Moe thanked the bourbon. Why else would Mona still be in his bed when he woke up the next morning? He did a Houdini to get out of the tangle of arms and legs. Mona just grunted and rolled over on her stomach. Moe stood and stared. There ought to be a law against dames looking like Mona did in the morning - fire hair flaming across Moe’s pillow, gams stretched long and bare with a sheet that forgot to cover her naked ass. How could a man keep his mind on a daily grind if he had to leave a portrait like that? He should wake her, say, “Good Morning,” or turn her over and make love to her. But instead he crept around the joint like a thief, hunting for pants and a shirt, and staring at her sleeping in his bed, all milk and honey and fire.
When he finally tiptoed into the front room, the bourbon was still sitting on his desk. He considered tossing back the shot Mona hadn’t finished, but a cup of hot brew seemed like a better idea. He walked out the front door wondering if Mona would still be there when he got back. He considered leaving a note, but Moe wasn’t much of a writer. He’d give her a buzz later on the telephone.
A quick stop at the local diner and Moe was gnawing toast and sipping java. The dry bread and steaming black coffee did nothing to wash away the sweet image of a naked Mona. Her pleadings from the night before - “do, Moe, do” - muzzied up his brain and threatened to stir the fire Moe was failing to bank.
It was hard driving around the block to get breakfast. It was even harder driving clear across town to attend to business. By the time he pulled into Dutch and Kitty Winslow’s gated driveway, Moe was still thinking about the curve of the nurse’s back. He should’ve kissed that dimpled spot right above her ass. He shook his head and forced himself to study the mansion laid out in front of him.
Men like Dutch and Moe didn’t spin in the same social circles. Dutch and Moe maintained a relationship that depended on a place like Flamingo’s. Moe was more comfortable in a joint where a man could get lost in a sea of faces bellying up to a bar. Dutch had never invited Moe to his home, and Moe had never thought to come. Houses this big required too many people to keep it clean, and Moe didn’t like worrying about dirt on his shoes.
The gate was electronic - a brassy contraption that had Moe pushing a red button. A couple of seconds later, the gate snuck open. Moe followed the paved driveway around a fountain and stopped at the front of the house. The massive oak door yawned, and a greeter in a monkey suit ushered Moe into the foyer before Moe could finish straightening his tie. White gardenias, arranged in a Tiffany vase, donned an entryway table, but the smell of Johnson Wax was the strongest scent in the space. An entire forest had lost its life in order to decorate the inside of the Winslow mansion. Solid oak lined the paneled walls and the massive winding staircase.
“Mrs. Winslow requests that you wait for her in the library.”
Moe followed the working stiff into a small room where leather-bound books lined the walls from the Persian rugs all the way up to the Italian crown molding. The wood shelves gleamed to such a high polish, a man could shave his face in the reflection. A couple of Chesterfield chairs sat on either side of a marbled fireplace. Moe ran an eye over the reading material. Perfectly spined books such as Kipling’s
Captain Courageous
, Dickens’s
Great Expectations,
and Stevenson’s
Kidnapped
packed the shelves. Pristine editions of old classics. The room smelled more new than used.
“Do you read, Mr. Gafferson?”
Moe swung around to see Kitty Winslow leaning against the doorjamb, her satin dressing gown flowing off her hips like syrup. Most dames saved their glamour for nighttime. Apparently, Kitty liked starting the day off with it. Around her neck she wore oyster fruit and on her feet, clicking slip-on heels with powder puffs the same pink color as the gown.
“Me, read?” Moe nodded toward the shelves. “Nothing like these books. Not since the nuns insisted on it. Give me a five cent blab sheet. They’re more my speed.”
“Dutch insisted we have a library.” Kitty paused, gazing off in the distance before adding, “Dutch insists on a lot of things.”
“Where is Mr. Winslow?” Moe hoped to find Dutch home too. It was one of the reasons he was up and visiting before noon. The idea of working for Kitty without Dutch knowing gave Moe a sick feeling in his belly. A man’s got to be careful how he treats his friends. Maybe there was a chance the three of them could get on the same page.
“Dutch has already gone to Flamingo’s.”
“Too bad. I wouldn’t have minded making this a threesome this morning.”
Kitty batted her eyelashes and forced a smile, but it wasn’t heartfelt. “I haven’t told him I’ve hired you.”
“I figured as much.”
“He’s still deciding on whether to forgive me.”
“Hiring me behind his back might sway his decision in a way you’re not ready for.”
“That’s a chance I have to take,” she sighed.
“Why?”
“You know why, Mr. Gafferson. I loved Peter.”
The smell of this conversation was too glossy for Moe’s tastes. Kitty lived in a make-believe world, all pretty and gussied up, but underneath it all she was getting no use - like a library with brand new books and no fingerprints. Kitty needed some black and white reality.
“Mrs. Winslow, Peter Schmidt wasn’t on the up and up.”
Kitty made her way to one of the Chesterfields, gripping its back like a handrail and following it to its front.. “Don’t say that,” she whimpered. Leather crunched as she slumped into the seat. “You didn’t know him like I did.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Moe half-expected a crying jag, but when she straightened, her face was pale and without tears. “Do you know this for sure?”
“It’s more than a hunch.”
Somewhere deep, Kitty must have suspected what kind of man Schmidt was, she was just hoping for a different sketch. “It seems I don’t have much intuition when it comes to men, Mr. Gafferson.”
Moe looked around the room. The smell of quality leather and high-polished wood was eclipsed only by the smell of money. He leaned back against the bookshelf and crossed his arms. “I don’t know, Mrs. Winslow. You’re not slumming as far as I can tell.”
“Wealth can’t replace feeling, Moe.”
“Maybe not, but most folks wouldn’t mind testing the theory.”
Kitty stared hard at Moe. “You think I’m ungrateful for what Dutch has given me.”
“I don’t spend my time moralizing about husbands and wives, Mrs. Winslow. I’d be out of a job if they all got along.”
Kitty stood and swished her way over to where Moe leaned against the bookshelf. She ran a delicate, well-manicured finger along the spine of Chaucer’s
Canterbury Tales.
“And what
have
you been spending your time doing?”
“Tracking down the German thug that knifed me.”
“What does he have to do with Peter?”
