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Message-ID: <48091asstr$1086261005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 19 and Epilogue by Desdmona (Hard-Boiled Mystery)
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Date: Thu,  3 Jun 2004 07:10:05 -0400
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The following story contains sex 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 19



Detectives Jansen and Braxton were close on Moe's heels,
screeching their black and blue buggy to a halt minutes
after Moe had swept through Mona's ransacked house. While
the Cincy boys sifted inside through broken furniture, at
the height of darkness, Moe, with only a distant street lamp
for illumination, fumbled through the yard looking for a
possible clue. All three came up empty.

Later, the cops continued their thing outside, once again
retracing Moe's footprints. Moe plopped down on the porch
step. The cold of the cement breached his trousers and made
his ass feel like it had taken a paddling from Sister Mary
Francis. But Moe ignored it.

He had his face buried in his hands when Jansen and Braxton
made their way over to the stoop.

"Go home, Gafferson," Jansen said. "It's a sure bet no one
is coming back here tonight."

Braxton was in a less agreeable mood. "You sure we just want
to let him go, Janney?" he snarled. "Seems to me he could
have led us here as a setup."

If Moe's mind hadn't been crammed full of Mona and Karl
Boch, he might have decked the muscle-bound officer.

"Nah, this ain't a setup. The dame that's missing is sort of
special to our private dick here. Ain't that right,
Gafferson?"

Moe nodded and let it go. The fat detective could be savvy
when he wanted to be. Moe's wheels turned in another
direction. "At least we have something on Boch," Moe said.

Jansen shook his hands in front of himself like he was
waving pom-poms. "Whoa, Bub. Let's not jump to conclusions."

"What jump? It's an easy stroll. He calls and gets Mona's
address, and now she's missing," said Moe.

"I don't remember anyone using Boch's name, do you, Janney?"
Braxton had a quarter in his hand, flipping it over and over
between his fingers. The snarl had turned to a cocky grin.

Jansen jammed his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

Moe scrutinized the pair of law men. Braxton flipped the
quarter high, snatched it out of the air and mouthed the
words, `Tails you lose.' Jansen's hands fiddled in empty
pockets while he rocked back and forth on his heels and
avoided eye contact.

"Shit! I should have known. Cops! A fucking waste," growled
Moe. He stood, brushed imaginary lint from his suit sleeves,
and headed toward his car. "Forgive me, boys, if I don't
stick around for more of your ricky-tick. I've got things to
do."

"Go home, Gafferson, before you're boiling in oil," Jansen
shouted at Moe's back. "Let us handle this."

                            * * *
                              
Moe spent a half hour driving the backstreets of Cincinnati
just to lose the tail Jansen and Braxton pretended to work
at. He got a little pleasure leading them past the stink of
the paper mill and the city dump before finally leaving them
behind. It paid to know the allies in a different district
of town.

He worked his way back to Glendale and spent a good amount
of eight hours staring at Boch's mansion. It was locked up
tight. No cars in the garage. No lights in the house. And no
Al and Gus circling the place with Chicago pianos strapped
over their shoulders.

As the sun rose, the sky cotched the look of a silk scarf
being tossed over the horizon. Yellows and purples blended
together like a bruise and reminded Moe time was bullying
ahead. Nine hours had ticked away. No sign. No message. No
Mona. He eked down one street after another looking for an
accidental lead and stalking any pedestrian that had the
gall to be out so early in the morning. He was hit with
everything from "Hey, buddy you got a problem?" to the more
amicable "Can I help you, sir?" Finally, he realized the
futility of what he was doing and worked his way toward his
own neighborhood. He needed to see a friendly face.

He walked into Joe's Diner, smelled the coffee and the
bacon, and decided to have a little of both.

The place was filling up. It was never too early for a
breakfast joint. Joe glanced up from his spot in front of
the grill and nodded acknowledgement.

"The usual, Moe?"

Moe nodded. "Make the coffee stiffer and the bacon greasier.
Maybe it'll give me something to think about."

Three cups of java and a plate full of the sunrise special
later, and Moe was feeling human again. But good food and
coffee hadn't given him any better leads. Dejected, he
tossed a buck on the counter and stood to leave. He had
almost reached the door when Joe suddenly called out. "Hey,
Moe." Moe waited while Joe squirmed his way through the
swelling breakfast crowd.

"How you doin', Moe?"

"Fine, Joe. Breakfast was perfect, as usual."

Joe wiped his hands on the folded white apron spread across
his torso. He glanced out the door like a crook on the lam.
"Listen, buddy. I wanted to tell you something. Two goons
were in here last evening asking about you."

"Cops?"

"Not likely. They had the look of Capone. You know,
gangsters."

"They leave a name?"

"No, but the big one kept repeating everything the little
guy said."

So Boch's hounds were doing some clumsy snooping. No wonder
Joe looked spooked.

The morning munchers in the diner started getting restless.
"Hey, Joe how about my omelet?" one of them yelled.

Joe waved to the complainer and went on. "They asked if you
were here with a blonde. I wasn't sure what to say, so I
played dumb."

The complainer got a little louder. "Come on, Joe. I have to
be at work soon."

"Keep your pants on, Harry," Joe said to Mr. Omelet and then
turned back to Moe. "They wanted to make sure you were the
gumshoe who was shivved at that cottage Over the Rhine."

The lights flickered in Moe's head like Saturday's movie
newsreel. The cottage. Of course! They wouldn't take Mona
and Danja to the mansion. The cottage was the perfect
hideaway. The spring was back in Moe's step. "Thanks, Joe. I
owe you a million." He slapped Joe on the shoulder and then
rushed out the door.



                            * * *
                              
                              
                              
Moe slowed the Buick to a crawl, inching down the Over the
Rhine backstreet. The sun was in full swing, shining
brightly on the fa -｛de of Peter Schmidt's cottage and making
the small house look almost picturesque. From the outside,
there was little sign of life except for the lawn - it was
doing its best to recover from the abusing foot traffic. The
driveway and the carport were empty, and the house was
closed up like it was preparing for winter. The window
shades were pulled down. The last time he visited, they had
been up.

He shot a glance across the street at Opal Thompson's house.
Moe briefly considered stopping and asking her if she'd seen
anything, but the old broad's drapes were closed tight.
Maybe it was too early for her, or maybe she'd finally found
the courage to leave, or maybe she just knew when to keep
her nose out of things. Whatever the reason, Moe didn't want
to lead anyone to her. If, like Moe suspected, Boch was
cleaning house and getting rid of people with knowledge of
his involvement with Schmidt and Metzger, even an innocent
bystander like Opal could be a target.

Moe turned off on a connecting street and coasted to the
curb. The street was filled with small, paint-hungry
cottages squatting behind leaf-filled lawns. His Buick could
nestle here for an entire season and be right at home.

The backyards between the side street and Schmidt's cottage
weren't fenced. All Moe had to do was cross through three
small yards. He jogged from one to the next. His Roscoe,
cradled in its shoulder holster, thumped against his side
like a good buddy declaring, "I'm with you, pal."

The path around the cottage was a familiar one, only this
time Moe wouldn't be peeking in windows. He headed straight
to the back door that led to the carport and turned its
knob.

It was locked. He let go and looked carefully at the
keyhole. Fortunately, it was a simple pin and tumbler lock,
and Moe had a little experience with picking. He removed the
locksmith tool from the side pocket of his shoulder holster
and fitted it into the lock. He listened for the click of
each pin falling into position until the lock gave way. He
slipped his pick back into his shoulder holster and easily,
quietly, opened the door.

It led into a small kitchen with the remnants of an
unfinished meal left on a dinette table. Instead of a musty,
mildew smell from a boarded up house, a billowy haze of
tobacco hung in the air. And mixed with the distinctive
fragrance of pipe were the fresher smells of coffee and
toasted bread.

Moe tiptoed across the kitchen floor, listening for the
faintest sound. He thought he heard voices in the distance,
but he couldn't be sure. His heart rate zoomed, and his
hands were clammy.

If the floorboard creaked in warning, Moe missed it.
Suddenly, a figure loomed up, out of range of clear vision,
from beside the icebox. It was a man - a big man - that was
all Moe knew before the scene exploded into fire and
darkness. Just before his lights doused out completely, he
felt a stab of nausea and heard a deep, sardonic laugh.


                           * * *
                              
Moe woke up slow, facedown, staring at a hardwood floor in
desperate need of a good waxing. The wood grain snaked in
front of his eyes like a pit full of rattlers with the
prattle from their tails booming between his ears. He
steadied himself on his elbows and reached to feel the back
of his head. The spot was like the inside of an overripe
melon - soft and pulpy. With his touch, pain shot clear to
the soles of his feet. He groaned. It only made the pain
worse. He rolled over cautiously and looked straight up into
the smirking face of Karl Boch.

"We meet again, Mr. Gafferson," Boch said with a superior
air.

"I can't say I'm happy to see you." Moe winced. Moving his
mouth moved his skin, and moving his skin hurt his head.

"Come, come, Mr. Gafferson. Let's be gentlemen about this,
shall we?"

In Moe's eyes, Boch was as far from being a gentleman as
Miami was from Spokane.

"It took you a little longer to get here than I had
expected." Boch glanced at the Rolex decorating his wrist.
"The morning is half over." He lazily scratched the tip of
his nose with the barrel of a handgun. Moe's Roscoe. "You're
not much of a detective, are you Mr. Gafferson?"

Moe forced himself to sit up. His mouth cried out for the
saliva. "I had things to do," he managed to spit out.

"Cleaning up not on the list, eh? You look like shit, Mr.
Gafferson. I'm having a hard time understanding what Miss
Dale could ever see in you."

The mention of Mona cleared away some of the cobwebs
muzzying Moe's brain. "Mona? Where is she?"

"She's here, just as you guessed. And she was anxious to see
you too, at first. But that was hours ago. She's had a
little Golden Monkey since then. Now she's settling in
nicely."

Golden Monkey was the Chinese tea that Danja had mentioned.
Apparently, it wasn't any ordinary tea. "What exactly is
that swill you're handing out?" Moe asked.

Boch cocked his head in the smuggish way of a snob having to
deal with a man of no importance. "It's a special blend
given to me by my associate, Mr. Chang-a man of many uses."

"Running laundries and dishing dope?"

Boch shrugged his shoulders and pointed the gun more
directly at Moe. "Get up," he said.

Moe considered how fast he could grab the Roscoe before Boch
could squeeze the trigger. Boch's grip was firm, confident,
not sweaty or rickety while Moe's head was still as murky as
a Louisiana marsh. The odds weren't in his favor. Better to
wait, see the setup in the cottage. So far, no sign of Al
and Gus. And where were Mona and Danja? Moe could put off
being brave, or stupid, for a little while. He wobbled to
his feet like a newborn colt on its first legs.

Boch waved the gun toward a cramped hallway. "Go through
there."

Moe hesitated, but Boch was behind him with the cold, hard
nose of the gun pressed to the middle of his back. Moe
stumbled forward. Boch jammed the gun a little harder to
direct Moe into the hall. Moe shuffled on, Boch close at his
heels, to a bedroom off the left side of the hallway. The
room was just big enough to hold a lift-top walnut table,
two Eastlake Victorian chairs, and a king-sized pencil post
bed with olive-colored velvet curtains draped around it. The
windows were shuttered and locked, the room space
illuminated by harsh incandescent bulbs.

Boch continued with his monosyllabic orders. "Sit down."

Moe did as he was told and welcomed the minor comfort of a
padded seat. But his comfort was short-lived. Boch grabbed
Moe's arms and jerked them behind the chair. Moe reflexively
fought against him, but stopped struggling completely when
the butt of the Roscoe revisited the goose egg on the back
of Moe's head. Moe saw more stars than a Hollywood opening
night. Dazed and hurting, he let Boch tie his wrists and
then his ankles. Each wrap of twine took on the air of a
nightmarish deja vu, except the councilman made a better
knot than Al and Gus.

When Boch had finished, he placed the Roscoe on the walnut
table and casually leaned against a post of the bed. "I have
an interesting proposition for you, Mr. Gafferson."

"Fuck you , Boch."

"Now that's no way to treat a potential business partner. I
took you for a smarter man, Gafferson."

"It's nothing personal." Moe let the sarcasm roll. "The nuns
had trouble teaching me manners."

Boch folded his arms across his chest, tapping his fingers
along his sleeve-covered bicep. "You're a funny man,
Gafferson. Knock off the comedy routine for a second and
listen. You might be happy with my proposition."

It wasn't like Moe had any options and curiosity licked a
little at his innards. "My ears are working."

"What would you say to coming to work for me? I'd pay you
plenty more than you'll make being a two-bit private eye.
And I could use a man like you."

Moe nearly choked at the idea. Working for Boch would be
like Lindy-hopping with Lucifer. But Moe could play make-
believe if Boch wanted to. "What exactly are we talking
about here?"

"Body guard, sleuth, or protector. Give it whatever title
you'd like."

"Hitman?"

Boch's mouth spread wide in what some might call a smile.
But the spread didn't make it to his eyes - their ominous
depths remained hard and opaque. "No, I don't suppose we
could ever come to agreeable terms," he said. "Pity." With a
flourish, Boch pulled the other chair out and sat down,
proper-like, as if he was at the opera: back straight, arms
folded, and leg crossed. The only things missing were a lace
handkerchief and opera glasses to complete the picture.

"Let us begin," Boch announced in a booming voice.

Startled, Moe looked around, expecting another beating. He
craned his head to see if anyone was at the door, but there
was no one.

Suddenly, from behind the closed bed curtains, exposing one
limb at a time, emerged a fragile-looking Danja Bittners.
Silk veils in kaleidoscope colors draped her petite frame
like she was some kind of Aryan Salome.

She stepped out onto the floor, her feet bare, and the veils
fluttering around her body. She didn't look at Boch, and she
didn't look at Moe. She was alone in some Arabian dream.

She began to dance, silently, without music, circling and
twirling. She pulled a pink veil loose, draping it about her
face, across her chest, and then dropped it to the floor.
She followed it with a yellow veil, then blue, then orange.

Unlike Salome, motions meant to be hot and steamy seemed
docile, even mechanical, when performed by Danja Bittners.
She pulled another veil loose, exposing her small breasts.
Her nipples were rouged to a carmine red.

Moe tried to make eye contact, but Danja was seeing sultans
and sand and dancing to her own disjointed lute solo. Her
eyes were the same flat, emotionless pools that Moe had
witnessed at the poker game. Danja spun in circles with the
veils in each hand. Moe recognized it for what it was - a
drug-induced miasma.

When she removed the last of her veils and stood nearly nude
with just the barest of sheath covering her hips, Boch
snapped his fingers. Danja stopped abruptly, wobbling a
little on her feet. She turned wooden and tugged on the
olive velvet curtains revealing the bed beyond.

Lying naked atop a bed of green, with flaming hair haloed
about her head was Mona, arms stretched out and wrists tied
to the posts. Her milky body was relaxed, and her eyes were
the same dead orbs as Danja's.

Relief that she was alive washed over Moe, but outrage at
her position shoved any joy aside. Moe struggled against his
ties, but his attempts were futile.  "Mona!" he yelled.

Mona gazed into space, unable to focus, but groaned at the
call of her name.

Moe wrenched against the twine again, feeling it dig into
his wrists until his fingers turned cold and began to itch.
"Mona, baby," he repeated.

"Relax, Mr. Gafferson, and enjoy the show." Boch laughed a
cruel laugh. "Look at her. She seems to be quite happy."

Moe wouldn't have said `happy,' but at least she was calm.
Her long gams stretched the length of the bed and were
spread apart, but unbound. She did nothing to hide the view
of her red-haired bush and the soft pink geography that went
with it.

"What have you done to her?"

Boch had the gall to look offended. "I haven't done a thing.
We were waiting for you."

"Let her go." Moe squirmed in his chair, circling his feet
and tugging at the twine. "This has nothing to do with her."

"Oh, but you're wrong. She's become a major character in our
little play." Boch rose from his seat and began to pace.
"What drives a man to kill, do you suppose?" he paused,
maybe waiting for Moe to answer, but Moe kept his mouth shut
and his eye on Mona and Danja. Both women had statued up -
Mona spread-eagle in all her glory and Danja at the bedside,
arms at her side, and feet slightly apart.

Boch continued his monologue. "Jealousy. That's what. Men
have been killing each other over women since the dawn of
time. Man's real weakness is letting his penis rule his
mind. What disgusting creatures men are! But someday, with a
more perfect race, we'll overcome our weaknesses."

Moe slumped against his chair. Sweat trickled down the
valley of his chest. There was no way to break the ties. The
only weapon he had left was time. The longer Boch talked,
the likelier that whatever was in the Chinese tea could wear
off. Moe encouraged the corrupt councilman to ramble. "That
`perfect race' garbage that Hitler is spouting?"

"Genius, isn't he?"

"A sick mind would think so."

"A sick mind, you say?" Boch marched over to Danja. He
cupped her chin and turned her face toward Moe. "Is it sick
to think beauty such as hers should be the norm instead of
the rarity?" Boch released her chin, but studied her face.
"I'll admit she's not at her best - a bit weak, overly
tired, pale - but the genes are still there. And we nearly
had them propagated, didn't we?" He posed the question to
Danja, but her lights were as dim as a battery-operated
flashlight sans the batteries. Boch didn't seem to care.
"Too bad about the miscarriage," he continued. "But there
will be other chances. We must do what we can to help the
cause."

The Gomorrah scene - the beautiful, blond women, the men of
power and prestige - Moe had witnessed at Boch's place
finally made sense. It wasn't about sexual pleasure or even
sexual deviancy. It was about procreation, furthering a
cause, building a race. Moe thought about the poor dame that
hadn't been chosen by the other men. The one stuck with the
impotent councilman. Had she sacrificed herself to Boch's
ivory phallus because she was brainwashed into believing she
wasn't good enough to further the cause? It was lunacy, all
of it, and it left Moe craving a swig of bicarbonate.

Boch returned to his chair, adopting the same pose as
before, seemingly finished with his diatribe. Moe pushed for
it to be longer. "You'll never get away with this scheme of
yours, you know. The police will be on you for the murders."

Boch was not a man to hold back a speech. "Oh, you're wrong
there, Mr. Gafferson. The police think you are the cause of
all their unfortunate problems."

"That's ridiculous."

"Not at all." Boch stared at Moe, his eyes dark with evil
and flashing with a gleam of insanity. "I can't let you
destroy what I've been working so hard to build, Mr.
Gafferson. So, you killed Peter because he was having an
affair with Miss Dale."

"You're messing with the calendar, aren't you? I didn't meet
Mona until _after_ Peter was killed."

Boch waved a dismissive hand. "People can be bought for next
to nothing. It only takes one or two with a convincing story
to admit seeing you and Miss Dale together before that
time."

"What about Singer and Metzger?"

"Mr. Singer had an unfortunate accident. I know nothing
about him." Boch didn't hesitate or try to pretend he didn't
know Maxwell Singer. To Moe's way of thinking, it was as
good as an admission of guilt.

"Rolf Metzger's death is simple. He witnessed you killing
Peter. Metzger was a known blackmailer. He would have bled
you dry for years. So, you killed him as well. The
authorities already believe it to be true."

"Except I'm not blackmail jackpot. I live week-to-week."

"Metzger was greedy. Even a little cash could make him
happy."

"That doesn't explain why he was here that night in the
first place."

A vein bulged on Boch's forehead. "Enough!" His mouth
hardened. "I'm not interested in explaining myself to you.
There's a show waiting to be performed." He crossed his arms
and gave his evil grin. "Watch it _silently_, Mr. Gafferson or
I'll have the distasteful job of gagging you."

Boch turned his attention back toward Danja and snapped his
fingers twice in the air.

Moe didn't want to look, but like a gaper at a traffic
accident, he couldn't help himself. Danja climbed up on the
bed beside Mona, shoulder-to-shoulder. It was hard not to
compare their naked bodies. Danja was thin and boy-like in
all the places Mona was lush with curves. Both women had
rounded tits, but Mona's were fuller, with her pink nipples
plump across the tips.

"Lovely to look at, aren't they?" said Boch.

"Don't do this," Moe said. It was a futile demand.

Boch suddenly jerked toward the bed, snatched the remaining
veil wrapped around Danja's hips, and sauntered toward Moe,
fingering the veil like most men fingered long, silky hair.
"I asked you to be quiet, Mr. Gafferson." Boch circled Moe's
chair, a beast stalking its prey, readying to pounce.

Moe was a sitting duck and knew it. "Ask my kindergarten
teacher, I was never any good at following direc."

With lightning speed, Boch wrapped the veil over Moe's
mouth, forcing the silk into the corners of his lips. He
yanked tight on the fabric's ends and swathed its length
around again for good measure. Moe coughed and tried to
twist away, but it was too late.

Instead of returning to his chair, this time Boch moved to
the head of the bed and perched on its edge, his hip inches
from Mona's locks of hair. "Now that there will be no more
interruptions, we can proceed." He looked down at the naked
nurse lying on the bed and gave an appreciative sigh.
"Notice Miss Dale's neck - how graceful and fragile it is."
Boch raised his hands, miming his words as he spoke. "My
hands would fit so easily around it and just as easily." He
wrenched his hands like a chicken's neck was between his
fingers. "Snap it!"

His message was clear. Every muscle in Moe's body was taut,
wanting to spring up and fight. But there was nothing he
could do. He had no choices. No opportunities. He settled
against the chair, quietly chewing on the silk in his mouth,
working his wrists against the tight cords, waiting.

Boch's demeanor changed again as he pretended to be a
college professor sharing a demonstration.

"Nipples are a curious thing. For instance, Miss Dale's, at
the moment, are flat as if they've been steam-pressed free
of wrinkles. But watch as Danja begins to play, circling and
tweaking." Like a marionette, Danja acted out Boch's words.
"See how delicately she touches," Boch said. "Like a
hummingbird after sugar - flitting and stroking. And look, Mr.
Gafferson, the nipple responds. Tightening and shriveling to
a bud." All eyes watched the transformation of Mona's
nipples. "I believe Miss Dale is enjoying this," Boch
smirked.

Mona's eyes were closed, her lips barely together. She
whimpered as Danja caressed her tits, but the whimpers ended
in a sigh.

"And when Danja manipulates a little harder, squeezing and
rubbing and pinching, look how Miss Dale's other nipple
pokes up as well." Danja's petite fingers scrambled across
Mona's tit, trying to keep up with Boch's directions.

"And when Danja takes Miss Dale's nipple into her mouth."
Danja's pale lips parted. She slowly lowered, surrounding
the dusky areola of Mona's left breast with her open mouth.
Boch continued. "First, kissing and nipping, then sucking."
He paused a moment to watch. The anger flared. "Suck harder,
Danja, harder." The hollows of Danja's cheeks deepened as
she drew Mona's nipple fully into her mouth.

Boch was right about one thing - men were ruled by their
dicks. When Mona moaned again, this time a little louder,
and a little more throaty, Moe felt the stirring in his
pants.

"Don't forget the other nipple, Danja," said Boch. "It's
been waiting so patiently - puckered and pretty."

Danja licked across the valley and up over the mounds of tit-
flesh before finding, and sucking, on Mona's left nipple.
Mona arched up, pushing her breast further into Danja's
mouth.

"All that flesh of Miss Dale's abdomen, so flat and soft,
and dusted with red gold fuzz. It's a marvelous palette to
stick a belly button on. Don't you agree?"

Danja released Mona's nipple. The bud rose up like a
pyramid, glistening with spit. She tongued her way down
Mona's body to the navel, dipping her tongue into its cleft,
again and again.

Boch was in the world of his choosing. Directing and
speaking, knowing no one would answer. Moe could only listen
and watch.

"All of it is just window dressing really," Boch said. "Just
a good front to bring us to the real attraction - the
phoenix's nest. It does make a penis rise again, does it
not?" he laughed at his own joke.

Danja slicked her lips with saliva. She placed her open
hands boldly on Mona's ribcage. She kissed Mona's belly, and
moved lower to the red line of pubic hair tufted over Mona's
mound.

"And the best piece of the pie - a moist cunny, drooling for
attention," added Boch.

Danja took her time finding Mona's jewel. She licked her
inner thighs and the crease where mound and leg meet. Then
moved on to the mound itself, licking and kissing all along
the haircourt of Mona's thatch. She ran her tongue down the
groove where Mona's sex lips met, and then slipped her
tongue in the slit. She sucked each flap, drawing it into
her mouth, sucking and sucking until the pink flesh turned
rosy red.

Mona squirmed and Danja wrapped her arms around Mona's
thighs. Little drips of pearly wet drizzled from Mona's
poon, and her love button pushed from its hood. Danja's
tongue finally reached for it and licked. She pressed her
lips around Mona's clit, and then drew it into her mouth,
sucking, and sucking. Mona pulled at the ties on her wrists,
trying to raise her hips, squirming and writhing.

"More. More," Mona said, but Moe heard it as Moe, Moe.

He had never seen anything like it. Danja was a practiced
cunnilinguist. She knew when to suck, when to lick, and when
to do nothing but wait. She timed each movement of her mouth
to bring Mona closer to orgasm, again and again, only to
pull back and start over.

"What a filthy little cunt she is," said Boch. "Wouldn't you
agree, Mr. Gafferson?"

Moe would have glared at Boch, but he couldn't keep his eyes
off of Danja's mouth on Mona's pussy. Danja's fingers
slipped easily into the groove of Mona's sex and disappeared
in her depths, only to come out again, covered in wet, and
immediately go back in. One finger, then two, and finally
three, thrusting in and out, fucking. She didn't stop. She
sucked and thrusted until Mona screamed and her legs jerked
together. Danja pulled her fingers out and used them to open
Mona's labia wide, showing all who watched as Mona's pussy
quivered in climax.

Moe was hard as a rock.

Boch hoisted himself from the bed and slithered across the
room like Satan in a Genesis tale. He stopped directly in
front of Moe and lowered his hand over Moe's crotch -
outlining without touching. "It seems you liked our little
show, Mr. Gafferson. You're protruding. Hot, wasn't it?"
Boch pulled his hand away and sauntered to his chair. "I'm
so glad to see that, because it's not quite over.

He snapped his fingers. Danja gave a final kiss to Mona's
pussy, and shimmied from the bed on her hands and knees. She
crept across the floor without making a sound and knelt
between Moe's legs. Moe tried to close his thighs, but it
was useless. He concentrated instead on getting his dick to
quit reacting. He didn't want Mona to see him like this, his
cock responding to Danja's close proximity. He tried again
to force his thighs together.

"Mr. Gafferson, you are not cooperating. This can either be
pleasant for you or very costly for Miss Dale. It's up to
you."

Moe wondered how men like Boch could look in a mirror every
day without losing their breakfast. Danja knelt at Moe's
feet, staring fixedly at his crotch. The smell of Mona clung
to her like French perfume. Her lips were swollen and
glistened with Mona's dew, and her cheeks were sweaty and
flushed. He glanced at her eyes and for a brief moment, he
thought he saw a spark in their blue depths. He couldn't be
sure. But if it had been there, it was quickly blanketed
over.

"Because I'm a gentleman, and I believe in fair play," Boch
said, "we're going to take care of your needs as well, Mr.
Gafferson." The man had resumed his opera-like stance. There
was a tragedy playing tonight.

"Danja likes to suck cock. She's a master at it. You can ask
any of my associates. She's had her mouth around nearly
every politician from here to Indiana."

Moe saw it again. A flash of awareness, only this time it
was the jaw joint below Danja's temples. It tightened and
released like she had clenched her teeth. The Golden Monkey
was beginning to wear off. He glanced over to Mona, but
she'd fallen asleep.

Moe felt a flash of possibility. If Danja could unloosen a
knot -

"I'm waiting, Danja. Show our guest what you've learned."

Moe reluctantly gave in, letting his knees part. Danja went
straight for Moe's zipper, and then the buckle on his belt.
She opened his pants and reached into his drawers. Her small
hand immediately surrounded Moe's semi-erect cock and pulled
it from its nesting spot. She rose up on her knees, and as
soon as the head of Moe's penis saw the light of day, Danja
had her lips around it. She opened her mouth wider and
gulped in its length, letting it slide out against her lips.
She reached under with her other hand and grabbed his balls,
nudging and caressing. She _was_ practiced. Moe was fully
erect in seconds. Just as Danja had done to Mona, she sucked
and licked and brought Moe close to orgasm, but prevented
the surge by tightening her grip on his balls, only to
release and start over again. Until the last time her mouth
slid down. Her hand went soft, her mouth warm and tight. She
swallowed and swallowed, her throat muscles working hard on
Moe's dick, forcing it deeper in her throat. His full length
bulged into her mouth. She tongued the underside of his
helmet, and somehow sucked at the same time. Moe's sauce,
pooling in his nuts, finally found its way up. Danja pulled
back and let it shoot into her mouth, holding it there,
without swallowing. Her cheeks puffed out like a trumpet
player holding a long note. But she just waited.

"You see, Mr. Gafferson, in order for my scenario to be
complete, the police must be convinced of your duplicity.
You forced Miss Dale here to the cottage. You tied her to
the bed. And then you fucked her." He waved his hand. "Now
finish the job, Danja."

Danja crept to the bed and climbed back up between Mona's
legs. Using her fingers, she spread Mona's delta, still
sopping from orgasm, and lowered her mouth to its entrance.
Mona stirred but didn't fight. Danja pressed harder,
exposing all of Mona's pink moss. At the snap of Boch's
fingers, Danja blew. Hard. Until semen dribbled from Mona's
hole and off of Danja's lower lip.

 Moe finally chewed completely through the veil releasing
his gag. Using his tongue, he spit the frayed edges from his
mouth. "Fuck you, Boch."

"After you fucked her, Mr. Gafferson, you killed her."

In that split second, Moe realized Boch's intent. As Boch
reached for Moe's Roscoe still resting on the walnut table,
Moe, with rage speeding like a locomotive through his body,
jerked against his reins.

The twine held firm, slicing through Moe's skin and
corpuscle, but the chair splintered and cracked, forcing
slivers of wood into Moe's arms and legs, before finally
giving way. Moe went tumbling to the floor. His shoulder
cracked against the walnut table, sending the table to the
floor on top of him. The Roscoe skittered away across the
floor and stopped at Danja's bare feet.

Moe was immobilized, still tied at the wrists, and laid out
on the floor. "Get the gun, Danja," Moe yelled. "Get the
gun!"

For a moment there was nothing. And then Boch began to
laugh, a chuckle at first, and then a sinister, maniacal
laugh. "Yes, Danja, by all means, get the gun."

At first, she was frozen, staring ahead, blinkless. But then
slowly her eyes tilted down, spying the gun with its barrel
lying across her toes. Like ketchup coming from a bottle,
she flowed in slow motion, reaching for the gun. When she
straightened, the Roscoe was in her hand, and her finger was
on the trigger.

"Shoot him, Danja. He killed Peter. I know you want him
dead," Boch inched toward her as he spoke.

"It was Boch who killed your brother, Danja."

"Don't listen to him. I am the one who took care of you when
no one else would. I am the only one you can trust."

Moe tried to get a better look at Danja, but she was
partially blocked behind a bedpost. He rose up on his hip,
still struggling with splintered wood gouging into his arms
and legs. Like a percussionist's dream, his heart drummed
out a cadence and every wound throbbed in perfect time.
Warm, sticky fluid seeped between his fingers and drizzled
down his calves. His words pounded between his ears like a
bass drum. "Boch killed Peter because he was running away
with Kitty Winslow."

"Think about it, Danja." Boch shuffled forward another few
inches. "Peter would have told you if that were true."

Moe grasped at straws, trying to stall as desperation clawed
at his throat. He made up a story off the top of his head.
His life depended on it sounding plausible. "Peter loved
Kitty. He wanted to start a new life with her. But he needed
the diamonds to do it." Even as the last words left his
mouth, Moe felt the futility sweep over him. Peter loved
Kitty? Nothing seemed less likely.

"Don't be ridiculous. He's lying," Boch barked. "Metzger
killed Peter because of Mr. Gafferson. Danja, you already
know that."

Danja gripped the gun with both hands, her index fingers
crossed over its trigger. She raised the gun's nose and
pointed it at Moe's forehead. A single shot would give him a
third eye.

"Do it, Danja! Do it!" Spit sprayed from Boch's mouth, and
his eyes brightened with blood thirst.

 "Metzger was following Boch's orders." Moe's voice was
shrill, scraping like a missed note. "Why do you think
Metzger is dead? And Maxwell Singer? Why is he trying to
kill me, now? He's trying to clean up - get rid of
evidence."

"Danja, Peter would have told you." Boch spoke firmly and
calmly, like a loving parent instead of the bastard he was.
He took a huge step forward, bringing him one step closer to
a trembling Danja.

"Kill him, Danja. Kill the man responsible for your
brother's death."

Danja's finger twitched, and Moe slammed his eyes closed.
This was not the way he thought he would die.

The gun went off, splintering the floor near Moe's head, and
causing his ears to ring. But it missed his scalp
completely. Moe suddenly remembered Sister Mary Francis
spouting off about miracles. Maybe she was right. He opened
his eyes just as the gun went off again.

The second bullet clipped Boch in the shoulder, spinning him
away. He squealed like a whistling teapot. The gun exploded
again, hitting Boch's right arm. And again - thunking into
his neck. And again - exploding into his head. Bits of flesh
and blood splattered onto Moe's face. He squeezed his eyes
shut. And the gun went off again and again. Until click.
Click. Click. The chamber was empty.

The smell of gunpowder burned Moe's nostrils. The ringing in
his ears reached full piped organ magnitude. But he was
alive. He opened his eyes to see the lifeless face of Karl
Boch, staring with Golden Monkey-like eyes straight at him.

He glanced around to see Danja lower her arms, sending the
Roscoe clattering to the floor. She calmly walked over to
the body of Karl Boch and stared at him. Her nude body
flushed from head to toe. Her eyes finally in focus.

"Peter told me he loved Kitty Winslow, you lying fuck." she
said. And then she walked from the room.


                                              * * *

Epilogue



Moe swung his legs over the side of the bed and snuck a peek
back at Mona. She slept on her belly like a newborn, fist
balled under her chin, blanket clenched in her fingers. He
was getting used to having her beside him when he woke up.

He brushed a strand of fire red hair from her eyes. Damn!
She was gorgeous. He considered slipping back under the
cover and snuggling close to her creamy soft body. But she
needed her sleep. Today would be her first day back at work.

Instead, he crept to the front room, sat bare-assed on the
leather chair, and poured himself a shot of bourbon.
Yesterday's _Cincinnati Enquirer_ was spread across the desk
where he'd left it when Mona had coaxed him to bed the night
before. The headlines were mostly election results.
Roosevelt winning an unprecedented third term. Martin Davey
winning state governor. And a newcomer, Grayson, winning the
councilman slot left open by the death of Karl Boch. But on
page four, a whole column was devoted to the trial of one
Gustav Brady, a known thug that went by the name of Gus.

In the weeks since Boch's death, Danja Bittners had spent
endless hours cozying up to Detective Jansen and spilling
everything she knew. A lot of nighttime dinners led Moe to
believe Danja and Jansen were talking about a lot more than
Nazis, diamonds, and murder. To each his own. At least
Danja's testimony had been enough to clear Moe of all
charges.

Gus caved easily once he found out Al had skipped town
without him. He and Danja knew enough about the diamond
scheme to connect it to an international conspiracy to
control the diamond market. Both the United States and
Germany were trying to get their hands on the world's
diamond supply. Diamonds were the only things hard enough to
stamp out the millions of precision parts that were
necessary for mass-producing airplane engines, torpedoes,
tanks, artillery and the other weapons of war. Without the
diamonds, the war machine would slow to a halt. Peter
Schmidt and Karl Boch were just little fish in a big pond.

Gus also sang like a canary about the deaths of Maxwell
Singer and Rolf Metzger. Boch had ordered them. Al was the
trigger man. Gus was too dumb for anyone to mistrust his
version of events. The trial was a rubber stamp. Gus would
spend some time behind bars, painting his share of license
plates. Al's ugly mug would be seen at post offices all
around the nation.

The last time Moe saw Danja was in the hallway of the
municipal building at Gus's trial. She asked after Mona.

"Hello, Moe. Is Miss Dale all right?"

"She will be." Moe didn't bother to tell Danja that Mona
didn't remember a lot of what had happened, and Mona liked
it that way.

The silence between them was awkward before Danja spoke up
again. "Do you ever see Kitty Winslow?"

"Our paths cross from time-to-time."

"Are you going to tell her about Peter? You know he really
did love her."

"Nah. What good would come from it?" Moe said. "So she can
grieve the rest of her life over something that was never
meant to be?"

Danja's attorney had called for her and she had rushed off.
Moe doubted he'd see her again. She hadn't even said good-
bye.

Moe slugged back the shot of bourbon, crumpled up the
newspaper, and tossed it in the trashcan.

Maybe he'd go back to bed after all.



The End.
*****************************
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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