Edited by Poison Ivan
Moe stared through the one-way mirror. The blonde hugged the wall as if it were her new best friend. A fine sheen of sweat crept over her body like untamed ivy. Her mussed hair stuck in the moisture at the sides of her face. The bastard that had browned the girl was back in his seat, pants zipped and buttoned, and stacking his winnings into piles, the girl already forgotten. The rest of the dirty half-dozen sat, waiting for the next round of cards, all eyes on the dealer.
The knot in Moe's gut squeezed tighter. There was the ordinary snake-in-the-grass type, and then there was its slimy underbelly. Karl Boch and his poker buddies slithered with the latter.
"Here take this." Dutch held out a glass with a double-shot of bourbon. "You look like you could use it."
Moe took the glass and knocked back a mouthful of the amber liquid. The expensive hooch burned, and Moe relished the inferno on its slow descent to the pit of his stomach. He studied the remaining booze as he spoke. "I had you figured for a different kind of politicking, Dutch. The games these Kraut lovers play could get you a cement overcoat."
Dutch shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't get a vote in this election."
Moe glanced over at Dutch. "Flamingo's is your place, ain't it?"
Dutch stood beside Moe, sipping his drink and staring through the mirror, avoiding Moe's eye. "Some people you just can't say no to."
"Put that in writing, and I'll paste it in my scrapbook."
Dutch opened his mouth, but then suddenly went mute. Moe was waiting for the straight dope, but something or someone stopped Dutch from dealing it. The sudden look of alarm smothering the club owner's face had Moe chasing his stare. In the cub room, the blonde number was doubled-over like a desiccated orchid. Streaks of bright red trickled down the inside of her legs and painted her ankles.
Not one man at the table took notice.
"Holy shit! We've got to get an ambulance, Dutch."
Dutch grabbed Moe's arm in a death grip. "Damn it, Moe. I can't. The newshounds would get the call as quick as the meat wagons. If there's any publicity, Boch will shut me down."
The blonde was doing her best to impersonate a ghost - white enough to see through her. Her shoulder slammed against the wall like she expected to fall through it, but instead she crumbled to the floor. The fine sheen covering her body had progressed to a full-fledged sweat, and her eyes battled to stay open.
Moe spun away from the mirror. "The dame's going to bleed to death while those jokers take bets. And what'll we do? Stand by and watch like it's The Derby?"
"We've got to get her out of there," Dutch mumbled.
Moe looked at his friend and finally recognized the man he knew. Dutch may not be a first class citizen, but he wasn't a shucker either. No girl's life was a throw-away, no matter what company she kept. It was good to hear Dutch agree.
"If you get her out of there, I'll take her," Moe said.
"If there's a scandal, Moe ..."
"No scandal. I know a nurse."
Dutch eyed Moe with a steady stare while grinding his teeth and clenching his jaw muscles. Moe knew him well enough to know a plan was gelling in Dutch's mind, and as soon as he had it figured out, he would act, and quick. Moe's inclination was to dash in, grab the blonde, and dash out. But Dutch had something else in mind.
"Follow me," he said. Dutch led them to the cub room door. He put his hand on Moe's shoulder and spoke calmly and firmly. "Wait here. Let me schmooze a little. I'll leave the door open, and if I need backup, you come in with guns blazing. You got me, Moe?"
Moe wasn't crazy about the odds—six hoods against two guys trying to do good. But Moe and Dutch had the element of surprise on their side, and there was a chance the thugs might want a babysitter help for their sick little plaything.
Dutch slipped through the door, and Moe inched close and hooked an ear.
"Mr. Winslow, have you decided to join us after all?" Moe recognized Councilman Boch's voice from a radio speech after his renomination. Two years ago, Moe would have called the thickly formal voice dishonest. Now he'd call it sinister.
Dutch could be smooth under pressure. "Hello, gentleman," he said. "I trust it's been a successful evening."
The card gang mumbled their approval of the evening's proceedings. Moe got antsy. He pulled out his heater and checked its load. If he needed fire power, he wanted to be ready, and he didn't want to miss.
"Maybe I should take the dame and get her cleaned up," said Dutch.
A hush settled over the room as if Dutch was hustling hymns to the heathens. Moe hoped the blonde was getting a long overdue bit of respect, but he was disappointed.
"Are you afraid of getting a little blood on your floor, Winslow?" The voice wasn't recognizable, but Moe's gut told him it was Wolfman. The winner of the last hand seemed to be every bit as low down as Boch.
