High Heels and Hot Tips: A Sheila Coffin Adventure, Chapter 2

 

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 2

  

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan

Morning came too early and too bright. The sun cutting through the gaps in the hotel curtains felt like a personal insult. I woke in Val's room with the previous night's work written into my every muscle. My back was in full complaint mode about the constant movement, my arms were protesting against the heavy trays I'd carried, and my calves were in full rebellion against the long hours on my feet.

But my feet themselves? They were fine. Sheila had fortunately worn stilettos before I was stuffed into her body by those miserable space invaders. D.C. Callahan had been used to sensible, thick-soled oxfords. Without the resilience of Sheila Coffin's ankles, I'd be in agony about now. It was a relief to find out that at least two or three of the crazy things women subject themselves to came with a legit payoff.

Val's bed was empty; she was already up. She was doing stretches on the floor, her body folding with a flexibility that made my own joints ache just watching. Dancers were a type of acrobat, and I could respect that. She had on yoga pants and a sports bra, which wasn't an impressive outfit on a girl as attractive as she was.

"You okay?" she asked, noticing the audible creak in my knees as I sat up.

"Just sore. It's been a while since I've done barroom service." I didn't add that the 'last time' I worked in a bar I was a two-hundred-pound man hauling kegs in from the alley, not a slip of a girl balancing martinis on a silver tray.

She smiled—a genuine, sympathetic look—and slid a bottle of ibuprofen across the nightstand along with a glass of lukewarm water. "I've done floor work, too. Take three with breakfast. Trust me. The second night is always the hardest because the adrenaline from the first night has worn off."

I took them gratefully with a plastic cup of water. The pills felt chalky and dry in my throat.

"You really love the work, don't you? The dancing?" I asked, watching her expression. Talking to a stripper about stripping was still a turn-on for me.

Val paused, her leg pulled up behind her head in a way that looked physically impossible. Her eyes went distant as she considered the question. "Yeah, I do. Most people think strippers are stupid or trashy. They put us only one notch above whores. It kills me that society wants what we offer them, but still despises us when we give it to them. The best part of the strip gig is that on that stage, I'm the one in control. I'm the one they're looking at, and I'm the only one who's important in the entire room."

As I watched her movement, the detective in me went quiet. As D.C. Callahan, I'd spent decades on the other side of that stage. I thought I'd been showing the strippers respect because I didn't hoot or holler. Before this, I'd talked to a few strippers, but none of them spoke honestly to me, not like Val was doing. She was letting me know about the "life." It took sweat and sheer raw discipline to bring off what she did so well. To be honest, that was also true about cocktail waitressing. There was more to the job than wearing a short dress. My body wouldn't have ached so much if I had only needed to stand around looking great.

A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the door broke the quiet of the morning. Both of us went still.

"It's Martin," my roomie said, checking the peephole.

Martin came in carrying a cardboard carrier of coffee with a grease-stained bag of breakfast sandwiches tucked under his arm. His dark stubble told me he hadn't shaved. Well, the old Callahan wouldn't have shaved either. He'd be too eager to get over to a stripper's hotel room before the window of opportunity closed. Martin set the food on the small laminate table and started taking maps and handwritten notes from his pack.

"The Morettis aren't going away," he said without preamble. "Big Leo's guys spotted two 'scouts' idling in a sedan outside the club at closing time. They're circling, waiting for an opening."

"Well, you've been busy," I said. "I'm impressed."

He looked across at me in that special way of his. "I aim to please," he said with that smile I love so much. It's a nuisance being a girl, but when the lights are out, it has aspects that aren't so bad.

I took a sip of the coffee—black, bitter, and hot. "They're smart," I said in the breathy alto I'd inherited from Sheila. "They won't hit her inside the club. Too many witnesses, too much security. They'll wait for the transition—the walk to the car, the ride back here."

Martin's eyes narrowed as he looked up and studied me.

"Yeah," I quipped. "Just don't tell me I look like a pro."

"Not in those dowdy PJs, you don't. But I've seen you dressed like a bad girl before and loved it."

"You would! You're a randy son of a bitch who can't keep his lip buttoned."

He shrugged. "Yeah, if you say so. But I know how much you like being complimented. You gotta have it even when you're wearing your grumpiness like an old lady's shawl."

#

The crowd tonight differed from the one on my opening night. This time, it was heavily weighted with regulars who tipped well and caused less disturbance than the tourists in town to see the Lincoln Memorial. These were the customers that Dom, the boss, cultivated: affluent people with expense accounts and enough sense not to get handsy with the talent.

On stage, the dancer named Lacy was performing a routine I'd seen her rehearse earlier. She moved like water, every gesture deliberate and controlled. There was something magical about a striptease dancer, at least the pretty ones. I couldn't get enough of them. Though I couldn't have explained it, even after becoming as a girl myself, I still couldn't.

When someone tapped me on the shoulder, I jumped. "You look tense, Sheila." Val was standing behind me. "Trouble?"

"No, it's nothing. A guy propositioned me. He took me by surprise. What makes me tense is keeping lookout for killers."

"I don't know about killers, but I know about the lounge crowd. You just learn to endure their lewd comments, sigh, and move on."

It was Val who moved on just then, but I wasn't left on my own for over ten seconds. "Scarlett!" Mercedes's hard voice came at me like the swipe of a buzz saw. "Table nine in your section is waiting for drinks. Are you planning to deliver them this century?"

I snapped back into motion, heat rising in my cheeks. "Sorry, I was distracted by another customer."

"That's no excuse!" With a snort, the floor manager passed on.

"Damn it!" I thought in her wake. How did college-age women stand working in such a demanding place?

More time passed, and then, around eleven o'clock, the atmosphere shifted.

A man in his fifties slinked in like a prowling alley cat and sat down at a corner table. He didn't order a drink immediately. The newcomer was wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than my first three cars combined. He had on understated and expensive duds and moved with a stillness that would have put any savvy observer on guard. I saw the way his eyes were fixed on Val, who was just then on the floor doing hostess duty for extra tips.

I stepped into his line of sight. "Sorry, honey, Val's booked solid tonight."

I was taking care to use my "waitress voice"—light, polite, but firm.

The man glanced up, with eyes resembling two pieces of flint. They didn't help make his smile look authentic. "You're new. What's your name, honeybuns?"

"Scarlett."

"Nice gams. You ought to try dancing yourself." He let the compliment hang in the air like a buzzng hornet. "I don't have time to hang around here," he finished. "Tell Val I'll be seeing her soon—very soon. My name's Anthony Gallo. Tell her that."

He stood up, adjusted his cuffs, and left the lounge without looking back.

---

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

The name Anthony Gallo hit me like a bucket of ice water. The talk on the street called Gallo the "Architect." He was more than a commonplace hit man. Breaking legs wasn't his game; his specialty was disappearances. If the Morettis had sent their top consigliere into a strip club just to say "hello," it meant the clock wasn't just ticking. It was about five seconds from midnight.

My heart was hammering against my ribs. With time running out, what was I supposed to do? Some plans I'd had! Here I was, wearing a cocktail dress and holding a rattling tray of empty glasses in my mitts when I should have been fingering a deadly weapon.

Val fast-stepped toward me, losing her smile now that she had he back to the customers. "How are things looking?" she asked in a whisper.

If I told her the truth, we'd probably have a screaming Mimi on our hands. That wouldn't do anybody any good.

"No news is good news," I told her. "It's best if you act like you don't have a care in the world."

She forced a smile, as if sensing the surrounding menace. But, saying nothing, the dancer nodded, sighed, and returned to her hosting gig. I winced as my glams followed after her. It was like I was seeing clouds of doom gathering over her head.

Just then, Dom, the club boss, materialized beside me. "I saw the guy. I know who he is. You okay, Scarlett?"

"Gallo told me to tell Val that he's going to see her soon," I muttered.

Dom's jaws tightened. "Gallo doesn't make social calls. If he came to deliver a message, it means they're getting ready to move. Tonight, tomorrow—it doesn't matter. The clock's ticking."

Concerned, I searched the room for Val. I saw her trying hard to chat pleasantly with a regular. She looked tense, aware of the surrounding danger. I knew she'd panic if I told her that her executioner had just walked through the door and measured her for a coffin.

"Keep her in sight," Dom said quietly. "This is trouble beyond my league. What can you and your buddy do to keep the worst from happening?"

I grimaced and must have looked pretty clueless.

The club manager squeezed my shoulder then—a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring but felt more like a warning. "Let me know whether you detectives can think of something. I'll tip off the bouncers to help you out if they can. I'll do what I can, too, short of getting myself killed." Then he drifted back toward his observation point near the stage door, his mouth grim and his eyes darting about.

To my relief, I saw Martin coming out of the crowd, returning to his place at the bar. Intense and jittery, I moved fast, the clicks my heels made reminding me of gunfire. I glanced over to the exit that Gallo had used, feeling like I was standing in the path of a breaking dam.

When my shadow touched Martin, he glanced up. I said nothing, but my eyes gave him a message to meet me away from listening ears. I made for the backstage area. My pard waited in place for just half a minute before stepping after me, maybe trying to look like he was going to the john.

When the pair of us met under a web of hanging ropes, it took me only one breathless sentence to fill him in on the whole sordid story.

He shook his head. "So there really are gangsters chasing Val. But if Anthony Gallo has a personal interest in her, that's about as bad as things could get."

"Tell me something I don't know," I fired back at him.

"It's a dark night, but maybe not the eleventh hour yet," Martin answered back. "Gallo came to deliver a warning. Why try to scare her? Why not just ambush her?"

I had a pretty good idea why, and none of the reasons were good. "He probably thinks Val is alone and unprotected. He'd like to shock her into making a run for it. Then the gang will be able to grab her someplace away from witnesses."

Martin nodded. "They'll probably stake out her car. You didn't say anything to Val about the danger, did you?"

"No! I'm not that dumb!"

"Good. It's best if she carries on naturally until closing time, doing nothing that might excite the bad guys. Have you got your gun?"

"No! Where the deuce could I hide a gat while wearing this outfit? I feel naked."

He briefly looked like he would make a jibe, but his features fell. He wasn't in the mood for it.

"You'll need to figure out the how and where yourself! But get on the  move! Armed yourself and then head back to the floor. I'll stay as close to Val as I can, while you keep watch on the flanks. After her shift, we'll bring the car around and take her home. Like I said, her own car might be a danger spot."

"We could take her home, but they probably know where she's staying!" I reminded him.

Martin paused a beat. "You're right. Fortunately, I still keep a room of my own. We'll stash her there and stand guard. There's no way the apes could know about my place yet."

I shook my head. "Even if Val gets through the night alive, what about tomorrow?"

Martin took a deep breath. "I think—"

"What are you doing here, Scarlett?" a hard female voice broke in. It was Mercedes, the wicked witch of Washington. "I know this hunk is your boyfriend, but you're distractions are unprofessional. You won't get another warning. You look good, and we'd like to keep you on board but pretty girls who need jobs are a dime a dozen."

"I'm sorry," I said. "It won't happen again!"

"Your 'sorries' are inflated currency, Pouty Lips. If I have to tell you that you're screwing up again, it will be the last time."

She wheeled away, leaving me steaming. To her, I was just a spot of dust in need of sweeping. I gritted my teeth. Having to look like a girl 24-7 was bad enough, but being treated like a useless twit from four to midnight really made me sour.

---

#

Closing time came, and we took Val outside through the most obscure exit the club had. Martin had already positioned his Honda there, engine running. Getting Val out of the club without incident took careful choreography. Big Leo, the bouncer, helped us walk Val out first, his considerable frame shielding her from any potential sniper angles. I followed close behind, my hand in my purse, gripping my Rossi.

We were in an alley, not a parking lot, but there were many shadows, many angles where shooters could hide. I scanned the roof lines, the piles of trash, the dark spaces between the glaring lights.

Martin pushed the passenger door open. "Get in," he said sharply.

Val dove in next to him, and I took the back seat, my pistol now out. I'd be the tail-gunner. Martin vavoomed out of the alley with a heavy foot, but not recklessly—doing nothing that would draw unwanted attention.

For the first few blocks, nobody spoke. Martin took random turns, doubled back twice, and used every trick he knew to dodge a tail. I watched through the rear window, my pulse racing faster than the car.

"Are we being followed?" Val whispered.

"Not that I can see," Martin answered. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "Anything, Sheila?"

"Not that I can tell!" I said from backseat.

We took the long way to Martin's single room, adding twenty minutes to the drive. By the time we pulled into the underground garage, my shirt was damp with sweat under my jacket.

"We made it," Val breathed.

 "For now," I said.

---

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

We hurried inside and climbed the stairs. I pushed open the door to the single room that Martin still maintained as his own space. I knew full well that every man needs to have a hidey-hole to call his own. Sniffing the air, I could barely detect the scent of Martin's cheap cigarettes in his seldom-occupied crash zone.

Val was behind us. We shuffled out of the way, and she hurried into the room, her phone clutched in a shakey grip. "I'm scared," she said. "Should I call the police?" 

Martin shook his head. "They won't be ready to take you yet," he said. "You'll be lucky if they're ready to hide you as early as they told you they would. That's how this town works." He looked back at me. "I hope all the evasive driving I did pays off. The two of us are both armed, and we'll stand guard, sleeping in shifts. Val can have the bed. We'll make do on the chair or the floor."

"I'm sorry," I apologized to our client. "That's about all a pair of dicks can do when up against a criminal outfit of the Morettis' size."

Martin crossed to the window ledge and sat down. He was wearing his "danger face," with the piercing, analytical gaze of a man who makes his living noticing things that are out of place.

Val, shivering more from fear than cold, struggled under the covers fully clothed. I took possession of the only chair available and gave the small room a good perusal. Until now, I'd thought it silly for my cash-strapped partner to shell out good dough for cramped cubbyhole he hardly needed. But tonight, I was damned glad to have access to an out-of-the-way hiding place.

I assumed the first watch, too keyed up to sleep. The dark hours after midnight seemed endless, but who could be bored when you had a gang of thugs on your heels? I was still awake when Martin's wristwatch alarm went off. He heaved up from the floor and relieved me. I took his place on the old carpet, under the large towel he'd been using for a blanket, still warm from his body heat. I didn't expect to get any sleep at all, but I miraculously dropped off within minutes. When Martin shook me awake, the sun was beaming in through the window. Val was up, too, sitting on the bed's edge, biting her lower lip.

Martin yawned and returned to the windowsill. "Now that we've gotten some rest," he said, "we ought to take breakfast some public place, maybe at a mall when it opens. If the gang can somehow track us down here, it won't a good place to defend."

"I don't care for us walking around like three clay pipes in a shooting gallery," I said. "Maybe we ought to take Val to our office later. We'll burrow in behind the "closed" sign until it's time for her to go back to work. But before we head that way, we have to pack in some groceries. Otherwise, Val and I are going to faint from hunger working at the club tonight."

I stepped up to the window overlook to take look outside over the top of Martin's head. It was a shabby neighborhood, full of illegal emigrants. After thinking quietly for a moment, I had to admit, "I've got a bad feeling about tonight."

 

---

To be continued in Chapter 3

 

High Heels and Hot Tips: A Sheila Coffin Adventure, Chapter 1

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 1

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Drinking as a dame requires the recalculation of everything. Two martinis used to be my warm-up, the liquid courage that got me through many a stakeout in January or depositions in August. Now two measly martinis had me quoting Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and forgetting how stairs are supposed to work. Having an alien-enhanced sex drive foisted on me was bad enough, but this body's lightweight constitution this body adds insult to injury.

Martin was grinning—not at me exactly, but at the situation. Seeing me loose and happy turned him on. Those were two attitudes that only rarely coincided these days.

But I could blame my good spirits on the events of the night. We'd just gotten back from an election night celebration. We had kept busy drinking until the main race was called. It was a moment for cheering. Against all the odds, the election cheating, and the billionaire money, the people had come out on a November night and done the right thing. It made my head swim to think that maybe the country was starting the climb up from of the seventh circle of hell. 

Though well sloshed with champagne (or the cheaper brew that Martin and I had had to settle for) the crowd had cheered victory speech given at 2:30 a.m. But by then I was pretty far gone, numb enough to almost forget that recently a catastrophic change had come over my life. Namely, I was a thirty-eight-year-old male detective whom alien invaders had trapped inside the body of my own nineteen-year-old—and very female—secretary, Sheila Coffin. Now, like it or not, Sheila's life had become mine to live. I couldn't tell anybody. I just had to buckle down and get on with life. I performed her secretarial work for a while, until Martin Dewitt had seen my brilliance of my detective work and made me his business partner.

But that's the long story that I've already told in a book. When I'm old and ready to go, maybe I'll publish it. We'll see.

Anyway, after the speech, Martin drove us home using Sheila’s car, which was my car now. Considering how much he had drunk, that drive was probably illegal. 

"Almost home, Princess," he said, as we entered the down-ramp to the basement parking area.

"Don't call me P-Princess,” I hiccuped. “I'm a hard-boiled gun-shoe. Gum-shoe, I mean."

"You're too young to be hard-boiled. But I love listening to you talk like one of those 1940s pulp-magazine hard-case heroes you're always writing about."

Yeah, I was not only a secretary and a detective, but also a writer. Selling my first novel had been great for the ego. But I still hadn't managed to sell enough books to make any real difference. But I wasn't going to give up. Absolutely not!

I was too bombed to walk, so he picked me up and carried me into the nearest elevator, my heels dangling like a pair of dead fish. When we reached our floor, the elevator doors hissed open. That's when I noticed a young, pretty woman facing us, holding a mop and wearing an urgent expression. She was wearing the apartment house’s cleaning-staff uniform, but I didn't recognize her. 

I wasn't drunk enough to fail to wonder why she'd be mopping linoleum at three-thirty in the morning. The apartment house's maintenance staff always clocked out at six PM. What I felt was a special thing that had a name: Suspicion. The wrongness of the meeting struck me like a cold, wet rain on a windy day.

The woman didn’t seem to want to use the elevator. Instead, she started to trail after us. When I looked back, I show her nervous look, as if she had something urgent to say. Dark-haired and in her mid-twenties, the badly-dressed dame had the kind of face that could make men act stupid and women flare with jealousy. Her cleaning outfit didn't fit right. It hung on her svelte frame like an Idaho potato sack.

"Are you Callahan and Dewitt?" she suddenly asked breathlessly. "The detectives?"

Martin looked back at her." That's us," he said carefully. "Having a problem, miss?"

The girl started a fast jabber. "A local cop told me about a male and female detective team that I ought to look for. “He said they were brave and honest. That’s what I need." 

"You don't really work here, do you?" Martin asked warily.

"I’m Valentina Romano. I found this uniform in a broom closet downstairs. I put it on because I didn't want to be kicked out by security before I met the detectives." She gave us a weak smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I saw a murder. The mob knows I talked. They're going to kill me, too. I need protection."

Those words blew away some of my champagne-laced euphoria. Martin's expression became grim and he fumbled his key out of his suit pocket to unlock our apartment door. "Come in quick," he muttered.

#

The General Narrative, continued

Inside was the apartment that was clearly shared by both of the detectives. One of Sheila Coffin’s dresses was hanging next to Martin's leather jacket on the coat rack—the she-detective gestured Val Romano toward the cluttered sofa. The young woman hurriedly sat down and immediately blurted out a frightening story.

She was a professional stripper doing a gig in northeastern Washington D.C. Three nights earlier, she'd just finished her shift at The Velvet Room, an upscale gentlemen's club. Going to her car at about two in two in the morning, she'd witnessed someone on his knees being executed by brutal-looking men in ill-fitting suits. The next day the news feeds would be talking about the killing of federal prosecutor Richard Hayworth.

Val had a good memory for faces and had seen it all clearly under the parking lot lights. Val had dodged away without being seen and gone to the D.C. police. They already knew about the killing and showed her books of felon photographs. She picked out Tommy "The Suit" Castellano, an enforcer for the Moretti crime family.

The cops acted pleased that they had an eyewitness. The senior man with her said that Hayworth had been building a RICO case against the Morettis. To charge a gang insider like Castellano with murder might be what they needed to light the fuse  that might blow the dirty Moretti outfit sky-high.

The D.C. police warned the stripper that her testimony could do the city a lot of good. But they warned that if the mob found out who was fingering them, her life wouldn't be worth two cents. They said she needed to go to a witness safe house, something that Val was willing to do. The precinct boys swore her to silence and promised to arrange her hiding place. But by the next evening, Val started receiving threats.

A gruff voice coming from her apartment phone warned, "Witnesses don't live long. Clam up and get out of town!" Frightened, she went to her Hyundai and found a dead rat on the driver's seat.  At the station, the blue boys told her that they didn’t have a safe house ready for her because of red tape and safe house availability. They needed at least five days, and all they could advise was for her to lie low somewhere safe She made a grocery store stop and noticed a  pug-faced man watching her. When she parked at her hotel, the same mug was standing on the corner, seemingly not caring if she saw him or not.

She had already talked to the cops and didn’t know  where else to turn. Her voice breaking, Val said,. "They're watching the hotel. How hard will it be for them to find out where I work and where my mother lives? I can't go to her—it would endanger her. They know so much and move so fast that I don’t think I can get away by running. Maybe they even hid a tracer on my car, like in the movies! If a gang of them went inside my hotel, no one there could protect me. I need bodyguards, or at least help getting away." She looked at the pair with desperate eyes.

“I only have three thousand dollars in the bank, my entire savings. I have nothing else to offer.”

Sheila flashed Martin her crisis look. That signaled him that she was about to turn softie on him again.

#

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

I'd been where the stripper was sitting now. In Afghanistan, I'd gone three days pinned down by insurgents, barely holding them off with an MRE and prayer. The injured-animal look in Val’s eyes made me cringe. It just so happens I love animals. Especially bobcats. If we did the sensible thing and tossed her out for self-preservation, she might not make it to morning.

Val reacted to our silence with a whisper. "What should I do?" 

I shook my head. "Mobsters are like a wolf pack. They'll go for blood the second they know they have you where they want you. You don’t dare turn your back and run; that would start the end game. You have to tough this out until those slow-poke cops have gotten their safe house ready for you. It's tough dealing with D.C. cops. They know that city hall is not their friend. That makes covering their asses the main goal of the blue boys. Protecting innocent lives comes secondary. What you need is a couple of bodyguards. Tough people with guns."

"Does that mean you'll take my case?" she asked.

"I’m willing, so long as you're on the level about that three grand," I said.

I knew Martin’s head was shaking even before I glanced at him. "Three K isn’t enough to bury even one of us!" he said.

That was Martin being true to form. He began every big case by objecting to the danger. I'd found him to be the mild sort of guy, deep down. Divorce cases were his favorite sort of detective work.

"Why are you saying, babe?” he asked. 

“I’m saying we have a life to save.”

His teeth were gritted. "This is a stinking mess that we don't need. There are no good angles in it. If we’re crazy enough to take it on, we have to think carefully and do it with smarts."

By then, Val looked ready to collapse to the carpet. "Ease up, babe," I told her. "You're not alone anymore. You don't have to go out into the night. You can spend the night with us." 

I motioned for Martin to helped me settle her, lengthwise, on the couch. Put the couch pillow under her head and covered her with a fuzzy blue blanket picked up at a rummage sale. She was asleep within ten minutes.

I confronted Martin's worried eyes. "If you care so much about being smart, what smart idea do you have in mind?” 

"I think we should discuss this privately." he said.

"The bedroom is my favorite private place," I replied.

Both of us were still half drunk and dead tired. Behind the closed door, I shucked off my party dress and didn’t bother to slip into my pajamas before I got under the coverlet. Within two shakes, Martin had settled in beside me wearing only his boxers. As inebriated as we were, we needed to talk.

"Where did these Italian gangsters come from suddenly?” he asked. “I thought the new ethnic gangs had bum-rushed all the I-Ties out of Washington."

"The Mafia is like a mustard stain; its hard to get rid of," I said. "They're still around, like flies in November, but they’re not what they used to be. They're outgunned now and running scared. Killing a federal prosecutor is not any move of a Lion King would make. When Dutch Schultz tried it in the 30s, the Mafia took him out instead. What the Morellis did is the desperate move of a wounded badger."

"How are we going to protect someone for five days against the Morettis?" Martin asked. "Taking this case is like leap-frogging into a bear trap. Even if the mob’s on its last legs, how do we stand up to what's left of them?"

"We just have to do it the way you said you said. We do it smart."

"It’s easy to say ‘smart,’ but hard to be smart. Do you have more to offer than just platitudes?"

I thought for a moment. "First off, we don’t dare play it the mob's way. They expect Val to either to run or to hide. They'll believe she can't run fast enough, and hide hide well enough. We have to persuade her from doing either."

"So what’s the best thing for her?"

"What if we make her look like an easy kill? If the mob doesn’t feel pressured, it make them move in on her in a slow and easy way."

“You’re saying they might go slow and easy about murder?”

That’s went I crossed my arms and braced my shoulders against the pillow. "Val's a traveling performer. She goes from one gig to another. The mob knows that, and they also know the D.C. police—for all they're worth—have their eyes on her. I think the Morellis wanted her to run, so they could ice her in another jurisdiction. It might through them off balance if we make it look like she's dumb enough to continue with her gig in Washington. They might pause a moment to wonder about what in hell she’s doing. They might start to wonder if she’s such an easy target after all. They might suspect that she’s the bait someone – maybe the cops – are using to lure them into a trap."

"Maybe, maybe, maybe. Are you going to bet that girl's life on a 'maybe'?"

"You know me better than that. I’m just putting a few trip wires in the gangs way. It might buy us some time. While they're wondering why she doesn’t make a break for it, they might move a little more slowly. What we have to do is make sure that she’s never left alone and unprotected."

“Do you really consider the two of us any real protection.”

“We’re all she’s got.”

"What’s the deal? Do you want us to stick with her around the clock?"

"Here's the deal. We move into her hotel room. I'll be acting like her roommate. You can pass yourself off as my boyfriend, a down-and-outer who’s always hanging around a babe like me. That means we’ll both be around Val to give her cover."

“Won’t they figure out that we’ve shown up to be her bodyguards?”

“Probably. But the more we can give them to think about, the better for us.”

Martin sank into the pillow, considering this. "You’re thinking is pretty good, but the clock's against us. Val's got only three days left on her Velvet Room booking. If she stays beyond that, the Morellis will know it's because she's been waiting for witness protection. Hell, some crooked cop has probably given the mob the whole spiel already. They’ll know they have to move against her before the cops effectively intervene."

"When her contract at the Velvet Room is over, we’ll hunker down at the hotel. To add a little more confusion, we can put out that she's too sick to travel."

"That'll be a hopelessly transparent ploy, I'd say."

"I know it is, but I can’t think of anything else to help us run out the clock."

"It's all a long shot, and a dangerous one. And how do you expect us to cover the girl at the club? If the Morettis decide we're bodyguarding her, won’t they put us on the hit list, too."

"Probably, but that might slow them down, too. The larger the butcher bill, the more careful the lumpy-suit boys will have to be. History slams them with a warning. When the Capone gang killed just seven unimportant thugs on St. Valentine's Day, the public relations stink that rolled up put the entire gang into a tailspin. The whole outfit finally crashed. And the Morettis are nothing compared to what the Chicago mob used to be."

"We’d need a lot of 'hope and by golly' to make this scheme work. One mob killer with an itchy trigger finger could make it all come falling down. But you still haven't told me how we can protect Val at the club without provoking the gang too much." 

"Oh, come on! You can hang around there pretended to be a customer. Don't tell me you're not up to sitting on your duff drinking beer for three days?"

"What about you? You can’t guzzle that much liquor? You didn't drink half of what I drank tonight, and I had to carry you home."

"We’ve got a few cards to play. I have a friend of a friend who knows Dominic Santelli, the big dude who runs the Velvet Room. Street talk says that he's a square-shooter. If we can get him on our side about protecting Val, all he has to do is allow you hang around for three days acting like a lush, and  give me a job on the floor so I can run interference for the girl."

"What kind of job can you do? Stripping?"

"Oh, get off it! A joint doesn’t hire strippers off the street. Those girls are trained professionals. There are schools that teach stripping and the girls use agencies to get their bookings. But I could wait tables.  I used to bus drinks and meals in a restaurant-bar. It was a better job than selling shoes."

“Selling shoes?” replied Martin. “Did you know that Callahan sold shoes, too? It was just before he put out his detective shingle.”

I’d slipped. I didn’t want Martin to find out that his current squeeze had been his former boss and best friend. “Ah, yeah!” I said. “Knowing the shoe business gave me and D.C. something major in common. We could talk about it for hours.”

“I never heard any of those conversations,” my partner replied with an odd grin. “And I’m glad of that! So, you’re up to serving food and liquor?

"The work is no big deal. All you need is two hands, two feet, and a willingness to accept tips. Floor work will let me stay close to Val when she’s on her shift, and if Dom cooperates, he can see to it that she and I have the same shifts. You run surveillance from the floor. When she heads home, we go with her. We'll be twenty-four-seven bodyguards."

Martin rolled over on his side and faced the nightstand. "This is insane. The Morettis aren't stupid. And the two of us together aren't tough to stop them when they decide to move."

"Okay, beautiful. If you don't like the idea, give us a better one."

I knew that Martin didn’t have his heels dung in. He just had a knack for anticipating danger spots. It served him well as a detective. I countered each point he raised until the clock ticked toward four in the morning. Finally, he played his trump card.

"What makes me dislike this case is that I don't want you doing anything so dangerous. I almost lost you a few months ago. I never want to be back in that spot again."

I softened. "I know. You're so sweet I could eat you. But what choice do we have but to play the cards we're dealt? We're in business to take risks, after all."

He rolled back to face me. "No we're not. We're in business to make money. And against these odds, three thousand is only enough for bait at the end of a fishhook."

"Money? I'm in this operation to make myself feel alive. I was making more money when I had that shoe store job."

We both fell silent after that. Outside, D.C. traffic hummed its endless, dreary song.

"Fine," Martin spoke up at last. "But tell me, if things go sideways, are you willing to die for a stripper you don't even know?"

"No, but I'm willing to take a few risks when an innocent person is being kicked around. But if you want to know the truth, the only person I'm willing to die for is... you."

"Damn it! You always go for my soft spot, don't you?"

"What soft spot? You're talking about that heart of yours, maybe, you big, fuzzy bear?"

That's when the smooching started. As much fun as it was, we couldn't keep it up for long, seeing as how it was after four o'clock in the morning.

#

The General Narrative, continued

The next afternoon, Sheila, Martin, and Val met with Dominic Santelli in his office above The Velvet Room.

He was sixty, silver-haired, sharp-eyed. His office was tasteful: leather furniture, framed Sinatra photos, a bookshelf with actual books—nonfiction, mostly. And there were no velvet paintings either. No neon lights and no girly sleaze. The ambiance bespoke a man who paid the capital’s exorbitant taxes and kept his nose clean. There were too few people of character in Washington, D.C.

Val explained the situation: a murder witness with the mob after her. Because she had no place to run, she'd hired protectors. Dom took a second look at her companions.

The businessman supposed that the two young people with the dancer were the bodyguards. A male-female paring was unusual, but the male half looked formidable. But Dom couldn't help but wonder what the girl with him brought to the table.

Club boss’s expression hardened. "The Morettis. I heard about the Hayworth hit. It happened just outside the club, and it hurt business." He regarded Val with something like respect. "You've got guts, kid. Stupid guts, but guts."

Val introduced Sheila and Martin. Martin slid his business card across the desk—the Callahan-Dewitt Detective Agency card. Though Callahan was known to be dead, Dewitt had maintained the use of his name.

Dom picked it up, read it, and looked at them with new interest. "Private investigators. Val hired you?"

"For five days," Sheila said. "Then she goes into witness protection." She succinctly explained the plan they'd worked out.

The older man leaned back in his chair, thinking. Finally, he said, "All right. Here's the deal. I'll hire you as a cocktail waitress, miss – minimum wage plus tips. You stay close to Val and watch for trouble. But don't make it too obvious that you're mind is not on your job. And if there's going to be shooting, you take it outside. I don't need the Morettis or the cops shutting me down. Understood?"

"Understood," Sheila said.

"Good." Dom stood. "You start tonight. See Mercedes for your uniform and training.”  He looked next at Val. “And Miss Romano, after this booking, don't come back until your trouble is behind you. Not because I don't like you. It's because I do like you. I don’t want to have to carry the memory of seeing you dead in my parking lot."

Val nodded, uncertain whether to cry or to smile. "Thank you, Mr. Santelli."

#

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Mercedes was the club's personnel director and the unofficial manager of the dancers. Thirty-five, bottle-blonde, she was a former showgirl herself, as sharp as a razor and ready for a fight. She took one look at my mini-skirted legs when Dom filled her in on the cover story. She said, "You'll look good in the costume, Scarlett, but have you ever worked a club?"

"Not a club like this," I admitted. "But I worked at a restaurant-bar before I went into the military."

"Military experience is a plus in a tough town like this one, but you don't look military."

"Gal Gadot was military, too. A girl can't help her appearance."

"You also don't look like you're in your twenties yet. How long did you serve?"

"Not as long as I intended. I was discharged. Do I have to give you the details?"

Dom broke in. "She told me the facts, Mercedes. It's all right. She's a good kid."

The older woman accepted that at its face and circled me like a drill sergeant inspecting a recruit. She glanced at Val and asked, "Why are you in here, Val?"

"Scarlett's my friend. She's staying with me until I leave town. I'd like her to have a job before she's on her own again," Val said.

Mercedes sighed. "All right, Scarlett. You'll get a chance, but don't screw up. You smile, you hustle food and drink, you don't take shit from customers, and you tip out the bouncers. You need them on your side. They're the ones who'll save your ass when some drunk gets handsy. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Good." She led me out of the office to a large hall closet. She pulled a garment bag from inside, saying, "Our waitresses wear these. Emerald green is the club's color. Elegant but professional. There's the restroom. Try it on."

The dress was a revelation. It was male-gaze stuff with a hemline that ended at about the same place the spanky did. When I stepped out of the changing room, Mercedes nodded in approval. I was glad that I had already lost any shyness I had about showing off my legs.

"You look the part. Now for the important introductions."

She led me downstairs to the main floor, where two men were checking the bar inventory. "This is Big Leo, a former Marine." He looked like a Marine—arms like tree trunks. "The other man is Joey"—wiry, fast, with years of experience written in the scars on his knuckles.

Big Leo looked me over. "New girl?"

"Scarlett," I said, using my cover name. "Val asked the boss to give me a job."

"Dom's got an eye for the pretty ones," Joey said. "We take special care of the new girls. You see anything hinky, you signal us. Don't handle problems that are too big for you."

They showed me the exits, the panic buttons, the camera blind spots. These guys knew their job. I felt a little better about the plan we'd worked out.

Mercedes checked her watch. "Four hours until opening. Get dressed, practice walking in those heels if you're not used to stilettos, and pray you don't fall and mess up that pretty face."

I looked down at the high heels she'd given me—four-inch spikes, emerald green to match the dress.

"I'll be fine," I said. "I can even dance on  heels if I have to."

Mercedes's lips quirked. "A soldier who’s used to Playboy Bunny-style shoes? Well, you're at least interesting, kid." 

#

The General Narrative, continued

The Velvet Room opened at eight PM sharp.

Sheila stood behind the bar in her emerald dress and heels, balancing a drink tray and trying to remember everything Mercedes had told her in the last four hours. The club was classy—art deco styling, soft lighting, a stage with professional sound and lights. It wasn't the dive-look that most strip bars had.

Martin sat at the bar, making each beer last, his eyes constantly scanning the room. Dom had told the bouncers that Martin was there to watch out for his girlfriend, Scarlett, who was new on the floor. He told them not to bounce him out for loitering.

Val performed her first set of the evening, a slow, controlled routine to Nina Simone. Watching her move, Sheila saw that she was good at her job. In the cheap bars, the dancers would come out on stage nearly naked already. Val wore a proper dress and shed it in pieces very slowly, with flair. This wasn't just stripping—it was performance art, with timing, grace, and confidence. Val knew how to give men real substance for their entry fee.

After her set, Val worked the floor, offering guests private dances and chatting with regulars. Sheila closely shadowed her, carrying drinks and watching faces. Distracted, she did her duties as if they were only an afterthought. Sheila supposed that Mercedes must have been told not to lean on her. She wondered what excuse Dom had used to explain what was a poor performance.

But the work in the club was harder than it had been where Callahan had worked years before. For one thing, Sheila didn't have the arm strength of a man in his twenties. The tray grew heavy after an hour. Drunk customers gave her crude compliments. One grabbed her wrist when she delivered his whiskey; she twisted free with a steady smile, and Big Leo was there to help her in seconds. His formidable presence induced the man jabber an apology and double her tip. As long as getting badly used meant getting more money into her pocket, Sheila was game for more.

As a man, Callahan had spent as much time at strip joints as he could afford—which wasn't much. But now, male eyes were on her as well as on the dancers. Things felt different. Sheila still enjoyed watching the strippers, but with feelings different from the old days. She had to keep reminding herself to study security angles and scan for threats. Now she was watching the girls with admiration instead of longing. Their movement seemed to fascinate her differently from how they had before. There was artistry in the way they moved, the control they had, the individuality they put into their motions.

A professional dancer Dom had brought in was performing a routine to Etta James. The way she worked the pole in timing with the music, the way she teased the inevitable reveal—it was mesmerizing.

What she was seeing was reaching down inside Sheila somehow, touching her deep down. What was it? Curiosity? Fascination? Ever since she'd become a woman herself, Sheila had been looking at beautiful women differently. It was like she was seeing something new, but couldn't define what that new thing was. But tonight, watching these beauties shed their costumes, she felt like she was getting very close to understanding what was before her transfixed eyes.

Sheila occasionally had to shake herself to prevent her focus from drifting.

The night ended without incident. Back at Val's hotel room—where Sheila had earlier placed her necessary belongings—Val collapsed into bed with relief after getting home safely. She could almost hope that the danger had gone away.

Sheila shook her head. "Don't rest too easily, doll. They'll come. They're just watching, studying. When they see the opening they need for making a clean kill, they’ll move."

Martin, who'd ridden back to the hotel with them, checked the room's security. "We can't let up for a minute,” he said. “The more the bad guys learn about their target, the more dangerous they become."

After he bedded down in the second room, Sheila, in a sleeping bag, lay awake on the floor of Val’s bedroom, staring at the ceiling. Her feet ached, her back hurt, and she smelled like cigarette smoke and cologne.

But she keep thinking about the stage show. More and more she realized that it wasn't the men with money in their pockets who controlled the room, but the women on stage. The women knew how to work the room when going out among the audience to mingle. When they did that, they came across as than just untouchable, distant images of art in motion.

Callahan had been in so many clubs. Sheila could only wonder why the Velvet Room had had a more profound effect on her than those other joints had had on her male alter ego.

It was bad enough wondering who Sheila Coffin was. Now it was like she was starting to wonder who D.C. Callahan had been.

 

 TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE, Part 7

 Posted Nov. 8, 2025

 

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE, Part 7

by Christopher Leeson

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE, Part 7

When she returned to the dance area, the atmosphere had shifted. Students huddled around radios, most of them battery-powered transistor units, watching news reports of the truck accident and the mysterious super-girl who had prevented disaster. Claire kept her expression neutral as she searched the room for Pete.

She found him near the refreshment table. His face brightened when he spotted her.

"Claire! You’ve been in the bathroom a long time. I was worried."

"Sorry," she said.

Pete teased her. "You were gone for almost twenty minutes."

Had it really been that long? Claire hadn't realized. "I, uh, also called my parents," she improvised. "To make sure they wouldn’t worry about me. There was a long line in front of the telephone."

Pete had heard many explanations like this one from Clark. "Have you heard? Super-Sister saved the day at the chemical spill."

"Really?" Claire feigned surprise. "That's... good news. I guess she’s not as useless as the radio people were saying."

"Yeah.” Pete's eyes never left her face as he spoke. "She must be pretty amazing, this Super-Sister. I wonder if she’s a really nice person like Superboy was."

Claire shifted uncomfortably. "I guess we’ll find out about that soon enough, unless she goes home soon."

"Will people take the help she gives us for granted, like they did with Superboy?” asked Pete.

“Probably. That’s what people do.”

“People can change,” Pete said.

That statement made Claire Kent wince.

The principal's voice came over the public announcement speakers again.

“I’ve got good news for everyone!"

A cheer went up from the crowd, and the school bandmaster immediately launched into an upbeat dance melody, the Hand Jive. The tension in the room dissipated as students scrambled back onto the dance floor, working out their tension with enthusiastic movement.

"Want to dance again?" Pete asked, offering his hand.

Claire hesitated only briefly before taking it. “Sure, that‘s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

They joined the crowd on the dance floor to figure out the moves of this new dance style. They just had a couple of hours to go before things wound down. With a little luck, the vague disaster that Claire had feared was looming might not materialize.

Between dances, Pete remarked, “Your cousin isn’t much of a dancer. But you have grace."

“I hardly know Clark, but most people can dance well if they’re willing to try.

Before Pete could respond, they were interrupted by Lana, who appeared beside them with a bright smile.

"What about that dance you promised?” she said to the young man.

“What dance promise?” asked Claire.

Pete broke eye-contact with his date. “When I was worried that you’d already gone home, I asked Lana for a dance. I’ve known her for years.” 

Lana pulled Pete away. Claire, left Claire standing alone on the edge of the dance floor, didn’t see that she had a right to protest. Dazed, she made her way to an area of the lower bleachers, where some girls she knew from class sat chattering.

One of them, Pamela Collins, called out, waved her over." Claire! Join us!" 

Claire hesitantly approached. 

"That dress is gorgeous!" Pamela said. "Where did you find it?"

"A boutique in Metropolis," Claire replied.

"You have a good sense of style," said another girl, Madison. "You‘re quite a dancer, too."

"Thanks," Claire said in bemusement.

The girls returned to their original conversation. It was about fashion, music, and boys. Claire mostly listened. She thought it would be a good idea to nail down the thinking processes of high school girls.

Pamela suddenly looked Claire’s way and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "What's the deal with you and Pete Ross anyway? Are you two a thing now?"

Claire felt the warmth of a blush. "No, we're just... friends. Clark always said that Pete was a great guy. He seemed to be right!" 
“I hope you two don‘t to beyond friendship,” said Madison. “Lana looks like she’s cutting in.”

“Let her. She could do worse,” said Claire.

“Aren’t you jealous at all?”

“No. If they get together, well and good.”

The music stopped again, and Clare saw Pete coming her way. "Lana really seemed to be curious about you," was the first thing he said.

"Why?" Claire asked, suddenly on guard.

"She thinks you're mysterious. Says you avoid talking about yourself."

"That’s because I’m not a very interesting sort," Claire replied cautiously.

"I told her that all I know about you is that you’re a warm and friendly person,” the boy replied.

His sincerity caught Claire off guard. She glanced at his face, but it was an inscrutable mask that she couldn’t decipher.

The two of them spent the rest of the evening chit-chatting and dancing. Pete attempted to introduce his date to everyone he could, while keeping her punch glass filled. By the time the principal took hold of the microphone to announce the last dance of the evening, Claire sighed with relief. 

Despite her initial nervousness, Claire Kent  had carried off a good impersonation of an ordinary girl. While she and Pete swayed to the rhythm of the final song, she reflected with regret on her life as Clark. She thought he should have worked harder at being sociable. Her alter ego had perhaps made Superboy too central to his life in Smallville. Claire thought she should avoid fixating too strongly on her secret life as Super-Sister. 

Finally, the band silenced. "Thanks for letting me bring you," said Pete as he led Claire off the dance floor. "You’re fun to be with,” he confided. "Can I ask you something, Claire?"

She tensed slightly. "Ask me what?"

"Can I take you out for ice cream sometime? Just as friends."

Claire paused briefly before replying, "I like ice cream,” she said finally. “Back home in Florida, I was too studious, too stay-at-home. I feel like changing that.”

Pete smiled. "You could be a great hit in Smallville,” he said. “No pressure. If you want to go out with other people, that will be perfectly fine." That suggestion was another tease, since he didn’t expect that a girl-version of Clark would collect many boyfriends. 

Their ride home was quiet but comfortable, with Claire lost in her own thoughts. When they arrived at the Kent home, Pete walked with her to the door. "I’m glad you accepted my invitation," he said.

"I was glad to," Claire responded without irony.

Had she been an ordinary girl, Pete would have liked to give such a face as hers a goodbye kiss. But as things were, he simply cleared his throat, saying, "Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight yourself,” said Claire Kent. Claire opened the unlocked door and stepped into the foyer. Turning back at the last moment, she said, “And... thanks. For making me feel welcome in a new town, I mean."

Pete's expression softened, but he seemed at a loss for a reply. He started backing toward his car.

Jonathan and Martha rose from the couch in front of the TV set when Claire walked in, eager to hear about the dance. Claire gave them a hurried version of events, including the incident of the chemical spill. She omitted mentioning some of the stranger thoughts that had been rattling around in her mind all evening.

"It sounds like Super-Sister is every bit as good as Superboy," Jonathan declared.

Claire winced. She didn’t welcome being reminded that she was trapped in the Super-Sister role.

But Martha seemed to be in full agreement with her mate. “That shows genuine character, Claire."

The girl tried not to sigh. It seemed strange that even in the privacy of her own home, the name of Clark went unmentioned.

Claire shrugged. "If I hadn’t done something, we might have had to evacuate Smallville! That would be another change we don’t need."

#

Later, behind the closed door of her room, Claire sat before the dressing table, carefully removing the corsage pinned to her shoulder. Reluctantly, she inspected herself face and clothes, unable to believe that the pretty girl in the black dress, with her cheeks flushed and eyes bright, was her. 

That begged the question: who was she? She was a girl who had just come home from a Homecoming dance, a schoolgirl who had chatted with members of the female sex as though she were one of them. 

She was also the girl most responsible for saving a town from an environmental disaster. She had done that even though she still felt full of hurt. Claire could still feel the throb of ingratitude, the character flaw that seemed to be everywhere.  

Young Miss Kent placed the corsage in the keepsake box provided by her parents. How long would this female impersonation continue? She asked herself. Claire, formerly Clark, was still hoping, praying actually, that Shar-La's spell would wear off. She avoided thinking about what kind of future she’d be living if it didn’t wear off. 

Claire peeled off her party garments, taking special care not to wrinkle her blue dress. She thought she might need it later, if she were again hijacked into some other social event. For bed, the young woman put on the pajama shirt and pants her mother had purchased for her. In their styling, Clark could have worn them himself without embarrassment. It was all for appearance. Not bothered by heat or cold, Super-Sister's alter-ego didn’t need to wear flannel. 

But even in the privacy of her home, Claire had to keep up a false front. The impersonation of girlhood had taken over her whole life. If her alien origin were discovered, it would place her parents, and perhaps other people, too, in danger.

Claire spread out atop her comforter, contemplating what Pamela Collins had said to her in the locker room. “The only thing you can really control in life is how you choose to show up for it." Claire wondered whether she had meant express than an obvious fashion statement.  

#

Even though she did not experience physical fatigue, sleep had always come easy to Clark—now Claire. As the girl's consciousness dimmed into slumber, she found herself surrounded by daylight. She suddenly found herself standing on the same hilltop in Colorado where had encountered the alien witch Shar-La. When the space-farer stepped into view, was still wearing the ring that had effectively brought about her sex-change. It balefully glowed with an unearthly light.

"Awaken, Superboy!” Shar-La stated in her loud, shrill voice.


Feeling strange, Claire looked down at herself and saw that she was missing the fullness of her young breasts! With astonishment, she realized that her form had changed—and for the better! I'm Superboy again!" she --he--exclaimed. Did you change me back?"

"No, you never were a girl, Superboy!" Shar-La advised him. "The ring merely makes its target susceptible to the wearer's telepathic influences. Over the space of only a few minutes, I was able to have you weeks of a virtual life of ghirlhood!"

Superboy blinked. "All of that...it was all in my mind?”

“Yes. And I hope it taught you something,” the space-traveler stated.

Superboy suppressed his flash of anger. It wouldn't be wise to offend a woman whose powers he did not fully understand. He remembered how some men he knew routinely mollify their angry wives. A man who wanted peace in his house always had to accept the blame for any accusation an shrewish woman would make. To mollify her, he said, “Yes! I misbehaved. I’m sorry."
 

 Superboy had barely spoken those self-effacing words before Shar-La’s image and the surrounding landscape started to darken...

Claire opened her eyes to a window as black as the night outside. She sat up and touched herself in desperate hope.

But the teen felt the curving fullness of her feminine body. With dismay, she realized she was still Claire. We was still Super-Sister.

Claire sprang to the bureau mirror, her heart pounding. Even in the dark, her super-sight could see the the slenderness of her frame, of her delicate features. Black hair still fell to her narrow shoulders.

Her moment on the hilltop had all been a hopeful dream. None about it had been real.

Claire pressed her palms against the mirror and groaned, "Just a dream."

The Girl of Steel slumped to her knees on the carpeted floor. "How long is this insanity going to last?" she wondered aloud. "Am I going to be female for the rest of my life?"

As she sank to the carpeted floor on her knees. As she  crouched there alone, the world outside took no note of her anguish. The town outside was blandly normal. Claire Kent supplied the only abnormality that Smallville contained. 

The brunette closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself with Shar-La on the Colorado hilltop. But the alien woman, with all her answers, all the powers she commanded, still lay beyond the reach of Claire Kent, despite Super-Sister’s mighty abilities.

Shar-La was surely far away in space. Perhaps she never intended to return to the scene of her evil deed.

 Claire touched her ripe young bust. Would this transformation go on for mere days, months, or years. Or would this shape be hers for as long as she lived?

All she knew for certain was that the sun would rise on a town that she inhabited as Claire Kent. And then what?

No! She refused to accept that this would be her life for as long as she lived!

Claire remained on her knees, her fists clenched, staring at her reflection through blurred eyes. Her rasping breath come in shudders. She stopped herself from contemplating her imponderable future. The possibility of living an entire lifetime was like an abyss too appalling to stare into.

This ruinous transformation had to be reversed. It had to be. That was the only thought that could keep her sane. Shar-La's transformation would wear off! Some solution would present itself! Maybe another alien would arrive with the power to undo it. Maybe her Kryptonian physiology would eventually reject the change. Maybe she'd wake up tomorrow morning and find herself restored. 
It had to happen. Because the alternative, living forever as Claire, growing into a woman, aging as a woman, dying as a woman, was simply impossible to contemplate. Her mind skittered away from that possibility like fingers jerking back from a hot stove.

She pressed her forehead against the cool mirror glass. The Girl of Steel was invulnerable to everything except this. She could face anything the universe threw at her, but not being trapped in the wrong body, not living the wrong kind of life, forever.

"Please," she whispered to her reflection, to the pitiless Shar-La, to whatever ultimate power might be listening. "Please let this end."

But the morning silence offered no answers. All she heard was the breath of a pretty teenage girl, frightened and alone, clinging to hope because hope was all she had left.

Outside, Smallville was waking up. Birds sang. Cars started. The sun was climbing higher. Life went on, indifferent to the crisis of one confused girl kneeling on a bedroom floor. 

She continued kneeling; she didn't want to stand up. She didn't want to spend another day as Claire Kent. What was her life going to be? Girl-talk with Lana Lang? Eating ice cream with Pete Ross?. Everything about her life was wrong, but fate left her no choice but to pretend to the world that everything was normal.

To keep her courage from slipping away, she fought to hold on to the desperate hope that this nightmare ordeal would have an ending. Despite her suppressed doubts, she kept telling herself that one morning she would wake up and be Superboy again.
 

Claire Kent could never give up on that wilted hope. She didn't dare to, because if she let it die, the life she had known would be left absolutely empty. 

 THE END

 

 

The New Girl in Smallville by Christopher Leeson Part 6

 Posted October 6, 2025

 

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE

by Christopher Leeson

 

Part Six: Homecoming

They passed through the double doors and made the walk to the gymnasium, a journey Claire had made countless times as Clark, but never like this. The big room had been transformed for the evening with crepe paper streamers, fairy lights, and cardboard stars suspended from the ceiling on fishing line. A backdrop for photos had been erected at the far end, already surrounded by giggling couples.

They paused by the big easel that held pictures of the dance attendees when they were much younger.

Pete extracted a snapshot from his pocket. "I brought a photo of myself from my first year at Smallville High. Should I pin yours up, too?"

Claire shook her head. "I didn't pack any photos from home. I never expected to be invited to parties and dances."

“Don’t you like parties and dances?” her escort asked.

“Not too often. My favorite hobby is reading.”

“You’re a lot like your cousin Clark that way,” said Pete as he pinned his photo to the board. From there, they drifted toward the refreshment table. Already, the dance floor was teeming with students doing the energetic Watusi, with arms swinging and hips swaying to the pulsing beat.

Pete offered his arm with exaggerated formality. "Shall we, Milady?"

Though he remained convinced that the girl beside him was Clark Kent, Pete thought it best to act as though she was a new acquaintance. Claire hesitated only briefly before accepting his arm. How ironic that her super-strong fingers felt so light against his sleeve.

As they approached the dance floor's edge, several heads turned their way. Claire felt a rush of self-consciousness, but Pete gave the surrounding onlookers a quick smile, trying not to seem triumphant about arriving with such a striking girl at his side.

The music soon died, and the dancers dispersed in a burst of chatter and laughter.

"Punch?" Pete suggested, leading his date toward the refreshment table.

As he poured two cups of the bright red liquid, Claire surveyed the room with an anthropologist's detachment. Girls clustered in tight groups, whispering and laughing, casting occasional glances toward the boys who stood in packs near the walls. When the Twist started up, couples hurried back to the dance floor, some close together, others maintaining a shy distance. It was like watching an elaborate mating ritual from a National Geographic newsreel.

"Have you ever done the Twist?" Pete asked.

"I haven't had the chance. But I saw this guy on TV who showed the audience the moves. Basically, you make your right foot look like you're putting out a cigarette on the floor, while moving your hands like you're drying your lower back with a towel."

"Yeah, that's the Twist!" He handed her a filled cup. "So what's your first impression of Smallville High's party scene?"

"Well, it’s hectic, but it doesn’t look dangerous," Claire replied with dry humor. "I haven't been to many school dances, but I see a that it's hard to make a gymnasium look like anything except a gymnasium."

 Pete smiled. "I can agree with that. From my experience, gym dances are pretty standard—awkward teens, wallflowers, punch with too much sugar, and music that's already six months out of date."

 "I’ll need your help to keep me from becoming a wallflower," Claire said. "I let my aunt go overboard fixing me up, so I wouldn't look like a social drab."

 "People won’t consider you a loser if they see you dancing."

 "Then we'll have to dance, I suppose." Pete extended his hand. “I accept your invitation.”

Claire hesitated. She had prepared for this by dancing with her mother and father. But now, being asked in public to dance with a boy, she felt daunted. Still, she'd come here to fit in, to appear to be a very ordinary schoolgirl. Not dancing might make her seem shy or stuck-up.

 "Sure," she said, taking his hand.

Pete led her to the dance floor. The Twist didn't require them to touch, a detail both secretly appreciated. With no required coordination between partners, Pete and Claire began grinding down imaginary cigarettes and vigorously drying themselves with invisible towels.

"You look to serious," Pete whispered. "Dancing is supposed to make a person happy!"

Claire forced herself to relax, letting the music guide her movements. The next dance was the Swim—a series of arm movements mimicking a swimmer's front stroke, side stroke, and backstroke, with a move called the "Cannonball" that meant pinching your nose shut and bending your knees as if going underwater.

By watching the other dancers, both Pete and Claire picked up the moves. Gradually, moving to the music’s rhythm became almost natural.

"You're getting the hang of it," Pete said, smiling.

 "Thanks," Claire quipped. "It's at least easier than rocket science!"

 “Does Mr. Harris teach rocket science now?”

“Not now. Next semester!”

Pete smiled, this time without forcing it.

Between dances, they returned for more punch and munched on treats—mostly pastries from the local bakery. Their snatches of conversation carefully avoided sensitive topics. Claire was still amazed to be on a date with a boy, while her escort found it equally hard to wrap his mind around the fact that his date was Clark Kent.

The next dance was the Mashed Potato, with simple moves involving clicking heels and making side kicks. Some couples got into trouble when they tried to dance too fast, but Claire, accustomed to super-speed, had no difficulty keeping pace.

 They left the dance floor when the song ended. On the way back to the tables, a commotion erupted near the gymnasium entry doors. The principal's voice crackled over the speaker system:

"Attention, students. I've just been informed that there's been an accident on Highway 7. A tanker truck has overturned, and there's a chemical spill. Emergency services are responding, but as a precaution, we're going to keep everyone inside the building until further notice."

 Murmurs rippled through the crowd as students scattered across the large enclosure, seeking anyone with more information. Claire tensed, her enhanced hearing already picking up distant sirens wailing through the night.

 "Highway 7 runs right along Miller's Creek," Pete said, his voice low with concern. "If chemicals spill into the water…"

He didn't need to finish the thought. Miller's Creek fed directly into Smallville's reservoir—the town's major water supply. If toxic chemicals contaminated it, the whole town would have to use an alternate source for weeks, maybe months.

Claire felt the familiar tug of responsibility. It reminded her of the reason Superboy had fallen into his routine of endlessly helping people. It had been his way of making himself feel useful in Smallville, of protesting his fate of being overlooked as the unassuming Clark Kent. Public notice made him feel less lonely while avoiding the need to get close to anyone.

It flashed through her mind that it had been a very imperfect way to live. She remained angry and had promised not to get involved in problems that were not her own. It had taken her present disaster to realize how ungrateful the people with whom she interacted really were.

She noticed a strange look come into her date’s eyes. “You wait here and be safe,” he said. “I want to find out if anyone has heard more about the accident on the radio!” He hurried off. Pete was always rushing away in tense moments. It was a quirk of his.

But his retreat had given her room to react to the emergency, if she wanted to. She realized that toxic water would plague Smallville for months if she didn't act immediately. She didn’t care so much about the ungrateful people of the town, but contamination would make life and business hard for her parents.

 "She hurried toward the girls' bathroom, mind racing. Through its large window, she could exit unseen, just as Clark had done from the similar boys' room countless times. She had brought her Super-Sister costume compressed to the size of a handkerchief in her clutch purse.

 She had to act. Letting Smallville get poisoned was more revenge than she wanted to take.

 Claire looked at the costume in her purse, then noticed her reflection in the lavatory mirror—the elegant dress, the styled hair, the corsage on her left shoulder. She looked like an absolutely different person, even though he still felt the same on the inside.

 With a sigh of resignation, Claire changed clothes in a blur of speed. She couldn't compress the man-made fabric of her dress, so she carried it out the window with her, hiding it at super-speed inside the utility shed that stood on the lawn outside the gymnasium.

 Cloaked in speed and darkness, Super-Sister arrived at the accident scene in seconds. The tanker truck had jackknifed across Highway 7, coming to rest on its side like a wounded beast. A viscous fluid leaked from the tank, forming an expanding pool that trickled steadily toward the nearby creek. Emergency vehicles were still creating a perimeter, their flashing lights illuminating the grim faces of firefighters in chemical suits moving in to contain the spill.

Claire hovered above, assessing the situation with super-vision. Hairline fractures spider-webbed across the tanker's main compartment. It was only minutes away from a catastrophic rupture that would dump thousands of gallons of industrial chemicals directly into the watershed.

She descended in front of the incident commander, who looked up in surprise.

 "Wellll! You're that new super-girl, aren't you?"

 "Yes," Claire replied, letting her confidence show. "Let me help. That tanker’s about to rupture."

 The commander—a veteran firefighter named Reilly, whom Clark had met before—eyed her skeptically. "We've got chemical hazard protocols to handle this. Are you as experienced as Superboy? Are you sure you won't get hurt?"

Claire bit back a sharper retort and said, "I can fly through stars! Caustic chemicals can’t hurt me. "Are the chemicals explosive or combustible?"

"No, but they're highly toxic!"

"I should be able to weld the fractures with my heat vision and move the tanker away from the creek."
Reilly hesitated, weighing his options. Claire could sense his reluctance to trust an unknown quantity—especially a female one. Oddly, he sounded like a parent concerned for the safety of a child.

"Sir," one of the hazard techs called urgently. "Pressure's building in the tank. The chemicals are jetting, and any second they’re going to bust the tank open. We need to evacuate now!"

Reilly's jaw tightened. "All right," he said to Claire. "Super-Sister, do what you can. But if I tell you to stand down, you’ll do as you're told—understood?"

Rather than remind him of her indestructibility, Claire simply nodded. She was determined to do what she had to do, no matter what the local fire chief thought.

Super-Sister took to the air again and positioned herself above the damaged tanker. Using her super-vision, she identified each point of structural failure and began applying pinpoint beams of heat vision to seal the fractures. The metal glowed red, then white-hot as it melted and fused.

As she worked, a new sound reached her ears—a low rumbling from beneath the ground. With her attention divided between delicate welding work and this fresh development, she almost missed the subtle shift in the earth beneath the tanker.

"Everyone back!" Claire shouted as realization struck. "The ground is unstable!"

Her warning came just as the saturated soil allowed the tanker to slide downhill, pulling asphalt and dirt with it in a growing avalanche. Emergency workers scrambled backward as Claire abandoned her welding and dove to grab the tank.

The eighteen-wheeler's weight was nothing to her Kryptonian strength, but its awkward shape and the slick chemicals coating its surface made it difficult to get a secure grip. As she struggled to stabilize it, one of the hazard technicians lost his footing on the muddy slope and tumbled toward a contaminated puddle.

Claire faced an instant decision: secure the tanker or save the technician. With a frustrated grunt, she propped the tank momentarily on a stable section of ground and streaked toward the falling tech, catching him inches before he rolled across the poisoned ground.

"I've got you," she assured him, easily lifting him and setting him down safely behind the emergency line.

But in those few crucial seconds, gravity reasserted its hold on the tanker. It was sliding again, its massive bulk picking up momentum as it headed for the creek.

Claire flashed back, grabbed the truck's front axle, and dug her heels into the ground. Her boots sank into the mud beneath her, but she held firm. Its weight was nothing compared to her strength, but the physics of shifting terrain made the operation touch-and-go.

With a last surge of determination, she lifted the tanker entirely, hovering a few feet above the treacherous ground. "I need somewhere to put this!" she called to Chief Reilly.

He pointed to a flat, paved area well away from the creek. "Take it to the park! Containment pools are being set up there!"

Claire carefully transported her awkward load to the designated area, setting it down with precision atop the plastic containment barriers the emergency team had rapidly deployed.

As soon as the tanker was no longer an immediate source of contamination, she returned to the creek bank and used her super-breath to freeze the chemical trail that had almost reached the water's edge. Then she dove into the muddy ground and, by shoving, created a dike of mud to block the flow-way of the deadly chemicals. That would give the rescue team time to deal with the contained toxins.

“Are you mean able to contain things now?” Super-Sister asked of the wide-eyed hazard team.

Commander Reilly approached at a fast trot, looking less skeptical than before. "Good work, young lady," he acknowledged. "You saved my technician and kept this disaster from getting out of hand."

"Just doing what needs to be done," Super-Sister replied, though she didn't particularly care for being called "young lady."

"Are you really Superboy's sister?" one of the younger firefighters asked.

Claire hesitated. "Something like that," she answered vaguely. "But I can’t stop to talk. A…woman’s work is never done. I have an emergency elsewhere that I have to tend to."

"Wait!" Reilly called as she prepared to take off. "What's your name? I need it for the report."

Claire paused. "It’s like in the newspapers. Call me Super-Sister." The name still felt repugnant to her tongue, but she had to keep things in proportion. A name was much less important than protecting her secret identity. She had to go back and make it look like she had never left the homecoming dance.

Super-Sister launched herself into the night sky, her cape snapping in the onrushing wind. As she flew back to the school, Claire felt dazed by a complicated tangle of emotions. The successful rescue might make people realize she was in the same league as Superboy—a thing which her pride demanded.

But she wondered if she should avoid competing with his memory. Maybe she shouldn’t keep rescuing every kitten from every tree. Maybe Super-Sister needed to keep a lower profile. Why not let her concentrate on major disasters, and not make a big deal out of lesser annoyances that every town has to deal with?

With no loss of time, Claire recovered her party clothes from the utility shed and slipped back indoors through the bathroom window. She changed back into her party dress in a blur, hopeful that the confusion in the gymnasium would prevent anyone from noticing her absence. Checking herself in the mirror, she noticed a smudge of soot on her cheek and winced to see the mess that the wind had made of her hair.

She used the facilities to make herself presentable. People would more easily notice a girl in dishabille than they would Clark Kent. It wasn’t fair, but it was the cards she’d been dealt.

Finally, with a deep breath, Claire pushed open the lavatory door, went down the short hall, and stepped back into the decorated gymnasium.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 7