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From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 13 by Desdmona (Hard-Boiled Mystery)
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Date: Sun, 11 Apr 2004 16:10:12 -0400
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The following story contains sex scenes that may be offensive to some. Read 
at your own peril. This chapter may be particularly graphic for some.

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 13


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
waited for the next round of cards to be dealt, 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. 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 - she
was so white you could practically 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. The girl's life wasn't a throw-away. And
Moe was thankful Dutch agreed.

"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 like a little babysitting help for their sick
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 thing 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 heart fluid, 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 cracked, but she was still
able to whisper, "Thank you" to Dutch.

Dutch tilted his head toward Moe. "Thank him, he's 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 cradled 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
followed, his pistol ready, checking the closed door behind
them for a sudden turn of the knob. The three of them
stumbled into an unoccupied cub room.

Moe stashed his revolver back in its leather and after one
last look toward the other end of the hall, he pulled the
door closed. Dutch set Danja on the bed. Blood stained his
arms and dribbled on the rug. He 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 and 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 walk, anyway.
Moe lifted her up and held 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. Moe was too busy
thinking about their escape to think about a 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 had to
stop and lean against the brick wall twice to catch his
breath. The sight of the old Buick was like water at the end
of a desert. He slid Danja into the front seat and jogged 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 that
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. Moe
wondered 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. 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 zugeh -ťrt?"

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 aloud,
gripping the steering wheel and trying to remember to
breathe in and out. With Danja's blood running down his leg,
he pushed the pedal to the floor. Two minutes to go.


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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