Gilbert Avenue was always quiet in the early evening - it was more of a late night neighborhood. It was too close to downtown Cincy for young families with kids, and too run down for anyone else except the stubborn residents who refused to be pushed out and those who couldn’t afford any better. Like Moe.
So it wasn’t the lack of noise that prickled the back of Moe’s neck when he slammed the door of his Buick and strode to the front door of his home and office. It wasn’t the smashed jack-o-lantern that Netty Scottsdale had set out just yesterday. And it wasn’t his front door hanging cracked open. It was the sight of a nurse uniform, as he walked through the door, lying on the floor of his office. Right where Mona had dropped it the night before.
Moe’s body kicked into high alert. Trying to be absolutely quiet, he held his breath and inched his way to his desk. His Roscoe was camped in the second drawer. Moe had learned a long time ago that some people were a lot more likely to talk if they didn’t think they were being forced into a conversation. A heater, hanging from his shoulder like a fireplug, could scare a canary’s lips shut. So the gun stayed at home in the desk on most occasions.
He eased open the drawer and stuck a paw inside. The Roscoe was exactly where he’d left it. He glanced around the room. Nothing was out of place. Yet Moe’s gut still churned. The atmosphere didn’t feel right – like maybe the Halloween spirits were hanging around. Moe sneaked through the hallway, edging along the wall and forcing his shadow to hang close. He kept his ears open for any sound that shouldn’t be there. But he heard nothing except his own beating heart. He paused for a moment before turning the corner into the back room. Still there was nothing. With gun in hand, loaded and ready, he swung around the corner. He wasn’t prepared for what he found.
Mona Dale was completely naked and bound to a chair. Her head sagged like a corpse’s. Her mouth was gagged. Her bare white skin was tinted blue by the evening lights. Moe immediately thought of Opal Thompson, and that this was some weird sex thing. Except this was different. With Opal, everything had been for pleasure. Mona’s slumped posture told Moe this was no game. A shudder ran up his back. Thick rope criss-crossed Mona’s chest, wrapped around her waist, and held her arms and legs immobile. Her normally alabaster skin was red-welted where the rope had pinched her.
Moe quickly scanned the room, looking for a trap. There was nothing. Whoever had done this had gagged Mona with an undershirt, but she was alone now. Moe tucked away his Roscoe and undid the gag from Mona’s bruised mouth. He patted her cheek. “Mona, honey? Can you hear me?” Moe hadn’t realized how hard his heart was pounding until Mona peered up at him through glassy, green eyes. He took a deep breath.
“Moe.” Her lips were dry and cracked, and her voice was hoarse.
Moe sighed with relief and tried a smile. “You got some kinky practices I should know about, doll?”
But Mona didn’t return the smile. She was waking up enough to remember to be scared. Her eyes sprang open and darted around the room. “Where is he?”
“He’s gone, baby. It’s just you and me.” Moe worked at the knots, loosening them before carefully removing the bounds. Rope burns circled Mona’s ankles and wrists like a macabre set of jewelry. Blood spotted the worst of the abrasions.
“I didn’t think you’d ever get back.” She threw her arms around his neck, but she was as weak as foal with no strength to stand.
Moe leaned down, lifted her up into his arms, and cradled her close to his body. She buried her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. “I didn’t know you were waiting,” Moe said. He expected tears. Lots of them. He figured she’d earned the right, but she only let loose a hiccup. He carried her to the bed and sat down on its edge, Mona safe on his lap. She shivered, and Moe yanked the bedspread around her shoulders.
“Are you okay, Mona?”
“I don’t know,” she mewed softer than a kitten. No one could be immune to such a sound. Moe hugged her closer.
He petted her hair and pushed strands of it away from her eyes. Her face was as white as paste, except for the marks leftover from the gag. She stared at him, her eyes more focused, and her jaw clenched. He could see the shock, almost taste its bitter tang, creeping over her face. He just wanted to hold her and make everything better. Moe surely didn’t want to rush her, or push her over the edge she was clinging to, but he needed to know the details.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he aksed.
“That guy, Rolf ...”she swallowed and licked her lips. “... it was him. The scar on his face was just like the sales clerk told me.”
Moe was thinking about the prostitute Lily Mae and the brutality she had faced at the hands of Rolf Metzger. That low-life didn’t deserve to breathe the air of civilized people. “Did he hurt you, Mona?”
“He surprised me as I was washing in the sink. He grabbed me from behind.” Her eyes lowered. “I thought it was you.” Her face was as easy to read as a schoolbook primer. She struggled with the emotions - fear and anger. Moe let her take her time.
“He held a knife to my neck and r-ran his hands ...” She shivered again and pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “He had the rope around his waist, like he was expecting to use it,” she choked out.
“Take your time, baby,” he whispered.
“He tied me to the chair and rattled off things he would like to do with me, if he weren’t in a hurry.” She glanced up at Moe. “Then he told me to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“Yes, he said you were snooping close to someone who would eat you for breakfast, so back off. Then he gagged me and ...” She looked down. Moe followed her gaze. Her pubic hair had been raggedly cut. Some spots so short her skin was visible. Like a ewe sheared with a broken pair of scissors.
Mona pushed off Moe’s lap and hurried to the sink. She twisted the faucets until the water flowed full stream. She snatched the Palmolive and furiously scrubbed her naked skin. Starting at the top, she worked her way down until her whole body glowed like a ripe tomato. Moe watched, sick at his stomach and feeling as impotent as a hobo in line at a soup kitchen. When she’d finished, he grabbed his bathrobe and insisted she put it on. It was like putting a Band-Aid on bullet wound, but at least it was something.
“I should get going,” Mona said, a hint of her old confidence returning.
Moe had his arms around her. He squeezed a little tighter. “I’d like you to stay,” he said.
“I can’t, Moe. I have to go.”
The telephone ringing kept them from discussing it further. Moe would have let it ring to hell and back, but he had to answer. He knew it was Sammy, and Sammy wasn’t the type to call back. He could not risk missing out on a clue, especially now that the stakes had risen a little higher.
“Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He hurried to the front office and picked up the phone. He kept half an eye toward the hallway as he talked.
“Hello.”
“Moe?”
“Yeah, Sammy. It’s me. What do you got?”
“What do I get for it?”
“The usual, Sammy, left in the locker at Union Station.”
“This might be worth a little more.”
“Give it to me and we’ll see.”
“The plate you asked about, S1659, belongs to Karl Boch.”
“Councilman Boch?”
“The one and only.”
Moe bit his tongue. Mona was moving around in the back room. He’d have to go or she’d try to leave. There was no way he would let her out of his sight right now. “Yeah, Sammy, it’s worth an extra fin.”
“When do I get my money, Moe?”
“You’ll get it tomorrow, don’t worry. Look, Sammy, I’ve got something going here. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I want my fifteen bucks, Moe.”
“You’ll get it, Sammy. I’ve never welshed on you, have I? Catch you later.”
Mona stepped in the front room, still wearing Moe’s robe. “What about Councilman Boch?” She looked damn good in plaid flannel.
The timing was lousy for this type of conversation, and Moe knew it. But discussing city politics might help Mona get her mind off of the ordeal with Metzger. “What do you know about the councilman?”
“Not much,” she said. “The newspapers call him an isolationist.”
“I’ll say. He’s a member of America’s First Committee.”
Mona made her way to Moe’s desk. She leaned against it and crossed her arms. “Isn’t that Lindbergh’s group?”
“Lindbergh’s been peddling that isolation theory ever since he got back from Germany. I don’t trust the man.”
“You think he’s a Nazi?”
“I don’t know. But I do know any man who would support a country persecuting the Jews like the Germans have been isn’t a hero in my book.”
Mona nodded. “But what’s Boch got to do with Lindbergh?”
“They were pals enough to let a newsie snap their picture for the Cincinnati Enquirer the last time Lindbergh was in town.”
“You think Boch is up to something? With the Nazis?” Her eyes regained a little of their sparkle. If it weren’t for the outward physical signs, a man would never know she’d had a rough time of it. The rope burns were still fresh, but she was dishing politics like a champ.
“You’re some woman, Mona.”
Color rose in her cheeks, a healthy flush that looked a whole lot better on her than the sickening pale of before. “Nice of you to notice,” she quipped.
“Kind of hard to miss, doll.”
The flush deepened and spread down her neck, disappearing under the flaps of his bathrobe. He couldn’t have stopped the stirring in his cock if he’d tried. But that wasn’t what prompted his thinking. He wanted her around, just to know she was okay. “I want you to stay here tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
She smiled a smile that Moe hadn’t seen since the night before. It still looked good on her. “I want to stay, Moe. But I don’t want to sleep alone.”
It was all the encouragement Moe needed. He picked her up and pulled her close, cradling her like he had done before. She reminded him of a fresh-hatched bird - fragile and needy, but alive and chirping. Her arms slid around his neck and he got a whiff of the soap lingering on her body and in her hair. He’d do better to think about business.
“Mona, about Metzger,” he said.
“I don’t want to talk about Metzger.”
“We’ll call the police in the morning. You can identify the bum, and I can put the bug in their ear that he’s the creep who sliced and diced me.”
“Let’s talk about it in the morning, Moe,” she whispered against his neck. “I don’t want to think about him anymore.”
Moe let her have her way - for tonight, at least. He carried her to his bed and gently set her on the mattress. He tried to remember the last time a woman had slept in his bed two nights in a row. There was nothing to remember. This was a first. He tried to ignore the implications.
“Please, Moe, turn out the lights.”
His gut told him not to do it. She needed to know she was beautiful and nothing Metzger had done could change that. “Not on your life, doll. I aim to see every inch of you tonight.”
