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Subject: {ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 7 by Desdmona (Hard-Boiled Mystery)
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Date: Sun, 22 Feb 2004 08:10:04 -0500
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The following story contains scenes that may be offensive to some. Read at 
your own peril.

The year is 1940. Tailing Kitty Winslow was supposed to be an easy gig. 
Cincinnati dick Moe Gafferson finds out that nothing is ever easy.

*********************************
Rough Cut: A Moe Gafferson Mystery
Written by Desdmona
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."


To be continued...

*********************************

This story was originally posted and illustrated at 
http://www.ruthiesclub.com. 
My eternal gratitude goes to Alexey for bringing Moe to life.
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