index


Message-ID: <47121asstr$1079496602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 12 by Desdmona (Hard-Boiled Mystery)
Lines: 489
Date: Tue, 16 Mar 2004 23:10:02 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


The following story contains sex scenes that may be offensive to some. Read 
at your own peril. (This chapter contains reluctance and anal 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 12



The building that housed Flamingo's sat on the banks of the
Ohio River. The joint had been an orphanage back in the
1890s. Access to the river and close proximity to three
state lines lent to its usefulness - the place even had some
history as a stopover in the Underground Railroad.
Unfortunately, the orphanage went belly up in the early
months of 1918 when its benefactor died from tuberculosis.
And even with all its good location and history, the
building had sat empty for twelve years before Dutch Winslow
won it in a crap game from a down-on-his-luck public
official.

While some men had lost everything they owned during the
depression, Dutch Winslow made a killing from bootlegging
and gambling. After prohibition was repealed, Dutch decided
it was time to go legit. Winning the river property set the
ball in motion. He completely renovated the first floor and
gussied up the orphans' rooms to make what was now
Flamingo's, the hottest hotel and nightclub in Cincinnati.

Most weekends, hastily parked cars littered the side streets
while the main drag was lined with taxis and limousines
waiting to expel men in silk hats and ladies in exotic furs.
The uniformed doorman had ample opportunity to touch many a
gloved hand and steal a lingering look at shapely gams in
seamed stockings while the well-to-do stepped smugly from
their vehicles. The bleating of the doorman's whistle added
harmony to the black stiletto heels tap-tap-tapping over the
glistening pavement that led to the green canopied entrance.

Moe learned long ago to avoid the hoopla at the front. It
belonged to the influential who would rather be in New York
or Hollywood but had to settle for the bowels of Ohio. Moe
opted for a side entry that bypassed the hotel lobby and
forged a direct path to the bar in the club.

As usual, the rattling of ice in cocktail shakers, the pop
of champagne corks, and the mix of giggling and husky
laughter welcomed him at the crowded bar. A solid gold chain
roped off the conviviality of the bar from the rest of the
dining area, as if separating the classes. Moe got lucky and
grabbed an empty stool when a couple, making their way to a
table they'd probably been waiting on for hours, vacated it.
Most people found the food and the atmosphere in the dining
room worth the wait.

The entertainment wouldn't start for another forty-five
minutes. According to the billboard out front, this week's
headliner was Dolly Dawn and her Dawn Patrol. Moe had caught
their act a time or two on the radio broadcasting from New
York. The dame had the voice of an angel, and she outshined
her band a million-to-one. Too bad Moe was here on business.
It promised to be a great show.

He gave a nod to the bartender, Mick, and knew in a minute a
shot glass full of bourbon would be sitting in front of him
- an advantage of being a regular.

Moe scanned the mirrored L-shaped dining room filled with
the rich-but-barely-famous. Violet smoke billowed its way
upwards from the flicker of lighters and the tips of burning
cigarettes. Glamorous dames, most of the unattached variety,
were part of the d -šcor. Politicians, businessmen, and the
independently wealthy were snuggled behind tables draped
with maroon silk and midnight velvet linens. At the center
of each table, nestled on silver chafing dishes, piled high
with shimmering flakes of ice, were olives, cocktail onions,
radishes, and foot-high celery stalks. Layers of silver-
etched china donned each place setting, while colossal

brandy snifters as big as hot-air balloons sat waiting to be
filled.

It was another full house. Moe could almost hear the cash
register belch.

Dutch wouldn't show for at least an hour - too much behind
the scenes work with the show people - so Moe put a word in
to the maitre'd that he was looking for Mrs. Winslow. The
little trip to the pokey had raised too many questions in
Moe's mind, questions that Dutch just might know the answer
to, but he'd kill some time chit-chatting with Kitty, just
to reassure himself that the dame wasn't more than met the
eye.

Moe finished two shots and was thinking of ordering a third
when Kitty Winslow made her entrance. She was Moses parting
the Red Sea. Like a grand hostess greeting her guests,
schmoozing with customers, and playing kissy-face with
anyone who had clout, she moved through the throng. When she
left each table, she made sure she left them smiling. Her
husband might be the proprietor of the joint, but it was
Mrs. Winslow that made it ooze with moneyed class.

Kitty was too discreet to mix with the folks who didn't have
the cash or the clout to get a table in the main dining
room, so Moe wasn't surprised when he received a whispered
message, via Mick, to meet Kitty in Dutch's office up on the
second floor. Appearances were everything in a crowd like
this, and Moe understood his black tie was only brown tweed.
He nixed the third shot of bourbon and squeezed away from
the bar, making sure to leave a decent tip for Mick. The
bartender gave a friendly nod as he gathered up the clams.
When Moe was wearing a little of the green, he could be
generous to the working stiffs he shared a paycheck-to-
paycheck lifestyle with.

Dutch had turned the entire second floor of the old
orphanage into his working space. The elevator opened up to
an entry that led to the main office. The office was flanked
with private rooms, christened "cub rooms," where a select
few were granted special privileges. Kitty was waiting for
him at the elevator when he arrived.

"This isn't a convenient place or time, Mr. Gafferson." She
was as skittish as a virgin, shooting glances up and down
the carpeted hallways.

"Yeah, well, after the day I've had, I'm not feeling too
accommodating."

Kitty's eyes darted to the closed door of one of the cub
rooms before whispering, "There's a card game going on." She
grabbed Moe's hand and tugged. "Come with me."

She led him into Dutch's main office, a room that Moe had
been in many times. But now Moe recognized how similar it
was to the library at the Winslow mansion. Only the leather
chairs in this room were soft and broken in, and a mahogany
desk was the focal point. The desk was clean except for a
blotter, an inkwell, and a Tiffany lamp. Moe hadn't realized
what a neatness freak Dutch must be. It made him wonder what
else he'd overlooked about his friend.

Kitty avoided the chairs and went straight to the small bar
in the corner. "So what made today so horrible, Moe?" She
turned a crystal glass right side up on the polished
surface.

"Hurting a friend, playing tiddly-winks with the cops,
missing Murrow on the radio - take your pick."

Kitty unstopped a decanter and began to pour, but her hand
shook and alcohol splashed onto the bar. When she swung
around to face Moe, all the color had drained from her face.
"The cops? What were you doing with the cops?"

A little fear had a way of putting different classes of
people on the same playing field. Moe pushed his advantage.
"They're looking to identify who was tail tickling with
Schmidt and possibly carried away evidence from a crime
scene."

"But I didn't take anything," she said with just an edge of
panic.

"Except for a little of the man's duck butter?"

"Don't be vulgar, Mr. Gafferson." Kitty took a man-sized
slug from the high ball glass and peeked over the rim at
Moe. When she spoke again the panic was gone, and in its
place a kittenish mewing. "Did you give them my name?"

Moe frowned. The dame was like everyone else in his world.
Sooner or later self-preservation won out over love. Grief
runs its course, and that course can be pretty short. Kitty
was becoming a marvel at changing gears to whatever the
scene called for.

"Would giving your name to the cops really be so bad, if you
have nothing to hide?"

"Why should I get mixed up in a murder I had nothing to do
with?"

Misleading a client about whose murder he was actually being
accused of didn't upset Moe, especially if it meant he might
get some answers. "I was asking myself the same question
when a fat cop with bad breath was dishing me dirt." Moe
plopped down in one of the leather chairs, crossed his legs
and leaned back in what he meant to be a thoughtful pose.
"Why should I take the rap for someone who was holding out
on me?"

"I swear on my mother's life, Moe, I don't know anything
more than what I've told you."

"Too bad I don't know your mother."

Kitty turned back to the bar. Ice clinked inside of glass as
she set her drink down. Her shoulders slumped and a deep
sigh made its way from her chest. "I don't know what else to
tell you, Mr. Gafferson. I'm just a woman who had an affair
like any common street tramp. Just ask Dutch, he'll be glad
to tell you all about me."

It figured Dutch wouldn't let the affair settle and die. Moe
didn't blame him. Cheating was a hard thing to get over. But
that had nothing to do with Moe.

"Talking to Dutch is exactly what I had in mind."

"Go ahead. He knows I hired you."

"Oh? You finally tipped your mitt?"

Kitty threw back her head and laughed - not a sexy laugh,
but one crammed with sarcasm. "No, Moe. It wasn't me. One of
the servants told him about your visit to our home. He
figured it out on his own." She turned around, embracing
herself like she was warding off the cold. "So you see,
there's no reason for you to continue now. I'll be sending
you a bank note - with my husband's permission, of course."

"It could be that easy. Except it's not. I still got the law
on my back."

"So you didn't give my name to the police?"

"I'm still ruminating over the idea. I want to talk to Dutch
first."

Kitty laughed again and took another healthy gulp of booze.
"He might tell you to give me up. He'd see it as a scratch
at the surface of justice."

"Maybe. Cuckolded husbands tend to be bitter that way." It
was a crappy thing to say, but sometimes Moe spoke without
thinking. Mrs. Winslow seemed to let the words float right
by her. He shifted in his chair. "Mind if I wait for him
here?"

"I'll tell him you're waiting," she said, and she slowly
made her way to the door. She reached for the knob but
stopped short of twisting it. Without turning around, she
whispered, "I suppose I should thank you."

"Forget it doll. The bank note will do the trick."

Her sigh of resignation hung in the air long after she'd
left and closed the door. She might have been waiting for
some sympathy from Moe over the jam she'd got herself in,
but as Moe saw it, the broad had a lot more going for her
than most dames. Dutch was Catholic, so marriage was for
life - good or bad. It wasn't likely he would toss her out,
not unless she made a habit of suburb sinning. She'd recover
just fine, sashaying with the black tie crowd downstairs.

He fixed himself a shot of bourbon while he waited for
Dutch. It would be a few minutes before the club's show
began and Dutch could make his way upstairs. Moe considered
rifling through the desk drawers. In another man's office -
a man who wasn't a friend - it'd be no problem, but Dutch
was _still_ a friend, at least for now. Besides Dutch had his
office rigged with all kinds of thingamajigs. For all Moe
knew, someone could be watching him right now. He knew Dutch
had installed one-way mirrors to the cub rooms behind the
midnight velvet curtains a casual observer might think were
used just to match the d -šcor of the club.  Moe knew because
he had stood lookout for Dutch on more than one occasion.

Even though Dutch had decided to keep things honest years
ago, he still allowed high stake card games in the cub
rooms. The participants won and lost a boatload of cash. The
one-way mirrors were Dutch's way of keeping an eye out for
flaring tempers.

Moe remembered Kitty saying there was a card game going on
now. Watching it was as good a way as any to kill time.

The scene was mostly a familiar one: six men huddled around
a card table, jackets removed, ties loosened, smoke swirling
from cigars and cigarillos, and piles of chips sitting in
front of each man, with some piles larger than others.

But this game had something none of the other games that Moe
witnessed had - a nude blonde standing in the corner. The
dame was no bigger than a minute. Her hair was pushed back
off her face to reveal pale, parchment skin. Her eyes were
as big as silver dollars, blue as poker chips, and just as
opaque. She didn't try to hide her nakedness, but stood like
a marble statue: legs stiff, torso motionless. Her titties
favored a couple of fried eggs with very little yolk, and
counting her ribs was as easy as counting piano keys. Her
quim whiskers were also blond, but they were sparse and
barely did the job of covering her cradle. Moe could almost
be convinced the chick was a statue except for the bit of
life she showed by way of clenched fists.

The card players were keeping up the game as if the blond
babe didn't exist. All except for one. The yegg with the
biggest pile was eyeing her like a starved man at a banquet.
He was a wolf, and when he licked his lips, he did
everything but salivate. Moe immediately disliked him on
principle.

By the looks of the pot - red, white, and blue chips mixed
with a few greenbacks to make a nice-sized centerpiece - the
hand was well underway. Moe couldn't see what Wolfman was
holding, but he could easily make out the hand of one of the
chaps with his back to Moe's view. The guy had three aces,
the eight of clubs, and a three of hearts.

The group threw in their discards and the dealer drawled how
many for each around the table. Wolfman drew one card,
peeked at his hand, smiled and licked his chops, and then
gave a wink to the blonde. She appeared oblivious.

The lucky chap with three aces threw away the eight and
three and drew two more cards. When Mr. Lucky revealed his
two new cards, Moe was suddenly glad he wasn't betting
against him. He'd drawn a six of diamonds and the missing
ace of clubs. Four aces was a nuts hand in anybody's game.

Apparently Wolfman had been winning big all night. He had a
worthy pile sitting in front of him. Mr. Lucky, on the other
hand, was down to his last few chips, but Moe really liked
his chances.

The opener started the betting. Mr. Lucky raised, and
Wolfman raised back. Everyone folded except the opener, who
like a fool, called the bet. Mr. Lucky and Wolfman raised
again and the opener timidly folded, leaving just Wolfman
and Mr. Lucky.

Mr. Lucky tossed his last chip on the pile and cocked his
head toward the blonde. Moe would have liked to hear the
audio on this exchange. The blonde surprisingly showed
another sign of life and blushed like a boiled lobster.
Wolfman shrugged his shoulders and half-heartedly shook his
head, no. Every pair of eyes was on Mr. Lucky.

Moe figured the game was over until Mr. Lucky snapped his
fingers in the air toward the dame. The card players turned
her way as if they'd just realized she was in the room. Her
eyes sparked with anger and then went as blank as before.
Mr. Lucky snapped his fingers again, and the blonde began to
move, slowly, seductively, gliding her hands over her boyish
frame and gyrating her hips. She cupped her tiny breasts and
then flicked at their tips until each nipple plumped up like
jigger bites. She turned around and slid her fingers over
her ass, tugging at the double mounds and giving glimpses of
the rosebud between. Mr. Lucky snapped his fingers again and
as quickly as she started, she stopped. Two of the gawking
men hurriedly removed their roaming hands from their
crotches.

Wolfman smirked. It reminded Moe of a picture one of the
gossip sheets had run of Fatty Arbuckle a few years back
before his rape trial - lewd enough to think he had the
world by the collar. The louse nodded his agreement, and the
entire group watched as Mr. Lucky laid down his hand. Moe
didn't have to hear to know everyone was impressed. Everyone
but Wolfman. As Mr. Lucky reached to scoop up the pot,
Wolfman stopped him by laying down his own cards, one at a
time - a five, a six, a seven, an eight, and a nine, all
spades - a straight spade flush.

Moe didn't trust anyone who could be so fortunate. He
expected Mr. Lucky to feel the same, maybe jump up,
challenge the hand, show a little muscle. But instead, the
fop relaxed back in his seat, his thumbs hooked in his
suspenders, smoking his cigarillo.

Wolfman didn't bother scooping up his haul before he bounded
out of his seat and went creeping over to the blonde. Within
seconds, he was all over her like ugly on ape: pawing at a
breast, slobbering at her neck, and probing her pussy with
his fat fingers. The rest of the men tried not to watch, but
they were as unsuccessful as Moe at turning away, and no one
bothered to stop it. Not Mr. Lucky, not the other men, and
not Moe.

Wolfman pulled back long enough to unzip his pants and let
them fall to his knees. His nearsighted cock was short but
thick, as thick as the end of a baseball bat. The knob-end
had already worked its way out of the draw drapes, pushing
the foreskin back over his shaft.  He spun the blonde around
and shoved her hard against the wall. Her arms barely had
time to brace for the impact. She didn't fight or scream or
cry. She played like a malleable doll and let her body be
posed, spreading her legs when Wolfman's hands slapped at
the inside of her thighs, bending at the waist when he
shoved her head down, and holding still when he spanked her
ass until it flamed from his handprint.

The sight of the blonde bent over, her pussy poised between
her thighs, and her lewdly spread anus, filled Moe with
revulsion. Wolfman rubbed his chubby cock, and tiny spits of
pre-cum dribbled in the slit of the blonde's back door. Moe
tasted bile in the back of his throat. He'd seen enough. He
pounded on the one-way mirror, but no one inside the room
seemed to notice. He fumbled with the curtain, trying not to
think about Wolfman's cockhead pressing against the blonde's
puckered flesh. He was going to break it up. He scrambled
for the office door, slung it open, and charged right into
Dutch Winslow.

"Whoa! Better get your flaps down, Moe, or you're going to
take off."

Moe sputtered he was so appalled. "Damn it, Dutch. Do you
know what's going on in the cub room?"

"Stay out of it, Moe."

"Stay out of it? Listen, Dutch."

Dutch grabbed Moe's lapels and jerked him close enough to
touch chin hairs. "No! _You_ listen. When are you going to
learn to keep your nose out of business that doesn't concern
you?"

Dutch's outburst stunned Moe, but only momentarily. "Some
things a decent man has to make his business, Dutch. A month
ago I would have called you a decent man."

"Come here, you fathead." Dutch dragged Moe by his lapels
back into his office and yanked back the midnight velvet
curtain. For a split second, Dutch hesitated at the sight of
Wolfman porking the little blonde's ass. But he recovered
quickly. "Look again, Moe. Do you know who these people
are?"

Moe looked at Wolfman. He tried not to watch the man's hairy
ass cheeks clench and release as he pounded into the blonde.
"I don't recognize him." Moe was still looking when Wolfman
pulled his pecker from her ass. His fat cock left a gaping
hole and a stream of lather trickled from its rim. Except
for tremors in her upthrust flanks, the dame still didn't
move.

"Not that fucker. The fucker that brought the girl. The man
who lost the bet."

Moe looked at Mr. Lucky. The man was still facing away from
the one-way mirror. Apparently, he'd grown bored of the
corner action, because he was casually shuffling the deck of
cards and smoking his cigarillo. There _was_ something
familiar about the man, but from the back view Moe couldn't
place him. "I haven't got a good look at his face."

"I'll tell you who it is."  Dutch ran a hand through his
hair and sighed. "That, Moe, is Councilman Karl Boch."

Moe studied the man hard. When Moe had seen Boch with
Lindbergh in the Cincinnati Enquirer, he knew he didn't like
Boch's politics. When Moe learned Boch's limo had frequented
Schmidt's cottage, he knew he didn't like the company Boch
kept. And now, as the little blonde straightened, her
buttocks flaming red, while the son-of-a-bitch casually
dealt the next round of cards, Moe decided he absolutely
hated the bastard.

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.
<1st attachment begin>

<HTML removed pursuant to http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/erotica/assm/faq.html#policy>
<1st attachment end>

----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+