THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 21

 

12-07-23

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 21

 

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

I suddenly remembered the old-fashioned steel snow shovel stored in the maintenance closet -- not one of those plastic jobbies they sell down at Costco, but a good, heavy bone-breaker. I dashed down the hall to claim it and returned to the door less than half a minute later, armed and fabulous.

I mean, armed and dangerous.

Just in time! The door swung inward; at the first glimpse of a head poking out, I brought the shovel down.

Clank!

The alien Spielman fell back into the office, as limp as a rag doll. Her gun flew out of her mitt and skidded across the terrazzo floor. I plunged into the room where Martin was duking it out with the false Callahan. Man! He was pummeling my impersonator as if he’d taken lessons from Andy Ruiz Jr!

I hated the idea of my handsome face getting bruised and bloodied, but I knew the score. Meanwhile, Latisha was cringing behind Sheila's desk like the useless politico she still was at heart.

Muttering coming from the hall outside made me go and check both ways. There were people at every office door along both sides of the corridor.

"No problem, folks!" I yelled. "The boys are just going after a rat! Isn't it a crime that we have to do our own pest control?"

I shut the door again, just as Martin shuffled up to me. "A-All right, Sheila, we've got him!"

It looked like he had Callahan down cold on the floor. "Don't say anything," I told him. "People are listening."

"Yeah," wheezed Martin, “okay."

I glanced back at the bogus Callahan. "Keep that monkey quiet," I told Martin, "we don't want him calling for help from those dumbbells outside!"

Martin nodded and fetched some duct tape from Sheila's desk. Meanwhile, I was checking out Leigh's body. No breathing. No pulse.

"Holy shit!" I gasped. "I killed her." To keep from falling down, I staggered back against the door.

Martin caught me before my knees gave out. "Sheila, you couldn't help it!" he was saying.

"That poor, mean-spirited, bad-tempered, frigid girl!” I babbled. “I was waiting for the day when she'd get her head on straight, but now she's dead!"

He shook me and made my teeth rattle. "It’s not Leigh! Its an assassin from outer space. You're a heroine."

Though my eyes burned and my breath came in tremulous snatches, I slowly got hold of myself.

I said shakily. "Everybody and his uncle is going to say that I should get the chair!"

Martin frowned. "Sheila, listen. The police work in this city is terrible. We'll just dump her body somewhere and Leigh Spielman will a boring statistic by the time some Maryland camper digs her up."

I slumped into Sheila's desk chair and sat with my face in my hands. Martin put his arm around my shoulders. "It’s terrible, but you're not to blame. I figure that we can pin the killing on Callahan!"

I looked up, horrified. "Pin it on -- who?"

Then I got his drift. In fact, if my double had been planting evidence to make my real self look like a murderer, he'd out-smarted himself. With multiple homicides already on his scorecard, he'd have a hard time beating the Spielman rap. 

But this was the dilemma: I wanted back into my old life, but the last couple days had smashed that old life of mine to smithereens. I wasn’t sure what I should do.

"Your first idea is best, Martin," I muttered. "Like you say, take Leigh somewhere and dump her! But I don’t like blaming things on Callahan. The real man was a sweet guy and if we hurt him, we hurt his family. We need to come up with another story."

"What other story?"

"I don't know."

"Were you able to get the evidence out of the dumpster?" he asked.

Giving a shudder, I said, "No. The rot and the odor was too much for me. I guess I'm not as tough as I thought."

He smiled. “I’m not surprised. You're the wrong type to be getting involved in his dirty stuff."

"No, Martin! I’m on the spot and I have to see it out," I told him. "Is there any booze around here? I’ll need a big one if I’m going to do what I have to do."

He was looking down at the dead girl again. "I don't like breaking the law," he said, "but I'll do it. For Callahan's sake."

“Well, just the kind of scum that makes the laws around here and it ought to be a lot easier,” I told him.

With a shake of his head, Martin sneaked the stiff to the back to the fire escape, unobserved as far as we could tell. With Leigh Spielman off on her last date, I took stock.

From what I'd overheard the aliens right, they hadn't reported to their bosses. That means that only the Callahan guy is left to finger us to the space invaders. Unfortunately, killing him was out of the question so long as he was wearing my body. I needed to get that body back!

I called Latisha into the reception room and got her help in snagging the prisoner into the main office. Now that he was sprawled on the floor, I had to face the tricky part. I had to do some parallel parking with him without so I could switch us back. But that would leave a possessed Sheila on the loose while I'd be left tied, gagged, and at her mercy. Not good! Think, Callahan, think!

Then the solution slammed me in the noggin. I got Latisha's help in stripping off his duds, a thing she didn’t seem to mind doing at all. Then I cut the man's tape bindings with a jackknife and replaced them with lengths of strong cord we had on a spool. This time, though, I was using a special removable knot that I’d learned from an amateur magician, so that Callahan could get himself free in a jiffy.

Now that he was down to his boxer shorts I felt queasy. Were my thighs really that thin and hairy? If real girls had rated that body the way I was rating it, no wonder I I hadn’t been getting very many Happy Hours. On the other hand, Latisha seemed turned on by what she saw. The Martians had really done a good job of twisting her mind.

"Yuh is a woman afta mah own heart!" she said. "De only ting Ah cain't understand is why a fancy lady lak yuh gits de hots fo' a bad-ass dude lak dat!"

Agitated and short of breath, I gasped out the explanation: "You don't understand. The nutty way he's acting isn't what Callahan normally does. But it’s normal for him to go crazy if he’s not getting the right kind of sex and plenty of it. You'll see a big change in him once I deliver what a real man needs."

"If'n dat's so, why dontcha let me do it instead? For dis, I’m the doctor in da house."

She had a point there, but that idea was a no-go for me. "He's my man and I’m not letting anybody climb on him except me. Got that, lady?"

She showed me her palms and backed off. "Sheesh! Hab it yor own way, Sweetie!"

My next problem was making myself feel sexy about a hairy guy with skinny thighs. The aliens had told me that the treatment I got was going to make me into a nymphomaniac, but I sure didn’t feel like one just then.

"Latisha," I began tentatively, "could you get him -- excited -- for me. When I start, I want to come on and finish it off fast."

The black girl blinked in puzzlement. "Well, Ah guess Ah'll jes' nebber undastand yuh white folks. Since y'busted me outta dat cop tank, dough, an' yuh 'uz such a good friend ta Blackjack, Ah I figure Ah owes yuh one!"

To make a long story short, when the alien woke up Latisha was on him like a hog going to slop. She wasn’t showing him much mercy, but from all I could

 tell, the fake Callahan wasn’t feeling much pain.

Oh, no!

I had suddenly realized that I was taking a big chance! What if the Martian switched with Latisha? If that happened, she’d be free to come after me!

Just like Macbeth, I had to screw up my courage. It was time to get naked!

#

I started shucking off my clothes. "That's enough warm-up," I told Latisha, handing her a pair of handcuffs. "Here, snap these on my wrists, quick, before he settles back down." I obligingly turned around and put my hands behind my back.

"Handcuffs? Baby-o, y'really lak doin' thangs wild!"

"Keep the key and don't lose it," I reminded her. "And don't pay attention to anything I say after I'm finished giving him the works. Having great sex always makes me go nuts."

"Wow!" she said with a blink. "An' Ah taut Ah wuz de baaaaad sister, but yuh could teach me a few things!" She obligingly snapped the cuffs on me.

"Thanks, Latisha,” I said, breathless with either excitement or loathing. “Now, one more thing: Tape my mouth shut and don't take Mr. Gorilla off me until Callahan is up and around and talking like a good guy. Don’t worry about the things I might be saying. Having sex always makes me lose my mind for a little while."

"I didn't know dat dis was da kind o’ fuckin dat white gals did. It shor 'nuff makes me glad dat I'm black. D’ya want me tah let him go affer yuh gits his rocks off?"

"No! He'll be able to untie himself. Once Callahan comes to his senses, he'll remember how to get out of that special knot I used on him." Latisha was still looking like a California politician in the headlights, but she darted off and fetched the tape from the desk without asking any more silly questions.

“Tape my mouth shut,” I told her.

"Tape yor mouth shut? Damn! Hangin' 'round wi' yuh detectives types sho' is an edjacation!"

"Please don’t do anything that will hurt either me or Callahan for the next few minutes."

"I git you, but I don’t git it!

"Put the tape on me," I said impatiently. "I can't do it myself, not with these derbies on my wrists."

She did a double take. "Derbies? I don’t see no hat anywhere, chickadee."

I sighed. "Derbies are what detectives call handcuffs!"

She wrinkled her brow. "Wha fo’?"

"Please, Latisha!"

"Okay, okay. But jes' use the kind o’ English Ah know, so Ah don't git awl mixed up."

She cut a strip of tape off the dispenser and pasted it over my lips. That done, she backed away bemusedly.

"Do yuh uptown people aways do dis when the light are out and da door is closed?"

I nodded.

"'Magin'! If'n the nice gals are all as crazy as you is, wha' do awl de johns wanna come down ta mah part 'o town fo’?"

With a toss of my head I signaled that I wanted Latisha to wait in the other office. I what I had to do next I didn’t want an audience. The black girl left the office and closed the door behind her.

Callahan was conscious and staring at me like a snake, but I'd taken every precaution and now had to get this rotten business over with. I knelt in front of him, but then hesitated. My problem was that there was still too much of the man inside me. I closed me eyes and tried to imagine that the Callahan alien was a girl that I’d just met under a lamppost.

I started rubbing my cheek against his stubbly face and, frankly, it gave me a “yuck” reaction. Where was that Dame Curse when a person really needed it? I wanted to be somewhere else -- anywhere else. For the first time, I understood why so many women refuse to do this sort of work without being paid good money for it.

Suddenly, the alien's arms shot free and he was clutching in a suffocating squeeze. I would have screamed, except that, like an idiot, I'd had myself gagged!

"Too bad, Sweetheart," the Martian said as he shoved me away and got to his feet. "You forgot that I know every thought in your pretty little head. I remembered that trick knot of yours!"

Struggle was useless the way I was fixed up. My face burned with indignation. I was going to die now, and all for the silly reason that I had been too mortified to tell the truth to my best friend.

The phony Callahan suddenly reached down and ripped the tape off my face, almost taking my lips with it!

Latisha heard my yell. "Yuh awl right in dere, sweetie?" she inquired through the door.

"Tell her it's all okay or I'll kill her," my deadly double threatened.

"It's all right, Latisha!" I shouted. "Doing it this way just feels so good that I had to scream. I screamed so loud that my gag came off."

"Do yuh want me ta put it back on?"

"No, that's okay. I don't need it anymore!"

"Okay, suit yorself!"

Now that Latisha had settled down, my captor sneered and poked my hip with his toe. "You are just so dumb, chicklet!"

"Hey, what if I slipped up!" I said. "I can't think of everything! I've had a lot on my mind lately."

He sneer became a smirk. "This is one hell of a way for D.C. Callahan to cash in -- as a jingle-brained twist."

I flared. "I hate being called cute names!"

He cocked an ironic eye. "I’m just talking the way you talked."

"I knew how to talk like an urbane, lovable man-about-town! You talk like a jerk!"

"Sorry, Babe, I can't turn the faucet off. Wearing this body, the lingo comes naturally."

"There's nothing natural about you! Just answer me one question."

"What?"

"Where do you come from?"

"My race is from a planet in a star system that you can't possibly have heard of."

"Well, duhhh. I didn't suppose you were Lithuanian!"

"Quit stalling, Callahan. I have to kill you; that’s just the way it is."

"But why be in such a hurry? Do you have an appointment or something?"

Without replying, he went over to Martin's desk and picked up Spielman's gun.

"I’ll give you credit for one thing -- you’re capable of causing a lot more trouble that I would have given you credit for."

"Yeah, well, trouble is my specialty.”

"Stow it I’ve got a busy day. I have to kill your partner and then find B.J. so I can kill her, too."

"You've got a full itinerary."

He snorted. "Covering up mistakes is hard work."

"Wow! Sometimes you aliens sound so much like Democrats."

"No more talk!" he snarled. "Just so you know it, your plan never could have worked. Sex only makes the transfer of our bio-plasmatic memory engrams easier; it doesn't force it to happen. I can bang all day without ever switching."

"All day?"

"A pity I’m too rushed to give you a demonstration."

"Why be such a gentleman? You could make today something to email home about.”

He laughed. "Is there anything you wouldn’t do just to stay alive for another ten seconds?"

I forced a contemptuous smirk. "Ten seconds? A second ago you were talking about ‘all day.’"

My impersonator laughed again. I gave his weasel face a glim, trying to come up with a good idea how to play him.

"What are you waiting for, big guy? Here I am, handcuffed, naked, and helpless."

No dice. The only rod he was pointing at me was a metal one.

"I got no time for parlor games, sister. Any last words?"

I stared into his face, formerly my_ face. "Sure. Give me time to compose something that will live through the ages."

He shook his head took aim.

"Okay, okay!” I said. “Last words. Something quick. I mean, something _average_ quick. Let me see...ahh." I closed my eyes, trying to pull a catchy epithet out of the hat.

Rats! Nothing worthy of Shakespeare was coming to mind, so I just shrugged and said what was at the top of my head.

Or was it at the top of my heart?

"Goodbye, Martin, wherever you are. I love you!"

My evil twin snorted. "Ain't that sweet! Well, that’s it! Farewell, my lovely. . . ."

Suddenly, the door swing open, its glass breaking as it slammed into the wall.

A gunshot exploded and the hardware in the alien's fist leaped away like a frisky trout. The false Callahan glanced about for a weapon and grabbed the high-school football trophy off Dewitt’s desk. Martin, my would-be rescuer, snapped off another shot, but his lousy aim only managed to put a spider web of cracks into the plaster wall behind the assassin's head.

"No, Martin, don't kill him!" I pleaded.

Dewitt came at the body snatcher using his roscoe like a blackjack. When the alien swung the trophy at him, Dewitt swerved, catching only a glancing blow on one arm. Before the bad guy could regain his balance, Martin brained him with his piece and drove home a knuckle sandwich. That one-two punch knocked the spaceman for a loop, but the crafty saucer-jockey kicked Martin's legs out from under him on his way down. They both landed hard and started to struggle for control of the smoking popper.

As for me, I was still checkmated by the steely grip of my nippers but, fortunately, a Latisha barged in just then.

"Latisha! Get the gun!" I yelled. "Shoot the -- shoot Callahan!"

She stared wide-eyed. "Ah don't wanna touch no gun!"

"Then get the handcuff key! Get me out of these things!"

She hovered indecisively. "Y'said not ta listen ta you!"

"That was before!"

She nodded. "Okay!"

The black girl fumbled the key into one of the shackle locks. "First y'wanna be in bracelets, den y'want out! Den doz two handsome white guys start fightin' agin! Jes' wha' is it dat's wrong wi' yuh, people?"

While Latisha was chattering, the phony Callahan, now on top of Martin, was forcing the gun barrel to the Belgian’s temple and struggling for control of the trigger.

When the hooker-wannabe popped one of my bracelets, I made a leap to snatch up the alien's dropped Betsy. I guess I wasn't thinking, because I pulled the trigger with a direct aim at the alien's head.

Damn me for getting all that target practice!

Callahan's conk burst like a melon on a firing range.

I screamed with dismay when I realized what I’d done.

The room went dark....

 #

"Sheila!" Martin was yammering. "Are you okay?"

My unfocused dead-lights were staring at him. When I could see properly, I was in the desk chair and Martin had hold of me as if he was trying to take my pulse.

"Is...is he dead?” I asked, scarcely able to breathe.

Martin took one look at stiff on the floor from where we were sitting, and then shook his head. "Oh, yeah, he's had it."

He's had it?

Everything started to go dark again.

"Baby, what is it?"

I moaned, "Whatya think's wrong? I-I've just committed suicide...!"

Once I'd come around, I asked how Martin had gotten back so soon. He told me that  the more he thought about what he was doing, the crazier it all seemed. His misgivings got so bad that he turned around and drove back to the office, gambling on the chance that the two of us could a few years off our sentences for cooperating with the investigation.

Fortunately, things weren’t as bleak as we at first thought.

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 20

11-08-23

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 20

 

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

"Incredible, Martin, we pulled off a caper -- just like in the books -- movies, even!"

Martin's reply came thick and unsteady. "I don't ever want to have to go through anything like that again! Give me a good, sordid divorce case any day!"

I wasn't about to let anyone rain on my parade. I just felt too good. "Wow! I could write a book, but who'd ever believe it?"

"Write it as fiction," he recommended.

I shrugged. "It's too crazy even for fiction!"

Just then, the lift doors opened and we came into the hall outside of our detective office door.

"Yuh gonna take me back ta mah Blackjack right away?" Latisha broke in.

Good question. We hadn't given any thought to exactly what we were going to do with Schitz once we had her. We'd saved her, but saved her for what? She obviously wasn't the crooked, loudmouth, lying congressman that everyone loved and it didn't seem right just to slap her on the back, show her the gate, and wish her lots of luck. No good ideas were coming from Martin; he was just hanging back and letting me handle the "girl talk." What a skunk!

The aliens had left the door unlocked. I ushered the girl into the reception area. "Latisha, doll," I began, "we couldn't tell you back at the -- jail -- because we were afraid that you'd get upset and do something foolish. The truth is, something awful's happened to Blackjack."

"Wha' y'tailing me? Wha' happen ta mah precious B.J?"

"You weren't with Blackjack very long," I said carefully. "Maybe he never got around to telling you that he had a really bad ticker."

"Ticker?" She frowned. "Now dat y'mention it, Ah think Ah did hear one o' mah wife-in-laws say sumpin' 'bout dat. Ah didn't tink it cud be true, 'cuz dat man could go lak a DC9!"

"I guess he went like a DC9 just once too often. His doctor'd warned him to drop the booze, the smack, and the girls, but he'd never listen. Right after you left his place, that bad pump of his blew a gasket."

Now Martin cut in: "We were with him when it happened, Miss. His dying wish was that we bust you out of jail and help you get along afterwards. Don't worry about anything. You can stay with Sheila here, until you know what you want to do next."

I shot the bastard a basilisk glare that could have turned a rhino into a boulder. While I was all for saving Schitz's life, I didn't intend to be Sheila for the long haul, and so there was no possibility of me taking in house guests.

"Poor B.J.," Latisha was saying, "he 'uz one mean bastard, but jes' ta know dat he 'uz tinking 'bout me up ta de end shows how special he tout I 'uz. Poor fella."

"Maybe he'll be reincarnated," I suggested, knowing that he already had been.

The black girl returned a puzzled stare. "Is dat when dey burn yuh up in a stove an' put yuh awn a shelf, inside a li'l jar?"

"Yeah," I said.

"What Ah gonna do?" Latisha asked, sitting in a visitor's chair and thinking out loud. "It ain't safe fo' a gal ta sell ass w'out a big, strong man takin' care o' her."

She turned hopefully toward Martin. "Yuh is a studly male, jes' lak B.J. 'uz. Y'got a stable of yor own, handsome? Got any use fo' a new gal?"

"No," replied Martin squeamishly. "I'm not in that line. I'm a private dick --"

"Ah don't know nothin' 'bout how private yor dick is, huun-ee, but Ah'm anxious ta find out."

"You kin learn, tall, white and wicked," she coaxed. "A man kin mak a lot mo' money runnin' hustlers den he ebber cain doin' wha' yor doin,' Ah betcha. Dere's a lot less chance o' gittin' hisself killed at work, Ah tink!"

My pard sucked in a deep breath. "Maybe you should take a vacation from that kind of life yourself," he suggested. "You ought to be able to do a lot better."

"What else Ah gonna do? Ah can't read or write much. Don't know nothin' 'sep' fuckin'!"

"Maybe you've got an aptitude for politics," I ventured hopefully, but immediately regretted it. I wouldn't want to set Schitz back on the wrong track, not now that she had luckily gotten away from money, fame, and power. She had a golden opportunity to walk the straight and narrow and I didn't want to  be suggesting anything that would ruin that for her. While streetwalking isn't something I'd recommend to any daughter of mine, it has deep traditional roots and, historically, it's never sunk so low as what goes on in closed door sessions.

"Don't you remember anything -- about the past, I mean?" Martin asked.

Her long, heavy lashes fluttered. "Ah remember everything! Do yuh tink Ah got 'nesia, lak in doz soap operas?"

"Then maybe you remember a man named Adam Schitz."

She tittered. "'Fraid Ah got no haid fo' names. Mostly de fellows jes' call demselves 'John.'"

"But isn't the name familiar to you? He's very well-known."

She wrinkled her nose and asked: "Wha' team do he play fo'?"

I smiled commiseratively and put my hand on her shoulder. "Maybe what you need is a good night's sleep."

She nodded. "Ah is all fo dat. It's jes' dat Ah don't lak sleepin' alone so much. 'Specially not tonight! Ah got de hots so bad, Ah could take awn de whole Navy base down in Baltimore!"

I knew exactly how she felt. I was in need of so many cold baths that I might as well buckle down and become an Olympic swimmer.

Schitz wasn't our only problem. It wasn't safe to hang around the P.I. office, not as long as the aliens were looking for us. But first, I had to search around and salvage Sheila's house keys, checkbook, and credit cards. I also found her car keys. Being able to use our secretary's wheels was a stroke of luck, since my own used Chevy had gone away with my alien impersonator. It was a small loss, though; it had needed transmission work that would have cost me a lot more than its $1.98 book value.

I found Sheila's bag still inside her desk drawer, which put me about fifty bucks ahead. A couple credit cards had possibilities, too. While Latisha kept Martin busy in the other room, I busied myself trying to learn how to forge Sheila's signature. While I could have passed any fingerprint test, a handwriting analysis would have tripped me up.

Luckily, Sheila had been one of those natty people who balance their checkbook after each draft, and so I knew I had over fourteen hundred on deposit. She probably would have had a savings account, too, and the number and balance would be on her last bank statement. To get it, I'd just have to crash her apartment in Falls Church, Virginia.

Hearing a doorknob jiggle, I shoved my penmanship lesson into the wastebasket just as Martin scooted out of the main office, trying to shake off Latisha's clinging hands. I suppressed a grin. While I didn't wish Martin ill, misery loves company.

"Miss Jones -- please! You're not someone I want to start something with," he was saying.

"Wha' dat white girl, Miss Sheila, got dat Ah ain't got?"

"I'll tell you what she's got, Martin!" I said, standing up. "She's got gas money!" I showed him the credit cards. "I found Sh -- my -- purse and it's loaded! I mean, I'm surprised there's anything left in it at all. I thought that those alien creeps would have robbed me!"

"Great!" my partner muttered distractedly, still disentangling himself from Latisha. "Look, lady, I've got to talk to my employee. Go play by yourself!"

"Glad to, if'n yuh wanna watch," she teased.

Martin's face flushed. Until now, I didn't know that the man could blush. I thought the color made him look vulnerable and damned cute.

Just then, the finality of Martin's rejection sank in for Latisha. She put her nose up and stalked back into our office, slamming the door behind her.

"That dame is a twenty-four caret problem," I sighed as I sat down again.

"You're telling me? Maybe we should have left her with the aliens!"

I shook my head. "That's uncharitable, Martin. Whatever else she is or was, she doesn't deserve to be put out on the street to sell herself, only to be murdered later. If you hadn't rescued me, I'd be just like her."

"I think I could stand being sexually assaulted by someone whom I liked, but that cuckoo bird is driving me crazy! What are we going to do with her?"

I leaned back in the swivel chair. "I thought you had all the angles figured out. You were going to fob her off on me, and then wash your hands of the case."

"It was the best solution I could think of. At least she doesn't want into your pants!"

I glanced at the closed door. "I don't know; she seems sort of AC/DC to me. But if we can't live with her, we'd better get her out of town for her own safety. Those bad guys aren't going to stop looking for a missing congressman, not if I know my Martians."

"But you don't know any Martians."

I sniffed. "Maybe not, but I read science fiction. Only one thing bothers me; what will Schitz do in her present state of mind? Nobody seems to care if a politician sells out his whole country, but to sell one's own body, well, that's a jailing offense."

Martin's mouth twisted distastefully. "I hate to think what my day will be like if I can't get that crazy dame off my back! Do you suppose she's ever going to snap out of it?"
 

"Search me. But since when did you become such a Puritan? Latisha is not only a hooker, she's a looker, and it's not like you haven't gotten your share of jing-jang before. And the way you came on to me at B.J.'s place was no evidence for the defense."

"What are you going on about? I never talk to girls about the hookers I've...occasionally run into in my line of work."

"Well, uh, I've heard you bragging to D.C. These walls are paper thin, you know."

He grunted.

"Look at the bright side, Martin. What can Latisha do to you, except feed your ego? Are you prejudiced?"

"About blacks?"

"No. I mean, about guys with sex-changes."

"Yes!" he replied in a low, throaty grumble. "I guess I am! I suppose the people that you hang around with would call me a Nazi for that."

My neck stiffened. "What do you mean 'the people I hang around with?' I hang around with you. Don't we go to the same bars, don't we enjoy the same movies, and don't we vote alike?"

He looked at me quizzically. "I never saw you in any bar or movie hall I've ever gone to, and I sure don't know how you vote. I've always figured you for a lefty, like most unmarried chicks."

Futz! Blunder Number Two-Hundred and Twelve! I was mixing up what I did and what Sheila did, again. Nobody knew Sheila's politics, since she never chatted for more than ten seconds on any subject. But from what he'd said, I was glad that I hadn't given him the straight dope about myself. I couldn't stand the thought of Martin acting "yuck" around me just because I was a freak of nature.

"Isn't it strange that the police haven't been swarming over this place?" Martin said, changing the subject. "Haven't they found those two bums in the dumpster yet?"

"Blame the city's lousy garbage-collection," I suggested. "Poor Callahan and Leigh might become compost before the sanitation truck comes around. And any civilian who spots them beforehand would just shut the lid and run."

"If they planted evidence to incriminate Callahan, shouldn't we go recover it?"

"Now that's an idea! You take care of Sadie Thompson and I'll go frisk the stiffs before the cops show up!"

He stared at me, appalled. "You? You want to paw through the pockets of a couple day-old corpses? It's filthy work, Sheila. Let me do it!"

I shook my head emphatically. "No, you can't. If you touch them you'll be in as much trouble as Callahan."

"What about you?"

"I don't matter!"

He blinked incredulously. "What are you talking about? Why don't you matter?"

I didn't dare explain. "I'm not going to argue about this, Pard -- I mean, Boss."

I got up, glided around the desk, and then gave him a backward glance. "I'm awfully glad that you worry about me, guy, but, like they say, there are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio. A woman has to do what a woman has to do."

'And the first thing she has to do,' I thought, 'is to make sure she doesn't end up looking like a brunette Barbie for the rest of her life!'

I left the office, went out the door, and took the fire exit down to the alley door. The coast was clear, and so I ran to the dumpster and lifted the lid; it felt as heavy as lead. That's when the odor hit me! Aye-yi-yi! Two cadavers slowly baking inside a metal sun-oven at high summer can go bad fast -- and these two stiffs probably hadn't smelled none too good even while they were still walking around!

Disgusted, I let the lid slam shut. For love or money, I just couldn't make myself climb inside that trash bin. I'm as tough as they come, but this was something that crossed the line. What I needed was a gin and tonic to brace my nerves. Let's face it; I could only get myself to rifle the pockets of a rotten cadaver if I were absolutely plastered.

If that makes me girly, well, then I'm girly.

Chagrined at having found out that I wasn't such a hard case after all, I climbed the stairs back to our floor. But just outside our office, I was surprised to hear voices. We had visitors.

Visitors of the worst kind!

"Where's Sheila?" somebody snarled.

At first, I supposed that the cops had finally gotten into the act, but quickly realized that it couldn't be them. If they'd known about the murders, the dead wouldn't still be inside the dumpster.

"She's a long way from here!" Martin was telling them. "You can kill me, but I'm not giving you anything to hurt Sheila!"

"We can switch you," Spielman warned him, "then we'll have every secret in your head. What would you rather be, a whore on the street or a dead man in the ground?"

I knew Martin and he'd rather die than be turned into a hookerfied version of Leigh Spielman! I had to do something fast, but what? Like a dummy, I'd left my roscoe inside Sheila's desk drawer.

"We can't hang around here," the phony Callahan said, "not with those bodies still waiting to be found. Let's take these two to one of our safe houses."

"No! We can't!" protested Spielman. "The caretakers will make a report and the Committee will know how badly we've messed up."

 "Don't sweat it, Roissar, said the bogus Callahan. "I know of a locked house with no staff. It's off Brinkley!"

"Okay," Spielman -- "Roissar" -- agreed. "The neighbors around that neighborhood won't be making any fuss about a few screams in the night."

From the sound of that, they'd be coming out of the office at any second -- and here I was, empty-handed and flat-footed.

To be Continued...

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 18

 

10-07-23

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 18

 

The General Narrative, continued

 

Just before eight in the morning, the Callahan- and Leigh-aliens picked the lock on Blackjack's pad. Once they were satisfied that they weren't triggering any ambush, the two of them bulled their way inside. A 30-second search uncovered their buddies' corpses stashed in the storeroom.

"Damn!" Spielman cursed. "Do you think our people escaped their bodies before dying?"

The other shook his head. "No. If they had, we'd have heard from them by now. Someone will fry for this. We've go to who's responsible."

A hasty hunt discovered D.C.'s discarded hooker dress.

Spielman recognized it first. "Callahan!"

"Gerrog was dead-set on trapping that meddling dick, but got himself whacked instead!" his partner growled." Even as a hundred and twenty-six pound woman, that damned P.I. managed to take a trained agent out. Unbelievable!"

"Osakond, the real Blackjack is missing too," Spielman reminded him. "He’s another loose end left dangling!" She sighed despondently. "I can't remember having such an awful week. Are we losing our edge?"

Her colleague's mouth was grim. "Damn Gerrog! By covering up our blunders, he's gotten us in ever deeper! We should've admitted to our mistakes and taken our licks. After all the screwups since then, the Committee is going to have our heads!"

"The cops haven't gotten here yet," Spielman said, "but humans saw the two of us enter. We can't risk staying in these bodies much longer. There'll be an APB pinned to our backs pretty soon."

The male alien clenched his fist. "Nobody gets away with this! We've got to find Callahan and settle the score."

 

Chapter 19

Martin thanked the cafe man and drew me with him outside. We went to the edge of the lot and took another gander at the factory. A padlocked gate blocked the driveway.

"I'll try the girl's keys in the lock," Martin said.

I let him go and waited next to the car. He returned about five minutes, his lips curled in a satisfied smile.

"One of the keys fits," he announced.

My skin tingled, sensing we were getting close to Schitz, and maybe even to the thief who'd stolen my body.

"There's a lot of box elders growing inside the walls," Martin went on, "so no one in the factory will spot if we stay under cover. But those aliens could have futuristic scanners. We might be walking into an ambush. It'd be smarter waiting until dark, just in case we have to bolt for the hills."

I rejected the idea. "No, Martin. With high-tech gadgets, darkness won't matter much. We're here to save a life and can't waste time. I'll jump into the fire, but won't ask anyone to leap in after me."

"What? You're the nuttiest dame I ever met! No way am I letting you go in there alone."

"Fine, I can use the company. But I don't want you risking your neck."

He shook his head. "If you want company and safety, we ought to head back to my place."

"Stow your lecherous hopes for later, Dewitt. Either come with me or don't, but remember—if you don't make it home, I didn't twist your arm."

Looking nonchalant as possible, we walked to the gate, unlocked it, slipped through, and then closed it without closing the lock. Then we took advantage of the camouflage that the untrimmed brush afforded.

"Damn!" I hissed, clutching my leg.

"What's wrong?"

"I tore my pantyhose!"

"For crying out loud! They aren't even yours. Stifle the five-alarm for Christ's sake!"

"Do you want me looking like a tramp?"

"Yeah, I kinda do."

I was in a mood to slug him again, but this wasn't the time or place. Martin was gesturing urgently, hastening the tempo, acting like we was the big chief taking over. I should have put my junior partner in his place, but the way that Martin was exuded so much steady confidence reassured me in an odd way.

With Pard in the lead, we slunk up close to the building and then sprinted beneath the windows with our heads down. After that, we tried every door we came to.

"Blast! There's no way in. These doors don't even have a keyhole, so the locking mechanism may be something fancy," Martin complained.

"I've got a hunch," I whispered. "The locks we need could be disguised."

"Disguised? If a lock's disguised, how do we find it?"

Wordlessly, I plucked the fob-key from his hand and touched it to each metal fixture on every door in sight. Finally, one door clicked.

"Baby, you're incredible!" Martin exclaimed.

I tried to look modest. "Yeah, man—call me Honey West!"

"You're prettier than Honey West. Prettier than Anne Francis."

I gritted my teeth. "Don’t be obsessing over appearances! What do looks matter?"

"It'd matter to you if you looked like Roseanne instead of Teri Hatcher!"

"Personally, I find the Hatcher comparison odious. That dame's getting long in the tooth."

"It happens to all of us," he said with a shrug.

Just then I bent to heft a fallen brick and put it into my plastic purse.

"What's that for?" Martin asked.

"A secret weapon," I explained, stuffing it into my bag. "I don't know karate like Modesty Blaise, so this ballast could come in handy in a tough spot."

He shrugged and then, clutching his peashooter to his chest, he opened the door. Finding nothing hiding inside, he ducked through. I followed, with all the tension of a drawn bowstring.

A little way ahead, we came upon another door, but this time the swipe box that controlled it was plain to see. Martin's card worked perfectly.

I said, "For interstellar travelers, these jokers have bootleg-era security. I've seen better systems guarding toy stores against eight-year-olds."

Martin, ignoring me, slightly cracked open the door. "A silent alarm could be sounding each time we swipe," he muttered. "Things might get hairy at the drop of a pin."

"Okay, so it's risky. I said you didn't have to come."

We each took deep breaths and slipped inside, braced to die. My knees quaked like gelatin, but recovering my stolen body made this a do-or-die operation!

#

It didn't take long for us to decide that the building wasn't abandoned. Around the corner, a few doors down, a guard stood watch. We didn’t have much choice but to take him out. Even if we could bluff our way past the guy, leaving an armed thug at our backs was a short cut to suicide. So that he couldn’t eyeball us, we slipped into the deserted employee cafeteria to make with the strategy session.

"Create a distraction and I'll bash him from behind," Martin suggested.

"What kind of distraction?"

"Aliens have hair-trigger libidos, remember?"

"No way!"

"What's with you? Outside you were gung-ho for walking into certain death, and now you're not up to wriggling your backside when the risk is nothing worse than getting some guy's attention?"

I jabbed my thumb into his chest. "That's idea is straight out of a sitcom. I'd be in an open firing range and, besides, I've got my pride."

"You've got pride, but do you have any better idea?"

"Why don't you seduce him? It doesn't seem that these aliens care what sex they are. They must swing both ways."

"Can the jokes, Sheila. The two of us have to either fish or cut bait."

“Yeah, well I don’t see you doing much fishing.”

“What do you have against fishing?” he said. “You’ve got on fishnet hose.”

"Grrr," I said. There wasn't any doubt that I looked gorgeous, but I didn't have to like the downside of the situation.

"All right," I said, "but you'll owe me for this."

"Kind of currency do you want to get in payback?"

I touched my purse. "Don't get suggestive with a gal who’s packing a brick."

"Point taken. Maybe it would be better if we walked up together, with you just ahead of me. That might warn him not too get too fresh, and I'd be a lot close when the time comes to slug him."

"Finally a good idea out of you!"

We settled on the remaining details in about twenty seconds. But Martin was looking unhappy. Was he so scared to have to come out of cover?

"Sheila," he asked, "is saving Schitz really worth the risk?"

"I’ve already told you that I'm no chicken."

"You don’t have to be brave. You've got nothing to prove."

"I have plenty to prove!" I turned and headed for the exit before anything chivalrous could come out of his mouth.

This was one of those make or break moments. I had to make the jerk think that I was a girl -- and an alien girl at that. I hoped that using English wouldn't give me away right off. I knew that Martin had my back, but I would have preferred having him in front of me. I sashayed toward the blue-shirted guard just ahead of Martin, trying to remember how the downtown hotties walked when they were on the prowl for a trick.

The guard was eyeballing my red-and-black outfit, ignoring Martin completely. I hoped that he really was sex-crazy, because he had any sense I'd be dead meat.

"Hi," I bubbled, doing my Gina voice. "Still wearing the same old husk, huh? I swapped my bod yesterday and its made me feel like a new woman." I took a risk and winked at him.

"Yeah," he said. "I don't know what you looked like before, but this has to be an improvement," the alien leered.

So far, so good. I had an interplanetary admirer. Now was hoping his eyes would stick to my legs like a pair of ticks, which would allow Martin to blindside him. But before I got beyond the guard's arm’s reach, the guard grabbed my shoulder.

"Hey! That hurts!” I said. “We can't be having fun right now; I'm overdue for giving my report!"

"Who are you?" he snarled. "Your vibrations are all wrong! You're human!"

I swung my weighted purse fast and hard. With a grunt he doubled over. I maced him damned hard as he crumbled to the floor.

Martin pushed me aside and bent over the guy. "He's out cold! Nice work," he whispered a few seconds later. Pard made quick to snag the revolver and keys from the alien's belt. "Might come in handy," he said as he pocketed the blue-metal Rossi.

"He knew me for human just from my 'vibrations,'" I said. "We can't get by these guys by using any simple tricks."

Pard nodded grimly. "That was close." He looked at me hard. "If...if anything..."

"Save the mushy stuff for coffee time, pal. We've got mean, hard things to think about."

I detested mushy sentiment but if I heard something mushy just then, I might have started to  like it. There was something about Martin that was making it hard for me to think straight today! He could be tough and sweet simultaneously and that was a one-two punch that could flatten any girl.

Any real girl, I mean. Obviously a tough mug like me was immune.

The Belgian moved ahead and tried out the new keys, hoping to find Schitz's Prison. But the lab we entered only held computerized equipment.

"Give me a hand," Martin hissed. "We can stash Sleeping Beauty in here."

Dragging the alien’s dead weight wasn't easy for my new arms. I wondered if lifting weights could pump up a physique as pitiable as mine.

"They post guards on this place, so the machines must be important," I said. "Could this be their whole operation's database?"

"If it is, what of it? I'm no computer whiz. You?"

I shook my head. "I didn’t learn much beyond word processing."

Surrounded by so much enemy tech, I wanted to do the bull in the China shop thing. "Wish we could smash them, but it'd take too long and make too much noise."

He agreed. Then we quickly we tied up the guard using insulated wire from a spool.

Afterwards, we scoped out the hall again. Fortunately, the coast looked clear. I was happy about that, but the sloppy security that these aliens had wasn’t earning much respect from me.

"Let's find the basement," I suggested. "Baddies always stash people in basements."A muscle ticked in Martin's jaw. "Fine, but stay behind me this time!"

"Why? Because there's no armed man up ahead waiting for us?"

"Can it for once! You’re our secretary. I'm responsible for you. I aim to return you to your mama in one piece."

I glared icy daggers. "Are you always going to treat me this way? If you are, that’s not going to make me want to stick around?"

"That’s good. You belong where it’s safe!"

I shook my head in disbelief. "Martin, the Earth is under alien invasion. How safe is anyone?"

He clammed up then and a short distance ahead we found the stairwell. The bad guys had made that discovery easy for us because they had left up a sign saying, "Stairs."

Most doors on the lower level weren't locked, but the rooms were barren. Wherever we came to a locked door we'd listen closely and tap gently, hoping for a response.

"Maybe Schitz's not here after all," Martin sighed dejectedly.

"Just a few more doors," I urged. "We can't give up on a fellow human being just because we're scared and dejected."

"I'd rather get you out alive than rescue a hundred Schitzs!"

"I'm flattered," I told him, "but your sentimentalism is getting monotonous."

"Is that so? Where did you get the idea that you're the toughest mug on the block?"
Before I could rejoin, a snippet of song reached my ears:

I don't need no guru for to lead me to grace;
All I want is a sweet man who's a number one ace.
I know Man's the master and that girls only tease;
But they're glad I’m not praying when I'm down on my knees!

That same tune had been playing at Blackjack's. Was the singer a human or an alien?

"Who's in there?" Martin whispered through the door, gun at the ready.

"Jes' lil ol' me, Latisha!"

Neither of us had heard that name before.

"Latisha, are you locked in?"

"Yeah, honey."

"Why? What have they been doing to you?"

"Nothin' much. Guess they’re keeping me cool until my man comes in."

"Wouldn't you rather be walking around free?"

"Sho' nuff! But who're you? Anyone with a voice like yor's has got to be big, strong and cuddly!"

"I'm all that," Martin said, trying one key after another until he hit pay-dirt. A lone fluorescent bulb lit the room—a makeshift holding cell with restrooms. I instantly recognized the black girl as the missing Schitz.

"Schitz! Why the hell didn't you tell us it was you?"

She looked bewildered. "Who's Schitz? I'm Latisha Jones!"

I turned to Martin.

"That's Schitz, or used to be," he agreed.

"What's happening? Did they switch her again?"

"It'd take two swaps to put a regular hooker into that body. Why would they bother? Miss Jones, how long have you looked like that?"

"Whatchu mean? Since forever, naturally!"

"She's got Schitz's memories," Martin said, "sort of. But what did they do to her?"

"It must be brainwashing! We can't abandon her!"

"You're right. Her memories might return once she's someplace familiar."

I took her arm. "Come with us, Latisha."

"But I gotta wait for my man!"

"Who's your man?"

She thought hard. "Guess it must be Blackjack."

"That's right, B.J.'s waiting for you," I agreed. "Know where you are now?"

"No. Mr. Callahan brought me from Blackjack's, and that man in the white coat left me here."

"Maybe you don't know that this is a jail. Callahan's a police spy," I confided, and he double-crossed you and turned you over to the cops for...whatever you did. Blackjack sent Martin and me to get you back on street." Oops, poor wording there. "I mean..."

Schitz beamed. "B.J's always thinking of his gals! Ain't he the sweetest! Let's blow this joint together, girlfriend!" She winked at Martin. "You kin come along, too, honeybuns!"

Dewitt took Schitz's arm and we backtracked toward the stairs, the brainwashed Congressman chattering softly. "Honey, your nylons are ripped!" she suddenly whispered.

I shot Martin an icy glare. "See! It's noticeable!"

"You dames are certifiable!" He took a couple broad strides and moved farther ahead.

What an attitude! I could've told him neither of us "dames" were the real McCoy, but I kept mum.

Nearing the upper landing, Martin peered between the doors. "Shoot! Some guy in a lab coat and a guard are coming!"

"If they're going downstairs, we're toast," I said. That was obvious, but it bore mentioning.

I had a brainstorm. "Latisha, stand on that landing in plain sight. When they come in, just raise your hands and smile. We'll jump them from behind while they're staring at you."

The brainwashed Schitz eagerly scurried to her place. So far, the personality transplant had seemed like a vast improvement in the disagreeable Congressman.

Martin and I assumed our ambush positions just as the dry hinges squeaked faintly. I held my breath and gripped my pistol tightly as the Martians entered.

The lab coat spied Latisha first thing. "You! How'd you get loose?"

As hoped, neither he nor the guard glanced sideways. "How'd you get free?" the tech alien demanded.

The senator merely raised her hands and smiled.

"Grab her!" Lab Coat told the guard. As they mounted the steps, Martin bellowed "Now!" and tackled the guard like a linebacker, also propelling the stunned technician backwards. Latisha darted clear as both aliens tumbled down in a heap.

Martin and I raced down after them and pounced on the groggy duo. The dazed guard reached for his gun, which caused Pard to slam his balled fist into the mackerel's face, laying him out cold. Then he rolled the tech over on his back. He seemed to be down for the count.

I helped Martin hogtie and gag the wrongos and once we had the dirty duo wrapped up like Christmas presents, I grasped Latisha's wrist.

"Come on, honey. We want to take you away from all this!"

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 20

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 16

 

Posted 09-08-23

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson


Chapter 16

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Backing away from the guy who was bound and determined to be my boyfriend, I caught my heel in that triple-damned throw rug and stumbled. Martin shot out an arm and caught me, but only succeeded in tripping himself on the tipped-over chair. Both of us plopped down on the mattress, with his weight falling full on me.

Nothing happened for a couple seconds before I jabbered out, "M-Martin, p-please! Get off me."

He raised himself by means of a push-up. "Did I hurt you?"

"Hey, bub, you’re as heavy as a whale. Back off!"

Obliging me didn’t seem to be the topmost thing on his mind. "Last night, it was you who jumped into my bed," he recollected.

"That didn't count; it was an accident!"

"This is an accident, too."

"I’d call it a train wreck. I sure as hell didn’t weigh as much as you do!"

He rolled off  me.

"Sheila," he said, "I want to level with you. I've been feeling something that started yesterday, when I first saw you wearing that incredible dress with handcuffs."

I shot him a scowl. "Oh, am I supposed to be surprised that you’re a basket case full of kinks? Get your sweaty mitts off my body, would you, fella?"

He let go and sat up. "I always thought you were gorgeous, but I never knew the kind of fun person you are. It’s like my eyes have been opened."

"Yeah, and it’s like my ribs have been broken!".

He stopped grinning. "What are you trying to say, Sheila? Don't you feel a little differently about me, too?"

"It’s the circumstances, Martin,” I said. “People act crazy when they’re confronting danger. You've got to kn0w that we'll both be thinking differently about this tomorrow."

When he looked disappointed, I tried to rephrase things. "I mean, we don't know if these crazy impulses are real. Hookers' bedrooms are incredibly romantic and they always have a funny effect on people. But there’s a terrible risk that we might be seeing things differently once the heat's off.”

“I kind of like the heat,” he said.

“Haste makes...problems,” I replied. “We ought to take this slow and easy. Otherwise, we’re going to be slammed with embarrassment later on."

He touched my arm. "I don't think I can ever stop thinking that you're the most beautiful woman in the world."

I shook off his hand. "Why do guys always have to go on about beauty? I'm not a picture on the wall. I’m more than just the way I’m put together. There’s a real person inside this goddess-like anatomy, Martin. Beauty shouldn’t be a big deal! If you need beauty, go watch a Margot Robbi movie.

"Eh! I've never been able to look at Margot Robbi the same way since she showed her politics off in Barbie."

“All actresses get a little crazy when someone waves a check under their nose. Except for Gina Carano, I mean. That lady is solid gold.”

My pard shook his head. "You don’t get it. The kind of beauty I'm talking about is more than just physical. It's a beauty of the spirit that speaks straight to the spirit." He touched his heart.

"Martin, I don’t think you’d be talking like this if I wasn’t wearing this mind-blowingly gorgeous bustier. Clothing doesn’t make the man...or the girl, either. Underneath it all, I'm the straight-laced type. Mother didn't raise her little b -- girl to be a tramp."

He gave back a wronged expression. "That's not the way I think of you. Anyway, you couldn't act like a tramp even if you wanted to."

"Oh, yeah? You haven't seen me giving it a real go yet so far!"

I instantly regretted my big mouth; sometimes I just can't help being the wise guy. My flippancy used to get me socked in the jaw; now the risk involved getting me pinned to the sheets.

"I can’t wait," Martin said with a smirk.

I rolled away and stood up.

"You're trembling," he said.

"I need fresh air. Either that, or you need to brush your teeth."

He let out a soft chuckle. "If you're having trouble breathing, I’d recommend mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

"Quit clowning, Martin!"

He took me by surprise and I was pulled down beside him on the mattress. Before I could catch my breath, he had planted a kiss on my palpitating cleavage.

"Bejesus!" I blurted. The shock of it put my out-of-control alien libido back in the saddle again. And it was digging in its spurs! All of a sudden, my arms were tight around his neck and his face was turning purple.

I hastily let him go, but the dirty fighter put a reverse on me, crushing me in a bear hug.

It felt kind of good.

Damn those aliens! But was there more than super-science to it? Neither Fred nor B.J. had lighted my fire. So why was Martin super-heating my blood? When he started unhooking the teeny hooks of my overfilled bustier that I knew I had to make a dash for solid ground.

At that moment -- luckily or unluckily -- the apartment phone rang.

"Damn!" Martin swore.

"Damn, damn, damn!" I swore right back at him. "It'll probably be one of Blackjack's customers. Forget it!"

"What if it's the aliens?"

"Tell them to take their flying saucer and buzz off!"

Yanking himself free of me, my pard got to his feet.

"If a space invader answers, hang up," I mumbled breathily.

"No way!" he insisted. "If we don't pick up it'll put the aliens on guard! You'll have to do the talking!"

"Me?"

“They won’t be surprised if a girl answers.” He took my upper arm and drew me out of bed. "Find out as much as you can.”

"Gottcha!" I said. Easier said than done. Holding that receiver made me feel like I was squeezing a .44 magnum at my own head with definite intentions.

"H-Hi!" I stammered, trying to imitate Gina's tweetie voice.

"Give me Blackjack," said a man on the other end.

"You want B.J.?" I asked, stalling, hoping that he'd let drop something that would help us find Schitz.

"That's what I said, babe!" This time I recognized the voice. Weird; I was talking to myself!

I lip-spoke the name of "Callahan" to Martin and he lip-spoke back to me: "He's out. Message."

"Blackjack went out a little while ago," I told the caller. "I think he wanted to buy some smokes. Can I take a message?"

"No. Have him call 'the aviator.'"

"What's the number there?"

"He knows it."

The line clicked off.

"He hung up," I said, crestfallen. "All I got a some useless code word: Aviator."

"Maybe I should have pretended to be B.J," suggested Martin.

I nixed that. "Uh-uh. You don't have Blackjack’s deep, mellow tone. And the Martians must have codes and counter signs for when they’re speaking to their own kind. They'd have to, since they switch bodies all the time. It's better to keep the jerks guessing and not tip them off by making some sort of gaff."

His expression tensed. "They'll get suspicious when Blackjack doesn't call back."

"I know," I agreed. "That just about kills any chance we have of an ambush here. We have to hope that we can find out something useful at the Carousel."

Dewitt nodded and looked at his wristwatch. "It's about a quarter after six. Just time enough for a shower!"

I nodded.

"Ladies first," he said. "Or would you prefer to share?"

Why was answering his wisecrack so hard?

#

A half hour later, we were just turning off Constitution Avenue when Martin blurted, "Sheila!"

“What is it?” I asked.

"We'll be out of gas soon, and that's the good news."

"Okay, I'll bite. What's the bad news?"

"The bad news is that all my credit cards are maxed out, and I've already touched on everybody I know around this cheapskate town. There's no one left to hit on, except you."

"When you try that, I hope we’re parked."

Had I really said that?

Martin smiled. "I mean, I have to hit on you for a loan. You're the only person left that I haven't already squeezed."

I let the obvious rejoinder go. As far as our finances went, he had a point. Sheila had been the only agency person who had been getting paid regularly. The government never cared whether its nutcase regulations wrecked peoples’ businesses, but it always pretended to be the guardian angel for private sector employees. Even so, there was an upside. Sheila had a stash of cash that we could draw from.

"My bag's still at the office,” I said. “Right now I'm carrying no checkbook or credit card. I don't even have my apartment keys."

"Thanks, Sheila, you're super. You'll have my marker, for all it's worth."

He was only quiet for a couple minutes before saying, “I like your new outfit, especially that hair."

"Yeah, sure, you like my hair," I replied with a snort.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I go for the total combo." He was referring to my vinyl outfit -- a backless, armless, red top set off by a shiny black miniskirt. I should have been thinking about comfort instead of visual effect, considering how lousy plastic feels when you’re in a hot car. Part of my wardrobe selection had devolved from the fact that B.J.’s girls had left their wildest outfits behind. Even so, I’d been impressed by the way I looked in the mirror. If Sheila had ever shimmied into the office wearing what I had on now, it would have been a dream come true.

I gave my hemline another self-conscious tug. "You dumb lug! Every time I get dolled like a pavement princess, you start telling me how much you like my outfit! Big surprise."

"Well, you look mighty good. If it embarrasses you, why didn't you put on something more traditional?"

I sniffed. "What could be more traditional than the world's oldest profession?" Lord! There I was being a wise apple again.

He gave a shrug. "What’s okay for you is doubly okay for me."

"Look,” I said, “if we have to swim with the sharks of Pimp World, it makes sense that we dress the part, doesn’t it."

"Is that the only reason you dolled yourself up that way?" Martin asked.

"Of course! What do you think I am?"

"I'm not sure what you are, but I'm holding on to certain hopes."

What a smarmy guy! I decided to take him down a peg. "You should talk about fashion! That leather jacket and those corny cheaters you wear to show off make you look like a smack pusher."

He bridled. "They do not! They make me look like a bad ass, which is what I'm aiming for. A bad-guy appearance scares off a lot of trouble."

"Well, I was always turned on by the way that Callahan dressed."

"You weren't?"

"I was!"

He sighed. "I liked the guy myself, but he was a walking anachronism. Can you imagine a man of his generation trying to channel Alan Ladd?"

"What's wrong with Alan Ladd?" I asked. "He could do a great tough guy -- and that couldn’t have been easy for him, since he was so short that he had to stand on a box when being filmed next to Veronica Lake."

Martin grinned. "I'd prefer to be standing next to you than Veronica Lake any day."

"I bet! She'd have to be about a hundred years old by now."

"I'm saying that you turn me on like Veronica never could have, not even back in 1942!"

I punched him in the arm. "What doesn't turn you on, you galoot? You act like you've just gotten off a slow freighter from China! Is that how your mother taught you to behave around girls?"

I expected him to regale me with a some sort of riposte. Instead, he turned all serious, saying: "Sheila, we have to talk."

"We are talking!" I said.

"We have to talk about what almost happened."

I braced my shoulders against the car seat. I didn't want to talk about what he was alluding to.

"Nothing happened! What's there to talk about?" I asked.

"Something might have happened if that phone hadn't rung."

"Not true! I’d have kicked you out of bed in another thirty seconds."

"In your dreams! You were coming on even hotter than I was!"

"Button up and drive, Casanova! You never had a chance with me. You’re not my type!"

"What's your type?"

Well, my type was Paige Spiranac, but I didn't want Martin to start thinking that I was a crested hen.

He suddenly chuckled.

"Now what are you laughing at, Weisenheimer?"

"I never noticed until now how much of D.C.'s lingo you've picked up over the last year."

"What are you flapping your tonsils about?"

"Your speech patterns. You're the toughest-talking doll I ever ran into! I've known plenty of chicks who talk dirty, but you don't talk dirty; you talk with guts -- like a man. Somehow it comes off as sexy as all hell."

I shrank into myself. Speech patterns, vocabulary. I hadn't been giving those things much thought, not with everything else on my mind. But, damn it, I’d been carefully cultivating a Hammettese speech pattern for years.

"I -- didn't realize that I wasn't speaking like a perfect lady," I apologized. "I suppose it's because D.C. was such an incredibly charismatic guy; he couldn’t help but make a lasting impression on the people around him. But you're right; maybe I should lay off the -- I mean, I ought to refrain from needlessly indulging in D.C.'s outdated urban patios."

Martin's lips spread wide. "No, don't. Every time I hear you speaking like Michelle Rodríguez in one of her tough-girl roles, I feel like hugging you."

I snorted. "Keep your hugs to yourself, kibitzer. What are you taking me for -- some goddamned dialect comic?"

He shrugged. "I'd love you just as much if you were talking in sign language."

Love....me?

Staring straight ahead, I pretended I hadn't heard him use that four-letter word. I tried to look calm, even though my I was sweating like Niagara Falls beneath my hot plastic outfit. For whatever reason, Martin had suddenly gotten quiet, too, and we drove the rest of the way in awkward silence.

I was sick and tired of the dirty streets around Political Town! Washington D.C. would have been disgraceful even if it had been the capital of Niger. It wasn't that the burg was poor; billionaires were as thick as lice all over the place. The trouble was that instead of trying to fix the world, the super rich came like locusts into D.C. with their hands out, as if they were a troop of skid row bums wearing Italian suits.

The Carousel turned out to be a small deli in a block-wide strip mall surrounded by a worn-out industrial area. Up on a nearby hill was an old factory protected by a rusting woven wire fence. We parked in the cafe’s tiny lot and went inside. The manager greeted us. He was a big guy with a craggy face and a nose that must have been broken at least once. He looked like a middle-aged prizefighter retired from the ring and taken to the bottle. His fry-cook outfit bulged with muscles, but that big spare tire of his ruined the overall effect. Didn't he have a friend who could have advised him to lay off the burgers?

Martin started the fellow talking, describing the redhead that we were looking for."

"Yeah, I've seen her," said the cookie. "She started coming in here almost every day a couple of weeks ago." He looked my way, asking, "Do you and her work together?"

"Work with her? Why makes you think that she’s a detective?"

He stared at me. "Detective?"

Martin changed the subject. "Do you know where the redhead lived?" he inquired.

"Lived? Is she dead?"

"Not exactly," said Pard, "but she's dropped out of sight and we’ve been hired by her folks to track her down as a missing person."

The fry cook shrugged. "I’ve occasionally seen her going up and down that factory driveway next door. That seemed kind of funny, since the place was been standing shut even before I opened here in '02. I've sometimes wondered if there isn’t some kind of gang dug in up in there."

"So you've seen other suspicious people?" I coaxed. "What do the gang members look like?"

"They’re a mixed bag. They range from rum bums to doctor types. Just a couple days ago, the redhead came in to eat along with three down-and-outs. Most of my diners don’t add up to much, but damned few of them look as bad as the winos she was hanging with. But if the gal was actually a detective in disguise, one can’t expect her to act like the typical ho."

"Believe me, Mister, you never know what to expect in a case like this one," I grumbled.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 14-15

Posted 08-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 14

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

B.J. Waters and her girls spent a few minutes tossing stuff into suitcases before disappearing into parts unknown. With Martin and me left alone in the apartment, I volunteered to take the first watch. I didn’t want my partner playing Sir Galahad and staying up all night. I needed him in top form when the aliens showed up.

Before he hit the sack, he helped me rig a crude trap at the door, one that would put the Martians at a disadvantage while making one hell of a racket. But were we being too cocky? Couldn’t the clowns from space bring in a whole battalions of reinforcements? That thought left me wondering if the two of us shouldn’t run like hell, just the way that we’d advised B.J. and company to do? But my main problem was that if I amscrayed, I'd stay Sheila until they laid the sod o'er me. Rather than accept living a life like hers, I'd go down fighting!

Stakeout has always been one of my least favorite activities involved in P.I work. Mostly, a detective's life is not very dangerous; worse, it's hardly ever exciting. This setup was different, though. It would have been so much better if we could just call the cops. The trouble was, talking about aliens to the city bulls about thing they pretended not to believe in was the best way in the world to win an all-expense-paid vacation to the loony bin.

In my state of mind, I had no problem staying staying sharp while waiting for unwelcome visitors. But I started to feel like there was something wrong with me. Like, it suddenly occurred to me that Gavin Newsom, on the cover of Time Magazine, was a hot-looking guy? And, what was worse, if a sex-starved motorcycle gang had suddenly broken in on me just then, I felt all primed to mark it down as a lucky day!

Instead of torturing myself with such unwelcome fantasies, I tried to think of some way to find Schitz. In this capital, trying to find one girl dressed like a hooker was like searching for one certain straw straw in a straw stack. Flatbacking was the only growth industry the present administration had already sent to China.

Chances were that the aliens would have taken Schitz to one of their lairs. I had always thought that a space invasion would be like The War of the Worlds, but these aliens were going at it in a sneaky way. They probably had a large number of safe houses where they could hide their prisoners. They might even have taken the congressman out of the city. Things were looking pretty grim for both Schitz and for me.

I stuck out my watch until three and by then I couldn’t take much more. So I went to kick Martin out of bed. But, clumsy me, I stepped on something on the bedroom floor, tripped, and fell face-first across my pard's sleeping body.

"Aliens!" he started yelling.

I just barely ducked a roundhouse that would have dislocated my jaw. "Martin! Cut it out! It's me!"

"Wha--? S-Sheila?"

He stopped struggling and snapped on the lamp.

"What’dahya think you're doing?" he asked blearily.

"Hey, cool it, Pard! I'm just letting you know that it's your time to get on watch."

He grunted. "You didn't have to join me in bed if that’s all you wanted to say! It's not that you're not welcome, though."

"Don't get your hopes -- or anything else -- up, Buster. I just stumbled." I glanced down at the floor, wondering what had tripped me. I saw a high-heeled pump and there was also a black minidress in a pile beside it.  That got me to thinking.

"Hey!" I exclaimed.

"What?"

"That outfit! It belonged to that alien who switched with B.J."

"So what?"

"Maybe she left a clue tangled up in her things, something to tell us where she and her gang hang out. Maybe that's where they've taken Schitz!"

"I've got you!" said Martin as he swung himself into a sitting position. "But it's not likely that she keeps business cards in her Wonder Bra."

"It's not her Wonder Bra that I most want to check out." I got down on my hands and knees to peer under the bed.

"What are you looking for?"

"I’m trying to find her purse," I said, "but I don't see it."

"You must be half asleep. A woman doesn't just drop her bag on the floor; she puts it in a safe place." He stood up, wearing nothing but a tank top tee and a pair of white boxers. In two shakes he had pulled a black plastic purse out of the top drawer of the dresser.

"Dump it out on the bed," I advised him eagerly.

When he did, we could see that the reticule held the ordinary sort of woman-stuff, along with a spork from some fast-food restaurant, a cafe napkin, and a lipstick-smudged tissue. But it also contained a couple rings of keys, one of which had a large brass twister, some kind of swipe-card, along with a plastic doohickey that I recognized as a fob-key of the type generally used for electronic security locks. Besides that, there was nothing except several small slips of printed paper.

"Wherever she's been, it must have a lot of locks," I observed as I checked out one of the key rings.

He nodded absently. "Is there anything to tell us what doors those keys are supposed to open?"

"What are those papers?" I asked.

He held one of them up to the light. "They're coupons for some fast-food promotion. They say that you earn one for each Happy Meal you buy. After you've collected ten, you can turn them in for a burger-French fries-soft-drink meal. I'd say we’ve just iced a budget-conscious alien."

"I'm glad they’re into junk food and don't eat people, like the space guys on V did. Wait a second, Martin! She has several coupons from the same place. That has to mean that she’s been hanging around one particular neighborhood. The question is, why would she need to do that?"

"Maybe she has an apartment nearby," he suggested.

I shook my head. "A person hardly ever eats at a lowbrow cafe in his own neighborhood, not unless he really hates cooking or the landlord bans hotplates. I don't know how much an alien assassin take in, but I doubt that the type would stick with murder for hire if he weren't earning enough to afford a kitchenette apartment. Mostly, its people at their places of work who visit a local fast-food joint every day. It beats packing a bag lunch."

Martin looked up in mild surprise. "That's good figuring, doll! never supposed that you had a detective bone in your whole body!"

I flared. "Hey, you mug! You've got no right to say such a rotten –"

Oops! I ha no reason to punch out my best bud. He was talking about Sheila, not D.C.

"I mean it's not fair to jump to conclusions about a person. If either one of you gents had ever asked for my help in solving a case, you'd have been surprised."

"The truth is, we never got many cases where we needed to solve things. Anyway, you never joined in the shop talk with us."

"Well, I’m the shy type!" I said. "The fact is, I took the secretary job to learn the P.I. ropes before I hung out my own shingle. Thinking about crime detection really turns me on. I've read all the good writers and even written P.I. stories of my own."

I saw incredulity on Martin's face. "I didn't realize that you were into detective stories. All the books I saw you bring to the office were regency romances.”

“Um, well, a man doesn’t live by bread alone.”

“If you’re a writer, you and D.C. should have been best friends."

Drat! I had to be careful about telling too much of the truth. "Sames repel, opposites attract. You know that, Martin. His incredible literary skill made me afraid to talk about writing when he was around. Whenever a woman tries to go head to head with a man on the really important things, she can't help but to finished second best. Anyway, D.C was a powerful sexual animal. Sometimes I felt like his eyes were undressing me. It would get me so excited that I had to fight to hold myself back.”

“I thought that girls didn’t like that sort of thing.”

“Don't ever believe what a chick tells you!” I said. “We drive ourselves crazy thinking of ways to make men come on to us first just because we don’t want to make ourselves look like sluts coming on to them.”
 
“If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have been advising D.C. to be on his best behavior around the ladies.”

“You didn't?! So that was why D.C. was always playing so hard to get!”

“I had an ulterior motive for stopping him from moving in on your to aggressively.

“What.”

“I was waiting to get the right signal from you. I was attracted myself and didn't want D.C. snatching you out of my reach.”

“Well, maybe it worked out for the best. D.C had qualities that no ordinary guy could match,” I said.

“Why's that?”

“Suave, debonair, powerful -- and women are suckers for older men.

His smile broadened. "Don’t write off us young guys. I feel suave, debonair, and powerful whenever I look at you. In fact, I can't stop looking at you since you showed up in the little black number. And, by the way, I think you look nice the way you're dressed now."

I punched him in the arm. "So a girl only needs to dress like a hooker to catch your attention, huh?"

He smiled but instead of pushing the envelope, he started reading the fine print on the coupons. "They come from a restaurant called the Carousel. I never heard of it. Maybe it's a mom and pop place and not part of any chain. The address and phone number is printed at the bottom."

“Maybe you’ll make a good detective yet,” I said.

Chapter 15

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

When we dialed the Carousel's number, we got a recording. It said that the cafe opened at seven in the morning and there would be a pancake special for $1.98. That sounded damned good, but the message didn't make any mention of the price of coffee. High-priced coffee is the scam that chow joints use to rip a man off once they hook him in with their cheap-meal specials. Anyway, Martin and I didn't have two dollars to spare between the pair of us.

"We'll have to hang around this place till morning," he said resignedly.

But standing still didn't sit so well with me. “If we scouted out the Carousel tonight, maybe we could zero in on some place nearby where the aliens are likely to hang out. So far, they seem to go for old warehouses and shut-down factories."

He shook his head. "No, that’s a bad idea. We could chase around all night without finding anything. It's a good bet that somebody who works at the Carousel is going to remember a redhead like the one you've described, especially if she ate there more than once. Besides, if we hunker down here and one of those space goons stumbles in, we might be able to beat Schitz's whereabouts out of him. Or her."

"Oh, so you're willing to hit a girl all of a sudden, huh?"

He gave me an incredulous look. "Do you really consider a body-switching monster to be a girl.”

“Body-switched monster? Isn’t that being a little harsh,” I replied.

“I like girls who are sweet on children and small animals, having a soft spot for alien invaders is carrying things too far.”

"I think it’s about time for me to go to bed,” I answered back. “It's after three."

"You do that, Sheila. I'll wake you up at nine."

"Six! I want to be at the Carousel when it opens."

He scowled. "That'll give you less than three hours to get your zees."

"I can take it! Hell, I once went without sleeping for forty-eight hours when I was --" I stifled myself. I'd been on the brink of saying, "When I was in Afghanistan."

"Was what?"

"Ah, when I was with the Girl Scouts. Surely you realize that chicks have to sweat blood if they expect to win all those merit badges!"

He grinned. "They sound like a really tough outfit."

"The Girl Scouts build women! If I had a daughter, I'd slap a Scout beret on her head and get here feeling at home in the deep woods. You can never have enough mean-as-hell cookie pushers!"

Martin’s expression turned serious. "You like kids then?"

"K-Kids?" That question threw me. Instead of answering, I mumbled, "It's time I hit the mattress in one of the other bedrooms," and then scooted away.

I went into Gina's room and flopped down on her mattress. I slept until the need for a bathroom trip woke me up. By the time I got back under the sheets, Mr. Sandman had taken it on the lam. It was only a little after 5:00 a.m. and I felt bummed out!

One thing that kept me from getting back into dreamland was that my mind was testing ground for sexy fantasies. I should have expected trouble when I bedded down in the perfumy air of a hooker’s room!

Lying there stone cold awake, I was getting randier by the minute! Those aliens hadn't been kidding about their extra-terrestrial sex-drive being contagious. For a while I tried counting buff guys while they leaped over a fence, but that only made things worse. Admitting defeat, I decided to get up and get dressed.

I shucked off B.J.'s male-sized tee shirt that I'd been using for pajamas began searching for day ware, hoping to find a sensible a pair of blue jeans and a plain cotton shirt. But everything left behind by Gina had been tailored for bad girls. Probably, she had taken away all her modest things when abandoning the pad.

But while I searched, I got the strangest sensation from my hands shuffling through the lingerie drawer. I'd always liked the feel of nylon, but it never had such a powerful effect on be before. The next thing I knew, I was pressing a laundry-room fresh chemise to my nose and breathing deeply of the scent.

Bemused, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror. Wow! That tangled head of hair was making me look slovenly! I picked up a comb and tried to bring a little order to what looked like a fright wig. Easier said than done; by the time I finished teasing my way through the snarls, I was looking like some Italian actress in the role of being the main squeeze of a swordsman in an adventure movie. On the other hand, I’ve never had anything against cheap Italian adventure movies. Also, there was all that peach-smooth lusciousness without even a staple to get in the way! My heart aflutter, I put my hands on Sheila's glorious rack.

Jeepers! Her boobies were and incredibly sensitive handful! I could now guess why women wanted to retreat into the privacy of the ladies' room so often. All of a sudden, I was anxious not to let anyone see me the way I was.

Because the bedroom door had no lock, I braced a chair under its knob -- just like I used to do to keep my brother Jack out of our room while I was paging through the men's magazines he'd bought at a rummage sale. The women in those paintings were usually pictured in torn blouses and skirts ripped to the hip. I could envy those jungle headhunters and Nazi SS men who were privileged to give chase to them. I'd always resented that magazines like them hadn't been published for decades; they'd vanished from the racks in the 70's. My theory was that when the drugged-out hippies came in the front door loaded with lice and smelling of BO, America’s real men, holding their noses, ducked out the back exit. A pity. Without those red-blooded heroes spreading around their clear sense and sagely wisdom, the country had taken a deep dive into hell.

Pretty soon, I drifted back to the lingerie drawer. There was an itsy bitsy two-piece baby doll on the top. It was the kind of thing that I’d frequently imagined Sheila wearing. Suddenly I realized that I had a rare opportunity to make a dream come through. The next thing I knew, I was stepping into that sable pair of skimpy briefs and sliding that little top down over my head. I at once checked myself in the mirror told and decided that the outfit looked absolutely perfect on Sheila. Then I went exploring the closet and rummaged around until I found a pair of vinyl pumps. Once those five-inch heels on my feet, I needed to hang onto the dresser to keep from falling over. Having finally gotten my balance, I struck a sassy pin-up pose and checked myself out in the mirror.

Not bad.

But don't get the wrong idea about me. I wasn't doing anything sick. In my own mind, I was simply dressing up a king-sized version of a Margot Robbie Barbie doll. 

It was a game that turned out to be addicting. It wasn't long before I had changed into a white, lace-paneled, Lycra bustier sprinkled with petite red hearts. Again, I liked what I saw. What a babe Sheila was! Or, rather, had been.

It was a funny situation – the girl I saw reflected was me, but she also wasn't me. I couldn't help but fantasize throwing myself over my own shoulder and sweeping myself away for a little fun in the sack!

"Sheila, I think I love you!" I heard myself saying. I had the impulse to get a gander at the full length image of my naughty secretary, from the top of her head down to her high heels, I backed away from the mirror. Unfortunately, while stepping without looking, I caught one of those heels on an electrical cord and the lamp was jerked off the nightstand. It thudded to the linoleum with a bump and the next thing I knew, Martin was pounding on the door like a Prohibition agent.

Though I'd wedged a chair under the knob, its legs were braced on a slippery throw rug that went sliding as soon as Martin applied his shoulder to the door. With the chair falling away, the door flew open. Before I could shout "Get lost!" Martin was standing there clutching a mahoska in his mitt.

He tried not to look like he was scoping me out, but this wasn't my first rodeo. He said, “Sorry I barged in. What made that noise?"

"Nothing!" I told him shakily. "I -- I just knocked over a lamp!"

"Oh. I see. Have you been sleeping all right?"

I wanted to duck under the covers to hide, but I decided to brazen it out. "I was out for a couple hours," I told him.

"That’s not good. You ought to try for a little more shut-eye; we have a big, bad day ahead of us." He was trying to sound nonchalant, but his his glance was scorching me.

"Yeah," I agreed, my throat tight. I felt like socking him. You'd think that he would have had the grace to turn his back.

"You don't have to get involved in this mess," Martin said. "In fact, I wish you'd find someplace to hide until things get sane again."

“But by that time that happens you could be dead!” I reminded him.

He shrugged. “Them’s the breaks. I haven't had too many chances to be the hero. This seems like a good place to start.”

“What kind of talk is that? My life isn’t any more important than yours!" I declared.

"Of course it is! You're a girl!"

"Don't rub it in! I mean, people overrate sex." Oops, I should say the word sex around a single man who didn't have a girlfriend. So, I quickly said, "Remember that old song, Martin? 'All you really need is heart'? Well, brother, I'm full of heart!"

He grinned. “I’ve been noticing that there are plenty of hearts on that rig you’re wearing.”

“Don’t make a joke of everything!” I said coolly.

"Well, I'll say something serious then. I really do want you to get away to a safe place."

"I don't think that's such a good idea," I said.

"But I do, and that overrules what you're thinking!"

I crossed my arms and held my chin high. "What is this? Are you supposing that you're smarter than me?"

Martin sighed. "You're plenty smart, Sheila, but you don't know everything. Like, I wouldn't pick you out of a crowd to do brain surgery on my Aunt Rosie. You’ve got no detective seasoning! We're up against a mob that would give even Elliot Ness the heebie-jeebies. That’s a megaton of danger ahead of us and I don’t want to lose you not that I've discovered how great you are.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I don't know how you did it, but somehow, since yesterday, you’ve remade yourself from a four to a ten.”

"I have not! I’m exactly the same as I've always been.” I looked down at my barely dressed body. "You don't see the real me; you only see what I'm wearing."

“What you're wearing is fine, but if you insist on hanging around, I wouldn't mind joining you for breakfast at the Carousel Cafe. Since we’ve that pack of coupons, we’ll be able to chow down in good style.”

I really hoped the big ape was only talking about food, but I wasn’t so sure!

TO BE CONTINUED...

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 13

Posted 07-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 13

The General Narrative, continued

The darkness already becoming dense, Leigh turned the Ford Taurus off the Washington street. A bumpy lane led them up to the iron-gated driveway of an industrial site. Putting the car into park, Leigh got out and opened the barrier. Schitz, watching from the back seat, stared dubiously at what was a closed-down factory.

When Leigh resumed driving, she parked behind the main building building of the derelict property. Callahan assisted Schitz in exiting the car’s back seat and then the detectives ushered her indoors by way of a rear entrance accessed by way of an electronic key fob.

“What is this place?”  the black girl asked.

"It's an abandoned mob hideout," he replied. "My underworld contacts recommend it highly."

“Are you sure the mob’s actually abandoned it?" the politician asked.

"Don't worry. We'll be the only ones here," Callahan assured Schitz. "And the insides of the building will look a lot better than what what you can see from out here. Anyhow, we don't have much choice, not with the aliens scourging the city looking for us. Dewitt and Miss Coffin must be inside already, setting things up."

"Okay, okay. I just want a safe place where I can rest."

"Yeah, you look worn out, Congressman. Have you gormed a decent meal lately?"

Schitz shook her head. "No. I've never been so hungry in my life."

"If Sheila’s done the shopping she’s supposed to, we’ll have a couple hundred dollars of groceries stashed inside."

"Do you have any other clothes I can wear?" she asked.

"No problem," Callahan said with a grin. "When our secretary overnights, she brings enough baggage to stock a Saks Fifth Avenue; maybe something of hers will fit you."

Schitz frowned. "Callahan, how long will we have to hide? Do you have a plan for getting us out of this? For getting my old body back?"

"Martin and I were working on that angle before we split up. We’ll do our best, but we'd prefer not to get your hopes too high too soon."

"Don't do me any favors, Mister," she replied grumpily. "What I need more than anything is hope!"

"We'll talk about that when we’re settled in," the sleuth responded ambiguously.

The detective duo led the hooker-dressed girl down an aisle to a security door. Callahan used a key-card to open it, revealing a hall that was without decoration of any kind, except for old company posters ballyhooing decade-old announcements. It must have been inhabited, though, since the floors were cleanly swept.

Suddenly, the girl noticed that the detectives were wearing strange and alarming expressions. "Well, you gave us a run for our money, Congressman," Leigh suddenly said, "but we always get our man."

The black girl gasped. "What are you saying?"

Callahan's tightened his grip on her arm. "We're saying that we've already taken out your detective pals. We're the same big bad aliens that you've been trying to get away from all this time."

The blood drained from Schitz's face. "No, you're putting me on!"

Spielman shook her head. "No way, José. We got hold of Callahan a half hour after he left you off at his hotel. You're all alone, Senator. Now we're going pick up where we left off."

"No!" Schitz cried, pulling away, her precarious heels almost tripping her. “There’s no place to run, babe," said the Callahan alien. "By now your wife is sleeping with the teammate of ours who's wearing your skin."

"Why are you hounding me?" Schitz demanded. "Are you Republicans? Non-RINO Republicans, I mean."

"Not hardly.”

"Look, I can pay you people off!" Schitz pleaded. "I've taken in millions from influence peddling payoffs and nobody knows about it!"

"Our guy already knows, baby doll, because he knows every thought in your head," said the false Callahan. "You've got that killer body and that micro dress you're wearing, and that's about it."

"W-What are you going to do with me?" the prisoner stammered.

Callahan looked her up and down. "We’ll keep you around in case we have a use for that sexy body of yours again. But in the meantime, you won’t be sitting around eating bonbons. On our planet, everybody has to work!"

"What kind of work?" asked Schitz. She hadn't held a real job since before entering law school.

"In your case, streetwalking, baby, streetwalking," Leigh clarified.

She dug her heels. "I'll never do that for you! You'll have to kill me first!"

"We won't kill you as long as we have a use for you," the blond replied. They started dragging her along again, but her yells caused a man wearing a lab coat to come out of a door up ahead. 

 "So you finally brought Schitz in?" he remarked acidly. "What took you so long, and where did you two come up with the new bodies you're wearing?"

"The snatch wasn’t a clean one and we had to lie low,” said the false Callahan. “It's a long story. Gerrog will be making the formal report when he checks in."

Lab Coat shrugged; it wasn't his job to supervise the field squads. "You're lucky that we have enough time on our hands to process her immediately. Otherwise, you four would have all your classes in a sling – or however it is that the human say that. Hurry up. Bring her along."

The three aliens manhandled Schitz into a lab lined with computer equipment and shoved her into a chair rigged with an electrical apparatus of some sort. The false Leigh and Callahan bound the black girl's wrists and ankles to the chair with straps before the white-coated one fitted an awkward metal helmet over her head.

"W-What's this for?" asked Schitz, her stomach twisted into hard knots.

"The helmet allows us to feed information directly into your memory cells," the lab guy explained. "When the process is completed, you won’t have much of a future, but you’re going to have one hell of an enjoyable past to remember."

She tried to shake the helmet off without success. "Don't try messing with my mind, you monsters!"

The Lab Coat turned a dial that sent a wave of static into Schitz’s mind, making it hard for her to think. After fifteen seconds of struggle, she passed into a quiet state of altered consciousness.

The technician then told her, "Schitz, you will hear my questions and will answer them with absolute truthfulness. Do you understand?"

"I -- do," the black girl replied somnambulantly.

"Good. When I ask you to repeat an answer that you've already given, you will do so. You must try to answer with the same words you remember saying the first time. If you understand, nod."

Schitz nodded.

"First question: Do you want to be cooperative?"

"No!" Schitz answered truthfully.

"I see. Now tell me again, do you want to be cooperative?"

"Yes!" Schitz exclaimed.

Lab Coat nodded in satisfaction. The Congressman was proving to be a good subject. Most humans of low intelligence were good subjects.

"How many siblings do you have? What did your mother and father do?" asked the tech.

"Five," Schitz replied. "Mother was a society lady. Dad started out as a mob man. He did a hit for the Johnson Administration and that landed him a job at the White House for the rest of the term."

"Fine. Now repeat what you just said."

"I'm an only child. Mother was a whore and dad was one of her johns. She never knew which one of them had knocked her up, but it boosted her welfare check and that was all she cared about.”

"Are you male or female?"

"Male!"

"Repeat!"

"Female. Isn't it obvious?"

"What is your profession?"

"I'm a U.S. Congressman."

"Repeat!"
 

"I'm a ho."

"What's your name?"

"Adam Bennett Schitz."

"Repeat!"

"Latisha D. Jones. The D stands for Delilah."

"Which do you prefer making love to? Men or women?"

"Women, of course!"

"Repeat!"

"I’ll put out for anyone who pays me, but I always prefer men."

"What color are you?"

"White. I get slightly red in July."

"Repeat!'"

"Didn't you notice that I was black and beautiful, honey pie?"

"If an employer of yours ever struck you physically, what would you do?"

"I'd pay off MS 13 to crush his bones to make my bread!"

"Repeat!"

"I'd try to figure out what I did wrong and fix it."

"What is your greatest ambition?"

"To be President of the U.S.A."

"Repeat."

"To be a famous actress with my picture in all the movie magazines."

"Who do you most trust?"

"Myself."

"Repeat!"

"My sweet man!"

"How would you feel if your sweet man took all your money and spent it on himself?"

"I'd want to shove an ice pick through his eye!"

"Repeat!"

"I want my fancy man to have the best of everything. If everyone can see that he's the best, that makes me hot stuff, too!"

"What is your favorite pastime?"

"Golf."

"Repeat!"

"Fucking!"

"What would you like to see engraved on your tombstone?"

"'Here lies a patriot of gracious heart and noble soul, a transcendent spirit who dedicated his life to the betterment of Mankind. His tireless labor has left the world a better and kinder place for all the generations that are yet to come.'"

"Repeat!"

"'Here lies a pretty woman who could really suck and fuck!'"

"What fashions do you prefer?"

"Three-piece English suits, worsted fabric especially, worn with silk shirts and Italian wing-tips."

"Repeat!"

"I don't care what I wear as long as it shows off my my boobs and my gams. But I do want to wear heels so high that they let me touch the sky!"

After many another question, Lab Coat instructed “Latisha” to read from a computer screen, instructing her to repeat each word that she saw out loud.

"Child, time, them, boy, on, honey, tell, they, wishing, thing..." she recited.

"Now read them again, Miss Jones."

"Chahl, taam, dem, bawee, awn, huun-ee, tail, dey, wishin', thang . . . ."

Before the scientist was finished, he had implanted about a thousand Eubonic pronunciations into Latisha's vocabulary.

"Now, Latisha, I want you to read each sentence that appears on the screen."

The first sentence she saw was: "Right after the music, this man comes on the radio shouting about something amazing that he wants to sell.'"

"Say what you read in your own words."

"Right after de music, dis man he come on de radio shoutin' 'bout sumpin' 'mazin' dat he wanna sell."

After two more hours of instruction, Schitz was speaking a passable dialect of black urban English. It wasn't perfect, but after a few months of street living she’d be sounding like a kid raised inside a government housing project.

 'Now,' Lab Coat mumbled to his companions, 'for the finishing touch':

“Miss Jones, can you read or write?”

"Sho-nuf, Ah kin! Ah went ta Havard."

"Would you repeat that?"

"No, suhr! Ah ain't nebber cared much fo school! Nebber wanted ta any o' dat head stuff. Mah stepfoddah, he were a haaaandsome man. He taught me jes' 'bout awl a workin' gal will ebber need ta know."

The alien technician at last switched off his equipment. His department would set her up with one of the several alien agents operating streetwalker stables for the benefit of the invasion. The subject was Latisha now, remembering a new past life history. She would not have a clue that she had ever been been anyone called Congressman Adam Bennett Schitz.

TO BE CONTINUED....