Rough Cut

Chapter 19

Detectives Jansen and Braxton were close on Moe’s heels, screeching their black and blue buggy to a halt minutes after Moe had swept through Mona’s ransacked house. While the Cincy boys sifted inside through broken furniture, at the height of darkness, Moe, with only a distant street lamp for illumination, fumbled through the yard looking for a possible clue. All three came up empty.

Later, the cops continued their thing outside, once again retracing Moe’s footprints. Moe plopped down on the porch step. The cold of the cement breached his trousers and made his ass feel like it had taken a paddling from Sister Mary Francis. But Moe ignored it.

He had his face buried in his hands when Jansen and Braxton made their way over to the stoop.

“Go home, Gafferson,” Jansen said. “It’s a sure bet no one is coming back here tonight.”

Braxton was in a less agreeable mood. “You sure we just want to let him go, Janney?” he snarled. “Seems to me he could have led us here as a setup.”

If Moe’s mind hadn’t been crammed full of Mona and Karl Boch, he might have decked the muscle-bound officer.

“Nah, this ain’t a setup. The dame that’s missing is sort of special to our private dick here. Ain’t that right, Gafferson?”

Moe nodded and let it go. The fat detective could be savvy when he wanted to be. Moe’s wheels turned in another direction. “At least we have something on Boch,” Moe said.

Jansen shook his hands in front of himself like he was waving pom-poms. “Whoa, Bub. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“What jump? It’s an easy stroll. He calls and gets Mona’s address, and now she’s missing,” said Moe.

“I don’t remember anyone using Boch’s name, do you, Janney?” Braxton had a quarter in his hand, flipping it over and over between his fingers. The snarl had turned to a cocky grin.

Jansen jammed his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

Moe scrutinized the pair of law men. Braxton flipped the quarter high, snatched it out of the air and mouthed the words, ‘Tails you lose.’ Jansen’s hands fiddled in empty pockets while he rocked back and forth on his heels and avoided eye contact.

“Shit! I should have known. Cops! A fucking waste,” growled Moe. He stood, brushed imaginary lint from his suit sleeves, and headed toward his car. “Forgive me, boys, if I don’t stick around for more of your ricky-tick. I’ve got things to do.”

“Go home, Gafferson, before you’re boiling in oil,” Jansen shouted at Moe’s back. “Let us handle this.”

* * *

Moe spent a half hour driving the backstreets of Cincinnati just to lose the tail Jansen and Braxton pretended to work at. He got a little pleasure leading them past the stink of the paper mill and the city dump before finally leaving them behind. It paid to know the allies in a different district of town.

He worked his way back to Glendale and spent a good amount of eight hours staring at Boch’s mansion. It was locked up tight. No cars in the garage. No lights in the house. And no Al and Gus circling the place with Chicago pianos strapped over their shoulders.

As the sun rose, the sky cotched the look of a silk scarf being tossed over the horizon. Yellows and purples blended together like a bruise and reminded Moe time was bullying ahead. Nine hours had ticked away. No sign. No message. No Mona. He eked down one street after another looking for an accidental lead and stalking any pedestrian that had the gall to be out so early in the morning. He was hit with everything from “Hey, buddy you got a problem?” to the more amicable “Can I help you, sir?” Finally, he realized the futility of what he was doing and worked his way toward his own neighborhood. He needed to see a friendly face.

He walked into Joe’s Diner, smelled the coffee and the bacon, and decided to have a little of both.

The place was filling up. It was never too early for a breakfast joint. Joe glanced up from his spot in front of the grill and nodded acknowledgement.

“The usual, Moe?”

Moe nodded. “Make the coffee stiffer and the bacon greasier. Maybe it’ll give me something to think about.”

Three cups of java and a plate full of the sunrise special later, and Moe was feeling human again. But good food and coffee hadn’t given him any better leads. Dejected, he tossed a buck on the counter and stood to leave. He had almost reached the door when Joe suddenly called out. “Hey, Moe.” Moe waited while Joe squirmed his way through the swelling breakfast crowd.

“How you doin’, Moe?”

“Fine, Joe. Breakfast was perfect, as usual.”

Joe wiped his hands on the folded white apron spread across his torso. He glanced out the door like a crook on the lam. “Listen, buddy. I wanted to tell you something. Two goons were in here last evening asking about you.”

“Cops?”

“Not likely. They had the look of Capone. You know, gangsters.”

“They leave a name?”

“No, but the big one kept repeating everything the little guy said.”

So Boch’s hounds were doing some clumsy snooping. No wonder Joe looked spooked.

The morning munchers in the diner started getting restless. “Hey, Joe how about my omelet?” one of them yelled.

Joe waved to the complainer and went on. “They asked if you were here with a blonde. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I played dumb.”

The complainer got a little louder. “Come on, Joe. I have to be at work soon.”

“Keep your pants on, Harry,” Joe said to Mr. Omelet and then turned back to Moe. “They wanted to make sure you were the gumshoe who was shivved at that cottage Over the Rhine.”

The lights flickered in Moe’s head like Saturday’s movie newsreel. The cottage. Of course! They wouldn’t take Mona and Danja to the mansion. The cottage was the perfect hideaway. The spring was back in Moe’s step. “Thanks, Joe. I owe you a million.” He slapped Joe on the shoulder and then rushed out the door.

* * *

Moe slowed the Buick to a crawl, inching down the Over the Rhine backstreet. The sun was in full swing, shining brightly on the façade of Peter Schmidt’s cottage and making the small house look almost picturesque. From the outside, there was little sign of life except for the lawn - it was doing its best to recover from the abusing foot traffic. The driveway and the carport were empty, and the house was closed up like it was preparing for winter. The window shades were pulled down. The last time he visited, they had been up.

He shot a glance across the street at Opal Thompson’s house. Moe briefly considered stopping and asking her if she’d seen anything, but the old broad’s drapes were closed tight. Maybe it was too early for her, or maybe she’d finally found the courage to leave, or maybe she just knew when to keep her nose out of things. Whatever the reason, Moe didn’t want to lead anyone to her. If, like Moe suspected, Boch was cleaning house and getting rid of people with knowledge of his involvement with Schmidt and Metzger, even an innocent bystander like Opal could be a target.

Moe turned off on a connecting street and coasted to the curb. The street was filled with small, paint-hungry cottages squatting behind leaf-filled lawns. His Buick could nestle here for an entire season and be right at home.

The backyards between the side street and Schmidt’s cottage weren’t fenced. All Moe had to do was cross through three small yards. He jogged from one to the next. His Roscoe, cradled in its shoulder holster, thumped against his side like a good buddy declaring, “I’m with you, pal.”

The path around the cottage was a familiar one, only this time Moe wouldn’t be peeking in windows. He headed straight to the back door that led to the carport and turned its knob.

It was locked. He let go and looked carefully at the keyhole. Fortunately, it was a simple pin and tumbler lock, and Moe had a little experience with picking. He removed the locksmith tool from the side pocket of his shoulder holster and fitted it into the lock. He listened for the click of each pin falling into position until the lock gave way. He slipped his pick back into his shoulder holster and easily, quietly, opened the door.

It led into a small kitchen with the remnants of an unfinished meal left on a dinette table. Instead of a musty, mildew smell from a boarded up house, a billowy haze of tobacco hung in the air. And mixed with the distinctive fragrance of pipe were the fresher smells of coffee and toasted bread.

Moe tiptoed across the kitchen floor, listening for the faintest sound. He thought he heard voices in the distance, but he couldn’t be sure. His heart rate zoomed, and his hands were clammy.

If the floorboard creaked in warning, Moe missed it. Suddenly, a figure loomed up, out of range of clear vision, from beside the icebox. It was a man - a big man - that was all Moe knew before the scene exploded into fire and darkness. Just before his lights doused out completely, he felt a stab of nausea and heard a deep, sardonic laugh.

* * *

Moe woke up slow, facedown, staring at a hardwood floor in desperate need of a good waxing. The wood grain snaked in front of his eyes like a pit full of rattlers with the prattle from their tails booming between his ears. He steadied himself on his elbows and reached to feel the back of his head. The spot was like the inside of an overripe melon - soft and pulpy. With his touch, pain shot clear to the soles of his feet. He groaned. It only made the pain worse. He rolled over cautiously and looked straight up into the smirking face of Karl Boch.

“We meet again, Mr. Gafferson,” Boch said with a superior air.

“I can’t say I’m happy to see you.” Moe winced. Moving his mouth moved his skin, and moving his skin hurt his head.

“Come, come, Mr. Gafferson. Let’s be gentlemen about this, shall we?”

In Moe’s eyes, Boch was as far from being a gentleman as Miami was from Spokane.

“It took you a little longer to get here than I had expected.” Boch glanced at the Rolex decorating his wrist. “The morning is half over.” He lazily scratched the tip of his nose with the barrel of a handgun. Moe’s Roscoe. “You’re not much of a detective, are you Mr. Gafferson?”

Moe forced himself to sit up. His mouth cried out for the saliva. “I had things to do,” he managed to spit out.

“Cleaning up not on the list, eh? You look like shit, Mr. Gafferson. I’m having a hard time understanding what Miss Dale could ever see in you.”

The mention of Mona cleared away some of the cobwebs muzzying Moe’s brain. “Mona? Where is she?”

“She’s here, just as you guessed. And she was anxious to see you too, at first. But that was hours ago. She’s had a little Golden Monkey since then. Now she’s settling in nicely.”

Golden Monkey was the Chinese tea that Danja had mentioned. Apparently, it wasn’t any ordinary tea. “What exactly is that swill you’re handing out?” Moe asked.

Boch cocked his head in the smuggish way of a snob having to deal with a man of no importance. “It’s a special blend given to me by my associate, Mr. Chang—a man of many uses.”

“Running laundries and dishing dope?”

Boch shrugged his shoulders and pointed the gun more directly at Moe. “Get up,” he said.

Moe considered how fast he could grab the Roscoe before Boch could squeeze the trigger. Boch’s grip was firm, confident, not sweaty or rickety while Moe’s head was still as murky as a Louisiana marsh. The odds weren’t in his favor. Better to wait, see the setup in the cottage. So far, no sign of Al and Gus. And where were Mona and Danja? Moe could put off being brave, or stupid, for a little while. He wobbled to his feet like a newborn colt on its first legs.

Boch waved the gun toward a cramped hallway. “Go through there.”

Moe hesitated, but Boch was behind him with the cold, hard nose of the gun pressed to the middle of his back. Moe stumbled forward. Boch jammed the gun a little harder to direct Moe into the hall. Moe shuffled on, Boch close at his heels, to a bedroom off the left side of the hallway. The room was just big enough to hold a lift-top walnut table, two Eastlake Victorian chairs, and a king-sized pencil post bed with olive-colored velvet curtains draped around it. The windows were shuttered and locked, the room space illuminated by harsh incandescent bulbs.

Boch continued with his monosyllabic orders. “Sit down.”

Moe did as he was told and welcomed the minor comfort of a padded seat. But his comfort was short-lived. Boch grabbed Moe’s arms and jerked them behind the chair. Moe reflexively fought against him, but stopped struggling completely when the butt of the Roscoe revisited the goose egg on the back of Moe’s head. Moe saw more stars than a Hollywood opening night. Dazed and hurting, he let Boch tie his wrists and then his ankles. Each wrap of twine took on the air of a nightmarish déjà vu, except the councilman made a better knot than Al and Gus.

When Boch had finished, he placed the Roscoe on the walnut table and casually leaned against a post of the bed. “I have an interesting proposition for you, Mr. Gafferson.”

“Fuck you , Boch.”

“Now that’s no way to treat a potential business partner. I took you for a smarter man, Gafferson.”

“It’s nothing personal.” Moe let the sarcasm roll. “The nuns had trouble teaching me manners.”

Boch folded his arms across his chest, tapping his fingers along his sleeve-covered bicep. “You’re a funny man, Gafferson. Knock off the comedy routine for a second and listen. You might be happy with my proposition.”

It wasn’t like Moe had any options and curiosity licked a little at his innards. “My ears are working.”

“What would you say to coming to work for me? I’d pay you plenty more than you’ll make being a two-bit private eye. And I could use a man like you.”

Moe nearly choked at the idea. Working for Boch would be like Lindy-hopping with Lucifer. But Moe could play make-believe if Boch wanted to. “What exactly are we talking about here?”

“Body guard, sleuth, or protector. Give it whatever title you’d like.”

“Hitman?”

Boch’s mouth spread wide in what some might call a smile. But the spread didn’t make it to his eyes - their ominous depths remained hard and opaque. “No, I don’t suppose we could ever come to agreeable terms,” he said. “Pity.” With a flourish, Boch pulled the other chair out and sat down, proper-like, as if he was at the opera: back straight, arms folded, and leg crossed. The only things missing were a lace handkerchief and opera glasses to complete the picture.

“Let us begin,” Boch announced in a booming voice.

Startled, Moe looked around, expecting another beating. He craned his head to see if anyone was at the door, but there was no one.

Suddenly, from behind the closed bed curtains, exposing one limb at a time, emerged a fragile-looking Danja Bittners. Silk veils in kaleidoscope colors draped her petite frame like she was some kind of Aryan Salome.

She stepped out onto the floor, her feet bare, and the veils fluttering around her body. She didn’t look at Boch, and she didn’t look at Moe. She was alone in some Arabian dream.

She began to dance, silently, without music, circling and twirling. She pulled a pink veil loose, draping it about her face, across her chest, and then dropped it to the floor. She followed it with a yellow veil, then blue, then orange.

Unlike Salome, motions meant to be hot and steamy seemed docile, even mechanical, when performed by Danja Bittners. She pulled another veil loose, exposing her small breasts. Her nipples were rouged to a carmine red.

Moe tried to make eye contact, but Danja was seeing sultans and sand and dancing to her own disjointed lute solo. Her eyes were the same flat, emotionless pools that Moe had witnessed at the poker game. Danja spun in circles with the veils in each hand. Moe recognized it for what it was - a drug-induced miasma.

When she removed the last of her veils and stood nearly nude with just the barest of sheath covering her hips, Boch snapped his fingers. Danja stopped abruptly, wobbling a little on her feet. She turned wooden and tugged on the olive velvet curtains revealing the bed beyond.

Lying naked atop a bed of green, with flaming hair haloed about her head was Mona, arms stretched out and wrists tied to the posts. Her milky body was relaxed, and her eyes were the same dead orbs as Danja’s.

Relief that she was alive washed over Moe, but outrage at her position shoved any joy aside. Moe struggled against his ties, but his attempts were futile. “Mona!” he yelled.

Mona gazed into space, unable to focus, but groaned at the call of her name.

Moe wrenched against the twine again, feeling it dig into his wrists until his fingers turned cold and began to itch. “Mona, baby,” he repeated.

“Relax, Mr. Gafferson, and enjoy the show.” Boch laughed a cruel laugh. “Look at her. She seems to be quite happy.”

Moe wouldn’t have said ‘happy,’ but at least she was calm. Her long gams stretched the length of the bed and were spread apart, but unbound. She did nothing to hide the view of her red-haired bush and the soft pink geography that went with it.

“What have you done to her?”

Boch had the gall to look offended. “I haven’t done a thing. We were waiting for you.”

“Let her go.” Moe squirmed in his chair, circling his feet and tugging at the twine. “This has nothing to do with her.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong. She’s become a major character in our little play.” Boch rose from his seat and began to pace. “What drives a man to kill, do you suppose?” he paused, maybe waiting for Moe to answer, but Moe kept his mouth shut and his eye on Mona and Danja. Both women had statued up - Mona spread-eagle in all her glory and Danja at the bedside, arms at her side, and feet slightly apart.

Boch continued his monologue. “Jealousy. That’s what. Men have been killing each other over women since the dawn of time. Man’s real weakness is letting his penis rule his mind. What disgusting creatures men are! But someday, with a more perfect race, we’ll overcome our weaknesses.”

Moe slumped against his chair. Sweat trickled down the valley of his chest. There was no way to break the ties. The only weapon he had left was time. The longer Boch talked, the likelier that whatever was in the Chinese tea could wear off. Moe encouraged the corrupt councilman to ramble. “That ‘perfect race’ garbage that Hitler is spouting?”

“Genius, isn’t he?”

“A sick mind would think so.”

“A sick mind, you say?” Boch marched over to Danja. He cupped her chin and turned her face toward Moe. “Is it sick to think beauty such as hers should be the norm instead of the rarity?” Boch released her chin, but studied her face. “I’ll admit she’s not at her best - a bit weak, overly tired, pale - but the

genes

are still there. And we nearly had them propagated, didn’t we?” He posed the question to Danja, but her lights were as dim as a battery-operated flashlight sans the batteries. Boch didn’t seem to care. “Too bad about the miscarriage,” he continued. “But there will be other chances. We must do what we can to help the cause.”

The Gomorrah scene – the beautiful, blond women, the men of power and prestige - Moe had witnessed at Boch’s place finally made sense. It wasn’t about sexual pleasure or even sexual deviancy. It was about procreation, furthering a cause, building a race. Moe thought about the poor dame that hadn’t been chosen by the other men. The one stuck with the impotent councilman. Had she sacrificed herself to Boch’s ivory phallus because she was brainwashed into believing she wasn’t good enough to further the cause? It was lunacy, all of it, and it left Moe craving a swig of bicarbonate.

Boch returned to his chair, adopting the same pose as before, seemingly finished with his diatribe. Moe pushed for it to be longer. “You’ll never get away with this scheme of yours, you know. The police will be on you for the murders.”

Boch was not a man to hold back a speech. “Oh, you’re wrong there, Mr. Gafferson. The police think you are the cause of all their unfortunate problems.”