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From: Desdmona22@aol.com
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Subject: {ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 2 by Desdmona (crime)
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Date: Sat,  7 Feb 2004 07:10:03 -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
Written by Desdmona
Edited by Poison Ivan

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.


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.

It has been re-edited since that posting.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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