If any reader wishes to send comments or report typos and other errors discovered in the text, write the author at cdl25@usa.net. Correspondences are appreciated.

 

The Big Switch
or, "The Dame Curse"
by: Christopher Leeson    © 2001

 

Chapter 1
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan

"...I made a flying dive for the dining room where I'd heard the sound. Then I saw the French maid. She was trying to get out through a French window. I didn't stop to think about the irony of that.

"I jumped for her, grabbed her. She was trying to stuff something down under the lace of her uniform. I got my fingers into the vee of her neckline and yanked. The material tore. I ripped at the bosom of her petticoat until something fluttered to the floor. I grabbed it. It was an oblong of paper.

"The maid tried to snatch it back. I slapped her across the face, pinioned her slim wrist with one hand. Then I looked at what I'd wrested from her. It was a check made out to Miss Judit Hilmar and was signed 'Dirk Bracken.' I knew the name; Bracken had been comedy-star Dopey Sailor's real name. The check was for five thousand smacks. I didn't think that dusting paid that well. Anyway, Dopey wasn't even her employer.

"I said: 'Where the hell did you get this?'

"'It is mine. Mr. Sailor g-gave it to me two or three d-days ago,' she stammered. Her accent sounded more Swedish than French.

"I asked, 'What did you have to do to get it?'

"She closed up like a clam; her red lips got tight. I knew I'd have to do more cave-man stuff on her to find out anything. So I grabbed her shoulders, shook her until her pearly-whites rattled.

"I said: 'Now look, Miss Judit Hilmar. If you don't want to get slapped till you're groggy, you'll talk. How would you like a good sock in the jaw for openers?'

"'No -- no --!'

"'Okay, then, Sister. Answer me. Why were you trying to sneak out the window?'

"I ran my fingers over her shoulder, pretended I was about to punch the hell out of her. I'll admit I got something of a kick out of touching her skin, but didn't let on. I only said: 'Why are you so afraid to get mixed up in the Bracken case? Or are you already involved?'

"All of a sudden the Aryan cutie pressed herself up against me, put her arms around my neck. She said: 'Please Mr. Detective -- I shall do anything you ask if you will keep me out of this! I -- I have a brother who has been smuggled into this country illegally.'

"'Why illegally?'

Her eyes closed and her mouth pursed in pain. "North Europeans can't get work permits in the U-S of America."

"I unclenched my fist. It sounded like the straight dope, so I let her continue.

"'If I am dragged into this shooting, the police will question me, look into my family. They might find out about my brother and deport him. You do not know what life in Sweden is like!'

"Even though I always feel sorry for refugees I had to come across like a hard case if I was going to get at the pay dirt. 'The law is the law,' I told her in my bad-guy voice.

"Instead of pleading some more like I expected, she looked at me funny-like and pressed up flush against me. 'Do not force me,' she said. 'I can do things for you.' The first thing she did was wrap her arms around me. Warm, soft curves were heating my chest and she was offering me a pair of luscious lips --

"Well, after all, I'm human. So I leaned down and kissed her, felt her mouth against mine. My blood was racing so fast that I could have entered it in the Kentucky Derby --"

#

I sat back from the CRT and reached for my cup of Java. "Well, Martin, how do you like it?"

Dewitt leaned forward in his swivel chair on put his elbows on his desk top. "That's a damned hot scene, D.C! Are you trying to give your reader a hard-on?"

"Yeah! So you like the story, right?"

He cocked his head to one side. "I like it fine, even though it's kind of old-fashioned. Everything you write sounds like it comes out of the 1930's, but that immigration policy Judit mentions is from the Seventies. And like I've said before, not even tough guys talk that way anymore."

"I still talk that way!"

"But you've been boning up on the old pulp magazine lingo for twenty years. You come across like a fugitive from Black Mask."

"Hmmp!" I grunted. Dewitt was only my junior partner, but since I'd asked for his opinion I didn't have any choice but to take it on the chin. "Okay, so I know some words with more than four letters in them. What do you have to say about the plot?"

"Is it realistic? You're a detective, D.C. Have you ever roughed up even one dame on the job? I know I've never had to."

"Me neither," I admitted reluctantly, "not since I left Sears, anyway. But I might get lucky one of these days. I'm not forty yet, after all."

"And isn't it corny to bring in a French maid?"

"She's Swedish."

"A Swedish French maid, then. My point still stands." Dewitt shook his head. "Tell any American woman who isn't already a hooker that she has to dress like a French maid and she'll sue you for harassment. Besides, you can't get a white person to do house-maid work for any kind of money."

"Not even an illegal? If he brother's illegal, maybe she is, too."

"I don't know about that. But Swedes are highly-educated and I can't imagine any smart chick not being able to find something better. The multinationals don't care if you're foreign-born or illegal. You've got a job with them just so long as you're willing to undercut the American wage scale."

I tried to get him to soften his criticism by coaxing. "Some women like to dress up as French maids. Maybe she's kinky. I could make her really kinky."

His brows knitted. "It still might seem like you're forcing things just to serve up some cheap thrills."

"What's wrong with cheap thrills, Martin? It's only escapism! Most of the schmucks who read P.I. stories probably imagine that every money bags has a bevy of cute little French maids working for him!"

"Schmucks? Are you calling yourself a schmuck, D.C? You read more of that stuff than anybody I know."

"They've been called worse things," I said with a shrug, "and so have I."

"Like 'late with the rent?'"

Now that was a low blow! "Don't remind me," I grumbled.

Now Dewitt pushed himself to his feet and shuffled to the air conditioner in the window behind him. "We might as well get some use out of this before the electric company shuts off our current. This heat wave makes me wish for winter."

"At least cold weather would make it easier to wear a trench coat," I said.

"D.C., we can't go on like this without some real dough. All the other agencies are looking for dirt on the new administration for the D.N.C. Maybe we should climb on the bandwagon, too."

"You mean sell out? Trade in our dignity for a pot of mulligan?"

My pard spoke with quiet firmness. "I don't like getting my hands dirty either, but business has been terrible and your stories aren't selling either. If we don't get enough income to defray the outgo we'll come to work one of these days and find the front door padlocked."

I stiffened. "We might have to climb in through the window, but we'll still have our honor."

Martin tossed off a weary look. "Honor and a dollar and a half will buy one cup of coffee to share."

"I know where you can still get coffee for a nickel in Las Vegas," I said, trying to be the optimist.

#

Since we had nothing else to do, I went back to pecking on my manuscript. On looking it over, I thought my opening paragraph was still too weak. In a jiffy I'd performed an extemporaneous revision:

Pennsylvania Avenue runs from Rock Creek to the Anacostia River, through crack-infested hoods where even the flatfoots walk in pairs and streetlights are farther apart than honest politicians. After sunset P.A. is a pitch-black cemetery full of prowling ghoul-shapes, skulking specters muttering in low voices. God didn't make Washington D.C. to any plan to punish the sins of the world. It came to be when the devil cleaned out the ash cans of Hell and dumped the contents of them next to the Potomac for composting. . . ."

Just then our receptionist Sheila came. She never knocked, even though she had just about the best pair of knockers this side of Maryland. That chippie was stacked like a poker deck in the swankiest uptown clip joint -- and that's some pretty good stacking, let me tell you. Most gees go ga-ga over blondes, I know, but for me it's brunettes with green eyes. That's why I hired Sheila instead of some middle-aged frump who could actually type, file, and do MS Windows. It wasn't that Sheila was dumb; I'd sized her up for a smart cookie, but for some reason she just didn't care.

Even though she was gorgeous, our gal Friday must have been out on the town the day the Big Boss dished out the fashion sense. Gray dress suits were just about as sexy as she ever got, at least on the job. I really think she came to work looking like Rosalind Russell in one of those emancipated-woman films just to frustrate us. When I thought about Mary Tyler Moore flashing her gams down under the desk in those Richard Diamond reruns I could have wept.

Once I'd even worked up the nerve to talk to Sheila about a dress code, trying to explain that a nice-looking receptionist in the front office might get us some repeat business, but all she said to that was, "Tell it to the E.A.P." Sheila might not know anything about office work, but she was up to snuff on everything she needed to about using a thug bureaucracy to twist an employer's arm.

Anyway, Sheila had barged in on us, glomming Dewitt out of the corner of her eye, just in case he was handing her a lookism case that a lawyer might take on contingency. She didn't get the goods; Martin is too sneaky a girl-watcher to be taken for a ride that easily.

"Yes, Miss Coffin?" I asked, trying hard to keep my glance above her tie-line.

"It's Ms Spielman again. She's --"

I knew exactly where Leigh Spielman was, since I was looking at her stomp in right behind Sheila -- with the color of a steamed Cape Cod oyster. As it happens, Leigh was another of those great-looking tessies that us working stiffs can't touch with a ten-foot pole. The pity is that I could have been rubbing elbows with a better class of broad -- if only I'd been willing to put out that extra ten-spot a month to rent that empty space over the Mr. Tease Club.

"Which one of you turned on that air conditioner?!" Leigh Spielman demanded with a baby-powder-blue glare.

"Me!" admitted Dewitt, not sweating it. I always admired the coolness Pard displays when it comes to facing off with a geed-up dame. In my book that make him the kind of man you want to have within you in a dark alley. That's not to say that Callahan and Dewitt ever have to spend much time in dark alleys. On a typical day things didn't usually get any darker than the lighting King of Clubs, where the two of us usually had one for the road after 5:00.

"Listen, Dewitt," Spielman was saying, "I told you that your air conditioner scrambles my hard drive! Well, it's happened again."

"That's not possible, Lady," I disagreed politely. "It doesn't hurt our hard drive, so how can it hurt yours?"

She wasn't listening. "I'll get a restraining order if I have to! I'll go for compensatory damages!"

"That won't help you, Ma'am," I said with a head-shaking sigh. "We're flat broke. That's one good thing about the P.I. business; we can thumb our noses at lawsuits threats."

"I already know you two are bums. But I'll find some way to get back at you!" she warned.

Still trying to pour oil over troubled waters, I said, "Miss Spielman, you seem to be saying that Martin scrambles your hard drive. If you stop and think about it, this could be the start of a wonderful relationship."

"Pigs!" she spat. "The gloves are off from now on. One more incident and I'll put you out of business. Consider yourself on notice!"

Dewitt looked was listing to her more wistful than scared. "One more utility bill and we're out of business, anyway," he volunteered. "But I'll take the matter up with my partner. Sheila, would you escort our neighbor to the door?"

Sheila always warmed up to people who came in to give us a hard time, but Leigh ignored our secretary's comradely beckoning and stalked out right past her.

* * * * *

Chapter 2
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Leigh Spielman's take-no-prisoners attitude had given me the inspiration I needed to bring one of my book characters to live, so I pounced on the keyboard, tapping like I was trying to beat the Dutch:

Beth was alone in the office stuffing documents into her alligator-hide briefcase with both hands. It had been a close call with the shamus, but she wouldn't wait around to find out what he came up with. All it would take to set things right was a graveyard flight to the land of sun and fun, a payoff to some Third World dictator, and then her life would become an endless round of golden slipper cocktails and strolls along wide, white beaches.

Except for that damned dick Nick Baxter everything had gone her way. The cops were floundering around, the D.A. was eating out of her hand. Only Nick Baxter seemed to know how to put two and two together. She felt him closing in on her even now. As a precaution, Beth slid open the right-hand desk drawer and hefted her .44 magnum moose-shooter. This she packed into her valise on top of the papers, papers which, in the right hands, would show her up for a murderer and embezzler. Without them Dopey Sailor's brother would have to take the fall and Beth Angler would come out of Slime City smelling like a rose.

Just then the door flew open with a jarring bang. Beth froze long enough to nix any chance of grabbing the man-stopper in the case. Nick Baxter was standing there, a glacier-blue heater clenched in his hard, hot fist, a stogie balanced between his clenched jaws, and a smolder in his cigarette-ash peepers.

"I followed your bucket all from Beverly Hills," he informed her. "You're one hell of a reckless driver. What's the hurry? Lamming it maybe, Ms Angler?"

Most lawyers would have broken, but Angler was a nervy dame. A trial shyster, she'd rubbed elbows with some of the worst scum in the city. She'd picked up their outlook, their way of getting ahead, but she also had learned how to talk down to their gutter level: "Get out of here, you jerk-off!"

The gumshoe shook his head. "If you wanted to be left alone, you shouldn't have put a .44 magnum slug into my partner's back."

Her face drained white. If he found her gun now she'd up for Murder One. "It wasn't me," she jabbered. "It was the comic's brother!"

His big ugly face clouded in anger. "It was you all right, Babe, and you're going to fry for it! Maybe what I need to toss you into the slammer is right there inside that lizard skin."

She lurched, telling him that he had hit the nail on the head. The dame was desperate, but Nick was ready for just about anything. Even so, he never expected a ball-buster like Beth Angler to suddenly go coy. "She's got ice water in her veins," he thought cynically, but down deep he had to admire a skirt who was as fast and deadly as a famished cheetah in gazelle-hunting mode.

"Can't we make some kind of a deal?" she murmured through faintly-curving lips.

Nick narrowed one eye. "What kind of deal do you have in mind, Doll Face?"

She started unbuttoning her suit jacket. Baxter sucked in on his stogie, interested. Embezzler, murder, and bimbo-under-the-skin, too. A fancy combination, he thought. . . .

"I promised myself I was going to nail you," the dick finally rumbled.

"So nail me, big man." The look she was giving him placed her a couple down from bimbo, on second thought. There were things that even bimbos wouldn't try.

He was still determined to send her to prison, but maybe he should show her that she wasn't any better than the hookers and sneak-thieves that she'd be bunking with for the next twenty years or so. That's why Nick cautiously lowered his gun and zipped down his fly with his free hand.

"On you knees, Mouthpiece," he said, "and maybe you'll get some kind of a break afterwards."

Or maybe not, he was thinking. . . .

#

Dewitt interrupted the flow just when it was getting good. "D.C., did you see this article in the paper?" he asked. "Another streetwalker was choked to death and dropped into the Potomac last night. How many does that make?"

"About twenty," I said, leaning away from the keyboard. "Some psycho must really have it in for party girls."

"I wonder where the junior senator from New York was around nine last night --?" he wondered out loud.

"You know, these hooker murders started right after Inauguration Day. I wonder if -- nah! It's got to be a coincidence."

Just then we heard a mutter on the other side of the door. "Ma'am, you just can't go barging in!" Sheila was saying.

At first I thought that Spielman was back for Round Two, but when the door swung open we saw a young black women in red spandex crowding Sheila backwards into our room.

"Step aside and let the lady in, Miss Coffin," I recommended. "We've got time enough for a little neighborhood outreach."

Sheila stepped aside gladly enough and the ruby plumed chickadee wobbled past her as if she wasn't used to high heels or else was totally smoked.

"Have a chair, Miss," I offered, never taking my eyes off her hemline, which was about as high as a hemline could go without becoming interesting. I couldn't wait to see her sit down. She had me so absorbed that I didn't even notice that Sheila had already exited.

The black girl looked around, pulled up a chair, and sat down. Damn! My desk was one of those high ones.

"Don't caaal me 'Miss,'" the chippy said. "I had to see you, Mistah Callahan. It's a mahdah of life and death!"

I blinked perplexedly at the nuances of her accent. I know the sound of black English; you can't help picking up a little of it in Government Town, but this girl talked an upper-crust Bostonian lingo.

"Where exactly are you from?" I asked.

She was breathing hard, like she'd just run in a Marathon. "This is vuhy -- embarrassing to explain," she began haltingly. "I'm not a really a girl."

Now I definitely had hard everything. "You're a female impersonator?" I asked dubiously.

"No! I'm actually -- Senator Theodore O'Malley!

Dewitt and I traded glances, then I looked back at the girl and said, "I think you've been breathing in some bad bindles, lady. I've met Senator O'Malley -- and believe me, you aren't him!"

"I am Ted O'Malley and I can prove it!" she insisted. At this juncture she leaned forward and put her hands on my desk, a gesture that I appreciated considerably, taking into account the plunge of her neckline. "Two yeuhs ago, I hired yuh to prove my opponent was cheating on his wife. Yuh returned a report that said he wasn't, but I lied to the press and my opponent got forty-eight hours of media pummeling before the Post published his denial along with youh butinski couhoboration. But you outsmuhted yourself, because having a sleazeball like J.D. Callahan on anybody's side is the kiss of death. His numbeuhs fell into the single digits and he dropped out of the race!"

That was old goods that I wasn't buying stale stuff. "It sounds like O'Malley's been shooting off his mouth around one of his party girls. You need a shrink, Lady, not a detective."

"Give me a chance to explain!"

"You've got just five minutes, Doll."

I tossed a look Dewitt's way, hoping that he'd contribute something, but he only shrugged.

"The truth is, we've been invaded by aliens from outuh space!" said the girl.

I let out a moan.

"They can switch minds with a peuhson if he has sex with them!" she added urgently.

Dewitt finally stirred. "I get it! You think you're O'Malley who's switched bodies with an alien. Well, you don't look much like an alien, Miss -- and I'm too polite to say what you do look like."

"That's because I wasn't the fiuhst peuhson the alien switched with! He'd already stolen the body of this girl. All the aliens I've seen have the bodies of Earth people!"

"And how did you end up jumping into the sack with an alien, uh -- Senator?" I asked.

"Somebody I trusted gaave me the number of an escort service," the chippy explained.

"Well, all I can say is that you must run with some bottom-feeding low-lives, Ma'am."

She raised her petulant chin. "If you can't trust the husband of a New York senator, who can you trust? Anyway, this girl -- this blaack girl -- met me and I escouhted her to a hotel that a lot of my colleagues in Congress use, one veuhy reputable -- and veuhy discrete."

"What happened then?" I asked, just to speed the silly story along to the point where I could call her nuts and throw her out.

She shivered, like she was remembering a bad trip, or else was reacting to the blast of the air conditioner. That spandex didn't cover much, after all -- God bless it!

At last she said, "W-When I woke up in the night, I was her."

She'd telegraphed the punch line to her story so I wasn't much surprised. "Yeah, I thought it had to be something like that. Tell us something about the aliens, ma'am, since you're the expert."

"They took me prisonuh," the Party Polly went on. "They had Earth bodies, but there was something not right about them --" Her voice trailed off.

"Why? Did their eyes glow?" I prompted skeptically.

"No, it was that they were all so randy. They -- did things to me -- and they enjoyed doing them!"

"Like what?" I asked, my professional interest rising.

"They bound me naked with my haands tied to the head of the bed. One of them was a gouhgeous redheaded girl. She stood there looking at me for a while, like she was getting tuuhned on, then slowly she reached out to touch me."

"Where did she touch you?" I asked, my mouth going dry.

"She told the otheuhs to leave, and then this alien woman took off all her clothes. Then she got down on her knees at the foot of the bed. . . ."

This case seemed to be more complicated than I thought. I decided to get all the facts before I called it. "Yeah, yeah?! What happened then?!"

"O'Malley" scowled. "It was like those despicable, degrading scenes you see in movies. You know what I mean!"

I nodded. "Yeah, Disney isn't what it used to be since Reisner took over. But you're going to have to stop beating around the bush -- no pun intended. What exactly happened?"

"She got me so excited that I was almost in teuhs. I hated it, but this body seemed to like it and need it! It was like the craving for liquor -- something I know about! Then two of the male aliens came back in and one of them said, 'Okay, O'Malley, the fun's over. Then the other one asked, "Are we going to dump her into the Potomac?"

I sat back. "That's cute, Cuddles. You even managed to work the streetwalker murder case into your little flying-saucer fantasy."

She stood up indignantly. "I'm telling the truth!"

"If you're capable of telling the truth, you can't be Senator O'Malley I said, a little joke to set her at ease.

I have to admit, she was a persistent one. "Then the other alien said, `Yeah, why not. How would you like to make the headlines one more time, Senator?' Then they dressed me this way and put me into the trunk of a cauh."

"A cauh?"

"An automobile! When we got to the piers, they stopped in front of a wauhehouse."

"A warehouse?"

"Yes!"

"What warehouse?" Dewitt asked.

"O'Malley" shifted his way. "A Rex Company Warehouse along the eastern riverfront," she said. "I think it must be one of their hideouts."

"How did you get away?" I asked.

"A squad car drove up and saw them dragging me along, and it stopped. The two police came out to ask what was going on."

"That doesn't sound like D.C. cops," I interrupted.

"That's what did happen! The aliens ran for covuh. I started yelling for help and the offisuhs picked me up, put I didn't dare tell them the truth."

"Of course not, Sweetheart," I nodded tolerantly. "You wanted to save that little treat just for us."

Her voice hardened. "The aliens said that they've taken over the bodies of a lot of people -- especially people in authority. What if the aliens already control the police -- the whole government even?! So I came to you."

Suddenly her face sank forward into her cupped hands and for the first time I started to feel sorry for her. Maybe she actually believed her own crazy story. I guess that's the reason why I said to Dewitt, "This lady's really scared of something, Martin. Why don't you go check out that warehouse?"

He fired off that old there-you-go-again glance. "Another freebie for a sob-sister?"

"So what's your problem?" I asked testily. "Have you got a high-stakes game of solitaire waiting for you at home? You'll put on an alderman if you don't stretch your legs once in a while, Martin."

He reluctantly stood up. "All right, but I think it's a waste of time and gas. You've always been a pushover for a panhandler, D.C. No wonder Sheila is the only one of us who ever takes home a paycheck."

I just glowered in silence. It wasn't charity that we paid Sheila first. The government doesn't care if an owner made squat; the employee always came first and we'd land in hot water if we ever missed a payroll.

Then I noticed him putting on that black leather jacket of his. "Hey, you aren't going out looking like that, are you?"

"Like what?"

"You forgot your hat," I reminded him.

He threw up his arms. "D.C., nobody wears those snap-brim antiques anymore."

I gave him my senior-partner a glim. "Detectives have to wear fedoras for the same reason that chimney sweeps still have to wear stovepipe hats. It's tradition and people respect tradition."

"I don't see them paying much for tradition and, anyway, any hat looks wrong with this jacket."

"Is it my fault that you come to work out of uniform? I know you could find a gray double-breasted suit at any Salvation Army store for five dollars or less. It's all to the good if it looks a little lumpy on you." To spare his feelings I decided not to add the observation that his blue jeans, jacket, and motorcycle boots would have looked better on a schoolyard dope pusher.

He waved away my advice. "D.C., whenever you can meet an honest payroll, I'll wear a ballerina outfit if you ask me to."

"I don't swing that way," I told him. "Thanks for warning me that you do."

After that nifty zinger the door clunked shut behind him and I was left to entertain "O'Malley" all alone. "Until my partner gets back," I began, "I think what you need is a good detox -- I mean, a good rest -- Miss. Can I take you home, or to a motel?"

I detected a tremble in her sigh. "I don't haave any money to rent a room, and if I went home I'd have to explain to my wife how I got this way. She can be a real witch! I was hoping yuh could spare me a loan."

"You sure do think like a politician, Doll, that's all I have to say! I'll take you to my flop instead. At least you can't steal me blind; everything I own has already been repossessed."

She stiffened with pique. "I'm not a thief! I'm a senator!"

"A half dozen of one, six of the other."

Then, all of a sudden, she started to shake.

"Say, don't take it so hard, lady. You'll be all right."

She sank down into her chair again. "It's not just that this whole business is so -- so horrifying. I feel so -- so --"

"Scared? That's understandable."

"I was going to say horny! Why would I need sex at a time like this? Am I going crazy?"

I eyed her carefully. The idea of taking her home with me sounded better and better.

"You're not crazy," I told her. "You're a normal red-blooded American girl with natural urges. I'm partly to blame. When a girl like you gets around a good-looking side of beef like me these things happen. What you need is a dark, quiet room where you can lay down, rest back, and spread your legs."

I got up at that point, stepped around the desk, opened the door, and yelled for Sheila.

She came over looking put-upon, as usual.

"Sheila," I said, "I'm going to find this lady a place to stay. I should be back before closing time." Our gal Friday returned me that endearing couldn't-care-less shrug.

Then the black girl said, "We should leave by the baaack way, Callahan, just in case I was followed. They're aliens, afteuh all."

"Right," I agreed, "and they come to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond the reach of mortal men -- or however that goes."

At that, I took my hat and flogger off the rack. The latter was too hot to wear this time of year, but a trench coat always looks damned good carried sportingly over the shoulder.

* * * *

Chapter 3
The General Narrative

Leigh Spielman swore under her breath while her computer's back-up tape ran. Someday, she told herself, she'd have an office in a building that people like those two bargain-basement snoops couldn't afford. Maybe it would be in Arlington, maybe in Falls Church, but where didn't matter. Anywhere outside this disgusting city had to be an improvement. What was the use of being a financial planner in a town where everyone was either broke or had a numbered account in the Cayman Islands paid for with Mainland-Chinese donations?

Suddenly the door clicked behind her and Leigh jumped, not expecting anyone. She swung about to see a red-blond young woman enter wearing a short, black, acetate-lycra dress and followed by two derelict-types in shabby old suits.

"Who are you?" Leigh asked suspiciously.

"Did a black streetwalker come into this building?" the woman demanded.

"I haven't seen anybody," Spielman replied impatiently. "Check with the people across the hall. They always have some low-life either coming in or going out."

The redhead glanced back at her companions. "She has an agreeable shape. I think one of you could use it."

"What are to talking about?" Leigh inquired, disguising a growing sense of disquietude. "I told you I didn't see your friend. You have no reason to loiter in this office!"

Leigh moved over to show them the door, but flashing hands suddenly grabbed her.

"What are you doing?!" Spielman shouted in fright, but a filthy palm clapped itself over her mouth.

"Throw her across the desk," the redhead directed her companions. "You two can flip to see who gets her."

#

Meanwhile, Sheila sat alone next door in Callahan's chair, trying to imagine herself as Cybill Shepherd in Moonlighting. How glorious it would be, she thought, to be the owner of anything at all. At the age of twenty she was still a secretary -- a job she disliked and considered insufferably beneath her dignity. What she would have given to be giving orders to a large staff of employees while they made shopping bags full of money for her to spend!

But success wouldn't come easy unless she married money, Sheila knew. What bothered her most was that her family was a respected one back in her home town. Her brothers and sisters were going places while her present job reminded her of that old job-training advertisement on TV, the one that carried a "don't let this happen to you" warning. In it, a young, inexperienced secretary-wannabe can't find employment except in a seedy auto garage that's run by a leering creep of a manager and a slobby greasemonkey. It had once been worth a laugh; now it looked like the story of her life.

Had she made a mistake? Could things have turned out differently? Should she have worked harder to be able to qualify for college? It scared her to think that she might have to mix with low-brow males until she got desperate enough to marry one of them. What a nightmare! A rash decision like that could lock her in at the bottom rung of social status forever. No, she dared not get involved with any good-looking down-and-out, such as Martin Dewitt or that guy down at the Subway sandwich place.

Just then Sheila heard someone entering the outside office and got up suddenly, not wanting Dewitt or Callahan to catch her sitting at the boss's desk and give her the horse laugh. Quickly, she crossed to the door and peered through the crack.

Three people were milling about on the other side, all of them grim-faced and vaguely sinister. One was the excitable businesswoman from next door, Leigh Spielman, but another was a young redhead in a black minidress and the third looked like the worst kind of tramp, one whom she could almost smell from where she stood.

Suddenly they started toward the door!

The tramp roughly pushed the portal inward, a rude act which sent Sheila stumbling backwards.

The redhead stepped out in front of the pack. "We're looking for a black girl dressed in a short red dress. Did she come in here?"

"Well, yes," Sheila began, too intimidated to dissemble. "But she went out about an hour ago with Mr. Callahan. He said something about finding her a place to stay."

Now Spielman butted in, the sourness of her expression even more pronounced than usual. "Where did he take her?"

"I-I don't know," stammered Sheila. "You'll have to ask D.C. when he comes back." Then she added, "He'll be returning any minute."

The derelict crowded the secretary back against Callahan's desk. She held her breath against her fear and his odor, while trying to send out passive body language signals to the effect that he didn't have to get violent.

"She knows something," said Leigh with a tight sneer. "She's holding out!"

"M-Ms Spielman?" Sheila began quiveringly, "what are you doing? I could understand if you brought the police or your lawyer by, but who are these people?"

The streetwalker edged up and pinched Sheila's chin between her fingers. "This one's pretty, too. Maybe you could use her, Erlech."

The tramp perked up, apparently liking the idea.

"What are you talking about --?" Sheila asked breathlessly, her heart beating wildly in her breast.

"I was getting tired of this body anyway," the down-and-out agreed without answering her question. "It's got fleas."

The redhead now assumed a voice of authority: "Maybe she really does know more than she's telling. But even if she isn't, she's the best way we have to get at this Callahan person. Make it happen fast, soldier; there's no telling when one of the dicks'll pop back in and we want you ready for him."

"Make what happen?" Sheila murmured apprehensively. "Ow!" she cried as the hobo grabbed her arms and forced her back on the cluttered desk top. . . .

* * * *

Chapter 4
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

During the drive to my digs at the Hotel Franco I kept wondering why any babe as well-endowed like the Lady in Red would fantasize being Ted O'Malley when she had Napoleon, Elvis Presley, and even Marilyn Monroe to choose from.

The way I saw it, she ought to have thanked her lucky stars that she wasn't Ted Fitzgerald O'Malley. It wasn't just Ted who was bad, his whole clan. The father, Sean, had been a union thug back in the 'Twenties who got rich selling hooch during Prohibition. That brought in enough money and influence to make him a powerful figure in New England's political machines. He strong-armed the unions for contributions to FDR, who paid him off handsomely, giving him the British ambassadorship during World War II. Sean's hard drinking and anti-British attitude embarrassed the administration constantly, but it was Britain, not Sean, that went into decline after the war ended. Once back home, O'Malley Senior worked Massachusetts politics for all they were worth and by the time the man's whiskey-tortured liver gave up and called it quits, both his sons had been elected to the Senate.

O'Malley's horse-faced daughters made banner headlines contracting bad, short-lived marriages with Old Money playboys and sleazy Hollywood hot-shots. The older O'Malley brother, Rob, got mixed up with organized crime and was assassinated during his run for President. They pinned the hit on some immigrant kid with no friends, no money, and no connections, but everybody knew that the Giancana mob had blipped Rob O'Malley. According to the word on the street, Rob hadn't delivered on the political goods that they'd bought and paid for. Probably, he'd just fallen into the habit of reneging on campaign promises like every other limousine Lefty, but, whichever way you cut it, Rob stood out as dishonest even among professional criminals. Ted, on the other hand, stuck to dirty politics-as-usual, avoided getting shot, and soon became the patron saint of the Red-Diaper Generation and a top-ranking American shill for the Evil Empire. During the Reagan years, the Nicaraguan junta of Dan Ortega became Ted's favorite charity.

To survive as a shamus in W.D.C. a man has to do political stuff, but I'd hit rock-bottom when I took a job from Ted O'Malley. He didn't like the way I tried to set things right after he lied about my report on his opposition and got me black-listed with his big-shot buddies. The other party, the Stupid Party we called it, never hires detectives, never tries anything sneaky to get ahead, so I was out in the cold.

The temperature was ninety by the time we reached Hotel Franco, but I was still out in the cold. Just to keep from being bored I'd been taking on freebie cases, like I was doing now.

I led the black chippie into the shabby lobby and let her cool her stiletto heels alone for a minute while I checked my mail. The Mystery Woman, I noticed, tried to stay out of sight around a corner. What a funny dame. It was almost as if that stone fox body of hers was something to be ashamed of. Watched her keep hitching her hemline down to cover her thighs, and then hiking it up again when she showed too much cleavage. I could have enjoyed the show all day, but I was on a mission of mercy and wouldn't have felt right about having too much fun.

"Nothing but bills and ads," I told her, stuffing the junk mail into my coat pocket.

"Can't we get out of heuh?" she asked with a shiver. "People auhe stauhing at me!" She wasn't looking at the general mix of Franco bums, but at a well-dressed man near the cigarette machine.

I recognized B.J. Waters in a flash, a two-bit player from the 'hood who ran a small string of pros downtown. His initials stood for Benjamin John, but he was better known around town as "Blackjack." He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the chocolate bunny in the red dress.

"Please, Callahan," she urged, "let's go up to youh room! Everybody down here thinks I'm a hookuh!"

I smiled mischievously. "If I take you up to my room they're going to be damned sure you're a hooker!" I reached into my pocket for my ring of twisters and pushed them into her palm. "Luckily for you I don't want to be away from the office longer than necessary. That's the key to my digs. I'll be back about six to tuck you in. Ciao!"

The spandex knockout accepted the keys with a look that told me I shouldn't hurry back. I was glad to be rid of her for a while, too. Be that as it may, I couldn't resist taking one last glim at her over my shoulder. What a classy chassy! I knew the pop tart couldn't be anything but trouble, but hey, trouble is my business.

Or is that danger. . . ?

* * * *

Chapter 5
The General Narrative, continued

The girl who insisted on calling herself O'Malley might not have liked Callahan much, but she missed him once he was out of sight. Giving her hem another nervous tug, the black female looked quickly about and then ran to the elevator. She though she was home clear when a dark hand stuck itself between the closing elevator doors and they whirred open to welcome its owner inside with her.

"Hello, little darlin,'" said Blackjack Waters, sidling in beside the girl while the doors hissed shut behind him. "I followed you in off the street."

Dismayed, O'Malley exclaimed, "You're one of the aliens?!"

B.J. looked puzzled. "I'm no alien, Love-Child. I'm a true-blue American hunk. I just had to warn you about this elevator. You can call me B.J., by the way."

"What auhe you talking about?"

"I mean, this lift is a hundred years old. You have to use it just the right way or it'll jam on you. Like, if you accidently push the two-button at the same time as the five-button, you'll get hung up between floors."

He obligingly demonstrated. The elevator, just as obligingly, shuddered to a halt.

O'Malley was almost thrown down by the resultant lurch, but B.J. caught her around the waist and drew her up close.

"What did you do that for, you idiot?!" she demanded, her eyes bright with fury.

"Don't worry, Baby, I know how to start it again. And even if I didn't, the custodian'll turn it on again from the basement -- when and if he's sober enough to notice it's stuck. But we've got us a few minutes to talk turkey, Precious." He took another hard, appreciative look at her. "Oooooh. You are just so fine. If I've never seen you on the street, it must be because you're new in the 'hood."

"What's it to you?" O'Malley challenged, too angry to remember that she was a hundred-and-fifteen-pound weakling instead of a fat slob closer to two-hundred and fifty.

"Hey, girl, I know Callahan; he's a good guy, but this is my street and no birdie works it less'n she beats her feet for ol' B.J. Who's your sweet man, Buttercup? I'm going to have to waste him for lettin' you cross the line."

"I don't have a sweet man! What do yeuh think I am?"

"Got no sweet man, Ruby Lips? That's perfect, 'cause you've just found yourself one. You can just keep on doing what you've been doing, except that yours truly is going to be your business manager from now on."

Infuriated, O'Malley gripped the pimp's lapels and shook him hard -- or tried to. In fact, she could hardly jiggle his mass of muscles.

"Whew! You need a bath," B.J. said with a sniff. "We'll take one together back at my pad."

The girl flung herself away from him. "Auhe you crazy? I'm not going anywhere with yeuh!"

"And I say you are, Sweet Cheeks" he assured her teasingly, backing her against the wall just by edging closer. He stood over her, projecting charisma, then said, "Lift your lips, honey, 'cause you is going to get a kiss to remember."

The glare she flashed was in equal parts fear and revulsion. "Like hell -- mmummph!" she began, but her rebuke had been smothered by his mouth on her lips. In her initial shock O'Malley dropped Callahan's keys underfoot.

"You're sweeter than candy," the pimp said breathily, letting her out of his close embrace. He reached out to touch her face, but she contemptuously swatted his hand away.

"You're a fighter, I'll give you that," he said. "A gal like you can last a long time on the mean street. Come on, kiss me again, Sweet Lips. You give a man the habit faster than a snootful of coke."

Incited to violence, she popped a right hook into his prominent cheekbone, but it hurt her knuckles more than it hurt his face.

The tall man scowled as he rubbed his lightly-bruised cheek. "All right, Baby, two can play those kinds of games." He grabbed her arm, swung her around, and pressed her against the wood paneling of the elevator. Then, too swiftly for her to realize what he was doing, he took a cord from his pocket and bound her wrists behind her back.

He then stood back to let her spin about like a cornered wildcat. Blackjack appreciated the way that her arm position forced her breasts forward until they almost popped out of her dress.

"You've got everything, baby mio. What should I sample first?" he teased lightly.

"Let me go! This is against the law!"

B.J. grinned. "Not even the mayor himself wouldn't interfere with a man and his wife."

"I won't marry you!" O'Malley declared.

"We're already married, 'cause I say so. I've got two other wives and I'm going to be the sweet man to all three of you. Ever have a wife-in-law before, Sugar?"

"You don't undeuhstand!" O'Malley babbled, desperation replacing indignation. "I'm not a hookeuh!" I only put on this dress because -- because I lost a bet! I'm a lawyuh!"

B.J. smiled "That's perfect! Every lawyer is a ho at heart." His gaze burned hotly on her cleavage. "Oooh, I do like your doodles. Gotta see more of 'em."

Before she had time to blink, B.J. had tugged her dress down, laying bare her jiggly charms. The pimp cupped a breast in each hand and kneaded them like silly putty. O'Malley gave a cry and tore at her bindings, but the mackman's only response was to brand her bouncing boobies with searing kisses. He felt her nipples hardening under his smooching lips and encouraged them to do so with the lick of his tongue.

"Oh, God!" O'Malley bleated as the strength went out her. She slide down along the wall and bumped her fanny to the floor. B.J. shifted deftly and the next things she knew his hand was between her widely-spread legs. "Uhh-uhh!" O'Malley aspirated in stupefying shock.

Blackjack now realized, if he hadn't before, how lucky he had been to spot this gal before another player snatched her up. The babe had ginger in her, but also fire in her belly. A man-hunger like the one she had on display was worth her weight in dollar signs.

B.J. decided to find out how quickly he could bring her to surrender. He touched her bikini briefs and found them wet with warm secretions. The pimp gleefully fondled O'Malley through the fabric of her panties, running his fingertips up and down the divide of her love canal, torturing it with gentle friction. After a moment of sensuous torment, she gave a lurch that told him that he was playing with a finely-tuned instrument and looked forward to the beautiful music they would make together.

"Sweet Jesus! Don't!" O'Malley was babbling, tears streaming over her cheeks.

"No, Pussy, I'm not stoppin,'" Blackjack told her. "I know a bad girl when I meet one, and I'm goin' to give you everything you can take. Maybe you'll like it better without your panties in the way."

"No!" she cried, fighting to escape, but without her hands to help couldn't get traction enough to rise and, anyway, he had her pinned in the corner. Suddenly she felt his fingers hooking the elastic of her panties, felt the garment slip down to her calves.

"Oh, Lady-dee-o," B.J. murmured admiringly, "I can't wait to get you home and get you completely naked. You and me are going to love the night away!"

O'Malley's breath was coming in a staccato of moans. Her teeth gritted as he touched an impudent finger to what was fine fur, her eyes closed as she tried not to feel the waves of pleasure which his manipulations were evoking. "You're lovin' it, Pussy Cat," Blackjack crooned softly, "I know you are. You can't keep any secret from your sweet man."

O'Malley was loving it, in fact; that was what so overwhelmed her, that was what was breaking her. Tears ran down her cheeks and her body beaded with a feverish sweat that suffused her hair and scanty garments with a musky reek. The longer the pimp kept up it up, the more O'Malley needed him to achieve the release her body craved.

The mackman, slowly and deliberately, agitated his finger in its close, dewy envelope until O'Malley begged, "Stop!" But B.J. didn't feel like stopping; he wanted to demolish her coyness, her snappy pride. For a ho she was showing a lot of attitude, he decided. She was the kind that players like him called "uppity." Some women tamed easily, but the uppity ones had to be broken with skill and care. He had to strip that attitude, had to condition her body to yield at the very first touch of pleasure. To achieve that end, he switched his attack from her outer gear to her even more sensitive love button that lurked within.

The assault on her clitoris was too much for O'Malley and she went wild, yelling, straining at her binding, squirming, wriggling. Regardless, Blackjack blithely went on with the "love lesson." Agilely he finger-frigged her, trying to force her over the edge. He'd already decided that there was something strange about her. Maybe she was really a straight broad dressed up like a ho for some dumb reason, but he wanted her on his string and vowed that from now on she'd wear clothes like that every day. After a couple weeks with him she'd be ho from her toenails up to her hair roots. He'd have her on the street and she'd love him for having put her there.

Just then the pimp detected the girl's spasms, the involuntary thrusting of her pelvis. He knew this for the signal that her control was giving out. Excited, he kept at her, permitting her no respite, wanting her to find out that she wasn't master of her own body, that he was. And when a man got to be the master of a woman's sexuality, she would love him with a mad, unreasoning passion.

Suddenly the excitement became too great for any human body to constrain and O'Malley screamed as an irrepressible orgasm of staggering power swept through her beautiful young body in powerful rolling waves of pleasure.

B.J. wouldn't quit; he forced her to come for all she was worth, and then forced her to come again, until she was utterly spent. She could only lay there dazed, her eyes half-closed and helpless. This was the moment that the pimp had been waiting for. She would continue passive for a while -- and her passivity would make it easier for him to get her home for love-lesson number two.

With a heavy sigh, Blackjack stood up and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. The minx was still panting at his feet and he felt like a jungle king standing over a captured woman. Any minute now, he knew, the elevator might start again and the doors would open. No one would have the nerve to say "Boo" to a strong and confident man in the company of a common ho, but it would be better to get her presentable-looking and then quietly usher her outside to his car.

The pimp picked up the key his new girl had dropped, along with her shoes and panties. The shoes he tossed into her lap, but the panties he stuffed into his coat pocket. Inexperienced girls, and that was what she was, if he read her right, hated being bare-bottomed in a short dress. If she was worrying about how to walk and sit in public, she wouldn't be so liable to run away or make a scene. In fact, she would probably be glad to be whisked away to some place private as soon as possible.

B.J. untied O'Malley's hands and lifted her to her feet, hitching her dress down so that it didn't show anything illegal. "Straighten yourself up, Woman," he ordered, "and put on your shoes. You and me are going places."

O'Malley, still dizzy from having experienced her first female orgasm, let the black man take her hand without pulling away. As the elevator car began to move again, he took stock and decided that she looked presentable enough. An instant later, the doors whooshed open to the lobby.

"You'd better be careful how you walk, Chickadee," he cautioned, "if you don't want these bums to see paradise." Then the flamboyant player wrapped a controlling arm around her, just in case she got it into her head to make a break for it. "Don't worry about the panties; once we get you home you'll be dressed up real fine."

B.J. ushered her over to the check-out desk and tossed Callahan's key in front of the grizzle-bearded clerk, telling him, "Inform Mr. Callahan that the lady enjoyed his hospitality but she's movin' on up. Bye, now."

Drawn stumblingly along behind him, O'Malley still felt too swept away to speak. The man exuded a strange kind of power that overwhelmed and suffocated anyone he focused it upon -- the same effect that Lyndon Johnson had had upon people. Blackjack had warned his captive to be quiet and something told the black girl that she'd better listen. Also, O'Malley thought she'd rather die than become a center of attention in a crowded room without her briefs on.

A few seconds later, the two of them were crossing the hot pavement of the hotel parking lot to Blackjack's white sports car. He lifted the spandex-clad girl into the bucket seat and the heat of the leather burned her bare flesh enough to make her utter a little cry of pain.

B.J. sprang into the driver's seat and reached out to place his hand on her sweat-dampened thigh, ostensibly to reassure her, but actually to exert a claim, the ascendancy of his will over hers. Something primeval was thus communicated between them -- him the hunter and she the female being conducted to his cave. O'Malley's feverish eyes danced around the parking lot, searching for something without knowing what, and again got the idea to shout for a cop. Yet, for no reason she could understand, she couldn't raise her voice above a whisper, not with those domineering eyes fixed on her.

In the next moment the car pealed out the driveway and into the zooming traffic. . . .

* * * * *

Chapter 6
Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

By the time I got back to my office I was feeling like a sap. How could I have let the Mystery Woman go without even copping a feel? For an omission like that I could lose my license! Well, not exactly, but in my heart of hearts I could have lost my license. But in a way I wasn't sorry; the dame had to be crazy, and crazy people make me nervous.

When I got back the front office was empty. "Sheila?! You still here?!" I yelled.

Someone stirred behind the inner door; mystery solved, I thought with a chuckle. Sheila always liked to sit at my desk and pretend that she was a big-wig. I wanted to catch her and give her the horse laugh, but when I opened the door I could only stop and stare. Sheila was there all right -- only she wasn't sitting behind the desk. She was lying back on it barefooted, her blouse half-open and her skirt unbuttoned to show about a mile of thigh.

That made me wonder, but she didn't look like a naughty kid caught in the act. Instead she flashed a Colgate smile, but it reminded me of the grin that Peter Pan used to get from the crocodile. Needless to say, I was put on my guard.

"I don't know who you were expecting, Sweetheart," I said with a strained chuckle," but it's only me." I stepped around behind the desk and sat down.

Sheila reached out, grasped my tie, and pulled my face up close to hers. "You've kept me waiting, bad boy!" she said.

I took a quick look-see around, trying to spot the Candid Camera, then tugged my tie out of her biscuit hook. "What's this about, Sheila?" I asked dry-mouthed.

"What do you think this is about, D.C.? You hired me because you liked my body. Did you know that I only took this job because I liked your body. I've been hoping for six months that you'd finally put the move on me, but you never did. I can't take anymore, D.C."

I swallowed hard. "I don't like to be a wet blanket, Doll, but if that's how you feel, you're body language needs some work. You've sort of given the impression that you were hoping I'd step in front of a tractor-trailer going sixty."

Her eyes seemed to get bigger and go tiger. "I always loved the way you talk. You're so tough and you're so strong, D.C., you're every woman's dream of a real man. You wouldn't believe the fantasies I've had about you!"

I eyed her with renewed curiosity. "Yeah? What were they like?"

Since this situash might have been the build-up to some sort of gag, I wasn't going to say anything that would make me blush if it got played back in court.

"Is there something I could do for you, Handsome? I'd do just about anything."

"I've been hoping to hear you say that," I said with a hard swallow, "because there's a lot of filing you've never gotten around to."

She gripped my lapels in tight, sweaty little fists. "How can you talk about filing at a time like this, D.C.?"

"It isn't easy, but I'm a grownup." With her breathing into my face, keeping hands-off was deuced hard. "I don't know what's gotten into you, Poundcake, but I'm not sure that this is the time or place for beaver fever."

"I'm sure," she said, bringing her rubies up so close to my nose that I could smell the minty-freshness on her breath.

"You wouldn't mind putting that in writing, would you?" I asked. "Just in case you feel like suing me later on."

She let my suit go and leaned away. "You don't believe me. I'll just have to show you how serious I am."

"Well, okay," I shrugged. "I'm from Missouri." I'd been keeping tab and I didn't think that I had so far said or done anything compromising in a court of law.

But Sheila didn't intend to make things easy. She started taking off her clothes and all of a sudden I wasn't scared anymore. We'd been slammed by the worst economy in fifty-eight years and it had made me lawsuit-proof. I stood up and bent forward to catch her puckered kiss on my chops; it tasted good. My hand slipped behind her back and got tingly when it touched bare flesh.

She exhaled a satisfied little murmur and her fingers went to my tie again, this time to unknot it and toss it aside. Next she pounced on my shirt buttons and they offered no resistance. I took hold of her shoulders and kissed her neck; the taste of Sheila's reminded me of sweet cream. I'd grown about as tall as Mount Everest from touching and smelling her and so I started thinking, "Use it or lose it." So I loosened my belt, kicked off my trousers and I did the former. Sheila was hotter than a Mexican volcano and made the earth move about the same way. I guess I was doing pretty well by her, too, since it was only two minutes before she went up like the Oklahoma Federal Building.

Suddenly I felt like I was making love to a 120-volt lamp socket. I'm not kidding! All of a sudden it wasn't love-making anymore; it was electrocution!

That's when the lights went out.

#

My shoulders aching as if I'd been sleeping all night on bare boards I finally came out of it. Then I remembered where I was, and that I really had been sleeping on bare boards.

My vision was still all wool and I couldn't see anything except a blur. As far as sound went, there wasn't much else than a ringing in my ears. As I lay back scraping my scattered wits together, I sort of remembered that I'd been having a great time with Sheila. What had gone wrong? I wasn't so old that a horizontal tango should floor me. I felt damned strange, light but as weak as a kitten. Had the mink slipped me a mickey? No, impossible; I couldn't remember eating or drinking a thing since stepping into the office.

Inch by inch I recovered enough motor control to brace my elbows on the desk top and lift my head. The effort I'd made brought on another wave of dizziness which forced me down again. Just then I started to hear voices.

Hands grabbed me, not Sheila's dainty little ones, but big hard steak-grabbers that turned me over and raised me up. I opened my dim lamps to stare into an ugly face that somehow looked familiar.

"What a mug!" I yammered, my voice a slurred whisper. "Don't I know you, Bud?"

I looked again. I sure as hell did know that smarmy puss! The guy had been hanging around my bathroom a lot. It was my own face, only I was looking at it from the outside! And next to the guy wearing it was Leigh Spielman. That didn't figure.

"Spielman? What's the deal --?" I mumbled, but clammed up again when my voice came out all wrong -- thin and high-pitched. "Hrummp, hrummp," I grunted, trying to clear my throat.

All these shocks taken together brought me around fast. Without really intending to, I happened to look down at my legs. They were great legs, I have to admit, but they weren't mine! At the end of each was a black, high-heeled shoe. Even stranger, it I was looking at my footgear over the tops of a couple of green-topped mountains. I tried to push these glories of Nature out of the way, but although they gave,they sprang right back.

Ow! Not so rough, Callahan!

Still woozy, I took another look at myself. I had on a short green dress that didn't cover much more than a dollar bill would have! I touched my head, the one at the one on top of my shoulders, I mean, not the one glomming down at me like a Halloween spook floating in mid-air. My cranium didn't feel right to me -- especially the hair; I'd have to have slept as long as Rip Van Winkle to grow thatch like that overnight.

Leigh Spielman leaned over me. "How are you doing, Mr. Callahan?" she asked. "Or should I say, 'Miss Coffin'?"

Maybe I'm slow at the starting gate, but I can win a race now and then. Holy Shit! I muttered, finally realizing what had happened. It was just like what that black girl had said! She really must have been O'Malley! Her story was true and I'd been switched now, too. But whose body had I been switched into? Had we even been introduced? I didn't know anybody to dressed like I was dressed, although many times in the past I'd wished that I had.

Hold on! Leigh had just called me "Miss Coffin" and I remembered now how O'Malley had said that the aliens had switched him while having sex with one of them. She'd become the same sugar-wooga that she'd -- he'd -- been bonking! That meant --

My God!

Had Sheila been an alien? Where is the Immigration Service when you really need them?! When Sheila was giving me her body, was she really giving me her body? Was I her? Her? Me a her? No, I didn't like that idea!

"Sheila? I'm Sheila!? What is this?" I lurched up again, supported by my elbows. "Cut it out! Bring back my bonny -- my body -- to me!"

Just then I saw a second woman, a redhead almost-wearing a little black dress. She was reaching out toward my face, but not in any friendly sort of way. I batted her hand away and she flashed a sneery kind of grin, like a Cheshire cat thinking evil thoughts. "Can't accommodate you, Callahan," she said. "We've got plans for you."

"W-What plans?" I muttered, looking between those three good-looking faces.

The minidressed knockout decided to cue me in. "We traced Senator O'Malley to your office. We had to find out where you'd hidden her, and so we switched bodies with Sheila to tap her memories. She didn't know anything, and so that forced us to switch her with you."

"So that's it," I growled indignantly. "Well, you won't get anything out of me. I wouldn't double-cross a client, not even a low-life like O'Malley!!"

The redhead sneered again. "You don't have to tell us anything, Callahan. We already have the information we need. Like I've said, when we switch, we get all our victims' memories."

I winced. "All of them?"

What a gruesome thought! There were things I wouldn't want my own brother to find out about me, much less have them become the gossip of alien invaders from outer space.

"What a rip-off!" I complained. "I don't get anything from you except this bimbo outfit. That doesn't seem fair."

The copper-topped babe shook her gorgeous head. "It's good policy for kidnapping. People don't get involved when they see a streetwalker being roughed up. But you're wrong; you've actually gotten something very important from us."

"What?"

"Our sex-drive. Or actually, half of it."

"Only half?" I echoed, slightly relieved. To tell the God's truth, the less pollution I got from these jay birds the better.

"Yes, but in your case it's the female half. Every member of our species carries the sex-drives of both genders.

I stared wide-eyed. "Female sex-drive? No way! You're putting me on! I feel perfectly normal!"

"Consider yourself lucky, compared to your secretary, at least."

"What do you mean? Where's the real Sheila?" I demanded.

"We switched her into the body of a skid-row wino and then bashed her head in with a brick. We use tramps and derelicts to store our mental essences between assignments. No one asks questions if one of their sort turns up dead when their bodies are no longer needed."

A shudder ran through me. "You killed Spielman, too?"

"Of course. The best way to trap a powerful man is by using the body of a beautiful woman as a lure."

"You bastards!" I yelled.

I really was mad. I hate it whenever a fox gets snuffed. Psychos and maniac space-invaders ought to lay off, at least until the crow's feet come.

"Save your sympathy, Callahan," Red warned me, "you'll need it for yourself."

Another light went on inside my reeling noggin. "Say, you're the wackos behind all those the streetwalker murders!"

"Yes," the redhead nodded. 'There's been even more derelict murders, but the press never makes a big deal about any of those."

"What's it all about?" I asked, feeling sick. "If you're not just aping Jack the Ripper, what exactly are you after?"

"We use beauty and sex to infiltrate your halls of power. If one of the bodies we use draws the attention of the police, our agent transfers out of it and we dispose of it."

"How do you sleep at night?" I asked.

She shrugged. "It's all in a day's work. On our home world we were lowly criminals banished into space and we swore to locate a new world for a home."

"So you found Earth," I surmised. "But why all the rough stuff? Why not just apply for a green card?"

Red tossed her head. "We don't want to be mere citizens, but rulers! Our race is driven by all the same motives that yours is -- a craving for wealth, power, and sex -- only more so."

Her words gave me a creepy feeing. "Say -- have you taken over Hollywood, too?"

She snorted derisively. "No. Your people only have yourselves to blame for Hollywood."

Little by little, I was getting the big picture.

"If you've been stealing politicians' bodies and running for office yourselves, that's got to be the reason why the choices on the ballot have been so lousy lately!"

"You don't know what lousy is yet. The two bums we offed are out back in the dumpster and we've planted evidence to link you to their deaths. You'll get the blame and your good name will be dragged through the mud."

I sat bolt upright. "Wait a minute, you creeps! I've worked hard on my rep!"

They grabbed me, rolled me over on my cushions, and clicked a pair of my own nippers on my wrists behind my back.

Whatever they were up to, this was definitely no way to treat a lady!

* * * *

Chapter 7
The General Narrative, continued

Blackjack half-led, half-dragged, O'Malley from the parking basement into the elevator and up into his flat. "This is gonna be your home from now on, gal, so don't you be giving me any trouble," he told her as he set the special lock on his door. This wasn't the first time that a girl had been asked to stay longer than she may have wanted to, and good locks made for good guests.

O'Malley tumbled backwards over a beanbag chair and bumped the carpet with a startled cry but no real pain. Lying on her back, she got the impression of a big room full of expensive but ill-assorted furniture.

Responding to the noise, two others came scurrying into view. The one in blue was short, about O'Malley's own stature, and honey-blond; the other, wearing pink, was had a fashion model's physique o go along with a subtle Latin coloration.

"Gina, Evelyn, my sweets," B.J. addressed them, "this is your new wife-in-law --" He only now realized that he didn't know the black's name. "What do they call you, Love Toy?"

"Go to hell!" came O'Malley's sputtering reply.

"Okay, have it your way," Blackjack shrugged. "From now on your street name is going to be 'Ginger Spice.' Like it?"

Ginger Spice -- yelled as she scrabbled to her knees: "I'll Ginjuh Spice yuh, yuh prick!"

"She's got spice, that's for sure," the Latina remarked, her smile tight and unsympathetic.

"But she's pretty, B.J.," Gina volunteered, a little worried that the leggy black girl would become a new rival.

Evelyn sighed and shook her head. "You always like them sassy, don't you, Blackjack? I can guess how you're going to be spending this weekend, but don't get too excited. Remember what the doctors said about your ticker."

Blackjack's brows creased. "If'n I have to cut back on living well I might as well be composted! Say now, gals, Ginger and me have some man-to-woman negotiating to do. Why aren't you two out on the street where the money is?!"

Evelyn's eyes flashed, but the heat lightning quickly subsided. She only shrugged and said, "We were just going, B.J."

He unlocked the door and held it open for them. "Well, move your asses!"

The two young women picked up their purses and whatever else they needed and then the one followed the other out into the hall. Blackjack then reset the lock as Ginger looked on.

"Tonight we'll get acquainted," he promised her.

Ginger Spice O'Malley clambered to her bare feet, both intimidated and overwrought. "You caan't keep me heuh! What about my Civil Rights?!"

"Civil what?" B.J. asked mockingly as he sauntered to the bar to pour something decanter into a pair of glasses, one of which he offered one to the Ginger. "Drink up, girlie. It'll calm you down and pick you up."

If there was one thing that Ted O'Malley liked it was liquor. The senator had liked it so much that sometimes even a friendly press reported it. The Conservative media, what there was of it, had for years made a big deal of his drunken antics and his molestation of women. Despite all his faults, The Washington Post still loved him. They new they had to depend on people like him to stop any new tax cut or election reform.

Ginger gulped down the port in three swallows; it calmed her nerves somewhat, but it unfortunately relaxed her inhibitions and re-aroused the sexual craving that had been suppressed for a while.

Think O'Malley, think, she rebuked herself. What were her options in this situation? She couldn't beat him in a fight, didn't have a cent to bribe him with. And if she did get free, what then? She couldn't imagine starting a new life in such a body. Ginger had no connections, no access into the halls of power which would make life worth living. Her head whirled, partly from the strong drink, but mostly from the imponderables of her fate.

"Feeling better now," Blackjack asked with insincere solicitude.

"I'm hungry!" the girl informed him in the manner of an ill-mannered child. But she really was famished; who knew when this particular body had eaten? Until now it she'd been too worked up to register hunger, but she was growing weak and faint.

"We'll chow down soon," the pimp promised her. "But around here a gal has to earn her supper."

She glared indignantly. "What are yuh talking about?"

"You need a shower, and I need one, too. As they say, save water, shower with a honey."

"Taake a flying leap!"

"Baby, you do try a patient man," B.J. opined, his voice hardening. "No more shit! You've got to learn respect. I give the orders and you obey them! Doesn't the Good Book say, 'love, honor, and obey?!'"

"No it doesn't, you buffoon. And I maake my own rules." The black girl, emboldened by alcohol stood with her hands braced on her hips, looking so sexy that B.J. had to restrain himself from grabbing her right then and there.

"Not anymore! In my pad you do what you're told. Now, I want to see you get naked and then we'll take that shower."

She backed away and lifted the empty glass to threaten him with.

"If'n you break that glass and I'll burn your ass!"

Ginger impulsively threw the vessel directly at his head right then and there. B.J. dodged the missile agilely and sprang toward her, vengeance in his heart. The girl avoided the man's first grab and dodged about the room. Her host pursued and she toppled furniture in his way to trip him up, but the destruction only made him the madder. Finally the black girl made a dash for the exit and tugged the knob wildly but vainly.

"Yiii!" she cried as his strong arms crushed the breath out of her.

The muscular man dragged his unwilling prey, kicking and clawing, into his bedroom and there threw her across the comforter. Swiftly, he pinned her shoulders to the silky fabric, straddled her, then pulled her dress top down to her navel.

"You bastard!" Ginger yowled, but Blackjack shifted position again and kept tugging until he could sweep the light fabric off over her feet. At last he stood back to appreciate the bosomy girl, who was naked except for her stockings.

"You are just incredible," Ginger heard him say while he stripped off her garters and nylons. "You make those other two look like alley cats."

Blackjack quickly doffed his jacket and settled himself beside his unwilling guest, whose hands had covered her breasts, thus spoil his view of them.

He seized her wrists. "Chill out, Baby Doll." His tone was both excited and strained. "If'n you won't be friendly, I'll give you that ass-burning I promised."

"All r-right, all r-right," Ginger stammered and tried to smile. "I'll be good. Just be nice to me."

He regarded her closely. If she had started to ask for favors instead of making demands, he thought he might at last be getting through to her.

"Oh, I'll be nice," he promised. "There's no sweet man sweeter than old B.J." He let go of her arms, curious to see if she was giving up the fight or was just shucking him.

The second he released her, Ginger sprang to seize the brass lamp on the bed stand. She swung it viciously, but Blackjack saved his head, receiving just a bruise on the thigh. His temper flaring, the pimp shoved her down again threw his weight upon her. Then, holding her pinned, he pressed his lips so close to her that they almost touched. "You shouldn't have done that," he said with a calm sincerity more ominously threatening than even a shout.

She strained against his hold in desperation. "Go to hell! I'm no whore!"

"If'n you're no whore now, a ho is exactly what you're gonna be, Ginger Baby," he said, breathless with anticipation. "It's time an uppity gal like you learned what bein' a ho's all about."

He changed position and dragged her across his lap. Controlling her by twisting her right arm behind her back, he took a large metal hairbrush from the nightstand.

"You won't be sittin' down for a while, Sweet Cheeks, but you'll be more respectful once your ass stops burnin'!" He lifted the flat of the brush high and struck the flat side against her flesh with force.

"Yeow!" O'Malley cried. "Don't! This is assault! I'll get even!"

"What you're gonna get is some manners," he said and prepared to strike again.

Whack!

Ginger hollered, but had learned the folly of making threats.

Blackjack noted this with satisfaction and begin O'Malley's spanking in earnest.

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Ginger's backside sprang about and she yelled incoherently. Enjoying himself, B.J. disregarded the girl's shrieks and, with cruel deliberation, aimed sometimes at one hemisphere and sometimes at the other. Her loudest shrieks always came when he struck across her bottom across both hams at the same time, and so that was how he hit her most often.

This girl was long-overdue for a hiding, the pimp told himself. He didn't care how much she yelled; the walls were sound-proof. Alas, all too soon, Ginger's breath began to fail and, nearing exhaustion, her buttocks ceased to leap high. At last, when the girl's vocal protests had degenerated into inarticulate little ejaculations, there remained but little pleasure to be had in continuing. So, reluctantly, B.J. ceased.

Ginger lay moaning across his lap, slowly getting her breath back. Her face was pressed to the comforter, her nose ran, her lips were bubbling with spittle, and her cheeks were wet with tears. Blackjack rolled the soon-to-be streetwalker to the floor and then stood up to unzip his pants. "Get up, Love Blossom," he instructed her. "It's time for that shower I promised you. And B.J. always keeps his promises."

* * * *

Chapter 8
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

I'd always wanted to go out in style, and so found it humiliating to be riding my last mile in the back seat of a Ford Taurus, but them's the breaks. At least the rush-hour traffic was making progress slow. A fourth alien was acting as driver; he was another one of those down-and-out slum guys. The Leigh-alien sat in the front seat beside him, while their other two buddies pinned me in the back seat.

Know thy enemy, I always say. To feel the creeps out I tried some bluff and bluster. "You guys are toast!" I sneered. "When the feds find out what you're up to, the president is going to treat you like he does Saddam Hussein!"

"So we'll have to keep a low profile for a while," my proxy said indifferently. "But our guys in Congress are fighting the tax cut, and without it we'll have the bad economy as a campaign issue in 2004."

"That's disgusting! Who runs your operation anyway? Fearless Leader?"

"Huhh!" Red snorted. "Our leaders happen to be the most brilliant minds in the galaxy. We call them the Committee."

That made me feel a lot better. I might buy it, but if this invasion was being run by committee, it didn't stand a chance in the long haul.

"We lost the U.S.A, but some of the world's most powerful leaders have been replaced by our agents," she added.

I sat up, wide-awake. "I read Black Camelot last year. Was Kennedy an alien, too?"

"You can't blame that one on us," the mug with my mug said with a contemptuous laugh.

I rested glumly back.

"What's the matter, Callahan? Are you starting to feel sexy?" my ringer observed with a snigger. "It can get pretty bad." How bad it could be I found out right away, when he planted his gabby hand just above my knee and started working it up toward Jersey City.

"Cut that out!" I snapped irritably. "I'm not that kind of girl!"

"You are that kind of girl; you just don't know it yet," he said, grinning evilly.

"And here's something you don't know, Curly Joe," I retorted, "your lingo, just like everything else about you, is a bad imitation of the real thing! You can snatch my body, but you come off like a donkey every time you open your trap!"

"Our impostures are perfect. You're only hearing what you sound like to others," the guy in the trench coat said.

That was a horrible thought, but I consoled myself with the thought that these bad apples didn't have much credibility. The best thing I could do was to stall. "If you really want to enlighten me," I suggested, "you ought to keep me around for a while."

A Satanic smile overspread Red's love-bow lips. "We actually don't intend to kill you, Callahan, at least not immediately. You'll just wish you were dead."

I didn't know if that was a good thing or not. If hanging in there meant spending days or weeks with four wrong numbers like them, I wasn't sure that the snuff treatment wasn't preferable. "You told O'Malley that you were going to kill her -- him," I objected.

"We always kill our marks," the Callahan said, "but not immediately. We were just putting O'Malley on to see how scared she could get."

"I guess she got pretty scared," I said. "Did you have to clean the seat covers afterwards?"

For some reason my toilet humor started them all yucking. Usually I like people who enjoy their work, but not this pack of hyenas.

Just then I glimmed a rippling glare between a couple buildings which told me that we were closing in on the Potomac River. Were these strong-arm goons going to strangle me and dump my body -- Sheila's body -- after all? The derelict turned into a small parking lot and drove out of sight behind a padlocked commercial building.

"End of the road, bimbo," the driver said to his rear-view mirror, but I got the idea that he was actually talking to me.

#

As they held the door open for me, I keyed myself up to make a break for it, but as soon as my spike heels touched pavement it was all I could do to keep from falling on my prat. I decided to act like I was even worse off than I really was to put my escort off-guard. When the Callahan reached out to steady me, I kicked him in the crotch and kicked off those damned heels. Before the others could grab me, I made like Stratosphere at the Kentucky Derby!

I'd also started yelling at the top of my lungs: "Help! Anybody! Murder!"

While murder may or may not have been an immediate possibility, I thought it was more likely to bring help than a cry of "sex change" would.

Bruising my feet on the brick pavement, I tossed a look-see over my bare shoulder and saw that the redhead-alien rapidly gaining on me and the others not far behind her. What amazed me was that Red was running in high-heeled shoe. I guess a person can get used to almost anything.

"Let go of that woman, you creeps!" someone yelled out of nowhere. I thought the shout had come from a dark alley-mouth nearby, but with the sun bouncing off the glass windows on either side I couldn't see anyone.

"Look out!" I shouted. "They're dangerous! Shoot them officers! Shoot!"

It was a tin-plated bluff, but I was remembering the way that these same bad guys had turned tail when the law showed up in O'Malley's story. I guess they must have thought that I could see who was coming better than they could, because the aliens stopped chasing me and hot-footed it back to their car. It only took them about five seconds to gun it back into the traffic flow. I was saved! But by whom?

My stentorian rescuer now sprinted out of the shadows and rushed to the driveway just in time to see the alien's exhaust dissipating around a corner. To my surprise the buy really was packing heat. I could hardly believe it! The cavalry turned out to be my own partner, Martin Dewitt!

He turned back and bustled up right in front of me. "Are you all right, Miss --?" he began.

Miss? Of course! Martin wouldn't know me from Adam. I mean, he wouldn't know me from Sheila. My head spun. What could I say? The terrible thing that had happened to me wasn't something I'd want to talk about, not even with my best friend. If he knew I'd turned into a girl how could he ever respect me? No, it was better to pretend to be Sheila for now, until I could collar the body thief and force him to return the merchandise.

"Sheila!" Martin exclaimed in recognition.

"Thank God you showed up, Dewitt!" I babbled. "You save my neck! They were going to make me look like one of those murdered hookers."

His gave me the up and down. "That explains that wild dress," he said with a nervous grin, "but what's the deal? Just before those guys got into the car I thought I saw Leigh Spielman and Callahan!"

I shook my head -- Sheila's head -- wildly. "No, Martin, you've got it all wrong! That wasn't them. What O'Malley said is true. Those were the aliens! They got the drop on D.C., and Spielman! The aliens switched with them; they've got crazy killers from outer space in their heads!"

That new really rocked Martin. "Wait a minute, Sheila. Are you saying that that bimbo actually was O'Malley, and now they've stolen Callahan's body, too?!

"Something like that!" I nodded frantically. "They wanted to find out where D.C. stashed O'Malley, and so they tricked him and switched his mind with, uh --"

"Oh, no! You don't mean they switched him with some sleazy hooker? Where is he now?"

I couldn't let him think that. I had to make up a story that would save my pride.

"Sheila --?"

"I -- I'm sorry, Martin. Callahan is dead, I'm afraid, but he died like a man. They switched him into some flea-bitten old wino and bashed his head in with a brick. They put his body into the dumpster behind our building!" If I eventually showed up in my own body I could explain what really happened and apologize for bunking Martin. I was almost sorry that I'd fibbed when he registered a tortured expression of disbelief.

"Dead? How did they switch him into a male wino? I thought you had to have sex with them before they could make the switch."

Drat! I'd forgotten about that messy little detail. By trying to save my rep as a man's man I'd put it into even greater jeopardy.

"No, that's not how it is! Do you have to believe everything a politician tells you, Martin?"

"You mean just a touch --?"

I had to change the subject, and fast. "What are you doing here, Dewitt -- I mean, Mr. Dewitt? I thought you were at the Rex Company warehouse."

Still looking plenty shocked, Pard mumbled, "I just got lucky, I guess. The warehouse was empty, but it looked recently abandoned." His glance hardened. "That made me think that somebody was pretty damned worried about being caught doing something they shouldn't be doing, and so I went and asked some questions down at the courthouse. It turns out that Rex Company is just a dummy corporation registered with another phoney outfit, one that owned this other shut-down factory here. I couldn't find out much, so I decided to check the premises out personally. Now I suppose the aliens will abandon this place, too."

"You were right about being lucky, Martin! If I wrote a rescue like this into a story no one would believe it!"

"You write fiction?" he asked, blinking in mild surprise.

Another slip! It was Callahan who wrote fiction, not Sheila. "Sure!" I bluffed. "Didn't I ever mention it? Well, maybe not. We never really had much of a chance to talk about our hobbies."

I saw hesitation in his hawk-like eyes. "To tell the truth, I've always wanted to get to know you better," he began, "but you kept telling me to take a hike."

Yeah, that was true. Sheila had been a snob from Day One. Somehow I had to explain it away her coldness so we could work together to get my body back. "Well, uh, yeah, well, I'm shy. But I've been trying to beat it lately. I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression about me."

He eyed me again. "You sure don't look shy in that streetwalker getup."

"You try wearing it and tell me how you feel," I suggested irritably.

Fortunately, fashion wasn't uppermost on Dewitt's mind. "Damn!" he swore. "If those bastards murdered my partner they're dead meat!"

I stepped closer. "I'm with you all the way, Martin, but won't be easy going up against Plan 9 From Outer Space! We've got to find them and then out-think them."

He looked at me keenly. Only then did I notice how he towered over me. "Any ideas?" he asked.

I nodded again. "The space men are still looking for O'Malley. They'll be heading for mah -- for D.C.'s apartment."

"Is that where D.C. stashed the senator?"

"It's a long story, Martin! We've got to haul ass!" But at my first step I winced with pain. "Could you help me find my shoes?" I asked. "The gravel hurts my feet!"

We found the shoes right off, but with my hands cuffed I needed Pard's help to put them on. "Where's your Honda parked?" I asked urgently once I was again fully shod in those killer pumps. "We've got to head them off."

"Wait a minute, Sheila," he with a scowl, "this business is too dangerous for a lady --"

"Stuff it, Martin! I'm not that much of a lady!"

* * * *

Chapter 9
The General Narrative, continued

Taking a shower with a black Adonis seemed to bring out Ginger Spice's alien-induced sexual craving with a special vengeance. The man's hands explored the hollows of his her back as they spread the suds, starting ever synapse in her nervous system firing with erotic stimulation.

Suddenly B.J.'s hands slipped under O'Malley's arms and brought her flush against him. She felt the blood coursing through her body like an awakened river, felt her heart beating in her throat. Then the pimp's slipped between her thighs. . . .

"No!" Ginger cried and shoved him back; B.J. lost his footing and slipped. He landed painfully on his bumpus and the nude girl threw open the shower door to make a dash for the living room.

Blackjack got up and rubbed his bruised pelvis. "Oh, shit! That mixed up broad!" he swore. Though miffed, he wasn't too worried that Ginger Spice would get far. There was the locked door and the lack of a fire escape to keep her prisoner. Moreover, he couldn't see her going outside nude and dressing would slow her down.

B.J. dried himself and pulled on a fresh pair of boxer shorts before he went looking for Ginger. He found her sitting on a wet spot on the settee looking glum. He tossed his towel into her face.

"You're wrecking the furniture, you dumb bunny. Do you know how much ass you'll have to sell to replace that upholstery?"

Ginger clutched the towel to her water-beaded breasts with a shudder, but didn't look his way. Blackjack just stood there thinking hard for a few seconds, then he reached out and pulled her to her feet. This was a gal who needed the cave-man treatment baaaad. It was high time she met a man with balls enough to lay down the law.

"You and me have to have a contract, so let me lay it out for you. All you have to say is that I'm your sweet man from now on, and then we'll have a street marriage. You'll belong to me and I'll take care of you. You'll love, honor, and obey me, and I'll give you all the cherishin' a woman ever had. I bet your old man never gave you that much, did he?"

She dug in her heels. "You belong in lock-up! I want out of here!" O'Malley didn't really know where she would go if he released her, having only a vague idea about applying for welfare. She had been buying votes with give-away programs for thirty-five years and thought it high time to get back a little of her boundless compassion and golden-hearted charity.

Blackjack, his patience exhausted, bent low and flung his new wife over his hard, Tarzan-like shoulder. Ignoring her kicks, yells, and beating fists, the player toted the ex-senator into the store room and set her down against a thick pipe. Before she knew what was what, he had snapped a manacle around her left wrist. Ginger struck at him with her free arm, but B.J. captured it, too, and took only ten seconds to fetter securely to the pipe.

"Let me go, you son of a bitch!" she yelled, but her wild struggles only made her look like a she-beast trapped and ready for taming.

"I wanted to be nice, Sugah, but you kept insulting my hospitality," B.J. told her. "You can be my woman or my pooch. It's up to you. For now you're going to find out what it feels like to be my pooch."

Ginger found breath enough to snarl, "Go soak your head!"

"You sure act as uppity as a lawyer," said Blackjack, hoarse with exasperation. "But that's okay 'cause I know ways to cure uppitiness!"

Now he went out and quickly returned with something that looked like a chain necklace. Only when Ginger could see it close-up did she see that the chain had allegator-type clips affixed to either end.

"This will concentrate your mind," the pimp assured her as he put the clips in place. Ginger gasped in pain and a tremor of apprehension coursed through her. O'Malley had read enough dirty magazines to know that the chain was a torture device and that the longer they were worn on a woman's nipples the more they would hurt.

"Take these things off me, you bastard!" the black girl demanded, thrashing her torso right and left in a vain attempt to shake them uncomfortable clips off.

"Am I your sweet man?" he asked, his teasing voice like rippling silk.

"No!"

"Then you'll just have to get acquainted with your new friends. They like your titties every bit as much as I do."

#

Anticipating victory, B.J. went to fetch his continuous-play cassette-player, into which he shoved a tape that all the pimps swore by. It was an hour-long recording with the same song many-times repeated, an underground ditty entitled "I'm a Ho." But this was a special version of the original. It had been altered by an audio tech who had loaded it with subliminal messages meant to transform a woman's attitude. According to the story, the tech had gotten tired of his pretty-but-lazy wife and her snooty, coffee-guzzling friends. They'd hang around his apartment practically every day, yakking about feminism and dissing men. Finally he decided to put a stop to it. Thanks to the tape he doctored and played for them, his wife and her girlfriends all underwent a subliminal education.

The way he had rigged it, the first message on the tape trapped the hearer, inducing her to want to hear the tape again and again. Each repetition of the song carried more behavior-altering instructions. Soon the freeloaders had been re-programmed to be streetwalkers, and they'd all gotten too busy making money to be able loaf around his place talking bitch-style feminism to his impressionable wife.

The tech didn't actually send his woman out streetwalking, but their relationship became a lot like a sweet man and his ho. As they say, ex-hookers make the best wives, and the couple's marriage became a happy one. The tech soon loaned the tape out to his male friends who also felt unappreciated by their women. Pretty soon bootleg copies hit the street where professional players got hold of them and made their own copies.

The black girl looked feverish askance at B.J. when he returned, but she was still to hard-headed to beg. Suit yourself, he thought as he placed the tape-player on the floor, just out of reach of her long legs, and turned it on:

I wear five-inch stilettoes and my hem's up to here;
I'm a wild working woman and my lovin' comes dear.
I walk just like Monroe, I got Jane Russell's shape;
When I do my love dance all the vice cops go ape.

I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!
I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!

When my mother criticized me I just told her I'd leave
And answer the calling of Our Good Lady Eve.
That chippie was turned out -- the Scriptures say so;
'Twas the Devil who made Evie the very first ho!

Eve's a ho
Ho-ho-ho
Eve's a ho
Ho-ho-ho!

Some say I'm tacky, that I wallow in sleaze,
But I'm earning a living and I do it with ease.
Most wives don't respect me, them that's happily wed,
But I know all their husbands 'cause I meet them in bed!

I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!
I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!

I ain't had no schoolin' and I don't own a book;
I tried out sleep-learning, but it just never took!
I'm a dunce in the kitchen and all-thumbs when I sew;
But that's unimportant 'cause I know what I know!

I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!
I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!

Don't need a guru who can lead me to grace;
All I want is a sweet man who keeps me in my place.
I know Man's the master and I'm willing to please;
Don't think that I'm praying when I'm down on my knees!

I'm a hooker 'tis true!
Do-do-do-do!
Don't you wish you were, too!
Do-do-do-do!

They call me exploited 'cause a guy takes my dough,
But I'm making him happy, I just want you to know.
He's my hard-lovin' daddy, he's the man that I need;
He's my life-long religion, he's my Apostle's Creed.

I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!
I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!

All these young business women wearing black clothes and gray,
They'll never be happy if they have their own way.
This one chick's called Murphy, the other Ally
-- Not a woman among 'em doesn't wish she were me!

I'm a hooker, 'tis true!
Do-do-do-do!
Don't you wish you were, too!
Do-do-do-do!

If there is a glass ceiling, then I've strutted right through;
There's no feminazi who can match what I do.
Don't want their attention and don't want to be pals;
Steniem sure is clueless 'bout us street-walking gals.

I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!
I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!
I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!
I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!

Blackjack went back to the living room and punched the power button on his TV remote. The picture came on, but he was still to wound up with Ginger to even notice what the program was. Nipple clamps were a good way to start breaking in a stubborn gal. Even Evelyn, who'd fought him longer than any other woman he'd ever turned out, had started yelling her fool head off after just a couple hours. After that, Evelyn had been willing to do almost anything rather than have the clamps put back on her.

All of a sudden a knock sounded on the door. Always suspicious of cops serving warrants, B.J. first checked the peep-lens, relaxing at once when he espied the a beautiful face on the other side.

The pimp unlocked the door to face off with a smiling redhead. This whistle bait, he thought, had "working girl" written all over her. His face split into a wide grin and he inquired, "What can I do for you, Darlin'?"

The girl's face brightened as she sized him up. "Are you Blackjack Waters?"

"That's me," the big man didn't mind admitting. "Excuse me, Baby, but you don't look like you're come selling Field and Stream subscriptions."

"I'm not, but I've got plenty else to sell," she replied suggestively. "May I come in?"

He stood aside and bowed. "Welcome to my parlor."

The beauty breezed past him, but when Blackjack locked the door behind her she gave a quirky grin and asked, "Oh my, is that lock for me?"

He grinned disarmingly. "No, Honey, it's for somebody else."

"Breaking in a new girl?"

"I might be, but that's my business. It's your business I'd like to hear about." He ushered her to the settee. "Take a load off, Pretty Woman."

The redhead sat down and crossed her legs. B.J.'s heartbeat speeded up considerably to see stems like hers so well-displayed.

"I was referred to you by the Snow Man," the girl explained.

"How's the Snow Man doin'?" Blackjack asked absently, not thinking about the Snow Man at all. After fighting with Ginger for an hour he needed to spend some quality time with an agreeable woman.

"He's on top of things," the girl said off-handedly. "He's doing so well, in fact, that he gave me your address instead of taking me in himself. He said that you were down to just a couple girls, but was making a comeback and needed somebody like me."

"Snow Man's got a big mouth." B.J. replied with an irritable scowl; he didn't want the street to think he was a charity case. His health had been a problem lately, but he was feeling a lot better over the last few weeks. "And the Snow's got things wrong. I've got three girls now."

She looked nonplussed. "I didn't mean to give offense."

His lips twisted cynically. "I'll tell you when you give offense, chickadee, and you ain't done it yet. So, you say you need a sweet man? Is that why you looked me up?"

She nodded. "My man back in New York won a long vacation in the state-court lottery. The other Big Apple mackmen are all running scared from Giuliani and, anyway, I've gotten tired of the cold and fog."

Blackjack liked what he had heard so far. "You've come to the right town for a hot time, Sweet Cakes."

The visitor sat back and a secretive smile softened her lips as she said, "I guess the important question is, do you like what you see?"

"Honey, I liked what I saw even before I opened the door. But you can't judge a book by its cover, if you know what I mean."

Her glance was steady and all business. "Where would you like to do it?"

"I've got a king-sized bed," he said.

Standing, she straightened her shoulders and lightly cleared her throat. "If that's the case, why are we standing here?"

* * * *

Chapter 10
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Martin and me burned rubber all the way to Hotel Franco. I bustled from the parking lot to the check-in desk while Martin drove around looking for a space. Fred, the old man behind the counter, gave me the fish eye. It was his job to keep hookers out off the premises unless they paid him five dollars. The handcuffs I was still wearing must have made him think that he could hit me up for ten.

"Did J.D. Callahan come in yet?" I asked breathlessly.

He looked me over and decided to answer. "He came in a little while ago with two friends. They went upstairs and then came down and went out again. You just missed him."

"Did the same three leave -- and only three?"

"Yes," he answered, made suspicious by the tone of my question.

Martin now hurried into the lobby. "Are we too late?" he asked, winded.

"I don't know," I replied. "They've already been here and gone. It sounds like they didn't get O'Malley -- or she's still up there." If she was, I guessed she'd be minus a few quarts of blood and it was another murder they'd pin on me!

"Could O'Malley be that black girl in the red dress?" Fred asked, his curiosity piqued. Why not? To see the chronically tapped-out Callahan come in with three different shady ladies in one day and than to have a fourth asking about him definitely seemed wrong.

"Do you know where she is?" I asked.

Now Fred decided to play it coy. "I have to keep the guests confidences." he said blandly. Oh, sure! I'd heard that one before from a lot of different desk jockeys. It always meant that the guy was a chiseler hooking for a bribe.

"She wasn't a hotel guest," I pointed out. "She was Mr. Callahan's personal guest."

The difference didn't seem to impress Frederick and he turned his back and began sorting the mail.

"Give him a fin," I told Martin.

"A fin?" Pard echoed with a hint of disapproval. "What am I going to eat on tonight?" I shot him my 'Don't be such a tightwad" look and he saw reason. "Oh, all right," he sighed and placed his endangered specie on the counter top.

The clerk turned our way again and stuffed the bill into his shirt pocket, saying, "She went out two hours ago, just a quarter hour after Mr. Callahan brought her in. She was accompanied by a gentleman named B.J. Waters."

"Blackjack Waters, the pimp?" asked Martin perplexedly.

The old man sniffed smugly. "He never mentioned his occupation and I never put much stock in gossip."

He didn't have to, because know all the dirt. I smelled definite trouble, but at the moment I was more interested in tracking the killer aliens who had my body. "Did Callahan say anything to you before he left?"

"He asked me what you're asking me -- where the black girl went."

"And you told him?"

"Of course. She was his guest."

"Do you know where B.J. lives?"

"Sorry, no," replied the clerk. "I overheard the red-haired woman say to Mr. Callahan that she knew someone who'd know his whereabouts."

"What do we do now?" I put to Martin.

"Check the phone book?" he suggested.

"There's one in mah -- in Callahan's room," I said, agreeing. "There's also a spare key to these nippers."

His brows drew together. "How do you know?"

"Uh, it's logical, isn't it?"

"I suppose, but --"

I swung toward Fred. "Give me the keys to 314."

He looked at me censoriously. "I can't do that without Mr. Callahan's permission.

"I'm --" Again, I'd almost made a fatal slip. "I'm Mr. Callahan's personal secretary."

His glance told me, "Is that so?"

"I know what you're thinking," I said stiffly, "but I'm on the level. I'm disguised for an undercover surveillance assignment. Anyway, you sure as hell know Mr. Dewitt here, Callahan's partner."

The clerk nodded coolly in Martin's direction. "I'd like to help, Sir, but it would still be a highly-irregular act on my part."

What would be irregular for Fred would be to spill his guts without getting his palm greased again. "Martin, do you have another fiver?" I asked.

"No, just chump change."

"How much?"

He shook about a dollar and a quarter from his coin purse. The clerk appeared unimpressed. It was all up to me, I knew.

Leaning closer, I whispered: "I know what you've been looking at. If you let us have the key for a few minutes you can do more than just look."

"Sheila!" Martin uttered, sounding scandalized.

"Stifle it, Dewitt! This is an emergency."

The clerk's mouth twisted wryly and he motioned me to the empty phone alcove where I let him cop a feel when no one was looking. I thought his touch would have made my skin crawl, but instead, to my surprise, it turned on my alien-enhanced libido. What a fix I was in! If a repulsive gaffer like Fred could start my motor racing with just a ham-handed grope, I was in very deep doggy-do -- until, of course, I could get out of Sheila's body!

#

Once up in my room we found no evidence to say that O'Malley had ever been there. There was a little disorder, of course, but instinct told me that the three rhinoceroses who'd beaten us to first base were responsible. Probably the pimp had intercepted the senator before she'd even reached my door. But why had she gone with him? Had she been forced? Anyway you cut it, O'Malley was in for a rough time with a character like B.J.

Martin and I had to beat the alien's to Blackjack's place, wherever that was, or she was dead meat. Not to put the cart before the horse, though, I pretended to search randomly for my handcuff keys before I "luckily" found them in a drawer. Afterwards, I thumbed through the white pages looking for the listings of people named Waters. None of them were listed as Benjamin John and it figured. An outlaw like B.J. almost always arranged for an unlisted number.

Martin had been reading the names over my shoulder, his breathing coming slow and deep. I looked back and said, "There's a pack of beef jerky in the fridge."

He eyed me curiously. "How did you know that?"

When would I ever learn? Play Cosmo Topper yet again, I said, "Because he mentioned this morning that he had a pack of beef jerky in the fridge. What do you think? That I've been here before?"

Martin didn't argue. but went for the refrigerator. I could have used a feed bag myself just then, but I couldn't resist the tingle in my bladder. Experiencing my new plumbing was one for the diary, but my mood wasn't improved at all.

Afterwards, I dug into my address book looking for gambling contacts. I was going to try the bookies and the handlers of floating craps games since B.J. had a reputation as a dunker. I was gaming, too, seeing if I could find O'Malley before the aliens did!

* * * *

Chapter 11
The General Narrative, continued

Because of the pain of her nipple-clamps, Ginger Spice O'Malley's could almost overlook the burning ache in her arms and shoulders caused by her struggle to get free. Her distraught state of mind was made even worse by that blaring music kept playing. Yet, the longer she listened, the better it sounded.

I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!
I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!
All these young business women wearing black clothes and gray,
They'll never be happy if they have their own way.
This one chick's called Murphy, the other Ally
Not a woman among 'em doesn't wish she were me!

Suddenly she heard someone yelling: "B.J.!" she shouted. "Take these things off me! They hurt! I can't stand it! You can be my sweet man! I don't care!"

She gasped. What had she said? Her only hope lay in an absolute refusal to cooperate. She waited with baited breath, dreading the sound of approaching footsteps. A strangled cry of dismay left her lips when a thumping stride on the carpet outside announced that someone was coming. Again O'Malley fought wildly against the strength of her manacles, but it was too late. The doorknob turned and the portal swung open. Just as she had feared, Blackjack was standing between the jambs, but he wasn't alone this time. Behind him stood a man and a woman -- and she knew the man!

"Callahan!" O'Malley blurted, beside herself with relief. "Get me out of here!"

The dark-haired man in the rumpled trench coat stepped around the pimp, saying, "It wasn't easy finding you, Miss O'Malley, but you're all right now. We're taking you with us." He scowled severely at Blackjack. "Get her loose, and make it snappy, you bum!"

"Okay, okay, sir," B.J. sniveled, all his late brashness gone. He compliantly plucked the clamps off O'Malley's nipples and freed her wrists. Her features grimaced in discomfort as she drew her stiffened arms forward.

"Leigh here is my associate," Callahan explained to O'Malley. "Leigh, take the lady and find her some clothes."

"Will do," replied Leigh, who came forward to put her arm around Ginger and lead her away. "Come on, honey. We've got places to go."

Ginger looked back at Callahan. "I thought that brunette Sheila worked for you," she murmured, a hint of suspicion in her tone. Although dazed, there yet seemed to be something too pat about this sudden rescue and also in B.J.'s sudden passivity. If the pimp had wanted her so badly why was he throwing in the towel just because a down-and-out dick said he had to?

"Sheila's minding the office," Callahan explained tersely. "Leigh works with me on the really tough cases."

O'Malley nodded blankly. When the women were out of earshot Callahan shifted toward B.J., asking, "Should we take your old body along with us?"

His mouth set in a bent grin. "No, I want that body back. I won't keep this one for very long -- just long enough to trap Callahan. I'm going to make it look like the pimp and the dick killed one another."

"Good idea!" the Callahan-alien agreed. "Why don't we all wait and back you up?"

"Because O'Malley is too important. We have to check her in before anyone in authority starts asking questions. Djomni can stay, but you and Roissar have to escort O'Malley to the lab without wasting any more time.

The Callahan frowned, his blue eyes level under drawn brows. "I don't like it. I know every thought in that dick's head and he can be as tricky as all hell. We should call in for more muscle."

B.J. gave his subordinate the 'you're a dunce' look. "Absolutely not! The Committee would have our heads if they found out how we let O'Malley slip away and that she's been talking to people. Hopefully she'll be reprogrammed before anyone thinks about questioning her. We'll be lucky if this snafu doesn't end with us getting liquidated as defectives."

The bogus snoop nodded sourly. "It all comes from having that new guy in the Attorney General's office. Remember the good old days?"

The pseudo-pimp's nostrils flared with impatience. "I'm not into nostalgia. Now hit the road."

Leigh and Ginger reappeared a few minutes later, with Ginger now wearing a hot-pink frock belonging to Gina. "Why didn't you give me time to find something less female?" O'Malley was complaining.

"Stop bitching, Senator," Leigh whispered harshly. "It looks good on you and we're in a hurry! The aliens can trace you here as easily as we did. We've got to get away before they arrive."

That sage advice effectively quieted Ginger's protests.

Callahan walked up and took the black girl by the arm. "This way, Senator."

"Is there any way I can get my body back?" the black girl asked, a hint of desperation in her voice.

The man's expression was tough a