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Subject: {ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 4 by Desdmona (Hard-Boiled Mystery)
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Date: Thu, 12 Feb 2004 22:10:05 -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 4


It'd been two days - forty-eight fucking hours - since Moe
had seen Mona Dale. He blamed the painkillers for letting
him think it was okay to send her out to poke around. He
knew first hand that the players in this game were playing
for keeps. Yeah, he'd given her step-by-step instructions,
but those didn't account for surprises. Quails like Mona
were meant for fluff work, not gum-shoeing. So what if she
had bubbled up like bicarbonate when Moe had given her the
lowdown. He should have known better.

"I can do this, Moe. I know I can," she'd said.

"This ain't backyard cops and robbers, Mona."

"All I have to do is drop off some laundry, buy a new dress,
and get my hair done. I've been doing those things half my
life."

"Skip in, snap a mental picture, and skip out. That's the
deal."

"Yes, Moe." She'd batted her eyelashes, flashed a crooked
grin, and blew Moe a cherry-lipped kiss as she peddled out
the door. Only a doped-up bonehead would have let her walk
out as easy as if she were going for a weekend visit to a
carnival.

One thing was certain - if she wasn't hurt and she didn't
check in soon, she was going to catch merry hell. He'd
waited long enough.

Moe grabbed the newspaper and skimmed through its pages.
Peter Schmidt's death had made the Cincinnati Post, but not
the front page. The front page was saved for the World
Series: Reds over Tigers. Moe had slept right through the
game. Schmidt's murder was buried on page six under the
headline: Cottage Scene of Fatal Stabbing. The newshounds
were used to murder in the Over the Rhine area - it rarely
made top news any more. Moe was just grateful his name had
been left out of the article.

Unfortunately, the police had his name and weren't letting
up. Officer Murphy had made a repeat visit the day before to
put the crunch on Moe, insisting Moe give up the name of
Schmidt's screwing partner. Moe Gafferson had a few rules,
rules he'd set up a long time ago. Squealing on a client was
something he never did. Murphy stuck around long enough for
some verbal boxing, but he missed out on the KO he was
looking for and left dissatisfied.

Moe spent the rest of his time rehashing the same scenes
over and over and coming up with the same finale. Schmidt
was using Kitty. The answer to the why and what-for still
hung in the air. Maybe Schmidt was trying to get to Dutch.
Maybe he was planning to cheat Kitty out of money. Maybe it
was something Moe couldn't fathom just yet. But Moe had no
doubt Schmidt hadn't played Kitty straight.

At least the extra time in bed was giving Moe a chance to
heal. As of the morning, he could get to the john to take a
leak without any help, which meant no more target practice
in a handheld piss pot. And now that the pain in his gut was
manageable without pill pushing, Moe figured it was time to
kiss this germ hole goodbye - get out and find Mona himself.

Moe tossed off the hospital rags and swung open the door to
the closet. He expected to find his gray tweed suit, but the
closet was empty. He let loose a couple of expletives that
would have had his mother back-handing him. Well, the closet
wasn't completely empty; there was a pair of shoes, the
right one covered in blood, sitting on at the bottom of the
space. But nothing else, not a stitch of clothing, no keys,
no money clip, and no fat envelope from Dutch.

Moe didn't like petty thieves, even if they wore smart white
caps on their heads. He made his way to the hallway,
chomping at the bit. "Who's the goniff that nicked my
stuff?"

"Shh's" came from every direction. It might as well have
been a library.

Moe stood up to his full height and let his Johnson dangle
freely. "I'm getting out of here, even if all of Cincinnati
sees my ass on the way out."

"Mr. Gafferson, please! You're not the only sick person on
this floor." This came from the Helga who had been nursing
Moe in Mona's place. It was like exchanging pearls for
swine. The broad had more muscle than Moe. She could flip
him over like a five-pound bag of flour, and she had more
than once in the last two days. Moe backed into his room
with the female bruiser jabbing her finger in his chest.

"Mona warned me you'd try to leave before the doctor gave
the okay."

"Where is Mona? Have you heard from her?"

"Just you no never mind, Ellery Queen, and haul that fanny
of yours back up in bed."

Moe felt a pinch in his gut. He knew when to pick his
fights. It never paid to argue with a mare that was as big
as he was, especially when he was naked as a jaybird. Still,
he couldn't help tangling a little. "You got some news from
Mona or not?"

"You're pesky, aren't you, Mr. Gafferson?"

"I can be." He wanted to tell her she was the pesky one, but
he zipped his lip. She might power up on him. There was no
sense risking a relapse from a wrestling match he could very
easily lose.

Helga stood over him while he climbed back into his PJ's.
When he fell back onto the bed, she spoke. "Mona called.
Said to tell you that she had to deliver some laundry this
morning, and then she'd be right over."

At least that was something. Mona was all right. He could
breathe a little easier.

"But what about the empty closet?" he asked accusingly.

"You play rough, Mr. Gafferson. Your clothes were cut off
and discarded when they brought you in. There wasn't much
worth saving."

So much for his best tweed. "I had some other belongings,"
he said.

"Safe and sound in a locked box at the nurse's station." She
pulled the blanket up tight around Moe's legs and then
jammed the Cincinnati Post into his hands. "Here, read the
paper and think about something useful." This broad didn't
offer suggestions - she gave orders.

Moe thumbed through the Post. It might have helped take his
mind off of Mona except for a grainy photograph gracing the
first page he looked at.  Charles Lindbergh, front and
center, was shaking hands with a couple of local
politicians. It still grated on Moe that Lindbergh, an
American hero, had accepted the Service Cross of the German
Eagle from none other than Hermann Goering. Too much of a
stinking German connection if you asked Moe. He looked at
the smiling faces of the two Cincinnati councilmen. Lousy
politicians. At least, he knew who _not_ to vote for in the
upcoming election. Moe wadded the paper into a ball and
tossed it in the trash. He hated politics. Stewing about
Mona was a lot more pleasant.

                             ***
                              
Sometime mid-morning, after Madame Bruiser had forced
another sulfa tablet down Moe's throat, Mona came strolling
in. Moe did a double take. She looked like she'd just
stepped off the farm - all fresh faced and lively. She'd
ditched her starch whites for a daisy yellow number. Her red
hair was rolled stylishly at her temples, and she was
carrying an armload of men's duds.

Moe was still miffed about the ticking clock.  "Take the
long route to get here, doll?"

"Hello to you, too." She was way too cheery.

"I don't have time for frippy-frappy greetings," he growled.

Mona ignored him and swished casually to the closet. "I
figured you for a forty-four regular." She hung up a plaid
Norfolk jacket and a pair of brown trousers - way more
fashionable than Moe was used to. She dawdled as she tucked
away socks, boxers, and a shirt. She was thorough. Moe would
give her that. But he was done watching her stall.

"You've kept me in a stew for two days."

Mona turned around, grinning beautifully. "Sounds like
you're feeling good enough to be a pain in the rear."

Damn her! Moe wanted to shake her and hug her all at the
same time. She was as stubborn as a cowlick. Giving her the
third degree would be useless. If she wanted to take it
slow, Moe couldn't do a thing about it.

"I'm not hitting all eights just yet Mona baby, but I'm
getting there. How's your day been?"

"Oh, Moe, you'll never believe what I found out." So much
for taking it slow - she was about to pop.

"I'm all ears, doll."

"I went to Chang's this morning. Only, there isn't any
Chang's. Or at least there hasn't been a Chang's in three
months."

"What? I was there. I saw Kitty enter with a bundle."

"Well, the building is there, and it still says Chang's, but
there's a sign on the front door saying it's closed. I asked
a woman nearby, and she said Chang's had closed down about
three months ago. She didn't know why."

"Chang's Laundromat on Elm Street, near Twelfth Avenue?"

"Yes, that's the one. There's a Scott's Pharmacy across the
street."

Moe remembered sitting in front of that pharmacy, watching
Kitty take the clothes into the laundromat. She was in there
for about ten minutes. And she'd come out empty-handed.

"What about the Curl-n-Go?" he asked.

"Oh, it's there. Do you like my new hair-do?" Mona turned
her head from side to side, bouncing her curls like Shirley
Temple. "It cost me a dollar twenty-five. Can you imagine?"

"Call it expenses. I'll reimburse you."

"Oh, no. That wouldn't be right. I had too much fun to ask
for money." Mona sat down on the edge of Moe's bed. He tried
not to think about how close her hip was to his as she
continued to talk. "Do you know that just about any gossip
in town is being discussed right this very minute at the
Curl-n-Go?"

"Such as?" Dames in a salon. Chickens in a coop. It sounded
pretty much the same to Moe.

"Well, Margaret's daughter, Emma Jean was going to have her
debutante ball this very month, but the Wilkersons had
already grabbed the best day at the American Legion Hall, so
Emma Jean was going to wait and have her ball next month in
the ballroom at the Golden Lamb."

"Mona..."

"Wait, there's more. It seems there's a new hair technique
that's all the rage in Paris where blue dye is added to a
woman's hair."

"Okay, okay, so it's on the up and up?

"You mean the blue dye? I think it is." Mona flashed a set
of straight whites. "Oh, you mean the Curl-n-Go? I'm afraid
so."

"Is that all you found out?"

"Not exactly, I think the Wilkerson girl may have the
American Legion Hall wrapped up, but she's still looking for
a date. I could toss your name in the hat, if you like. I
have another appointment next week."

"You're a barrel of laughs, Doll. Maybe Vaudeville has a
spot."

"I guess this means you'd rather hear about Singer's than
how the Wilkerson chit didn't know enough to invite Mr. and
Mrs. Taft?"

"Now you're getting it."

Mona shrugged. "Okay, but you can't get these sort of tips
everyday." She went on to explain that Singer's was The
Ritz. The "it" place, where all those debs wanted to get
their one-of-a-kind gowns and none of their mothers were
letting them. Singer's sold sex in satin and silk. A place
where Hayworth and Garbo might shop if they were passing
through town.

"I asked to see the owner," Mona said.

"Singer?"

"Yes. Maxwell Singer. He's a short man, balding, wears a
monocle. Kind of reminded me of Mr. Magoo."

"I'm not much of a comics fan. Can we skip the colorful
commentary?"

She sighed. "I asked him about a black dress I had seen a
woman wearing last week. He clammed up, said he didn't know
anything about the dress I described. I explained the woman
had gushed about getting the dress from Singer's and how it
was made especially for her. He insisted the woman must be
mistaken." Mona chewed on her bottom lip. "Then Maxwell
slipped up."

"Yeah?"

"He insisted that _Mrs. Winslow_ did not get the dress at
Singer's."

"He used her name?"

"Yeah. I had never mentioned it." She clapped her hands
together. "Isn't this exciting?"

"What happened next, doll?"

"I figured I'd better make it look like I was really
interested in a dress, so I milled around, tried on a black
crepe and decided on an undergarment. Mr. Singer stayed
right near me."

"Hmm."

"Wait, there's more. When I was walking to catch the trolley
coach, the sales clerk, Lois, caught up with me. She was
hurrying and kept looking back over her shoulder. She told
me she remembered Mrs. Winslow, _and_ she remembered the
dress: a slinky black silk with no back, just as I'd
described. She said it was the second time a woman had come
in and picked up such a dress in the last four months. Lois
remembered Mr. Singer had insisted on handling it
personally."

"Lois seems kind of chatty."

"Apparently Mr. Singer can be a real high-hat, always
putting on airs. It seemed to please Lois to catch him in a
lie."

"She give you anything else?"

"She also remembered the man that had delivered the dress.
He seemed out of place, not their regular sort of gentleman
patron."

"Out of place? How?"

"He was rough-looking with a scar on the right side of his
face. The scar ended near his eye. Oh, and she said his
clothes were off the rack."

Peter Schmidt's clothes would have screamed tailor-made. And
he didn't have a scar. "Is that it?"

"Not quite. Lois said Singer had called the guy Rolf."

Lois was quite the canary. Rolf, huh? Moe didn't know anyone
by that name, but he'd put a nickel down that this Rolf was
handy with a blade. Moe was still moving like a bicycle in
snow, but it was definitely time to hit the road. And thanks
to Mona, he had a some place to start.

"You've done a lot, dollface. I owe you."

"It was exciting."

Moe glanced at Mona. He could see she meant it. Her eyes
danced and her cheeks flushed crimson. He was going to have
to put the skids on her enthusiasm.

"It's time for me to dust out, Mona."

"But the doctor..."

"I'm done listening to that croaker."

Moe scooted to the opposite side of his bed and stood up,
taking a minute to gather his strength. Mona sat regally on
the bed. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Under
the fluorescent lights, glints of gold shimmered in her red
locks. A man could get hypnotized. She didn't look at Moe.

"You shouldn't go. Give it one more day," she whispered.

"No can do, doll."

She looked at him then with green eyes the color of spring
corn. "At least, let me help you."

"Mona, I'm grateful for everything you've done." Moe paused,
remembering the way Mona had slid her mouth over his cock -
slippery, warm and complete. Yeah, a man could easily fall
under her spell if he wasn't careful. "And I mean
_everything_."

She swallowed hard and looked away. "I'm a big girl, Moe, I
can take care of myself." When she looked back again, her
face was redder than ever. "And I fuck who I want, when I
want." Moe wondered if he'd ever get used to a dame that
blushed tomato red but could swear like a sailor.

"I'm a one-man operation, Mona. And the stakes are too high
to make changes now."

Moe expected her to plead her case, but she didn't. She just
shrugged her shoulders.

"What about those stitches?"

"What about them?"

"They'll need to come out."

Moe absently rubbed along his gut where the stitches were
itchy. "I got some scissors and mercurochrome in the
medicine chest at home."

Mona rose up from the bed and slinked over to Moe. Close
enough for Moe to inhale her fragrance and feel her body
heat. She cupped his hand with hers and spoke softly in his
ear. "I could make a house call in a day or two to make sure
things shape up like they should."

How could a man refuse an offer like that?

Later, as Moe eased himself out of the backseat of the hack
that had brought him home to his small office, he wondered
about the wisdom of agreeing to Mona's proposal. Gilbert
Avenue was a long way away from any place a dame like Mona
might be from. When Mona opened her windows on a clear,
autumn night, she probably heard crickets and smelled fresh
mown hay. If you left a window open around Moe's neck of the
woods, you were more likely to hear Moe's neighbor, Willy
Scottsdale, fucking the brains out of Netty Scottsdale,
unless Willy had hit the bottle too high again and Netty was
cussing a blue streak. And the smell, well, the paper mill a
couple blocks over out-mustered any other odor that might
try to stink up the air. Yeah, this side of the tracks might
be a rude awakening for Mona. But it was home to Moe.

He had settled in there a year and a half ago. The rent was
cheap and the layout served his purpose. The front space was
his office. The back was where he slept. With the money
Dutch had given him, Moe might think about getting a
refrigerator.

The hack drove away and Moe wobbled like baby at his front
door. The key didn't work right away. He had to jiggle it,
pull it out, and then reinsert it. It was one of those
events that should mean nothing, but the hair on the back of
Moe's neck bristled. The lock finally gave in, and the door
popped open like the building was inhaling and sucking the
door down its throat. Dust particles floated in a ray of
light that filtered through the opposite window. Moe's desk
was just as he'd left it nearly a week ago - two empty
coffee mugs, a pile of unopened bills, and the file he'd
started on Kitty Winslow.

Nothing was out of place. Nothing except Moe's monogrammed
letter opener and one of the couch cushions. Instead of
filling out the couch, the cushion was propped upright in
Moe's desk chair. And piercing its middle was the letter
opener. The slice ran from edge to edge, and ribbons of
horsehair spilled out onto the floor.


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.
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