To the Mana Born: The Life of Donna by Christopher Leeson

 

TO THE MANA BORN: THE LIFE OF DONNA

Chapter 1 — After the Screaming Stopped

Langdon jerked upright in bed and realized the screaming had been his.
Something about his body felt wrong.

Footsteps hurried down the hallway outside his bedroom door. He had woken up screaming, loud enough to wake the house.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

“Langdon?” His stepmother, Elisa, spoke through the paneled wood, her voice cautious, almost a whisper..

“Don’t come in!” Langdon shouted.

The sound of his own voice made him freeze. It was thin. Higher than it should have been.

“Langdon, I’m coming in.”

“Don’t.”

The doorknob turned.

It was three in the morning. Elisa stood in the doorway, looking pale and unfinished, her hair loose around her shoulders, her robe pulled tight at the collar.

Then she looked at the bed.

Her expression froze.

The person sitting tangled in Langdon’s sheets was not her husky stepson.

It was a brown-haired girl wearing Langdon’s oversized white tee shirt.

For several seconds neither of them spoke.

The girl looked about eighteen. Her eyes were wide and furious, as if she had just been thrown into the worst situation imaginable.

“What do you see?” the girl demanded hoarsely. “What do I look like?”

“I see a girl whom I have never seen before,” Elisa said uncertainly.

Then she forced her self to ask: “Who are you… and where is Langdon?”

“What do you mean, who am I?” the girl snapped.

“I mean exactly that. Who and what are you? Langdon’s new girlfriend?”

The girl stared at her in disbelief.

“Don’t call me a girl!”

She flung the sheets aside and jumped out of bed.

“Stop staring!” she said wildly. “Don’t look at me at all until I wake up.”

“Whoever you are,” Elisa said slowly, “you are not asleep. And you should be polite. This is my house you're in.”

The girl shook her head as if she were trying to wake up from a dream.

“I’m Langdon,” she shouted. “I went to bed, and now I wake up like this!”

Elisa stared at her.

“You are very confused,” she whispered. “Why don’t you look in the mirror and then tell me who you really are?”

The girl glared at her.

Then she turned and stumbled toward the mirror on the closet door.

Elisa snapped on the light.

#

The girl in the mirror looked nothing like Langdon Arden.

She had dark, wavy hair that hung in a messy curtain around her shoulders. Her eyes were hazel, wide with shock and anger. Her young face was flushed and tense.

Langdon leaned closer.

The reflection leaned closer.

“This is sick,” he muttered, “but at least I know I’m dreaming.”

He grabbed the hem of the oversized sleep shirt and lifted it.

The body underneath was unmistakably female.

Langdon had chased enough girls and paged through enough porn to know what a girls looked like under their clothes.

Then he looked at the reflected face again. “Well, damn!”

Distraught though he was, he could see how pretty his reflection was. But where were his muscles?

Langdon Arden had been a stocky, big-shouldered eighteen-year-old who got through life on size, attitude, and a willingness to intimidate people.

The reflected person looked like someone who belonged in sunlight, not standing in a messy bedroom at three in the morning.

Langdon lifted the shirt a little higher to have a look. He saw that the body it contained had everything a girl should have.

He slapped himself. “Why in hell can’t I wake up?”

"Surely you have memories of who you really are?" said Elisa.

The girl pushed her shirt-hem low and veered toward her stepmother.

“This is a dream,” she said stubbornly.

“I don’t think so, but I don't understand it either. Only magic like in the movies could turn a boy into a girl, and Langdon didn’t play with magic"

The girl, running both hands through her hair, began talking quickly. “I did do some wish magic, but I didn’t wish for this!”

“What are you talking about?”

The girl started jabbering about the medallion and how she’d been chanting over it for the last few nights.

“If that's true, there has to be magic in the world.” Elisa said when Langdon finished. “I used to watch online videos about strange things. Stories about money created out of nothing, about people cursed to have accidents. Supernatural stuff. Also, there were stories about people turning into other people.”

Langdon stared at her.

“I got that medallion in the mail and the note said it could grant wishes. It sounded dumb, but I gave it a try and wished to be the most popular guy in school. Guy — not girl!”

“If you really are Langdon, magic has to be real. But you have to prove it. Langdon has a middle name he hates, and he never tells anyone what it is. What's your middle name?"

"Upchurch!"

"That's right!" She hesitated and then said, “…maybe it's because you played with magic, that this has happened to you.”

Langdon dropped onto the bed and pounded the mattress with both fists.

“This is insane—insane—insane!”

“That net series I watched had some shows about breaking spells. It said there are people who supposedly can use different magic to deal with this sort of thing.”

Langdon looked up.

“There was a medical doctor in one of those programs,” Elisa hurried on. “A specialist. He said that strange cases come into offices and hospitals that seem impossible. Real doctors can’t help the sufferers, so they send them to magical practitioners.”

Langdon stared, a glint of hope in his — her — hazel eyes.

“Those are people deal with magic,” Elisa said quietly. “Breaking spells. Maybe they can fix a transformation, too.”

Langdon rolled over and sat up.

“I never heard of such a thing!”

“Doctors are scientists and scientists refuse to admit that there is real magic. My gynecologist and I are good friends, so I asked her about doctors knowing about magic,” Elisa said hurriedly. “She said the stories were true. She even had a phone number of a magical practitioner she once had to consult.”

Elisa glanced toward the hallway, her mind racing.

“I’m going to call her.”She gave me her home number for emergencies.

Before Langdon could answer, Elisa slipped from the room.
#
While his stepmother was gone, Langdon stepped reluctantly back to the mirror on the closet door.
He was not surprised when that damned girl showed up again.

Langdon lifted the shirt once more with grim concentration. There was no way of escaping the fact that he was inside a completely female body.

And, in the nude, that girl was annoyingly attractive.

Langdon shoved the shirt down again.

“My whole life is going to be ruined!” he--she--muttered.

#

Elisa returned a few minutes later.

“I spoke to my doctor,” she said from the doorway. “She gave me the phone number of her magic man, and I called him.”

Langdon turned toward her excitedly.

“He’s willing to see us this morning. Nine o’clock.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Why not tonight?” Langdon declared. “I don’t want to stay a girl for another six hours.”

“He said there’s no point in rushing. Transformations like this aren't supposed to get worse with time.”

“I sure hope not!” Langdon groaned.

Elisa hesitated. “Do you want to get up and have an early breakfast?”

“No!” Langdon said. “I still think this must be a dream. I want to fall asleep and wake up again.”

#

Langon wasn't able to fall asleep, and when she staggered out of bed, she was still the same girl she had seen in the mirror.At 8:30 am, Elisa drove her new stepdaughter to the address she had. The doctor’s office turned out to be inside a converted Victorian house in a quiet part of the city.

There was no sign outside except a small brass plate by the door with a suite number.
The man who answered the door looked like what a doctor ought to look — mid-fifties, gray hair, calm expression, white coat.

His foyer was serving as a small waiting room.

He shook Elisa’s hand politely.

Then he looked at Langdon. She was wearing a shirt, pants, and shoes borrowed from her stepmother. “Is this the transformed boy?”

“Yes,” said Elisa.

“We are apparently dealing with an extremely effective spell. Sit down,” he said to Langdon. “Tell me what happened.”

The black-maned girl told him, barely stopping for breath.It was the same story she’d told Elisa. The medallion. The chant. Falling asleep. Waking up.

The doctor listened without interrupting.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair.

“I’m going to tell you something most medical doctors pretend not to believe,” he said calmly. “Not because it isn’t true, but because the medical associations insist the public is not ready to hear that most science is just a bunch of hooey.”

Langdon waited with fists clenched tight.

“Magic is real.”

The girl blinked.

“Damn! I was hoping Elisa was all wrong about that.”

“She’s not.”

The doctor folded his hands.

“Your mistake is very common. You attempted to make a wish by using magical forces you didn’t fully understand. That is extremely dangerous.”

Langdon frowned.

“I was trying to improve my life. Not turn into a girl.”

“Yes,” the doctor said mildly. “But magic listens to the unconscious mind more than it listens to the conscious mind.”

Langdon stared at him.

“Your unconscious desires can have wishes different from what you ask for, and it can redirect magical forces in unexpected ways.”

“You’re telling me my subconscious made the magic change me into a girl?”

“That is a simplified explanation,” the doctor said. “But essentially correct.”

Langdon felt heat rising to her face.

The doctor continued calmly.

“In thirty years, I have seen eleven cases of transformation. Each involved a person's hidden fantasy that the magical brought into reality.”

Langdon sat saying nothing.

“The good news,” the doctor said, “is that transformations can be reversed.”

Langdon leaned forward avidly.

“How?”

“It will take time.”

“How much time?”

“Almost exactly one year.”

Langdon groaned.

“Magic is influenced by the position of the stars,” the doctor continued. “The celestial alignment must return to the configuration that existed during the original transformation.”
 
He left the room and came back with some papers. He handed Langdon a printed sheet.
“This describes how to perform the meditation you must follow.”

Langdon took it. The magic-man gave Elisa a half-inch of additional papers.

"This in information to help you manage this unusual situation," he told her. "Like, it would not be wise for you or Langdon to tell the world about this. It would scoffed at and people would laugh at her for pretending to be a transformed boy. You might want to establish a new identity for her. There is a contact email for a person who creates false identity papers. Maybe you can say that Langdon ran away, and the girl living with you is a niece or something. Talk the details over with the identity man."

He glanced back at Landon. “There is one important thing you hve to remember,” the magic-doctor said.

Langdon looked up.

“The reversal will only succeed if your conscious mind strongly desire to return to your original form. If its wish to be a male isn't stronger than your unconcious wish to be a girl, the spell-breaking ritual might fail and you may have to remain as you are now for as long as you live.”

Langdon stared at him.

“You’re saying the spell might not be broken?”

“There is that danger. If you find that you enjoy living as a girl,” the doctor said calmly, “that will empower your subconscious to resist the counter-spell.”

Langdon shook her head with dream in her eyes.

“I have a will like iron," she said.”

The doctor smiled faintly.

“Many people say that. But in your case, I hope your every wish comes true.”

#

The ride home was quiet.

Langdon sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, looking grumpy. She's just been told that she would have to remain female for an entire year. She couldn't let the people at school find out what happened!

The idea of enduring this for a year was ridiculous!

Still… the doctor had had tried to encourage her.

But what was the choice. If she couldn’t tough it out, her only other way out was suicide!

#

Later that evening Langdon  gloomily in bed for an hour, until she gathered nerve enough to face the mirror again.

When she did, that same infernal girl stared back at her.

As far as girls' went, this one was absolutely beautiful. Langdon had look at himself as a superior short of man. Maybe it was natural that his female side was a superior sort of girl. Damn, plenty of girls in AI videos didn't look so good as her reflection. That was a good thing, maybe, but she didn't dare feel good about it. She remembered the doctor’s warning about letting herself enjoy being being a girl too much.

Falling in love with her own image might make the spell permanent.

Langdon slapped herself three times on the cheeks.

“Keep yourself angry,” she muttered.

Things were going to be like this for a year.

This was going to be the worst year of the rest of her life.

#

Outside the room, Elisa picked up the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart. This had been a day that was too much for her to handle alone. She needed someone to talk to.

The lawyer from Wizard's Law Office, Jethra Courtindale, answered on the second ring.

“Well, how did it go?” the lawyer asked.

Elisa looked back at Langdon’s bedroom door and then hurriedly explained everything that had happened so far in a low voice.

“From what you say, everything is moving ahead smoothly,” Jetra repied confidently. “Now what we have to do is give that girl of yours the most fun and exciting year a girl has ever had. By the time we're through, she'll be singing, "I Enjoy Being a Girl!"

 

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2 

High Heels and Hot Tips: A Sheila Coffin Adventure, Chapter 3

HIGH HEELS AND HOT TIPS

By Christopher Leeson 

Chapter 3: The Rough Stuff

 

The Narrative of C.D. Callahan

It was the fourth night at The Velvet Room, Val’s last curtain call. The air in the club was thick enough to choke on, a mix of expensive gin and pervasive desperation.

I was working the floor in an emerald cocktail waitress dress that looked like a million bucks while making me feel like target. I had asked the boss, Dom, for a that would keep me closest to Val while she was on the floor. Every face that crossed near her got my hard squint; every over-eager fan who was a red flag waving in my mug.

Martin, meanwhile, was still playing a lush and holding down his usual stool, but tonight his beer was only a prop, gathering condensation while he mapped the exits. At the wings, the bouncers Big Leo and Joey stood like twin pillars of muscle. They looked likes statues, but had eyes that moved like searchlights.

The clock didn’t tick; it crawled. Val's set consisted of slow, sultry tribute to Eartha Kitt, a recall of the days when that gal was really something. Between strips, she worked the room, turning on the customers just by talking to them. Inwardly, she wanted go to a safe place and pull the covers over her head.

She was captivating  on stage. What would it be like, I wondered, to walk into a room like she did, knowing I had a hook into every soul who occupied it? It was a heady fantasy.

But what in heal was I thinking about?! Val’s life was dangling by a thread. This was no time for daydreaming. But the thought of being glamorous was hard to get rid of. It was like the scent of French perfume lingering in an empty room.

#

At nine o’clock, the room turned cold.

I felt it in the marrow of my bones—like that itch on the back of the neck that tells a soldier a sniper has finally found his range. 

I scanned the floor. Then I saw them.

Two Joes. They’d walked in five minutes apart, but they were working as a pincer. One held down the bar; the other staked out the stage entrance. It was professional-grade surveillance—the kind that looks like a man enjoying a drink until you notice his eyes aren’t following the girl; they’re following his target’s patterns.

I caught Martin’s eye across the room. He gave a microscopic nod. He’d made the pair of them himself.
Val was leaving the floor, toward the ladies’ room. I intercepted her before she could hit the facilities, crossing her path like a black cat.

“Keep your eyes on me,” I said with a low rasp. “Two shadows. Bar and stage left. If you need to use the room, do fast. I’ll keep watch out here. But afterwards, stay in the light, surrounded by people. And for God’s sake, don’t go anywhere you can be cornered alone.”

Val grimaced. “Are they... from the family?”

“Probably. It's par for the course. Just do like I’ve told you.”

The next sixty minutes were like a slow-motion car crash. The two watchers didn’t move. They didn’t blink. They just sat there, memorizing the geometry of the room and the timing of the exits. Building a tactical map of a murder to come.

Then, at midnight, they stood up in unison and vanished into the night.

I jumped at the sound of Martin's voice behind me. “Reconnaissance,” he grunted. “Whatever they wanted to find out here, I guess they found out. And that ain't good!”

“What's going to happen?” Val asked, standing behind him. She looked small, swallowed up by size of the big room.

“Soon,” I said. “Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. But we have to act like the clock is at one minute to midnight.”

Big Leo rounded the corner just then, his massiveness blocking out the light. “Dom wants the three of you. Now.”

#

The boss's office felt like a pressurized cabin. Dominic Santelli sat behind the mahogany desk, flanked by Leo and Joey. Sheila, Martin, and Val stood before him like a trio of suspects in a lineup.

“Those two mugs tonight,” Dom started, leaning into the light. “Leo recognized one. Vincent Russo. He’s a button-man for the Morettis. They aren’t just window shopping any longer.”

“We knew it'ld come to this,” Martin said, his voice flat.

“Maybe so, but I don't allow murder in my house. I’ve got a liquor license to keep afloat, and I don't need bloodstains on my floor.” Dom looked at Val, his hard eyes softening for a fraction of a second. “Miss Romano, the pressure's gotten too intense. Finish the shift, but don’t come back tomorrow. Call in sick tomorrow. Since you're a good kid, I'll give you half pay for the no-show. Disappear until the blue coats come to collect you.”

“Won’t ducking out tip them off?” Val asked.

“They’re already tipped,” I countered. “They’re just looking for a hole in it your protection that they can stick a rifle barrel through.”

Dom nodded. “It's best to hide the target, Val." He glimmed Martin and me. "Look after her. And, Sheila, we'll miss you, too. You’re no great shakes as a waitress, but the customers can't take their eyes off you. Glamour brings in money.”

“Yeah. Nothing's more important than money,” I said glumly.

Out in the hall, Martin grabbed my arm and pulled me into a quiet corner. “I think they're going to be waiting in sight of her car to take an opportunity shot.”

“She can't go near her care," I said. We can do the same routine we did last night.” 

He shook his head. “No, we need a new routine. Organized crime is crazy, not dumb. We need a new play.”

The two of us hammered out a plan: Martin would take his bike, which was in his car trunk, and place it in a bicycle rack where I could retrieve it later. Then, when the closing hour came, Val and I would go out the front door and make for the cab stand. I'd put her in a hack that would take her to rendezvous with Martin and his car. To confuse any peepers, I’d hotfoot it to the rack and unchain Martin’s bike. I’d ride it to rejoined the others, at the agreed-upon spot. Then the three of us would take an evasive route to Martin’s building, where we'd spend the night. We'd nursemaid her there, with drawn revolvers.

It was a solid plan on paper. Unfortunately, the Morettis didn't fit the bill for paper tigers.

#

At two AM, Val left from the Velvet Room, not having let anyone know she wouldn’t be back the next night. As planned, I escorted her outdoors to the cab stand, where several other club girls were also waiting for rides. I hailed a taxi when our turn came up and pushed Val inside. “I’ll see you back here at the club tomorrow night,” I said, in case a gangster was within hearing range.

Val set her jaw. “Yes, you will,” she said. 

I didn’t linger, but took off to where Martin’s bike was chained up. The spot was so lonely that even my shadow behind me felt like company. I hurriedly set my "getaway car" free. But I heard the scuff of leather on asphalt and then saw a shadow coming from behind me.

I spun to see a heavy-set guy in a dark windbreaker. He grasped for my throat. I didn’t think; I ducked under his arms and ran.

Another thug out of the gloom intercepted me, and he was holding a piece.

But my Army training wasn't lost on me. I grabbed a galvanized trash can lid and flung it like a steel Frisbee. It slammed square into the bridge of the nose. He flinched, of course, and I was on him before he could remember where his trigger was.

The gun went off with a deafening roar, but the lead it spat out went streaking toward the stars. I grabbed his wrist, drove my knee into his groin with all the puny weight I had, and he went limp with a garbled gag.

Then the first guy enveloped me from behind. A bear hug. I slammed my head back, felt the crunch of his nasal bump against my skull.

His grip faltered and I twisted out of his grasp. I made it to the bike, got on the seat, and started pumping. The two guys with hurting noses couldn't catch up before I made it into the lighted street.

But I was afraid of being shot in the back. An alley ahead looked too narrow for a car to drive through, so I aimed for its mouth, pumping as if it were a race of life or death.

Because it was.

the alley was so dark I was flying blind. Just then, the phone in my thigh holster buzzed. I braked, drew it, and hit the speaker. It was Martin. “They jumped Val and me at the pickup point,” he barked, his voice ragged. “I raced after them on foot and they pulled in at Danny’s Diner on Seventh. They dragged Val inside. I went to the window to get a shot at them, but when they spotted me coming and I had to run like hell. Now I’m hiding behind the lighted Captain Pretzel sign. You know it. You can’t miss it. I hope your didn't leave your hardware back at the club!”

The line cut to silence. I got back astride my bike and checked the alley behind me. No shadows, no scuffling feet. Maybe the bruisers had given up on me after the girl was caught. I just hope she was still alive. I pumped as hard as I could toward Captain Pretzel's. 

Before I got there, I heard a ruckus inside Danny's Diner. I braked the bicycle and tossed it into a dark shadow, hoping no homeless person would steal it before I got back to it. Losing it would set Martin back at least a buck-ninety!
 

Val was screaming from inside the diner. Whatever they were doing in there, the sloppy dunces hadn’t locked the front door behind them. Only the burglar lights were on inside, but it was enough to let me see that a guy was holding onto Val behind the service counter. He was standing by while Anthony Gallo was doing his best to reduce my bud Martin to strawberry paste. Gallo and the latter were thrashing around, making a mess of the closed diner. It seemed like the other thugs hadn't caught up to them yest, and that was good. Gallo was throwing slugs like a heavyweight. Though Martin was fighting like a trooper, I didn’t think he had weight enough to stick it out for a full round.

I was still at the threshold. I reached for my Rossi, but its hammer got itself hooked in the fabric of my jacket lining. No matter how much I pulled and twisted, I couldn't tear it loose. Damn, but I hate being five and a half foot weakling!

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Martin slam a jagged right into Gallo's jaw and send him stumbling back in a clatter of tables and chairs. My guy followed up by grabbing a glass coffee carafe and shattering it the mobster's head. That made him unsteady on his feet, but the Italian-descended Terminator wasn’t a kay-oed. Instead, he pulled out a medium-sized knife; its steel flashing back the little light available.

Martin dodged his first swipe. As the blade whispered past his leather jacket, he caught Gallo’s wrist. As a follow up, the two men crashed into a vinyl booth, grunting hard, fighting with knees and fists.

I kept struggling to get my pistol loose, while Val was injuring her vocal chords screaming. But there was mechanical screaming coming from the outdoors, too. We heard sirens approaching.

That wasn't possible! It broke an unwritten law for D.C. cops to show up where they were needed!

When I finally dislodged the heater from my jacket, I pointed it at Gallo. Martin had only his fists, but Gallo clutched a knife. I’d have to shoot, just like I'd gotten used to doing back in Iraq...

“Freeze! Police!” shouted a loud, rough male voice behind me at the front door.

Gallo heard it, too, and looked back. I checked my impulse to shoot. The hit man rocked himself back from Martin, as if he thought the game was up. He let the knife clatter to the tiles and raised his hands. Smart guy. Why risk a bullet when the criminal justice system was ten to one against getting jailed?

I let my roscoe relax and sized up Martin’s battered face. “Are you still in one piece?!” I called out.

Martin lifted himself on one elbow. “Mostly,” he wheezed, touching his mouth to see if he had any loose teeth.

The gangster holding Val let her go and ducked away into the kitchen. Val, close to fainting, clung to the countertop, sobbing against the marbled gray Formica laminate. I ran to her. “It’s over,” I whispered, stroking her hair. “You’re safe.”
 

#

The uniformed men dragged Anthony Gallo out, wearing handcuffs. The Hard Harry at the counter had escaped by way of the kitchen door.

What next, I wondered.

Testifying against mob kingpins isn’t my favorite hobby, but Martin and me had only witnessed to a public brawl, not the homicide stuff that incites the mob to murder witnesses. Sure, Gallo had a rap to beat, but here in the nation’s capital, violent criminals didn't have much to worry about. On the bright side, D.C. wasn’t anywhere near as prejudiced a venue as Minneapolis!

A gray-haired officer approached Martin and me.

“Dewitt?”

“Present,” Martin said, wincing as he rose and holding his ribs. “I’m the one who phoned in about the Moretti gang going crazy.”

“What we have is a kidnapping case, right? That’s pretty bad stuff,” the policeman said. 

“They were after the girl because she’s a witness to a gang murder,” said Martin.

The officer nodded. “That's what I heard. I’m glad she made it through.”

“Val’s scheduled for witness protection soon,” I added. "Keep her alive until then!"

“We’ll take her to the detective headquarters,” said the officer.
 

That was it. My adrenaline could finally stop flowing. The work of the D.C. Callahan agency had brought the case to the end. But the way I saw things, the story wasn’t nearly over. I don’t think it ever will be -- not as long as this heart of mine keeps pumping.

#

Peace is wonderful, but sometime the things that a person gets into when the bullets stop flying are embarrassing. My instinct is to keep mum about it, but since the journals I keep are raw material for my memoirs, I might as well get it off my chest. 

After the diner slug fest, Martin and I went back to our normal day to day life. Being glad to still be alive, we made hot and heavy love every day for nearly a week. Living that way makes a girl blissful, I'm finding out. While in that magic state of mind, I remembered the name of the dance school that the club floor manager, Mercedes, had recommended. Angelique’s School of Fine Dancing. Hell, why not?

So far, detective work had required me to portray a hooker, and, right after that, a cocktail waitress. I had to admit that both disguises had helped us close major cases. Dancers are welcome everywhere. They can access a slew of sleazy places. That they could God's work while looking great! 

As I figured it, learning to dance, learning to pass as a showgirl, would help me in the shamus business. With that in mind, I signed up for a semester. At the very least, wearing those flashy dance costumes would be a hell of a lot of fun. 

The trouble was, I was doing detective work with my boyfriend all day long, and then I'd go home with him at night. Under his eagle eyes, how could I possibly attend dance classes on the sly?

To make a long story short, I did my best to sneak around. I thought I was in the clear until one afternoon when I was coming out of Angelique’s to see Martin’s Ford parked at the curb in front of me. He called my name and offered me a ride home. The jig was up. I had no choice but to get into the car with him and face the music.

Without letting him say a word, I jabbered out an explanation, the malarkey  about how dance training was going to make me a better detective. He listened patiently, nodding head and smirking.

“But I’m going to give it up!” I said at last, looking away, my cheeks burning.

“No, you won’t!” he said firmly. “What you’re going to do is work hard, get your diploma, and then show me everything that you learned.”

“So that's it, huh. Way, you lousy lecher!” I replied.

He shrugged. “Women are hard to figure out. Do what you want to do. It’s your business.”

Martin shifted into drive and turned out into the street. I sat there peevishly for a few minutes, until I realized that I didn't have any reason to be made. I said, “Well, I can tell you what I don’t want to do.” Then I stopped. Saying what I wanted to say would be such a big admission!

“What's that?”

I took a deep breath and tried to articulate it. “I don’t want to wait until graduation day before...before I'm able to give you a demonstration.”

He smirked again. “Great attitude! No wonder I love you!”

Okay, I had admitted what kind of girl I was! So what? I knew how guys think, and how smart they are. What red-blooded American male wouldn't want to toss a gorgeous stripper over his shoulder and carry her into the bedroom?!

But what the hell! There are some things that go along with being a girl that are actually fun!

 THE END 

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