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From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 18 by Desdmona (Hard-Boiled Mystery)
Lines: 449
Date: Sun, 30 May 2004 08:10:05 -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 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.


                            * * *
                              
Moe turned up Montgomery Pike and concentrated on the cross
streets to avoid thinking what a bastard like Boch would do
with a gem like Mona.

Nassau. Windsor. McMillan.

He couldn't remember ever falling as hard for a dame as he
had Mona. She was fire and cream and lady all rolled into
one. Moe had been with many a gal - all shapes and sizes -
but none of them turned his crank like Mona did. If a guy
didn't get turned on looking at Mona, then he didn't have
any switches.

Kemper. Donahue. Beecher.

There was a chance Moe could get to Mona's house before
anyone else. He knew the route, the neighborhood, the house.
If Boch sent his henchmen, Al and Gus, they might bumble it,
or better yet, not know Cincinnati at all. But there was
also a chance they had a head start. Braxton didn't say how
long ago he'd given Boch the addresses. Moe slammed his foot
on the accelerator and didn't let up, even around the sharp
S curve.

Beresford. Billings. Pulser.

His hands were sweaty. His grip on the steering wheel was
slippery, but he was on Mona's street before he eased up on
the gas. It was dark. Moe had wanted the portico lamp on her
porch to be on. It was off.

He pulled over in front of her small, yellow house and
jerked the car in park. He wiped his hands on his pants and
reached for the roscoe under his seat. When he opened the
car door it squeaked like a cat in heat, but the rest of the
night was quiet. Too quiet.

At the front door, he didn't wait to knock, he didn't have
to. The door was open, just a fraction, but enough to know
someone hadn't closed it all the way. Moe shoved through it,
thinking to surprise anyone who might be on the other side.
There was no one to surprise.

The house was in shambles. The forest green divan where Moe
had slept was overturned. The chair that had held his
cleaned and pressed clothes was broken in half. The kitchen
table where Moe had shared a morning of flapjacks and coffee
with Mona was splintered. And the bed where Danja had been
recovering was stripped bare of everything. Everything
except a blood stain soaked deep into the mattress.

Boch had Danja.

And Mona.


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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