THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 12

 

Posted 06-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 12

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

It was a full thirty seconds before Blackjack's door swung open. "How-dee-do, pretty woman," B.J. Waters boomed. "What can we do for you?"

Was he talking to me? I supposed he was. "Look, Mr. Waters,” I said, “there's trouble brewing. Did you get a visit from D.C. Callahan, or maybe from somebody you didn't know? Or maybe it was somebody you did know, but you pegged him for acting as though he had lost a few of his screws?"

The pimp frowned thoughtfully. "No, can't say that I have. Not lately, anyway. What's the beef? Is D.C. goin' ‘round making trouble?"

"It's a long story, Mr. Waters. If he does come by, don't let him in -- and don't let in anyone who associates with him either, male or female."

“But isn’t that D.C.’s partner standing behind you?” he asked.

“Yes, but we’re not associating with him as long as he’s acting the way he is.”

“What way?”

"D.C.'s turned sour," Martin spoke up. "If we find him, we have to take him down. This lady can fill you in on the details. I'm only here to keep watch, just in case he shows up, either alone or with some muscle."

"Well, come on in," B.J. said amiably, stepping out of the way. The both of us sidled in, too, and Martin resumed his watch at the door’s peep hole.

Blackjack kept looking at me. "Dewitt, is this your lady friend?" he asked. "I do like your taste."

"I'm his secretary," I explained with annoyance. "I'm dressed for undercover work."

"Well, that's a shame. Y’gotta know that if you dressed that way every day, the world would bless you for it."

“The world has it’s problems and I have mine,” I said.

"I suppose that’s so. But why would D.C. want to mess with me?" he asked. "Is it just because I took that lady of his out for a coffee? I wasn't meaning to step on that dude's toes. I know he's one bad mudderfucker, the last man in the world I’d wanna to mess with. It's just that that momma-san of his seemed so lonely."

This show of respect for D.C. surprised me. "Yes, the girl's part of it. D.C. is going to come looking for her, or he'll be sending goons who are just as tough as he is after her. Your only safe bet is to cut ties with the young lady as soon as possible."

"I already got rid of her," Blackjack averred, all innocence and sincerity. "When I served up the business proposition I had for her she said ‘Hell no’ and took off. I thought she'd be going back to the hotel."

The man's story was smelling like over-aged halibut. I did in fact suppose that Schitz would have have gone back to the Franco, but hadn't. Something happened to her and I still had a hunch that that “something” was B.J. Waters.
 
"Would you mind if we had a look around?" I asked, trying to say it in a charming way.

His brows shot up. "You wound me, little lady. But you can search the place, if you want to. You'll see that there's nobody at home but me and Gina."

"Where's this Gina?" I asked.

"She's in my room, asleep. Don't wake her up. She needs her beauty rest."

"I'll walk tippy-toe," I promised.

Blackjack led me to his bedroom door, which he opened halfway. "We'll just peek in on her, okay?"

I got up to the crack and peered in on a nude girl curled up on a disorderly bed, red hair covering most of her face. That surely wasn’t Schitz. Nor was I seeing any place in the room to hide a person. The brass bed stood so high that I could see the fuzz balls beneath it and the closet doors were already hanging open.

I suddenly felt Martin’s hot breath on the back of my neck. He was gandering at the sleeping hooker, too. That annoyed me somehow.

"Hey, you’re supposed to be keeping a lookout, Bud," I told him. With a sigh and nod, he crossed back to where he belonged.

"Look," B.J. said, "I can put the word out on the street. If any chacha who looks like Miss Schitz is still shebopping around Washington town, it'll get back to me in just a day or so. You ought to leave me your number."

That sounded like a come-on line. “Maybe you should give me yours,” I said “Now, I'd like to search the rest of the pad."

He threw up his hands. "You still think I'm hiding Schitz?"

"Now more than ever, smart guy. You have that kind of face."

He grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Ever since we'd entered, I'd been hearing music coming from one of the rooms; now I started to make out the words:

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

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

"Who's playing that music?" I asked.

"Me. I was working out in there," he replied.

That excuse didn't wash. B.J. didn't look or smell like he'd been working out. In fact, I was detecting Irish Spring on his hide. "We'll see," I grunted.

The storeroom turned out to be empty. Even so, seeing bondage restraints hanging from the ceiling made me suspicious.

"Your favorite song?" I asked.

"I like it," he said with a shrug before stooping to switch off the boom box.

Still not satisfied, I asked him to show me his girls' rooms, which were also empty. At last we came to the swinging door of the kitchen.

"Go on in," he offered. "I've got to make a phone call."

I waited till he moved off, and then poked my nose into the kitchen. It looked empty, so I went in and checked to see anyone had been packed into the refrigerator. I didn’t mind being disappointed on that score, but I did discover food enough to make me envious of B.J.'s income -- and very, very hungry. Sheila’s small body probably hadn't eaten anything since lunchtime. And the mini-meal I’d gulped down at my apartment hadn’t hit the spot.

But as for Congressman Schitz, I figured that the only place left to hide a girl-sized object would be in the kitchen broom closet.

Something warned me not to go charging in. It wasn't woman's intuition, naturally, since I wasn't a real woman. But when my gumshoe instincts kick in I pay attention. Not having any reason to expect a surprise, I prepared for one anyway and from a cagey position I opened the door swiftly.

Through the door-crack I eyeballed a man with a heater. I flung all my weight against the closet door and that threw him off his feet. His skull banged against the metal edge of a kitchen counter and after that he pulled off a good imitation of a sack of potatoes.

My Adrenalin pumping, I sprang on top of the mug and twisted the automatic out of his slack hand. But I didn’t need to be as rough as I was; the head blow had turned him off like a light bulb. That's when I heard a free-for-all breaking loose in the living room.

Gat in hand, I dashed through the swinging door and drew up short at the sight of Martin and Blackjack duking it out like two welterweight boxers. I didn’t know what the beef was, but I figured I ought to be rooting for Martin.

I held a bead on Blackjack's broad back, waiting for him to try something dirty. I don't like shooting any guy who’s fighting fair, not unless he's winning. I'd blasted my share of rag heads during the Good War -- the one in Iraq, I mean -- so it’s not in me to get sweaty over a little gun-play. Suddenly, the pimp collapsed to the floor, choking for breath.

Martin, holding his bruised jaw, stood reeling. Glancing my way and muttered through aching teeth: "What happened? I didn't think I'd laid a hard one on him."

"He must have a glass jaw," I suggested with a shrug.

"What was that noise from the kitchen?"

"Some wino came at me with a howitzer and so I belted him. He'll have a whopping headache after his snooze."

"You belted him?"

"Don’t be so surprised," I replied smugly. "You can’t possibly believe that that those dorm-room pillow fights aren’t meant to teach a gal self-defense."

"You amaze me, kiddo."

Suddenly a shiver was running from my heels to my top and back again. "Martin, I just realized that the gutter pup in the kitchen was the alien driver who took me for a ride. That means that the alien gang has already been here. The B.J. that we’ve been talking to must be an alien, too!” I glanced at the pimp on the floor. "What's wrong with him?” I asked.

“He pulled a gun on me,” said Martin, “but I didn’t trust the snake and was watching out of the corner of my eye and when he made his move I slammed the gun out of his hand. Then he tried to take me out with his bare fists, but the next thing I knew he was grabbing his chest and going down."

"What the hell!" a girl said behind us.

We turned to face a svelte-looking, bleary redhead standing there nude. One glance at her told me that she was the incredibly gorgeous alien chick who had sashayed into my office along with the phony Spielman. It seemed like the whole alien gang was here!

"Keep her covered," I hissed to Martin. "She's pure poison!" Then, to the dame, I said, "Where's the rest of your mob, bitch?"

"Don't call me a bitch, you bitch!" the redhead squawked. Then she touched her throat and tried to clear it. Frowning, she looked down, did a double take. "What the hell?"

"What's wrong with her?" Martin asked.

The dame gazed up at us, dazed-like. "Shit! I'm dreaming I'm a broad!"

Her accent seemed all wrong for her amazing complexion. I managed to put two and two together, got four, and asked, "Hey, how long have you been a chick, baby?"

She gave me a glare like I was talking nut stuff. "Who you calling a chick?"

"You sure look like a chick to me. What's your name?"

"B.J. Waters. What's yours, tootsie?"

Martin touched my arm. "Do aliens go bats?" he asked.

I shook him off and then said to the girl, "You're Blackjack Waters and you're a man, right?"

"Of course I'm a man! When I wake up, you'll see."

"She's harmless!" I told Martin. "It's the bozo on the floor who's the alien. B.J.'s been switched!"

Martin’s voice came out like it had gone through a vegetable grater. "Then the aliens have Schitz already?"

He'd hit the nail on the head. We'd been running behind the curve for the entire day!

"Well, we can at least beat the crap out of these alien creeps and find out where they've taken her!" Pard recommended. I looked at him; he was finally starting to sound like a real detective.

He started prodding Blackjack with the toe of his boot. "Stop it, Martin,” I said, “He's out for the count. Let me feel his pulse." When I did, I found out that the man from outer space was deader than the Democrats hopes in Florida.

"It can't be!" protested Martin. "I was getting the worst of it and I'm still on my feet."

"Maybe he wasn't so tough after all. We'd better check the guy in the kitchen, before he wakes up and gets cantankerous!"

No chance of that, as it turned out. The bum's head had cracked like China porcelain against the counter edge. There wasn't much blood, though, which I supposed meant that his death had to have been instantaneous.

"Maybe aliens get fragile when they take over a body," I suggested weakly. "I just don't know."

Meanwhile, the woman we'd left behind started swearing up a storm in the other room. I went to calm her and found her wrapped in a lap robe, standing over the pimp's body blabbering: "He's not asleep! He's dead; I mean I'm dead! I mean, I'm dreaming I'm dead!"

"This isn't going to be easy to explain," I began tactfully.

She stared up at us. "Why is you two still in my dream?" Suddenly she recognized the dick behind me. "Wait! You... you is D.C. Callahan's partner! Dimwit?"

"Yeah," Martin agreed sourly, "but that's Dewitt. We're going to have to explain a few things -- Miss -- uh, Mister. You'd better sit down first and let us pour you a stiff drink."

She sighed. "I'm all for that!"

B.J. slumped down, confused and out of sorts. She had let the lap robe slip down to her lap, but I didn’t say anything, not wanting to embarrass the lady. Anyway, if I’d gotten all censorious, it would have spoiled the view. I went to the liquor cabinet and filled three shot glasses. Then we sipped our port until the redhead starting demanding answers. We did our best to paint her the big picture and she didn't say much at first, only shaking her head in incredulity now and then. I think the cutie still thought that she was dreaming.

At the end of our recap, our host -- hostess -- wobbled to her feet, saying, "I've been watching too many of those fucking horror movies on TV. I'm going back to bed and won’t be coming out until this nightmare is over."

We let her reel away. Sleep wouldn't fix B.J.'s fundamental problem, of course, but I wasn't feel so great myself -- mortified, dog-tired, and wolverine-hungry.

"I'm starved," I said to Martin. "Luckily, B.J.'s got a full larder. But we’d better drag that wino stiff into the laundry room first. Even as hungry as I am, a thing like that would ruin my appetite."

"I'm going to need some solid grub myself,” said Martin, “if I'm going to have strength enough to stand in the soup line tomorrow."

"Could you ever get hungry enough to want stand in a soup line?" I asked."

"I suppose not. I wouldn't want to hang around the low types that infest those places. They make Burger King look like a gathering place for angels."

I leaned back and closed my eyes. "We’ve got danger all over the place and not a nickel to show for it. Things really have gone from bad to worse, haven't they, bro?"

"Yeah, bad for us -- but worse for poor D.C. Christ, Sheila, I still can't believe that he's really doing the Big Sleep! Just the thought of it rips my guts out."

My peepers narrowed. "So, you really liked the guy?"

He looked at me through crinkled eyes. "Sure I liked him! He had a wacky streak, but he was as good a Joe as there's ever been. Why do the rottenest things always happen to the straight-shooters?"

"I've been asking myself that all day."

He was clenching his fists. "It’s Schitz's fault for dumping us into this stew!"

I was feeling too sorry for myself to feel the same kind of as anger. I could only shrug and say, "What else could she have done? The only thing I don't understand is why she came to us instead of to one of her big-shot lawyers or party buddies. We both know how thieves like to hang together."

"Don't you see it, Sheila? When his ship hit the sand, Schitz had to go looking for the only honest man he'd ever met in this rotten city -- and that man was D.C. Callahan."

"Quite a eulogy," I said. I'd used to worry that when I was gone nobody would have a decent thing to say about me. It was a pleasant finding out that I was wrong.

"The man deserves a monument," Martin went on, "but I don't know if he'll ever get so much as a headstone -- not with his body still bumming around the District killing people. Aliens! God, but the whole idea is just too creepy! Maybe I'm the one having the nightmare."

"No use going off the deep end, guy. If there are aliens in the world, we'll just have to deal with it. It's not like the Syfy Channel hasn't been trying to warn us to keep our heads up. Anyway, chill out. We’ve handled worse cases than this one before.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure. But I’m trying to be optimistic.”

Martin was depressed and talked-out, so without saying much we heated up a supper on the electric range and ate it. Afterwards, my belly blissfully full, I was feeling some twenty-five percent better. I wasn't worried about the consequences of overeating like I’d just been doing. I figured that I’d either be out of this body before it started putting on any unsightly tonnage, or else I'd be ending it all by taking a flying leap off the Lincoln Memorial.

Usually, my first hour after a gourmet feast was not the best time for clear-headed planning, but I took a shot at it. We were in one hell of a fix -- especially me. Martin and I didn't know where Schitz had been taken, or even whether she was still alive. But we didn’t have the luxury of giving up -- not as long as there was the remotest chance of cracking the alien conspiracy.

My determination surprised me; I didn't even like Schitz, but even a non-paying client is still a client. Maybe the aliens weren't jiving when they'd told me that they weren't going to deep-six her right away. But if not, that begged the question of what exactly they did plan to do with her. I tried not to think about those bloody, worm-like chest-busters that had creeped me out on streaming TV.

A rattle at the door sent Martin and me ducking behind the furniture, guns ready. A second later, two people walked in -- a pair of dames dressed for the best kind of action. Judging from what they were wearing, neither had any place to hide a piece of heat, so I stood up warily, thinking that I might look less scary than would my big lug of a partner.

"Good evening," I said ingratiatingly, "you must be Blackjack's girls."

The darker of the two babes stiffened, as if doused with ice water. "And who the hell are you?" she demanded with a scowl. Though she looked Latin, she didn't sound like an illegal.

"Sheesh, Evelyn, another one!" moaned the blonde. "Blackjack's got them coming out of the woodwork!"

Now Martin stood up, too, and the sight of his .38 froze the girls in their tracks. As a matter of decorum, Martin stuffed his hardware into his pocket. Me, since I didn't have a pocket, or even a purse, I put my popper behind my back and just stood there, smiling like a valedictorian from Wellesley. Yes, there have to be some nice girls at Wellesley; not everyone who goes there has to turn out to be a scrag like Crooked Hillary.

"Where's B.J.?" Evelyn asked, those eyes of hers burning into my face.

"Something's happened," I said. "Blackjack dropped dead tonight."

"Oh, God!" the curvy blonde yawped. "Did -- Did his ticker give out?"
 

Oh-ho! So, Blackjack had heart trouble. That explained a lot. "A bad ticker?"

The blonde nodded. "The doctor kept telling him to give up the sauce, the night baseball, and the year-around snow, but he was always too stubborn."

"Did you shoot him?" Evelyn asked coldly and directly. She didn't look mad, just interested.

"No, of course we didn't!" I exclaimed. "What happened is, uh, very complicated . . . ."

Just then, the bedroom door swung open and B.J. staggered out.

"Now a third one!" the chippie chirped. "This isn't a stable! It's a convention!"

"Can't you chicks let a man get some sleep?" the redhead yawned.

I raised my hands to signal time out and said to Martin, "We'd better call class back into session; a couple new students have just shown up."

After we gave them the spiel, Evelyn appeared to get it; Gina, the shorter, more curvaceous one, seemed a smidgen slow on the uptake.

"How long is Blackjack going to stay this way?" the Latina asked. By the way, I always use the respectful terms for to Latinos and Latinas; that Latinx stuff is strictly for the college commies.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe he’ll have to sleep with a male alien before he switches back. That might make him a man again, but he'll never be the same Blackjack. B.J.'s body is as far gone as a Christmas tree on the Fourth of July."

"Shit!" said the man – the former man -- under discussion. "Shit!"

"That's not the only thing," I cautioned. "I heard the aliens say that when they switch a man into a woman's body he gets a female sex-drive, and vice versa. That’s something that you’ll have to watch out for, B.J.”

Gina looked wonderingly at the redhead. "Blackjack? Are you feeling kind of antsy yet? Do you still think I'm pretty?"

"Shit!" B.J. growled. "Shit!"

"It gets worse," Martin put in. "These aliens don't like leaving witnesses behind. They went after Schitz like a pack of tigers and they'll probably come after Sheila and me, too. Odds are, they're going to come circling back to this place and they'll find out that their buddies are toast. Since they're not nice guys, they'll probably want to take out anyone they find occupying the premises."

"Oh, Lord!" Gina cried. "Why did you two have to get us mixed up with a bunch of Roswell guys?"

Martin shook his head. "It wasn't us. Blackjack made his own trouble when he brought Schitz home."

"Hey," the redhead said, "stop talking about me as if I wasn't here!"

"Well, for your own safety you three have to clear out of here. You'll be on your own. None of us can dare to take this crazy story to the cops. I suggest you disappear -- and fast."

"Where to?" Evelyn asked, her brows hard-set. With Gina scared stiff and B.J. traumatized into a one-word vocabulary, only Evelyn seemed even halfway capable of thought.

"Wherever you go," I emphasized, "it's best if you keep moving around for a while. We don't know what alien powers or what super technology then have to trace people. All I can say is that we haven't seen anything special yet; so far, so good. On the other hand, if they've infiltrated the government, they can put the FBI on the scent. The heat could go super-nova."

Gina's face blanched. "Evelyn -- I think I'm going to faint!"

"Quiet, Gina, I'm trying to think!"

"Think quickly then," Martin advised the brunette hooker. "Grab what you need and make yourself scarce."

"What about me?" Blackjack complained. "I'm a girl! I'm a white girl!"

Martin laid it out cold. "If you don't' like the situation, keep trading in aluminum cans until you can afford a sex-change. At the moment, though, you've got to clear out."

I cut in. "After you three dust out here, Martin and me'll set up an ambush for the bad guys. As far as we know, there’s only four of them on the active list. We've axed half of them already, but the other two are bound to waltz back to this pad sooner or later."

"You're going to kill them?" Evelyn asked.

"No, we'll question them. Like we told you, we have a client in danger."

"Gee," said the blonde, "it's still hard to think that that chocolate-colored hussy was really a white guy, a congressman even! Imagine that, Evelyn."

"I don't have to," her friend replied flatly. She had her glance fixed on B.J.

Martin suddenly went pensive. "I never thought I could feel sorry for anything that happened to a grafting clown like Adam Schitz, but now, I don't know. At least he's human."

"I only wish more people were," I sighed. 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...