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...
