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From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 15 by Desdmona (Hard-Boiled Mystery)
Lines: 607
Date: Fri, 23 Apr 2004 04:10:02 -0400
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The following story contains sex scenes that may be offensive to some. Read 
at your own peril. This chapter contains no sex.

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 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."

"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_."

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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