Posted 02-07-23
THE BIG SWITCH
By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 3, The General Narrative continued....
Leigh Spielman swore under her breath, bored and frustrated, while her computer's back-up drive ran. Someday, she told herself, she'd have an office in a building that low-lives couldn't afford. Maybe it would be in Fredericksburg, maybe in Baltimore, just where it was didn't matter much. Anywhere that was outside this disgusting city had to be an improvement. What was the use of being a financial planner in a town where everyone was either on the dole, or had a numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands?
Suddenly, the door clicked behind her and Leigh jumped, not expecting anyone. She swung about and there stood a red-blonde woman wearing a short black dress, followed by two derelict-types in shabby old suits.
"Who are you?" Leigh asked suspiciously.
"Did a black streetwalker come into this building?" the female demanded.
"I haven't seen anybody," Spielman replied impatiently. "Check with the people across the hall. They always have some down and out client coming in or leaving."
The redhead glanced back at her companions. "She has an agreeable shape. I think one of you could use it."
"What are to talking about?" Leigh responded with a roughness meant to disguise what was a growing sense of disquietude. "I told you I didn't see your friend. You have no reason to loiter any longer in this office!"
Leigh stood up to show them the door, but a pair of dirty hands grabbed her.
"What are you doing?" Spielman shouted, but a filthy palm clapped itself over her mouth to keep her quiet.
"Throw her across the desk," the redhead directed her companions. "You two can flip to see which one gets her."
Meanwhile, Sheila sat alone in Callahan's chair, trying to imagine herself as Christina Cox in Bloodties. 'How glorious it would be,' she thought, 'to be the owner of anything at all, even a shabby little investigation business like this one.' Going on nineteen, she was still a secretary -- a job outside her range of interests and beneath her skill level. She was here to earn money for college, but how could she do that with an entry-level job paying a miserable pittance?
Soon she'd be nineteen and it seemed like life was passing her by. It also scared her to think that if she was forced to mix with lowbrow males for much longer, she might get desperate enough to marry one of them. If that happened, she'd be locked in as one of the little people forever. She had to remind herself every day not to get involved with some good-looking loser, not even Martin Dewitt or that guy Jake, who filled orders at Subway Sandwich. Callahan, of course, wasn't even in the competition. Like, he must already be in his late thirties. And anyone who hadn't made his fortune by that time never would make it.
In the novels, it seemed so easy for every reasonably pretty girl to marry into money. Those heroines seemed to meet millionaires in every corner shop. But Sheila had never met anyone with a dollar to spare, not since going out into the world alone. How mortifying that was, considering how much her family was respected back in their hometown. Her older brothers and sisters were going places on scholarships. And where was she? Turned down for grants because of her high school record, working one of those "don't let this happen to you"-type jobs, typing for working-class guys, the sort who kept undressing her with their eyes.
Just then Sheila heard someone entering the outside office. She got up quickly, not wanting Dewitt or Callahan to laugh at her for sitting at the boss's desk. Quickly, she crossed to the door and peered through the crack.
Three people were milling about the reception room, all of them grim-faced and vaguely sinister. One was that excitable businesswoman from next door, Leigh Spielman, and another was a redhead in a minidress. The third looked like the worst kind of hobo, and probably smelled like one, too. Warily, the secretary stepped into full view and went to her own desk. The sparingly-dressed female stepped up in front of her.
"We're looking for a black girl wearing a short red dress. Did she come in here?"
"Well, yes," Sheila began, too intimidated to dissemble. "But she went out again with Mr. Callahan. He said something about finding her a place to stay."
Now Spielman butted in, her sourness sounding even more pronounced than usual. "Where did he take her?"
"I-I don't know," stammered Sheila, not liking the gruffness of this conversation. "You'll have to ask D.C. when he comes back." Then, just to put these low-lives on notice, she added, "He's due to return at any minute."
Immediately she could tell that the intruding three didn't like her answer. Suddenly the tramp -- the male tramp -- moved up, reached, and picked Sheila up by the collar. "I think you'll do just fine," he said.
"Let me go! What do you want? Miss Spielman!"
She got no answer from the sour lady and the three crowded her into the inner office and backed her up against Callahan's desk. She was almost unable to bear the smell of the hobo's filthy body.
"She knows something," Leigh Spielman sneered. "She's holding out!"
"M-Ms Spielman?" Sheila cried. "I could understand if you'd brought in the police, or your lawyer, but who are these people?"
Now the trampily dressed redhead came up and pinched Sheila's chin between her fingers. "An excellent choice, Osakond. She's got just the right kind of body. If she doesn't know anything more, we can use her to find out what this Callahan person knows."
The bewhiskered man nodded, apparently liking the idea.
"What are you talking about --?" Sheila asked, breathless and with her heart drumming.
"I was getting tired of this body anyway," the down-and-out declared in a slurred baritone. "It's carrying fleas the size of lady beetles."
"Do it fast, soldier," said the redhead. "There's no telling when one of those detectives will pop back in."
"Do what?" Sheila demanded, her tone harsh and fearful. "Ow!" she cried as the hobo grabbed her arms and forced her shoulders down to the cluttered desktop…
THE BIG SWITCH
By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 4, The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued....
During the drive to my digs at the Hotel Franco, I kept wondering why any baby-o as well endowed as the Lady in Red would fantasize about being Adam Schitz. If she wanted to imagine she was a guy, why not pick a real man like Napoleon, Elvis Presley, or Jonathan Frid.
The way I saw it, she ought to have thanked her lucky stars that she wasn't Adam Bennett Schitz. That guy had a bad reputation. I’d seen his page on Wikipedia; it read like a love letter sent from the super-rich Left, but it wasn't fooling anybody. After doing a few little bureaucratic jobs, Schitz was elected to Congress. By now he'd been there for twenty-one years screwing up the United States government. He’d been on the House Intelligence Committee until he he'd been kicked off for leaking information to the Fake News. Like most of the crooked pols, he had come into office heavily in debt and was now worth three million dollars. How much more than that he had stashed in the Cayman Islands and Chinese investments, nobody had found out yet.
To survive as a shamus in W.D.C., a man like me has had to do political work sometimes. Unfortunately, I'd hit rock bottom when I agreed to take a job from a rat-fink like Adam Schitz. He'd hired me to find dirt on his opponent, but I couldn't find any. The guy was honest, a real hero. But Schitz didn't like my report and fired me. He even refused to pay my fee. So I took the report to his opponent instead, who used it to refute the things that Schitz was saying in his TV ads. But the Fake News ignored the report and kept up the attack and the opponent lost anyway. But Schitz had the Fake News and Big Tech on his side and the truth never got out to the voters. Schitz won the election and retaliated by getting me black-listed with his Capitol Hill cronies. And I couldn't go and work with the other party, the Stupid Party, since they considered opposition research to be something dirty. In a political town like this one, Callahan and Dewitt were left out in the cold.
But it wasn’t cold today. The temperature was topping ninety by the time the chickadee and me reached Hotel Franco. I led her into the lobby and let her cool her stiletto heels by the front door while I checked my mail.
But I wasn't much interested in my utility bills; I was watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was hitching her hemline down, to cover her thighs, but it just kept coming up again. I could have enjoyed the show all day, but since I was on a mission of mercy refrained from prolonging the fun.
I stuffed the junk mail into my coat pocket. "Nothing but bills and ads," I told the girl.
"Can't we get out of here?" she asked impatiently. "People are staring at me!" I looked where she was looking. The major culprit wasn't the usual sort of grubby offender, the kind holding a paper bag shaped like a Ripple bottle, but at a well-dressed man leaning against the cigarette machine.
I recognized B.J. Waters in a flash. He was a two-bit player from the 'hood, one running a string of pros on this end of town. His initials stood for Benjamin Jerome, but he was better known as "Blackjack." The shirt he had on was so loud that an Irish setter could have heard it singing 'Rock with You" from as far away as Manassas. He was obvious in the way he was eying off my chesty, non-paying client.
"Please, Callahan," she urged, "let's go up to your room! Everybody down here thinks I'm a hooker!"
I smiled mischievously. "If I take you up to my room, they're going to be damned sure you're a hooker!" With those words of wisdom, I reached into my pocket, took my set of twisters, and slapped them down onto the good-time girl's sweaty palm. "Luckily for you, I don't want to stay away from the office for too long. That's the key to my digs; the number is on the paddle. I'll be back about six to tuck you in. Ciao!"
The spandex knockout accepted the keys with a frown. Her expression seemed so say, "Stay away as long as you like." I was glad to be rid of the minx, too. As gorgeous as the mystery woman was, some little angel was warning me that she’d be trouble. Be that as it may, I couldn't resist taking one last glim at those long gams of hers while she was turned to face the elevator doors. I sighed; trouble that gal may be, but hey, trouble is my business.
But, man, there are some days when I really get the business!
THE BIG SWITCH
By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 5, The General Narrative continued....
The girl who insisted on calling herself Schitz might not have liked Callahan much, but she had reason to miss him plenty once he was out of sight. Giving her hem another nervous tug, Schitz looked right and left and, seeing nobody, she ran to the elevator as quickly as her wobbly high heels allowed. She thought she was home clear when, suddenly, a dark hand stuck itself between the closing elevator doors. They whirred open to invite in a tall, dark stranger.
"Hello, little darlin,'" said Blackjack Waters, sidling in as the doors hissed shut behind him. "I had a sudden hanker to meet with you."
Dismayed, Schitz exclaimed, "You're one of the aliens?"
B.J. looked puzzled. "I'm no alien, love-child. I'm as American as you is. You can call me B.J., by the way. I just had to warn you about this elevator."
"What are you talking about?"
"I mean, this lift is a hundred years old. If you accidentally push the two-button at the same time as the five-button, you'll get hung up at mid-floor."
He obligingly demonstrated by punching the buttons; Schitz was almost thrown down by the resultant lurch, but B.J. caught her around the waist.
They were at a dead stop, and the doors didn't open. "What did you do that for, you idiot?" she demanded, her eyes bright with fury.
"Don't worry, baby, I know how to start it again. And even if I didn't, in a little while the custodian'll turn it on from the basement -- if he's not sleeping off his Thunderbird. But this gives us a few minutes of privacy." He regarded her. "Oooooh, sugah. You is just so fine. If I've never seen you on the street, it must because you're new in the 'hood."
"What's it to you?" Schitz challenged, as if she still had Capitol Police around her.
"Hey, girl, I know you came in with Callahan, but that don' cut no ice with me. This is my street and no birdie works it less'n she's beating her feet for ol' B.J. Who's your sweet man, buttercup? I'm gonna to have him wasted for lettin' you cross the sacred line without giving me my cut."
"I don't have a sweet man! What do you think I am?"
"Got no sweet man? You is an independent? That's perfect, 'cause I don't like steppin' on the toes of no other player. Well, this is your lucky day, honey child. You've just found yourself a steady employer. You have to keep on doing what you've been doing, except that yours truly is gonna to be your business manager from now on. I’m as expensive as all hell, but I’m worth it!"
Infuriated, Schitz gripped the pimp's lapels and shook him hard -- or tried to. In fact, she could hardly jiggle the grown man.
"Whew! You need a bath," B.J. said with a sniff. "What say we take one together back at my pad?"
The girl flung herself away from him. "Are you crazy? I'm not going anywhere with you!"
"And I say you are, sweet cheeks," he assured her, backing her against the metal wall. "When you brought your business to my street, you were automatically signing up on my team." Looming over her, he exuded a knockout charisma. It affected even Adam Schitz in a way she couldn't understand. "Lift your lips, darlin'," he said, "'cause you is gonna to get a lip smack to remember. Her teeth baring, she said, "Like hell -- mmummph!" The girl in spandex couldn’t say another word, not with his arms around her and his mouth covering hers.
"You're sweeter than candy," the pimp said breathily. He reached out to touch her face, but she swatted his hand away.
"You're a fighter, I'll give you that," he said. "That's good. A fighting gal can last a long time on the mean street. Come on, Baby-o; kiss me again."
Instead of kissing him, Schitz popped a right hook into the pimp's left cheekbone, but it hurt her knuckles more than it hurt his face.
The tall man rubbed his stung cheek. "All right, Sweet Cheeks, two can play at that game." He grabbed her arm, swung her around, and pressed her against the steel paneling of the elevator. Then, too swiftly for her to realize what he was doing, he took a cord from his pocket and bound her wrists behind her back.
When the man stepped back, she spun about like a cornered wildcat. Blackjack was appreciated the way that her pinioned arms were forced her breasts forward, almost popping them out of her décolleté.
"You've got everything I need, baby mio. What should I sample first?" he teased.
"Let me go! This is against the law!"
B.J. grinned. "I always obey the law, sweetums. Do you? Like, under street law we'z man and wife."
"I won't marry you!" Schitz declared.
"We'z already married, 'cause I say so. Street law stuff, you know. But don't expect me to be faithful, 'cause you ain't the only gal I got. Ever have a wife-in-law before? You got a couple of them now."
"You don't understand!" Schitz babbled indignantly. "I'm not a hooker! I only have on this dress because -- because I lost a bet! I'm a lawyer!"
B.J. smiled. "Don’t worry. You'll soon have a new occupation.” She could feel that hot gaze of his making heat on her cleavage. "Oooh, I do like your doodles, gal. If that’s the preview, I gotta see the whole show."
Before she had time to blink, B.J. had tugged her dress down, laying bare her bra-less beauty. The pimp cupped a full, firm breast in each hand and started kneading them like globs of silly putty. Schitz strained at her wrist bindings, while the mackman lowered his head and branded her bouncing boobies with searing kisses. The more B.J. subjected her to these incredible sensations, the more her nipples were hardening.
"Oh, God!" Schitz bleated as waves of pleasure took her strength away. She slid down along the wall and put her derriere into a jarring contact with the floor. B.J. sank to his knees beside her and she felt his hand checking the temperature between her legs.
He felt the warm wetness of her thong and grinned. This little piece was plum easy to turn on. The pimp continued to fondle Schitz through the thin, moist fabric. After a moment, the stimulation he imposed on her was beginning to have its intended effect. Her orgasmic lurch, accompanied by a moan of sheer pleasure, told him all he needed to know about what kind of fish he'd hooked. The pimp was anticipating all the beautiful music the two of them would soon be making.
Shaking off her erotic daze, Schitz yelled,"Sweet Jesus! Don't!"
"No, kitty, I'm not stoppin," Blackjack told her. "I know you is a bad girl and I'm gonna keep digging till I hit your oil. First thing, we gotta get those panties off. They is only in the way."
"No!" the black girl cried, but without the use of her hands, she had no way to fend him off. Suddenly, Schitz felt his fingers hooking into the waist band of her thong, slipping the garment down to her calves.
"Oh, Lordie," B.J. murmured, "I can't wait to get you home!"
Schitz's rapid breathing had become a staccato. Her teeth gritted as she felt his lips on her warm muff. She tried to force her mind to stop feeling the waves of pleasure, but everything he did she wanted more of.
"You is lovin' it, pussy cat," Blackjack crooned softly, "I know you is. The sweet man always knows."
In fact, the sensation was so overwhelming that the girl’s body was beading with feverish sweat. Her body began to give off a musky reek and the pimps teasing made her feel something between a pressure and a hunger centered in her loins. If he kept it up, she knew that something was going to give.
Blackjack knew how to drive a woman out of her mind, and decided it was time to make love to her clitoris directly. Schitz went almost insane: yelling, kicking, and straining at her binding. Regardless, Blackjack didn’t east up his "love lesson" at all. He had never met woman who was so easy to make hot. Instinct told him t hat this lady was born to be God's gift to the street, and he would only be doing the Lord’s work by fast-tracking her into her destined role in life.
Schitz's control was giving out. Pleased, B.J. kept at her with his manipulating fingers, wanting to force her to “get it off.” He had broken in plenty of girls before. He knew plenty of bad gals who would have been nice girls if they had never met him. He was going to make this elevator cutie go out of her mind with passion and then he'd put her out on the street to start earning her keep.
Suddenly, Schitz screamed something warm, powerful and magical swept through her nubile young body.
B.J. wasn’t letting the orgasming beauty off the hook. He forced her to come and coming again, skillfully put her into multiples until she was utterly spent, a fully tamed doe with all the fight gone out of her.
He shifted away and Schitz was left sitting on the floor, her knees apart, her eyes half-closed, and with her breath coming in gasps.
'This is the moment,' B.J. thought. While this euphoric state held her captive, he would get her out of the hotel and into his convertible. Once he his new street wife was stashed in his home behind locked doors, it would be time for Love-Lesson Number Two.
Blackjack, standing up, wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. He glanced over his shoulder; any minute, he knew, the elevator might start again and the doors would open. He thought he should fix her dishabille before there were any witnesses.
B.J. untied Schitz's hands and lifted her to her feet. "Straighten yourself up, woman," he ordered, "you look like a slut. Put on your shoes. You and me have places to go."
The elevator started to move again. Then it stopped and the doors opened. Schitz, still dazed, let the black man draw her after him, her high heels making her walk though the lobby with a wobble.
B.J. whispered,"You'd better be careful how you move, chickadee if you don't want these bums to see paradise. Don't worry about the panties; just do what I tell you. Once we get home, you'll be dressed up real fine."
B.J. ushered her over to the check-out desk and tossed Callahan's key in front of the grizzle-bearded clerk, telling him, "Inform Mr. Callahan that the lady has enjoyed his hospitality, but it’s time for her to be movin' on up. Bye, now."
The way B.J. was handling her warned Schitz that he was so much stronger than she was. A born coward who couldn't think ahead, Schitz was desperate to get to some place where she could replace her missing underwear.
They were suddenly out the front door and around the corner to the parking lot. Blackjack lifted the hooker-dressed girl into the bucket seat of his white sports car. The sun-heated leather burned her upper thighs and bottom on contact and she uttered a little cry of protest.
Unexpectedly, B.J. suddenly seemed suddenly out of breath. He went around to the driver's side unsteadily. He sat on the seat for a moment, breathing deep inhales. Almost before Schitz realized he wasn't well, he seemed recovered and placed his hand on Schitz's sweat-dampened knee. It was a street gesture exerting his absolute claim over her body and soul in a symbolic way.
The street was a jungle and something mystical and primeval was being communicated by that touch. It declared to the entire world that he was the victorious hunter and bringing home the conquered prey.
Schitz, from Uptown, didn't understand the symbolism, but the primitive part of her sensed that something of great moment was happening. In the next moment, the pimpmobile pealed out the driveway and merged with the zooming traffic...
