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Message-ID: <47649asstr$1083201002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 16 by Desdmona (Hard-Boiled Mystery)
Lines: 549
Date: Wed, 28 Apr 2004 21:10:02 -0400
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The following story contains sex scenes that may be offensive to some. Read 
at your own peril. This chapter is particularly graphic.

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 16



Calling Mona home under the pretense that Danja needed her
was a crappy thing to do, but Moe reasoned he had good
grounds. Still, Mona was furious. The kind of gut-wrenching
angry that starts in your labonza and cuts right through to
your scalp. He figured he would pour on the charm later and
try to get Mona to forgive him. His chances of succeeding
were probably fifty-fifty.

"To hell with you, Moe Gafferson! You've got a lot of crust
taking advantage of me like this," she blazed. "I left my
shift early for this!" Her fists were clenched and propped
on her hips. They tightened even more as she spoke, like she
was readying for a bout of boxing. What they said about
redheads was one-hundred-percent true, at least for this
dame. She was just upset enough to take a swing at him. Moe
took a couple steps back.

"Mona, baby, I had no choice."

"Don't Mona-baby-me, you lousy, yellowbellied scoundrel. You
had me worried to death, and _all_ just so you could sneak
out of here!"

"There's more to it than that, doll, I swear." Moe rushed
toward the front door before she could take a breath and
really lay into him. He stopped long enough to take a stab
at smoothing the waters. "I don't have time to explain. Just
trust me this one last time."

Her shoulders relaxed, and Moe took it as a good sign.
"Whatever you do," he continued. "Don't let Danja out of
your sight. Sit on her if you have to."

He stole one last look at Mona as the door closed behind
him. Her face flamed, her lips thinned, and her eyes
spiraled daggers in his direction. She was one fired up
tamale. But even in her anger there was a certain brazen
sensuality to her that surprised Moe, inflamed him. He
looked forward to making up with her. If she'd let him.

For now, Moe refused to let Mona, or anything about her,
keep him from doing what he had to do. He needed to replace
his smashed up Brownie with a brand-spanking-new camera.
Karl Boch was hosting a party tonight, the kind of party
that could make great newsreel for his opponent in the
upcoming election. Some might call it blackmail. Moe
preferred to think of it as insurance - insurance for
himself, for Dutch, and for Danja Bittners. There was no way
Moe was sending a kitten like Danja back into the hands of a
man like Karl Boch. Boch may have her conned into believing
she had no options, but Moe knew better.

                            * * *
                              
Moe came out of Montgomery Ward's with a Baby Brownie
Special and some 127 film. It cost him a buck twenty-five,
but it was worth it. It was a beaut of a camera.

Councilman Boch lived in Glendale, a suburb for the wealthy.
The streets were lined with maples and oaks, and the homes
fought for a place in architectural history. Boch lived in
an elegant Queen Ann-Victorian mansion, built sometime
before 1900, and situated on a prime corner lot. The scream
sheets had photographed the place so many times it was
nearly a regular feature.

During daylight hours, Moe's old Buick trolling up and down
Glendale would look as out of place as a baseball in a curio
cabinet, so he parked on a side street and made the hike
through the neighborhood. This trip was just to get a feel
for the lay of the land.

Boch's mansion was a two-story joint, situated on the back
half of the property and overloaded with windows. Just the
way Moe liked it for his line of work. An unattached garage,
painted the same red as the house, sat at the end of a
cement driveway. The driveway was gated, most likely
electronic. A six-foot wrought-iron fence encased the entire
home.  Luckily, on the back east corner, Moe found an oak
with a branch droopy enough that, later, would help him over
the fence. For now, he just walked around and made like a
tourist, oohing and ahhing from all angles the divine
architecture of the house.

He ambled back to his Buick with a plan sketched out in his
mind: after the sun went down, he would park across the
street from Boch's mansion. Cars would be coming and going,
thanks to the party, and a beat up Buick would practically
fade into the darkness. Visitors arriving at the doorstep
would also keep attention away from the perimeter of the
property, or at least Moe hoped so. He'd climb the oak and
drop down on the other side. The rest of the evening would
be spent rubbernecking into those huge Victorian windows.
With any luck, Moe would get snapshots worthy of front page
news.

With a couple hours to kill, Moe drove back to his regular
stomping grounds. Even though Glendale was touted for being
as pristine as bleached summer whites, Moe felt cleaner back
on Gilbert Avenue.

Moe stopped off at Joe's Diner. His belly told him there was
a roast beef sandwich waiting there with his name on it, and
Moe figured he could catch a little news while he was
chowing. He was right about the sandwich - chunks of beef,
roasted to perfection, went down like it was prepared for a
king. Unfortunately, the broadcast news centered on the
inner circle of politicians looking for re-election. Boch
figured prominently. It left a bad taste.

The late dinner crowd began to fill the booths. Moe sat and
sipped coffee until seven o'clock. He scooted from the
stool, left Joe a nice tip, and walked out onto the downtown
streets. The sun was low in the sky. It was time to return
to Glendale.

Evening traffic in Cincinnati could be counted to be one of
two things: congested or a complete standstill. Moe had a
magnificent view of the sunset. Unfortunately, it was while
he was still twenty minutes away from Glendale and behind a
line of thirty cars all turning his way. He loaded film into
his new Brownie, stashed the extra rolls in his glove
compartment, and checked and then rechecked his roscoe while
waiting through one red light after another. Dusk had yawned
and went to bed by the time he finally rolled onto Boch's
street. He had no idea what time the little soiree was due
to start, but by the looks of the crowded driveway, Moe had
arrived fashionably late.

He turned the corner and found the parking spot close to the
oak he planned to put to use. The houses were far enough
apart that no house lights shined directly on his Buick. The
dark hid the rust spots that made his car scream "jalopy."

Moe walked along the sidewalk until he was sure no one was
watching. He checked his roscoe and his Brownie - both were
secure in his pockets - and leapt up onto the lowest branch
in the tree. He scooted along a heavy branch sidesaddle, and
readied to drop to the ground.

But just as he swung one leg over to make the jump, he
spotted a couple of boys packing heat. Moe froze, his feet
dangling and his hands clutching the thick branch.

The goons were dressed in dark suits and had typewriters
with thirty-round magazines slung over their shoulders -
heavy artillery for a friendly neighborhood. Moe held his
breath and tried not to move. If Boch was using security
with tommy guns, the councilman meant business.

The pair stopped several feet from Moe's tree. Moe glanced
back and wondered if he could get to his car before the
shooting started. He looked at the two goons again. If there
was only one, Moe could probably take him. Or if they had
less lethal firepower. But no way could he beat them both.
His only chance was to hope they didn't look up.

They lit cigarettes and bullshitted about their assignment

"How long we gotta keep circling the place, Al? I could use
a brew."

"Can it, Gus. You'll get your sauce. Later."

Gus gnawed at his cigarette, not really smoking it, and
checked the magazine on his gun. "Same crowd here tonight?"

"Looks that way." Al took a long drag off his cigarette and
then flicked it away. "C'mon. We don't want the boss
catching us taking a break."

Gus took a couple hurried puffs and then dropped the cancer
stick at his feet, stamping it out with the heel of his
boot. "Fuck, he'd string us out for sure."

Moe waited until their shadows were long gone before he let
himself breathe again. He dropped out of the tree and
crouched low to the ground. He would have to keep an ear
out. Al and Gus would make snooping around the windows a lot
harder.

Luckily, Boch had made good use of landscaping. Trees
plagued the property, giving Moe cover as he serpentined
toward the house. A smattering of windows were dimly lit,
but all of them had draperies. Draperies pulled so tight
together that Moe couldn't see a thing, let alone point a
camera. He circled the house, ducking between bushes and
behind trees, and found the same thing on the other side:
massive windows, but all blocked by curtains.

That left him with one option. He had to find a way inside.

Moe retraced his steps, jiggling windows that had no lights
and avoiding those that did. He came up empty until, just
for kicks, he followed a concrete sidewalk that led to a
side door. The outer screen door was latched, but the inner
door was cracked open. Moe pulled out a penknife and, with
the open blade, lifted up the hook and eased it out of the
eye. It made a small tinkling sound. He glanced around,
checking for Al and Gus. Boch's boys were no where in sight.
With the coast clear, he opened the screen and shoved past
the inside door.

Inside was a small mudroom - farm sink with an oversized
basin on one side, a potter's bench on the other. Beyond the
mudroom was a corridor with dark mahogany ceiling and side
panels. From a kitchen off to the left, Moe heard the
banging of pots, the baritone voice of a man lauding the
praises of russet potatoes for a hot potato salad, and the
giggling voice of a female.

The right corridor was longer, with low-key lighting. Moe
stepped into it and followed it to its end. A heavy door,
made from the same mahogany as the hallway, was closed.
There was nowhere else to go. Moe pushed it open a crack.
The room beyond was a brightly lit, grand dining room with a
built-in buffet and a large, Chippendale-style table and
chairs. But the eye-catcher in the ornate room was an
intricately designed stained-glass-window depicting scenes
from ancient Rome: Bacchus in a vineyard; toga clad men,
laurels wrapped around their heads, with nearly naked women
groveling at their feet; and Venus, playing with her boy
Cupid. Moe shook his head. One man's pornography was another
man's art.

The room was empty, but recently so. The table still showed
remnants of a concluded meal. Moe figured servants would be
making their way in to finish the clean up any minute. He
had no choice but to take a risk. He slipped into the dining
room and rushed to another hallway opposite. The passageway
took him towards the front of the house. As he neared a pair
of paneled doors, he heard classical music whining from a
Victrola. Moe stopped and waited to hear voices chinning
politics, dishing dirt, or maybe a few poker game rants.
Instead, there was just the music and an occasional soft
moan.

As Moe inched toward the door, other sounds became clear:
grunts, groans, and slapping flesh - the distinct kind of
slapping heard only from a four-legged frolic. He peeked
into the room and nearly had to sew his jaw back into place.
Scenes like this could only be seen at movie houses. And
even then, only a movie house opened after midnight and
featuring stag films.

French antique furniture had been shoved toward the walls,
forming a periphery that resembled Conestoga wagons circled
for an attack. At the front of the room sat the lone piece
of furniture still in play: a throne the likes of which only
the pope or a king would own, decorated with mother-of-pearl
inlay, elaborately carved with Empire style lions beneath
the arm-rests, and polished to a high sheen.

Sitting on the throne, without a stitch of clothes, was Karl
Boch. Everything about his lean, naked body was firm - the
hard line of his jaw, the honed muscles of his abdomen -
everything, that is, except the flaccid bit of manflesh
between his legs. It hung soft, like a sock on a
clothesline.

On one side of the room stood a row of men, two of which Moe
recognized from the poker game, all of whom were naked. On
the other side of the room, as if preparing for a sexually
perverted game of Red Rover, stood a line of girls, equally
nude. Every one of them was blonde.

In the center of the room came the source of the grunts and
groans echoing in the hallway. The pair was sprawled on the
huge Aubusson rug: an older, paunchy gentleman exchanging a
bit of hard for a bit of soft with a mouse barely old enough
to be wearing nylons. The man's mouth gaped open and his
face shined with sweat. Her legs pointed straight up into
the air, and he held her by the ankles. As he pumped into
the girl, he breathed like an old Ford with a leaky head
gasket. Every pair of eyes was glued to the duo.

Moe would have snapped a picture, but the only good angle
was towards the fuckers on the rug, and neither one of them
was Boch. Any kind of a good shot was going to have to come
from a better watchtower. The only option was to drop to the
floor, duck behind the furniture, and crawl into the room.
With the furniture shoved against the walls, he had plenty
of hiding places. He set his sights for a 19th century
Provencal settee, upholstered in a lush red. It's high back,
low seat, and short legs would make a great screen. Other
than a short gap between the settee and a hunt board with a
polished, black slate top, his route was completely screened
from the party.

Moe quickly ducked inside the room and crouched behind a
sofa. He crawled around to the hunt board and stopped. The
gap to the settee was short, but wide open. If they weren't
paying attention, he could cross the gap unseen. But if they
were looking the wrong way at the wrong time .

As if on cue, the old geezer gave a whale of a yell and Moe
scooted behind the settee. He scrunched down between the
wall and the small couch and took the opportunity to take a
much-needed deep breath. He'd gone unnoticed and apparently,
the old man's yell had been the finale of the show. The old
boy pulled out his shriveling meat and a round of applause
ensued. Not a Ted Williams-homer kind of applause but a
stuffy, thank-you-for-that-nice-harpsichord-solo kind of
applause. Moe pulled his camera from his pocket and wound
the film. He snapped a picture, making sure to include Boch
perched on his throne in the background. Moe hoped there was
enough light to make up for the lack of a flash.

The geezer shuffled up to Boch and said a few words that Moe
couldn't hear. Boch nodded his head, and the old boy made
his way out the door, passing close to Moe's hiding spot.
The man looked familiar, and then it hit Moe. The line of
dirty politicians was getting longer. The old geezer was the
other councilman in the Cincinnati Enquirer shot with
Lindbergh and Boch.

Moe glanced back at the party. The men were lined up in
order of age - oldest to youngest. Apparently, age was
rewarded in this game. Each man sported an erection. The
younger men's roaring jacks were free willing - hard, ruby-
headed, and supported by nothing but their libidos. Most of
the older guys needed a hands-on approach to maintain their
stiffies. Karl Boch remained unaffected and limp.

In contrast, the women stood almost zombie-like, with vacant
eyes that reminded Moe of Danja at the poker game. The gal
who'd just been fucked joined her sisters, standing calmly
in line, semen spilling down her legs.

Boch nodded towards the men, and the next man approached the
throne. He was one of Boch's poker buddies, flabbier than
the young studs in line, his hair graying at the temples.
His naked ass jiggled as he kneeled down at Boch's feet.
Boch watched stonily as the man pressed his lips to the tops
of Boch's feet.

The men marched up to Boch one by one, each one planting a
kiss on the faux-king's feet before Boch waved him away
without a word. Once he was granted leave, each man made his
way down the line of women to choose a mate. Before
choosing, the men tested the girls by grabbing and twisting
a tit, or pawing their pussies, or rubbing an erection in
their tangle of pubic hair. It reminded Moe of a cattle
auction.

After everyone had paired off, each couple found a niche on
the Aubusson rug. They knelt side-by-side, with eyes facing
forward like a room full of school children. One lone dame
remained in line beside the throne. Boch motioned for her to
come forward, and she obeyed. She knelt before him and
kissed his feet, just as the men had done. When she stood,
her arms were stretched out to the side, and her feet were
apart, as if aping an airplane. She slowly turned, three
hundred and sixty degrees, while Boch and the others looked
on.

Moe was so wrapped up in the action, he nearly forgot why he
was there. He focused his brownie on the naked girl and
punched the button.

When she had finished her exhibition, Boch nodded and the
quail walked over to the corner where a burled, three-door
armoire filled the space.  She opened its doors and removed
a mahogany box the size of a bread basket. She carried the
box to a side table near the Victrola. She left the box long
enough to replace the LP on the Victrola. New music began to
build. The girl moved back to the mahogany box. She opened
its lid, but Moe couldn't make out its contents beyond a
purple velvet lining. Her body swayed with the music - slow,
gradual, and rhythmic.

She began to remove things from the box. First, a cruet -
half full of a clear liquid. Next, came a white cloth that
favored a man's handkerchief. And finally, she lifted out
the coup de gr�'ce - a leather belt with a large ivory
phallus attached.

The music played on and every so often another instrument
was added to the orchestra's rhythm, gradually building
towards crescendo. Moe didn't know much about classical
music - he preferred the jazz sounds of Count Basie or Duke
Ellington - but he had to admit there was something about
this particular tune that had his blood pumping. A quick
glance at the couples proved they were affected as well.
Apparently, it was the girls' responsibility now to keep the
pricks hard. Their fingers stroked the erections, fumbling,
squeezing, and caressing. The men in turn searched and found
the intimate spots of the girls. They were primed and ready,
but no one took the next step.

In contrast, Boch was still laden with a dominie-do-little
and two dry balls. The girl carefully lifted the fake dong
over her head and held it high for everyone to see.

Moe had heard of this kind of thing - a pixie who couldn't
get it up unless his blowhole was plugged - but he'd never
been an eye witness before. Taking pictures of a fairy with
a bone in his ass wasn't Moe's idea of a lot of fun, but it
was the kind of picture that would be worth a lot of gold.

The blond Jane carried the phallus to Boch. He ran his hands
over the rounded head of the ivory tusk and down along its
length, masturbating it in time with the music.  Moe nabbed
another picture. Boch stood up, and Moe expected him to
assume the hound dog position. But instead he took up the
same airplane pose that the dame had adopted earlier: arms
outstretched and feet apart. As the music built to its
crest, the blonde wrapped the belt around Boch's hips and
fastened the leather buckle. The horde of partakers cheered.
Boch stood proudly with the ivory dildo jutting out from his
crotch, and he raised his hands high in the air like a Roman
god in front of his mortal disciples.

The female assistant had worked her way over to the table
with the handkerchief and cruet. Boch gained his fill of the
cheering accolades and finally sat back down on his throne.
He spread his legs lewdly. The crowd roared again. One of
Boch's nuts hung below the edge of the dildo like a
misplaced goiter. Moe focused the viewfinder and snapped the
shot.

Boch turned his head toward the girl and nodded. She slowly
walked over to him, carrying the last two items from the
box, and placed the cruet into Boch's outstretched hand. He
fingered the tiny bottle like a lover and finally opened it.
He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply, and then tipped
it over the dildo. Oil drizzled down its bone-colored sides.
Together, Boch and the blonde worked at spreading the oil
over the full length and breadth of the dildo. When they
finished, Boch took the handkerchief, wiped his hands, and
then tossed it to the floor. The chit rubbed the oil from
her hands onto her cunt until her pubic hair glistened and
her fat lips shined.

Boch reached for the girl. She spread her arms as if on a
crucifix, and he lifted her into the air. He held her
straddled above him, and she spread her legs. Then little-by-
little, with his arm muscles straining, Boch lowered her
onto the ivory. The fake cock forced open her cunny lips.
When only half of the dildo had disappeared inside her,
drums were suddenly added to the music's orchestra, pounding
and beating and thumping out the rhythm. The couples took up
the beat, clapping their hands in time, over and over. The
volume rose. Sweat dribbled down the blonde's back and her
legs shook. And Boch held her still, the white dong half
inside.

A syncopated beat crossed up the clapping, and the men and
women suddenly froze. The music stopped. Every eye focused
on the girl poised above the ivory shaft.

Finally Boch released his hold and let her drop. Her
guttural shriek pierced the room. Immediately, the couples
began to copulate. Fucking like rabbits in a time warped
Roman orgy. The music pounded louder than ever.

The girl fell limp as a sock. Boch cackled, thrusting into
her comatose body, supporting her with his pasty, muscular
arms. The ivory cock streaked with blood.

Moe was out of film and pumped full of gall. He crouched as
low as he could get, scooted past the hunt table, and out
into the hallway. The smell of sex followed him like a
pigheaded posse.

He raced down the hallway toward the dining room. A quick
peek around the door showed the dinner table completely
clean and the lights turned down. Moe counted his lucky
stars and slipped through the room into the back corridor.
Everything was quiet. All except the faint sound of the
Victrola behind him. He rushed back to the mudroom and out
into the cool night, thankful to breathe in its clear, crisp
air.

Moe had lived a long time in his thirty years, been around a
lot of seedy people, but nothing compared to the evil that
lived inside that house. The curdling scream of the girl as
she was brutally impaled still rang in Moe's ears.

The moon and the stars were hidden behind clouds, making it
darker than most nights but lessening the chance of shadows.
Moe glanced around for Al and Gus, but they were nowhere to
be seen. He considered just making a run for it but decided
to wait until the Bobbsey Twins passed by on their
roundabout. He did his best to blend into the side of the
house, letting his pounding heart tick off the seconds. The
longer he waited, the more his gut told him to run. After
twenty minutes, he decided to listen to his gut and headed
off toward the corner of the lot.

He reached the oak and realized it would be a little harder
to climb it from this side of the fence. He jumped up,
grabbed onto the lowest branch, flung his leg up and worked
to right himself. He was almost there when he heard the
voice behind him.

"Hey, Mack, we don't like monkeys in our trees."

"Yeah, we don't like monkeys," echoed either Al or Gus. It
was hard to remember who was who.

Moe contemplated diving over the fence and taking his
chances of getting to his car, but a wrought-iron fence
didn't offer much hope for bullet-proofing, especially if
those bullets were coming from a tommy gun at the speed of
sound. He was good and caught, and he knew it. So, he did
the only thing he could do. He stashed the brownie in the
crook of the branch and dropped down. Any luck of taking out
one of the thugs was gone when they stepped back a couple of
feet as he hit the ground.

Moe stood upright and brushed the dirt off his hands. He
flashed them what he hoped was a let's-be-pals smile. "So,
either of you boys got a light?" he asked.


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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