Chapter Nineteen

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.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Not at all.” Boch stared at Moe, his eyes dark with evil and flashing with a gleam of insanity. “I can’t let you destroy what I’ve been working so hard to build, Mr. Gafferson. So, you killed Peter because he was having an affair with Miss Dale.”

“You’re messing with the calendar, aren’t you? I didn’t meet Mona until after Peter was killed.”

Boch waved a dismissive hand. “People can be bought for next to nothing. It only takes one or two with a convincing story to admit seeing you and Miss Dale together before that time.”

“What about Singer and Metzger?”

“Mr. Singer had an unfortunate accident. I know nothing about him.” Boch didn’t hesitate or try to pretend he didn’t know Maxwell Singer. To Moe’s way of thinking, it was as good as an admission of guilt.

“Rolf Metzger’s death is simple. He witnessed you killing Peter. Metzger was a known blackmailer. He would have bled you dry for years. So, you killed him as well. The authorities already believe it to be true.”

“Except I’m not blackmail jackpot. I live week-to-week.”

“Metzger was greedy. Even a little cash could make him happy.”

“That doesn’t explain why he was here that night in the first place.”

A vein bulged on Boch’s forehead. “Enough!” His mouth hardened. “I’m not interested in explaining myself to you. There’s a show waiting to be performed.” He crossed his arms and gave his evil grin. “Watch it silently, Mr. Gafferson or I’ll have the distasteful job of gagging you.”

Boch turned his attention back toward Danja and snapped his fingers twice in the air.

Moe didn’t want to look, but like a gaper at a traffic accident, he couldn’t help himself. Danja climbed up on the bed beside Mona, shoulder-to-shoulder. It was hard not to compare their naked bodies. Danja was thin and boy-like in all the places Mona was lush with curves. Both women had rounded tits, but Mona’s were fuller, with her pink nipples plump across the tips.

“Lovely to look at, aren’t they?” said Boch.

“Don’t do this,” Moe said. It was a futile demand.

Boch suddenly jerked toward the bed, snatched the remaining veil wrapped around Danja’s hips, and sauntered toward Moe, fingering the veil like most men fingered long, silky hair. “I asked you to be quiet, Mr. Gafferson.” Boch circled Moe’s chair, a beast stalking its prey, readying to pounce.

Moe was a sitting duck and knew it. “Ask my kindergarten teacher, I was never any good at following direc…”

With lightning speed, Boch wrapped the veil over Moe’s mouth, forcing the silk into the corners of his lips. He yanked tight on the fabric’s ends and swathed its length around again for good measure. Moe coughed and tried to twist away, but it was too late.

Instead of returning to his chair, this time Boch moved to the head of the bed and perched on its edge, his hip inches from Mona’s locks of hair. “Now that there will be no more interruptions, we can proceed.” He looked down at the naked nurse lying on the bed and gave an appreciative sigh. “Notice Miss Dale’s neck – how graceful and fragile it is.” Boch raised his hands, miming his words as he spoke. “My hands would fit so easily around it and just as easily…” He wrenched his hands like a chicken’s neck was between his fingers. “Snap it!”

His message was clear. Every muscle in Moe’s body was taut, wanting to spring up and fight. But there was nothing he could do. He had no choices. No opportunities. He settled against the chair, quietly chewing on the silk in his mouth, working his wrists against the tight cords, waiting.

Boch’s demeanor changed again as he pretended to be a college professor sharing a demonstration.

“Nipples are a curious thing. For instance, Miss Dale’s, at the moment, are flat as if they’ve been steam-pressed free of wrinkles. But watch as Danja begins to play, circling and tweaking.” Like a marionette, Danja acted out Boch’s words. “See how delicately she touches,” Boch said. “Like a hummingbird after sugar – flitting and stroking. And look, Mr. Gafferson, the nipple responds. Tightening and shriveling to a bud.” All eyes watched the transformation of Mona’s nipples. “I believe Miss Dale is enjoying this,” Boch smirked.

Mona’s eyes were closed, her lips barely together. She whimpered as Danja caressed her tits, but the whimpers ended in a sigh.

“And when Danja manipulates a little harder, squeezing and rubbing and pinching, look how Miss Dale’s other nipple pokes up as well.” Danja’s petite fingers scrambled across Mona’s tit, trying to keep up with Boch’s directions.

“And when Danja takes Miss Dale’s nipple into her mouth…” Danja’s pale lips parted. She slowly lowered, surrounding the dusky areola of Mona’s left breast with her open mouth. Boch continued. “First, kissing and nipping, then sucking.” He paused a moment to watch. The anger flared. “Suck harder, Danja, harder.” The hollows of Danja’s cheeks deepened as she drew Mona’s nipple fully into her mouth.

Boch was right about one thing – men were ruled by their dicks. When Mona moaned again, this time a little louder, and a little more throaty, Moe felt the stirring in his pants.

“Don’t forget the other nipple, Danja,” said Boch. “It’s been waiting so patiently – puckered and pretty.”

Danja licked across the valley and up over the mounds of tit-flesh before finding, and sucking, on Mona’s left nipple. Mona arched up, pushing her breast further into Danja’s mouth.

“All that flesh of Miss Dale’s abdomen, so flat and soft, and dusted with red gold fuzz. It’s a marvelous palette to stick a belly button on. Don’t you agree?”

Danja released Mona’s nipple. The bud rose up like a pyramid, glistening with spit. She tongued her way down Mona’s body to the navel, dipping her tongue into its cleft, again and again.

Boch was in the world of his choosing. Directing and speaking, knowing no one would answer. Moe could only listen and watch.

“All of it is just window dressing really,” Boch said. “Just a good front to bring us to the real attraction – the phoenix’s nest. It does make a penis rise again, does it not?” he laughed at his own joke.

Danja slicked her lips with saliva. She placed her open hands boldly on Mona’s ribcage. She kissed Mona’s belly, and moved lower to the red line of pubic hair tufted over Mona’s mound.

“And the best piece of the pie – a moist cunny, drooling for attention,” added Boch.

Danja took her time finding Mona’s jewel. She licked her inner thighs and the crease where mound and leg meet. Then moved on to the mound itself, licking and kissing all along the haircourt of Mona’s thatch. She ran her tongue down the groove where Mona’s sex lips met, and then slipped her tongue in the slit. She sucked each flap, drawing it into her mouth, sucking and sucking until the pink flesh turned rosy red.

Mona squirmed and Danja wrapped her arms around Mona’s thighs. Little drips of pearly wet drizzled from Mona’s poon, and her love button pushed from its hood. Danja’s tongue finally reached for it and licked. She pressed her lips around Mona’s clit, and then drew it into her mouth, sucking, and sucking. Mona pulled at the ties on her wrists, trying to raise her hips, squirming and writhing.

“More. More,” Mona said, but Moe heard it as Moe, Moe.

He had never seen anything like it. Danja was a practiced cunnilinguist. She knew when to suck, when to lick, and when to do nothing but wait. She timed each movement of her mouth to bring Mona closer to orgasm, again and again, only to pull back and start over.

“What a filthy little cunt she is,” said Boch. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Gafferson?”

Moe would have glared at Boch, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of Danja’s mouth on Mona’s pussy. Danja’s fingers slipped easily into the groove of Mona’s sex and disappeared in her depths, only to come out again, covered in wet, and immediately go back in. One finger, then two, and finally three, thrusting in and out, fucking. She didn’t stop. She sucked and thrusted until Mona screamed and her legs jerked together. Danja pulled her fingers out and used them to open Mona’s labia wide, showing all who watched as Mona’s pussy quivered in climax.

Moe was hard as a rock.

Boch hoisted himself from the bed and slithered across the room like Satan in a Genesis tale. He stopped directly in front of Moe and lowered his hand over Moe’s crotch – outlining without touching. “It seems you liked our little show, Mr. Gafferson. You’re protruding. Hot, wasn’t it?” Boch pulled his hand away and sauntered to his chair. “I’m so glad to see that, because it’s not quite over.

He snapped his fingers. Danja gave a final kiss to Mona’s pussy, and shimmied from the bed on her hands and knees. She crept across the floor without making a sound and knelt between Moe’s legs. Moe tried to close his thighs, but it was useless. He concentrated instead on getting his dick to quit reacting. He didn’t want Mona to see him like this, his cock responding to Danja’s close proximity. He tried again to force his thighs together.

“Mr. Gafferson, you are not cooperating. This can either be pleasant for you or very costly for Miss Dale. It’s up to you.”

Moe wondered how men like Boch could look in a mirror every day without losing their breakfast. Danja knelt at Moe’s feet, staring fixedly at his crotch. The smell of Mona clung to her like French perfume. Her lips were swollen and glistened with Mona’s dew, and her cheeks were sweaty and flushed. He glanced at her eyes and for a brief moment, he thought he saw a spark in their blue depths. He couldn’t be sure. But if it had been there, it was quickly blanketed over.

“Because I’m a gentleman, and I believe in fair play,” Boch said, “we’re going to take care of your needs as well, Mr. Gafferson.” The man had resumed his opera-like stance. There was a tragedy playing tonight.

“Danja likes to suck cock. She’s a master at it. You can ask any of my associates. She’s had her mouth around nearly every politician from here to Indiana.”

Moe saw it again. A flash of awareness, only this time it was the jaw joint below Danja’s temples. It tightened and released like she had clenched her teeth. The Golden Monkey was beginning to wear off. He glanced over to Mona, but she’d fallen asleep.

Moe felt a flash of possibility. If Danja could unloosen a knot –

“I’m waiting, Danja. Show our guest what you’ve learned.”

Moe reluctantly gave in, letting his knees part. Danja went straight for Moe’s zipper, and then the buckle on his belt. She opened his pants and reached into his drawers. Her small hand immediately surrounded Moe’s semi-erect cock and pulled it from its nesting spot. She rose up on her knees, and as soon as the head of Moe’s penis saw the light of day, Danja had her lips around it. She opened her mouth wider and gulped in its length, letting it slide out against her lips. She reached under with her other hand and grabbed his balls, nudging and caressing. She was practiced. Moe was fully erect in seconds. Just as Danja had done to Mona, she sucked and licked and brought Moe close to orgasm, but prevented the surge by tightening her grip on his balls, only to release and start over again. Until the last time her mouth slid down. Her hand went soft, her mouth warm and tight. She swallowed and swallowed, her throat muscles working hard on Moe’s dick, forcing it deeper in her throat. His full length bulged into her mouth. She tongued the underside of his helmet, and somehow sucked at the same time. Moe’s sauce, pooling in his nuts, finally found its way up. Danja pulled back and let it shoot into her mouth, holding it there, without swallowing. Her cheeks puffed out like a trumpet player holding a long note. But she just waited.

“You see, Mr. Gafferson, in order for my scenario to be complete, the police must be convinced of your duplicity. You forced Miss Dale here to the cottage. You tied her to the bed. And then you fucked her.” He waved his hand. “Now finish the job, Danja.”

Danja crept to the bed and climbed back up between Mona’s legs. Using her fingers, she spread Mona’s delta, still sopping from orgasm, and lowered her mouth to its entrance. Mona stirred but didn’t fight. Danja pressed harder, exposing all of Mona’s pink moss. At the snap of Boch’s fingers, Danja blew. Hard. Until semen dribbled from Mona’s hole and off of Danja’s lower lip.

Moe finally chewed completely through the veil releasing his gag. Using his tongue, he spit the frayed edges from his mouth. “Fuck you, Boch.”

“After you fucked her, Mr. Gafferson, you killed her.”

In that split second, Moe realized Boch’s intent. As Boch reached for Moe’s Roscoe still resting on the walnut table, Moe, with rage speeding like a locomotive through his body, jerked against his reins.

The twine held firm, slicing through Moe’s skin and corpuscle, but the chair splintered and cracked, forcing slivers of wood into Moe’s arms and legs, before finally giving way. Moe went tumbling to the floor. His shoulder cracked against the walnut table, sending the table to the floor on top of him. The Roscoe skittered away across the floor and stopped at Danja’s bare feet.

Moe was immobilized, still tied at the wrists, and laid out on the floor. “Get the gun, Danja,” Moe yelled. “Get the gun!”

For a moment there was nothing. And then Boch began to laugh, a chuckle at first, and then a sinister, maniacal laugh. “Yes, Danja, by all means, get the gun.”

At first, she was frozen, staring ahead, blinkless. But then slowly her eyes tilted down, spying the gun with its barrel lying across her toes. Like ketchup coming from a bottle, she flowed in slow motion, reaching for the gun. When she straightened, the Roscoe was in her hand, and her finger was on the trigger.

“Shoot him, Danja. He killed Peter. I know you want him dead,” Boch inched toward her as he spoke.

“It was Boch who killed your brother, Danja.”

“Don’t listen to him. I am the one who took care of you when no one else would. I am the only one you can trust.”

Moe tried to get a better look at Danja, but she was partially blocked behind a bedpost. He rose up on his hip, still struggling with splintered wood gouging into his arms and legs. Like a percussionist’s dream, his heart drummed out a cadence and every wound throbbed in perfect time. Warm, sticky fluid seeped between his fingers and drizzled down his calves. His words pounded between his ears like a bass drum. “Boch killed Peter because he was running away with Kitty Winslow.”

“Think about it, Danja.” Boch shuffled forward another few inches. “Peter would have told you if that were true.”

Moe grasped at straws, trying to stall as desperation clawed at his throat. He made up a story off the top of his head. His life depended on it sounding plausible. “Peter loved Kitty. He wanted to start a new life with her. But he needed the diamonds to do it.” Even as the last words left his mouth, Moe felt the futility sweep over him. Peter loved Kitty? Nothing seemed less likely.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s lying,” Boch barked. “Metzger killed Peter because of Mr. Gafferson. Danja, you already know that.”

Danja gripped the gun with both hands, her index fingers crossed over its trigger. She raised the gun’s nose and pointed it at Moe’s forehead. A single shot would give him a third eye.

“Do it, Danja! Do it!” Spit sprayed from Boch’s mouth, and his eyes brightened with blood thirst.

“Metzger was following Boch’s orders.” Moe’s voice was shrill, scraping like a missed note. “Why do you think Metzger is dead? And Maxwell Singer? Why is he trying to kill me, now? He’s trying to clean up – get rid of evidence.”

“Danja, Peter would have told you.” Boch spoke firmly and calmly, like a loving parent instead of the bastard he was. He took a huge step forward, bringing him one step closer to a trembling Danja.

“Kill him, Danja. Kill the man responsible for your brother’s death.”

Danja’s finger twitched, and Moe slammed his eyes closed. This was not the way he thought he would die.

The gun went off, splintering the floor near Moe’s head, and causing his ears to ring. But it missed his scalp completely. Moe suddenly remembered Sister Mary Francis spouting off about miracles. Maybe she was right. He opened his eyes just as the gun went off again.

The second bullet clipped Boch in the shoulder, spinning him away. He squealed like a whistling teapot. The gun exploded again, hitting Boch’s right arm. And again – thunking into his neck. And again – exploding into his head. Bits of flesh and blood splattered onto Moe’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut. And the gun went off again and again. Until click. Click. Click. The chamber was empty.

The smell of gunpowder burned Moe’s nostrils. The ringing in his ears reached full piped organ magnitude. But he was alive. He opened his eyes to see the lifeless face of Karl Boch, staring with Golden Monkey-like eyes straight at him.

He glanced around to see Danja lower her arms, sending the Roscoe clattering to the floor. She calmly walked over to the body of Karl Boch and stared at him. Her nude body flushed from head to toe. Her eyes finally in focus.

“Peter told me he loved Kitty Winslow, you lying fuck.” she said. And then she walked from the room.