that she was his wife and wouldn't dare betray him. Even so, he was very careful to keep his business interests completely secret from her just to be sure. He attributed his wealth to his success in business and good investments.

In each town he visited on his regular rounds, Ian stayed at a certain motel or hotel where the "books" of the organization were kept. When he wasn't on his "day job", he was busy in his hotel room auditing the books of his "night job". In most cases, no one except the bookkeeper and a high ranking police officer in the town, knew about his real mission. The police officer was necessary protection in the event of a sudden raid or other occurence. During these visits, Ian received regular reports on the activity in the local area and made decisions regarding "company" business.

The State was divided into quadrants. Ian arranged his schedule so he visited each quadrant once every three months and received detailed reports on the other times. As it happened on this Wednesday night, while Sammi and Debra were taking in the local art show, Ian was busily checking the books in his hotel room. When the alarm beside his bed went off. Ian quickly slipped the books into the wall hiding place and turned up the volume on the television. When the door to his room burst open and three police officers entered, Ian raised his hands and demanded to know the meaning of this rude inturruption.

"Police business, Mr. Quinn. Please come along with us."

Ian got up and reached for his suit coat. The officer in charge checked the pockets of Ian's coat before allowing him to put it on. Then he checked the drawers of the dresser, the closet, and looked under the bed. He indicated that Ian's luggage should be tagged and taken to the station, then motioned the group out of the room.

The officers escorted him out of the room and down the hall without handcuffs. They joined a group of men and scantilly clad women in the lobby. As the police ushered them to waiting buses, Ian didn't bother to hide his face from the cameras to maintain the facade of innocence.

When Ian reached the local police station along with the others who were arrested, he was immediately pulled out of line by a police lieutenant. He was taken to an interview room and the door was closed.

"Sorry, Ian, the Chief is under a lot of pressure from the city council. I didn't get advance notice about the raid. I may even be under suspicion."

"No harm done, Larry, the report will be that I was an innocent visitor of the motel and since no women or drugs were found in my room or luggage, I was released. Now, let me use your cell phone while you get us a cup of coffee, ok?"

"Sure, Ian, Here you go. I'll be right back."

When Larry left the room, Ian dialed a number from memory.

"Sam, Ian. We've got a small problem here. The new local police chief pulled a surprise raid tonight on the motel."

"What's the damage, Ian?"

"Not much this time. I'm clean although I'll show up on the morning news. You need to bail out the three girls they brought in and tell HQ there's no fire, just a fire drill. Then get your people to work checking on the background of this new guy and let me know, Ok?"

"Sure thing. I'll get the ball rolling and then I'll be over there. Is there anything special you need?"

"No, I'm fine. Larry will take care of me here. After you get the girls out, make sure Jed is ok. He did a good job of raising the alarm tonight. Bye."

When Larry returned with two coffees, he sat across the table from Ian with his head bowed. Ian handed back his cell phone with a grin.

"Relax, Larry, we'll take care of this. I'll be back here in two weeks. You need to arrange to get my luggage out of police custody and back to me tonight, tho. We'll call it even - this time! If this happens again, it will be out of my hands, understand?"

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"Good. So how is the family? I"ll bet Jimmy is quite the young man by now, right?"

"Yes sir, he's almost 16 and about to get his driver's license."

"Fine young man, Larry. Let's get this matter off the table and we'll see about a birthday present for Jimmy."

"Yes sir, that would be fine. I'll tend to it first chance I get. Are you ready to leave now? I"ll arrange a ride back to the motel for you."

"That would be great, Larry. Just keep up the good work and everything will be fine."

"Yes sir, right this way and we'll get you out of here."

Ian made a mental note to call Sammi explaining that he was accidentally picked up with the others in his motel but released almost right away but it was already too late to call tonight. After all, he really was working late - just not at his State job. When the police car pulled up at the motel, several people were still standing around. Heads turned as he exited the back seat and said good night to the officer. 

"Hey, Ian, how did you get out of jail so quickly?"

"No problem, Max. They didn't find anything on me or in my room and I didn't have a woman with me so no charges. I am just an innocent guest of the motel and was quickly released."

This he said loudly enough for those assembled to hear. After they entered the motel lobby, he whispered to Max.

"Larry will be bringing my stuff over to you later."

Max just nodded and walked away, going behind the desk to hand Ian a room key.

"Donna is waiting for you, Ian, to ease your stress."

"Thank you, Max. It's nice to find something that works right. By the way, would you set me up with a 6am wake up call? I still have work to do before I head back home."

"Sure thing, Ian, sleep well."



Rough Cut Ch. 03



 Edited by Poison Ivan

Kitty Winslow had a dream-puss face, no doubt about it - big doe eyes, bee-stung lips, and baby soft skin. But it was her chassis that made her a real oomph girl, and Kitty Winslow didn't mind displaying that chassis. Her seamstress must have gotten real friendly to get that yellow dress to cling to every dangerous curve of Kitty's body. Not that Moe needed a diagram to imagine what hid beneath. He'd already seen the full glossy. Still, the outline was worth tracing. Twice.

"Mr. Gafferson, I was wondering if I could speak with you? A personal matter." Kitty glared briefly at Mona as if Mona was using up all the breathing space.

Mona straightened her uniform and tucked her stethoscope in her pocket, but she stayed glued to her spot close to Moe. 

"I got no kick about you being here, Mrs. Winslow," he said.

"So you do know who I am?" 

"And you know who I am. Seems our reputations precede us." Moe nodded toward Mona. "This is Miss Dale." 

Kitty glanced at Mona just long enough to size her up. She must not have liked what she discovered - she nearly scowled. "How do you do, Miss Dale?" 

"How do you do, Missus Winslow?" 

Dames were all alike - the way they circled each other like wolves trying to catch a scent. Good-looking women rarely shared the same small space without claws coming out. Another place, another time, Moe might have stirred the pot to see how these two simmered out. But Kitty Winslow might be responsible for the tattoo now stitched in Moe's gut. It sort of soured him against playing Sheba games. 

"Now that we got the tea party out of the way," Moe said. "What's your business, Mrs. Winslow?"

Kitty glanced again at Mona. "As I said, it's personal."

Mona flushed from cheekbones to hairline, but kept her head held high. "Well, I have patients to see." She turned to leave, but stopped next to Kitty and rose to her full height, at least three inches taller than Kitty, who wore heels. "Please, don't upset him, Mrs. Winslow. He still has a lot of recovering to do." 

"I wouldn't dream of it, dear," said Kitty.

Moe enjoyed the way Mona had jumped in to protect him. It was a feeling a man could get used to. He kept his baby blues on her as she left the room. She purposely did a keister waltz that could make a man forget one plus one. He shook his head. Damn! She was a crackerjack! 

Kitty noisily cleared her throat and interrupted Moe's thoughts. He settled back against his bed and tried not to think about Mona and her charms. There was work to do. The nurse might be pleasure and paradise wrapped in starched white, but Kitty Winslow was Moe's bread and butter.

"Looks like it's just you and me, Mrs. Winslow," he said.

"Please, call me Kitty."

"All right, Kitty. Call me Moe."

"Mr. Gaf ..." Kitty suddenly found the latch on her Whiting & Davis handbag appealing. "I mean Moe. I know you were following me the other night. Dutch told me."

"Seems you and Dutch had an overdue heart-to-heart."

"It's not what you think." She looked at Moe with misty eyes. "I didn't kill Peter." Moe knew dames could turn on the waterworks whenever they needed to. Kitty must have found the on switch, but she wasn't as good at it as some girls - she barely lost a drop. 

"Look, sister, if you're here to plead your case, save it for Perry Mason."

Her back stiffened. Her shoulders squared. "That is not why I'm here."

"You're not here to bring me flowers."

Kitty sighed. "I don't want trouble, Mr. Gafferson. I just didn't know where else to go." The pleading look in her eyes could pass for genuine. "Someone killed Peter. It wasn't me. And it occurred to me that you might have as good a reason as me to find out who it was."

"And what does Dutch say about your theory?"

She dropped her eyes, staring again at her handbag. "He doesn't know I'm here." 

"So the heart-to-heart with Dutch only covered a couple of the bases."

Kitty had the decency to look uncomfortable, if only for a second. "Don't you see? I can't go to the police. Dutch said you were the only person who knew I had been there with Peter. He said I ought to keep it that way."

"Whoever stuck his blade into my gut had a pair of peepers that night, too. You might have a target on your back."

Her dark eyes widened as she breathed in deep. "I hadn't thought of that," she said.

"Apparently neither did Dutch."

She was quiet for a moment, nipping at her bottom lip and wrinkling up her brow. And then she said, "We've got to find out who did this to you."

"Be careful Mrs. Winslow, or I might think that it's concern you're talking from and not just fear."

"Moe, you've just got to do this. There is no one else."

"What about Dutch?

"A wife can't tell a guy like Dutch Winslow that she's in love with another man. What's the point anyway, if that man is dead?"

"So now it's all about love?"

"Peter was a good guy."

"Cuzzying someone else's wife doesn't get him sainthood in my book." 

"Peter was special. He did things that no man would do for a woman."

"Doll, I've taken a hundred pictures of a hundred men doing exactly what Peter did for you."

Kitty's cheeks lit up. "I don't mean that, Mr. Gafferson. Peter bought me things, nice things, like a mink stole, and a beautiful gold necklace. He took me dancing, and he even had an evening dress made for me. He made me feel special."

This goo-goo eyed routine didn't mesh with the broad that had been on everyone's dance card at Mongo's. Moe had figured Peter was just Kitty's plaything. Maybe Moe had figured wrong. Maybe Kitty was a one-man-woman. If you didn't count her husband.

"This Peter, he got a last name?"

"Schmidt. Peter Schmidt." 

"How long were you and Mr. Schmidt zigging and zagging?"

"A couple of months." 

"Let's be honest, doll. I'm not convinced that your hands aren't dirty in this mess. But for now, I'm willing to kick you to the bottom of the suspect list if you play it straight from here on out. Can you do that?"

"I think I can."

"Either you can or you can't?"

"Yes. Yes, I can."

"All right, tell me everything from start to finish."

Kitty pulled a chair over toward Moe's bed and sat. Her trim, nyloned leg slid down over her other leg as smooth as a shot of George Dickel. She began to talk, and Moe let her go without interruption.

Everyone liked catching a thrill, and for Kitty it was anonymous dancing. At her husband's Flamingo's there were too many eyes on the lookout, with plenty of creeps willing to tell Dutch anything and everything. So she began sneaking off to Mongo's. Nobody knew her and she could dance all night with a different partner each song and never have to face an angry Dutch in the morning.

At first, Peter Schmidt had just been another faceless swing partner, but he was a determined man. He showed up more and more often, danced with her, bought her drinks, and occasionally strong-armed any other partner who might get too friendly with her. Eventually, they tagged up for some after-hours tango. From then on, they planned their once-a-week-meet at Mongo's. The same routine as Moe had witnessed: Kitty spent the first part of the night dancing with every Joe who asked but ended the night sneaking off to the cottage with Schmidt.

Kitty's boy toy didn't mind spending his moola on her - he'd given her flowers, the mink, and the necklace. But that last time was supposed to be even more special. They'd broke custom and met for lunch the afternoon before. Peter was a real Joe Brooks when it came to clothes. He told Kitty he'd had a dress designed for her and wanted her to wear it to Mongo's the following night. He expected his woman's threads to be just as fancy as his own. He'd made all the arrangements. She could pick the dress up at Singer's. 

Kitty didn't know Peter's essentials, like where he was from, if he had any family, or what his nine-to-five was. But she knew Peter kept a fat roll in his pocket, and he liked to flash it. They were in love and had discussed running away a time or two. Kitty figured that night they were going to follow through. 

It didn't play right to Moe. Schmidt didn't seem like a man in love. Most men dizzy for a dame would have demanded more playing time. Their once-a-week meetings didn't seem to be enough to scratch the surface of a real romance. No, Peter Schmidt was a sharper - Moe would have bet a pair of centuries on it

"Are you sure that's all you can remember?"

Kitty looked beat. Her paint had worn thin around her eyes and lips, her shoulders were slumped, and she'd nearly rubbed her hands raw from all her fidgeting. "I can't think of anything else," she said.

"You picked up the dress, got your hair done, and then waited until it was time to hook up with Peter at Mongo's. Anything I'm missing?"

"Let's see." Kitty stared off into the distance. "I had lunch with Dutch at Flamingo's before leaving."

"Anything seem out of the ordinary?"

"No. He asked me what I had planned for the afternoon. I told him I had a hair appointment and was going to do some shopping." She hesitated briefly. "Oh, and that I was going to drop some things off at Chang's."

"The laundromat. Right."

"Peter had asked me to drop several of his suits off there. I didn't normally use Chang's, so I told Dutch I was thinking about switching. I took our laundry along with Peter's."

"And when did Peter ask you to do that?"

"The day before, at lunch. He said he wouldn't have time and he wanted to make sure all his clothes were cleaned as soon as possible." Kitty lowered her head, snatched a hankie from her handbag, and dabbed at the flood gates that had opened." See, that's how I know he was making plans for us to run." 

Sometimes Moe could be a real schmuck when it came to reading a pretty dish, but his gut told him Kitty was on the up and up. All he could see was a dame who thought she was having a romantic love affair. He gave her a minute to sop up the tears before going on. 

"What happened after I got knifed?"

"I didn't know you'd been stabbed. I only knew someone was out there. I was afraid it was Dutch. Peter said not to worry, he'd take care of it. I got scared, really scared. So when Peter went to see what happened, I grabbed my clothes and ran."

Moe closed his eyes. He suddenly felt woozy. 

"I've got money, Mr. Gafferson. I can pay you. I need to find out what happened to Peter."

Moe uttered his standard sermon on his fee before his thoughts began to fade. His eyelids felt like someone had nailed them shut with railway ties. He was going to have to get out of this hospital bed, and soon. He had places to go, a trail to follow. The longer he stayed down, the colder the trail would get. 

When Moe opened his eyes again, Mona was at his bedside. And Kitty was gone. 

"Where's Mrs. Winslow?" he asked.

"She left a while ago."

"Damn rat poison. Don't give me any more of that dope, Mona. It makes me drift off like a baby with a full belly."

Mona didn't answer right away, but when she did her voice was low and husky.

"You don't seem to be having any trouble keeping other things up."

Moe didn't get her drift. Not until he followed her gaze to the tent in his sheet. A man's body had a way of reacting to things while he was sleeping that he had no control over. If Moe had been alone, he might have celebrated. It was mind-easing to know everything was copasetic after the knifing. As it was, he only smiled.

A moral man might have covered up his boner, but Moe wasn't always a moral man. He crossed his hands behind his head and stretched out long on the bed. "Must be the nursing care," he said. 

Mona was a gutsy dame. Being in the Nightingale business, she had probably come across this kind of thing more than once. Still, when she turned as if to make a getaway, he felt a twinge of guilt. She was also a lady. He should have known better. 

With her hand on the doorknob she swung back to look at Moe. "You know, Mr. Gafferson, I take my nursing skills very seriously."

"Damn, Mona, you can't pay no mind to a palooka like me."

"Oh, but that's exactly what I aim to do." She closed the door gently. The click of the lock echoed like a falling rock in the Grand Canyon. 

She sashayed toward Moe, her hips and jugs swaying. Her cheeks flushed. Her lips parted. When she reached his bedside, she carefully folded down the sheet, exposing Moe's body little-by-little. At his bulge, she took it even slower, letting the creased edge of sheet follow its contour. Moe jerked.

"You should relax, Moe. All these visitors of yours have made you tense. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

"You're asking the impossible, doll. A man can't relax with the likes of you nursing him."

Her smooth, creamy hands untied the fly of his hospital-issued PJ's. Moe's prick bobbed free, and Mona wrapped her slim fingers around its base. She held her hand still, long enough to get acquainted. Moe hardened between her fingers like fresh-laid cement. 

"If this gets to be more than you can bear, you will tell me, won't you?"

"Stick to the trail you're climbing, and I'm likely to tell you anything you want to know."

She slid her hand up and over his knob and then back down to his meat. He'd had hand-jobs by flesh peddlers, but this was different. She was gentle, but constant. Her hand kept moving. Up and down. With just enough pressure. Just enough speed. 

"There's only one thing I want to know, Moe. Do you want more?"

"You better believe it, baby."

With her other hand, Mona freed the buttons on her uniform, revealing a swell of creamy tit above her chemise. She leaned in and suddenly Moe knew why nurses were called "angels of mercy." Her cherry lips lightly touched the tip and guided his cock around, swirling against her lips like she was using him to put on lipstick.

A beautiful flush rose on Mona's skin. Her eyes batted shut, and her mouth opened wide. He'd never seen anything so unbelievable as Mona Dale taking him in. Her tongue flicked along the ridge of his skin flute, as her lips closed around him, and then her tongue flattened, coddling his cock. Her mouth was soft and warm and wet. Her lips and hand met like Siamese twins, and together they stroked him from tip to groin. Sucking and tonguing and working some magic. 

Moe's balls tightened like a stretched rubber band. He twitched all over. The stabbing pain in his gut stepped up, but he ignored it. Her mouth felt too good. Her hand was too knowledgeable. He was ready to pop in an instant. He groaned and half-expected Mona to pull off to let things land where they may. But she surprised him by sticking close, mouth and hand still hitched. When he erupted, she sucked and swallowed and licked him clean. 

She tucked his limp tool back inside his pajamas, tied his fly, pulled the sheet up to his waist, and then slowly buttoned her uniform. When she was all covered up, she grabbed his wrist and started counting his pulse. Mona Dale was one cool cucumber.

"Cures like that will make a man want to stay in this Gomorrah forever," Moe puffed.

"Not forever. Just long enough until we know you can take care of yourself."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I might miss this place."

"What's your hurry, Mr. Gafferson? Have you got some place else you need to go? Someplace where you can stir up a little trouble with Mrs. Winslow?"

Yeah, there were all kinds of places he needed to go, things he needed to check out. But Moe was no dope - despite feeling better than he had in days, he knew he could barely walk to the hallway. And Mona knew it, too. "You're pretty smart for a dame, aren't you?"

"I went to college."

Moe was struck with an idea. Maybe Mona could visit all the girlie places Kitty had stopped at that day. They were public joints. She'd be safe enough. She could walk in, get a little nosey, and then walk out. He spoke before his good sense had a chance to block him.

"Mona, what do you do after you leave here every day?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I got a home and a life. What makes you ask?" Yeah, she had moxie. It eased Moe's conscience about getting her involved.

"I was thinking of asking you to do a little question-and-answer work for me."

"Me? A private dick?" Her green eyes twinkled, "Would I get to pack heat?"

Moe gave Mona the once over. Her kind of heat-packing could leave a man burning for more. He suddenly wondered if he'd live to regret getting to know Nurse Dale.



Rough Cut Ch. 03



Chapter Three - The Fire Drill

Ian woke up just before his wake up call was scheduled. As he lay in bed, he grinned at the memory of Donna's services last night. He made a mental note to have Max give her a bonus for her attitude. Just then, the phone rang.

"Hello"

"Good Morning, Mr. Quinn, this is your 6 am wake up call. Would you like coffee or juice brought to your room?

"Coffee, please, and ask Max to have my luggage brought down as well."

"Yes, sir, have a pleasant day."

Ian snapped on the television to the local news Channel. As he brushed his teeth, he heard the reporter begin to talk about the raid last night. He quickly turned his attention to the television. Sure enough, he was visible in the video of the people being put into the police van. He would need to make a few phone calls this morning to head off the firestorm that video could cause.

Just as he finished dressing, there was a knock on his door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Max, Ian. I have your luggage and your coffee."

Ian walked across the room and opened the door. Max was pushing a cart with Ian's luggage on the bottom and coffee and two cups on the top. After Ian closed the door, Max stood up straight but bowed his head expecting a tongue lashing from Ian over the footage on the local news. 

"Relax, Max, it's just a news story, nothing to get upset about. I'll just have to make a few calls and explain things but it's no big deal - this time. What do we know about this new police chief?"

Max visible relaxed as he began to pour Ian's coffee. He took a deep breath as he handed the cup over and began to relate the background data they had collected during the election campaign.

"If he's that straight, Max, it means we missed something. Nobody gets this far in politics without knowing how to sidestep the landmines and cut a few corners in the process. Work with Sam on this one and find out what we missed."

"Yes, sir, I'll call Sam right away."

"Max, keep it low key. I don't want to ruffle the Chief's feathers until I'm ready."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"Yes, Max, put an extra C-note in Donna's envelope for me. Now I've got to make some phone calls but I'll see you later. Good coffee, Max."

"Yes sir, thank you."

Max left the room and Ian opened his suitcase to inspect it. Finding nothing unusual, he closed the case and sat down on the bed to call Sammi. She probably has seen the news video by now and will want an explanation. If her Dean has seen the video, she'll have to have the same explanation that Ian will be providing to his own boss. After that, he would call his boss at the State Revenue Office and offer the same explanation.

Sammi's phone rang just after 6 am.

"Hello"

"Sammi, it's Deb. Turn on your tv quick. Tune to the local news channel. I think I just saw Ian being arrested."

Sammi quickly grabbed the remote and pressed a few buttons. When the screen came on, it showed a reporter talking about a raid on a motel in in a small town upstate. Then the video of the men and women being put in a police van came on and she saw Ian in the group.

"Yep, that's him, Deb. I haven't talked to him yet but I expect I'll be hearing from him shortly."

"It's funny, Sam, but it looks like he doesn't care that he's on camera. All the other men are hiding their faces. What's that about?"

"If I know Ian, and I do, he's showing his face to tell me he's innocent of all charges even tho he's being taken in by the police. You know they report the names of men caught in these types of raids. I sure hope I hear from him before the Dean calls. Thanks for the heads-up, Deb. I talk to you later."

Sammi no more than hung up when the phone rang again. The caller id showed Ian's cell number.

"Good morning, darling. My, but you've had a busy time up there."

"Good morning, Sammi. I take it you've already seen the news video?"

"Just now. Deb called to alert me. What happened?"

"The local Police Chief pulled a surprise raid on a local bar and the motel where I was staying. They took everybody from the motel down to the police station for questioning but several of us, including me, were immediately released without any charges. No drugs, no ladies of the evening, no gambling, nothing so we were let go and our names will not be in the police report. Feel free to tell your Dean to call the Mayor up here for verification of these facts."

"That's a relief. I'm expecting old burr head to call me anytime now. Thanks for the call, darling. Are you ok?"

"Sure, just another day in paradise. I still have a little work to do but I think I'll be home this evening. I'll call you later with an update but you should probably plan on dinner out."

"Great. I'll let you go now and see you tonight. Bye, darling."

The third phone call, actually a voice message, was from Dean Patterson's office. He asked Sammi to come to his office before her first class. She could only imagine what was going thru his round bald head. Pulling his chain a little might be fun, she thought. We'll see what he says.

Before she left home, Sammi called Debra back and brought her up to date. She told Deb not to worry but she was probably going to have a little fun with Dean Patterson over this incident. She also warned that if Deb should get a call from the Dean, she should just go along with the tone of the conversation. Debra was laughing hysterically at the idea of putting one over on old baldy and quickly agreed.

Sammi took her time getting ready as her first class wasn't until 10 am. She was very careful about what she would wear but she didn't want to give the Dean too much time. She only intended on finding out his approach this morning . That would then decide her strategy for defusing it.

She walked into the Dean's waiting room at precisely 9:30 and politely greeted Anne, his secretary.

"Good morning, Anne. What's new?"

"Hi, Sammi. Boy, has he got his knickers in a twist this morning. What on earth did you do to him?"

"Nothing at all, Anne. It's just his imagination working overtime. He thinks he finally has a way to control me. We'll just see about that. You had better tell him I'm here so I can get to my first class."

"Dean Patterson, Sammi Quinn is here. Shall I send her in? Yes, sir."

"Go right in, Sammi, he's waiting for you."

"Good morning, Dean. I received a message that you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Mrs. Quinn. Please have a seat. It has come to my attention that your husband, Ian, has been arrested on charges of prostitution. I'm sure you're aware of the prohibition of this kind of activity by faculty members. What have you to say for yourself?"

"Quite frankly, Dean Patterson, I don't know what to say as I am completely unaware of this incident. Was my husband really arrested?"

"Not only was he arrested, but he was shown being put into the police van on national tv just this morning. I'm afraid we're going to have to take this incident very seriously. You realize, of course, that the tenure committee will have to be informed of this development."

"Dean Patterson, are you threatening me?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Quinn. I'm merely stating that the committee will need to have a detailed explanation of this event, starting with your own statement."

"Dean Patterson, I have a class in 7 minutes. This discussion will have to wait until later. I'm sure you don't want me to be late for class."

"No, of course not.But aren't you going to at least give me some kind of explanation? I do have to report to the Board of Governors about this and I don't think you want my report to be one-sided."

Sammi rose and turned towards the door. With her hand on the knob, she turned back towards the Dean.

"If you say anything at all about this incident to the Board of Governors, I'll be obliged to have you removed from your post. Good day, Mr. Patterson."

Sammi slammed the door on her way out and smiled and winked to Anne as she passed her.

As she left the building, she called Debra on her cell phone. 

"Deb, Sammi. I just left the Dean's office. He all but threatened to have my tenure withdrawn and to report this incident, as he calls it, to the Board. I told him if he said even one word about this to them, I'd have his job. I think he almost shit!"  "Wow, Sammi, that's a pretty bold step. What are you going to do now?"

"Teach my class. I'll catch up to you at lunch. I have our entire conversation on tape. You'll love it, Deb. If you get a chance, call over there and ask Anne what happened after I left. See you."

Sammi and Debra met at noon and proceeded to Sammi's house for a private conversation. Debra was practically beside herself with the news from Anne.

"After you slammed his door, he was quiet for a few moments, then instructed Anne to get the Board members on the phone, one after the other. Anne, of course, listened in and he really blasted you. He said you were insubordinate, rude, and refused to answer his questions, even calling his authority into question. The Board members all listened politely without taking sides but Anne says there's a quick Board meeting brewing."

"Ok, thanks Deb. Now listen to this. He's confusing Ian and me, quoting school policy as tho I was the one who was arrested. He doesn't even have his facts right. Wait until Ian hears this, he'll go through the roof."

"I know Ian works for the State, Sammi, but what can he do about school police and the Board?"

"Debra, have you ever wondered how we got this house and the cars we drive? My clothes? Our vacations? It didn't come from a teacher's salary even with help from a State employee. Ian has outside interests, Deb, that's all I can tell you."

"Ian thinks I don't know about his outside interests but I know a lot more than I let on. My tenure is not really in jeopardy because his outside interests include some if not all of the members of the Board. If anybody's in trouble, it's old Baldy."

"Wow! I had no idea! Sweet little Ian is the hand that rocks the cradle. Wow again!"

"Debra Anne, in all seriousness, you know nothing! You don't even have a clue about what I just said. I mean it, Deb, your life could depend on it."

"I swear I didn't hear a thing, Sammi, not a thing."

"Right. When Ian gets home tonight, I want you there to tell him about my interview with the Dean. I want you to pretend you're really mad about what the Dean was insinuating and you really want to do something to help me. Trust me, Ian will do the rest."

The remainder of the day passed almost uneventfully except that some of her students saw the video of the arrest and asked her if that was her husband. She replied honestly but also told them that he wasn't involved and was immediately released, a fact the video failed to mention. Ian called to say he'd be home by six and Sammi mentioned her run-in with the Dean in general terms, saying they would talk about it when he arrived. When he arrived home at 6:15, he was a little surprised to find Sammi and Debra deep in conversation.

"Good evening, ladies."

"Oh, hello, darling. How was your trip?"

"Pretty routine, sweetheart. Hi, Deb."

"Hi, Ian. I saw you on tv this morning."

"Did they get my good side?"

"Actually, yes. So good that our beloved Dean even recognized you right off the bat. He's already had a go at Sammi here and I think we need to have some harsh words with him."

"Well, let me mix a drink and we can talk about it. What exactly happened this morning, darling?"\

"Here, Ian, I'll play the tape for you."

After listening to the tape, Ian sat back and a slow smile began spreading across his face. He swirled the ice in his drink, took a sip, then faced the ladies.

"It seems your Dean has overstepped his bounds. Your school is one of the places my team audits and I know the rules of authority . He doesn't have the authority to hire, fire, or even discipline an instructor, only the Board can so those things. But let's take things in order."

"In the first place, I am not a member of the faculty so no matter what I do personally, there is no effect on the image or operations of the school. In the second place, attempting to coerce an instructor is an offence punishable by dismissal. In the third place, he says I was arrested – not true – so his allegations are completely baseless. At this point, our Dean is wrong on all counts and we have the tape to prove our side. Excuse me, ladies, I need to make a few phone calls and then we'll all go to dinner."



Rough Cut Ch. 04



Edited by Poison Ivan

It’d been two days - forty-eight fucking hours - since Moe had seen Mona Dale. He blamed the painkillers for letting him think it was okay to send her out to poke around. He knew first hand that the players in this game were playing for keeps. Yeah, he’d given her step-by-step instructions, but those didn’t account for surprises. Quails like Mona were meant for fluff work, not gum-shoeing. So what if she had bubbled up like bicarbonate when Moe had given her the lowdown. He should have known better.

“I can do this, Moe. I know I can,” she’d said.

“This ain’t backyard cops and robbers, Mona.” 

“All I have to do is drop off some laundry, buy a new dress, and get my hair done. I’ve been doing those things half my life.”

“Skip in, snap a mental picture, and skip out. That’s the deal.” 

“Yes, Moe.” She’d batted her eyelashes, flashed a crooked grin, and blew Moe a cherry-lipped kiss as she peddled out the door. Only a doped-up bonehead would have let her walk out as easy as if she were going for a weekend visit to a carnival.

One thing was certain - if she wasn’t hurt and she didn’t check in soon, she was going to catch merry hell. He’d waited long enough.

Moe grabbed the newspaper and skimmed through its pages. Peter Schmidt’s death had made the Cincinnati Post, but not the front page. The front page was saved for the World Series: Reds over Tigers. Moe had slept right through the game. Schmidt's murder was buried on page six under the headline: Cottage Scene of Fatal Stabbing. The newshounds were used to murder in the Over the Rhine area - it rarely made top news any more. Moe was just grateful his name had been left out of the article. 

Unfortunately, the police had his name and weren’t letting up. Officer Murphy had made a repeat visit the day before to put the crunch on Moe, insisting Moe give up the name of Schmidt’s screwing partner. Moe Gafferson had a few rules, rules he’d set up a long time ago. Squealing on a client was something he never did. Murphy stuck around long enough for some verbal boxing, but he missed out on the KO he was looking for and left dissatisfied. 

Moe spent the rest of his time rehashing the same scenes over and over and coming up with the same finale. Schmidt was using Kitty. The answer to the why and what-for still hung in the air. Maybe Schmidt was trying to get to Dutch. Maybe he was planning to cheat Kitty out of money. Maybe it was something Moe couldn’t fathom just yet. But Moe had no doubt Schmidt hadn’t played Kitty straight. 

At least the extra time in bed was giving Moe a chance to heal. As of the morning, he could get to the john to take a leak without any help, which meant no more target practice in a handheld piss pot. And now that the pain in his gut was manageable without pill pushing, Moe figured it was time to kiss this germ hole goodbye - get out and find Mona himself.

Moe tossed off the hospital rags and swung open the door to the closet. He expected to find his gray tweed suit, but the closet was empty. He let loose a couple of expletives that would have had his mother back-handing him. Well, the closet wasn’t completely empty; there was a pair of shoes, the right one covered in blood, sitting on at the bottom of the space. But nothing else, not a stitch of clothing, no keys, no money clip, and no fat envelope from Dutch. 

Moe didn’t like petty thieves, even if they wore smart white caps on their heads. He made his way to the hallway, chomping at the bit. “Who’s the goniff that nicked my stuff?” 

“Shh’s” came from every direction. It might as well have been a library. 

Moe stood up to his full height and let his Johnson dangle freely. “I’m getting out of here, even if all of Cincinnati sees my ass on the way out.”

“Mr. Gafferson, please! You’re not the only sick person on this floor.” This came from the Helga who had been nursing Moe in Mona’s place. It was like exchanging pearls for swine. The broad had more muscle than Moe. She could flip him over like a five-pound bag of flour, and she had more than once in the last two days. Moe backed into his room with the female bruiser jabbing her finger in his chest.

“Mona warned me you’d try to leave before the doctor gave the okay.”

“Where is Mona? Have you heard from her?”

“Just you no never mind, Ellery Queen, and haul that fanny of yours back up in bed.”

Moe felt a pinch in his gut. He knew when to pick his fights. It never paid to argue with a mare that was as big as he was, especially when he was naked as a jaybird. Still, he couldn’t help tangling a little. “You got some news from Mona or not?”

“You’re pesky, aren’t you, Mr. Gafferson?” 

“I can be.” He wanted to tell her she was the pesky one, but he zipped his lip. She might power up on him. There was no sense risking a relapse from a wrestling match he could very easily lose.

Helga stood over him while he climbed back into his PJ’s. When he fell back onto the bed, she spoke. “Mona called. Said to tell you that she had to deliver some laundry this morning, and then she’d be right over.”

At least that was something. Mona was all right. He could breathe a little easier.

“But what about the empty closet?” he asked accusingly.

“You play rough, Mr. Gafferson. Your clothes were cut off and discarded when they brought you in. There wasn’t much worth saving.”

So much for his best tweed. “I had some other belongings,” he said.

“Safe and sound in a locked box at the nurse’s station.” She pulled the blanket up tight around Moe’s legs and then jammed the Cincinnati Post into his hands. “Here, read the paper and think about something useful.” This broad didn’t offer suggestions - she gave orders. 

Moe thumbed through the Post. It might have helped take his mind off of Mona except for a grainy photograph gracing the first page he looked at. Charles Lindbergh, front and center, was shaking hands with a couple of local politicians. It still grated on Moe that Lindbergh, an American hero, had accepted the Service Cross of the German Eagle from none other than Hermann Goering. Too much of a stinking German connection if you asked Moe. He looked at the smiling faces of the two Cincinnati councilmen. Lousy politicians. At least, he knew who not to vote for in the upcoming election. Moe wadded the paper into a ball and tossed it in the trash. He hated politics. Stewing about Mona was a lot more pleasant.

***

Sometime mid-morning, after Madame Bruiser had forced another sulfa tablet down Moe’s throat, Mona came strolling in. Moe did a double take. She looked like she’d just stepped off the farm - all fresh faced and lively. She’d ditched her starch whites for a daisy yellow number. Her red hair was rolled stylishly at her temples, and she was carrying an armload of men’s duds.

Moe was still miffed about the ticking clock. “Take the long route to get here, doll?”

“Hello to you, too.” She was way too cheery.

“I don’t have time for frippy-frappy greetings,” he growled.

Mona ignored him and swished casually to the closet. “I figured you for a forty-four regular.” She hung up a plaid Norfolk jacket and a pair of brown trousers - way more fashionable than Moe was used to. She dawdled as she tucked away socks, boxers, and a shirt. She was thorough. Moe would give her that. But he was done watching her stall.

“You’ve kept me in a stew for two days.”

Mona turned around, grinning beautifully. “Sounds like you’re feeling good enough to be a pain in the rear.”

Damn her! Moe wanted to shake her and hug her all at the same time. She was as stubborn as a cowlick. Giving her the third degree would be useless. If she wanted to take it slow, Moe couldn’t do a thing about it. 

“I’m not hitting all eights just yet Mona baby, but I’m getting there. How’s your day been?”

“Oh, Moe, you’ll never believe what I found out.” So much for taking it slow - she was about to pop.

“I’m all ears, doll.”

“I went to Chang’s this morning. Only, there isn’t any Chang’s. Or at least there hasn’t been a Chang’s in three months.”

“What? I was there. I saw Kitty enter with a bundle.”

“Well, the building is there, and it still says Chang’s, but there’s a sign on the front door saying it’s closed. I asked a woman nearby, and she said Chang’s had closed down about three months ago. She didn’t know why.”

“Chang’s Laundromat on Elm Street, near Twelfth Avenue?”

“Yes, that’s the one. There’s a Scott’s Pharmacy across the street.”

Moe remembered sitting in front of that pharmacy, watching Kitty take the clothes into the laundromat. She was in there for about ten minutes. And she’d come out empty-handed. 

“What about the Curl-n-Go?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s there. Do you like my new hair-do?” Mona turned her head from side to side, bouncing her curls like Shirley Temple. “It cost me a dollar twenty-five. Can you imagine?”

“Call it expenses. I’ll reimburse you.”

“Oh, no. That wouldn’t be right. I had too much fun to ask for money.” Mona sat down on the edge of Moe’s bed. He tried not to think about how close her hip was to his as she continued to talk. “Do you know that just about any gossip in town is being discussed right this very minute at the Curl-n-Go?”

“Such as?” Dames in a salon. Chickens in a coop. It sounded pretty much the same to Moe. 

“Well, Margaret’s daughter, Emma Jean was going to have her debutante ball this very month, but the Wilkersons had already grabbed the best day at the American Legion Hall, so Emma Jean was going to wait and have her ball next month in the ballroom at the Golden Lamb.”

“Mona...”

“Wait, there’s more. It seems there’s a new hair technique that’s all the rage in Paris where blue dye is added to a woman’s hair.”

“Okay, okay, so it’s on the up and up? 

“You mean the blue dye? I think it is.” Mona flashed a set of straight whites. “Oh, you mean the Curl-n-Go? I’m afraid so.”

“Is that all you found out?”

“Not exactly, I think the Wilkerson girl may have the American Legion Hall wrapped up, but she’s still looking for a date. I could toss your name in the hat, if you like. I have another appointment next week.”

“You’re a barrel of laughs, Doll. Maybe Vaudeville has a spot.”

“I guess this means you’d rather hear about Singer’s than how the Wilkerson chit didn’t know enough to invite Mr. and Mrs. Taft?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

Mona shrugged. “Okay, but you can’t get these sort of tips everyday.” She went on to explain that Singer’s was The Ritz. The “it” place, where all those debs wanted to get their one-of-a-kind gowns and none of their mothers were letting them. Singer’s sold sex in satin and silk. A place where Hayworth and Garbo might shop if they were passing through town.

“I asked to see the owner,” Mona said.

“Singer?”

“Yes. Maxwell Singer. He’s a short man, balding, wears a monocle. Kind of reminded me of Mr. Magoo.”

“I’m not much of a comics fan. Can we skip the colorful commentary?”

She sighed. “I asked him about a black dress I had seen a woman wearing last week. He clammed up, said he didn’t know anything about the dress I described. I explained the woman had gushed about getting the dress from Singer’s and how it was made especially for her. He insisted the woman must be mistaken.” Mona chewed on her bottom lip. “Then Maxwell slipped up.”

“Yeah?”

“He insisted that Mrs. Winslow did not get the dress at Singer’s.”

“He used her name?”

“Yeah. I had never mentioned it.” She clapped her hands together. “Isn’t this exciting?”

“What happened next, doll?”

“I figured I’d better make it look like I was really interested in a dress, so I milled around, tried on a black crepe and decided on an undergarment. Mr. Singer stayed right near me.”

“Hmm.”

“Wait, there’s more. When I was walking to catch the trolley coach, the sales clerk, Lois, caught up with me. She was hurrying and kept looking back over her shoulder. She told me she remembered Mrs. Winslow, and she remembered the dress: a slinky black silk with no back, just as I’d described. She said it was the second time a woman had come in and picked up such a dress in the last four months. Lois remembered Mr. Singer had insisted on handling it personally.”

“Lois seems kind of chatty.”

“Apparently Mr. Singer can be a real high-hat, always putting on airs. It seemed to please Lois to catch him in a lie.”

“She give you anything else?” 

“She also remembered the man that had delivered the dress. He seemed out of place, not their regular sort of gentleman patron.”

“Out of place? How?”

“He was rough-looking with a scar on the right side of his face. The scar ended near his eye. Oh, and she said his clothes were off the rack.”

Peter Schmidt’s clothes would have screamed tailor-made. And he didn’t have a scar. “Is that it?”

“Not quite. Lois said Singer had called the guy Rolf.”

Lois was quite the canary. Rolf, huh? Moe didn’t know anyone by that name, but he’d put a nickel down that this Rolf was handy with a blade. Moe was still moving like a bicycle in snow, but it was definitely time to hit the road. And thanks to Mona, he had a some place to start. 

“You’ve done a lot, dollface. I owe you.” 

“It was exciting.”

Moe glanced at Mona. He could see she meant it. Her eyes danced and her cheeks flushed crimson. He was going to have to put the skids on her enthusiasm. 

“It’s time for me to dust out, Mona.”

“But the doctor...”

“I’m done listening to that croaker.”

Moe scooted to the opposite side of his bed and stood up, taking a minute to gather his strength. Mona sat regally on the bed. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Under the fluorescent lights, glints of gold shimmered in her red locks. A man could get hypnotized. She didn’t look at Moe.

“You shouldn’t go. Give it one more day,” she whispered.

“No can do, doll.”

She looked at him then with green eyes the color of spring corn. “At least, let me help you.”

“Mona, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done.” Moe paused, remembering the way Mona had slid her mouth over his cock - slippery, warm and complete. Yeah, a man could easily fall under her spell if he wasn’t careful. “And I mean everything.”

She swallowed hard and looked away. “I’m a big girl, Moe, I can take care of myself.” When she looked back again, her face was redder than ever. “And I fuck who I want, when I want.” Moe wondered if he’d ever get used to a dame that blushed tomato red but could swear like a sailor.

“I’m a one-man operation, Mona. And the stakes are too high to make changes now.”

Moe expected her to plead her case, but she didn’t. She just shrugged her shoulders.

“What about those stitches?”

“What about them?”

“They’ll need to come out.”

Moe absently rubbed along his gut where the stitches were itchy. “I got some scissors and mercurochrome in the medicine chest at home.”

Mona rose up from the bed and slinked over to Moe. Close enough for Moe to inhale her fragrance and feel her body heat. She cupped his hand with hers and spoke softly in his ear. “I could make a house call in a day or two to make sure things shape up like they should.”

How could a man refuse an offer like that?

Later, as Moe eased himself out of the backseat of the hack that had brought him home to his small office, he wondered about the wisdom of agreeing to Mona’s proposal. Gilbert Avenue was a long way away from any place a dame like Mona might be from. When Mona opened her windows on a clear, autumn night, she probably heard crickets and smelled fresh mown hay. If you left a window open around Moe’s neck of the woods, you were more likely to hear Moe’s neighbor, Willy Scottsdale, fucking the brains out of Netty Scottsdale, unless Willy had hit the bottle too high again and Netty was cussing a blue streak. And the smell, well, the paper mill a couple blocks over out-mustered any other odor that might try to stink up the air. Yeah, this side of the tracks might be a rude awakening for Mona. But it was home to Moe.

He had settled in there a year and a half ago. The rent was cheap and the layout served his purpose. The front space was his office. The back was where he slept. With the money Dutch had given him, Moe might think about getting a refrigerator. 

The hack drove away and Moe wobbled like baby at his front door. The key didn’t work right away. He had to jiggle it, pull it out, and then reinsert it. It was one of those events that should mean nothing, but the hair on the back of Moe’s neck bristled. The lock finally gave in, and the door popped open like the building was inhaling and sucking the door down its throat. Dust particles floated in a ray of light that filtered through the opposite window. Moe’s desk was just as he’d left it nearly a week ago - two empty coffee mugs, a pile of unopened bills, and the file he’d started on Kitty Winslow. 

Nothing was out of place. Nothing except Moe’s monogrammed letter opener and one of the couch cushions. Instead of filling out the couch, the cushion was propped upright in Moe’s desk chair. And piercing its middle was the letter opener. The slice ran from edge to edge, and ribbons of horsehair spilled out onto the floor.



Rough Cut Ch. 04



Chapter Four – Ian's Moves/Rick's Moves

Ian went into his home office, leaving Sammi and Debra in the living room. His first call was to Alex Brown, Chairman of the Board of Trustees of the University.  He politely mentioned that he had heard the Board was being called into an extra session and that the topic of the session was tenure for Sammi and Debra.

When Alex confirmed this, Ian suggested that Alex delay the meeting until the following week, citing schedule conflicts. Alex took the hint and agreed to the delay. Ian mentioned that he should watch his mail for the next few days, then politely ended the call. He called two of the other Board members with more or less the same information and received positive responses from both. He then rejoined the women in the living room.

"Well, ladies, where shall we go for dinner?"

"We found a cute new place down by the river the other day, Ian. It's right near the art show where Sammi was eyeing a boat. The food was great."

"Sounds good to me. Ok with you, Sammi?"

"Sure, let's go."

When they reached the waterfront art show, Debra pointed out the boat carver's display and Ian headed over there with the women lagging a few steps behind. 

"Debra, what are you doing?", Sammi whispered.

"Just showing Ian the canoe or whatever you call it. If he sees that you're interested, he just might buy it for you. Besides, Rick was cute!"

"Hello again, Sammi. Back for a second look?"

"Ian, this is Rick Stanton. He's the builder. Rick, this is my husband, Ian Quinn."

The two men shook hands and Ian looked over the scull. 

"I'm not a boating person myself, Rick, but if Sammi likes it that's good enough for me."

"It's made strictly for pleasure, Ian, not for racing. If someone would like a little rowing exercise, she would be a perfect fit. I'm hoping to have her finished in the next month or so and then find a buyer for her."

"It looks finished to me, Rick. What more do you have to do to her?"

"Trust me, Ian, this is only a rough cut. After a few more layers of sanding and finishing and a coat of fiberglass for protection, she'll be ready for the water. As I said, about a month from now, if all goes well."

"Would you like this scull, Sammi, even if you had to wait a month for it?"

"Yes, I think so. Especially if Rick can teach me how to maneuver it on the water."

"Sounds like a deal to me, Rick. What do you say?"

"Ian, I'd be happy to teach Sammi how to row but you haven't even asked me for a price."

"Rick, if Sammi likes it, I'm sure the price will be fine. Just let us know when you'll have her ready for her first lesson. Alright, ladies, shall we go to dinner now? I'm starving!"

"Thank you, darling. I'll have my scull to row all through the summer. Would you like to learn as well, Deb?"

"Not me, Sammi. I can't even swim."

Over dinner, Ian mentioned to Sammi that he would need a copy of the tape she made of the Dean's rant. He also warned them both that the Board meeting would be delayed until next week but they should be aware of anything the Dean might try to pull in the meantime. The delay in the meeting might indicate to the Dean that he doesn't really have control of the agenda. 

As predicted, Dean Patterson called Debra into his office the next day. Although he didn't directly threaten her, he indicated that her future at the University was tied closely to Sammi's and advised her to be careful of speaking out on Sammi's behalf. Debra immediately called Sammi and relayed the Dean's threat.

When Ian arrived at his office the next morning, he was called to report to his boss.  As expected, Ian had to explain his appearance on the news program. In his defense, he merely told the truth and advised his boss to call the Mayor of the town to confirm his story. After their brief meeting, Ian called Sam on his cell phone.

"Sam, Ian. How are things going up there?"

"Fine, Ian. I spoke to the Mayor and advised him of your lack of involvement in last nights shenanigans and he agreed to back you up. As for the Sherriff, it seems he has done this kind of thing before which led to his being replaced in another county. We're collecting the details as we speak. I should have a report for you by tomorrow." 

"Good work, Sam. I trust you also took care of the girls?"

"Of course, Ian. Just fines this time. No additional problems that I can see for now."

"Great. I'll be back up there in two weeks, Sam. We should have dinner together."

"Let me know your schedule, Ian, and I'll arrange it. See you in two weeks." 

Several times during the day, Ian received calls on his cell phone updating him on events throughout the State. Other than his brief appearance on the morning news, it was business as usual. 

When Sammi called to tell him about Deb's run in with the Dean, Ian calmed her fears and indicated that he had the situation well under control. He also mentioned that he would be working late and suggested that she have dinner with Deb or visit her scull. Sammi decided to visit her scull on her own.

As Sammi approached Rick's exhibit, she noted that the scull now had a "sold" sign on it and that Rick was talking with another possible buyer. She waited until the other person left before approaching Rick.

"Good evening, Rick. How's business?"

"Hi, Sammi. Business is picking up ever since I put the "sold" sign on your scull. Thanks for the order."

"Just out of curiosity, Rick, do you really make a living building these sculls?"

Rick seemed to straighten up and square his shoulders before answering her.

"No, not really. This is more like a hobby of mine. Why do you ask?"

"I'm a pretty observant person most of the time, Rick. When you picked the piece of wood out of my hand the other day, I noticed your hands were not the rough hands I would have expected of a woodworker."

"Is that a bad thing, Sammi?"

"Not necessarily, Rick, but it does make me wonder why you're hiding behind this scull instead of doing whatever it is you really do."

"I sell boats. Really, I sell boats I just don't build them. I have two really dedicated goons for that part of the operation."

"Ian's working late and I was going to have dinner alone tonight. Would you care to join me?"

"I'd love to. Just give me a few minutes to close up the exhibit. Weeknights don't bring a lot of business anyway."

After they were seated in a local restaurant, Sammi continued her inquisition of Rick.

"I can't imagine that you make a great living by selling those sculls. What else do you sell?"

"As I told you, Sammi, I sell boats. I mean really big boats. Yachts, in fact, just down the road at the yacht basin on the bay. As a matter of fact, I almost sold your Ian a yacht just last summer."

"Ian? You must be mistaken, Rick. Ian doesn't go anywhere near water let alone own a yacht!"

"I'm sure of it, Sammi. Actually, it's a kind of funny story. Let's order and I'll tell you about it while we eat."

"I was just lounging around the office last July when Ian walked in. He didn't strike me as a boat kind of person but he seemed interested in a small yacht I had listed for sale. I gave him the standard sales pitch and he seemed pleased with the information. He mentioned using it for entertaining clients so I went over the IRS rules for deductible entertainment with him."

"Just as he was about to say "yes", I made the mistake of suggesting a short ride out into the bay because the IRS rules would require him to be present in order to write off the expense. We no more than stepped aboard, with the yacht still tied to the pier, when Ian turned grey."

"When I asked if he was alright he said his stomach was a little queasy so I offered him a Dramamine to combat the feeling. He sat down in a deck chair and about fifteen minutes later, he asked if I would help him off the boat.  He took a couple of deep breaths on the pier, thanked me for the information, and I never saw him again until today."

"Oh my God! He never told me about that! It's no wonder he pretended not to know you. Ian never forgets a face. He really got sea sick with the yacht still tied to the pier? Oh, Rick, that's priceless!"

"The tag line is that apparently Ian told someone about the yacht. A guy showed up the next day and only wanted to see that particular boat. He looked it over, asked a few questions, and bam, I had a sale. Amazing!"

"Do you remember the guy's name?"

"Yes, I do. It was Cesar Vasquez from Miami. Do you know him?"

"I think I've heard the name but I can't say that I know him. Ian often entertains at home and I sometimes act as hostess for him. Many of his associates seem to have Latin names. When I asked him about that, he just shrugged and said the State was pushing minority hiring procedures."

"Sammi, I suspect that Ian has dealings with some unsavory characters outside the scope of his employment. Haven't you ever wondered where all the money comes from for your vacations and your cars? Surely you're not naïve enough to think Ian earns that much from his State job."

"How do you know about our vacations and our cars? Are you some kind of spy or something?"

"Not a spy exactly, more like an information collector. The government has been watching Ian for some time now and we suspect that he is somehow involved in the distribution of illegal substances. We are not sure of his exact role in this trafficking and we were wondering if you would assist us."

"You want me to spy on my husband?"

"With our help, yes. We need to know how he does what he does for the organization and how the money gets moved around. If we can stop the flow of money, it will also stop the flow of drugs. As you know, you can't be forced to testify against your husband unless you want to do so."

"We believe that you are not directly involved in this operation but your assistance could be invaluable to us.  You don't have to answer me right now. Please, think it over and let me know sometime in the next few days." 

"Wow! And I thought I was just going for a nice dinner. I will think about it, Rick, but for the record, you're buying dinner." 



Rough Cut Ch. 05



Years ago, Kreimer's Bier Haus on Reading Avenue at the edge of the German District had had a certain elegance. But when Frau Kreimer succumbed to pneumonia, old man Kreimer gave up the façade of respectability. The once jazzed up bar smelled of old carpet and furniture oil. Cigar smoke clung to the ceiling like dirty gilt. The sagging springs on the bar stools embodied the drab anonymity of a thousand shabby lives. With each passing year, Kreimer's lost a little more class and a little more clientele. And with the uprising in Europe, Kreimer's had fallen even further out of favor.

Moe wasn't a bar polisher, but he had been to Kreimer's more than a time or two. It was his kind of place. It was a good place to go when he was down on his luck and looking for a cheap lager. It was an even better place when he was in the money looking for an expensive import. In Moe's line of work, it paid to make yourself known in local establishments and to learn just enough lingo to be accepted. At Kreimer's, a man could sit for hours nursing a beer and never have to say a word unless he wanted to. On a few occasions, Moe had wanted to, and Jonas Kreimer would listen.

Jonas was a stout man with thick forearms and smooth hands. Laugh lines dug into his face like grooves on a Victrola. When he talked, his bristly mustache wiggled like a caterpillar. Moe could never be sure if Jonas was happy in spite of living alone or because of it. But one thing was certain: Jonas Kreimer knew everyone that still resided in the old German neighborhood, and that was why Moe stopped in.

"Hallo, Jonas."

"Wie geht's, Moe?"

"I'm getting by, Jonas." Moe looked around. The place was empty except for a couple sitting at a rear table and a saucehound at the other end of the bar. Moe knew the answer, but he asked the question anyway. "How's things with you?"

Jonas braced his hands against the bar and frowned. "Not so good, Moe, not so good. These dealings across the ocean are not good for business here in America."

The rumor of another war had put the pinch on everyone.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Jonas."

"America has been my home for twenty-three years. Some of the Schurke that break my windows and destroy my walls were not even born when I came here."

The German community, which had been one of Cincinnati's distinguishing characteristics when Jonas Kreimer had arrived, had nearly ceased to exist thanks to The Great War. And now with the new uprising, it was risky being a German. But the people intent on destruction rarely needed an excuse.

"Thugs come in all ages, Jonas. And from all countries."

"You are right, Moe. Very right. Bah! Let us talk of something else. What would you like? A Burger Brau?"

"A local lager, Jonas?"

"It is a little difficult to get the imported nowadays."

"I guess the local it is then."

Moe was dryer than a cork leg. It'd been too long since he'd had a beer. With the first gulp, cool suds trailed down his throat to his empty stomach like when he was a kid eating snow instead of answering his mama's lunch call. He wiped the suds from his mouth and sighed.

"What brings you here today, Moe, business or pleasure?"

"A little of both, Jonas, a little bit of both." Moe took another swig and savored the hoppy aftertaste. "This lager hits the spot."

Jonas wrinkled up his nose and his moustache danced. "Ugh! A cheap imitation of greater Bier." 

Moe downed the rest of the beer and smacked his lips. "Got to take what we can get when we can get it, Jonas."

"That is certainly true." Jonas wiped at invisible stains on the bar with a wet cloth. "You are a philosopher today, Moe."

"Let's just say I've been shown a few things, lately. My eyes are a little wider, and my mind's a little clearer."

Jonas added more beer to Moe's empty stein. "And these things, they bring you to my doorstep?" 

"You can always refuse to answer the knock."

Moe eyeballed the lush sitting at the other end of the bar. Jonas followed his gaze. The guy was embalmed—his hand shook as he fiddled with the dead soldiers lined in front of him while his other hand clung to a half-full bottle like a lifeline. 

"Bitte, wait one moment. Maybe we should speak privately?" Jonas said and then headed to the other end. 

The guy was so loaded it was next to impossible for him to remember anything Moe might say, but if word got out that Moe was asking questions about this Rolf and Jonas was gladly answering, things could get a lot worse for Jonas. Extra safety precautions weren't a bad idea. 

Jonas leaned over the bar and spoke in hushed tones to the sousepot. The guy nodded, knocked back another jolt, and then stood on wobbly feet to leave. He offered Jonas a few simoleons from a small stack of bills and stuffed the rest in his shirt pocket. He slowly made his way across the room and stumbled out the door. Stale cigar and body stink lingered in his wake. 

Jonas slipped the money in his cash box and made his way back to Moe, wiping the counter as he went.

Moe glanced toward the couple in the back, sitting knee-to-knee. The man sat with his back to Moe. The gal's partially spread legs gave Moe a solid glimpse of creamy thigh as her patty-cake partner worked his hand toward her pussy. She was smiling and biting her lower lip. She caught Moe's eye and her eyes drooped seductively. A flash of her thick, untamed bush was quickly covered as the hot little mouse covered the man's hand with her own. She guided him further between her legs, past the stockings and the bits of thigh. Her tongue poked out, licking her lips and dragging saliva along with it. Moe's cock stirred.

"Pleasure sometimes supercedes business, eh, Moe?" 

"What?" 

Jonas nodded toward the couple.

"Oh." Moe met Jonas's wide-open grin with one of his own. "Like I said, Jonas, you take what you can get when you can get it." 

"No need to worry about them. It is a daily show."

"Same dame?"

"Katarina, yes. I let her play. She brings me customers. We both are happy."

Things must really be tight for Kreimer's if Jonas was willing to let a soiled dove set up shop at the back tables.

"If you like, I can introduce you." Jonas winked like a copper on the take. "She prefers finger pie, but for you, maybe the whole meal?"

Moe took a quick hinge at the couple. Katarina was a looker, but in that hard, cover-your-balls sort of way. She was Dietrich, but without the class. Katarina clamped her eyes shut. Her mouth sagged open. The john must have found gold as his arm panned slowly back and forth. Moe heard the faint squishy rhythm of in and out. Her eyes peeked open as she tried to stifle a yawn. Perhaps Katarina should spend a little less time getting her puss probed and a little more time on her beauty sleep. Moe suddenly felt a little less hot in the zipper. He ignored the grunts caused by the coozie dig behind him and concentrated on what had brought him here.

"Nah, not this time, Jonas. I got some business to take care of."

"Tell me, how can I help you?" Jonas said.

"I'm looking for a Rolf."

"Rolf? Does he have a last name? 

"Not last name. But this Rolf likes to play with a dirk."

Jonas gulped in air and squeezed the damp cloth in his hands. "There's only one man that fits this description, and you do not want to make his acquaintance, Moe." 

"It's a little late for that, Jonas. We've already met. Only he got to say a lot more than I did, and I'd like to return the favor."

"Moe, mein Freund, listen to me. This is a very bad man, this Rolf."

"That I already knew. Tell me more."

Jonas shrugged his shoulders and began wiping at the nonexistent spills again. "I will tell you what I know. But I do not like it."

Jonas provided the lowdown with Katarina's warbling as the background music. Moe wondered if the singing was just for show or if Katarina always liked hitting the high note. Her playmate left minutes after the finale, and Katarina made her way to the barstool next to Moe. Jonas whispered one final warning about the tough guy Moe was getting mixed up with and turned to Katarina.

"What can I get you, Liebchen?"

Katarina winked at Moe. "I'll have what this gentleman is having. 

She lifted her skirt and spread her legs as she sat. The flesh above her stockings was flaming red and damp, and the pungent smell of her sex drifted to Moe's nostrils. Katarina closed her legs and then opened them again, letting Moe play peek-a-boo with her drenched gash. His cock squeezed its way up his trousers like a charmed snake.

"Are you sure there is nothing else you would like today, Moe?" Jonas asked with a derisive laugh.

Katarina snuck a hand on Moe's crotch, rubbing up the length of his zipper and squeezing the helmet pushing against his waistband.

Moe was never one to ignore a peep show when it was offered or turn down a hand job, but charmed or not, he had another pressing matter. One that couldn't wait. He grabbed Katarina's hand and stopped her from slipping it inside his pants. Maybe another time, doll, he thought and gave her hand a caress.

Thanks to Jonas, Moe had a last name and a hangout for Rolf. Jonas hadn't had time to give Moe a physical sketch of the scum, but even without knowing what Rolf looked like, Moe was hell-bent on tracking him down. Hand jobs he could do himself anyway.

"Danke, Jonas, but I've got work to do." Moe cast a side glance at Katarina. She made a grand show of crossing her legs and holding up her breasts. Her bottom lip pouched out, and she batted her eyes. But she remained mute.

"You must be careful," said Jonas. "I would not want to read your name in the obituaries."

Moe shrugged into his overcoat and nodded to Katarina. She lowered her eyes to her beer.

"That makes two of us, Jonas."



Rough Cut Ch. 05



Chapter Five – Ian's Problems Multiply

Sherriff Sam Brooks sat back in his chair. All morning he had been reviewing reports from all of his departments. Although crime was generally down, his reports showed that drug related crime was on the rise. During his election campaign, he had promised the people of Greene County that he would do his best to eradicate drug related crime. Now he was beginning to think that was just wishful thinking.

Even with quietly planned raids, all he had managed to collect were local call girls and their johns. No drugs of any kind had been discovered. It was almost as if someone had prior knowledge of the planned raids. 

In his mind, he began to review the staff involved in both the planning and execution of his most recent raid. He decided to call one of his less trusted Lieutenants who wasn't in on the raid or the planning to see if he could offer any insight. He was aware that Larry King was a long time resident of the county as well as the police force.

"Larry, Sam. Could you come up to my office?"

"Yes sir, I'll be right up."

Larry immediately placed a call on his personal cell phone to Ian.

"Good morning, Larry. What's up?"

"Ian, the Sherriff has just called me into his office. He's been reviewing the weekly reports and I think he's going to ask me about the raid."

"Don't panic, Larry. Do you remember the drill we did about four months ago? Just follow the guidelines of that drill and call me after the meeting, ok?"

"Ok, Ian. Will do. Bye."

Larry approached the Sherriff's office. His secretary, Mary, greeted him and told him to go right in.

"Good morning, Sherriff."

"Good morning, Larry. Please, have a seat. I understand that you grew up here, right?"

"Yes sir, right here in Oakdale. My wife and I met at the local high school and married right after graduation. "

"Is it fair to say that you're pretty much of an authority about local goings-on?"

"I guess so. Being a peace officer, I tend to notice things and I keep my ear to the ground, so to speak. Is there a problem, Chief?"

"I've been going over the latest department reports and frankly I'm puzzled. Overall crime is down but drug related crime is up. Even tho we have executed several raids on suspected drug dealers and premises, we have come up blank. I know you've not been in the loop on the latest raid but I wonder if you have any idea how we consistently miss the drugs. It's almost as if they have advance notice of our raids."

"Well, I suppose that's possible, Chief, but I think we're just up against a very well organized bunch. In this last raid, I understand you hit the Ponytail Bar and the Lone Star Motel, right?"

"Yes, and all we got were a few hookers and their johns. No drugs and only a little alcohol. I understand we even brought in a State Auditor as well."

"That's right, Ian Quinn. I pulled him out of the line when the van brought them in. I've known Ian for years and I know he doesn't do drugs. The Sargent in charge told me he didn't have a girl in his room either."

"If drugs are being distributed through the Ponytail, I'll bet they have a system to alert them to a raid. Something that allows them to quickly hide any drugs in the time it takes for the raiders to walk thru the door from their cars. The girls are almost certainly professional enough to hide any drugs at a table. Have you tried undercover men?"

"Yes, we have, Larry, but even they have come up empty. Here again, if there is any illegal activity, it doesn't happen when my undercover agents are there, almost like they are wearing badges on their shirts."

"Can I make a suggestion, Chief?"

"That's why you're here, Larry, shoot!"

"I suggest you have a talk with Ian Quinn, the State Auditor. Ian's has a reputation as an expert in systems and analysis. He might be able to help us set up a system that would catch these drug dealers. After all, that's his business for the State. Of course, you'd have to get permission to get him involved."

"Hmmm, good idea, Larry. I'll have to ask the Mayor before I move on this but I'm sure we can at least get permission to talk to him. Thanks, Larry, you've been most helpful." 

"Right, Chief, Bye."

"Ian, Larry. Expect a call from somebody here requesting a meeting with the Chief. He's taking my suggestion to the Mayor."

"Good job, Larry, keep your head down."

It was almost a week before Ian got the request to meet with the Mayor of Oakdale and the Sherriff of Greene County. He scheduled the meeting for his next visit to Oakdale, then turned his attention to the looming Board meeting at Sammi's University.

At 9 am on a Thursday morning, the Board members began to assemble. At 9:45, Sammi and Debra took their seats in the waiting room, expecting to be called into the Board session. Promptly at 10 am, the Chairman of the Board called the meeting to order. After disposing of the normal business, the Chairman announced the special item on the agenda.

"It seems we have had a request from Dean Patterson to deal with a problem with two of our instructors, Sammi Quinn and Debra Allen. As you know, both of these women have been here quite a while and have excellent reputations as well as being up for tenure."  "I understand that they and the Dean are in the anteroom. I suggest we call them in and let them tell us firsthand about the problem."  The three of them were led into the meeting room and seated at the end of the table farthest from the Chairman.

"Dean Patterson, since you requested this meeting, I'll allow you to present your case first. Ladies, after the Dean has spoken, you each will be given a chance to refute anything he says. Following that, the Board members will be free to ask any questions before we begin our deliberations. You may begin now, Dean."

"Mr. Chairman and members of the Board. Firstly, let me say that about a week ago, the image you are about to see was flashed across the National news. Mr. Ian Quinn is clearly seen in the video being led into the police van following a raid on a bar and motel in Oakdale."

"When I called Mrs. Quinn into my office to discuss the matter, she flatly refused to discuss it, saying it was none of my business. When I later asked Ms. Allen about this subject, she also refused to discuss it, saying that it was a private matter between Mr. and Mrs. Quinn."

"It is well known that Mrs. Quinn is an employee of this University and therefore the actions of her husband are equally viewed as her actions. Furthermore, her outright refusal to discuss this matter, as well as Ms. Allen's refusal is a direct affront to my authority as Dean. In view of their apparent joint agreement to rebuff my request for additional information, I respectfully request that they be terminated for cause."

"Mrs. Quinn, would you care to comment?"

"Yes, I would. In the first place, Ian Quinn is not employed by this University but by the State, therefore his actions are of no consequence to the operations of this University. Secondly, Dean Patterson did not quite clearly convey the details of our meeting. I have this tape I would like to play for the Board, if I may."

Sammi placed her cell phone on the table and hit "play". When the short tape was over, she continued.

"I don't have a tape of the Dean's most recent conversation with Ms. Allen but I have been told it was along the same lines. As you heard, Dean Patterson directly threatened both me and my upcoming tenure consideration in blatant violation of his authority. In my opinion, that amounts to extortion."

"Finally, if the good Dean had bothered to call the Mayor of Oakdale, he would have discovered that Ian Quinn was not charged or held in connection with the raid. He was immediately released from police custody and his possessions returned to him with apologies from the local Chief of Police. In effect, Dean Patterson's assertions of any wrongdoing on the part of any of the three of us are completely unfounded."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Board, Do you have any further questions? No? Well, then, if the three of you will excuse us, we will meet in Executive Session for a few moments to discuss this information. We'll call you back shortly."

Sammi and Debra left the room ahead of the Dean. None of them spoke while they waited in the anteroom. Less than fifteen minutes later, they were summoned to the main room.

"We, the members of the Board of Regents of this University, are in full and complete agreement as to the disposition of this case. It is our opinion that the real problem here is the ego of Dean Patterson. You, sir, have overstepped your bounds and acted outside the express authority of your contract. We are therefore effecting the following steps, to be executed immediately."

"One, Mrs. Quinn and Ms. Allen will be awarded tenure effective immediately. Two, Dean Patterson will be censured and required to take a 30 day leave of absence without pay. Three, the Assistant Dean, Mr. Thomas Ross, will take over as Interim Dean immediately."

"It is the opinion of the Board that Dean Patterson should seek counseling in light of this matter. His reinstatement as Dean will be reconsidered at the next meeting of the Board. This meeting is adjourned."

Sammi and Debra were overjoyed to say the least. They quickly left the meeting room and Sammi immediately called Ian to tell him the good news. Ian advised the women to meet him at the restaurant by the river to celebrate. The three of them reached the parking lot almost simultaneously and Ian hugged Sammi first and then Debra, amid hoops of joy from the women.

"Hey, this sounds like a party. Can I join in?"

"Hi, Rick! Of course, Debra and I have just been granted tenure at the University and the Dean has been censured for being an ass. Come along and we'll tell you the whole story."

"Great! I love a good story!" 



Rough Cut Ch. 06



According to Jonas, Rolf Metzger was known as The Butcher. He had few loyalties and could be bought by anyone with enough capital. Most nights Rolf could be found at Apollonia’s, a notch-house on the dirty end of Vine Street. Moe had never been to this particular brothel, but he figured it the same as most: worn out whores hiding years of damage with heavy paste and bad lighting. Not that Moe gave a rat’s ass - knowing the pickings didn’t keep him from partaking on occasion.

Metzger’s main gig was playing the muscle at Apollonia’s. He kept the second-hand Sues on their backs and the tricks paying. Metzger wasn’t afraid to use whatever was handy to accomplish that goal. And his shiv was always handy.

Apollonia’s was like most of the chippy houses in Cincy - you could only find them if you already knew they were there. Backdoor entrances were the norm, with an extra exit or two on each of the other sides. Most had been juice joints in the twenties - speakeasies that lost their trade with the end of Prohibition. People seemed to like the underground aspect, so natural evolution had turned the joints into hump houses.

Mid-afternoon was usually a down period, so it gave Moe plenty of time to snoop around, maybe find out more about Metzger before a face-to-face. Thanks to the payroll from Dutch, Moe had plenty of cash to encourage a canary to sing, and if spearing her clam became part of the agenda, he wouldn’t complain.

When he pushed open the door, a bell chimed. The foyer was clean but cramped. Two settees of glossy wood and pastel-colored chintz lined either side of the narrow space. A second door, further back, was closed. Standing in the foyer was a peach - a brunette with painted eyes and pouty lips. But a man’s eyes weren’t drawn to her face so much as the knockers that barely fit in her flimsy nightie. She shivered with the cool breeze let in from the outside, and her nipples perked up like ripe raspberries. 

“May I help you, sir?” She spoke briskly and held the flaps of her shiny robe, but she didn’t bother to close it.

Moe deliberately skimmed her entire frame before looking back into her whiskey eyes. “I’m depending on it.”

She turned soft with Moe’s perusal and let go of her robe. She used her hands instead to outline her hourglass shape. “Something special you’re after?” 

“I hear a man can get a little half-and-half here without it being up for scrutiny.”

“So this your first time?”

“Yeah, doll. I’m a virgin.”

She giggled a high pitch sound that reminded Moe of the door chime.

“Well, Sugar. I’m a good teacher, but I doubt you need many lessons.”

“How much?”

She eased back and folded her arms across her chest. It forced her two fleshy globes together and deepened her cleavage to below sea level. “You a copper?”

“Not a chance.”

“You smell like one.”

Moe dug in his pocket and flashed a fat roll before stuffing it back in his pockets. “And you smell like roses and heaven, doll.”

She smiled. Her hands fell to her hips and her robe pulled apart like matinee curtains. “Okay, honey. What do you like?”

“Besides you?”

She giggled again in that high-trilling way that only movie sopranos do. “I’m waiting for a special friend. But if you want to come back in, say, an hour?”

“I’m not a patient man, doll.”

She sighed and absently ran a finger along her well-defined cleavage. “Hold on, I’ll get Lily Mae.”

“Is she like you?”

“Honey, there’s no one like me,” she said it with a wink. “But she’ll do for an impatient man.”

She left, leaving Moe alone in the closed off foyer. He looked around, but there wasn’t much to see. The action took place behind the oak door she had disappeared through. 

Minutes later the door opened. A different brunette entered, this one with coltish eyes. She was dressed in the same fashion as the first gal, but this one filled her nightie a little differently - less tits, less hourglass, and less bravado.

“Lily Mae?”

“Uh-huh. You looking for something special this afternoon, Mister?”

“Call me Moe.”

“Moe.” Her voice was soft, kittenish.

“Yeah, I’m all pent up and itching for a little release.” It wasn’t entirely true. Moe was still battling with the aches in his gut, but Katarina’s peep show proved Moe was up to playing the part.

“This way.”

Moe followed her into a long corridor with walls papered in dark damask. There were eight doors, four on each side, all but one closed. Lily Mae led him to the one that was open. He stepped inside. The room was an interior room with no windows. It was small but as spit-shined as the rest of the brothel. A small bed with a white chenille coverlet was tucked in the corner. A flickering lantern sat on a table next to the bed. And a high-back chair was propped in the corner opposite the bed.

Lily Mae closed the door behind them and stood with her hands held behind her back, still holding the doorknob.

“Apollonia said you had cash.”

“Apollonia? The dame at the door?”

“That’s her.”

Moe figured he’d caught a lucky break. He doubted the madam of the joint would have given up much on Metzger, seeing as she probably paid his salary.

“I got cash if you’re the right dame.” 

Lily Mae was shorter than Apollonia and younger. Her robe hung loosely without getting caught on flaring hips and ended at the top of a great-looking pair of gams. She had a heart-shaped face that hinted at dimples if she would smile. “I can be anything you want me to be,” she said. Her words were bolder than her actions. She stared at the floor with her hands still clasped behind her back.

“How long have you been here, Lily Mae?”

“I’m older than I look.”

“Yeah, how old?”

“Old enough.”

“A pup.”

“Hardly.” She laughed and moved away from the door. She pushed her robe off her shoulders and let it puddle at her feet. When she turned to face Moe, the light from the lantern added depth to her eyes. And years.

“Come here, Moe. Help me get bare.” She was a more confident Lily Mae when it came to her trade. “And let me help you too,” she added.

Moe moved closer. Close enough to smell that Lily Mae didn’t wear rosewater like Apollonia did. Lily Mae had one of those spring smells, like lilac or honeysuckle.

She tugged on the tails of Moe’s shirt and pulled them from his trousers. She moved to the buttons and started yanking at the buttonholes. Moe held her hand.

“No need to rush Lily Mae.”

She shrugged. “You do know how this works, don’t you?’

“How?”

“Ten bucks for half an hour. Twenty for the whole sixty minutes.”

“I got time. I got cash. How about you?”

She stared up at him with her coltish eyes. “I got whatever you got cash for.”

Moe reached in his pocket and pulled out five sawbucks. “Will this square us?”

“Two and a half hours worth?’ Lily Mae fingered the bills, brought them to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled. When her eyes sprung open she looked at Moe. “You got a slow pecker or something?”

“Maybe I like a little chatter.”

“Jiminy! You’re not one of those freaks, are you?” Whores were the only dames in the world that thought chitchatting was weird.

“Okay, Lily Mae. You want to fuck? Fine.” Moe grabbed her and jerked the last slip of material off over her head. She stood perfectly still, and he thought he’d scared her until he looked at her face. She was grinning for the first time since he’d met her.

“So, Lily Mae, you do know how to smile.” 

“So, Moe, you do have fire to go with those rugged looks.”

She smirked and reached again for the buttons on his shirt. This time she sneaked from one to the next. Button by button. Until the last one gave way. She shoved his shirt down off his shoulders and moved to his belt, slowly loosening it. 

As she bent to slide his pants down, Moe glanced at the walls of the room. Too many of these creep joints had secret panels that could open while a man was too busy to notice. Someone would enter, empty a man’s pockets, and leave without the sucker suspecting a thing. To be on the safe side, Moe kicked his trousers under the bed.

Lily Mae continued working her way around Moe’s body. Moe stopped her when she went for his undershirt. No need to share his Frankenstein torso. She just shrugged her shoulders and moved on. Moe willingly helped her get rid of his drawers and when they did, his cock bobbled free, semi-erect.

“Nothing weird about your pipe, Moe.”

“I get no complaints.” 

Lily Mae pulled back the coverlet on the bed, sat herself in the middle, and let her legs fall open. Her pubic hair lined up against the bed linen - coffee brown against crisp white. Her plump nipples were rouged to a fiery red. 

“See anything you like, honey?”

“Plenty, doll. Plenty.”

She opened herself further, pressing through her pubic hair, and fingering deep between her fiery inner lips. Lips the same color as her nipples. First with one finger, then two, She dug deep and then slipped out again. She finger-tipped to her clitoris, rubbing tiny circles over its head. She dipped inside again, wiggling her fingers to a squishy tune. When she pulled them out, she made a creamy trail up her belly as she dragged her fingers upward.

Moe bent over her and followed her path with his tongue, licking her jism from her soft belly to her rouged nipple. He kissed her nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting while she writhed under him.

“Mmm, Moe. You do have fire,” she said.

He licked the valley between her tits and continued to her other breast. To his surprise, where he expected to find a nipple, he found only puckered titflesh. The rouge had done a good job of camouflaging the mangled nub.

“What happened here, Lily Mae?”

“Ignore it, please.” 

It was easy to forget when her warm hand surrounded Moe’s cock and stroked him hard. But he pushed her hand away and dragged her hips to the edge of the bed. He wanted to feel hot pussy stretching around him. He lifted her feet to his shoulders and lined his cock to her slit. He jabbed between her folds, searching for her hole. When he found it, he shoved hard, burying himself as much as would fit.

Lily Mae bucked her hips and dug her heels into Moe’s shoulders. All the while she squeezed him tight. Again and again. Milking his pecker and pulling it further into her depths. He grabbed her legs, pushed them together, and held them close to his chest. Her ass snuggled close to his balls.

And then he fucked her. In and out. Hard and slow. Shallow and deep. The stitches in his gut pulled and burned, but he refused to stop until her pussy quivered around his cock and he’d pumped the last of his gravy into her.

Moe was breathing like a locomotive. He let go of Lily Mae and slumped to the bed beside her, exhausted and sweaty. 

“You okay, Moe?”

“Give me a minute.”

Lily Mae bounced off the bed and grabbed a pitcher from inside a bowl on the table. “I’ll be right back.” She left the room naked with Moe’s sticky semen between her legs. 

Moe lifted his undershirt and did a once over on his stitches. A small amount of blood seeped at a spot near his navel. But the rest of the jagged line seemed pretty jake. Sweat trickled between his pecs, and Moe mopped at the sweat and the blood with his undershirt. His breathing had settled down, but his legs were gelatin. 

Lily Mae returned with a rag thrown over her shoulder and a full pitcher of water. She poured the water into the bowl, dipped the rag, and then turned to Moe.

“Let me clean you up.” She sat down and she got a look at Moe’s undershirt. “Oh, jiminy! You’re bleeding”

“It’s nothing, doll.”

“Let me see.” 

Moe wasn’t in the mood to fight over it, so he let her raise his shirt. Lily Mae drew back, cringing at the criss-crossed lines of sewn together flesh, but then righted herself. “So that’s what you’re hiding.”

“Hiding? Nah, I’m just not ready to display it like a trophy.”

“What the hell are you doing here with something like that still percolating?”

“Looking for the carver who did it.”

Lily Mae gasped. Her hand flew to her left breast and she jumped from the bed. A mask of true fear settled over her face, and she began to pace. “You gotta get out of here.”

“I see you recognize the handiwork. Metzger?”

She nodded. “He’ll kill me. He’ll kill us both if he finds you here.”

“Why?”

Lily Mae paced, wringing her hands. Gooseflesh had popped up on her skin. She jammed on her robe and pulled it tight around her body. “Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter who you are, or why he sliced you. He won’t like it that you’re walking around. You’re a reminder that he failed.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He’s bad.”

Moe grunted with the understatement. “Tell me. Maybe start with your nipple.”

Lily Mae talked, her nervousness a real motivator. Moe gathered his clothes and dressed while she continued to pace and spill her guts. Metzger had sliced off her nipple because she’d tried to hoard money he said belonged to him. He’d tied her to the bed and fucked her up the old brown road. And when she thought he had finished he whipped out his blade, pinched her nipple to a hard bud, and with one cut, sliced it off, his cock still crowding her backdoor.

Lily Mae sat down in the chair, trembling with the telling. “He’ll kill me.”

“He’s got no reason to know I was here with you.”

She huddled herself into a ball. “He’ll find out. He always does.” 

“I’m a john. In and out. You’ve got your pay. What’s for him to know?” Moe walked around the room, tapping on the walls. All of them thudded solid. “Doesn’t feel like there’s a feeble wall here.”

“No, not this room. We never stiff a guy on his first visit.”

“Is Metzger here?”

“No, or at least he wasn’t. He usually shows up later when traffic picks up.” 

“Then he knows from nothing. You don’t even have a name for me.”

Lily Mae unballed and let her legs relax. “That’s true, except for Moe. Unless—did Appollonia get your name?”

“Not unless you gave it to her.”

“No, I didn’t. If you leave now...”

“I’m not leaving til I got the whole scoop, sister.”

“I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“Think of something.”

“You don’t understand what kind of monster he is.” She sprang from her chair and stood wild-eyed in front of Moe. “Do you want to know what he did with my nipple after he sliced it off? He ate it! He ate it, and then he...he slurped up the blood. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.” Her face had caught the panic her eyes were dishing out. “The worst of it...” Her eyes went dark and distant. “...that was when he had his climax.” 

She had a better sob story than most, and Moe wasn’t immune, but he still had business to take care of. “I imagine you’ll want me out of here as quick as possible, doll. So you’d better start chatting.”

Lily Mae’s flowery smell had faded. Fear had raised her hackles a lot more than the sex. She was edgy and spoke quickly in short, choppy sentences, but she filled Moe in on what she knew: Apollonia and Metzger were related. Cousins, she thought. Apollonia owned the cathouse. Metzger was in charge of “security.” For the most part, things ran smooth. The chicks were expected to stay clean and have regular checkups with a doctor. Everything was fine as long you passed your physical and turned over your grand a week. But if anything went wrong, Apollonia called Metzger in to make it right.

“If things are so tough, why do you stick around?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Do you think it’s different any place else? I eat what I want. Wear what I want. And I don’t have to worry about sleeping on the streets.” 

Moe knew she was right. The life of a quiff was anything but glamorous. Most of these joints had muscle, buzzards with no qualms about using fists to keep the ladies in line. And a lot of the places weren’t nearly as clean as Apollonia’s. 

“How about Metzger’s other associates?”

“If he’s got any, I don’t know them. He works alone as far I can tell.”

Moe figured it was all she had. Lily Mae had balled herself up in the chair again, her arms hugging her legs like long-lost friends. He needed a bite of air. Besides, Moe didn’t want Lily Mae on his conscience if Metzger found out about his visit. But he needed just one more bit of info before he could leave Lily Mae in peace. Moe spoke as he knotted his tie.

“One last thing, doll, and I’ll go. What’s he look like?”

* * *

Moe stepped out into the late afternoon sun. The lack of windows in Lily Mae’s room had almost made him forget it was daytime. The walk to his car was a short one, but he felt like he was walking on jigglesticks. The sex had been brief but still enough to drain him. Would he ever quit feeling like a newborn? 

Moe turned the corner and nearly bumped shoulders with him, and that’s when he realized how dead on Lily Mae’s description had been: short, wiry, with small eyes and skin like a sheen of spoiled grease. And a scar - a scar that started at his right eye and did a half moon curve over his cheek before ending at his thin upper lip. 

Rolf Metzger was one ugly mutt.



Rough Cut Ch. 06



Chapter Six -- The Plot Thickens

The four friends entered the restaurant and were immediately seated. As the lunch progressed, Sammi and Debra described the Board meeting to the men in great detail, including comments about the Dean's facial expressions when Sammi played the tape. There was a great deal of laughter all around and the time passed quickly.

Suddenly, Debra noticed the time on the back bar clock.

"Oh my, I'll have to leave. I have a class at 2 this afternoon. I'll call you later, Sammi. Please excuse me, gentlemen. Duty calls."

Just as Debra was leaving, Ian's cell phone rang. The call, from Ian's end, consisted of mostly listening with a few uh-huh's thrown in. When he finally ended the call, he turned to Sammi.

"Unfortunately, I'll have to leave you now. I've been called to an urgent meeting. I should be home about six and we can continue this celebration tonight. OK?"

"Of course, darling. See you later. I'm going to stay awhile and talk to Rick about those lessons he promised."

After Ian left, Sammi opened the conversation.

"So, Rick, when do you think you'll be ready to teach me how to row my own boat? 

"Why don't we walk back to my stall and we can talk outside without being overheard?"

"Sounds good. Let me take care of the check and we'll be on our way."

A few minutes later, the two of them walked out the door and headed for Rick's scull display.

"Sammi, have you given any thought to my earlier request?"

"Yes, I have, Rick. It puts me in an awkward position as you know. I need to know more about what you really want and what the consequences might be for both Ian and myself. This is all new to me so I have to be comfortable with all aspects of this operation before I can agree to be part of it."

"I understand, Sammi. First, let me say that my offer to teach you to properly row a scull is legitimate. On that score, I do have a scull we can use immediately to begin your lessons tomorrow, if you like."

"Yes, Rick, that would be great."

"Secondly, on the topic of finding out about Ian's side business, we wouldn't expect you to testify against him in court or otherwise expose yourself. All we need from you is some information that will allow us to break up his operation. If we are successful in that attempt, I can promise you complete immunity from prosecution."

"Can you also promise complete immunity for Ian as well? I don't mind exposing his side business, really, but I am not going to send my husband to jail in the process."

"I can't promise that right now. That call will come from higher up than me but I can certainly find out. If we promise full immunity for Ian as well as yourself, will you help us?"

"Under those conditions I will, provided I have those assurances in writing from an individual who has the authority to grant such immunity, Rick. I'll not do anything on a handshake."

"Fair enough. I'll contact my people tonight and have an answer for you by tomorrow. Shall we say 9 am, here on the river, for your first lesson?"

"9 o'clock tomorrow morning will be just fine, Rick. See you then."

Sammi was unusually nervous on the walk back to her car. She was about to turn their lifestyle upside down and possibly put Ian in danger as well. Even though she had tentatively agreed, at this moment she was still very unsure.

When Ian left the restaurant, he didn't go back to his office. Instead, he drove across town to a small gas station/auto repair shop. Parking in front of the bay door, he turned off the ignition but left the keys in the car. 

"Good afternoon, Ian, how are you?"

"Just fine, Jake, how's business?"

"Doing well, Ian. How can I help you?"

"I could use a tune up, Jake, and the use of your office for an hour or two."

"No problem. I'll do your tune up myself. right this way, Ian. Would you like some coffee?"

"No thanks, Jake, I just finished lunch."

Jake led Ian to the office of the station, then up a flight of stairs to his private office. After unlocking the door, he allowed Ian to enter.

"If there's anything you need, just holler. My daughter, Molly, will be in the downstairs office. We'll have your car ready when you are. Make yourself at home, Ian. See you later."

"Thanks, Jake, I'll be just fine."

After Jake closed the office door and clomped down the stairs, Ian took out his cell phone and dialed a number. He spoke quietly into the phone for a few minutes, then hung up and dialed another number. One hour and several more phone calls later, Ian sat back in the chair with a sly grin on his face.

When his cell phone rang a few minutes later, Ian answered it on the first ring.

"Ian."

"Yes, it's all set. We'll have the merchandise back in about a week. I'm meeting with the Chief of Police on Wednesday."

"It's only a minor interruption. The Chief has to make himself look good in order to be reelected. Don't worry, I'll take care of the details."

Ian walked down the stairs to find Jake lounging in his chair. He glanced out the window and saw his car parked at the curb and grinned. What he didn't know was that Jake had attached an electronic tailing device to the underside of Ian's car. 

"All set, Ian. She's running as good as new. I had to replace a couple of spark plugs but that's all."

"Thanks, Jake. Just put it on my bill. Everything else ok?"

"Yes sir, no problems at all."

"Good to hear, Jake. I'll catch you later. Goodbye, Molly, Jake."

On Saturday morning, when Sammi arrived at the river, Rick had a scull already in the water at dockside. He grinned when he saw Sammi approach.

"Good morning, Sammi. Are you ready for a beautiful day on the water?"

"As ready as I'll ever be, Rick. That doesn't look like my scull tho."

"No, it's not. This is a two seater, one of my training sculls. Before we get in, I'd like to go over some of the basics with you. After that, we can do a short practice run up and down the river. Ok?"

"Sounds great, Rick, let's get started."

Rick took Sammi over to his tent and began to explain the art of rowing and directing a scull. He showed her the different strokes she would be using and taught her the basics of balancing. He also reminded her to wear a safety vest until she was experienced. Finally, he fitted her with her personal life vest, then directed her to the waiting scull.

Rick rowed them out to the middle of the river, then turned the rowing chores over to Sammi. When they were about one hundred yards downstream from his base, Rick stopped Sammi and let the scull drift.

"I have authority to give both you and Ian full immunity from prosecution in exchange for information about the way the drugs and money move about the State. The paperwork is in this waterproof envelope. I'll handle the scull while you read it over, Sammi."

Sammi took the envelope from Rick and noticed that her hands were trembling as she opened it. The letter was only two pages long and explained what the FBI wanted in exchange for the grant of immunity. Sammi read the letter over twice to be sure she understood what she had to do and what the consequences would be if she failed.

After a few minutes of hesitation, she folded the letter and slipped it into her bra, nodding her acceptance to Rick. 

"I will be your contact, Sammi. Whenever you have something to pass on, just stop by for another lesson or to check on the progress of your scull. We can establish a signal if I'm not in position to accept your information for whatever reason and another signal if you feel you're in some kind of danger or if you suspect you're being followed. Once these signals are agreed, we won't have to talk about this unless you have something to pass on. Ok?"

"Ok, Rick. Can we decide on the signals now, before we get back to the dock?"

"Sure. Let's just make it really simple. If I call you Sam, it will mean I can't talk. If you say your name is Sam, it will mean you think you're in danger or being followed. Simple enough?"

"Yes, agreed. Sam if there's a problem, Sammi if everything is fine. Right?"

"Exactly. Ok, then, use the right oar and turn us back to the dock. Remember, now you're rowing against the tide of the river so it will be more difficult but not any different. Let's go."

As Rick suggested, Sammi found that rowing upstream was indeed a little more difficult than rowing downstream. By the time they reached the dock, Sammi was perspiring lightly. Once on the dock, Rick complemented her on her rowing skills and asked when she would be back for another lesson.

Sammi allowed that this lesson was fun and thought she might be back the next afternoon, if Rick was available. Answering in the affirmative, the two conspirators shook hands and parted ways in public view of whoever might be watching.



Rough Cut Ch. 07



Rough Cut: A Moe Gafferson Mystery 

Edited by Poison Ivan

Chapter 7

Vine Street was one of those streets in Cincinnati that ran east to west the width of the city, and it was busy its entire length. In the upscale part of town there were snazzy apartments, four-star restaurants and sidewalks full of shopkeepers, bankers, and customers with fat wallets and open-ended check books. In the blue-collar area, the factories hummed and buzzed with mechanical regularity, and the off shift workers waited for their trolleys, jingling the few coins left in their pockets. And on the side of town that housed Appollonia's, the decaying buildings were boarded up or caked with years of scum. The crowd of people spending time on the sidewalk was there because they had no place better to be. Moe welcomed the derelicts and the unemployed. Crowds had a way of keeping a situation from getting too volatile.

Rolf Metzger was the kind of guy that liked to do his dirty work in the dark, on the sly, not in broad daylight on a busy street, He wasn't the type to look a man in the eye - Metzger's eyes were too busy shifting from side-to-side. He tried to sidestep Moe to avoid a collision. Moe figured the bum didn't even recognize him as the man Metzger had tried to kill the week before. It was way past time for a face-to-face.

"Hey buddy, got a minute for a friend?" Moe asked.

Metzger hitched a quick eye at Moe, then slowly slinked a hand into his trouser pocket. "You ain't any friend I know, mister." 

Moe motioned to Metzger's hidden hand. "You sure you want to do that, Mac? A butcher might be able to slice and dice at night with no one around, but a smart man might think twice on a busy street like Vine. Unless that man is sure there's nothing but friends or blind men as witnesses."

A glance around showed an easy five or six people within earshot. Metzger eased his hand from his pocket but kept it close to his hip. Then he decided to play dumb. "Who are you, Mac, and why should I want to know you?"

"We've already met." Moe turned his head from side-to-side to offer a profile view to Metzger. "You might say Peter Schmidt introduced us. Last week? Over the Rhine?"

Metzger might have flinched at the mention of Schmidt's name, but was hard to tell - the scar side of his face was paralyzed. Whoever had done the carving of Metzger's face left a mug Lon Chaney could have used in Phantom of the Opera.

"Your roof is leaking, Jack," said Metzger. "I don't know you or what you're talking about."

Moe stepped in close, close enough to see the full extent of Metzger's scar. The bulging eye sat frozen in its socket, lifeless as the glass that it was. "I think you do."

Metzger was a mean son-of-a-bitch, but he wasn't stupid. He glanced again at the potential spectators. "You ain't got nothing that puts me at that clambake." 

Moe smirked. "Just enough proof to share with the cops at our next little sit down."

Metzger was as fast as most little wiry guys. His fist was in and out before Moe could blink. The pain that had been slowly ebbing suddenly seared through Moe like a lit fuse. It might have been all over in one punch except for two things: first, instinct made Moe throw out his fist, and second, luck had him landing it square on Metzger's chin. Metzger stumbled back, lost his feet, and landed on his ass. Moe stepped back. He knew enough not to push his luck. Already a horde was circling, and the burning pain from Metzger's punch had Moe sweating bullets.

"Nothing to see here." Moe waved his hands to the crowd. "It's all over."

The crowd didn't move.

Metzger scrambled up, rubbing his backside and seeing red. The crash to the ground had probably done more damage than Moe's lucky punch. Metzger glared and saliva gathered at the corner of his mouth.

One of the busy bodies in the pack hollered, "You boys, okay?" 

Metzger's face twisted in thought, as if he was weighing the odds of finishing off Moe now or later. Apparently he decided on later. "This ain't over," he whispered under his breath to Moe. To the crowd Metzger yelled, "Everything's fine!" But the thug never took his eye off Moe.

Moe knew the bum wasn't going to give him any answers about Schmidt, not without Moe providing a little muscle, but Moe wasn't up to a showdown. For now, it was enough to ruffle his feathers. "You can take that to the bank, buddy," Moe said. "It's definitely not over." He shoved past Metzger, resisting the urge to spit on the man who'd cut the nipple off that young girl. A couple yards down the way, Moe turned around to add, "By the way, you owe me a couch cushion." 

Metzger was straightening his clothes. He glowered at Moe with the hatred most men save for a mortal enemy. It wasn't the first time Moe had seen that kind of look. But coming from a man who had almost killed him, Moe was inclined to take the menacing glare a little more seriously. The crowd was breaking up one at a time, each man shuffling back to the part of the sidewalk he called his own. The pain lanced through Moe's gut, but he froze his face - he'd be damned if he'd let Metzger know he'd been hurt. He turned his back and headed toward his Buick. 

* * *

On his way home, Moe stopped off for a sandwich and a cup of java at Joe's Diner. Maybe if his stomach had something to churn it might forget about the smarting from Metzger's right jab. Joe knew how to make a mean roast beef, and he kept his radio tuned to CBS. Moe had made a habit of eating his grub and listening to Murrow reporting from London. 

The sun had finished setting and his belly wasn't feeling any worse for wear by the time Moe slumped into his office. The phone was ringing before he'd closed the door.

"Hello," Moe answered.

"Moe, this is Mona. I'm in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop in."

"Doll, you're not in this neighborhood or there'd be a ticket-tape parade."

"All right, I'm not in the neighborhood, but I am just leaving the hospital. And I thought I'd swing by and take a look at your stitches."

Moe hadn't looked at his slashing since before Metzger had sucker-punched him. He had figured he was still up and walking so it couldn't be too bad. But now when he glanced down at his shirt, there was a small circle of bright red blood.

"Moe?"

"You got medical supplies, angel?"

"Yes, but..."

"Bring them."

It would take Mona a good half hour to get from the hospital to Moe's dump. He hung up the phone, went to the back, straightened up the joint, and slapped a little soap and water on. He even shaved. But who knew why? It just felt like the thing to do. 

Moe wanted a drink - the good stuff in his desk. When he went to the front room, there was an envelope on the floor, inches from the door. Someone must've slipped it there while Moe was washing up. He swung the front door wide, looking up and down the street, but there was nothing, just the sounds from the little brown cottage next door. From what Moe could hear, Willy was plowing into Netty. It was going to be a good night for both of the Scottsdales. 

He poured himself a drink and sat down in his chair. The envelope was addressed to Moe, written in flowery penmanship, and carrying the scent of gardenia.

Dear Moe,

It's been several days since we last spoke. Please contact me tomorrow at your earliest convenience. I will consider it a great favor.

Sincerely, Kitty Winslow

The dame must have hired a runner to slip the invite under Moe's door. He shoved the note in a drawer and downed a shot of bourbon. Maybe he'd fit in a visit to the Winslow mansion tomorrow.

By the time Mona knocked at the door, the hooch had burned a good path.

* * *

Nurse Dale had removed her cap. Her hair hung loose like strands of fire flickering at her shoulders. Instead of a handbag, she carried a black leather medical kit. Her normally tidy uniform was crumpled and mussed with a yellow stain that Moe preferred not to think about. Half-moons of fatigue darkened under her eyes.

"You look dead on your feet, doll."

"It's been a rough day."

"Why come here then?"

"Like I said, I was in the neighborhood." Mona glanced around the room at the davenport with a slit cushion before plopping down on the side of the couch without the horsehair sticking out of it. "You got mice, Moe?"

"Some sort of vermin." Moe reached for the other shot glass he kept in his desk drawer for visitors. "Drink?" She looked as if she could use it.

She considered it for a moment then nodded. "Just don't tell anyone."

"Secrets are my business, angel."

She sipped daintily at the bourbon, trying not to wrinkle her nose. "If it wasn't for your business, I wouldn't have to be here." 

"My business is what pays the bills on this fancy house, doll."

"Fancy indeed." She avoided looking around her again. "I don't suppose you've been taking it easy like you should?"

"I'm not much for spending time in bed alone." Moe couldn't say why he said something so callous. Maybe he was just a class-A jerk. Or maybe he didn't like the way he suddenly wanted to rub the tired off of Mona. Or maybe he needed Mona to understand what kind of man he really was. 

Mona stood and plinked the shot glass on his desk. Good bourbon splattered over cheap wood. "I didn't come here to discuss your sleeping habits, Mr. Gafferson. I'm here to look at your stitches. Take off your shirt."

Mona was a redhead, and Moe figured she had the temper to go with it. Her jaw was clinched, and her green eyes had gone dark. He did as she asked without complaint.

She stood there, studying the wound from across the room like she was sizing up the need to get closer. "Toss me your shirt."

"Why?"

"The incision has opened up in spots. I didn't bring a smock, and I can't very well fix you up with the grime of my day all over me." She propped her hands on her hips. The look of fatigue was pushed away by the fire that simmered in a dame like her. 

Moe tossed her his shirt, expecting Mona to slip it over her uniform, but instead she unbuttoned the white dress and slid it down over her hips. She stood unembarrassed in a slip that clung to her hourglass shape. She dug around in the pocket of her uniform and pulled out some hairpins. Lifting her hair, she gave it a twist. Her tits bobbled like airy dumplings under the yoke of her slip. Then, as easy as stirring batter, she pinned the strands of fire in place. Moe's shirt hung over her arm, trapped in the crook of her elbow as she worked. He poured another shot of bourbon and slurped the glass dry. 

"Where's your sink?" Mona asked.

"Huh?" He'd seen her cherry lips move, but the pounding in his ears wouldn't let him hear what she said. 

"A sink. I need to wash my hands. And you need to lie down."

"In the back. There's a sink and a bed."

Moe led Mona to the back room. He was glad he had straightened up, but he refused to think about why. He propped himself against the door frame as Mona went to work. She hung his shirt on a hook and went to the sink. Somewhere between the front of his place and the back, she'd kicked off her shoes. Moe found her petite feet, swathed in nylon, as sexy as the ass that swayed as she scrubbed her hands. His throat suddenly felt like Death Valley. Unfortunately, he'd left the damn bourbon in the other room. 

She finished the scrub and dried her hands on the same towel Moe had used earlier. There was intimacy in the gesture that made Moe uncomfortable - uncomfortable enough to feel a rush of blood to his cock. 

"Get on the bed, Mr. Gafferson."

"I thought we'd agreed on you calling me 'Moe'."

Mona smirked but didn't say a word. Moe scooted on the bed and lay flat. She finally slipped into his shirt, carefully rolling up the sleeves and buttoning every last button. The shirt was so big it hid all her curves, but it still took nothing away from the woman.

"How much bourbon have you had, Moe?" she asked.

She'd called him Moe again so easily. He liked that. Most dames would be stubborn. But Mona Dale was a one-in-a-million dame!

"A couple of shots." Not nearly enough, he wagered.

"That should help. If you think you want another while I'm working, just say so."

"Maybe I'd better keep my head clear, doll. Your kind of angel mercy tends to make a man foggy, even without the liquor."

Mona took out supplies - gauze, Mercurochrome, and cotton balls - from her medical bag and spread them neatly on the bedside table. She sat on the edge of the bed and bent close over Moe. 

"The stitches have pulled apart here. And here. Luckily, it's superficial."

"You mean I won't bleed to death?"

"Oh, you probably will. But not from this wound."

She went to work, and within minutes, she was taping clean gauze over the gash. 

When she'd finished, Moe sat up beside her. She didn't make a move to get up, and Moe hoped she wouldn't. "I like the way you work, doll."

"You mean fast?"

He shook his head. "With a gentle touch," he said, eyeing her up and down. She looked good in his shirt. She looked even better with her slip up high on her thigh and the top of her stockings in sight. "The outfit helps."

"You really are a scoundrel, aren't you Moe?"

"Maybe." He ran a fingertip down the side of her face. It was smooth as velvet. "You're one of the most beautiful dames I've ever laid eyes on."

Mona's creamy skin could never hide a blush. Pink worked its way up her neck and over her cheeks. The rush of color made her even more beautiful.

"I'm going to kiss you, Mona."

Mona didn't stop him. He tilted to her. Her lips parted just as Moe's lips slid against them. Warm and moist. Sweet and willing. When she might have pulled back, he slipped his hand through her hair and held the back of her head. He whispered against her lips. "I'm not going to stop kissing you, Mona, unless you say the words to make me."

"Moe..."

He kissed her again, slipping his tongue inside her mouth. He kissed her deep, taking in her taste and memorizing her mouth. He kissed the corners of her mouth, her cheeks, her chin, her eyelids, and her forehead. Not just once, but again and again. He kissed her until she was breathless. Then with the heel of his palm he pushed against her forehead and Mona arched her neck. He kissed her straining throat down to the collar of his shirt. With one swift move, he grabbed the buttoned shirt and split it open. Buttons flew, Mona jumped, and Moe kept up his attack. He kissed a trail down the full length of her neck, forcing his tongue against the beating hollow at its base, and then he swerved to the top of her shoulder, leaving an enflamed path of skin where his lips had touched.

"Damn, woman! Your skin is milk." 

He moved on. He kissed her shoulder, nudging the strap of her slip until it slid down her arm. He kissed the swell of breast her slip no longer covered. He used his chin to force the fabric further down until his lips could reach her nipple. And he kissed it. The nub darkened and tightened and he kissed it more. Mona stroked the back of Moe's head, tender touches at first, but as Moe switched from kissing to sucking, her hand grew more forceful, until she finally shoved his head hard against her tit.

"Suck it harder! Please Moe. Harder." She puffed out the words like a train accelerating out of Cincy's Union Terminal.

Moe did as she asked, sucking her areola and nipple until it grew long in his mouth. He sucked until his jaw hurt. Mona thrashed and moaned like a caged tiger. Moe was curious to see how dangerous she might get. He moved to the other nipple and gave it the same treatment - long, hard sucks like his life depended on it.

When Mona pulled back, Moe figured it was over, that she'd come to her senses. But she didn't leave. Instead she shimmied out of her slip, then her garter and stockings, and finally her panties. She didn't try to hide her nakedness. Instead, she stood proud like a Parrish model: nude and ethereal.

"Baby, you're a work of art."

"Don't talk, Moe. Just do."

The dame was a temptress, and Moe always liked yielding to temptation. He forgot about his wound, his work, and any good intentions. Mona was a woman who wanted him, and he was happy to oblige.

She slipped under the covers of his bed. Moe stripped out of his trousers and joined her. He took her in his arms. Flesh against flesh. Heat against heat. He kissed her mouth again, only this time the kisses weren't soft. They were hard and hungry and demanding. Mona was breathless and flushed. And, apparently, anxious. "Do, Moe, do," she said.

He rose above her and she welcomed him, her arms around him, her legs open. He eased inside. She was tight. Tight and hot and wet. It was heaven. He took his time, sliding in and out, feeling every groove and ripple. At first, she pushed against him, smashing her pelvis against his, and then she picked up Moe's rhythm and they rode together in a perfect fit. Her hands kneaded his back, but turned to clawing when Moe's thrusts grew longer and deeper.

When her nails dug in and her body went rigid, Moe kept up his pace. With her orgasm came taut, jerky spasms that squeezed and tugged at Moe's cock. He tried to hold back, tried to let her tremors settle, but his willpower was gone. He let out a howl and with it came his seed, spilling into her, bathing them both in heated love juice.

When he finished, he eased out as slowly as he'd eased in. A rush of cum followed and Moe cradled the sensitive head of his cock in the puddle. Slowly he moved to her side, stretching his arm securely over her belly, not quite ready to let her go.

"I might be dead," he mumbled.

Mona yawned. "I'll meet you in heaven."

"We were just in heaven, doll. They kicked me out."

"Give it a little time, Moe. I'm sure we can go back." 



Rough Cut Ch. 07



Ian and Sammi spent Saturday and Sunday doing the normal things that married couples do on weekends, running errands, shopping, church, and finally, relaxing by the pool. That was when Ian began to tell Sammi about his side business.

"Sammi, it's time we had a talk about my other business. If anything happens to me, you need to know how to survive and move forward."

"Ian, you're scaring me. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. I think I'm being followed. At least twice this weekend I'm sure I saw the same car behind us. The business has had its troubles recently and that is adding to my concern. My partners don't always play by the rules when they think they're in danger of being caught with their fingers in the cookie jar, so to speak."

"I suspected as much. Some of your associates that I've seen over the years didn't strike me as solid citizens. Should I be afraid, Ian?"

"No, Sammi, I don't think so. However, I think it may be time for me to exercise my insurance options. I have a meeting with the Sherriff of Greene County and the Mayor of Oakdale on Monday. My information says that they will ask me to help them stop the flow of drugs into their area. That request puts me in the hot seat, since my associates are the one who are putting the drugs on the streets up there."

"Oh, wow! I guessed that you're consulting job had something to do with drugs. What are you going to do?"

"First, let me explain that I handle the prostitution end Of things, not the drugs. Although they both use the Same network, I have no responsibility for the drugs. "

"Second, I'm going to supply you with two flash drives, one of which has all the details of our private bank account in the Caymans. I've been very careful with the money so it's all clean at this point and only the person with the account number and the key code, you, can access it. The flash drive has all the details on how to access the account and move the money here." 

"The second flash drive has all the details of our operations on it. Places, routes, times, contacts, the works. I kept it for my own safety. Even tho I don't directly deal in the drugs, I set up the network for the movement of the money. If the Feds had this information, they could shut down the Greene County operation in a flash. If anything ever happens to me, make sure that the drive gets to them but also make sure you get full immunity from prosecution before you turn it over to them. I think your boating pal, Rick, can probably help you with the turnover when the time comes."

"Ian, what do you mean, Rick can help me?"

"Sammi, Rick is an undercover operative for one of the federal agencies, I just don't know for sure which one. My associates tagged him about a year ago and have passed bogus information to him from time to time. I'm sure they already know that he has made contact with you and that fact alone will worry them."

"Rick has already offered me and you full immunity for information on the drug trafficking. I just didn't know what to say to him or how to tell you." 

"Good. You're safe for now and Rick is the one to pass that flash drive to if anything happens to me." "After I meet with the Sherriff, I may make some changes to the flash drive, depending on the conversation but for now, it's complete." 

"Ian, Rick has promised me full immunity for both of us. I have it in writing. Can't we just pass the flash drive to him now and get it over with?" 

"Sorry, sweetie, it doesn't work that way. I have to still be involved up until the last minute or I'll be suspected of selling out my partners. Immunity from prosecution is one thing, our physical safety is something entirely different. For now, just keep the flash drives in a safe place and be prepared to hand over the black one to Rick. Keep the red one someplace separate for your own protection."

"Alright, Ian, if you say so. Can we please not talk about this anymore? I'm really getting scared."

On Monday morning, Ian kissed Sammi good-bye as usual. Fortunately, Sammi didn't have a class until 10 am so she had time to settle herself down. As for Ian, he began his drive to Oakdale with one eye on his rearview mirror. His suspicions were confirmed about half way there when the car he suspected was following him made the same turn onto a side road for no reason at all. Arriving at City Hall, Ian watched as his tail drove past.

Once inside the building, he was directed to the Mayor's Office. Both the Mayor and the Sherriff were already in the conference room when Ian arrived. After formal Introductions were made, the three men got down to Business.

"Ian, the Sherriff asked me to request this meeting on his behalf. Larry King suggested that you may be able to help us solve a problem due to your skill at analyzing tough situations."

"I'll have to thank Larry for the complement, Mr. Mayor. How can I help?"

"Mr. Quinn, we have a drug problem here in Greene County. We don't know how it gets distributed but we do know that a lot of it gets around. We make regular busts of folks with a gram or two of cocaine and other drugs but nothing big. I'm convinced that there is a distribution ring operating here that has so far gone undetected. Frankly, we would like your help in finding these drug dealers and putting a stop to the local trade."

"That's a tall order, Sherriff. May I ask what steps you've already taken in this regard?"

"Of course. To date we have had undercover agents go to about twelve bars and several motels looking to buy drugs. In a few instances, they have been able to buy small quantities of drugs but nothing that would indicate a wholesaling operation. In other cases, even tho the agents are buying drinks in a bar and sitting with known prostitutes they have been unable to buy more than a tiny bit. When we raid these places, we always come up empty. It's almost like they know we are coming even tho I keep the raid information secret until the last minute."

"Sherriff, when your agents go in undercover, do they still carry their guns and their badges?"

"Yes, of course, why?"

"One of the ways that an organization can tell when someone is carrying a firearm is with metal detectors hidden in the doorstop. If the metal detector goes off, it warns the folks inside that armed men, likely police or a rival gang, are about to enter the building. Next time, have your men leave their badges and weapons in the car or someplace safe. In other words, have them go in as normal patrons and just observe what's going on. That won't cause an arrest but it will give you information you don't yet have."

"Ok, I'll try that. Any other suggestions?" "What you're up against is an organization. In this case, the product they are selling happens to be illegal but it is an organization nonetheless. Every organization, no matter how small or how big, has rules. Without rules, the organization can't survive. What you need to do is to find the patterns that the organization uses to operate. Delivery schedules, collection schedules, distribution methods, banking, even recruiting schedules, all organizations have to have these things well controlled or there is chaos."

"What you need to discover is at least one of these patterns. Once you determine a pattern, the next step is to disrupt that pattern. Find the next pattern, disrupt it, and so on. When you use the patterns of a business to disrupt its normal flow, you begin to destroy the business. If enough disruption occurs, the business will eventually move to another place where it can operate without the disruption."

"Thank you, Ian, that's great advice. Now it's up to us to implement it. Thanks again, you've been a great help."

"You're welcome, Sherriff, Mr. Mayor, I'm glad I could help. Good day, gentlemen."

As Ian was walking down the hall towards the front door, he reached into his jacket pocket and switched off the voice-activated digital recorder. This is one conversation he wanted to pass on to his partners, partly to clear himself and partly to set the ball in motion to change their current patterns. After he left the Mayor's office, Ian drove to the local motel he often frequented in Oakdale. 

"Good afternoon, Max."

"Hey, Ian, I didn't expect you back so soon."

"Max, I need you to copy what on this tape, put it in the pick-up bag tonight, and return the original to me." "Yes sir, no problem. Will you be staying with us tonight?"

"Yes, Max, but I have some business at the local office first. Alert the boys at the bar that the Sherriff is ready to send in undercover men again, this time without their id's or weapons. Let's let them see what's happening but don't let our guard down. This could get interesting."

During the week, Ian went about his regular duties and Sammi taught her classes as usual without making any contact with Rick. Ian seemed to have lost his tail but he wasn't entirely sure. On Friday, Ian got a call from one of his partners concerning the activities in Greene County. After discussing the contents of his taped meeting, Ian called Sam and told him to let Jed have a party this weekend as the Sherriff's men would likely be in attendance.

Friday evening it was business as usual at the Ponytail Bar & Grill when Jed, the bartender, noticed a few new faces in the crowd. After checking his id sheet, he signaled the band leader to play a particular song. All of the regulars got up to dance when the song started, leaving the newcomers seated. After a few minutes, the dancing began to get wilder and wilder and Jed was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Less than ten minutes later, the place was in a complete uproar with semi-naked girls dancing on tables, men grabbing at the girls, and music bouncing off the walls.

When the twenty minute set ended, more than a few of the women were topless and had men attached to their breasts. Jed rang a bell behind the bar to call the partygoers to attention, then announced that a wet t-shirt contest would begin in ten minutes. The girls immediately moved away from their admirers to get ready for the contest. 

The Sherriff's men didn't know what to do at this point. Their orders were to observe the activities at this bar but without their badges and weapons, they were in no position to make any arrests. In the end, the three of them decided to wait and see what happened and generally enjoy the show. What they didn't know was that their drinks had been laces with drugs that would cause them to more than enjoy the show and that they would be video-taped when the drugs took effect. 

When Ian's cell phone rang with a message, he noted the short message and grinned. The Friday Night frenzy had begun and the Sherriff's men were involved. He reported this information to his partners and told them to await the outcome in the next few days. By Sunday morning, the local newspaper was trumpeting the Sherriff's disgrace. Several of his officers had been seen at a wild party in one of the local bars and later were found passed out in the street. Even the Mayor was calling for his head.

What they didn't realize was that Ian was simply following the advice he had given them, except it was their patterns that he was disrupting. When Ian received a "well done" message on Sunday, he began to relax his vigil. 

When Sammi went down to the river on Sunday, she found Rick's employee minding the booth. Introducing herself as Sam, she asked what had happened to her scull and was informed that Rick had finished varnishing it yesterday and was now taking it out for a test run. She sat on the edge of a bench waiting for Rick to return. A few minutes later she saw him gliding effortlessly along.

As he slid up to the dock, his employee went to grab the rope to tie the scull to the dock and mentioned that "Sam" was waiting for him. Rick quickly jumped from the boat and approached her. "Good afternoon, Sam, are you ready for another rowing lesson?"

"Yes, I am, Rick. How did the scull handle?"

"It's just perfect. Come along and we'll get started."

Rick helped Sammi into the scull, then leaned over to push her away. When he leaned over the scull, Sammi opened her palm and dropped the flash drive on the floor of the scull. Rick noticed her movement and quickly scooped up the flash drive as he pushed her away from the dock. He slipped the drive into his pocket as he stood to watch her begin to row away.

Monday morning came as usual and Ian and Sammi went to their respective jobs. Ian wasn't scheduled to do any traveling this week but he did notice that he was once again being followed on his way to work. This time, he reported to his partners that he was being followed. They cautioned him to be wary since the FBI was now watching their operation very closely.

When Ian left the office that day, he was certain that he was being followed. Rather than go directly home, he called Sammi on his cell and asked her to meet him at a local restaurant. They enjoyed a very pleasant dinner together and sauntered out to their cars, holding hands. As they approached Ian's car, he pressed the remote start and within seconds the car exploded and burst into flame. 

Shaken by the explosion, Ian and Sammi quickly ran to her car, pressing the remote start and hoping that it wouldn't blow up. It didn't and they quickly left the parking area and went directly to the boat launch in search of Rick. Upon hearing their story, Rick made a quick phone call, then ushered them into his car. 

The headlines in the paper the following day stated that both Ian and Sammi had been in the car and were killed in the explosion. If you run into a red-headed art history teacher somewhere in the country, keep walking.



Rough Cut Ch. 08



Moe thanked the bourbon. Why else would Mona still be in his bed when he woke up the next morning? He did a Houdini to get out of the tangle of arms and legs. Mona just grunted and rolled over on her stomach. Moe stood and stared. There ought to be a law against dames looking like Mona did in the morning - fire hair flaming across Moe’s pillow, gams stretched long and bare with a sheet that forgot to cover her naked ass. How could a man keep his mind on a daily grind if he had to leave a portrait like that? He should wake her, say, “Good Morning,” or turn her over and make love to her. But instead he crept around the joint like a thief, hunting for pants and a shirt, and staring at her sleeping in his bed, all milk and honey and fire.

When he finally tiptoed into the front room, the bourbon was still sitting on his desk. He considered tossing back the shot Mona hadn’t finished, but a cup of hot brew seemed like a better idea. He walked out the front door wondering if Mona would still be there when he got back. He considered leaving a note, but Moe wasn’t much of a writer. He’d give her a buzz later on the telephone.

A quick stop at the local diner and Moe was gnawing toast and sipping java. The dry bread and steaming black coffee did nothing to wash away the sweet image of a naked Mona. Her pleadings from the night before - “do, Moe, do” - muzzied up his brain and threatened to stir the fire Moe was failing to bank.

It was hard driving around the block to get breakfast. It was even harder driving clear across town to attend to business. By the time he pulled into Dutch and Kitty Winslow’s gated driveway, Moe was still thinking about the curve of the nurse’s back. He should’ve kissed that dimpled spot right above her ass. He shook his head and forced himself to study the mansion laid out in front of him. 

Men like Dutch and Moe didn’t spin in the same social circles. Dutch and Moe maintained a relationship that depended on a place like Flamingo’s. Moe was more comfortable in a joint where a man could get lost in a sea of faces bellying up to a bar. Dutch had never invited Moe to his home, and Moe had never thought to come. Houses this big required too many people to keep it clean, and Moe didn’t like worrying about dirt on his shoes. 

The gate was electronic - a brassy contraption that had Moe pushing a red button. A couple of seconds later, the gate snuck open. Moe followed the paved driveway around a fountain and stopped at the front of the house. The massive oak door yawned, and a greeter in a monkey suit ushered Moe into the foyer before Moe could finish straightening his tie. White gardenias, arranged in a Tiffany vase, donned an entryway table, but the smell of Johnson Wax was the strongest scent in the space. An entire forest had lost its life in order to decorate the inside of the Winslow mansion. Solid oak lined the paneled walls and the massive winding staircase.

“Mrs. Winslow requests that you wait for her in the library.”

Moe followed the working stiff into a small room where leather-bound books lined the walls from the Persian rugs all the way up to the Italian crown molding. The wood shelves gleamed to such a high polish, a man could shave his face in the reflection. A couple of Chesterfield chairs sat on either side of a marbled fireplace. Moe ran an eye over the reading material. Perfectly spined books such as Kipling’s Captain Courageous, Dickens’s Great Expectations, and Stevenson’s Kidnapped packed the shelves. Pristine editions of old classics. The room smelled more new than used.

“Do you read, Mr. Gafferson?”

Moe swung around to see Kitty Winslow leaning against the doorjamb, her satin dressing gown flowing off her hips like syrup. Most dames saved their glamour for nighttime. Apparently, Kitty liked starting the day off with it. Around her neck she wore oyster fruit and on her feet, clicking slip-on heels with powder puffs the same pink color as the gown.

“Me, read?” Moe nodded toward the shelves. “Nothing like these books. Not since the nuns insisted on it. Give me a five cent blab sheet. They’re more my speed.”

“Dutch insisted we have a library.” Kitty paused, gazing off in the distance before adding, “Dutch insists on a lot of things.”

“Where is Mr. Winslow?” Moe hoped to find Dutch home too. It was one of the reasons he was up and visiting before noon. The idea of working for Kitty without Dutch knowing gave Moe a sick feeling in his belly. A man’s got to be careful how he treats his friends. Maybe there was a chance the three of them could get on the same page.

“Dutch has already gone to Flamingo’s.”

“Too bad. I wouldn’t have minded making this a threesome this morning.”

Kitty batted her eyelashes and forced a smile, but it wasn’t heartfelt. “I haven’t told him I’ve hired you.”

“I figured as much.”

“He’s still deciding on whether to forgive me.”

“Hiring me behind his back might sway his decision in a way you’re not ready for.”

“That’s a chance I have to take,” she sighed.

“Why?”

“You know why, Mr. Gafferson. I loved Peter.”

The smell of this conversation was too glossy for Moe’s tastes. Kitty lived in a make-believe world, all pretty and gussied up, but underneath it all she was getting no use - like a library with brand new books and no fingerprints. Kitty needed some black and white reality.

“Mrs. Winslow, Peter Schmidt wasn’t on the up and up.”

Kitty made her way to one of the Chesterfields, gripping its back like a handrail and following it to its front.. “Don’t say that,” she whimpered. Leather crunched as she slumped into the seat. “You didn’t know him like I did.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Moe half-expected a crying jag, but when she straightened, her face was pale and without tears. “Do you know this for sure?”

“It’s more than a hunch.”

Somewhere deep, Kitty must have suspected what kind of man Schmidt was, she was just hoping for a different sketch. “It seems I don’t have much intuition when it comes to men, Mr. Gafferson.”

Moe looked around the room. The smell of quality leather and high-polished wood was eclipsed only by the smell of money. He leaned back against the bookshelf and crossed his arms. “I don’t know, Mrs. Winslow. You’re not slumming as far as I can tell.”

“Wealth can’t replace feeling, Moe.”

“Maybe not, but most folks wouldn’t mind testing the theory.”

Kitty stared hard at Moe. “You think I’m ungrateful for what Dutch has given me.”

“I don’t spend my time moralizing about husbands and wives, Mrs. Winslow. I’d be out of a job if they all got along.”

Kitty stood and swished her way over to where Moe leaned against the bookshelf. She ran a delicate, well-manicured finger along the spine of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

“And what have you been spending your time doing?”

“Tracking down the German thug that knifed me.”

“What does he have to do with Peter?”

“Still connecting the dots, babe. But I’d give ten-to-one odds he’s also the one who killed your precious lover boy.”

Kitty focused her face toward Moe, her obsidian eyes squinting. “German? Does this German thug have a name?”

Moe dug through the change in his pocket and found his lucky shell casing. Fiddling the warm edges of the metal helped him think. The idea of a lovesick woman out for revenge bumping noses with a no-account hood like Metzger didn’t sit well. Moe decided to play it safe. The client didn’t have to know everything, especially if the insight would just get her into trouble. “Nobody you know, doll. He’s just the dirty front man.”

“But why kill Peter?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Peter was a double-crosser.”

“I don’t believe that.” Kitty still clung to her fairy tale romance with Prince Charming. Schmidt’s death only added to the drama. Moe could understand. No one liked being taken for a sucker.

“There’s some things I wanted to go over with you again, Mrs. Winslow. Do you mind?”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Could be, but a thing or two isn’t panning out like it should. For instance, Chang’s isn’t in business any more.”

“The laundry? That’s impossible. I was just there a week ago.”

“Maybe we could sit down for a bit?”

Kitty didn’t have much more information to offer. Chang’s seemed like every Chinese laundry she had ever been in. An elderly Chinaman had taken the bundles of clothes and given her a ticket. 

Moe asked Kitty to let him see the things that Schmidt had given her. The only thing she could show him was the gold necklace hiding beneath the white marbles around her neck. Moe studied it, but it was just a simple chain. 

“What about the other stuff?”

“Dutch took it. He stormed into my dressing area a few days after Peter was killed and demanded I give him anything that Peter had given me.”

“How is it you still have the necklace?”

Kitty rolled the gold chain between her thumb and forefinger. “Dutch was only after clothes.” 

“What do you mean?”

“He specifically said to hand over anything Peter had given me to wear. I gave him the mink stole and the new dress.” Kitty’s eyes glossed over and a raindrop-sized tear spilled out.

“What did he do with the duds?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does Dutch usually keep that close an eye on your wardrobe?”

“Never.” She looked up at him accusingly. “I figured you had told him about the things Peter had given me.”

“He didn’t hear about them from me, doll.”

* * *

Back in his car, Moe took a deep breath. The door stuck on the old Buick, the AM radio only worked a fourth of the time, and the floorboards had enough dirt to build a mud pie, but Moe relaxed. His mess was comfortable and real. The high gloss of the Winslow mansion could blind a man. 

He tapped out a cigarette and waited for the lighter to heat up. The more he talked to Kitty, the less he figured her for a dame with an agenda. She wore the signs of grief as flamboyantly as she wore her satin. On the other hand, there was Dutch. Why would he care about the flashy duds Schmidt gave to Kitty? Jealousy didn’t fit. Dutch had already spelled out his feelings for Kitty: she was his and love had nothing to do with it. 

Moe inhaled a couple of deep drags off his cigarette and shifted the car into first. It was time for a visit to the swanky dress shop. It was a cinch Maxwell Singer wouldn’t bust a gut to talk, but the Lois broad had given Mona an earful. He hoped she wasn’t done chatting. 

Moe wanted to get a feel for the crowd before going in the upscale dress shop. He parked his Buick catty-cornered from Singer’s and made friends with a lamppost. The place was relatively quiet. Two gals had entered in the time Moe was keeping an eye out. One of them had already left. When the door opened the second time, he expected to see the other broad making her exit. Instead a short, fat man with a monocle, fitting Mona’s description of Maxwell Singer, toddled out. He lifted a pudgy hand into the air and a dark blue sedan eased in front of the store. The fat man rolled into the backseat, and the late model Packard sped away. Paydirt! Suddenly, Moe liked his chances with gabby Lois. With the fat cat away, the mouse could play. 

Moe flicked his cigarette and tightened his tie. He hadn’t been in a lady’s dress shop since he was a kid, holding his mom’s hand and blushing at the undergarments. A man could get a rash from all the fancy threads. A tiny bell tinkled when Moe opened the glass door.

Luckily, there were only two palominos in the place, and it was easy to tell which one was Lois. She was the one down on her knees, pinning up a hem for the society dame preening in the mirrors. The kneeling seamstress glanced up at Moe and gave him a quick smile.

“Could you excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Tudor?”

“I don’t have all day, young lady.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll just be a minute.”

Moe dithered a silk nightie and tried to shake the image of his mother wearing something so frilly. The sales clerk made her way over to Moe. With straight pins stuck between her lips, she showed miraculous verbal dexterity in talking around them.

“May I help you sir?”

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll swallow those?” Moe asked, pointing to the straight pins.

She sneaked a peek at the society dame and then peeled the pins from her lips. “Are you looking for something special for a lady friend?”

“You could say that. Are you Lois?”

“Why, yes, yes I am. What can I do for you?”

Lois couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Probably been working since she was sixteen, supplementing some middlebrow family somewhere, maybe helping to pay her college fees.

“Young woman,” the old biddy bellowed. “I don’t have time for you to dilly-dally.” 

The society dame was the type who knew the world revolved around her. Moe could feel the breeze coming off her shoulder all the way across the room. “How long before you finish with the largemouth bass over there?”

Lois smiled, showing off pink apple cheeks. Moe figured he’d just found himself a co-conspirator.

“Five minutes.” She cupped her hand and whispered, “Four if she holds still.”

It took eight minutes before the battleaxe was dressed and gone, leaving just Moe and Lois in the shop.

“Thank you for waiting.” 

“How’d you keep from sticking those pins of yours in her legs?”

Lois giggled, the kind of giggle only young girls get away with. “Mrs. Tudor really isn’t so bad. She has a wedding to attend in two weeks, and she always gets testy when her order isn’t at least three weeks ahead of schedule. Now what can I help you with?”

Moe might have tried to butter Lois up, but too much time was ticking off the clock. Maxwell Singer could come waltzing back any minute. So he went straight to the guts of his visit.

“A friend of mine was in here a few days ago asking about a black dress. She was tall, about five-eight, red hair?”

“Yes, I remember her. She was a size six. Are you looking to buy her something?”

The thought of buying something for Mona hadn’t entered Moe’s mind, but thinking of her in one of the frillies this place offered was a lot sweeter than thinking of his mother.

“Sure. That white number over there.” Moe pointed to the nightie he’d been fingering earlier.

“She’ll look beautiful.”

Mona Dale couldn’t help looking beautiful, nightie or no nightie. Moe deliberately pushed the image of her lying naked in his bed from his mind and directed the conversation down the main route. 

“But what about that black number with the strapless back?”

Lois’s eyes darted around as if the walls were watching and listening. “I wouldn’t know. Mr. Singer took care of that.”

“Sure, but you know what goes on around here as much as he does. I bet he wouldn’t have remembered my friend was a size six.”

Lois smiled her young girl smile again. “No, he wouldn’t have remembered. He never remembers things like that.”

“Good thing he has you around.”

It was easy to see the look of self-importance that blossomed on Lois’s face. Moe knew how to take advantage. 

“My friend told me she asked Mr. Singer about the dress, but he didn’t know anything. She said you knew everything that went on in this store.” Moe said.

“Mr. Singer was lying. There’s no way he would forget about that dress. He fretted over it for days after that creepy man came to visit the second time.”

“This creepy man, my friend said his name was Rolf?”

“Yes, that’s him. He gave me the heebie-jeebies.” 

“So Rolf was here twice?”

“Yes. Mr. Singer was very nervous. He made me go to lunch at ten thirty in the morning when that Rolf man came in the second time. Can you imagine?” She looked up at Moe with clear blue eyes the color of cornflowers. “I’d just had breakfast at eight.”

“So this Rolf wanted a dress or two. What was so different?”

“Well, Mr. Singer didn’t want me to sew them. I’ve been the seamstress here for a long time.” Lois beamed. “And my mother was the seamstress before me. All Mr. Singer does any more is the books.”

“But he took a personal interest in this dress,” Moe observed. “If Singer was doing the sewing, how’d you see the dresses?”

Lois nodded. “Mr. Singer knows how to sew, but he doesn’t know anything about the haute couture patterns. I had to show him what to do. And when the dresses were picked up, the ladies tried them on and modeled them over there in front of the mirrors, just like Mrs. Tudor was doing a minute ago.”

“You said ladies. So it wasn’t the same dame who picked up both dresses?”

“No. This last time it was a Mrs. Winslow. She’s a size six, just like your friend. The first time it was a blond - a size four.”

“But both times this Rolf character had placed the order?” 

Lois nodded again, her sandy blond curls bobbing up and down with the movement of her head. 

“Has Rolf been in the shop any other time?”

“Not while I was here. Thank goodness.”

“How about the first dame, you got a name?”

Lois scratched her forehead, looking thoughtful. “She had a very unusual name. It was ... Danja, yes, that’s it. Such an interesting name, don’t you think?”

“Danja? Did she have a last name?”

“I don’t remember. It was several months ago. She was pretty. Though I thought the black dress looked too severe on her. She needed a different fabric.” Lois’s pencil-thin brows knitted together. “Oh, but I could look up her name.”

“You’re a peach, Lois.”

She sifted through a small file with the nimbleness of someone used to working fast with her hands. 

“By the way, Lois, has Mr. Winslow ever come into the shop?”

She kept her gaze on the card file as she spoke. “You mean Mrs. Winslow’s husband?” 

“Yeah.”

“No, not that I’ve ever known.” She pulled out a card from the box. “Here it is,” she said.

Another society dame came into the shop, and Lois smiled at her in recognition. Luckily for Moe, Lois was a people pleaser. She hurriedly wrote the name and address on another card and handed it to Moe before excusing herself to help the new arrival.

Moe was across the street and heading back to his Buick before he realized he’d forgotten to get the nightie for Mona. Another time, maybe. In the car, he studied the card Lois had jotted the information on. Danja was a Miss Danja Bittners. And yes, it was an interesting name. But it wasn’t the name that caught Moe’s attention. It was the address. Moe had been at that address once before, exactly one week ago. And Moe’s blood probably still stained the pavement of its backside walkway.



Rough Cut Ch. 09



Edited by Poison Ivan

The cottage where Peter Schmidt was killed stood empty and was in bad need of repair. Shingles were missing from the roof, the gutter was full of the sludge from too many fallen leaves, and the paint job was anemic. But one look up and down the street, and Moe could see the house fit right in with the neighborhood blueprint. There wasn't a single home that had felt a paintbrush in a decade.

The lawn might have been green a week ago, but since then a hundred pairs of feet had trampled the yard: flatfooters, newshounds, and curious onlookers. But no one was there now. It was just Moe and his memories. The light of day didn't make the reminiscing any easier. 

Moe did the whole circle around the house, pausing for a brief slant at the spot that bore his thumbprint. The bloodstain had turned brown like a cartoon mud puddle - flat and depthless - on pale cement. Moe flinched at the memory of the hot blade slicing into his gut. Not seeing it coming still rankled. Pure gut sense and a keen eye had always kept him alive and healthy. Moe worried that maybe he was getting old.

He stomped back around to the front of the house. The mailbox was empty. No name graced its faceplate. There was no chance he'd find a welcome mat in front of an unlocked door, so he chewed over the breaking and entering angle. As he considered the wisdom of committing a crime in broad daylight, a flash of light caught his eye. From across the road, at a rundown, muddy white house, drapes that had forgotten to meet in the middle suddenly jerked closed. Concrete jungles weren't all bad. There was always a neighbor who saw something. 

Moe made the trip across the street. He eyed the drapes and the crack still left between, but there was no light inside. The city-provided mailbox - one nail gone, the other loose - clung feebly to clapboard. Its gold-painted name, F. Thompson, was faded from a decade of neglect. A hard knock might have brought the whole façade crumbling down, but before Moe had balled his fist, a rusty hen in tattered chenille swung open the door. Her face had seen some years - exactly how many was hard to tell. Her housecoat came together like the drapes: agape down the middle. Bloomers and an over-crowded brassiere peeked through the split. 

The old dame's arm stretched slowly up the doorjamb, straining the threadbare belt of the robe. Her teeth clicked together like they needed revving up to speak "Who're you?" she finally said.

"Moe to my friends. How about you?"

She cocked her head. The pose might have been coquettish back when the mailbox was new, back when F. Thompson was still brightly painted. "How can a lady be sure it's safe to give her name?"

"Toots, you're safe as money in a vault with me. I know when to be a gentleman."

The woman's eyes skimmed Moe like a slow massage, reaching every nook and cranny. She shifted her stance, and her belt gave up its battle. A small hump of belly lay exposed. "You're my kind of gentleman, Moe. I'm Mrs. Thompson, but you can call me Opal." 

Moe avoided looking at her bare stomach by nodding toward the mailbox. "And F. Thompson would be your husband?"

Opal suddenly remembered her robe and sheepishly closed it again, tightening the belt. "That would be my late husband. Eight years gone. Blasted bank." 

Moe did some arithmetic and put some history two and two together. Thompson must have been one of those unlucky saps who lost it all during the bank scares. "That was a tough time for all of us," Moe commiserated.

"We lost everything. All the banks went belly up in '32. Fred couldn't handle it. The bank was his baby. Goddamned man. He was always too prideful for his own good." She paused, looking past Moe, and then continued. "He took his revolver that had never even been loaded before, trotted in his bank as big as you please, stuck the barrel into his mouth, and pulled the trigger. If he'd waited just one more year, when Roosevelt took over ..." She shook her head and sighed, "One more year." She got miffed then and tugged on the ties of her belt. "The banks were coming back. He might have recovered along with them. But not my Fred, no sirree. He splattered his useless brains all over his desk and left me here in this neighborhood where a person can't go outside for fear of getting knifed or ... or worse."

Too many men during the early thirties thought death was the only way out. Maybe it was. Who was Moe to say different? "You haven't had it easy, Opal."

"Yeah, well, that ain't why you're here."

"You're a smart cookie, Opal." Moe nodded toward Schmidt's cottage. "What I'm curious about is the goings on over there." 

Opal glanced down the street, first left and then right. "You the police?"

"No. A private dick." 

"Private dick, eh?" She slid her hand in the gap of her housecoat and scratched an itch at the base of her neck. "Maybe you'd like to come inside and sit for a spell?"

"Maybe I would at that."

Opal led the way through a front room piled high with dozens, if not hundreds, of cardboard boxes, so many that Moe's shoulders touched cardboard on either side. The boxes were heavy and didn't give as he inched his way behind Opal. There was no light except what the cracked curtains offered, and the pillars of cardboard blocked most of that. Another path veered off toward the picture window, but Moe followed Opal until they reached a kitchen. The boxes ended where the two rooms met. It was like walking out of a bunker.

The kitchen walls were yellow, maybe from paint, maybe from age. A four-seater table, littered with newspaper clippings and a pair of scissors that had done the snip work, took up most of the space. Laced doilies hung over the backs of the chairs in limp moons as someone's idea of decoration. Old grease and tobacco blessed the room like a priest's thurible. 

Moe hesitated at the room's edge, waiting for Opal's cue. Her housecoat worked its way open again. Opal didn't seem to mind. Her bloomers were threadbare and hung loosely around doughy hips. When she sat, her heavy bosom nearly rested on the table. She pointed to one of the chairs. "Have a seat."

Moe did as she asked, barely avoiding knocking a doily to the floor. The room was warm, the air stagnant. Moe tried to breathe without inhaling too deeply. "Some setup you got here, Opal," he said. "What's in the boxes?"

Opal sat back from the table and crossed her legs. Her robe opened wider, but she let it go. "Newspapers," she said. "I have proof of everything that's gone on around here for years. In this neighborhood, a lady in my position can't be too careful." 

"What exactly is your position?"

"Ain't it obvious? A single woman all alone."

Times were tough. Crime was at an all time high. People were scared and angry about the possibility of war. But stacking the living room with cardboard boxes - ceiling high, filled with newspaper clippings - seemed an unusual safety measure. But Moe was learning Opal Thompson was an unusual bird. She wasn't bad to look at. Once upon a time, she might have been pretty, back when she was the belle of the banker society. Her eyes were wide-set and still had a bit of sheen to them. Their color was somewhere between blue and brown. Her nose would have been her worst feature - big and fleshy - but the years had let the rest of her face catch up and match its plumpness. Her lipstick tried to make an upper lip that wasn't there. And Moe couldn't remember when he'd seen a pair of melons as big as Opal's. He'd seen a lot younger women who looked a lot worse.

"I take it you don't do much walking around the block," Moe said.

Opal scooted back on her chair and chuckled. "That murder wasn't the first one 'round here, only the most recent," she said. "I'm comfy enough right in my own home."

Moe glanced around the kitchen. His first impression had been one of muck, but on closer inspection he realized the counters were clean. There weren't any dishes stacked high in the sink, or garbage spilling out from the can. In fact, the only thing out of its place was the clippings on the table. Cooking smells must have buried themselves into the cardboard and the doilies. Otherwise the place was every bit as clean as his own joint. 

"Ever get out long enough to share recipes with your most recent neighborhood tragedy?"

Opal shook her head. Her bobbed salt and pepper hair was sprayed in place and didn't move. "Mr. Schmidt kept to himself. He was gone most days and came home late most nights."

"But you knew his name?"

Opal shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs and hooking her feet around the legs of her chair. Her chunky thighs blocked much of the view of her crotch, but Moe was still treated to a peep show of pubic hair poking out along the sides. 

"Paddy, the boy who delivers groceries, comes in and sits with me on occasion." Opal raised her arm and patted the back of her hair. Her massive tits fought gravity not to drop. "Paddy likes to talk," she said with a wink.

Moe imagined a fourteen-year-old boy, who had probably never seen more skin than his mother's, being face-to-face with Opal in all her glory. The boy probably snooped out things to tell her. It's what Moe would have done at fourteen. Seeing any female, even an Opal twenty years past her prime, would be enough to get a rise in the Levis.

"Paddy tell you anything else about Schmidt?"

Opal added to the wrinkles in her brow by scrunching up her face. "I'm trying to remember, honey." She slid her fingers through the San Andreas Fault line of her breasts and gave one of her tits a squeeze. A puckered nipple poked at her thin housecoat. Her voice turned raspy. "You got anything that might jog my memory a little?" 

Moe reached into his pocket, pulled out a couple of bills, and tossed them on the table. "Maybe Lincoln and his buddy can help," he said.

She looked at the cash and shrugged. "Dead presidents don't tickle me like they used to." She inched her hand over her belly and slipped it beneath her bloomers. "I was hoping for something with a heartbeat."

Moe wasn't fourteen anymore, and he'd seen enough flesh in his life to become choosy. Sticking his Johnson into something close to twice its age was charity work Moe couldn't get excited about, especially when he remembered the hot box he'd been in last - ahh, Mona Dale. But he was willing to negotiate. 

"Maybe I'll just ask Paddy."

"Seeing that I've already told you everything Paddy knows, I'm betting now you'd like to know what I know." She thrummed her fingers, and her knuckles rolled under the flimsy cotton like a wave.

Moe had run across broads like Opal in the past - they yearn to get nasty but want to pretend when it happens it wasn't their choice. He knew how to make it happen, and he didn't mind taking the blame, especially if it meant she'd give him some answers.

In one quick motion, he scooted his chair back and stood up closer than an arm's length from Opal. She jerked but kept her hand deep in her drawers until Moe grabbed at the fragile material and yanked. The bloomers ripped apart like tissue paper. Opal's hands flew to the back of the chair, leaving her front vulnerable to whatever Moe might do. If she wasn't so excited, she might have been frightened.

He pulled the belt from her robe and secured her wrists to the chair. Opal didn't bother struggling to free her hands. She must have been saving her energy to fight her heavy breathing. When both wrists were tied, Moe reached for the scissors lying on the table. The first look of real fear made its way across Opal's face, but it faded into flushed anticipation when Moe eased the sharp blades into her cleavage and snipped open her brassiere. Her Borden's flopped out and showed a couple of areolas as big around as a pancake.

"How's your memory now, Opal?"

"Oh, my," she panted. "Yes. Ask me what you want to know." Her voice had stuck to low and raspy.

"How long did Schmidt live there?"

She pulled at her wrists, but got nowhere "As best as I can recall, less than a year," she whispered. A blotchy flush worked its way up over her chest and neck.

Moe turned the scissors around and clutched the sharp end. Using the handles, he flicked at Opal's nipples, running the cool metal back and forth until both nipples contracted. "Did he live alone?"

Opal shuddered and her nipples tightened into hard knots. "Alone, yes."

"Any visitors?"

Opal nodded, but she didn't say anymore.

Moe tossed the scissors back on the table then slipped his hands under Opal's knees and pulled her hips to the edge of her chair. He chucked the remnants of her bloomers. Her legs fell open, and Moe knelt between them, bringing him to perfect eye level with Opal's pussy. A light mix of gray and brown hair covered her slit. "You want to tell me more about those visitors?"

Her hips writhed, and her thighs quivered. She swallowed hard. "There was a woman," she puffed. "Maybe she killed him. It was her night to be there."

"She was a regular?" 

Opal nodded. "Once a week."

Moe leaned in close. He could smell dusting powder. Little balls of it had congealed with her wetness and clung to her sparse pubic hair. He blew them away. "Got a name for the dame?"

"My, oh my. No, I-I just saw her."

"Describe her."

"Young, fancy, with short, dark hair." 

"What else you got?"

Opal spread her legs as far as she could get them. Her fat labia clung together, but a small slit worked its way open. A dab of creamy cum pearled at the split. "Another woman, but that was a while ago."

"How long ago? What did she look like?"

"I-I don't remember."

With his finger, Moe swept up the pearl of cum and smeared it on Opal's nipple, rubbing and smudging until it was sticky. He reached for more cum for the other nipple, but held his fingers just outside her pussy. "Coming back to you, yet, Opal?"

Opal wriggled, trying to push her crotch to Moe's fingers, but Moe kept his hand inches away.

"Her name was Danja. She was blond. Almost white blond, and as young as the brunette."

Moe let her squirm until she touched his fingers. He rested his fingertips against the lips of her pussy. "How long ago?"

"Four months, more or less."

"What happened to her?"

Opal didn't answer, not until Moe pushed his fingers into her mossy doughnut and held them perfectly still. 

Her words rushed out of her in manic excitement. "Danja was there all the time. She might have lived there, she was there so much. Then one day a flashy limousine pulled up. The driver went up to the door and escorted Danja to the car. I haven't seen her since." 

As she talked, Moe worked his fingers inside of her, swirling them around, slipping deeper and pulling out, sliding up and down, spreading her hot goo all around.

"How'd you get her name?"

"Paddy told me."

Moe yanked his fingers out of her pussy. "So, I could have gotten all this information from Paddy."

"Wait, Wait. Please don't stop. I can tell you something that Paddy wouldn't know."

"Not sure I can trust you now, doll."

She was breathing hard, her tits rising like fresh-baked bread. She kept squirming, rotating her hips and forcing her creamy drippings to saturate her mound. "I know the license plate of the car," she bellowed.

Sometimes a man could get a lucky break. For Moe, this was one of those times. A license plate would lead to a name. And a name always led to something more.

"Well now, maybe we can make a deal." Moe slipped his fingers through the fissure of her labia. He pushed deep enough that two fingers slid easily inside her canal. With the pad of his thumb, he found her button and rubbed.

Opal gyrated her hips and shoved against Moe's driving fingers. Her body bounced. Her flesh jiggled. Her swaying breasts brushed Moe's face.

Moe stopped thrusting but left his fingers in place. "The license plate, Opal?"

She gasped out, "Please, please. Don't stop."

"Up to you, doll. You know what it takes to get it started again."

"S1659."

"You're sure that's the number?"

Opal had closed her eyes. Her mouth was open, sucking in air. "Yes, I'm sure," she said between breaths. "1-6-5-9 the number of Rembrandt's self portrait."

Opal was obviously a little deeper than Moe had given her credit for. He had no way of knowing if the number was actually the number of the Rembrandt, but it was just odd enough to be right. 

Moe rewarded her with some serious finger-action. He added a third finger to the in-and-out, and Opal nearly came up off the chair. When her tit neared his cheek, he opened his mouth and latched onto her swollen nipple, first sucking and then clamping down in a hard bite. 

"Oh, that feels too good. Too good." Opal's entire body went rigid. Except for her cunny - heavy paroxysms fought against Moe's fingers, convulsing around them, gripping and releasing. Again and again. A squirt of jism tickled the soft skin between his digits. 

Opal's orgasm lasted a good long time, and Moe didn't hurry her. He waited until the last tremor rumbled through her and her whimpering had melted into purring. Only then did he pull his fingers out. 

Opal slumped in the chair. Tiny wisps of hair lay matted in sweat along her forehead. Her mouth was slack, but her eyes were wide-open and staring at Moe.

"I was right, Moe," she slurred. "You're my kind of gentleman."

Moe released the chenille belt from around Opal's wrists. Her hands were cold and her fingers were shaky. Moe rubbed to get some heat to them and give her a chance to recover. "You're my kind of lady, Opal."

Opal grunted. "I'm no lady, and we both know it!"

"Depends on whose Webster's we're looking at. In my book, you fit the definition just fine."

Moe lifted the robe up and over Opal's shoulders and helped her close it. When she stood, she seemed a little taller, a little younger. Or maybe Moe imagined it.

Opal told Moe that the cops had been around asking questions, but she didn't find them to be as obliging as Moe had been. She'd never told them about the blonde or the limousine.

"In this neighborhood it ain't easy to get information. The citizens have a closed-mouth policy when it comes to giving out facts and figures. But I like you, Moe. Anything else you want to know? About Mr. Schmidt, I mean?"

"Is there anything else?"

She looked him square in the eye and winked, "Not that I can remember, but if I think of something, I'll call you."

Moe handed her one of his cards. "You do that, Opal."





Rough Cut Ch. 10



Gilbert Avenue was always quiet in the early evening - it was more of a late night neighborhood. It was too close to downtown Cincy for young families with kids, and too run down for anyone else except the stubborn residents who refused to be pushed out and those who couldn’t afford any better. Like Moe.

So it wasn’t the lack of noise that prickled the back of Moe’s neck when he slammed the door of his Buick and strode to the front door of his home and office. It wasn’t the smashed jack-o-lantern that Netty Scottsdale had set out just yesterday. And it wasn’t his front door hanging cracked open. It was the sight of a nurse uniform, as he walked through the door, lying on the floor of his office. Right where Mona had dropped it the night before. 

Moe’s body kicked into high alert. Trying to be absolutely quiet, he held his breath and inched his way to his desk. His Roscoe was camped in the second drawer. Moe had learned a long time ago that some people were a lot more likely to talk if they didn’t think they were being forced into a conversation. A heater, hanging from his shoulder like a fireplug, could scare a canary’s lips shut. So the gun stayed at home in the desk on most occasions.

He eased open the drawer and stuck a paw inside. The Roscoe was exactly where he’d left it. He glanced around the room. Nothing was out of place. Yet Moe’s gut still churned. The atmosphere didn’t feel right – like maybe the Halloween spirits were hanging around. Moe sneaked through the hallway, edging along the wall and forcing his shadow to hang close. He kept his ears open for any sound that shouldn’t be there. But he heard nothing except his own beating heart. He paused for a moment before turning the corner into the back room. Still there was nothing. With gun in hand, loaded and ready, he swung around the corner. He wasn’t prepared for what he found.

Mona Dale was completely naked and bound to a chair. Her head sagged like a corpse’s. Her mouth was gagged. Her bare white skin was tinted blue by the evening lights. Moe immediately thought of Opal Thompson, and that this was some weird sex thing. Except this was different. With Opal, everything had been for pleasure. Mona’s slumped posture told Moe this was no game. A shudder ran up his back. Thick rope criss-crossed Mona’s chest, wrapped around her waist, and held her arms and legs immobile. Her normally alabaster skin was red-welted where the rope had pinched her.

Moe quickly scanned the room, looking for a trap. There was nothing. Whoever had done this had gagged Mona with an undershirt, but she was alone now. Moe tucked away his Roscoe and undid the gag from Mona’s bruised mouth. He patted her cheek. “Mona, honey? Can you hear me?” Moe hadn’t realized how hard his heart was pounding until Mona peered up at him through glassy, green eyes. He took a deep breath.

“Moe.” Her lips were dry and cracked, and her voice was hoarse.

Moe sighed with relief and tried a smile. “You got some kinky practices I should know about, doll?”

But Mona didn’t return the smile. She was waking up enough to remember to be scared. Her eyes sprang open and darted around the room. “Where is he?”

“He’s gone, baby. It’s just you and me.” Moe worked at the knots, loosening them before carefully removing the bounds. Rope burns circled Mona’s ankles and wrists like a macabre set of jewelry. Blood spotted the worst of the abrasions.

“I didn’t think you’d ever get back.” She threw her arms around his neck, but she was as weak as foal with no strength to stand.

Moe leaned down, lifted her up into his arms, and cradled her close to his body. She buried her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. “I didn’t know you were waiting,” Moe said. He expected tears. Lots of them. He figured she’d earned the right, but she only let loose a hiccup. He carried her to the bed and sat down on its edge, Mona safe on his lap. She shivered, and Moe yanked the bedspread around her shoulders.

“Are you okay, Mona?”

“I don’t know,” she mewed softer than a kitten. No one could be immune to such a sound. Moe hugged her closer.

He petted her hair and pushed strands of it away from her eyes. Her face was as white as paste, except for the marks leftover from the gag. She stared at him, her eyes more focused, and her jaw clenched. He could see the shock, almost taste its bitter tang, creeping over her face. He just wanted to hold her and make everything better. Moe surely didn’t want to rush her, or push her over the edge she was clinging to, but he needed to know the details. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” he aksed.

“That guy, Rolf ...”she swallowed and licked her lips. “... it was him. The scar on his face was just like the sales clerk told me.”

Moe was thinking about the prostitute Lily Mae and the brutality she had faced at the hands of Rolf Metzger. That low-life didn’t deserve to breathe the air of civilized people. “Did he hurt you, Mona?”

“He surprised me as I was washing in the sink. He grabbed me from behind.” Her eyes lowered. “I thought it was you.” Her face was as easy to read as a schoolbook primer. She struggled with the emotions - fear and anger. Moe let her take her time.

“He held a knife to my neck and r-ran his hands ...” She shivered again and pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “He had the rope around his waist, like he was expecting to use it,” she choked out.

“Take your time, baby,” he whispered.

“He tied me to the chair and rattled off things he would like to do with me, if he weren’t in a hurry.” She glanced up at Moe. “Then he told me to warn you.”

“Warn me?”

“Yes, he said you were snooping close to someone who would eat you for breakfast, so back off. Then he gagged me and ...” She looked down. Moe followed her gaze. Her pubic hair had been raggedly cut. Some spots so short her skin was visible. Like a ewe sheared with a broken pair of scissors.

Mona pushed off Moe’s lap and hurried to the sink. She twisted the faucets until the water flowed full stream. She snatched the Palmolive and furiously scrubbed her naked skin. Starting at the top, she worked her way down until her whole body glowed like a ripe tomato. Moe watched, sick at his stomach and feeling as impotent as a hobo in line at a soup kitchen. When she’d finished, he grabbed his bathrobe and insisted she put it on. It was like putting a Band-Aid on bullet wound, but at least it was something.

“I should get going,” Mona said, a hint of her old confidence returning.

Moe had his arms around her. He squeezed a little tighter. “I’d like you to stay,” he said.

“I can’t, Moe. I have to go.”

The telephone ringing kept them from discussing it further. Moe would have let it ring to hell and back, but he had to answer. He knew it was Sammy, and Sammy wasn’t the type to call back. He could not risk missing out on a clue, especially now that the stakes had risen a little higher.

“Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He hurried to the front office and picked up the phone. He kept half an eye toward the hallway as he talked.

“Hello.”

“Moe?”

“Yeah, Sammy. It’s me. What do you got?”

“What do I get for it?”

“The usual, Sammy, left in the locker at Union Station.”

“This might be worth a little more.”

“Give it to me and we’ll see.”

“The plate you asked about, S1659, belongs to Karl Boch.”

“Councilman Boch?”

“The one and only.”

Moe bit his tongue. Mona was moving around in the back room. He’d have to go or she’d try to leave. There was no way he would let her out of his sight right now. “Yeah, Sammy, it’s worth an extra fin.”

“When do I get my money, Moe?”

“You’ll get it tomorrow, don’t worry. Look, Sammy, I’ve got something going here. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“I want my fifteen bucks, Moe.”

“You’ll get it, Sammy. I’ve never welshed on you, have I? Catch you later.”

Mona stepped in the front room, still wearing Moe’s robe. “What about Councilman Boch?” She looked damn good in plaid flannel.

The timing was lousy for this type of conversation, and Moe knew it. But discussing city politics might help Mona get her mind off of the ordeal with Metzger. “What do you know about the councilman?”

“Not much,” she said. “The newspapers call him an isolationist.”

“I’ll say. He’s a member of America’s First Committee.”

Mona made her way to Moe’s desk. She leaned against it and crossed her arms. “Isn’t that Lindbergh’s group?”

“Lindbergh’s been peddling that isolation theory ever since he got back from Germany. I don’t trust the man.”

“You think he’s a Nazi?”

“I don’t know. But I do know any man who would support a country persecuting the Jews like the Germans have been isn’t a hero in my book.”

Mona nodded. “But what’s Boch got to do with Lindbergh?”

“They were pals enough to let a newsie snap their picture for the Cincinnati Enquirer the last time Lindbergh was in town.”

“You think Boch is up to something? With the Nazis?” Her eyes regained a little of their sparkle. If it weren’t for the outward physical signs, a man would never know she’d had a rough time of it. The rope burns were still fresh, but she was dishing politics like a champ. 

“You’re some woman, Mona.”

Color rose in her cheeks, a healthy flush that looked a whole lot better on her than the sickening pale of before. “Nice of you to notice,” she quipped.

“Kind of hard to miss, doll.” 

The flush deepened and spread down her neck, disappearing under the flaps of his bathrobe. He couldn’t have stopped the stirring in his cock if he’d tried. But that wasn’t what prompted his thinking. He wanted her around, just to know she was okay. “I want you to stay here tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

She smiled a smile that Moe hadn’t seen since the night before. It still looked good on her. “I want to stay, Moe. But I don’t want to sleep alone.”

It was all the encouragement Moe needed. He picked her up and pulled her close, cradling her like he had done before. She reminded him of a fresh-hatched bird - fragile and needy, but alive and chirping. Her arms slid around his neck and he got a whiff of the soap lingering on her body and in her hair. He’d do better to think about business.

“Mona, about Metzger,” he said.

“I don’t want to talk about Metzger.”

“We’ll call the police in the morning. You can identify the bum, and I can put the bug in their ear that he’s the creep who sliced and diced me.”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning, Moe,” she whispered against his neck. “I don’t want to think about him anymore.”

Moe let her have her way - for tonight, at least. He carried her to his bed and gently set her on the mattress. He tried to remember the last time a woman had slept in his bed two nights in a row. There was nothing to remember. This was a first. He tried to ignore the implications. 

“Please, Moe, turn out the lights.”

His gut told him not to do it. She needed to know she was beautiful and nothing Metzger had done could change that. “Not on your life, doll. I aim to see every inch of you tonight.”

“But ...”

“No buts about it, baby. I’m going to look and look. You got everything a man wants to see.”

“You’re crazy, Moe.”

“I’ve been called worse. Now lie back and let me see the goods.”

Mona stretched out on the bed, and Moe took his time eyeing her from head-to-toe. It was time well spent. She was hesitant at first, trying to hide her nakedness with her hands, but her efforts were fruitless. Faint welts formed an ‘X’ across her chest, but the most damage was around her wrists and ankles. She’d cleaned away the blood, but her skin was still chafed and bruises were popping up on her everywhere. He’d get Metzger for that, of that he was certain, but for now, he’d put the lowlife out of his mind and concentrate on Mona. When she cupped a hand over her mons, it got Moe’s brain to working overtime.

“Wait right there, and don’t move.”

“Where are you going?”

“Shh. Just trust me, baby.”

“Don’t leave me, Moe.”

“I’m just gathering a few supplies. I’m not going far.”

“Supplies?”

Moe filled a bowl with warm water, grabbed his razor, his soap, and a towel, and made his way back to Mona. “Trust me.”

“Anytime someone says ‘trust me’ twice, they suddenly become untrustworthy,” she said.

“Cynical and gorgeous.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to shave your pussy.”

“What?!”

“You heard me, doll. I’m going to even it all out so it can grow back like it should.”

“Huh-uh. No, you’re not You’re liable to cut me.”

“I use this razor every day. It’ll be okay.”

“Moe ...”

“Consider it foreplay.”

“It’s not like any foreplay I know.”

“In that case, doll,” he said with a wink. “It’s time you learned.”

Moe dipped the soap in the water and turned it over in his hands until a full lather bubbled between his palms. “Open your legs, Mona.”

She watched him with saucer eyes like a child at a doctor’s office preparing for a shot. “I don’t know if I can, Moe.”

“Inch them apart a little at a time.” He tapped one of her knees and then the other. “Close your eyes if it helps.”

She closed her eyes and opened her legs a fraction, enough that Moe could fit his soap-drenched hand in the ‘Y’ of her legs. He cupped her, holding his hand motionless at first and then slowly began to rub circles. Her legs parted, more and more with each stir of his hand. He avoided dipping into her slit and just rubbed from her plump outer lips to the angle where groin met legs. He circled around and around, lathering every patch of the spiked tendrils of her remaining pubes. When warm water trickled along her crack, she let out a raspy moan, and her legs opened even further.

“Seriously, Moe. I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You don’t have to do anything, just lie still and trust me, Mona.”

Moe rinsed his hands and dried them on the towel. The shaving part was easier than he had thought it would be. Mona didn’t move, the razor was sharp, and as a redhead, her pubic hair was soft and sparse. Eight short strokes later, and her pussy was bald.

Moe took a moment to admire his handiwork. Without hair, her labia bulged like proud centurions guarding her crimson slit.

“You have a freckle on your pussy.”

“I do not,” Mona panted.

“Yeah, you do. Right here.” Moe bent and kissed the small beige dot to the side of her slit. Goosebumps raised on her smooth, white skin. The smell of her, mixed with the smell of the soap, was as intoxicating as expensive wine. More so.

He nudged his nose along her slit and inhaled. It was unusual not to have tiny hairs tickling his nose, but he could get used to it. Especially with the ambrosia that was Mona. She was wet. Hot. Humid. Her legs trembled, and Moe pressed his hands against the back of her thighs, first for support, and then to encourage her to open her legs as far as they would go. 

“Moe. Moe, what are you doing?”

“Getting to the flavor of you, babe. It’s long overdue.” Moe stuck his tongue hard in the slash of her cunt, but then wiggled it gently up and down. The first taste of her was like fresh-baked pie - sweet and warm and gooey. His tongue searched every nook, every cranny, every inch of smooth, velvet flesh before he settled his lips around the fig of her puss. 

She jerked with the first suck, and Moe wrapped his arms tighter around her thighs. He pressed his lips to her columns of Venus and spoke, “I should have told you, doll, cream pie is my favorite dessert.” His words were mumbled, and she might not have understood, but Moe knew she got the message when she moaned a deep throaty moan that only excited women moan.

He rubbed his nose and his cheeks against her clean-shaven knoll and then sent his tongue back to work, licking her butter that was melting and dripping all over her sex. Little quivers commandeered the muscles in her legs as her pelvis bucked up to his mouth. 

“Moe!”

He flattened his tongue and pressed hard against her clitoris. She rotated her hips against it. The quivers in her legs expanded to her entire lower body. He latched on tight and sucked the orgasm from her until the waves had passed and Mona’s juices were smeared over Moe’s face and every hairless inch of her pussy. 

He waited, savoring her essence, until her breathing settled. Then reluctantly he moved from between her legs. 

“Oh, Moe. I never dreamed it could be like that.”

“Like what, doll?”

“I didn’t know a man could use his mouth like that.”

“You didn’t seem to have any trouble using your mouth in the hospital.”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“I don’t know. It just seems it is.”

“Mona, there’s nothing like the sweet taste of woman, especially a dame like you who’s hot and sexy and responsive.”

“Should I return the favor?”

Moe had a hard-on, there was no denying that, and the thought of Mona’s cherry lips wrapped around it had its merits. But Moe could wait. He wanted to wait. This moment was all for her. “Maybe later. For now, just come here in my arms.”

“Why, Moe. You’re a softie,” she whispered.

“It’s only an illusion, doll. As a matter of fact, I’m hard as stone.”

* * *

In the wee small hours of the morning, before the sun had had a chance to make its way over the horizon, when Moe normally headed to Joe’s Diner for coffee and the daily news, he was instead reaching for the kitten beside him. She was warm and soft, and her smell on his fingers and face had haunted him all night. He ignored the thought that had been eating at him for the last hour - could he see a future with a broad who could talk politics, put herself on the line for his job, and still be so flaming hot that a man found it difficult to sleep beside her? Instead, he concentrated on the desire that had had a whole night to simmer. Forget about the future, his desire said. She was here now, and Moe wanted her.

She lay on her side, her silhouette pure female. Hourglass. He traced her curves: her shoulder, her hip, and the valley of her waist. He knew immediately when she awoke - her body tensed and then relaxed again with a sigh. Moe shifted until he spooned in behind her. Mona shimmied her backside closer to him, cushioning his cock in the crack of her ass.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Sure you did, Moe. But I’m glad.”

“You’re full of surprises, woman.”

“I’d rather be full from you,” she said.

Moe’s dick lurched, not only at her words, but also at the seductive way she said them. He was only too happy to oblige.

Maybe it was the heat of lust, or the pounding of his heart that rendered Moe deaf until it was too late. He had just pushed inside of her, his cock buried in her warm slot, and his arms wrapped around her chest, when they busted in. With guns in hand and badges flashing, Officer Harold Murphy, joined by two other lackies, stormed into the room. 

The trio stopped short at seeing Moe and Mona coupled on the bed. Murphy’s wolf whistle pierced the room, and the two flunkies, with embarrassed smiles on their faces, took an uneasy step backward. Murphy, initially taut as a piano wire, stood at ease and removed his cap. “Excuse us, Miss Dale,” he said.

Moe’s prick shriveled in Mona’s cunt. “Murphy, what the fuck are you doing here?” he yelled. 

Murphy ignored him and continued a half-hearted spiel to Mona. “We’re sorry to interrupt, Miss Dale, but…” Murphy glanced over at Moe and barely contained his grin. “I’ve been waiting for a long time to say something like this.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Murphy!” Moe demanded.

A triumphant smile busted its way across Murphy’s face. He looked Moe right in the eye and used his most officious voice. “Moe Gafferson, you are under arrest for the murder of Rolf Metzger.”



Rough Cut Ch. 11



Cigarette burns pockmarked the yellow surface of the long, oak table sitting in the center of the room. A single, overcrowded ashtray sat lonely on the table’s top. Stale smoke hung in the air and, judging from its lack of movement, could have been hanging there for years. The only window, placed too high on the wall to offer any real illumination, had wire covering its stippled glass. Officer Murphy guarded the door like a centurion - one who had just won a major battle. Sitting across from Moe, leaning back on two legs of a chair, was Detective Jansen, known as Janney to his detective buddies, and pain-in-the-ass to Moe. 

Back at Moe’s house, Murphy had had the decency to allow Mona some privacy while she dressed and he never cuffed her. Moe didn’t get the same courtesy. Murphy and his goons watched Moe dress from his socks to his tie. 

“Eyeing my wanger might lead me to believe you got other designs, Murphy. Maybe I should be blushing.”

“Shut the fuck up, Gafferson, and get a move on. We got a cell with your name on it.”

“Then there’s no reason to make Mona come along.”

“Ain’t my call about your moll. For now she goes.”

He slapped the cuffs on Moe and then carted him and Mona into the police station. All three policemen had refused to answer Moe’s questions about Metzger’s murder. At the station house, Mona had been escorted to a side desk and offered coffee while Moe had been presented to Detective Jansen. 

Moe and Jansen hadn’t become friends or planned any cocktail parties. Twenty minutes had passed since Moe was dragged into the interrogation room. His wrists were still handcuffed, and nothing but the p’s and q’s of Moe’s detective license had been discussed, with Jansen begrudgingly admitting the license was on the level.

Jansen was old for a cop, knocking on the back door of fifty. Too many beers or someone’s home cooking had given him a nice sized paunch. The two thin chair legs seemed to bow under his weight. He looked at Moe through low-lidded eyes. “Why’d you kill him, Gafferson?”

Moe considered not answering, but a murder charge hanging over his head had him feeling a little more cooperative. “Metzger didn’t deserve to live, but it wasn’t me that sought the resolution,” said Moe.

“Murphy tells me the guy cut you up pretty bad.”

Moe cast a glance at Murphy. The flatfoot was wearing a shit-eating grin and leaning casually against the door. Moe didn’t mind pushing a couple of Murphy’s buttons, if for no other reason than to wipe the smile off the copper’s face. “If Murphy knew Metzger committed a crime, why didn’t he get the bum off the street like a good cop would?” 

Murphy’s fists clenched, and the grin evaporated. A buck said an audience was the only thing that kept Murphy from using his clenched fists on Moe. It was Moe’s turn to smile. Murphy reacted with a growl and took a step away from the doorjamb he was making love to. Jansen must have sensed an impending scuffle. With a thud, the head detective pushed the front two legs of his chair down to the floor and used his bulk to shove the table toward Moe. 

“Listen, Gafferson, we know Metzger had a good hand with a blade. And we know you made a trip to Appollonia’s asking after him - a little tail named Lily Mae gave you up. It’s pretty easy to put two-and-two together.”

“Sorry, Mac. You’re coming up with five. There must be a hundred members in the Sliced-by-Metzger club. Ask Lily Mae, she’s one of them. A peep show with her as the main attraction would reveal some of Metzger’s handiwork on her left tit - whacked off at the nub.”

Moe could almost hear Jansen’s brain ticking as the detective made a mental note about Lily Mae. And then his eyes focused again on Moe. “None of the other ninety-nine were seen fighting with Metzger on the street only hours before he was found dead. That honor belongs to you.”

Moe shrugged. “If I wanted to kill him, I would have done it then. I had him down on the street. Didn’t any of your eye witnesses tell you that?” 

Jansen tilted back in the chair again, folding his arms across his chest and resting them on his gut. The bottom button of his shirt tried not to pop. “Nah, I think you’re stupid, but I don’t figure you to be that stupid. You wouldn’t kill a man with so many witnesses screening the action. Where were you last night around midnight, Gafferson?”

A knock on the door stopped Moe from answering. Without waiting for a response, a blue-gray haired woman bustled into the room. Her robust stature forced the seams of her uniform to perform a Herculean feat. She marched over to Jansen, whispered in his ear, and then turned to walk out. Whatever she said didn’t sit well with Jansen. He grumbled under his breath, and he and Murphy followed Mrs. Blue Hair out the door like the Three Stooges mimicking a train.

Moe shifted irritably in his chair. The being-alone-part was fine, but the still-cuffed-part was grating on him. His shoulder cramped and an itch in his armpit, where he couldn’t reach, was annoying the hell out of him. He was tired. Plain and simple. The past week had been rougher than most. He hadn’t slept much and his gut still ached - not the sharp, burning pain of a few days ago, but a dull ache that never subsided. Red embers, like blistering fireflies, burned the back of his eyes. He wanted to snooze for a week. Maybe wake-up a time or two for a tumble with Mona. 

Fuck. Mona. What the hell had Moe gotten her in involved in? He knew better than to get cozy with a dame when he was working, especially a dame like Mona. It never worked out. Dames got in the way, screwed up your thinking, reminded a man he’s a man and has a role to protect the weaker sex.

But as a protector, Moe had come up short. The sight of Mona bound and gagged when he’d come home last night, and the look of panic in her eyes, was etched in his brain. If Metzger had still been loitering at Moe’s house at that moment, the police would have had a real reason to haul Moe in. Blazing anger still simmered in his bones. He hoped whoever had offed the louse had made him suffer. 

Moe hadn’t been able to keep Metzger’s evil from touching Mona, but he’d be damned if he’d let her get dragged into this any further. Maybe when this was all over, Moe would take her in his arms, squeeze her delicious body close, and the two of them could mull over the cards they’d been dealt. But for now, he was determined to keep her out of trouble.

The stooges returned sans Mrs. Blue Hair and took up their same positions: Murphy at the door and Jansen in the chair opposite Moe. Jansen slipped off his suit jacket and slung it over the back of a nearby chair. As hefty evidence there was no Mrs. Jansen: the wrinkles only slightly outnumbered the stains on Jansen’s dingy dress shirt. 

The detective wasted no time getting back to the grilling. “Let’s set the record straight, Gafferson. We know you were Over the Rhine. Schmidt was killed and you got cut up real good. What we don’t know is who Schmidt’s party favor was. And since you do know, we’d be obliged if you’d tell us.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Maybe it was Miss Mona Dale.”

“Keep her out of this. She’s got nothing to do with anything. She’s a nurse I met at the hospital. That’s it!”

“A nurse you’ve gotten pretty friendly with.”

“Drop it, Jansen. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Jansen folded his arms across his body and settled them once again on the bulk of his belly. Obviously, his favorite position. “Funny thing, Miss Dale was defensive about you too. Right up until Murphy here told her why we hauled you in and how Lily Mae had a hand in it all.”

Moe jerked around to see a smug Murphy. While Moe and Mona had never discussed dating one-on-one, Moe knew the red-headed nurse would not look too kindly on him bedding a whore – business or not. “You’re a bastard, Murphy.”

Murphy’s smile nearly broke his face. “According to Miss Dale, we both are.”

“Where is she?”

“She seemed in a hurry to leave, and seeing we had no real cause to keep her, she left.”

Moe slowly turned back toward Jansen. He could only imagine what Mona was thinking about him at that moment. Moe was a low life. Maybe no better than Metzger. Sure, Metzger was rougher, but no doubt Moe had hurt her, too. And got her mixed up in the seediness of his world. 

Shit. 

But maybe it was better this way. Wasn’t he just thinking how much trouble a dame could be when he was working? And Mona hating him was a lot easier to think about than Mona in harm’s way. She was a damn fine woman who deserved better than Moe could give her. At least now she would be safe.

“Like I said, she’s got nothing to do with this.”

Jansen sighed and rubbed his face. “I’m inclined to believe you Gafferson. Miss Dale seems like an upstanding citizen, someone most men would treat like a lady.”

Moe ignored the dig. It was none of Jansen’s business what had passed between Mona and Moe. And anyway, Moe wasn’t sure he could define it. She was special. That was enough. Moe changed the subject.

“How about removing these bracelets?”

Jansen nodded and waited while Murphy undid the lock on the cuffs. Moe massaged his wrists and stretched his fingers. Like a Hop-a-Long Cassidy twirling his gun, Murphy swung the handcuffs and stuffed them in his pocket and then sauntered back toward the door, his cocky grin still in place. Moe would have liked the chance to connect his fist to Murphy’s chin, just once for good measure. Maybe another time, another place. It was bound to happen. Even in a big city like Cincinnati, Murphy’s and Moe’s paths were always crossing.

“So if Miss Dale wasn’t your client, who was it? Or maybe you didn’t have a client. Maybe you were a partner. Maybe you, Metzger, and Schmidt had a racket going. What happened? Metzger and Schmidt get too greedy?”

“You sit up all night coming up with sham theories like that, Jansen?”

Jansen pointed a beefy finger at Moe and glared at him through steely eyes. “Watch your mouth, Gafferson unless you want to add a busted lip to your list of injuries for the week.” Cincinnati’s finest wasn’t above using a little muscle whenever they saw fit. And in Moe’s experience, they saw fit a lot. Moe kept his mouth shut and let Jansen keep on talking.

“We know Metzger was using Appollonia’s as a clip joint - slipping in hidden doors, shaking down patrons, blackmailing big wigs who have wives or aspirations. What we don’t know is, where do you fit in?”

Moe ran a hand over the back of his neck, working out the kinks that had taken up residence there. If he ever wanted to get out of this hell hole, he was going to have to cooperate. Now seemed as good a time as any. “Lily Mae summed up my one visit to Appollonia’s. Anything else going on there I wouldn’t know about.” It wasn’t much, but it was all Moe had.

Jansen wasn’t convinced. “Metzger did the grunt work. Schmidt put on the air of respectability. What were you?” 

Moe sighed. Maybe it just wasn’t in the cards for Moe and Jansen to get along. “Conjecture some sort of game for you, Detective?” 

“Indulge me,” said Jansen. “I’m an old man with so few chances to play games.”

Moe leaned back in his chair and crossed an ankle over his leg. He took his time fingering the cuff of his trouser. Something told him Jansen was just on a fishing trip now, hoping to reel in a little information. The truth was an easy thing to give up. “I’d never seen Schmidt before in my life prior to the night he was killed,” said Moe.

It appeared Jansen hadn’t caught his forty winks lately either. The disheveled detective scratched his belly and stifled a yawn. But he didn’t give up. “That leads us back to the unknown player in our little chess match, don’t it Gafferson? The dame that hosted Schmidt’s erection?”

Moe kept silent, still playing with the cuff on his pant like he’d suddenly taken up tailoring. Kitty Winslow was most likely just a woman looking for love in the wrong place. Moe was nearly certain of that now. Unless there was something more to link her to Metzger and Schmidt, he would keep her name out of this. “That’s none of your business,” he said.

Jansen pounded his fist on the table, sending cigarette ashes flying across the room. “Who sent you there to take pictures that night?” he demanded.

Moe figured an angry cop was a cop who didn’t have nothing. He suddenly felt a lot more comfortable. “Sorry can’t help you, boys.”

Jansen took a different tactic and relaxed against his chair. “I admire your loyalty to your client, Gafferson. Too bad it could get you a cell block for life.”

“I’ll have to take my chances. My client couldn’t vouch for my whereabouts when Metzger was iced.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Home.”

“Got any proof?”

Yeah, he had proof - wrapped up in a pretty nurse’s package, but Moe had already made the decision to keep Mona out of this mess. He stayed mute, again.

Jansen barged ahead without waiting for answers. “You own a gun, Gafferson? Maybe one of those new Smith & Wesson .357 Magnums?”

The Magnum was mostly used by cops in big cities. Moe thought they were overkill. Murphy had one hanging from his shoulder holster. “I’m partial to my Roscoe. Only a man with no aim needs a gun like a Magnum.” Moe didn’t look back at Murphy. He didn’t have to. The sound of the copper’s shuffling feet was enough to make Moe smirk.

“Does your client own a gun?” continued Jansen.

“I don’t ask about firearms when I sign on to a case.”

“Seems risky.”

“I’m a guy who likes to take chances.”

“Covering for your client might be too big a risk, Gafferson.”

Jansen was pushing hard for the name of Moe’s client. Moe had to wonder why. There was no way the police could have found out Moe was working for Dutch that night, or that now Moe was working for Kitty. Not unless Mr. and Mrs. Winslow had offered up the information. And that didn’t seem too likely. Especially since up until now, their names had never entered the picture. Something was missing. Did Kitty have more to do with Metzger and Schmidt besides being the bull’s-eye for Schmidt’s arrow? Moe figured it was time for a little give and take. “What if there was a woman who got mixed up with the wrong guy without her knowing?” 

Jansen leaned forward, salivating at getting somewhere in the interrogation. “Why do you suppose she got out of this situation without a scratch? Schmidt was killed. You were meant to be. What protected her?”

“Luck?”

“Luck, my lily white ass. The broad had something - something that meant a lot to somebody. Enough that it kept her alive.”

Moe had to admit the idea didn’t stink, but he wasn’t completely sold. Kitty was weak and love struck. She wasn’t a leader, only a follower. Knowing that didn’t make the game any easier to orchestrate. The players in this high stakes hullabaloo were folding all around him, and Moe didn’t like thinking he may have underestimated a friend. 

“Come on, Gafferson. No tail is worth spending your life behind bars.”

“I didn’t kill Metzger,” Moe said.

“You’re in this up to your neck, and as soon as we piece it together, we’ll be pulling the noose tighter.”

Now Moe knew Jansen was bluffing. “Book me or let me go. I’m done.”

Jansen’s eyes narrowed to slits and the tiny muscle in his jaw clenched. He pushed back the chair and stood. The waist of his pants was wedged well below his gut, but he didn’t bother to adjust it. He suddenly loomed larger than his girth. In a tone full of menace, he said, “I’ll say when we’re done, Gafferson.” 

For the first time all morning, Moe understood how Jansen had become lead detective and why Murphy had played second fiddle out of the limelight. Jansen knew how and when to use his authority. Moe felt a grudging respect. But he wasn’t about to give up Kitty’s name. At least not until he had a chance to check her out again for himself.

Jansen grabbed the suit jacket he’d draped over a chair and struggled into it. It did a good job of hiding the yellow sweat stains in the armpits of his white shirt. When he looked at Moe, most of the purple had left his face, and he looked like just another fat cop again. “Today’s your lucky day, Gafferson. I’ve got an appointment, and you’ve got an alibi.”

“An alibi?”

“It seems your little chippy vouched for your whereabouts all night last night. And lucky for you, Murphy was a witness this morning.”

Moe glanced at Murphy. The scumbag was grinning his little voyeur grin.

“You really are a bunch of bastards parading as do-gooders around here, aren’t you?” said Moe.

Jansen was on him in a heartbeat. He grabbed Moe by the lapels, lifting him out of his chair. His breath smelled of onions and rotten meat. “We don’t owe you anything, Gafferson. Not one goddamn thing.”

Moe’s fists balled up in self-defense, but he held them tight at his side. The last thing he needed was a night in the hoosegow for slugging a detective.

“We’re letting you go because we got nothing to hold you.” Jansen let loose of Moe’s lapels, and Moe slumped back into the chair. “But we’re still looking, and when we find it, your ass is ours.”

“You say the sweetest things, Jansen. A guy could get mushy for being wanted so much.”

Jansen turned his back to Moe and bellowed at Murphy, “Get him out of my fucking sight.” 



Rough Cut Ch. 12



The building that housed Flamingo’s sat on the banks of the Ohio River. The joint had been an orphanage back in the 1890s. Access to the river and close proximity to three state lines lent to its usefulness - the place even had some history as a stopover in the Underground Railroad. Unfortunately, the orphanage went belly up in the early months of 1918 when its benefactor died from tuberculosis. And even with all its good location and history, the building had sat empty for twelve years before Dutch Winslow won it in a crap game from a down-on-his-luck public official. 

While some men had lost everything they owned during the depression, Dutch Winslow made a killing from bootlegging and gambling. After prohibition was repealed, Dutch decided it was time to go legit. Winning the river property set the ball in motion. He completely renovated the first floor and gussied up the orphans’ rooms to make what was now Flamingo’s, the hottest hotel and nightclub in Cincinnati.

Most weekends, hastily parked cars littered the side streets while the main drag was lined with taxis and limousines waiting to expel men in silk hats and ladies in exotic furs. The uniformed doorman had ample opportunity to touch many a gloved hand and steal a lingering look at shapely gams in seamed stockings while the well-to-do stepped smugly from their vehicles. The bleating of the doorman’s whistle added harmony to the black stiletto heels tap-tap-tapping over the glistening pavement that led to the green canopied entrance.

Moe learned long ago to avoid the hoopla at the front. It belonged to the influential who would rather be in New York or Hollywood but had to settle for the bowels of Ohio. Moe opted for a side entry that bypassed the hotel lobby and forged a direct path to the bar in the club. 

As usual, the rattling of ice in cocktail shakers, the pop of champagne corks, and the mix of giggling and husky laughter welcomed him at the crowded bar. A solid gold chain roped off the conviviality of the bar from the rest of the dining area, as if separating the classes. Moe got lucky and grabbed an empty stool when a couple, making their way to a table they’d probably been waiting on for hours, vacated it. Most people found the food and the atmosphere in the dining room worth the wait. 

The entertainment wouldn’t start for another forty-five minutes. According to the billboard out front, this week’s headliner was Dolly Dawn and her Dawn Patrol. Moe had caught their act a time or two on the radio broadcasting from New York. The dame had the voice of an angel, and she outshined her band a million-to-one. Too bad Moe was here on business. It promised to be a great show. 

He gave a nod to the bartender, Mick, and knew in a minute a shot glass full of bourbon would be sitting in front of him - an advantage of being a regular.

Moe scanned the mirrored L-shaped dining room filled with the rich-but-barely-famous. Violet smoke billowed its way upwards from the flicker of lighters and the tips of burning cigarettes. Glamorous dames, most of the unattached variety, were part of the décor. Politicians, businessmen, and the independently wealthy were snuggled behind tables draped with maroon silk and midnight velvet linens. At the center of each table, nestled on silver chafing dishes, piled high with shimmering flakes of ice, were olives, cocktail onions, radishes, and foot-high celery stalks. Layers of silver-etched china donned each place setting, while colossal brandy snifters as big as hot-air balloons sat waiting to be filled. 

It was another full house. Moe could almost hear the cash register belch.

Dutch wouldn’t show for at least an hour - too much behind the scenes work with the show people - so Moe put a word in to the maitre’d that he was looking for Mrs. Winslow. The little trip to the pokey had raised too many questions in Moe’s mind, questions that Dutch just might know the answer to, but he’d kill some time chit-chatting with Kitty, just to reassure himself that the dame wasn’t more than met the eye.

Moe finished two shots and was thinking of ordering a third when Kitty Winslow made her entrance. She was Moses parting the Red Sea. Like a grand hostess greeting her guests, schmoozing with customers, and playing kissy-face with anyone who had clout, she moved through the throng. When she left each table, she made sure she left them smiling. Her husband might be the proprietor of the joint, but it was Mrs. Winslow that made it ooze with moneyed class.

Kitty was too discreet to mix with the folks who didn’t have the cash or the clout to get a table in the main dining room, so Moe wasn’t surprised when he received a whispered message, via Mick, to meet Kitty in Dutch’s office up on the second floor. Appearances were everything in a crowd like this, and Moe understood his black tie was only brown tweed. He nixed the third shot of bourbon and squeezed away from the bar, making sure to leave a decent tip for Mick. The bartender gave a friendly nod as he gathered up the clams. When Moe was wearing a little of the green, he could be generous to the working stiffs he shared a paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle with.

Dutch had turned the entire second floor of the old orphanage into his working space. The elevator opened up to an entry that led to the main office. The office was flanked with private rooms, christened “cub rooms,” where a select few were granted special privileges. Kitty was waiting for him at the elevator when he arrived.

“This isn’t a convenient place or time, Mr. Gafferson.” She was as skittish as a virgin, shooting glances up and down the carpeted hallways.

“Yeah, well, after the day I’ve had, I’m not feeling too accommodating.”

Kitty’s eyes darted to the closed door of one of the cub rooms before whispering, “There’s a card game going on.” She grabbed Moe’s hand and tugged. “Come with me.”

She led him into Dutch’s main office, a room that Moe had been in many times. But now Moe recognized how similar it was to the library at the Winslow mansion. Only the leather chairs in this room were soft and broken in, and a mahogany desk was the focal point. The desk was clean except for a blotter, an inkwell, and a Tiffany lamp. Moe hadn’t realized what a neatness freak Dutch must be. It made him wonder what else he’d overlooked about his friend.

Kitty avoided the chairs and went straight to the small bar in the corner. “So what made today so horrible, Moe?” She turned a crystal glass right side up on the polished surface.

“Hurting a friend, playing tiddly-winks with the cops, missing Murrow on the radio - take your pick.”

Kitty unstopped a decanter and began to pour, but her hand shook and alcohol splashed onto the bar. When she swung around to face Moe, all the color had drained from her face. “The cops? What were you doing with the cops?”

A little fear had a way of putting different classes of people on the same playing field. Moe pushed his advantage. “They’re looking to identify who was tail tickling with Schmidt and possibly carried away evidence from a crime scene.”

“But I didn’t take anything,” she said with just an edge of panic.

“Except for a little of the man’s duck butter?”

“Don’t be vulgar, Mr. Gafferson.” Kitty took a man-sized slug from the high ball glass and peeked over the rim at Moe. When she spoke again the panic was gone, and in its place a kittenish mewing. “Did you give them my name?”

Moe frowned. The dame was like everyone else in his world. Sooner or later self-preservation won out over love. Grief runs its course, and that course can be pretty short. Kitty was becoming a marvel at changing gears to whatever the scene called for.

“Would giving your name to the cops really be so bad, if you have nothing to hide?”

“Why should I get mixed up in a murder I had nothing to do with?”

Misleading a client about whose murder he was actually being accused of didn’t upset Moe, especially if it meant he might get some answers. “I was asking myself the same question when a fat cop with bad breath was dishing me dirt.” Moe plopped down in one of the leather chairs, crossed his legs and leaned back in what he meant to be a thoughtful pose. “Why should I take the rap for someone who was holding out on me?” 

“I swear on my mother’s life, Moe, I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you.”

“Too bad I don’t know your mother.”

Kitty turned back to the bar. Ice clinked inside of glass as she set her drink down. Her shoulders slumped and a deep sigh made its way from her chest. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Mr. Gafferson. I’m just a woman who had an affair like any common street tramp. Just ask Dutch, he’ll be glad to tell you all about me.”

It figured Dutch wouldn’t let the affair settle and die. Moe didn’t blame him. Cheating was a hard thing to get over. But that had nothing to do with Moe.

“Talking to Dutch is exactly what I had in mind.”

“Go ahead. He knows I hired you.”

“Oh? You finally tipped your mitt?”

Kitty threw back her head and laughed - not a sexy laugh, but one crammed with sarcasm. “No, Moe. It wasn’t me. One of the servants told him about your visit to our home. He figured it out on his own.” She turned around, embracing herself like she was warding off the cold. “So you see, there’s no reason for you to continue now. I’ll be sending you a bank note - with my husband’s permission, of course.”

“It could be that easy. Except it’s not. I still got the law on my back.”

“So you didn’t give my name to the police?”

“I’m still ruminating over the idea. I want to talk to Dutch first.”

Kitty laughed again and took another healthy gulp of booze. “He might tell you to give me up. He’d see it as a scratch at the surface of justice.”

“Maybe. Cuckolded husbands tend to be bitter that way.” It was a crappy thing to say, but sometimes Moe spoke without thinking. Mrs. Winslow seemed to let the words float right by her. He shifted in his chair. “Mind if I wait for him here?” 

“I’ll tell him you’re waiting,” she said, and she slowly made her way to the door. She reached for the knob but stopped short of twisting it. Without turning around, she whispered, “I suppose I should thank you.”

“Forget it doll. The bank note will do the trick.”

Her sigh of resignation hung in the air long after she’d left and closed the door. She might have been waiting for some sympathy from Moe over the jam she’d got herself in, but as Moe saw it, the broad had a lot more going for her than most dames. Dutch was Catholic, so marriage was for life - good or bad. It wasn’t likely he would toss her out, not unless she made a habit of suburb sinning. She’d recover just fine, sashaying with the black tie crowd downstairs.

He fixed himself a shot of bourbon while he waited for Dutch. It would be a few minutes before the club’s show began and Dutch could make his way upstairs. Moe considered rifling through the desk drawers. In another man’s office - a man who wasn’t a friend - it’d be no problem, but Dutch was still a friend, at least for now. Besides Dutch had his office rigged with all kinds of thingamajigs. For all Moe knew, someone could be watching him right now. He knew Dutch had installed one-way mirrors to the cub rooms behind the midnight velvet curtains a casual observer might think were used just to match the décor of the club. Moe knew because he had stood lookout for Dutch on more than one occasion.

Even though Dutch had decided to keep things honest years ago, he still allowed high stake card games in the cub rooms. The participants won and lost a boatload of cash. The one-way mirrors were Dutch’s way of keeping an eye out for flaring tempers. 

Moe remembered Kitty saying there was a card game going on now. Watching it was as good a way as any to kill time.

The scene was mostly a familiar one: six men huddled around a card table, jackets removed, ties loosened, smoke swirling from cigars and cigarillos, and piles of chips sitting in front of each man, with some piles larger than others.

But this game had something none of the other games that Moe witnessed had - a nude blonde standing in the corner. The dame was no bigger than a minute. Her hair was pushed back off her face to reveal pale, parchment skin. Her eyes were as big as silver dollars, blue as poker chips, and just as opaque. She didn’t try to hide her nakedness, but stood like a marble statue: legs stiff, torso motionless. Her titties favored a couple of fried eggs with very little yolk, and counting her ribs was as easy as counting piano keys. Her quim whiskers were also blond, but they were sparse and barely did the job of covering her cradle. Moe could almost be convinced the chick was a statue except for the bit of life she showed by way of clenched fists. 

The card players were keeping up the game as if the blond babe didn’t exist. All except for one. The yegg with the biggest pile was eyeing her like a starved man at a banquet. He was a wolf, and when he licked his lips, he did everything but salivate. Moe immediately disliked him on principle. 

By the looks of the pot - red, white, and blue chips mixed with a few greenbacks to make a nice-sized centerpiece - the hand was well underway. Moe couldn’t see what Wolfman was holding, but he could easily make out the hand of one of the chaps with his back to Moe’s view. The guy had three aces, the eight of clubs, and a three of hearts. 

The group threw in their discards and the dealer drawled how many for each around the table. Wolfman drew one card, peeked at his hand, smiled and licked his chops, and then gave a wink to the blonde. She appeared oblivious.

The lucky chap with three aces threw away the eight and three and drew two more cards. When Mr. Lucky revealed his two new cards, Moe was suddenly glad he wasn’t betting against him. He’d drawn a six of diamonds and the missing ace of clubs. Four aces was a nuts hand in anybody’s game. 

Apparently Wolfman had been winning big all night. He had a worthy pile sitting in front of him. Mr. Lucky, on the other hand, was down to his last few chips, but Moe really liked his chances.

The opener started the betting. Mr. Lucky raised, and Wolfman raised back. Everyone folded except the opener, who like a fool, called the bet. Mr. Lucky and Wolfman raised again and the opener timidly folded, leaving just Wolfman and Mr. Lucky. 

Mr. Lucky tossed his last chip on the pile and cocked his head toward the blonde. Moe would have liked to hear the audio on this exchange. The blonde surprisingly showed another sign of life and blushed like a boiled lobster. Wolfman shrugged his shoulders and half-heartedly shook his head, no. Every pair of eyes was on Mr. Lucky.

Moe figured the game was over until Mr. Lucky snapped his fingers in the air toward the dame. The card players turned her way as if they’d just realized she was in the room. Her eyes sparked with anger and then went as blank as before. Mr. Lucky snapped his fingers again, and the blonde began to move, slowly, seductively, gliding her hands over her boyish frame and gyrating her hips. She cupped her tiny breasts and then flicked at their tips until each nipple plumped up like jigger bites. She turned around and slid her fingers over her ass, tugging at the double mounds and giving glimpses of the rosebud between. Mr. Lucky snapped his fingers again and as quickly as she started, she stopped. Two of the gawking men hurriedly removed their roaming hands from their crotches.

Wolfman smirked. It reminded Moe of a picture one of the gossip sheets had run of Fatty Arbuckle a few years back before his rape trial - lewd enough to think he had the world by the collar. The louse nodded his agreement, and the entire group watched as Mr. Lucky laid down his hand. Moe didn’t have to hear to know everyone was impressed. Everyone but Wolfman. As Mr. Lucky reached to scoop up the pot, Wolfman stopped him by laying down his own cards, one at a time - a five, a six, a seven, an eight, and a nine, all spades - a straight spade flush. 

Moe didn’t trust anyone who could be so fortunate. He expected Mr. Lucky to feel the same, maybe jump up, challenge the hand, show a little muscle. But instead, the fop relaxed back in his seat, his thumbs hooked in his suspenders, smoking his cigarillo. 

Wolfman didn’t bother scooping up his haul before he bounded out of his seat and went creeping over to the blonde. Within seconds, he was all over her like ugly on ape: pawing at a breast, slobbering at her neck, and probing her pussy with his fat fingers. The rest of the men tried not to watch, but they were as unsuccessful as Moe at turning away, and no one bothered to stop it. Not Mr. Lucky, not the other men, and not Moe. 

Wolfman pulled back long enough to unzip his pants and let them fall to his knees. His nearsighted cock was short but thick, as thick as the end of a baseball bat. The knob-end had already worked its way out of the draw drapes, pushing the foreskin back over his shaft. He spun the blonde around and shoved her hard against the wall. Her arms barely had time to brace for the impact. She didn’t fight or scream or cry. She played like a malleable doll and let her body be posed, spreading her legs when Wolfman’s hands slapped at the inside of her thighs, bending at the waist when he shoved her head down, and holding still when he spanked her ass until it flamed from his handprint.

The sight of the blonde bent over, her pussy poised between her thighs, and her lewdly spread anus, filled Moe with revulsion. Wolfman rubbed his chubby cock, and tiny spits of pre-cum dribbled in the slit of the blonde’s back door. Moe tasted bile in the back of his throat. He’d seen enough. He pounded on the one-way mirror, but no one inside the room seemed to notice. He fumbled with the curtain, trying not to think about Wolfman’s cockhead pressing against the blonde’s puckered flesh. He was going to break it up. He scrambled for the office door, slung it open, and charged right into Dutch Winslow.

“Whoa! Better get your flaps down, Moe, or you’re going to take off.”

Moe sputtered he was so appalled. “Damn it, Dutch. Do you know what’s going on in the cub room?”

“Stay out of it, Moe.”

“Stay out of it? Listen, Dutch…”

Dutch grabbed Moe’s lapels and jerked him close enough to touch chin hairs. “No! You listen. When are you going to learn to keep your nose out of business that doesn’t concern you?”

Dutch’s outburst stunned Moe, but only momentarily. “Some things a decent man has to make his business, Dutch. A month ago I would have called you a decent man.”

“Come here, you fathead.” Dutch dragged Moe by his lapels back into his office and yanked back the midnight velvet curtain. For a split second, Dutch hesitated at the sight of Wolfman porking the little blonde’s ass. But he recovered quickly. “Look again, Moe. Do you know who these people are?”

Moe looked at Wolfman. He tried not to watch the man’s hairy ass cheeks clench and release as he pounded into the blonde. “I don’t recognize him.” Moe was still looking when Wolfman pulled his pecker from her ass. His fat cock left a gaping hole and a stream of lather trickled from its rim. Except for tremors in her upthrust flanks, the dame still didn’t move. 

“Not that fucker. The fucker that brought the girl. The man who lost the bet.”

Moe looked at Mr. Lucky. The man was still facing away from the one-way mirror. Apparently, he’d grown bored of the corner action, because he was casually shuffling the deck of cards and smoking his cigarillo. There was something familiar about the man, but from the back view Moe couldn’t place him. “I haven’t got a good look at his face.” 

“I’ll tell you who it is.” Dutch ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “That, Moe, is Councilman Karl Boch.”

Moe studied the man hard. When Moe had seen Boch with Lindbergh in the Cincinnati Enquirer, he knew he didn’t like Boch’s politics. When Moe learned Boch’s limo had frequented Schmidt’s cottage, he knew he didn’t like the company Boch kept. And now, as the little blonde straightened, her buttocks flaming red, while the son-of-a-bitch casually dealt the next round of cards, Moe decided he absolutely hated the bastard.



Rough Cut Ch. 13



Edited by Poison Ivan

Moe stared through the one-way mirror. The blonde hugged the wall as if it were her new best friend. A fine sheen of sweat crept over her body like untamed ivy. Her mussed hair stuck in the moisture at the sides of her face. The bastard that had browned the girl was back in his seat, pants zipped and buttoned, and stacking his winnings into piles, the girl already forgotten. The rest of the dirty half-dozen sat, waiting for the next round of cards, all eyes on the dealer.

The knot in Moe's gut squeezed tighter. There was the ordinary snake-in-the-grass type, and then there was its slimy underbelly. Karl Boch and his poker buddies slithered with the latter.

"Here take this." Dutch held out a glass with a double-shot of bourbon. "You look like you could use it."

Moe took the glass and knocked back a mouthful of the amber liquid. The expensive hooch burned, and Moe relished the inferno on its slow descent to the pit of his stomach. He studied the remaining booze as he spoke. "I had you figured for a different kind of politicking, Dutch. The games these Kraut lovers play could get you a cement overcoat."

Dutch shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't get a vote in this election."

Moe glanced over at Dutch. "Flamingo's is your place, ain't it?"

Dutch stood beside Moe, sipping his drink and staring through the mirror, avoiding Moe's eye. "Some people you just can't say no to." 

"Put that in writing, and I'll paste it in my scrapbook." 

Dutch opened his mouth, but then suddenly went mute. Moe was waiting for the straight dope, but something or someone stopped Dutch from dealing it. The sudden look of alarm smothering the club owner's face had Moe chasing his stare. In the cub room, the blonde number was doubled-over like a desiccated orchid. Streaks of bright red trickled down the inside of her legs and painted her ankles. 

Not one man at the table took notice.

"Holy shit! We've got to get an ambulance, Dutch."

Dutch grabbed Moe's arm in a death grip. "Damn it, Moe. I can't. The newshounds would get the call as quick as the meat wagons. If there's any publicity, Boch will shut me down."

The blonde was doing her best to impersonate a ghost - white enough to see through her. Her shoulder slammed against the wall like she expected to fall through it, but instead she crumbled to the floor. The fine sheen covering her body had progressed to a full-fledged sweat, and her eyes battled to stay open.

Moe spun away from the mirror. "The dame's going to bleed to death while those jokers take bets. And what'll we do? Stand by and watch like it's The Derby?"

"We've got to get her out of there," Dutch mumbled. 

Moe looked at his friend and finally recognized the man he knew. Dutch may not be a first class citizen, but he wasn't a shucker either. No girl's life was a throw-away, no matter what company she kept. It was good to hear Dutch agree.

"If you get her out of there, I'll take her," Moe said.

"If there's a scandal, Moe ..."

"No scandal. I know a nurse."

Dutch eyed Moe with a steady stare while grinding his teeth and clenching his jaw muscles. Moe knew him well enough to know a plan was gelling in Dutch's mind, and as soon as he had it figured out, he would act, and quick. Moe's inclination was to dash in, grab the blonde, and dash out. But Dutch had something else in mind.

"Follow me," he said. Dutch led them to the cub room door. He put his hand on Moe's shoulder and spoke calmly and firmly. "Wait here. Let me schmooze a little. I'll leave the door open, and if I need backup, you come in with guns blazing. You got me, Moe?"

Moe wasn't crazy about the odds—six hoods against two guys trying to do good. But Moe and Dutch had the element of surprise on their side, and there was a chance the thugs might want a babysitter help for their sick little plaything. 

Dutch slipped through the door, and Moe inched close and hooked an ear.

"Mr. Winslow, have you decided to join us after all?" Moe recognized Councilman Boch's voice from a radio speech after his renomination. Two years ago, Moe would have called the thickly formal voice dishonest. Now he'd call it sinister. 

Dutch could be smooth under pressure. "Hello, gentleman," he said. "I trust it's been a successful evening." 

The card gang mumbled their approval of the evening's proceedings. Moe got antsy. He pulled out his heater and checked its load. If he needed fire power, he wanted to be ready, and he didn't want to miss.

"Maybe I should take the dame and get her cleaned up," said Dutch. 

A hush settled over the room as if Dutch was hustling hymns to the heathens. Moe hoped the blonde was getting a long overdue bit of respect, but he was disappointed.

"Are you afraid of getting a little blood on your floor, Winslow?" The voice wasn't recognizable, but Moe's gut told him it was Wolfman. The winner of the last hand seemed to be every bit as low down as Boch.

"Stand up, Danja!" The command in Boch's tone was undeniable, but it was the name that got Moe's attention. Danja. The name Opal gave the woman who lived in the Over-the-Rhine cottage where this whole gig started. Moe's desire to get the dame out of there suddenly tripled. 

"We haven't finished our card game, Winslow. She brings me luck." Karl Boch was evil incarnate, there was no doubt about it. Disgust had Moe's trigger finger twitching. 

"You gentleman won't get much use out of her if she's just a heap on the floor," offered Dutch. A response that Moe couldn't hear had the men chuckling, but he got the gist of what the pissant meant. 

Moe's patience stretched tighter than a belly fiddle. Every second that passed, Danja lost more blood, and these bums were cracking jokes. The roscoe thrummed in his hand, almost begging him to use it, if only to wipe the grins off the sons of bitches' faces.

"All right, Winslow. Take her, and get her a bath. We'll play one round without her. The tramp should have told me it was time for her monthly." 

Seconds later, Dutch came out the door, carrying the blonde. Councilman Boch's voice drifted into the hallway after them. "I hope you boys won't mind a little red claret with your winnings." Dutch kicked the door shut, closing off the answer to Boch's outrageous remark. 

Moe's experience with women and their misery was fuzzy at best, but he knew enough to know whatever was going on with this dame was more than just her monthly cycle. Danja Bittners was even ghostlier than she'd looked through the mirror. Her lips were dry and chafed and the veins under her skin looked like a road map, but she was still able to whisper, "Thank you" to Dutch. 

Dutch tilted his head toward Moe. "Thank him. He's the guy playing my conscience today."

Her eyes shifted to Moe, and she tried to smile. Moe would have bet a C-note she came from class. But dangling limp and naked in Dutch's arms, she looked more like a street urchin—thinner than the gold on a weekend wedding ring. 

Dutch didn't pause for niceties. "C'mon, Moe. He's expecting her back." Dutch carried her to the far end of the hall. Moe checked the closed door behind them for a sudden turn of the knob and followed, his pistol ready,. The three of them stumbled into an unoccupied cub room. 

Moe stashed his revolver back in its leather and pulled the door closed. Dutch set Danja on the bed. Blood stained his arms and dribbled on the rug. Dutch stood paralyzed, looking at the blood and swallowing hard. Danja moaned and fell back to the bed like an empty puppet.

"God damned," Dutch croaked. 

Moe yanked open drawers and threw open doors looking for something to cover Danja's naked body. He finally found a blanket in the top of a closet. 

"Snap out of it Dutch, and help me get this around her."

Dutch cleared his throat and finally scrambled to help. Together, Moe and Dutch swaddled Danja like a newborn. When they were finished, she was wrapped too tightly to walk, but odds were she was too weak to stand, let alone run to save her own life. Moe lifted her up with one arm around her back and the other under her knees. He cradled her close to his chest. It was like carrying a baby chick.

Dutch opened the door and glanced toward the other cub room. The hallway was empty, and the door was still shut. He hurried to the service elevator. Moe trailed behind, carrying the girl and keeping an ear out for the sound of an opening door. 

The service elevator door eased open, and Moe hustled inside. "What will you tell Boch when he asks for her?"

The girl's blood was drying on Dutch's arm and shirt like an impressionist's painting, and Dutch was carefully avoiding touching it. "I'll think of something," he said.

"Better spin it good."

Dutch nodded and looked down at the caked blood on his stiff white shirt.. "Just get her out of here before I remember how much Flamingo's means to me."

The door closed and Moe shifted the weight of the girl in his arms. She was light but still heavy enough to strain his arms.

The elevator ride down was short and quiet. Danja was in and out, trying hard to keep her eyes open, and Moe was too busy thinking about their escape to chit-chat. When the elevator let them off, Moe rushed to the side entrance, far away from the grand arrivals at the front, holding her tight against his chest and breathing like a freight train. His car was parked discreetly in a nearby alley. He stopped and leaned against the brick wall twice to reposition the girl in his arms. The sight of the old Buick, hugging the curb, was like water at the end of a desert. He slid Danja into the front seat and jogged around to the driver's side. He checked his watch - only a few minutes had ticked off the clock since they'd taken Danja from the poker game. They'd been faster than he thought. But there was still no time to lose. Boch would be missing her soon, and Moe needed all the head start he could get. 

He'd been maneuvering the obscure back streets of Cincinnati all his life. It came in handy when avoiding traffic or slipping away from a patrolling black and white. He thought about dropping a dime and calling Mona first, but too much sand would drip from the hourglass. He turned up Reading Road and made his way toward the suburban area of Norwood. Mona's house was at least twelve minutes away. Thank goodness he'd looked up her address in the hours after the cops had let him go. He hoped she lived alone.

Moe glanced at the girl. Her eyes were open and watching him. "You're going to be fine, Danja," he said. "I know someone who can take care of you."

"What is your name?" Her voice was soft and weak like a newborn puppy - the runt of the litter – and thick with an accent. 

"Moe. Moe Gafferson."

Her eyelids fluttered. "You are the private detective who was hurt when Peter was killed, are you not?"

There were a thousand questions Moe wanted to ask, and he would have waited, but if the puppy wanted to yap, he was willing to listen. "What do you know about it, Danja?"

"Why are you helping me, Mr. Gafferson?" 

"Let's just say I don't like bullies, especially when they dress up like politicians."

Her head fell back on the seat of the car and her eyes began to leak. "Peter did not deserve to die." 

Peter Schmidt must have been some kind of schmoozer. What made the guy so special that he left women blubbering after him—first Kitty Winslow and now Danja? "Another dame told me the same thing a few days ago."

Danja went on as if Moe weren't there. "I am glad Rolf is dead. He was a horrible man."

"You won't get an argument from me on that one, sister."

"I tried to tell Peter it was not worth it."

"What wasn't worth it?"

"Too risky." Her words trailed off, and her head sagged to the side. 

She looked dead, especially in the dark of the night where no light could help her color. Nine more minutes to Mona's house, seven if he hurried. But Moe was afraid seven minutes was too long. He watched the road with one eye and looked for signs of life from Danja with the other. He held his hand in front of her mouth and waited. It seemed like an eternity before he felt the first breath puff across his fingers, but then another followed, and another. He pushed in the clutch, jerked into third, and stepped on the gas. With the jolt of the car, Danja's head flopped toward Moe. It managed to rouse her. 

"Peter?"

"No, Danja. It's Moe."

"Bruder, warum habst du mir nicht zugehört?"

Moe wasn't fluent in German, but he knew enough to know Bruder was brother. Then he saw it—the resemblance—same blond hair, same blue eyes. He downshifted around a corner and accelerated down an empty side street.

"Was Schmidt your brother?"

"Ja. Mein Bruder."

He screamed through one stop sign, and then another, barely missing a parked car. "English, baby, English," said Moe. "What did you warn Peter about? What was too risky?" 

Her pasty skin glowed in the dark as if it were neon. Her eyes clamped shut, and she moaned in pain. "He is a bad man," she slurred. 

Moe turned onto Dana Avenue to cross over to Montgomery Road, only to pull behind a cop car. "What was too risky, Danja?" He followed the cop car for a block and then pulled back off the main road onto the next side road and blasted through the residential streets.

"Die Diamanten."

"Diamonds? Did you say diamonds?"

"Ja ... Arrrrrrgghhh!" The scream curdled in her throat and rang in Moe's ear like the bells of St. Mary's. She slumped against his shifting arm like dead weight. And Moe tasted real fear. He tried to remember a prayer to Saint Anthony he might have learned decades ago. 

"Danja, can you hear me? Danja?"

When she didn't answer, panic nearly choked him until he realized he could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his arm. She was conked, but at least she was alive. He lurched around a corner and back onto the main road. Fuck the cops. He'd take the chance he could out run them. Six more minutes and he'd be at Mona's. 

Mona. Sweet, sweet Mona. If she didn't hate him already, she probably would after tonight. Mona was a grand dame, but even her compassion couldn't be expected to accept Moe showing up on her doorstep with a bleeding woman in tow.

He was three minutes away when he felt the warm, sticky wetness and smelled the iron-like aroma of blood. The seat of his car was saturated, and it had seeped through his pants to his bare skin.

Moe had seen a lot of blood in his days, including his own, but nothing compared to this. "Jesus," he said. His voice echoed like he was inside a tomb. A chill ran through his body and he tried not to shiver. He gripped the steering wheel and concentrated on breathing in and out. Two minutes to go. With Danja's blood running down his leg, he punched the pedal to the floor. 



Rough Cut Ch. 14



Mona Dale lived on a small street in a platted area of Norwood. Most of the houses were the already-cut-and-fitted types that were popping up all over America. Mona’s was no different—a story-and-a-half bungalow designed with bevel siding and painted yellow. The main roof sloped down over a large front porch that boasted two potted mums on stone columns. The architecture of the house had as many graceful curves as its occupant. 

The lawn was littered with fallen leaves in decaying shades of red and orange. Moe shuffled through them searching for the sidewalk that led to the front door. Danja’s slack body seemed even heavier with the blood saturated blanket around it, and managing the few steps up to the porch wasn’t as easy as it should have been. The night’s autumn breeze blew across Moe’s wet leg and left him cold. 

Carrying a half-dead girl had a way of disintegrating a man’s patience. He kicked at the door. “Mona, open up.” When she didn’t answer immediately, he kicked it again. The portico lamp switched on just in time to keep him from booting a third time.

A seasoned nurse like Mona was probably used to seeing a lot of blood, but not at midnight on her front porch. She swung open the door and said exactly what Moe was feeling. “Holy Mother of God!”

“Hurry, Mona. I need your help.”

Mona unlatched the screen door and stepped aside to let Moe and his bundle pass through. “She needs a doctor, Moe.”

“You’re the next best thing, baby, and there’s no time for debate.”

Mona motioned for Moe to follow her off to the right of the front door. “This way,” she said and led them up a short flight of stairs. “What happened to her?”

“I don’t know why she’s bleeding.”

Mona shot a look down at Moe’s pant leg. “Why are you bleeding?”

“I’m not.”

Mona’s eyes popped wide, but she held her tongue. She led them to a back room on the second floor and pointed to a twin bed in the corner. “Get that blanket off her while I get some supplies.” Mona yanked back the bedspread and then hurried out of the room.

Moe eased Danja’s body down on the crisp, white linens of the bed and worked at uncoiling the blanket from around her. Her pale blue lips and matted yellow hair stood out against her ashen skin. Moe had forgotten she was nude until he saw her under-ripened nipples flat against her chest. He’d nearly finished unwrapping the blanket when Mona rushed back in with rags and her medical bag. She stopped on a dime. “Where are her clothes?” The words scraped through teeth clenched so tight paper wouldn’t slide between them.

“There wasn’t time to find them …” 

Moe started to explain, but he’d just freed Danja’s lower body, and the only thing he could hear was the whoosh of his pulse rumbling through his ears. Once, in a slaughterhouse, Moe had seen something that might compare to the crimson, jelly-like lump that lay between Danja’s legs. Tiny unformed limbs protruded from the mass. Moe swallowed hard, gulping for air and forgetting to breathe out. “Is that what I think it is?” He tried not to revisit his dinner.

Mona cast a look of pure disgust Moe’s way. “Go downstairs to the kitchen and clean yourself up. I have enough to do without trying to step over you.”

Finally, remembering to exhale, Moe heaved a sigh. “I figure I can help. I’ll do anything you want.” 

“I think you’ve done enough already, don’t you?” There wasn’t an ounce of compassion in any syllable she spoke.

“Mona …”

She met Moe’s eye for the first time, and all he could see was a world of hurt. “Moe, it’ll be easier for me if you wait downstairs.” 

There was nothing he could say to that. At least nothing more important than Mona fixing up Danja. So he turned to leave. “Holler if you need me.”

* * *

Moe spent the next two hours doing nothing but squeaking shoe leather. It didn’t take long before he could find his way through the first floor of Mona’s house with his eyes closed: living room, dining room, kitchen—living room, dining room, kitchen. He could have walked to Kentucky and back by now, if he hadn’t been afraid of leaving the house. On the umpteenth trip through the kitchen, he decided to step out on the back porch. It was two o’clock in the morning, the moon was high. The neighborhood was sleeping, but someone forgot to tell the damn crickets. Their trilling song nagged worse than a mother. The shadow of two large crosses—clothesline props—stood silently in the backyard. Against the house was a good-sized pile of split maple. He grabbed a couple of logs from the woodpile and headed back inside. The fireplace in the living room was as good a project as any to occupy his hands, if not his mind.

Moe might have been able to ignore how the flames reminded him of Mona’s hair if the red-headed nurse hadn’t come down the steps just as the kindling flared up in a perfect flame. She looked tired—eyes heavy, hair mussed, clothes disheveled. In her arms she carried a bundle, supporting it like it was bone china. 

“I don’t know what to do with this.” She pulled the bundle tighter to her chest, and tears welled in her eyes.

“Is it …?”

“It’s a fetus.” Mona sniffled, “Maybe three or four months along.” 

“Four months? She didn’t even look pregnant.”

“Some women take awhile to show, especially if it’s their first pregnancy. Add that to poor health. It’s possible.”

This was out of Moe’s league. Cheating wives, one-eyed chumps, and sleazy politicians Moe knew how to deal with. But a baby born before it was ready was a different matter. “We’ll have to bury it, Mona.” His heart sank at the look of grief spilling all over Mona’s face. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

“It’s a girl.”

“You can tell that?”

She nodded and hugged the bundle.

“And Danja?”

“I don’t know. She’s lost a lot of blood, but I think the bleeding has stopped. It’ll be a day or more before we’ll know about infection.”

“And if there is infection?”

“Then she’s going to the hospital.” Mona’s green eyes blazed as she glared at Moe. “No matter what you say. She should be there now.”

“I had to bring her here, Mona. And I don’t know if the hospital is a safe place for her.”

“Not safe? Why?”

“Let’s just say her sugar daddy has too many connections.”

Mona blinked several times like she was flipping through a calendar and looking for the right date. “Then you’re not responsible for her condition?” she finally asked.

Moe shook his head and felt the tension in his neck pull at his muscles. “I may be a two-bit dick, Mona, but I would never do that to a woman.”

“My god, Moe. She’s undernourished and covered in bruises. She’s torn in places I don’t want to talk about, and she reeks of sex. What the hell were you doing with her?”

“Trying to save her without getting a friend in trouble.”

Mona held out the bundle. “You’re friends with a man who would do this to a woman?” She quickly cuddled the infant close again.

Moe rubbed his hands over his face, wishing he could say more and hoping through some miracle that Mona would understand. “It’s complicated. But believe me, Mona, the scut who is responsible for that girl upstairs is not my friend.”

“Then tell me what’s going on, Moe.”

“The less you know, the better.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Her face softened. She glanced down at the tightly wrapped dead baby in her arms. “You can trust me, Moe.”

Moe knew it was true. She’d stuck up for him. Mona could have turned her back on him more than once. For instance, when the cops hauled them into the clink house. Instead, she gave him an alibi. She could have put him out on his ear when he showed up tonight. And she could have called an ambulance at any time in the last two hours. But she hadn’t. Mona Dale was trustworthy. There was no doubt about it. But he’d made a promise to keep her out of it. Never mind that showing up at Mona’s house with Danja already kicked that promise in the rear. Moe was able to slim down his guilt by believing what Mona didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

“It’s not about trust, doll. It’s about bad people doing bad things to people who know too much.”

She stood there staring—eyes big and green—and too smart for her own good. “It’s a little late to pretend I don’t know anything. Isn’t it?” 

“It’s business, Mona. Ugly business.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fragile knick-knack. Not after I just spent the last two hours cleaning up that girl.” Mona stared at the carefully-wrapped infant remains in her arms. Teardrops sneaked down her cheeks in shaky rows. She let them drip off her face without embarrassment. “Just because I’m crying does not mean I’m fragile,” she said with indignation, punching each word like a shadowboxing pugilist.

“Baby, there are a ton of words I would use to describe you,” Moe said. “Fragile isn’t anywhere on the list.”

Mona glanced over at Moe with watery eyes and trembling lips. “We need to burry this girl, Moe. And when we’re done, you’re going to give me an explanation.”

* * *

With Mona’s direction, Moe found a food crate in the basement. Mona cleaned the crate and lined it with a piece of plum-colored velvet cloth from her sewing basket. Nailing the lid shut was one of the hardest things Moe had ever done. That is, up until he had to dig a six foot hole in the back corner of Mona’s yard. “Under the weeping willow,” she told him. In Moe’s eyes, shroud-tailors skipped a couple rungs up the ladder of do-gooders for their undertaking work.

After a good deal of back-straining labor, the digging was done. Moe laid the crate in the bottom of the grave. He felt a chill under the cool October sky when he dropped the first shovelful of dirt back on top of the homemade coffin. When he was finished, he crossed his body like the nuns had taught him eons ago, and he fell to his knees. He prayed if there was a God that He would forgive Moe and take care of the little girl Moe had just delivered into His hands. 

Moe dropped off the shovel in Mona’s shed and trudged back to the house. He could smell his own sweat. And Danja’s blood had dried, leaving his pants stiff and fetid. He felt dirty from the inside out. He stood on the back porch, waiting and shivering and hoping the breeze would blow off some of his stink.

The screen door creaked, and Mona slipped out beside him. She had bathed. Her skin was shiny and flushed and carried the scent of Ivory soap. She wore a white nightgown, the kind that buttoned from the neck to the toes, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. It made her look sixteen—fresh, unsullied, and sexy as hell. 

The contrast of clean versus dirty, or her versus him, settled into a battle of good versus bad in Moe’s mind. He looked away from her and pretended to find the log pile captivating. “You’ll freeze your ass off standing out here.”

She edged closer. “I’ll take the risk.” 

Moe wanted to think about anything but the picture perfect dame beside him. “How’s Danja?”

“She’s sleeping. I gave her laudanum.”

“She was awake?”

“Briefly. Earlier.” Mona fiddled with the buttons on her gown. “She told me how you rescued her.”

Moe glanced out over the yard to the freshly dug grave. He didn’t feel much like a rescuer and certainly nothing that should be thought of in glowing terms. “Did Danja say anything else?”

“Not really. She seemed relieved about the baby.” Mona put a hand on Moe’s arm. It was gentle and warm. “Moe, I’m sorry for assuming you were responsible.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It was an easy assumption to make, doll. I’m no angel.”

She pulled her hand away. The loss of contact made the night wind even chillier. “Let’s go inside, Moe.”

“I was hoping for a good rain.” Moe looked up toward the clear sky with its million stars hanging in place. “I could use a rubdown in water.”

“Will a sponge bath do?” Her giggle echoed in the night, and Moe could have sworn the crickets paused to admire the sound.

* * *

Mona sat on the forest green divan in the living room, sheathed in her white gown and looking like Gabriel without a harp, when Moe finished in the bathroom. The only light came from the fireplace, and the shadows from its fire danced across the walls in sybaritic jubilee. His shirt and trousers were missing—pinched while he wasn’t looking—so he settled for a hula skirt look with his towel. He held the edges together tight at his hip. “I could use some digs, baby.”

She languidly let her head fall on the back of the divan and gazed up at Moe with dark eyes—red-rimmed and slightly puffy. “I don’t know. I hear terry cloth is all the fashion on the runways of Paris.” Her smirk still let her come off looking like a hot number.

“You’re a riot, Doll, but I don’t think Costello is looking to replace Abbott just yet.”

She rose up from her seat and glided over in front of the fire. The fiery backlighting outlined her nudity beneath her gown like a Greek sculpture—curvy and smooth. “Your clothes are washed. They’re hanging up to dry.”

Moe felt a stirring no towel could hide. “Mona, a man can’t see you like this and not want to take advantage.”

“No expectations, Moe.” She gathered the gown in her hands and with a slow, deliberate motion lifted it over her head and let it slip to the floor. Unveiled, she made a classical sculpture look like modeling clay. 

Moe let the towel drop from his hips but stayed glued to his spot. Her mouth parted, and her eyes wandered over his body like she was memorizing for a test, but she didn’t budge. She looked her fill and then raised her eyes to meet Moe’s. Her face gleamed with undisguised desire. Moe understood. He had a craving of his own. And the longer they stood apart, the more his desire was stoked. He wanted her. He wanted her long, smooth legs wrapped around him. He wanted her tits playing patty-cake with his chest. And he wanted his cock seeking her heat and finding her fire.

In the past, he might have rushed and just taken what was being offered from a woman, but this dame had him going against his grain. He wanted to take his time, remember every second and employ every sense: the snap, crackle, pop of the fire, the smell of her soap and how it mixed with pure scent of woman; the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing speeded up; and the warmth of her hand when he finally grasped it in his.

“I feel drunk, Moe. Like I’m not real.”

“If you were any more real, baby, I’d implode.” 

They came together like puzzle pieces—her every curve molded to his every line. Their mouths locked. Their lips softened, and their tongues parried. Her hands slid down his back and over his ass, caressing and squeezing and encouraging him closer. There was only one way to get closer that Moe could see. He pulled apart from her and slipped his hands in her armpits, lifting her in the air. Mona went limp until she understood his intent, and then she spread her thighs, wrapped her calves around his hips, and hooked her ankles. He lowered her down slowly while she wiggled her hips to line up hole to pole. She threw her arms around his neck and held tight as Moe eased pussy and penis together. Her cunt was warm and wet and cozy, and her cunny-lips kissed the base of his shaft when he was in as deep as he could get. He wrapped his arms around her and they embraced. Intimately. 

Mona used all her muscles to squeeze, and Moe’s legs began to shake. He managed to slump to the floor, sitting flat-assed on the rug, bringing her with him without breaking the connection. 

“Is this right, Moe?” She rocked against him, forcing her breasts to swing up to his mouth. Her taut nipples poked at his lips and played catch-me-if-you-can.

“Does it feel good?”

“Yessss. Oh, yes.”

“Then it must be right, doll.” He caught one of her nipples and forcefully sucked it into his mouth. Her body tensed, and she moaned in pure pleasure. He teased and slurped until her nipple popped free, and her moan became more of a growl.

Moe leaned back until he was stretched out on the floor. Mona sat perched over him. Her creamy skin was flushed, and her breathing was hard and fast. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Ever ride a horse, Mona?”

“Yes.”

“Sidesaddle?

“Yes, but I’ve also ridden astride.”

“Well, doll. That’s what you do. Ride me like you’re riding that horse astride.”

It didn’t take long before Moe realized Mona was an accomplished rider. Rather than rising straight up, she pushed her hips forwards and upwards in a gentle thrusting movement, and then back down full circle into Moe’s saddle. Her back remained soft and supple and as soon as her ass touched, she was on her way up again in a continuous rhythmic motion. She was as good as any jockey at the Kentucky Derby. Better. She had tits that swayed, and a mouth that gasped in delight.

Her climax, when it came, was worthy of the winner’s circle—all oohs and ahhs and heavenly smiles. She fell forward, their torsos together, and Moe wrapped his arms around her, bucking against her, harder and harder, until sweat covered them both. His orgasm whipped through him like lightning. With the spurt of his jizz, Mona pushed against him, allowing her pussy to suckle his cock and milk every drop. 

Moe was exhausted. If he’d been standing, he would have collapsed. The sex hadn’t lasted long, but its intensity outweighed its duration. The dame was a thoroughbred, and Moe felt like a stud readied for pasture. 

Minutes later, Mona was snuggled against him, her head resting on his chest. Moe felt the smattering of teardrops.

“Someone break your doll, Mona?”

“What?”

“Why the tears?” he asked.

“It’s not fair that I should be so happy. Not with Danja in such bad shape.”

“Some folks are just born under a bad sign, Mona. Don’t beat yourself up.”

Mona rolled away and sat up. She reached for her nightgown. “I should go check on her.” 

Moe sat up himself. He didn’t want her to leave just yet. He didn’t want to lose her heat. “I thought you said she’d be sleeping.”

Mona stood to push her arms through the sleeves of the gown. “I need to see how she is. She lost a lot of blood tonight, Moe. And a baby.” 



Rough Cut Ch. 15



Rough Cut – A Moe Gafferson Mystery

Written by Desdmona Edited by Poison Ivan

Chapter 15

Moe was a light sleeper and had been ever since he was old enough to climb out of his crib. Most nights he could be roused by a cat tiptoeing on the roof. So he was surprised to wake up from his cramped position on the divan to find already Mona in the kitchen, all sharped up in her starched whites, fixing breakfast. He watched her from behind unnoticed until he drank his fill of her curvy silhouette. He startled her when he spoke, and flour mushroomed in the air from her dropped spoon.

"If you worked any quieter, doll, a fella would think his ears were on the fritz."

"Goodness, Moe. You scared the bejesus out of me."

"That's what happens to a girl who sneaks around."

"I wasn't sneak ..." She turned around and stopped mid-sentence. Moe hadn't bothered to get dressed. A morning rise hung semi-erect between his legs. The smile Mona tried to hide said she wasn't too appalled. "Your pants are cleaned and pressed. They're hanging over the back of the chair in the living room. I thought you'd see them there."

"I did."

She turned back to the counter, picked up the spoon, and continued to stir the batter she was preparing. "You really are incorrigible, aren't you, Moe?"

Moe refrained from showing her just how depraved he could be by opting not to touch his rod like he'd wanted to when she turned around with flour sprinkled on her face and carrying a flush from head to toe. "I've been trying to tell you that for awhile, baby. You've just had cotton in your ears."

"Get dressed, mister, before the milkman comes by and sees you standing naked in my kitchen."

"Milk? With cream on the top?" Moe deliberately lowered his voice. "I like licking the cream off my fingers."

Mona stopped stirring, but she didn't turn around. A little hiccup escaped from her throat, and a crimson blush crept up the back of her neck. "I'm scheduled to be at the hospital this morning, Moe."

"But what about Danja?"

"She's your responsibility today."

Panic screeched through his body and dealt a deathblow to his promising erection. "Stop right there, doll. Not this Joe," he said.

She turned around and pointed her spoon at Moe. "Get dressed, and we'll talk." Her words tinged with finality

Moe had no choice but to do as she asked. He'd already lost his erection, and he couldn't fight Mona, not this early in the morning, and not without any coffee. 

He trudged into the living room where the fire had burned out hours ago. Smoldering ashes worked hard to warm the room. The chill leftover put a damper on the heat of their coupling from the night before. But Moe had no trouble remembering Mona as an equestrian, using her flanks for strength, and riding him by firelight. 

Just as Mona had said, his clothes were laid out over the chair, as if by a snooty valet - neat and in order of donning. Her efficiency bordered on scary. He put his socks on first as a way to buck her system. When he finished dressing, he folded the coverlet she'd given him last night and draped it over the divan. Thankfully, she hadn't asked Moe to sleep in her bed. A relationship took on a different meaning the minute a man slipped under a frilly bedspread and got comfortable. It was like giving the okay to check out china patterns. He returned to the kitchen to find Mona laying out the grub. 

Moe scraped back a chair and took his seat. Sitting at a breakfast table, eating flapjacks, and drinking coffee with Mona was almost as domestic as a frilly bedspread, but Moe had spotted a set of china already gracing one of the cabinets, so he let himself relax. Besides, he was only there because of Danja.

Mona piled the pancakes high and drizzled syrup over a pat of melting butter. Moe licked his lips, sunk in his fork, and gobbled nearly a quarter of the pile before remembering what they'd been talking about. "Mona, I know from nothing about Clara Barton detail."

Mona spooned apple butter on a slice of toast and sipped at her coffee. "If she turns feverish, or her bleeding turns heavy. She needs help."

"These are not words in my vocabulary, doll." He crammed in another mouthful of flapjack. "Especially at a meal," he added after swallowing.

"Moe, do you know how to use a thermometer?"

"I watched you enough in the hospital. I might be able to do it, but not with any reliability."

"Stick the thermometer in her mouth. Under her tongue. Leave it in for five minutes and if it reads over a hundred degrees, call me. Do that every three hours."

Moe felt like a six-year-old afraid to ask his pop for a licorice. "What about ... the other?" 

"The other?" Mona mimicked the way Moe had whispered the words and giggled. "Is this the same man who was traipsing around my kitchen in his all-together a bit ago?" She rolled her eyes and then shrugged her shoulders like this was everyday yakking. "Just ask her."

"She'll know?"

Mona nodded. "I think so. She was groggy, but I told her what to look out for. She'll mostly sleep, but you should wake her up to take her temperature. And feed her Moe, she looks like a skeleton. She needs to gain some strength."

"Feed her what?"

Mona glanced around at the table still laden with homemade bread, pancakes, and fruit. "Do you really need step-by-step directions, Moe?"

Moe snatched an apple from the fruit bowl and twirled its stem. "I might baby, if it means you'll stick around a little longer."

"I can't. I have responsibilities. And the hospital is expecting me."

When Mona left to cover her shift at the germ house, it took a healthy dose of courage for Moe not to cling to her leg and beg her to stay. But there were some things a man just couldn't do. Begging topped the list. From the front window, like a child who couldn't go outside to play, he watched Mona get in her car and drive off. 

After twenty minutes of toying with the idea, Moe finally decided to check on Danja and made his way up the stairs. At first glance, the bed could have passed for empty. The hen was so small - she barely made a lump in the mountain of linens. Her pale face matched the white of the sheets, but her breathing was steady. Her Aryan hair was braided away from her face, showing off spiky lashes over closed eyes, and her heartbeat fluttered just beneath the parchment skin at the base of her neck. Moe put the back of his hand to her forehead. Her skin was warm, but not hot. He breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good.

He stole from the room, prowling down the stairs like he was gumshoeing, and made his way to the kitchen. Mona had left a pot of coffee on the stove and the Cincinnati Enquirer on the table. The smell of apple butter and maple syrup lingered in the air. Sitting at the kitchen table with his belly full of vittles, sipping fresh java and pedaling through a morning newspaper, worked on a man's sense of belonging. Careful Gafferson, Moe thought, wincing and glancing back up to the china in the cabinet. There was no denying this place was homier than any place Moe had hung his hat in a very long time. 

He stuck his nose back in the newspaper. Reading it was something he did everyday. A small article tucked away on page ten grabbed Moe by the shirt collar and jerked him back to his reality.

Maxwell Singer, prominent business owner of Singer's, was found dead yesterday morning. Apparent cause of death: natural causes.

Singer wasn't a fit man, but the timing of his death beat the door down on coincidence. The piece went on:

Mr. Singer had taken his lunch per his usual routine, according to shop seamstress Lois Pennington. Upon his return, he collapsed. 

They were dropping like flies: first Schmidt, then Metzger, and now Singer. The list of suspects was dwindling to one. The way Moe saw it, everything pointed to one man's finger on the trigger of the insecticide tool: Karl Boch.

Moe needed to know more about the councilman, more than just a newspaper headline saying how Boch was leading in the polls for the upcoming election. And he knew just where to get some answers.

He searched through the cabinets for a serving tray, poured steaming coffee into a second cup, slathered apple butter on a slice of homemade bread, and grabbed a banana. It was time for Danja Bittners' breakfast. He didn't relish waking up the chit, but she needed to eat, and Moe wanted a conversation. He hiked up the stairs, balancing the tray, without a care to being quiet.

The mound of linens had shifted, and Danja Bittners was sitting upright. Azure eyes, the color of a clear October sky, peeked over a sheet held up to her chin. There was a flash of innocence in the blue depths, like a little girl waking up for school. But then life rushed in and clouded them with its pain.

Moe set the tray on the night table. "You're not sleeping."

Danja let the sheet drop from around her chin, revealing a floral gown. The extra room in the bustline told him Mona had lent the woman some bedclothes. "I cannot seem to stay awake," she mumbled.

Moe knew exactly how she felt. Not much more than a week ago, he'd fought the same battle. "The medicine Miss Dale pushes will pull you dead to the curb. But it helps to dull the pain."

"It seems to have dulled my brain as well. How did I get here?" she asked.

If Danja didn't remember the details of last night, Moe wasn't obliged to fill her in. "You were playing cocktail girl at a poker game. You seemed to need a break." 

"A poker game?"

"Something set up by Councilman Boch."

"Karl was there?"

Moe nodded. "Him and some cronies I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley."

"I do not understand." Her brow furrowed like she was taking an IQ test. "I remember drinking a golden monkey."

"What's a golden monkey?"

She gave Moe a look he'd seen a thousand times in his life. A look that said Moe was a low-brow - no culture, no sense of style, and no money. "Golden monkey is tea. From China."

"You drink it often?"

"Every evening since ...." Grief swept across her face like tumbleweeds on the plains of Texas. "Every evening since my brother died."

"Peter Schmidt?"

"Yes. How d-did ... wait. Now I remember you. You are Mr. Gafferson, the man who was there the night Peter was killed." With the lamps in her brain finally switched on, her face performed a three-act play: the poker game, Moe's car, Mona's house. "I was bleeding. It hurt so badly. Another man carried me out. We were in a car, driving very fast. I was so cold."

"That's the Reader's Digest version."

Danja winced as she tried to reposition. Moe decided slow and easy would be the best route to follow. "How about a little breakfast? It's not Chinese tea, but it is damn fine coffee. Thanks to Mona."

She took the slice of bread, nibbled at its edges, and then washed it down with coffee. Any ape could see she was battling to stay awake, and Moe would gladly let her sleep, but not until he could douse a little of his own curiosity.

"Danja, last night you mentioned diamonds."

She set the coffee cup down, and it rattled on its saucer. She nestled back against the pillow and pinched her eyes shut. "I am really tired, Mr. Gafferson."

"Listen, doll, I'm in this up to my neck. Seems fair I should at least know what it is that's about to hang me."

"I do not even know you, Mr. Gafferson. For all I know, you may be a murderer."

"My knife wounds weren't self-inflicted, baby."

"Maybe not, but somebody killed Rolf Metzger. You had as good a reason as any."

"The line for that bus stretches as far as the eye can see, and you're standing right beside me, kid. He killed your brother." Moe leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, nonchalantly-like. "I wonder if the Cincy fuzz knows Peter has a sister who's missing him a whole bunch. Missing him so much she lapsed into her native German tongue, which she's doing her damnedest to cover up now." 

She sat straight up again and fiddled with the bed linens. "You cannot threaten me with the police. Karl has already taken care of that."

"You mean the Karl that had you practicing Greek last night? Yeah, he's a real gem."

"He has friends in high places. A lot of them."

"And you're getting to know them all, one-by-one?"

If Moe hadn't seen the scarlet flush attack her skin like a rushing infantry, he might have feared she had a fever. It was the most color she'd had since he first laid eyes on her. Her blinkers suddenly grew glassy with tears threatening to spill.  

"Karl Boch is a persuasive man," she said.

"What's he got on you to be so persuasive?"

She pawed at her eyes and shook her head. "You do not understand. He is protecting me."

"Doll, his kind of protection will get you a prime spot in the bone orchard. What's he protecting you from?"

"Deportation," she whispered like the word was venom across her lips.

"What you've got going here shapes up better than the homeland?" There was no need for Moe to point out the degradation of the poker game or the fact the dame was laid up due to a miscarriage. "Even with the war, I'd say it's a toss up."

"There is nothing in Germany for me. Peter was my only family. He said in America we would live like royalty. He had a plan."

"What was this plan?"

Danja sighed and gave Moe a pleading look as if to say, do I have to? When she got no response from Moe, she gave in. "Peter met a man who worked for a diamond company. The Luftwaffe is paying many francs for diamonds. In America, he said, we would take advantage."

"Cincinnati, Ohio doesn't strike me as any diamond capital of the world."

She stifled a yawn. "The gentleman from the diamond company told Peter there was a man in Cincinnati who was anxious to aid in the cause." 

"Councilman Boch?"

"Yes. Karl Boch." Danja gnawed on her lower lip and stared down at her hands cupped in her lap. "Karl moved us into a small cottage Over the Rhine ..."

"I know the place."

"Yes." She had the decency to look chagrined. "But you see there were no diamonds."

"Did Peter think they grew on trees around here?"

"Of course not, but he was led to believe it would not be hard to acquire them. And then one day, he brought Rolf Metzger to the cottage." Danja wrinkled up her nose as she said Metzger's name.

"Go on. My ears aren't full just yet."

"Peter refused to tell me the details." 

Her eyes were batting shut in rhythm. Moe knew she'd be sleeping again soon, no matter how much he pushed. He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets and paced the room like he was sizing it up for linoleum. It was time for a little bluff. "You can save the hot air, sister, I know about Singer's. Now give me the skinny as you know it. Details or generalities."

She swallowed and her frail neck looked as if it might break. "Peter had me go to Singer's to pick up the dress, under the guise it was especially designed for me."

"What was special about the design?"

She peered at Moe under heavy-lidded eyes. "You said you knew."

Moe shrugged. "So far you haven't told me anything I didn't know."

"The diamonds..." she hesitated, fighting back sleep or maybe fear. "They were in the dress."

Moe blew out his breath. Hot damn! The answers seemed so easy to see now. Now that he knew about the diamonds. "Where'd the glass come from?"

"Mr. Metzger acquired them through Appollonia's, the place where he worked."

"I know the spot."

She nodded and continued. "According to Mr. Metzger, it was not difficult. Wealthy men frequented the establishment on a regular basis. The keys to their businesses or locks to their safes were tucked in their pockets. A girl would keep the man busy while Mr. Metzger snuck in through a hidden panel, stole the keys, made an impression, and replaced the key."

"A clip joint."

"Mr. Metzger said it was a sure thing. Even if the men caught on, they could not go to the police."

Moe fiddled with the change in his pocket and continued to pace. It was all making sense. Kitty Winslow was wearing her dress from Singer's the night Schmidt was killed. She ran with it before the diamonds could be removed. A couple of days later, Dutch grabbed the dress and the fur, like a man following blind directions. Some muscle must have gotten to Dutch. Metzger? No, Boch. That would explain why Dutch let the poker game go on without rules. But why all the killings? Why did Metzger kill Schmidt? And why cancel Christmas for Metzger? And how did Singer's death fit in?

Questions swirled in Moe's head like a vendor catching cotton candy. A glance at Danja and Moe knew she was out of answers, at least for now. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth hung open like she was ripe for lilies. From the looks of the drool pooling between her lips, she'd be sleeping for a while.

Moe resumed his pacing downstairs. He'd be due for a new pair of Rockports before this gig was up. But what else was a man supposed to due while he was locked up playing nurse with hot leads burning a hole in his rubber?

A chat with Dutch might make him feel like he was accomplishing something. He put in a call to Flamingo's. Two minutes later, Dutch came on the line, blasting with both barrels.

"Where the hell are you, Moe? I've been calling your place every hour."

"Whoa, buddy, simmer down before the gasket blows. I told you I knew a nurse."

"You've got to get that broad to Boch."

"No can do, Dutch. She's laid up."

"I don't care if she's got one foot in the grave."

"Not a foot, but a baby."

"What?"

"She dropped a kid last night, only it wasn't time yet. Get the picture?"

"Jesus H. Christ."

Moe smirked. "Good luck getting one of the Holy Trinity to listen to Jack Nasties like us, Dutch."

"So all that blood wasn't just her monthly."

"Another few minutes and you would have been cleaning up more than just a little puddle in the cub room."

"Moe, if you don't get that dame healed, and quick, Boch's going to shut me down. He says he'll have the boys in blue here tomorrow unless Danja finds her way back to his side."

"Maybe I can reason with him," Moe suggested.

"He doesn't impress me as the reasoning type."

"I got something he wants though, don't I?"

"Look, Moe, this mug ain't a peeved husband looking to reprimand a cheating wife. He plays for keeps."

Moe wasn't used to hearing Dutch on the defensive. "How'd you get tangled up with this snake, Dutch?"

Dutch sighed. "He was going to use his contacts at the precinct to get Kitty fried, or so he said. Hell, she fucked up. But she didn't kill the man. I got a note saying he'd look favorably upon the whole thing if I turned over anything Kitty had acquired from her lover."

"Why didn't you go to the cops? Extortion doesn't look good on a public official."

"I thought about it. But Boch showed up with a couple of bulls, still in uniform, expecting to use the cub room, and I got the message that half the station was in his back pocket."

"Fuckin' shamuses. Half the department on the take, the other half clueless."

"Forget about Cincinnati's finest, Moe. You got to get the girl back to Boch."

"For now, the dame isn't going anywhere, Dutch."

The shuffling sound of padded feet on wooden steps stopped Moe in his tracks. He jerked around to see Danja Bittners propped up against the stairwell, her skinny frame drowning in Mona's nightgown like a single noodle in a bowl of soup.

"Are you talking about me, Mr. Gafferson?" she muttered.

Moe clicked the phone dead and hurried to her side before she spilled all over the steps. "Are you crazy, sister?" 

She wobbled against him. "I need to leave." 

"And go where?"

"There is a party tonight at the mansion. Karl will expect me to be there."

Moe tried to help her balance and then gave up when he realized how unsteady she was. He picked her up in both arms and pulled her against his body. Her arms went feebly around his neck. "He'll have to find himself another hostess." 




Rough Cut Ch. 15



"You do not understand," she whimpered against his chest. "This is not just a cottage party. This is a mansion party. I have to be there."

"No, you don't understand. The only place you're going is back to bed." 

Moe trekked back up the stairs with Danja trembling in his arms. Once he made it to the spare room, he deposited her onto the twin bed. 

"But the party ..."

"What makes this shindig so important?" Moe held on to her hand. It was as delicate as eggs shells.

Confusion mixed with the fear on her face, and she stumbled over her words like she was searching for English. "I-I am to be there. There are many guests. He will be angry." 

The hair on the back of Moe's neck bristled at the eerie way she spoke - detached and trance-like. She stared past anything Moe could see and tugged on the gown like a controlled marionette, exposing, first her thigh, and then her sex. She parted her pale thighs.

Moe followed the road map and felt the bile rise in his throat. "Is this the same kind of party as last night? At the poker game?"

Her azure eyes looked up at Moe, big and round and unreadable. "Ja." 



Rough Cut Ch. 16



Calling Mona home under the pretense that Danja needed her was a crappy thing to do, but Moe reasoned he had good grounds. Still, Mona was furious. The kind of gut-wrenching angry that starts in your labonza and cuts right through to your scalp. He figured he would pour on the charm later and try to get Mona to forgive him. His chances of succeeding were probably fifty-fifty.

“To hell with you, Moe Gafferson! You’ve got a lot of crust taking advantage of me like this,” she blazed. “I left my shift early for this!” Her fists were clenched and propped on her hips. They tightened even more as she spoke, like she was readying for a bout of boxing. What they said about redheads was one-hundred-percent true, at least for this dame. She was just upset enough to take a swing at him. Moe took a couple steps back.

“Mona, baby, I had no choice.”

“Don’t Mona-baby-me, you lousy, yellowbellied scoundrel. You had me worried to death, and all just so you could sneak out of here!”

“There’s more to it than that, doll, I swear.” Moe rushed toward the front door before she could take a breath and really lay into him. He stopped long enough to take a stab at smoothing the waters. “I don’t have time to explain. Just trust me this one last time.” 

Her shoulders relaxed, and Moe took it as a good sign. “Whatever you do,” he continued. “Don’t let Danja out of your sight. Sit on her if you have to.” 

He stole one last look at Mona as the door closed behind him. Her face flamed, her lips thinned, and her eyes spiraled daggers in his direction. She was one fired up tamale. But even in her anger there was a certain brazen sensuality to her that surprised Moe, inflamed him. He looked forward to making up with her. If she’d let him.

For now, Moe refused to let Mona, or anything about her, keep him from doing what he had to do. He needed to replace his smashed up Brownie with a brand-spanking-new camera. Karl Boch was hosting a party tonight, the kind of party that could make great newsreel for his opponent in the upcoming election. Some might call it blackmail. Moe preferred to think of it as insurance - insurance for himself, for Dutch, and for Danja Bittners. There was no way Moe was sending a kitten like Danja back into the hands of a man like Karl Boch. Boch may have her conned into believing she had no options, but Moe knew better.

* * *

Moe came out of Montgomery Ward’s with a Baby Brownie Special and some 127 film. It cost him a buck twenty-five, but it was worth it. It was a beaut of a camera.

Councilman Boch lived in Glendale, a suburb for the wealthy. The streets were lined with maples and oaks, and the homes fought for a place in architectural history. Boch lived in an elegant Queen Ann-Victorian mansion, built sometime before 1900, and situated on a prime corner lot. The scream sheets had photographed the place so many times it was nearly a regular feature. 

During daylight hours, Moe’s old Buick trolling up and down Glendale would look as out of place as a baseball in a curio cabinet, so he parked on a side street and made the hike through the neighborhood. This trip was just to get a feel for the lay of the land.

Boch’s mansion was a two-story joint, situated on the back half of the property and overloaded with windows. Just the way Moe liked it for his line of work. An unattached garage, painted the same red as the house, sat at the end of a cement driveway. The driveway was gated, most likely electronic. A six-foot wrought-iron fence encased the entire home. Luckily, on the back east corner, Moe found an oak with a branch droopy enough that, later, would help him over the fence. For now, he just walked around and made like a tourist, oohing and ahhing from all angles the divine architecture of the house.

He ambled back to his Buick with a plan sketched out in his mind: after the sun went down, he would park across the street from Boch’s mansion. Cars would be coming and going, thanks to the party, and a beat up Buick would practically fade into the darkness. Visitors arriving at the doorstep would also keep attention away from the perimeter of the property, or at least Moe hoped so. He’d climb the oak and drop down on the other side. The rest of the evening would be spent rubbernecking into those huge Victorian windows. With any luck, Moe would get snapshots worthy of front page news.

With a couple hours to kill, Moe drove back to his regular stomping grounds. Even though Glendale was touted for being as pristine as bleached summer whites, Moe felt cleaner back on Gilbert Avenue. 

Moe stopped off at Joe’s Diner. His belly told him there was a roast beef sandwich waiting there with his name on it, and Moe figured he could catch a little news while he was chowing. He was right about the sandwich - chunks of beef, roasted to perfection, went down like it was prepared for a king. Unfortunately, the broadcast news centered on the inner circle of politicians looking for re-election. Boch figured prominently. It left a bad taste.

The late dinner crowd began to fill the booths. Moe sat and sipped coffee until seven o’clock. He scooted from the stool, left Joe a nice tip, and walked out onto the downtown streets. The sun was low in the sky. It was time to return to Glendale. 

Evening traffic in Cincinnati could be counted to be one of two things: congested or a complete standstill. Moe had a magnificent view of the sunset. Unfortunately, it was while he was still twenty minutes away from Glendale and behind a line of thirty cars all turning his way. He loaded film into his new Brownie, stashed the extra rolls in his glove compartment, and checked and then rechecked his roscoe while waiting through one red light after another. Dusk had yawned and went to bed by the time he finally rolled onto Boch’s street. He had no idea what time the little soiree was due to start, but by the looks of the crowded driveway, Moe had arrived fashionably late.

He turned the corner and found the parking spot close to the oak he planned to put to use. The houses were far enough apart that no house lights shined directly on his Buick. The dark hid the rust spots that made his car scream “jalopy.”

Moe walked along the sidewalk until he was sure no one was watching. He checked his roscoe and his Brownie - both were secure in his pockets - and leapt up onto the lowest branch in the tree. He scooted along a heavy branch sidesaddle, and readied to drop to the ground. 

But just as he swung one leg over to make the jump, he spotted a couple of boys packing heat. Moe froze, his feet dangling and his hands clutching the thick branch.

The goons were dressed in dark suits and had typewriters with thirty-round magazines slung over their shoulders – heavy artillery for a friendly neighborhood. Moe held his breath and tried not to move. If Boch was using security with tommy guns, the councilman meant business. 

The pair stopped several feet from Moe’s tree. Moe glanced back and wondered if he could get to his car before the shooting started. He looked at the two goons again. If there was only one, Moe could probably take him. Or if they had less lethal firepower. But no way could he beat them both. His only chance was to hope they didn’t look up.

They lit cigarettes and bullshitted about their assignment

“How long we gotta keep circling the place, Al? I could use a brew.”

“Can it, Gus. You’ll get your sauce. Later.”

Gus gnawed at his cigarette, not really smoking it, and checked the magazine on his gun. “Same crowd here tonight?”

“Looks that way.” Al took a long drag off his cigarette and then flicked it away. “C’mon. We don’t want the boss catching us taking a break.”

Gus took a couple hurried puffs and then dropped the cancer stick at his feet, stamping it out with the heel of his boot. “Fuck, he’d string us out for sure.”

Moe waited until their shadows were long gone before he let himself breathe again. He dropped out of the tree and crouched low to the ground. He would have to keep an ear out. Al and Gus would make snooping around the windows a lot harder. 

Luckily, Boch had made good use of landscaping. Trees plagued the property, giving Moe cover as he serpentined toward the house. A smattering of windows were dimly lit, but all of them had draperies. Draperies pulled so tight together that Moe couldn’t see a thing, let alone point a camera. He circled the house, ducking between bushes and behind trees, and found the same thing on the other side: massive windows, but all blocked by curtains. 

That left him with one option. He had to find a way inside. 

Moe retraced his steps, jiggling windows that had no lights and avoiding those that did. He came up empty until, just for kicks, he followed a concrete sidewalk that led to a side door. The outer screen door was latched, but the inner door was cracked open. Moe pulled out a penknife and, with the open blade, lifted up the hook and eased it out of the eye. It made a small tinkling sound. He glanced around, checking for Al and Gus. Boch’s boys were no where in sight. With the coast clear, he opened the screen and shoved past the inside door. 

Inside was a small mudroom - farm sink with an oversized basin on one side, a potter’s bench on the other. Beyond the mudroom was a corridor with dark mahogany ceiling and side panels. From a kitchen off to the left, Moe heard the banging of pots, the baritone voice of a man lauding the praises of russet potatoes for a hot potato salad, and the giggling voice of a female. 

The right corridor was longer, with low-key lighting. Moe stepped into it and followed it to its end. A heavy door, made from the same mahogany as the hallway, was closed. There was nowhere else to go. Moe pushed it open a crack. The room beyond was a brightly lit, grand dining room with a built-in buffet and a large, Chippendale-style table and chairs. But the eye-catcher in the ornate room was an intricately designed stained-glass-window depicting scenes from ancient Rome: Bacchus in a vineyard; toga clad men, laurels wrapped around their heads, with nearly naked women groveling at their feet; and Venus, playing with her boy Cupid. Moe shook his head. One man’s pornography was another man’s art.

The room was empty, but recently so. The table still showed remnants of a concluded meal. Moe figured servants would be making their way in to finish the clean up any minute. He had no choice but to take a risk. He slipped into the dining room and rushed to another hallway opposite. The passageway took him towards the front of the house. As he neared a pair of paneled doors, he heard classical music whining from a Victrola. Moe stopped and waited to hear voices chinning politics, dishing dirt, or maybe a few poker game rants. Instead, there was just the music and an occasional soft moan. 

As Moe inched toward the door, other sounds became clear: grunts, groans, and slapping flesh - the distinct kind of slapping heard only from a four-legged frolic. He peeked into the room and nearly had to sew his jaw back into place. Scenes like this could only be seen at movie houses. And even then, only a movie house opened after midnight and featuring stag films.

French antique furniture had been shoved toward the walls, forming a periphery that resembled Conestoga wagons circled for an attack. At the front of the room sat the lone piece of furniture still in play: a throne the likes of which only the pope or a king would own, decorated with mother-of-pearl inlay, elaborately carved with Empire style lions beneath the arm-rests, and polished to a high sheen.

Sitting on the throne, without a stitch of clothes, was Karl Boch. Everything about his lean, naked body was firm - the hard line of his jaw, the honed muscles of his abdomen - everything, that is, except the flaccid bit of manflesh between his legs. It hung soft, like a sock on a clothesline.

On one side of the room stood a row of men, two of which Moe recognized from the poker game, all of whom were naked. On the other side of the room, as if preparing for a sexually perverted game of Red Rover, stood a line of girls, equally nude. Every one of them was blonde. 

In the center of the room came the source of the grunts and groans echoing in the hallway. The pair was sprawled on the huge Aubusson rug: an older, paunchy gentleman exchanging a bit of hard for a bit of soft with a mouse barely old enough to be wearing nylons. The man’s mouth gaped open and his face shined with sweat. Her legs pointed straight up into the air, and he held her by the ankles. As he pumped into the girl, he breathed like an old Ford with a leaky head gasket. Every pair of eyes was glued to the duo. 

Moe would have snapped a picture, but the only good angle was towards the fuckers on the rug, and neither one of them was Boch. Any kind of a good shot was going to have to come from a better watchtower. The only option was to drop to the floor, duck behind the furniture, and crawl into the room. With the furniture shoved against the walls, he had plenty of hiding places. He set his sights for a 19th century Provencal settee, upholstered in a lush red. It’s high back, low seat, and short legs would make a great screen. Other than a short gap between the settee and a hunt board with a polished, black slate top, his route was completely screened from the party.

Moe quickly ducked inside the room and crouched behind a sofa. He crawled around to the hunt board and stopped. The gap to the settee was short, but wide open. If they weren’t paying attention, he could cross the gap unseen. But if they were looking the wrong way at the wrong time … 

As if on cue, the old geezer gave a whale of a yell and Moe scooted behind the settee. He scrunched down between the wall and the small couch and took the opportunity to take a much-needed deep breath. He’d gone unnoticed and apparently, the old man’s yell had been the finale of the show. The old boy pulled out his shriveling meat and a round of applause ensued. Not a Ted Williams-homer kind of applause but a stuffy, thank-you-for-that-nice-harpsichord-solo kind of applause. Moe pulled his camera from his pocket and wound the film. He snapped a picture, making sure to include Boch perched on his throne in the background. Moe hoped there was enough light to make up for the lack of a flash.

The geezer shuffled up to Boch and said a few words that Moe couldn’t hear. Boch nodded his head, and the old boy made his way out the door, passing close to Moe’s hiding spot. The man looked familiar, and then it hit Moe. The line of dirty politicians was getting longer. The old geezer was the other councilman in the Cincinnati Enquirer shot with Lindbergh and Boch. 

Moe glanced back at the party. The men were lined up in order of age - oldest to youngest. Apparently, age was rewarded in this game. Each man sported an erection. The younger men’s roaring jacks were free willing - hard, ruby-headed, and supported by nothing but their libidos. Most of the older guys needed a hands-on approach to maintain their stiffies. Karl Boch remained unaffected and limp.

In contrast, the women stood almost zombie-like, with vacant eyes that reminded Moe of Danja at the poker game. The gal who’d just been fucked joined her sisters, standing calmly in line, semen spilling down her legs. 

Boch nodded towards the men, and the next man approached the throne. He was one of Boch’s poker buddies, flabbier than the young studs in line, his hair graying at the temples. His naked ass jiggled as he kneeled down at Boch’s feet. Boch watched stonily as the man pressed his lips to the tops of Boch’s feet.

The men marched up to Boch one by one, each one planting a kiss on the faux-king’s feet before Boch waved him away without a word. Once he was granted leave, each man made his way down the line of women to choose a mate. Before choosing, the men tested the girls by grabbing and twisting a tit, or pawing their pussies, or rubbing an erection in their tangle of pubic hair. It reminded Moe of a cattle auction.

After everyone had paired off, each couple found a niche on the Aubusson rug. They knelt side-by-side, with eyes facing forward like a room full of school children. One lone dame remained in line beside the throne. Boch motioned for her to come forward, and she obeyed. She knelt before him and kissed his feet, just as the men had done. When she stood, her arms were stretched out to the side, and her feet were apart, as if aping an airplane. She slowly turned, three hundred and sixty degrees, while Boch and the others looked on. 

Moe was so wrapped up in the action, he nearly forgot why he was there. He focused his brownie on the naked girl and punched the button.

When she had finished her exhibition, Boch nodded and the quail walked over to the corner where a burled, three-door armoire filled the space. She opened its doors and removed a mahogany box the size of a bread basket. She carried the box to a side table near the Victrola. She left the box long enough to replace the LP on the Victrola. New music began to build. The girl moved back to the mahogany box. She opened its lid, but Moe couldn’t make out its contents beyond a purple velvet lining. Her body swayed with the music - slow, gradual, and rhythmic. 

She began to remove things from the box. First, a cruet - half full of a clear liquid. Next, came a white cloth that favored a man’s handkerchief. And finally, she lifted out the coup de grâce - a leather belt with a large ivory phallus attached.

The music played on and every so often another instrument was added to the orchestra’s rhythm, gradually building towards crescendo. Moe didn’t know much about classical music - he preferred the jazz sounds of Count Basie or Duke Ellington - but he had to admit there was something about this particular tune that had his blood pumping. A quick glance at the couples proved they were affected as well. Apparently, it was the girls’ responsibility now to keep the pricks hard. Their fingers stroked the erections, fumbling, squeezing, and caressing. The men in turn searched and found the intimate spots of the girls. They were primed and ready, but no one took the next step.

In contrast, Boch was still laden with a dominie-do-little and two dry balls. The girl carefully lifted the fake dong over her head and held it high for everyone to see.

Moe had heard of this kind of thing - a pixie who couldn’t get it up unless his blowhole was plugged - but he’d never been an eye witness before. Taking pictures of a fairy with a bone in his ass wasn’t Moe’s idea of a lot of fun, but it was the kind of picture that would be worth a lot of gold. 

The blond Jane carried the phallus to Boch. He ran his hands over the rounded head of the ivory tusk and down along its length, masturbating it in time with the music. Moe nabbed another picture. Boch stood up, and Moe expected him to assume the hound dog position. But instead he took up the same airplane pose that the dame had adopted earlier: arms outstretched and feet apart. As the music built to its crest, the blonde wrapped the belt around Boch’s hips and fastened the leather buckle. The horde of partakers cheered. Boch stood proudly with the ivory dildo jutting out from his crotch, and he raised his hands high in the air like a Roman god in front of his mortal disciples. 

The female assistant had worked her way over to the table with the handkerchief and cruet. Boch gained his fill of the cheering accolades and finally sat back down on his throne. He spread his legs lewdly. The crowd roared again. One of Boch’s nuts hung below the edge of the dildo like a misplaced goiter. Moe focused the viewfinder and snapped the shot.

Boch turned his head toward the girl and nodded. She slowly walked over to him, carrying the last two items from the box, and placed the cruet into Boch’s outstretched hand. He fingered the tiny bottle like a lover and finally opened it. He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply, and then tipped it over the dildo. Oil drizzled down its bone-colored sides. Together, Boch and the blonde worked at spreading the oil over the full length and breadth of the dildo. When they finished, Boch took the handkerchief, wiped his hands, and then tossed it to the floor. The chit rubbed the oil from her hands onto her cunt until her pubic hair glistened and her fat lips shined. 




Rough Cut Ch. 16



Boch reached for the girl. She spread her arms as if on a crucifix, and he lifted her into the air. He held her straddled above him, and she spread her legs. Then little-by-little, with his arm muscles straining, Boch lowered her onto the ivory. The fake cock forced open her cunny lips. When only half of the dildo had disappeared inside her, drums were suddenly added to the music’s orchestra, pounding and beating and thumping out the rhythm. The couples took up the beat, clapping their hands in time, over and over. The volume rose. Sweat dribbled down the blonde’s back and her legs shook. And Boch held her still, the white dong half inside.

A syncopated beat crossed up the clapping, and the men and women suddenly froze. The music stopped. Every eye focused on the girl poised above the ivory shaft. 

Finally Boch released his hold and let her drop. Her guttural shriek pierced the room. Immediately, the couples began to copulate. Fucking like rabbits in a time warped Roman orgy. The music pounded louder than ever.

The girl fell limp as a sock. Boch cackled, thrusting into her comatose body, supporting her with his pasty, muscular arms. The ivory cock streaked with blood.

Moe was out of film and pumped full of gall. He crouched as low as he could get, scooted past the hunt table, and out into the hallway. The smell of sex followed him like a pigheaded posse. 

He raced down the hallway toward the dining room. A quick peek around the door showed the dinner table completely clean and the lights turned down. Moe counted his lucky stars and slipped through the room into the back corridor. Everything was quiet. All except the faint sound of the Victrola behind him. He rushed back to the mudroom and out into the cool night, thankful to breathe in its clear, crisp air. 

Moe had lived a long time in his thirty years, been around a lot of seedy people, but nothing compared to the evil that lived inside that house. The curdling scream of the girl as she was brutally impaled still rang in Moe’s ears. 

The moon and the stars were hidden behind clouds, making it darker than most nights but lessening the chance of shadows. Moe glanced around for Al and Gus, but they were nowhere to be seen. He considered just making a run for it but decided to wait until the Bobbsey Twins passed by on their roundabout. He did his best to blend into the side of the house, letting his pounding heart tick off the seconds. The longer he waited, the more his gut told him to run. After twenty minutes, he decided to listen to his gut and headed off toward the corner of the lot.

He reached the oak and realized it would be a little harder to climb it from this side of the fence. He jumped up, grabbed onto the lowest branch, flung his leg up and worked to right himself. He was almost there when he heard the voice behind him.

“Hey, Mack, we don’t like monkeys in our trees.”

“Yeah, we don’t like monkeys,” echoed either Al or Gus. It was hard to remember who was who.

Moe contemplated diving over the fence and taking his chances of getting to his car, but a wrought-iron fence didn’t offer much hope for bullet-proofing, especially if those bullets were coming from a tommy gun at the speed of sound. He was good and caught, and he knew it. So, he did the only thing he could do. He stashed the brownie in the crook of the branch and dropped down. Any luck of taking out one of the thugs was gone when they stepped back a couple of feet as he hit the ground.

Moe stood upright and brushed the dirt off his hands. He flashed them what he hoped was a let’s-be-pals smile. “So, either of you boys got a light?” he asked.



Rough Cut Ch. 17



“Start yakking, Mack. Who are you and what were you doing in that tree?” This came from thug number one. 

Moe brushed off the bark from his hands and straightened his jacket.

Thug number two chimed in. “Maybe he’s a pussy, Al. Pussies like to climb trees.” 

Thug number one, Al, was middle-aged, thin-faced, and wore a permanently tired expression. He wasn’t a big man, but the tommy gun extending from his paws gave the illusion that he was. He wore the same brown suit as Thug number two, who must be Gus, like they’d graduated from the fashion school together. Gus was younger, broader, and by all accounts, dumber. But the firearm in his hand didn’t look any less threatening.

“I asked you a question, boy. When you don’t answer, I gotta figure you’re itching to wear lead buttons on your vest.”

Moe searched for an answer. Nothing but sarcasm came to mind. “I’m an arborist.”

“An arborist? What the fuck’s an arborist?” Gus looked at Moe, and then over to his buddy. “What’s an arborist, Al?”

Al kept his eyes and his heater pointed at Moe. “Apparently, an arborist is the same thing as a bull-shitter.” He glared at Moe through slanted eyes as he spoke. It was the kind of look that said this gorilla meant business. So Moe answered. 

“I heard there was a party tonight. I lost my invitation.”

Al had the muzzle of his gun jammed into Moe’s chest before Moe could flinch. “What do you know about it?”

Moe lifted his hands in surrender. “Whoa. Hold on. No reason to blow a gasket.”

Al rammed the cold metal harder into Moe’s sternum. “I got a twitchy trigger finger, Mack. Better not test it.”

“I heard about the party from a good-looking blonde.” Moe slowly lowered his hands and eased them into his trouser pockets. “She said she was supposed to be here tonight, but she wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“I think he’s talking about Danja, Al.”

“Shut up, Gus. And you…” Al tapped the gun up against Moe’s chin like he was tapping the ashes off a cigarette. “Get those hands out of your pockets.”

Moe eased his hands out of his trouser pockets and held them back up. Al had the look of a caged tiger, itching to pounce but willing to bide his time. He wouldn’t ace an Ivy League exam, but the thug was smart with instinct. Moe considered his words carefully. "Yeah, you could say Danja sent me," he hedged.

“The boss is gonna want to see him, Al.” Gus said. Al was the brains of this duo. Gus, on the other hand, couldn’t pass an eye test. The man’s head was filled with rocks, but he was still dangerous. Tommy guns gave a man an edge when on a level playing field he’d be outclassed. As if to prove Moe right, Gus let his gun hang loose in his grip, forgetting to point it at Moe.

“I said shut-the-fuck up, Gus. And get that gun up, you fuckin’ moron!”

Gus jerked the gun back into position, aimed straight at Moe. His finger twiddled the trigger like a kid gaming for a turn. Moe wasn’t sure Gus had enough smarts to know how the trigger on a tommy gun worked. Moe decided to distract the overgrown baby Hughie.

“Maybe Gus has a point, Al. Maybe I should see the boss.”

Al used the tip of his gun again against Moe’s chest, tapping out each syllable. “Listen, Mack, I’ll say when and if you see the boss. You got that?” Al took a step back but kept his firearm pointed at Moe's heart. His finger caressed the trigger like a long lost lover. "Shake him down, Gus." 

Gus slung his gun over his back like a knapsack and patted Moe from shoulder to ankle. He discovered Moe’s gun and pen knife. “He’s packing, Al, but it ain’t much. A measly Boy Scout knife and a Roscoe.” Gus crammed both weapons into his suit pockets.

“Hand me his wallet, Gus. Let’s see who this clown is.” 

Gus worked his kielbasa-like fingers into Moe’s back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed it to Al.

“Keep your gun on him.” Al said.

Gus, playing private to Al’s sergeant, grabbed his weapon and yanked it forward, aiming it toward Moe. 

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got fat fingers, Gus?” asked Moe.

“Only the ladies.” Gus guffawed at his own joke.

“Well, would you look what we got here.” Al had the wallet open and was fingering Moe’s tin. “We’ve got ourselves a private dick.” 

Gus whistled. “A private dick, you say?”

Al drew out the few bucks Moe was carrying. "Looks like the snooping business ain't paying too well these days." He squinted in the darkness, trying to read the name on the license. "Gafferson." Al stuffed the couple of sawbucks into his inside suit pocket and then smirked at Moe. "They looked a little lonely. I got some friends they can join." 

Luckily, Moe had stashed most of the payoff from Dutch at home. It was dwindling on its own. If he'd been carrying it, chances are Al would have made it extinct. "You're all heart, Gus.”

The sound of an engine turning over interrupted their get-to-know-you bash. Another engine quickly followed, and then another. Three pair of headlights flashed on, one right after another, like an Edison parade lighting up the front of the Victorian mansion, three pair of headlights flashed on, one right after another.. 

“Ah, what a shame, looks like you missed the party,” Al said.

Moe kept quiet. It was no skin off his back if the goons believed they’d caught Moe coming and not going.

The sound of traffic had Gus even antsier than he’d been. He shifted on his feet and kept glancing out to the road. “The boss man will be pissed if we don’t bring this sucker to him, Al.”

“Hold your horses, Gus.” Al tossed the empty wallet back to Moe and straightened his suit coat. “We’re not in any hurry. Let the party-goers leave.” 

“Oh yeah, good thinking, Al. We’re not in any hurry. Let them party goers leave.” Gus was the kind of ape who made teachers feel like underachievers. His brain wasn't made for learning. The only thing the guy had was his muscle, but there was plenty of that. Mr. America should be so lucky.

But Moe never did like bullies, and the dumb ones like Gus made it easy to take a jab. Before he could think, the words were out of his mouth "Got a cracker for your parrot, Al?" 

Moe was on the ground in an instant, seeing stars and rubbing his chin where Al's tommy gun had upper cut him. 

“You best just shut your trap, Gafferson, before I forget my manners.”

Moe shook his head to loosen the daisies that were popping in his brain. At least his teeth weren’t rattling. He should have known Al would defend his gangster buddy. It was practically protocol.

Gus pushed up his sleeves and balled his fists. “Let’s rough him up a little, Al.”

“Nah, just keep the gun on him while I light up a smoke.” 

A couple of blinks later and Moe was able to focus again. Gus's attention was already drifting and Moe thought he might be able to take him. But Al was a different story. The smaller man took his job serious, and men like Al – wiry and instinctual - had fast reflexes. And even a puppet like Gus could get off a lucky shot. Moe wasn’t looking to add any lead poisoning to his belly. So he waited. 

Al shook a Lucky Strike out of the fag box and used a shiny silver lighter to get it going. He sucked and puffed leisurely drags and made smoke rings with his mouth. From the house, more cars started and left. Eventually, nothing but the smacking of Al’s lips, making love to his cigarette, could be seen or heard.

Moe would have stayed on his ass, but the day’s humidity had settled on the grass and left the ground soggy. He stood up and held a cold, wet hand to his already-swelling chin. Gus, momentarily vigilant, and with his chopper poised and ready to fire, followed Moe’s every move.

Al finished the gasper and flicked it in the air. Its smoldering butt sputtered out when it hit the wet grass. “All right, Gafferson, let’s go. Time to meet the big boy.”

Al and Gus played like engine and caboose with Moe as the cargo as the three of them walked toward the house. Gus poked his tommy into Moe’s back every few feet like he was tossing coal on the fire. 

The mansion was set far enough back on the property that the front was hidden from the street. As they neared the porch, only the portico lamp offered any light. The cars that had jammed the driveway were gone. 

Al punched a buzzer attached to the doorframe - two quick taps, a pause, followed by another quick tap - like a code. Then he pushed on through the large, leaded glass doors. Moe and Gus tagged along. The entryway was made of Italian marble and led to an ornately carved hallway. The ceilings were quarter sawn red oak and reminded Moe of a European castle. An oak credenza was parked on the left with a vase of oversized chrysanthemums filling up its top.

It took Moe a couple of seconds to get his bearings. The room where the ritualistic orgy had taken place was more toward the center of the house and on his right. Al and Gus led Moe to a front parlor to the left, through a big door and into a parlor. The parlor had thirteen foot ceilings with exposed walnut beams, built-in bookcases, and a marble tiled fireplace with a pillared mantle. Antiques that rivaled the rest of the house dotted the floor plan. The room stunk of money

Al pointed to a beige-upholstered armchair. “Have a seat, Gafferson.” 

Moe did as he was told. 

“Tie him up, Gus,” Al added.

Gus opened up one of the drawers of an 18th-century buffet and pulled out a roll of twine.

Moe shook his head. “This place seems a little hoity-toity to be storing twine in an antique buffet.”

“Just never you mind, mister,” Gus said. He yanked Moe’s hands behind the back of the chair and wrapped the twine around Moe’s wrists several times. It dug into his skin and nearly cut off the circulation.

Once Moe was secured, Gus and Al propped their guns against the wall and waited.

Minutes later, Karl Boch walked into the room. Thankfully, as far as Moe was concerned, he’d taken the time to dress in a pair of slacks and a smoking jacket. Moe had seen enough of Boch’s naked body to last him a lifetime.

“What’s this all about, Al?” Boch stared hard at Moe, but no sign of recognition etched his face.

“Found him trying to sneak onto the property by way of a tree in the back corner.”

Boch made his way over to a smoking table and picked up a Meerschaum pipe. Using the reamer tool on his smoker’s companion, he loosened up the tobacco in the bowl of the pipe and lit it. Immediately an aromatic, woodsy smell filled the room. “I trust this tree will be taken care of.” He spoke like a gentleman, but Moe knew better.

“Sure, Boss. First thing tomorrow.”

“Do we know who this trespasser is?”

Gus piped up. “He’s an arborist.”

Boch shot a dagger at Gus that would have made a smart man cower. Gus wasn’t a smart man. “You know, Boss, a bull-shitter.”

Al interrupted before the killing look from Boch could turn into a command. “His name is Gafferson. Moe Gafferson. And he’s carrying around a private dick license.”

At the mention of Moe’s name, one of Boch’s eyebrows arched and then settled quickly back into place.

“He knows something about Danja, Boss.”

That bit of news got an immediate reaction that didn’t leave Moe guessing. Boch rushed over to Moe and leaned close to his face. “What do you know?” The smell of pipe smoke couldn’t cover the crisp smell of sex and blood that lingered on Boch’s body. “Where is Danja?” he demanded.

Moe tried not to gag. “You mean now? I got no way of knowing.”

Boch eased back and straightened his smoking jacket. He puffed on his pipe and stared at Moe.

Al chimed in. “She told him she wasn’t going to make it to the party tonight, Boss.”

Boch nodded and tapped the bit of the pipe against his teeth. “It seems Mr. Gafferson needs some help remembering, Gus.”

Gus landed a quick jab to Moe’s cheek. Moe didn’t think. He just reacted. His booted foot landed square into Gus’s cojones. Gus turned every shade of pale, dropped to the floor, and grabbed his crotch, instantly speechless and unmanned.

Two quick punches from Al sent Moe, chair and all, careening backwards to the floor. Moe tried to work his hands loose, but they were tied too tight. Karl Boch sidled up close to Moe’s head and jammed his foot against Moe’s throat, pressing until Moe’s windpipe threatened to collapse. 

“We can do this easy, Mr. Gafferson. Or we can do this messy. It’s totally up to you.” Boch wasn’t speaking like a gentleman anymore.

With his air passage blocked, Moe’s head was about to explode. The ringing in his ears kept him from hearing exactly what Boch was saying, but he could see his lips working. Pain shot through Moe’s lungs and tried to escape through his eyes. He managed to nod just before his lights went completely out.

Boch removed his foot. “Set him up straight boys.”

Moe gasped for breath, coughing and sputtering like a tuberculosis victim. Gus was still battling with his ability to stand, but he managed to hook a hand in Moe’s armpit and with Al’s help, they sat Moe upright. Just as they’d righted him, Gus rammed his elbow into Moe’s ribs. It lacked Gus’s full strength, but was still enough to have Moe hacking again.

Al and Gus avoided the furniture and settled back against the wall like a couple of guards at Buckingham palace. Boch took a seat in the Rosewood tub chair that flanked the smoking table. He crossed his legs and smoked on his pipe, a man of leisure while he waited for Moe to catch his breath. 

Moe cleared his throat and swallowed hard against the burning in his esophagus. He used the time to work on a Grimm’s he could tell to Boch. It worked in Moe’s favor that Boch hadn’t realized how bad off Danja was at last night’s poker game.

“Now Mr. Gafferson, about the blonde.”

Moe fought the tickle in his throat and struggled to talk. “I got a call.” The words came out raspy and harsh. “The broad said she knew something about the night I was stabbed. So naturally, I was interested.”

“How’d she know to call you?”

“Beats me. But I figure if someone let the air out of my brother, I’d be snooping for details, too.” 

“Brother?”

Moe tried on a cocky grin. “She’s looking for her brother’s killer. She thought we might have something to discuss.” 

“What else did she say?” 

“She asked me to meet her downtown, at Joe’s Diner.”

The fume from Boch’s pipe began to fizzle. He sat it down on the smoking table. “So you met her?”

“Hey, a sexy gal asks me to lunch, I’m not going to turn her down.”

“When did this rendezvous take place?”

Moe wracked his brain for the most feasible time. “Lunch. Today.”

“What was the lady wearing?”

“You expect a rube like me to notice a thing like that?” Moe shrugged his shoulders. “She had on a coat. That’s all I know.”

Boch picked the pipe back up, tapped the bit of the pipe stem against his teeth, and stared at Moe. His dark evil eyes sent a chill up Moe’s spine. “You’re detective skills are pretty lax, Mr. Gafferson.”

“I was more interested in what she was saying than what she was wearing.” Moe’s hands were completely numb. He worked again against the twine, trying to stretch it, but without any luck.

“Do you at least remember what she looked like?”

“Like I said, blond, good-looking. A little scrawny for my taste, but I’d bushwhack her.” Moe wrinkled up his face, trying to look thoughtful. “Oh, and she had an accent.”

“What exactly did she tell you?”

“She told me a lot of things, but the skinny of it was her brother, Peter Schmidt, was killed because of a diamond scheme he’d hatched up. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Boch fiddled with tobacco, refilled his pipe, and then relit it, taking slow, deliberate puffs as he circled the match. “That doesn’t explain what sent you here, Mr. Gafferson.”

“The dame said there was a party going on at Councilman Boch’s tonight, and I might find more answers at it. If I could get in. I figured I wasn’t high-brow enough to get a welcome, so I tried the back way.”

“What else did she tell you about this party?”

“Nada.”

Boch sprung up from his chair and began to walk around the room. “This sounds like a pretty fantastical tale, Mr. Gafferson. Did this woman give you a way to contact her?”

“Nope. Didn’t even give me her name. When I told her I might need to talk with her again, she said she’d be in touch.”

Moe was counting on the snippets of truth in his story to convince Boch the whole kit and caboodle was on the up-and-up. He was also hoping the councilman had bought Dutch’s story about Danja ‘just disappearing’ last night. 

“Mr. Gafferson. I’m afraid we’ve been terribly rude. But you can imagine how my security men might overreact when they caught you trespassing.” Boch ceased his pacing and leaned against the fireplace mantle. Moe half expected the man to complete the gentleman act by offering Moe a brandy, or by challenging him to a game of whist. 

Moe didn’t want Boch thinking he was a complete idiot. It might backfire. “So what answers do I get about the scar in my belly?” 

“I’m afraid you’ve been duped, Gafferson. You see, I did have a girl working as one of the house servants. Her name was Danja. But she didn’t work out, and I had to fire her. Now the ungrateful wench has concocted some fairy tale as a way to exact revenge.” Boch tipped his head toward Al and pointed at Moe’s restrained hands.

Moe ignored the million holes in Boch’s yarn and pretended to be satisfied. “I guess being a councilman makes you an easy mark.”

“You have no idea, Mr. Gafferson.”

Al pulled a lethal-looking hunting knife out of his boot and quickly sliced through the twine. Moe’s fists immediately began to sting like a hundred fire ants were nipping at his fingers.

“Mr. Gafferson, why don’t you let Al and Gus escort you to your car, and we’ll both forget about tonight.”

“I’d shake on it, but my hands are feeling a little worthless right now.” Moe was glad for the excuse not to have to touch the bastard. “Oh, I would like my roscoe and knife back that Gus over there stuck in his suit pocket.”

Gus looked inside his suit like he was surprised to find the items there.

“Absolutely. Gus will be glad to return them to you.” Boch glared at Gus to get his point across. “Although, security demands he wait until you’re at your car. You understand.”

“There’s no need for them to waste time escorting me.”

“Oh, but I insist. Good evening, Mr. Gafferson.” And with that Boch strolled out of the room.

Al and Gus left their tommy guns in the house but walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Moe all the way to his car.

“Figures a low-life like you would be driving a piece of shit like that Buick. It ain’t worth nothing, not even for scrap metal,” Al said when they walked up on Moe’s car.

“It gets me around.”

“Yeah, well see that it don’t get you around here no more, chief.” 

“Yeah, we don’t want to see you no more,” Gus echoed.

Moe opened the car door. “Always the parrot, aren’t you, Gus?”

“Huh?”

“Forget it, Gus. He’s a bum,” Al said.

Moe stuck a leg in the car and remembered the roscoe and knife. “Hey, how about my hardware?”

Gus shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave.

“Mr. Boch might not like another call from me tonight.”

Gus pulled the weapons from his suit and tossed them in the air. They skated across the blacktopped road and ended up beside Moe, a little dinged up but still intact.

“It’s been a real treat, Twiddle-Dee and Twiddle-Dum.” Moe jumped into his car and pressed the starter button. He flipped on his brights and watched Al and Gus scramble to get out of the light. 

Moe circled the block, turned off his lights, and parked the Buick on the street parallel to Boch’s. He counted to fifty, the slow way: one-one thousand, two-one thousand. And then slid from his car and walked back around to where he’d just been. There was no sign of Al and Gus. He reached up into the oak and felt around for his Brownie. It was right where he left it.



Rough Cut Ch. 18



Rough Cut – A Moe Gafferson Mystery

Written by Desdmona. Edited by Poison Ivan

Chapter 18

It was 10:48 PM. The chances of Detective Jansen still being at work were slim to none. Those odds didn't keep Moe from driving straight to Station House Number One after leaving Boch's den of perversion. The street lamps on Central Parkway lit up the front of the Romanesque police house like it was opening night at the Albee Theater. The forty-eight-starred red, white and blue flapping on its pole in front gave Moe a momentary stab of patriotism. He told himself he wasn't here just because Boch was a threat to him, but because Boch was a threat to America. Bad guys had to be stopped no matter what the cost. It was the American way.

Moe tucked his Brownie and Roscoe under the car seat and locked the Buick up tight. The short walk to the entrance left him cold, inside and out. He tried to shake the feeling from deep in his bones. He hated going to the police. Half of them were as crooked as the criminals they prosecuted. But this caper had already gotten out of hand. People were dropping like flies around him. So far, the dead didn't include a good guy, but who knew when Boch would cross that line? The man had to be stopped. A last glance up at the flag was enough to push Moe through the front door.

It was a slow night in the precinct. A couple of second-hand Sues were parked on a scratched up bench, waiting for processing. The two prostitutes shared similarities, beyond just the paint and rags, that reminded Moe of a before and after picture. They could pass for a mother-daughter act. 'Look out sister, that could be you in fifteen years,' Moe wanted to tell the younger one. Keeping them company was a bozo vying for the cackle factory. The gee kept banging his head against the side of the bench and mixing his words like he was making a salad instead of a sentence.

Moe walked over to the only desk with a working boy in blue behind it. A portrait of somebody's mother was the desk's main attraction. "Any chance Detective Jansen's still around?" Moe asked.

The copper replied, but his eyes and nose stayed pinned to his copy of Outdoor Life. "Who wants to know?"

"The name's Gafferson. Moe Gafferson."

John Law lifted his eyes and shot a glimpse at Moe. Apparently, he saw nothing to take him away from fly-fishing, and he went back to reading. As an afterthought, he added, "Yeah, he's here. Up the stairs and to the right."

Moe knew the layout: flatfoots shared the first floor while the suits camped out on the second. The stairwell separating the two floors circled upwards in an ornate scroll like it should be hosting debutantes instead of criminals and fat detectives. The handrail sported large gaps in the varnish, rubbed off from years of use. And the paint job on the walls peeled more than a dried up sunburn. Also upstairs was the goldfish room where Moe spent most of his last trip to Station Number One. It was a left turn. Moe went right.

Jansen had put in enough years to have a door with just his name on it, but for some reason his name shared the glass with three others: Jansen, McPherson, Braxton, and Havrum. At least the old cop had top billing. A quick rap on the opaque glass and Moe opened the door. Jansen's desk was the only one occupied.

"Got a second?" asked Moe.

Detective Jansen looked like he'd been dancing with an electric fan. His shirt was open at the collar and missing a tie. Half a shirttail was tucked in; the other half flapped over his beltline. Buttons strained against his gut with the bottom two missing in action. The only thing keeping his hair in place was pomade - there was enough of it to grease a Cadillac. 

Jansen tossed his newspaper and pen onto his cluttered desk. He was halfway through the daily crossword. "I heard some dogs clipping across the hall floor," the old cop said. "I never expected them to belong to you, Gafferson. Come to confess, have you?"

"And make your job easy? Not a chance." Moe glanced around the room. "Don't you have a home?"

Jansen's chair was on wheels - he used them to swing out and face Moe directly. "My private life ain't your business, Gafferson." He peered up at the only thing on the wall that wasn't dirt - a white-faced clock with big black numbers. "But speaking of a private life, shouldn't you be at home boffing a nurse?"

Something about the lonely, envious look in Jansen's eyes let Moe forgive the crass remark about Mona. "I came to talk about Karl Boch."

Jansen swiveled his chair back toward his desk, his belly keeping him from getting too close. "You got a political beef, take it to the polls," he grumbled. He picked up the newspaper and pen. Tapping the pen against his mouth, he left dots of ink on his lower lip. 

"This is more than just me not liking slimy Isolationists," Moe said.

"The man's a jerk, but it ain't my department." Jansen screwed up his brow. "What's a five letter word for seraglio?"

"Harem."

He shook his head. "Nah, starts with an 's.'"

"Serai."

"By goddamned, you're right. I've been trying to figure that out for twenty minutes." Jansen smirked. "Figures you'd know about women slaves."

"Listen, Jansen. I'm not here to play word games. I'm trying to report a crime. Does murder and diamond smuggling figure anywhere in your department? Or should I try the rookie down behind the desk?"

Detective Jansen leaned back in a familiar pose: arms folded across his chest and resting on his gut. "All right, you got my attention, Gafferson. Make it worth my time."

Moe crooked his head toward an empty chair on the opposite side of Jansen's desk. "I feel like sitting."

Jansen scratched at the day's growth of beard on his chin and yawned like he was too tired to consider Moe's request. Finally, he said, "Be my guest." 

Moe settled into the chair and gathered his thoughts. Jansen was a no-nonsense sort of man, and Moe respected the cop's hard-boiled attitude even if it bordered on pig-headed. Straight up seemed the best way to blow the works. "Peter Schmidt and Rolf Metzger were involved in a diamond smuggling scheme. Boch was the butter and egg man." 

Jansen's stony face didn't react. "If you're trying to fry my wig, you'll need a little more fuel," he said, absently rubbing his balding head. "You got any proof?"

"Schmidt's sister. She knows the setup."

Jansen perked up. "A sister you say? Funny she never showed up at Routsong's for Schmidt's cold meat party."

Moe shrugged. He had no idea why Danja would miss her brother's funeral. She seemed devoted to him. The most likely reason was she was unable to, thanks to Boch.

"In fact," continued Jansen, "the funeral parlor said he had no next of kin."

"She has a different name, but she's his sister."

"So some dame walks up to you, claims to be Schmidt's sister, and fingers Councilman Boch. Pardon me if I don't buy this fish tale. It seems cooked up to give you an out."

"This bird didn't fly up to me. I stumbled across her at a card game hosted by Boch. She was his ace-in-the-hole whenever his chips were low."

Jansen reached in his desk, pulled out a five cent White Owl cigar, and removed the plastic wrap like he was peeling a banana. "Whores are a dime-a-dozen in a city as big as Cincy." He bit off the end of the cigar, spit it in a waste basket, and then lit the torn tip, puffing like a blow fish and sending a whorl of the wanna-be Havana smell toward Moe. "So Boch takes advantage, it ain't no skin off my back."

"Only this chit wasn't a whore until she met Boch, and she didn't come to America wishing to get poked in the ass in front of Boch's cronies while her body was fighting for her life and the life of her unborn baby."

Even a hard-nosed cop like Jansen had to take a second swallow at what Moe described. But another puff on the cigar and he was sleuthing again. "Where'd this card game take place?"

"The where isn't important. The who are big shots from the Councilman on down." He shifted in his chair. Moe's two-bit, hole-in-the-wall office was more comfortable than Jansen's cheap sitting space. Seats as hard as cement were just one reason to be a private dick instead of a nine-to-fiver. 

Jansen shrugged. "It's not a story I'd share with the kids at elementary, but so what? Was the dame chained? Did she have a gun to her head? Why didn't she leave?"

"I didn't figure you for a psychologist, Jansen, but I held out hope you'd appreciate human nature." Jansen's eyebrows knitted together, not like he was thinking, but like he was starting to stew. Moe ignored it. "Her brother is dead, she's alone in a foreign country, and Boch is her only friend. She's a kitten in a dog's den."

"I'll have to meet this sister. She got a name?"

"I can arrange a meeting, but she needs some recovery time." said Moe.

"I know my way to the hospital."

"She's not at the sickhouse."

"I thought you said she was bad off."

"She is."

Jansen had set the cigar in the ashtray and forgotten it. Smoke swirled its way to the ceiling like tobacco incense. "I'm not going to ask where she's at."

"I wasn't going to tell you," said Moe.

"I have a good guess."

"Forget it, Jansen. Save your guesswork for the crosswords."

Jansen shuffled papers on his desk from side-to-side like he was suddenly the maid, and then met Moe's eye, man to man. "I don't like your type, Gafferson. A pretty boy who thinks he's tough while he's snooping through windows and snapping pictures of unsuspecting parties. But..." Jansen scratched at his chin again and sighed. "As much as I hate to admit it, something tells me you're on the level."

"Careful, Jansen, you'll make me shiver."

"Shit!" The old cop nearly smiled, then remembered his cigar. He put the stogie to his mouth, took a long draw and puffed out a smoke ring worthy of a three-ring circus. "I like fancy pants politicians even less than I like pretty boy PIs. And Karl Boch is one of the worst. Unfortunately, the man's got some good buddies in this department. There won't be any taking him down without solid evidence." 

Moe thought about his brownie - full of glossies waiting to be developed - tucked away in his Buick. The pictures of Boch's naked festivities weren't evidence of murder, but they might go a long way in ruining some department friendships. 

"I've got something cooking that might make like Moses and part the waters for us."

"Hold up there, Gafferson. Let's get something straight. You and I are not working together. I'm willing to listen to the dame and see what she has to say, but don't think that takes you off the suspect list for Metzger's murder. You're still teetering at the top."

Suddenly, the door swung open and a giant of a man filled the space. The newcomer was as wide as he was tall, with shoulders that had to hunker to fit through the door frame. His crew cut bordered on military style. His face was the kind of face that carried a permanent scowl. And the magnum hanging off his shoulder kept a body from asking any questions. 

"Braxton. I thought you left for the day," said Detective Jansen. 

Moe recognized the man's name from the glass on the door.

Braxton slid a glance at Moe and somehow managed to deepen his scowl before turning to Jansen. "I got a call at home." The giant cocked his head toward Moe but still kept his back turned. "Who's your date?" 

Jansen reached into his desk drawer and nabbed another cigar. "Here." He tossed it over to Braxton, whose hand was big enough to catch the whole box. "Smoke on this, it'll calm you down. Who called you at home?" 

It was hard to say if Jansen deliberately avoided giving Braxton Moe's name, and if so, why? But Moe knew to keep quiet. 

Braxton was sidetracked enough to ignore Moe and answer his office mate. "Councilman B. Goddamn fucker thinks he can call and I'll jump. I was just about to slip into the sweetest piece of ass a man could ever want. Instead, I have to leave the girl hot and wet and panting for my prick." He yanked off the plastic covering on the cigar, tossed it on one of the other metal desks, and then bit the end. Instead of heaving the bit in the trash, Braxton gnawed on it like it was salt water taffy. And then he swallowed it.

"Hey Janney, didn't you have some two-bit private dick in here recently? Went by the name of Gafferson?"

Jansen didn't bat an eyelash. "He's our prime suspect for the Metzger murder." The old cop was smooth. Smoother than Moe had given him credit for.

"B. wants to know everything about him."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know. The man doesn't answer questions. He only asks them."

"Odd he called you at home instead of calling here at the office. What did you tell him?" asked Jansen.

"I told him what I knew. Murphy had hauled Gafferson and a hot, redheaded nurse named Mona Dale into the precinct. We didn't have enough evidence to hold the nurse or Gafferson, but we were still sure Gafferson iced Metzger."

"Funny that the councilman would care about a low-life like Metzger or a two-bit dick like Gafferson."

"Yeah, ain't it just?"

"So why'd you make the trip in?"

"The fucker wanted addresses."

The word left Moe's mouth before his brain was fully in gear. "Tonight?"

Braxton swung back around to squint at Moe. His lips curled into a scowl. "Who'd you say you were?"

Jansen interrupted. "So get him Gafferson's address and go back to your hot tail."

Braxton glared at Moe, studying him as if he were a kid with a magnifying glass looking at a bug. "Already did. His and the dame's. I just came up here to leave a note I'd be in late tomorrow."

Fear grabbed at Moe's gut and clawed its way through his entire body. Boch had Mona's address. The thought spun around in his head and picked up speed until it forced his feet to go. 

"Fuck!" Moe hopped up from his seat and rushed from the room. He took the steps two at a time and ignored Jansen yelling after him. On the first floor of the station house, he slowed down to a fast walk to avoid suspicion, but once he was out the door, he ran like he hadn't run since high school football.

Boch had Mona's address.





Rough Cut Ch. 19



Chapter 19

Detectives Jansen and Braxton were close on Moe’s heels, screeching their black and blue buggy to a halt minutes after Moe had swept through Mona’s ransacked house. While the Cincy boys sifted inside through broken furniture, at the height of darkness, Moe, with only a distant street lamp for illumination, fumbled through the yard looking for a possible clue. All three came up empty.

Later, the cops continued their thing outside, once again retracing Moe’s footprints. Moe plopped down on the porch step. The cold of the cement breached his trousers and made his ass feel like it had taken a paddling from Sister Mary Francis. But Moe ignored it. 

He had his face buried in his hands when Jansen and Braxton made their way over to the stoop.

“Go home, Gafferson,” Jansen said. “It’s a sure bet no one is coming back here tonight.”

Braxton was in a less agreeable mood. “You sure we just want to let him go, Janney?” he snarled. “Seems to me he could have led us here as a setup.” 

If Moe’s mind hadn’t been crammed full of Mona and Karl Boch, he might have decked the muscle-bound officer. 

“Nah, this ain’t a setup. The dame that’s missing is sort of special to our private dick here. Ain’t that right, Gafferson?” 

Moe nodded and let it go. The fat detective could be savvy when he wanted to be. Moe’s wheels turned in another direction. “At least we have something on Boch,” Moe said.

Jansen shook his hands in front of himself like he was waving pom-poms. “Whoa, Bub. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” 

“What jump? It’s an easy stroll. He calls and gets Mona’s address, and now she’s missing,” said Moe. 

“I don’t remember anyone using Boch’s name, do you, Janney?” Braxton had a quarter in his hand, flipping it over and over between his fingers. The snarl had turned to a cocky grin.

Jansen jammed his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

Moe scrutinized the pair of law men. Braxton flipped the quarter high, snatched it out of the air and mouthed the words, ‘Tails you lose.’ Jansen’s hands fiddled in empty pockets while he rocked back and forth on his heels and avoided eye contact. 

“Shit! I should have known. Cops! A fucking waste,” growled Moe. He stood, brushed imaginary lint from his suit sleeves, and headed toward his car. “Forgive me, boys, if I don’t stick around for more of your ricky-tick. I’ve got things to do.”

“Go home, Gafferson, before you’re boiling in oil,” Jansen shouted at Moe’s back. “Let us handle this.”

* * *

Moe spent a half hour driving the backstreets of Cincinnati just to lose the tail Jansen and Braxton pretended to work at. He got a little pleasure leading them past the stink of the paper mill and the city dump before finally leaving them behind. It paid to know the allies in a different district of town.

He worked his way back to Glendale and spent a good amount of eight hours staring at Boch’s mansion. It was locked up tight. No cars in the garage. No lights in the house. And no Al and Gus circling the place with Chicago pianos strapped over their shoulders.

As the sun rose, the sky cotched the look of a silk scarf being tossed over the horizon. Yellows and purples blended together like a bruise and reminded Moe time was bullying ahead. Nine hours had ticked away. No sign. No message. No Mona. He eked down one street after another looking for an accidental lead and stalking any pedestrian that had the gall to be out so early in the morning. He was hit with everything from “Hey, buddy you got a problem?” to the more amicable “Can I help you, sir?” Finally, he realized the futility of what he was doing and worked his way toward his own neighborhood. He needed to see a friendly face.

He walked into Joe’s Diner, smelled the coffee and the bacon, and decided to have a little of both.

The place was filling up. It was never too early for a breakfast joint. Joe glanced up from his spot in front of the grill and nodded acknowledgement.

“The usual, Moe?”

Moe nodded. “Make the coffee stiffer and the bacon greasier. Maybe it’ll give me something to think about.”

Three cups of java and a plate full of the sunrise special later, and Moe was feeling human again. But good food and coffee hadn’t given him any better leads. Dejected, he tossed a buck on the counter and stood to leave. He had almost reached the door when Joe suddenly called out. “Hey, Moe.” Moe waited while Joe squirmed his way through the swelling breakfast crowd.

“How you doin’, Moe?”

“Fine, Joe. Breakfast was perfect, as usual.”

Joe wiped his hands on the folded white apron spread across his torso. He glanced out the door like a crook on the lam. “Listen, buddy. I wanted to tell you something. Two goons were in here last evening asking about you.”

“Cops?”

“Not likely. They had the look of Capone. You know, gangsters.”

“They leave a name?”

“No, but the big one kept repeating everything the little guy said.”

So Boch’s hounds were doing some clumsy snooping. No wonder Joe looked spooked.

The morning munchers in the diner started getting restless. “Hey, Joe how about my omelet?” one of them yelled.

Joe waved to the complainer and went on. “They asked if you were here with a blonde. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I played dumb.”

The complainer got a little louder. “Come on, Joe. I have to be at work soon.” 

“Keep your pants on, Harry,” Joe said to Mr. Omelet and then turned back to Moe. “They wanted to make sure you were the gumshoe who was shivved at that cottage Over the Rhine.”

The lights flickered in Moe’s head like Saturday’s movie newsreel. The cottage. Of course! They wouldn’t take Mona and Danja to the mansion. The cottage was the perfect hideaway. The spring was back in Moe’s step. “Thanks, Joe. I owe you a million.” He slapped Joe on the shoulder and then rushed out the door. 

* * *

Moe slowed the Buick to a crawl, inching down the Over the Rhine backstreet. The sun was in full swing, shining brightly on the façade of Peter Schmidt’s cottage and making the small house look almost picturesque. From the outside, there was little sign of life except for the lawn - it was doing its best to recover from the abusing foot traffic. The driveway and the carport were empty, and the house was closed up like it was preparing for winter. The window shades were pulled down. The last time he visited, they had been up. 

He shot a glance across the street at Opal Thompson’s house. Moe briefly considered stopping and asking her if she’d seen anything, but the old broad’s drapes were closed tight. Maybe it was too early for her, or maybe she’d finally found the courage to leave, or maybe she just knew when to keep her nose out of things. Whatever the reason, Moe didn’t want to lead anyone to her. If, like Moe suspected, Boch was cleaning house and getting rid of people with knowledge of his involvement with Schmidt and Metzger, even an innocent bystander like Opal could be a target.

Moe turned off on a connecting street and coasted to the curb. The street was filled with small, paint-hungry cottages squatting behind leaf-filled lawns. His Buick could nestle here for an entire season and be right at home.

The backyards between the side street and Schmidt’s cottage weren’t fenced. All Moe had to do was cross through three small yards. He jogged from one to the next. His Roscoe, cradled in its shoulder holster, thumped against his side like a good buddy declaring, “I’m with you, pal.”

The path around the cottage was a familiar one, only this time Moe wouldn’t be peeking in windows. He headed straight to the back door that led to the carport and turned its knob. 

It was locked. He let go and looked carefully at the keyhole. Fortunately, it was a simple pin and tumbler lock, and Moe had a little experience with picking. He removed the locksmith tool from the side pocket of his shoulder holster and fitted it into the lock. He listened for the click of each pin falling into position until the lock gave way. He slipped his pick back into his shoulder holster and easily, quietly, opened the door.

It led into a small kitchen with the remnants of an unfinished meal left on a dinette table. Instead of a musty, mildew smell from a boarded up house, a billowy haze of tobacco hung in the air. And mixed with the distinctive fragrance of pipe were the fresher smells of coffee and toasted bread.

Moe tiptoed across the kitchen floor, listening for the faintest sound. He thought he heard voices in the distance, but he couldn’t be sure. His heart rate zoomed, and his hands were clammy. 

If the floorboard creaked in warning, Moe missed it. Suddenly, a figure loomed up, out of range of clear vision, from beside the icebox. It was a man - a big man - that was all Moe knew before the scene exploded into fire and darkness. Just before his lights doused out completely, he felt a stab of nausea and heard a deep, sardonic laugh. 

* * *

Moe woke up slow, facedown, staring at a hardwood floor in desperate need of a good waxing. The wood grain snaked in front of his eyes like a pit full of rattlers with the prattle from their tails booming between his ears. He steadied himself on his elbows and reached to feel the back of his head. The spot was like the inside of an overripe melon - soft and pulpy. With his touch, pain shot clear to the soles of his feet. He groaned. It only made the pain worse. He rolled over cautiously and looked straight up into the smirking face of Karl Boch.

“We meet again, Mr. Gafferson,” Boch said with a superior air.

“I can’t say I’m happy to see you.” Moe winced. Moving his mouth moved his skin, and moving his skin hurt his head.

“Come, come, Mr. Gafferson. Let’s be gentlemen about this, shall we?”

In Moe’s eyes, Boch was as far from being a gentleman as Miami was from Spokane. 

“It took you a little longer to get here than I had expected.” Boch glanced at the Rolex decorating his wrist. “The morning is half over.” He lazily scratched the tip of his nose with the barrel of a handgun. Moe’s Roscoe. “You’re not much of a detective, are you Mr. Gafferson?”

Moe forced himself to sit up. His mouth cried out for the saliva. “I had things to do,” he managed to spit out.

“Cleaning up not on the list, eh? You look like shit, Mr. Gafferson. I’m having a hard time understanding what Miss Dale could ever see in you.”

The mention of Mona cleared away some of the cobwebs muzzying Moe’s brain. “Mona? Where is she?”

“She’s here, just as you guessed. And she was anxious to see you too, at first. But that was hours ago. She’s had a little Golden Monkey since then. Now she’s settling in nicely.”

Golden Monkey was the Chinese tea that Danja had mentioned. Apparently, it wasn’t any ordinary tea. “What exactly is that swill you’re handing out?” Moe asked.

Boch cocked his head in the smuggish way of a snob having to deal with a man of no importance. “It’s a special blend given to me by my associate, Mr. Chang—a man of many uses.”

“Running laundries and dishing dope?”

Boch shrugged his shoulders and pointed the gun more directly at Moe. “Get up,” he said.

Moe considered how fast he could grab the Roscoe before Boch could squeeze the trigger. Boch’s grip was firm, confident, not sweaty or rickety while Moe’s head was still as murky as a Louisiana marsh. The odds weren’t in his favor. Better to wait, see the setup in the cottage. So far, no sign of Al and Gus. And where were Mona and Danja? Moe could put off being brave, or stupid, for a little while. He wobbled to his feet like a newborn colt on its first legs. 

Boch waved the gun toward a cramped hallway. “Go through there.”

Moe hesitated, but Boch was behind him with the cold, hard nose of the gun pressed to the middle of his back. Moe stumbled forward. Boch jammed the gun a little harder to direct Moe into the hall. Moe shuffled on, Boch close at his heels, to a bedroom off the left side of the hallway. The room was just big enough to hold a lift-top walnut table, two Eastlake Victorian chairs, and a king-sized pencil post bed with olive-colored velvet curtains draped around it. The windows were shuttered and locked, the room space illuminated by harsh incandescent bulbs.

Boch continued with his monosyllabic orders. “Sit down.”

Moe did as he was told and welcomed the minor comfort of a padded seat. But his comfort was short-lived. Boch grabbed Moe’s arms and jerked them behind the chair. Moe reflexively fought against him, but stopped struggling completely when the butt of the Roscoe revisited the goose egg on the back of Moe’s head. Moe saw more stars than a Hollywood opening night. Dazed and hurting, he let Boch tie his wrists and then his ankles. Each wrap of twine took on the air of a nightmarish déjà vu, except the councilman made a better knot than Al and Gus.

When Boch had finished, he placed the Roscoe on the walnut table and casually leaned against a post of the bed. “I have an interesting proposition for you, Mr. Gafferson.”

“Fuck you , Boch.”

“Now that’s no way to treat a potential business partner. I took you for a smarter man, Gafferson.”

“It’s nothing personal.” Moe let the sarcasm roll. “The nuns had trouble teaching me manners.” 

Boch folded his arms across his chest, tapping his fingers along his sleeve-covered bicep. “You’re a funny man, Gafferson. Knock off the comedy routine for a second and listen. You might be happy with my proposition.”

It wasn’t like Moe had any options and curiosity licked a little at his innards. “My ears are working.”

“What would you say to coming to work for me? I’d pay you plenty more than you’ll make being a two-bit private eye. And I could use a man like you.”

Moe nearly choked at the idea. Working for Boch would be like Lindy-hopping with Lucifer. But Moe could play make-believe if Boch wanted to. “What exactly are we talking about here?”

“Body guard, sleuth, or protector. Give it whatever title you’d like.”

“Hitman?”

Boch’s mouth spread wide in what some might call a smile. But the spread didn’t make it to his eyes - their ominous depths remained hard and opaque. “No, I don’t suppose we could ever come to agreeable terms,” he said. “Pity.” With a flourish, Boch pulled the other chair out and sat down, proper-like, as if he was at the opera: back straight, arms folded, and leg crossed. The only things missing were a lace handkerchief and opera glasses to complete the picture.

“Let us begin,” Boch announced in a booming voice.

Startled, Moe looked around, expecting another beating. He craned his head to see if anyone was at the door, but there was no one.

Suddenly, from behind the closed bed curtains, exposing one limb at a time, emerged a fragile-looking Danja Bittners. Silk veils in kaleidoscope colors draped her petite frame like she was some kind of Aryan Salome.

She stepped out onto the floor, her feet bare, and the veils fluttering around her body. She didn’t look at Boch, and she didn’t look at Moe. She was alone in some Arabian dream.

She began to dance, silently, without music, circling and twirling. She pulled a pink veil loose, draping it about her face, across her chest, and then dropped it to the floor. She followed it with a yellow veil, then blue, then orange.

Unlike Salome, motions meant to be hot and steamy seemed docile, even mechanical, when performed by Danja Bittners. She pulled another veil loose, exposing her small breasts. Her nipples were rouged to a carmine red.

Moe tried to make eye contact, but Danja was seeing sultans and sand and dancing to her own disjointed lute solo. Her eyes were the same flat, emotionless pools that Moe had witnessed at the poker game. Danja spun in circles with the veils in each hand. Moe recognized it for what it was - a drug-induced miasma.

When she removed the last of her veils and stood nearly nude with just the barest of sheath covering her hips, Boch snapped his fingers. Danja stopped abruptly, wobbling a little on her feet. She turned wooden and tugged on the olive velvet curtains revealing the bed beyond. 

Lying naked atop a bed of green, with flaming hair haloed about her head was Mona, arms stretched out and wrists tied to the posts. Her milky body was relaxed, and her eyes were the same dead orbs as Danja’s.

Relief that she was alive washed over Moe, but outrage at her position shoved any joy aside. Moe struggled against his ties, but his attempts were futile. “Mona!” he yelled. 

Mona gazed into space, unable to focus, but groaned at the call of her name.

Moe wrenched against the twine again, feeling it dig into his wrists until his fingers turned cold and began to itch. “Mona, baby,” he repeated.

“Relax, Mr. Gafferson, and enjoy the show.” Boch laughed a cruel laugh. “Look at her. She seems to be quite happy.”

Moe wouldn’t have said ‘happy,’ but at least she was calm. Her long gams stretched the length of the bed and were spread apart, but unbound. She did nothing to hide the view of her red-haired bush and the soft pink geography that went with it. 

“What have you done to her?”

Boch had the gall to look offended. “I haven’t done a thing. We were waiting for you.”

“Let her go.” Moe squirmed in his chair, circling his feet and tugging at the twine. “This has nothing to do with her.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong. She’s become a major character in our little play.” Boch rose from his seat and began to pace. “What drives a man to kill, do you suppose?” he paused, maybe waiting for Moe to answer, but Moe kept his mouth shut and his eye on Mona and Danja. Both women had statued up - Mona spread-eagle in all her glory and Danja at the bedside, arms at her side, and feet slightly apart.

Boch continued his monologue. “Jealousy. That’s what. Men have been killing each other over women since the dawn of time. Man’s real weakness is letting his penis rule his mind. What disgusting creatures men are! But someday, with a more perfect race, we’ll overcome our weaknesses.” 

Moe slumped against his chair. Sweat trickled down the valley of his chest. There was no way to break the ties. The only weapon he had left was time. The longer Boch talked, the likelier that whatever was in the Chinese tea could wear off. Moe encouraged the corrupt councilman to ramble. “That ‘perfect race’ garbage that Hitler is spouting?”

“Genius, isn’t he?”

“A sick mind would think so.”

“A sick mind, you say?” Boch marched over to Danja. He cupped her chin and turned her face toward Moe. “Is it sick to think beauty such as hers should be the norm instead of the rarity?” Boch released her chin, but studied her face. “I’ll admit she’s not at her best - a bit weak, overly tired, pale - but the genes are still there. And we nearly had them propagated, didn’t we?” He posed the question to Danja, but her lights were as dim as a battery-operated flashlight sans the batteries. Boch didn’t seem to care. “Too bad about the miscarriage,” he continued. “But there will be other chances. We must do what we can to help the cause.”

The Gomorrah scene – the beautiful, blond women, the men of power and prestige - Moe had witnessed at Boch’s place finally made sense. It wasn’t about sexual pleasure or even sexual deviancy. It was about procreation, furthering a cause, building a race. Moe thought about the poor dame that hadn’t been chosen by the other men. The one stuck with the impotent councilman. Had she sacrificed herself to Boch’s ivory phallus because she was brainwashed into believing she wasn’t good enough to further the cause? It was lunacy, all of it, and it left Moe craving a swig of bicarbonate.

Boch returned to his chair, adopting the same pose as before, seemingly finished with his diatribe. Moe pushed for it to be longer. “You’ll never get away with this scheme of yours, you know. The police will be on you for the murders.”

Boch was not a man to hold back a speech. “Oh, you’re wrong there, Mr. Gafferson. The police think you are the cause of all their unfortunate problems.”




Rough Cut Ch. 19



“That’s ridiculous.”

“Not at all.” Boch stared at Moe, his eyes dark with evil and flashing with a gleam of insanity. “I can’t let you destroy what I’ve been working so hard to build, Mr. Gafferson. So, you killed Peter because he was having an affair with Miss Dale.”

“You’re messing with the calendar, aren’t you? I didn’t meet Mona until after Peter was killed.”

Boch waved a dismissive hand. “People can be bought for next to nothing. It only takes one or two with a convincing story to admit seeing you and Miss Dale together before that time.”

“What about Singer and Metzger?”

“Mr. Singer had an unfortunate accident. I know nothing about him.” Boch didn’t hesitate or try to pretend he didn’t know Maxwell Singer. To Moe’s way of thinking, it was as good as an admission of guilt. 

“Rolf Metzger’s death is simple. He witnessed you killing Peter. Metzger was a known blackmailer. He would have bled you dry for years. So, you killed him as well. The authorities already believe it to be true.”

“Except I’m not blackmail jackpot. I live week-to-week.”

“Metzger was greedy. Even a little cash could make him happy.”

“That doesn’t explain why he was here that night in the first place.”

A vein bulged on Boch’s forehead. “Enough!” His mouth hardened. “I’m not interested in explaining myself to you. There’s a show waiting to be performed.” He crossed his arms and gave his evil grin. “Watch it silently, Mr. Gafferson or I’ll have the distasteful job of gagging you.” 

Boch turned his attention back toward Danja and snapped his fingers twice in the air.

Moe didn’t want to look, but like a gaper at a traffic accident, he couldn’t help himself. Danja climbed up on the bed beside Mona, shoulder-to-shoulder. It was hard not to compare their naked bodies. Danja was thin and boy-like in all the places Mona was lush with curves. Both women had rounded tits, but Mona’s were fuller, with her pink nipples plump across the tips. 

“Lovely to look at, aren’t they?” said Boch. 

“Don’t do this,” Moe said. It was a futile demand.

Boch suddenly jerked toward the bed, snatched the remaining veil wrapped around Danja’s hips, and sauntered toward Moe, fingering the veil like most men fingered long, silky hair. “I asked you to be quiet, Mr. Gafferson.” Boch circled Moe’s chair, a beast stalking its prey, readying to pounce.

Moe was a sitting duck and knew it. “Ask my kindergarten teacher, I was never any good at following direc…”

With lightning speed, Boch wrapped the veil over Moe’s mouth, forcing the silk into the corners of his lips. He yanked tight on the fabric’s ends and swathed its length around again for good measure. Moe coughed and tried to twist away, but it was too late.

Instead of returning to his chair, this time Boch moved to the head of the bed and perched on its edge, his hip inches from Mona’s locks of hair. “Now that there will be no more interruptions, we can proceed.” He looked down at the naked nurse lying on the bed and gave an appreciative sigh. “Notice Miss Dale’s neck - how graceful and fragile it is.” Boch raised his hands, miming his words as he spoke. “My hands would fit so easily around it and just as easily…” He wrenched his hands like a chicken’s neck was between his fingers. “Snap it!”

His message was clear. Every muscle in Moe’s body was taut, wanting to spring up and fight. But there was nothing he could do. He had no choices. No opportunities. He settled against the chair, quietly chewing on the silk in his mouth, working his wrists against the tight cords, waiting.

Boch’s demeanor changed again as he pretended to be a college professor sharing a demonstration.

“Nipples are a curious thing. For instance, Miss Dale’s, at the moment, are flat as if they’ve been steam-pressed free of wrinkles. But watch as Danja begins to play, circling and tweaking.” Like a marionette, Danja acted out Boch’s words. “See how delicately she touches,” Boch said. “Like a hummingbird after sugar - flitting and stroking. And look, Mr. Gafferson, the nipple responds. Tightening and shriveling to a bud.” All eyes watched the transformation of Mona’s nipples. “I believe Miss Dale is enjoying this,” Boch smirked.

Mona’s eyes were closed, her lips barely together. She whimpered as Danja caressed her tits, but the whimpers ended in a sigh. 

“And when Danja manipulates a little harder, squeezing and rubbing and pinching, look how Miss Dale’s other nipple pokes up as well.” Danja’s petite fingers scrambled across Mona’s tit, trying to keep up with Boch’s directions.

“And when Danja takes Miss Dale’s nipple into her mouth…” Danja’s pale lips parted. She slowly lowered, surrounding the dusky areola of Mona’s left breast with her open mouth. Boch continued. “First, kissing and nipping, then sucking.” He paused a moment to watch. The anger flared. “Suck harder, Danja, harder.” The hollows of Danja’s cheeks deepened as she drew Mona’s nipple fully into her mouth.

Boch was right about one thing - men were ruled by their dicks. When Mona moaned again, this time a little louder, and a little more throaty, Moe felt the stirring in his pants.

“Don’t forget the other nipple, Danja,” said Boch. “It’s been waiting so patiently - puckered and pretty.”

Danja licked across the valley and up over the mounds of tit-flesh before finding, and sucking, on Mona’s left nipple. Mona arched up, pushing her breast further into Danja’s mouth. 

“All that flesh of Miss Dale’s abdomen, so flat and soft, and dusted with red gold fuzz. It’s a marvelous palette to stick a belly button on. Don’t you agree?”

Danja released Mona’s nipple. The bud rose up like a pyramid, glistening with spit. She tongued her way down Mona’s body to the navel, dipping her tongue into its cleft, again and again. 

Boch was in the world of his choosing. Directing and speaking, knowing no one would answer. Moe could only listen and watch.

“All of it is just window dressing really,” Boch said. “Just a good front to bring us to the real attraction - the phoenix’s nest. It does make a penis rise again, does it not?” he laughed at his own joke.

Danja slicked her lips with saliva. She placed her open hands boldly on Mona’s ribcage. She kissed Mona’s belly, and moved lower to the red line of pubic hair tufted over Mona’s mound.

“And the best piece of the pie - a moist cunny, drooling for attention,” added Boch.

Danja took her time finding Mona’s jewel. She licked her inner thighs and the crease where mound and leg meet. Then moved on to the mound itself, licking and kissing all along the haircourt of Mona’s thatch. She ran her tongue down the groove where Mona’s sex lips met, and then slipped her tongue in the slit. She sucked each flap, drawing it into her mouth, sucking and sucking until the pink flesh turned rosy red.

Mona squirmed and Danja wrapped her arms around Mona’s thighs. Little drips of pearly wet drizzled from Mona’s poon, and her love button pushed from its hood. Danja’s tongue finally reached for it and licked. She pressed her lips around Mona’s clit, and then drew it into her mouth, sucking, and sucking. Mona pulled at the ties on her wrists, trying to raise her hips, squirming and writhing.

“More. More,” Mona said, but Moe heard it as Moe, Moe.

He had never seen anything like it. Danja was a practiced cunnilinguist. She knew when to suck, when to lick, and when to do nothing but wait. She timed each movement of her mouth to bring Mona closer to orgasm, again and again, only to pull back and start over. 

“What a filthy little cunt she is,” said Boch. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Gafferson?”

Moe would have glared at Boch, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of Danja’s mouth on Mona’s pussy. Danja’s fingers slipped easily into the groove of Mona’s sex and disappeared in her depths, only to come out again, covered in wet, and immediately go back in. One finger, then two, and finally three, thrusting in and out, fucking. She didn’t stop. She sucked and thrusted until Mona screamed and her legs jerked together. Danja pulled her fingers out and used them to open Mona’s labia wide, showing all who watched as Mona’s pussy quivered in climax.

Moe was hard as a rock. 

Boch hoisted himself from the bed and slithered across the room like Satan in a Genesis tale. He stopped directly in front of Moe and lowered his hand over Moe’s crotch - outlining without touching. “It seems you liked our little show, Mr. Gafferson. You’re protruding. Hot, wasn’t it?” Boch pulled his hand away and sauntered to his chair. “I’m so glad to see that, because it’s not quite over. 

He snapped his fingers. Danja gave a final kiss to Mona’s pussy, and shimmied from the bed on her hands and knees. She crept across the floor without making a sound and knelt between Moe’s legs. Moe tried to close his thighs, but it was useless. He concentrated instead on getting his dick to quit reacting. He didn’t want Mona to see him like this, his cock responding to Danja’s close proximity. He tried again to force his thighs together.

“Mr. Gafferson, you are not cooperating. This can either be pleasant for you or very costly for Miss Dale. It’s up to you.”

Moe wondered how men like Boch could look in a mirror every day without losing their breakfast. Danja knelt at Moe’s feet, staring fixedly at his crotch. The smell of Mona clung to her like French perfume. Her lips were swollen and glistened with Mona’s dew, and her cheeks were sweaty and flushed. He glanced at her eyes and for a brief moment, he thought he saw a spark in their blue depths. He couldn’t be sure. But if it had been there, it was quickly blanketed over.

“Because I’m a gentleman, and I believe in fair play,” Boch said, “we’re going to take care of your needs as well, Mr. Gafferson.” The man had resumed his opera-like stance. There was a tragedy playing tonight.

“Danja likes to suck cock. She’s a master at it. You can ask any of my associates. She’s had her mouth around nearly every politician from here to Indiana.”

Moe saw it again. A flash of awareness, only this time it was the jaw joint below Danja’s temples. It tightened and released like she had clenched her teeth. The Golden Monkey was beginning to wear off. He glanced over to Mona, but she’d fallen asleep.

Moe felt a flash of possibility. If Danja could unloosen a knot - 

“I’m waiting, Danja. Show our guest what you’ve learned.”

Moe reluctantly gave in, letting his knees part. Danja went straight for Moe’s zipper, and then the buckle on his belt. She opened his pants and reached into his drawers. Her small hand immediately surrounded Moe’s semi-erect cock and pulled it from its nesting spot. She rose up on her knees, and as soon as the head of Moe’s penis saw the light of day, Danja had her lips around it. She opened her mouth wider and gulped in its length, letting it slide out against her lips. She reached under with her other hand and grabbed his balls, nudging and caressing. She was practiced. Moe was fully erect in seconds. Just as Danja had done to Mona, she sucked and licked and brought Moe close to orgasm, but prevented the surge by tightening her grip on his balls, only to release and start over again. Until the last time her mouth slid down. Her hand went soft, her mouth warm and tight. She swallowed and swallowed, her throat muscles working hard on Moe’s dick, forcing it deeper in her throat. His full length bulged into her mouth. She tongued the underside of his helmet, and somehow sucked at the same time. Moe’s sauce, pooling in his nuts, finally found its way up. Danja pulled back and let it shoot into her mouth, holding it there, without swallowing. Her cheeks puffed out like a trumpet player holding a long note. But she just waited.

“You see, Mr. Gafferson, in order for my scenario to be complete, the police must be convinced of your duplicity. You forced Miss Dale here to the cottage. You tied her to the bed. And then you fucked her.” He waved his hand. “Now finish the job, Danja.”

Danja crept to the bed and climbed back up between Mona’s legs. Using her fingers, she spread Mona’s delta, still sopping from orgasm, and lowered her mouth to its entrance. Mona stirred but didn’t fight. Danja pressed harder, exposing all of Mona’s pink moss. At the snap of Boch’s fingers, Danja blew. Hard. Until semen dribbled from Mona’s hole and off of Danja’s lower lip. 

Moe finally chewed completely through the veil releasing his gag. Using his tongue, he spit the frayed edges from his mouth. “Fuck you, Boch.”

“After you fucked her, Mr. Gafferson, you killed her.” 

In that split second, Moe realized Boch’s intent. As Boch reached for Moe’s Roscoe still resting on the walnut table, Moe, with rage speeding like a locomotive through his body, jerked against his reins. 

The twine held firm, slicing through Moe’s skin and corpuscle, but the chair splintered and cracked, forcing slivers of wood into Moe’s arms and legs, before finally giving way. Moe went tumbling to the floor. His shoulder cracked against the walnut table, sending the table to the floor on top of him. The Roscoe skittered away across the floor and stopped at Danja’s bare feet. 

Moe was immobilized, still tied at the wrists, and laid out on the floor. “Get the gun, Danja,” Moe yelled. “Get the gun!” 

For a moment there was nothing. And then Boch began to laugh, a chuckle at first, and then a sinister, maniacal laugh. “Yes, Danja, by all means, get the gun.”

At first, she was frozen, staring ahead, blinkless. But then slowly her eyes tilted down, spying the gun with its barrel lying across her toes. Like ketchup coming from a bottle, she flowed in slow motion, reaching for the gun. When she straightened, the Roscoe was in her hand, and her finger was on the trigger.

“Shoot him, Danja. He killed Peter. I know you want him dead,” Boch inched toward her as he spoke.

“It was Boch who killed your brother, Danja.”

“Don’t listen to him. I am the one who took care of you when no one else would. I am the only one you can trust.”

Moe tried to get a better look at Danja, but she was partially blocked behind a bedpost. He rose up on his hip, still struggling with splintered wood gouging into his arms and legs. Like a percussionist’s dream, his heart drummed out a cadence and every wound throbbed in perfect time. Warm, sticky fluid seeped between his fingers and drizzled down his calves. His words pounded between his ears like a bass drum. “Boch killed Peter because he was running away with Kitty Winslow.” 

“Think about it, Danja.” Boch shuffled forward another few inches. “Peter would have told you if that were true.” 

Moe grasped at straws, trying to stall as desperation clawed at his throat. He made up a story off the top of his head. His life depended on it sounding plausible. “Peter loved Kitty. He wanted to start a new life with her. But he needed the diamonds to do it.” Even as the last words left his mouth, Moe felt the futility sweep over him. Peter loved Kitty? Nothing seemed less likely.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s lying,” Boch barked. “Metzger killed Peter because of Mr. Gafferson. Danja, you already know that.”

Danja gripped the gun with both hands, her index fingers crossed over its trigger. She raised the gun’s nose and pointed it at Moe’s forehead. A single shot would give him a third eye.

“Do it, Danja! Do it!” Spit sprayed from Boch’s mouth, and his eyes brightened with blood thirst. 

“Metzger was following Boch’s orders.” Moe’s voice was shrill, scraping like a missed note. “Why do you think Metzger is dead? And Maxwell Singer? Why is he trying to kill me, now? He’s trying to clean up - get rid of evidence.”

“Danja, Peter would have told you.” Boch spoke firmly and calmly, like a loving parent instead of the bastard he was. He took a huge step forward, bringing him one step closer to a trembling Danja.

“Kill him, Danja. Kill the man responsible for your brother’s death.”

Danja’s finger twitched, and Moe slammed his eyes closed. This was not the way he thought he would die. 

The gun went off, splintering the floor near Moe’s head, and causing his ears to ring. But it missed his scalp completely. Moe suddenly remembered Sister Mary Francis spouting off about miracles. Maybe she was right. He opened his eyes just as the gun went off again.

The second bullet clipped Boch in the shoulder, spinning him away. He squealed like a whistling teapot. The gun exploded again, hitting Boch’s right arm. And again – thunking into his neck. And again – exploding into his head. Bits of flesh and blood splattered onto Moe’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut. And the gun went off again and again. Until click. Click. Click. The chamber was empty.

The smell of gunpowder burned Moe’s nostrils. The ringing in his ears reached full piped organ magnitude. But he was alive. He opened his eyes to see the lifeless face of Karl Boch, staring with Golden Monkey-like eyes straight at him.

He glanced around to see Danja lower her arms, sending the Roscoe clattering to the floor. She calmly walked over to the body of Karl Boch and stared at him. Her nude body flushed from head to toe. Her eyes finally in focus.

“Peter told me he loved Kitty Winslow, you lying fuck.” she said. And then she walked from the room.

Epilogue 

Moe swung his legs over the side of the bed and snuck a peek back at Mona. She slept on her belly like a newborn, fist balled under her chin, blanket clenched in her fingers. He was getting used to having her beside him when he woke up. 

He brushed a strand of fire red hair from her eyes. Damn! She was gorgeous. He considered slipping back under the cover and snuggling close to her creamy soft body. But she needed her sleep. Today would be her first day back at work.

Instead, he crept to the front room, sat bare-assed on the leather chair, and poured himself a shot of bourbon. Yesterday’s Cincinnati Enquirer was spread across the desk where he’d left it when Mona had coaxed him to bed the night before. The headlines were mostly election results. Roosevelt winning an unprecedented third term. Martin Davey winning state governor. And a newcomer, Grayson, winning the councilman slot left open by the death of Karl Boch. But on page four, a whole column was devoted to the trial of one Gustav Brady, a known thug that went by the name of Gus.

In the weeks since Boch’s death, Danja Bittners had spent endless hours cozying up to Detective Jansen and spilling everything she knew. A lot of nighttime dinners led Moe to believe Danja and Jansen were talking about a lot more than Nazis, diamonds, and murder. To each his own. At least Danja’s testimony had been enough to clear Moe of all charges.

Gus caved easily once he found out Al had skipped town without him. He and Danja knew enough about the diamond scheme to connect it to an international conspiracy to control the diamond market. Both the United States and Germany were trying to get their hands on the world’s diamond supply. Diamonds were the only things hard enough to stamp out the millions of precision parts that were necessary for mass-producing airplane engines, torpedoes, tanks, artillery and the other weapons of war. Without the diamonds, the war machine would slow to a halt. Peter Schmidt and Karl Boch were just little fish in a big pond. 

Gus also sang like a canary about the deaths of Maxwell Singer and Rolf Metzger. Boch had ordered them. Al was the trigger man. Gus was too dumb for anyone to mistrust his version of events. The trial was a rubber stamp. Gus would spend some time behind bars, painting his share of license plates. Al’s ugly mug would be seen at post offices all around the nation.

The last time Moe saw Danja was in the hallway of the municipal building at Gus’s trial. She asked after Mona.

“Hello, Moe. Is Miss Dale all right?” 

“She will be.” Moe didn’t bother to tell Danja that Mona didn’t remember a lot of what had happened, and Mona liked it that way.




Rough Cut Ch. 19



The silence between them was awkward before Danja spoke up again. “Do you ever see Kitty Winslow?”

“Our paths cross from time-to-time.”

“Are you going to tell her about Peter? You know he really did love her.”

“Nah. What good would come from it?” Moe said. “So she can grieve the rest of her life over something that was never meant to be?”

Danja’s attorney had called for her and she had rushed off. Moe doubted he’d see her again. She hadn’t even said good-bye. 

Moe slugged back the shot of bourbon, crumpled up the newspaper, and tossed it in the trashcan. 

Maybe he’d go back to bed after all.

The End.