Edited by Poison Ivan
It’d been two days - forty-eight fucking hours - since Moe had seen Mona Dale. He blamed the painkillers for letting him think it was okay to send her out to poke around. He knew first hand that the players in this game were playing for keeps. Yeah, he’d given her step-by-step instructions, but those didn’t account for surprises. Quails like Mona were meant for fluff work, not gum-shoeing. So what if she had bubbled up like bicarbonate when Moe had given her the lowdown. He should have known better.
“I can do this, Moe. I know I can,” she’d said.
“This ain’t backyard cops and robbers, Mona.”
“All I have to do is drop off some laundry, buy a new dress, and get my hair done. I’ve been doing those things half my life.”
“Skip in, snap a mental picture, and skip out. That’s the deal.”
“Yes, Moe.” She’d batted her eyelashes, flashed a crooked grin, and blew Moe a cherry-lipped kiss as she peddled out the door. Only a doped-up bonehead would have let her walk out as easy as if she were going for a weekend visit to a carnival.
One thing was certain - if she wasn’t hurt and she didn’t check in soon, she was going to catch merry hell. He’d waited long enough.
Moe grabbed the newspaper and skimmed through its pages. Peter Schmidt’s death had made the Cincinnati Post, but not the front page. The front page was saved for the World Series: Reds over Tigers. Moe had slept right through the game. Schmidt's murder was buried on page six under the headline: Cottage Scene of Fatal Stabbing. The newshounds were used to murder in the Over the Rhine area - it rarely made top news any more. Moe was just grateful his name had been left out of the article.
Unfortunately, the police had his name and weren’t letting up. Officer Murphy had made a repeat visit the day before to put the crunch on Moe, insisting Moe give up the name of Schmidt’s screwing partner. Moe Gafferson had a few rules, rules he’d set up a long time ago. Squealing on a client was something he never did. Murphy stuck around long enough for some verbal boxing, but he missed out on the KO he was looking for and left dissatisfied.
Moe spent the rest of his time rehashing the same scenes over and over and coming up with the same finale. Schmidt was using Kitty. The answer to the why and what-for still hung in the air. Maybe Schmidt was trying to get to Dutch. Maybe he was planning to cheat Kitty out of money. Maybe it was something Moe couldn’t fathom just yet. But Moe had no doubt Schmidt hadn’t played Kitty straight.
At least the extra time in bed was giving Moe a chance to heal. As of the morning, he could get to the john to take a leak without any help, which meant no more target practice in a handheld piss pot. And now that the pain in his gut was manageable without pill pushing, Moe figured it was time to kiss this germ hole goodbye - get out and find Mona himself.
Moe tossed off the hospital rags and swung open the door to the closet. He expected to find his gray tweed suit, but the closet was empty. He let loose a couple of expletives that would have had his mother back-handing him. Well, the closet wasn’t completely empty; there was a pair of shoes, the right one covered in blood, sitting on at the bottom of the space. But nothing else, not a stitch of clothing, no keys, no money clip, and no fat envelope from Dutch.
Moe didn’t like petty thieves, even if they wore smart white caps on their heads. He made his way to the hallway, chomping at the bit. “Who’s the goniff that nicked my stuff?”
“Shh’s” came from every direction. It might as well have been a library.
Moe stood up to his full height and let his Johnson dangle freely. “I’m getting out of here, even if all of Cincinnati sees my ass on the way out.”
“Mr. Gafferson, please! You’re not the only sick person on this floor.” This came from the Helga who had been nursing Moe in Mona’s place. It was like exchanging pearls for swine. The broad had more muscle than Moe. She could flip him over like a five-pound bag of flour, and she had more than once in the last two days. Moe backed into his room with the female bruiser jabbing her finger in his chest.
“Mona warned me you’d try to leave before the doctor gave the okay.”
“Where is Mona? Have you heard from her?”
“Just you no never mind, Ellery Queen, and haul that fanny of yours back up in bed.”
Moe felt a pinch in his gut. He knew when to pick his fights. It never paid to argue with a mare that was as big as he was, especially when he was naked as a jaybird. Still, he couldn’t help tangling a little. “You got some news from Mona or not?”
“You’re pesky, aren’t you, Mr. Gafferson?”
“I can be.” He wanted to tell her she was the pesky one, but he zipped his lip. She might power up on him. There was no sense risking a relapse from a wrestling match he could very easily lose.
Helga stood over him while he climbed back into his PJ’s. When he fell back onto the bed, she spoke. “Mona called. Said to tell you that she had to deliver some laundry this morning, and then she’d be right over.”
At least that was something. Mona was all right. He could breathe a little easier.
“But what about the empty closet?” he asked accusingly.
“You play rough, Mr. Gafferson. Your clothes were cut off and discarded when they brought you in. There wasn’t much worth saving.”
So much for his best tweed. “I had some other belongings,” he said.
“Safe and sound in a locked box at the nurse’s station.” She pulled the blanket up tight around Moe’s legs and then jammed the Cincinnati Post into his hands. “Here, read the paper and think about something useful.” This broad didn’t offer suggestions - she gave orders.
Moe thumbed through the Post. It might have helped take his mind off of Mona except for a grainy photograph gracing the first page he looked at. Charles Lindbergh, front and center, was shaking hands with a couple of local politicians. It still grated on Moe that Lindbergh, an American hero, had accepted the Service Cross of the German Eagle from none other than Hermann Goering. Too much of a stinking German connection if you asked Moe. He looked at the smiling faces of the two Cincinnati councilmen. Lousy politicians. At least, he knew who
not
to vote for in the upcoming election. Moe wadded the paper into a ball and tossed it in the trash. He hated politics. Stewing about Mona was a lot more pleasant.
***
Sometime mid-morning, after Madame Bruiser had forced another sulfa tablet down Moe’s throat, Mona came strolling in. Moe did a double take. She looked like she’d just stepped off the farm - all fresh faced and lively. She’d ditched her starch whites for a daisy yellow number. Her red hair was rolled stylishly at her temples, and she was carrying an armload of men’s duds.
Moe was still miffed about the ticking clock. “Take the long route to get here, doll?”
“Hello to you, too.” She was way too cheery.
“I don’t have time for frippy-frappy greetings,” he growled.
Mona ignored him and swished casually to the closet. “I figured you for a forty-four regular.” She hung up a plaid Norfolk jacket and a pair of brown trousers - way more fashionable than Moe was used to. She dawdled as she tucked away socks, boxers, and a shirt. She was thorough. Moe would give her that. But he was done watching her stall.
