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 RodrÃguez 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...
