{ASSM} Rough Cut: Chap 1 by Desdmona (crime drama)
Desdm...@aol.com
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 1
Moe Gafferson tried to sit up, but a fiery stab sliced
through his ribs, he slumped back down against the starched
white sheets. "Fuck," he said to an empty room.
Moe had never been laid this low. Sure, he'd had a few
scuffles over the years, like when he was ten years old and
Mickey Bolls held him down while Larry Beason rearranged his
nose, or that sucker punch from the jealous boyfriend, or
even a couple of broken ribs from a goon he shouldn't have
squeezed. But this was different. Before, it was just fists
that did the damage. This last guy was tougher, sneakier,
and chose a dodgier toy. Moe had been out, way out, seeing
the white light out. A visit to oblivion was not a trip he'd
want to take again soon.
Eating through a straw, pissing through a tube-these were
dealings for old men. Moe Gafferson ate red meat, warm and
rare, pissed in alleys when it suited him, and he surely
wasn't old, not yet. Moe wouldn't stay down for long. Not
now, not with all the motivators lining up in his head.
Being stretched out in a bed and so gowed up he didn't know
day from night wouldn't get the rent paid. And it wouldn't
teach the hood with the shiv that Moe Gafferson was not a
guy to be fucked with. Yeah, Moe had a real mission now.
The blade had been inches from showing Moe a Harlem sunset.
A longer knife, or an extra twist, and Moe would've bled to
death before the meat wagon arrived. As it was, Moe's gut
saw some jigsaw duty. Luckily, the pieces all fit back
together, only now the picture wasn't so pretty. He'd been
laid up for three days. The doc said his stint could be as
long as two weeks, but not if Moe had anything to say about
it. Hospitals were for delicates. If Moe wanted to lie dormy
he'd go to the top floor at Flamingo's and have a sweet
little charity girl cuddled up at his side.
He wasn't complaining about the services at Christ Hospital.
Not exactly. The place had one thing going for it: the dames
wore less paint and covered more flesh than Moe was used to,
but there were still some he found easy on the eyes. One gal
in particular, Mona Dale, even had Moe looking forward to
the early morning wake-up call. But there was only so much
lying around doing nothing a man like Moe could take. Hot
dame or no.
There was a job to do. Namely, find the SOB that had landed
him here in the first place. Moe was still a little sketchy
on the details. He had been doing some easy snooping,
following Mrs. Kitty Winslow, married to Mr. Winslow, Mr.
Dutch Winslow, proprietor of Flamingo's, the poshest hotel
and nightclub in Cincinnati. Dutch also happened to be a
friend of Moe's, and as a personal favor, Moe was tracking
the missus. It seemed Kitty had taken to sharing the goods
with another boy. Dutch never did like sharing.
"Find out what she's up to, Moe," Dutch told him, his
knuckles whitening as he squeezed his 14K gold cigarette
lighter.
"You want the overview or the period to period?"
"I want it all. Every breath she takes."
"Sounds like love, Dutch."
"What's love got to do with it?" Dutch took his time
lighting a cigarette and taking the first hit off of it.
"She's mine, and no two-bit grifter is gonna move in on
what's mine."
Moe fingered the lucky shell casing he kept in his pant's
pocket. "You sure she's stepping out?" he asked.
"No doubt about it. Kitty's got a few good qualities. Most
of them you see upfront." Dutch paused long enough for Moe
to visualize Mrs. Winslow's endowments and then went on.
"Being the brightest jewel in the crown ain't one of those
qualities."
Dutch Winslow wasn't afraid to let a man know where he
stood, a dame either for that matter. Moe had seen it a few
times with some of the broads Dutch had working for him at
Flamingo's. Dutch couldn't afford his waitresses coming
across like pro skirts. If one of them got too edgy, Dutch
would take care of it. Many a kitten came back from Dutch's
office with scared rabbit eyes and an adjusted attitude.
Dutch also played it straight with Moe. Gave him a drink
when he needed it and a place to flop when a landlord got
nasty about Moe's rent. Dutch could be a good Joe,
especially to someone he considered a friend. Moe was
obliged to return the favor.
"Sure, Dutch. I'll tag her for awhile," Moe said.
"Tomorrow," Dutch said. "And get pictures. Lots of them."
***
Trailing Kitty had started out easy, eggs in the coffee.
Kitty liked shopping, going to the salon, and dancing-a
regular high class dame. She dropped off a bundle at Chang's
Laundromat, bought a sexy black number from Singer's, the
swank dress shop uptown, got her hair spit and shined at the
Curl-n-Go, and then by evening, she found a place that
offered cool drinks and fast music. Mongo's, a place where
you wouldn't expect to find the wife of Dutch Winslow. But
Kitty seemed right at home. She sauntered in and found an
empty table like it had her name on it. The rest of the
joint was packed. Moe hunkered down in a back corner where
it was dark and the waitresses seemed to forget about you.
A couple of jokers, too full of alcohol, were arguing the
politics of joining the war. Liquor and politics didn't make
for good bedfellows, not in times like these. The sousepots
ended up duking it out. Moe might have stepped in, just for
the heck of it, if he hadn't been sleuthing. Fortunately,
Mongo's three hundred pound gorilla earned his keep and
tossed the buffoons out on their axles. While all eyes
followed the gorilla, Moe shifted to the buffoons vacated
table. He picked up a half-empty drink and pretended it was
his. This spot had a better view of where Kitty had parked
but still gave him a little distance.
The Winslow broad didn't seem to be meeting anyone in
particular. She sat at her table, sipped on some tonsil
paint, and waited. The law of averages said a dame who
looked like Kitty-shimmery midnight hair, great gams and a
pair of maracas that could haunt a man at night-wouldn't
have to wait long.
Sure enough, her dance card quickly filled. She swayed with
one man after another, building a healthy sheen that made
her glow under the dim lights. The GIs and the college boys
that jammed into places like Mongo's were goo-goo eyed at
dancing with a dame like her. Kitty kept them interested
enough to keep them trying. She let them all get close, run
their hands along her bare back, sniff at her perfume, and
maybe even steal a kiss, but none of them got a second
dance.
Moe had pretty much figured on an early night when a mug in
glad rags, classier than all the others, escorted Kitty to
the dance floor. This guy's gray suit was a little too
tailored for this dive, and his hands a little too clean.
Kitty allowed the guy the same liberties she'd allowed all
the others, but when the song ended, she didn't send him on
his way. A few words passed between them that Moe couldn't
catch, but his gut told him the night wasn't over. Kitty and
Mr. Smooth parted after the second dance. She went back to
her table. Mr. Smooth slipped out the door. Moe watched as
Kitty made her way to the dance floor again. This time she
was awkward and jumpy, like the dance couldn't be over fast
enough. This last bastard never even got close enough to
feel her tits against his chest or grab a handful of her
ass. With the last note barely blown, Kitty rushed to the
exit.
A `37 Studebaker coupe was waiting.
Moe followed Kitty and the suit back to a dump Over the
Rhine, a greasier side of town, where in the light of day,
Kitty Winslow would stand out like a cherry in a bowl of
lemons. Moe parked at the corner and waited while the pair
hustled from the car and through the worn door of a small
cottage. The lights in the house flipped on as Moe got out
of his car and circled around back. The windows were open.
The shades were up. It was easy. Too easy. Warning bells
should have been ringing in Moe's skull. Maybe they were,
but Moe's attention was instantly drawn onstage, where
things had gotten juicy real quick.
By the time Moe found a perfect perch, Kitty was naked
except for black stockings and high heels. It was easy to
see why Dutch had taken a shine to her. Kitty was what you
call voluptuous. Grable style: high kicking legs, handful
spilling tits, and an hourglass waist. It didn't hurt that
all that body was housed in porcelain white skin.
Mr. Smooth hadn't wasted any time either. He was slipping
out of his skivvies just as Moe lined up his brownie and
snapped the first picture. Moe kept his eye on the action
during the camera wind up, partly for business, partly for
pleasure.
They didn't wait to find a bed. Kitty had her back to the
wall with Mr. Smooth pinning her hands above her head. She
didn't seem to mind. Her eyes drooped shut and her head fell
to the side, exposing a long, lean stretch of neck. Mr.
Smooth nestled in, licking and sucking, with his chin
resting on her tit. Moe snapped another picture. Too bad her
flushed red skin wouldn't show on the black and white
photograph. Moe liked the color of an excited woman,
although he was sure Dutch would be less appreciative.
Kitty lifted her leg and wrapped it around the guy's waist.
Nothing clumsy about this dance. It was practiced and
effortless like only familiar partners can do. He released
her hands and they went immediately around his shoulders.
Her freshly manicured nails streaked along his muscled back
while the heel of her shoe excavated the edge of his ass.
Moe grabbed a couple more pictures, a close-up of Kitty and
Mr. Smooth lip-locked, and another close-up that featured
body parts without the faces. He figured he had enough
evidence but decided to stick around for the grand finale.
Just then, Kitty's eyes popped open and looked right in
Moe's direction. Finale or not, it was time for him to
scram.
Moe never saw it coming. The burning stab sliced into his
skin as easy as butter. The second stab was easier, less
burning, less surprise. Moe tried to focus on who or what
had snuck up on him so easily. But it was too dark, too
hazy. He was falling and he couldn't stop. The slap of his
body hitting pavement echoed in Moe's ears. He heard a loud
crack and wasn't sure if it was his camera or his skull.
The next thing Moe knew, he was being poked and prodded by a
dish dressed in white with red hair and the greenest eyes
Moe had ever seen. An angel for sure.
"We in heaven?" Moe croaked.
The angel laughed. A husky, sexy laugh, and Moe knew he was
still alive. Heaven wasn't in the cards for a guy like Moe
Gafferson.
That was three days ago. The angel's name was Mona Dale,
R.N., and with her help, Moe was finally feeling human.
Human enough to know he'd underestimated either Kitty or her
lover. From what Dutch had told him, Moe figured Kitty for
diamonds on the outside but paste everywhere else. So it
must have been the lover. Mr. Smooth wasn't a fly-by-
nighter. He had at least one friend. A friend with a shiv
that had carved a calling card into Moe Gafferson.
*******************************
This story was originally posted and illustrated at
http://www.ruthiesclub.com. My eternal debt goes to Alexey for bringing Moe to life.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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