By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 1
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued
Drinking as a dame requires the recalculation of everything. Two martinis used to be my warm-up, the liquid courage that got me through many a stakeout in January or depositions in August. Now two measly martinis had me quoting Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and forgetting how stairs are supposed to work. Having an alien-enhanced sex drive foisted on me was bad enough, but this body's lightweight constitution this body adds insult to injury.
Martin was grinning—not at me exactly, but at the situation. Seeing me loose and happy turned him on. Those were two attitudes that only rarely coincided these days.
But I could blame my good spirits on the events of the night. We'd just gotten back from an election night celebration. We had kept busy drinking until the main race was called. It was a moment for cheering. Against all the odds, the election cheating, and the billionaire money, the people had come out on a November night and done the right thing. It made my head swim to think that maybe the country was starting the climb up from of the seventh circle of hell.
Though well sloshed with champagne (or the cheaper brew that Martin and I had had to settle for) the crowd had cheered victory speech given at 2:30 a.m. But by then I was pretty far gone, numb enough to almost forget that recently a catastrophic change had come over my life. Namely, I was a thirty-eight-year-old male detective whom alien invaders had trapped inside the body of my own nineteen-year-old—and very female—secretary, Sheila Coffin. Now, like it or not, Sheila's life had become mine to live. I couldn't tell anybody. I just had to buckle down and get on with life. I performed her secretarial work for a while, until Martin Dewitt had seen my brilliance of my detective work and made me his business partner.
But that's the long story that I've already told in a book. When I'm old and ready to go, maybe I'll publish it. We'll see.
Anyway, after the speech, Martin drove us home using Sheila’s car, which was my car now. Considering how much he had drunk, that drive was probably illegal.
"Almost home, Princess," he said, as we entered the down-ramp to the basement parking area.
"Don't call me P-Princess,” I hiccuped. “I'm a hard-boiled gun-shoe. Gum-shoe, I mean."
"You're too young to be hard-boiled. But I love listening to you talk like one of those 1940s pulp-magazine hard-case heroes you're always writing about."
Yeah, I was not only a secretary and a detective, but also a writer. Selling my first novel had been great for the ego. But I still hadn't managed to sell enough books to make any real difference. But I wasn't going to give up. Absolutely not!
I was too bombed to walk, so he picked me up and carried me into the nearest elevator, my heels dangling like a pair of dead fish. When we reached our floor, the elevator doors hissed open. That's when I noticed a young, pretty woman facing us, holding a mop and wearing an urgent expression. She was wearing the apartment house’s cleaning-staff uniform, but I didn't recognize her.
I wasn't drunk enough to fail to wonder why she'd be mopping linoleum at three-thirty in the morning. The apartment house's maintenance staff always clocked out at six PM. What I felt was a special thing that had a name: Suspicion. The wrongness of the meeting struck me like a cold, wet rain on a windy day.
The woman didn’t seem to want to use the elevator. Instead, she started to trail after us. When I looked back, I show her nervous look, as if she had something urgent to say. Dark-haired and in her mid-twenties, the badly-dressed dame had the kind of face that could make men act stupid and women flare with jealousy. Her cleaning outfit didn't fit right. It hung on her svelte frame like an Idaho potato sack.
"Are you Callahan and Dewitt?" she suddenly asked breathlessly. "The detectives?"
Martin looked back at her." That's us," he said carefully. "Having a problem, miss?"
The girl started a fast jabber. "A local cop told me about a male and female detective team that I ought to look for. “He said they were brave and honest. That’s what I need."
"You don't really work here, do you?" Martin asked warily.
"I’m Valentina Romano. I found this uniform in a broom closet downstairs. I put it on because I didn't want to be kicked out by security before I met the detectives." She gave us a weak smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I saw a murder. The mob knows I talked. They're going to kill me, too. I need protection."
Those words blew away some of my champagne-laced euphoria. Martin's expression became grim and he fumbled his key out of his suit pocket to unlock our apartment door. "Come in quick," he muttered.
#
The General Narrative, continued
Inside was the apartment that was clearly shared by both of the detectives. One of Sheila Coffin’s dresses was hanging next to Martin's leather jacket on the coat rack—the she-detective gestured Val Romano toward the cluttered sofa. The young woman hurriedly sat down and immediately blurted out a frightening story.
She was a professional stripper doing a gig in northeastern Washington D.C. Three nights earlier, she'd just finished her shift at The Velvet Room, an upscale gentlemen's club. Going to her car at about two in two in the morning, she'd witnessed someone on his knees being executed by brutal-looking men in ill-fitting suits. The next day the news feeds would be talking about the killing of federal prosecutor Richard Hayworth.
Val had a good memory for faces and had seen it all clearly under the parking lot lights. Val had dodged away without being seen and gone to the D.C. police. They already knew about the killing and showed her books of felon photographs. She picked out Tommy "The Suit" Castellano, an enforcer for the Moretti crime family.
The cops acted pleased that they had an eyewitness. The senior man with her said that Hayworth had been building a RICO case against the Morettis. To charge a gang insider like Castellano with murder might be what they needed to light the fuse that might blow the dirty Moretti outfit sky-high.
The D.C. police warned the stripper that her testimony could do the city a lot of good. But they warned that if the mob found out who was fingering them, her life wouldn't be worth two cents. They said she needed to go to a witness safe house, something that Val was willing to do. The precinct boys swore her to silence and promised to arrange her hiding place. But by the next evening, Val started receiving threats.
A gruff voice coming from her apartment phone warned, "Witnesses don't live long. Clam up and get out of town!" Frightened, she went to her Hyundai and found a dead rat on the driver's seat. At the station, the blue boys told her that they didn’t have a safe house ready for her because of red tape and safe house availability. They needed at least five days, and all they could advise was for her to lie low somewhere safe She made a grocery store stop and noticed a pug-faced man watching her. When she parked at her hotel, the same mug was standing on the corner, seemingly not caring if she saw him or not.
She had already talked to the cops and didn’t know where else to turn. Her voice breaking, Val said,. "They're watching the hotel. How hard will it be for them to find out where I work and where my mother lives? I can't go to her—it would endanger her. They know so much and move so fast that I don’t think I can get away by running. Maybe they even hid a tracer on my car, like in the movies! If a gang of them went inside my hotel, no one there could protect me. I need bodyguards, or at least help getting away." She looked at the pair with desperate eyes.
“I only have three thousand dollars in the bank, my entire savings. I have nothing else to offer.”
Sheila flashed Martin her crisis look. That signaled him that she was about to turn softie on him again.
#
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued
I'd been where the stripper was sitting now. In Afghanistan, I'd gone three days pinned down by insurgents, barely holding them off with an MRE and prayer. The injured-animal look in Val’s eyes made me cringe. It just so happens I love animals. Especially bobcats. If we did the sensible thing and tossed her out for self-preservation, she might not make it to morning.
Val reacted to our silence with a whisper. "What should I do?"
I shook my head. "Mobsters are like a wolf pack. They'll go for blood the second they know they have you where they want you. You don’t dare turn your back and run; that would start the end game. You have to tough this out until those slow-poke cops have gotten their safe house ready for you. It's tough dealing with D.C. cops. They know that city hall is not their friend. That makes covering their asses the main goal of the blue boys. Protecting innocent lives comes secondary. What you need is a couple of bodyguards. Tough people with guns."
"Does that mean you'll take my case?" she asked.
"I’m willing, so long as you're on the level about that three grand," I said.
I knew Martin’s head was shaking even before I glanced at him. "Three K isn’t enough to bury even one of us!" he said.
That was Martin being true to form. He began every big case by objecting to the danger. I'd found him to be the mild sort of guy, deep down. Divorce cases were his favorite sort of detective work.
"Why are you saying, babe?” he asked.
“I’m saying we have a life to save.”
His teeth were gritted. "This is a stinking mess that we don't need. There are no good angles in it. If we’re crazy enough to take it on, we have to think carefully and do it with smarts."
By then, Val looked ready to collapse to the carpet. "Ease up, babe," I told her. "You're not alone anymore. You don't have to go out into the night. You can spend the night with us."
I motioned for Martin to helped me settle her, lengthwise, on the couch. Put the couch pillow under her head and covered her with a fuzzy blue blanket picked up at a rummage sale. She was asleep within ten minutes.
I confronted Martin's worried eyes. "If you care so much about being smart, what smart idea do you have in mind?”
"I think we should discuss this privately." he said.
"The bedroom is my favorite private place," I replied.
Both of us were still half drunk and dead tired. Behind the closed door, I shucked off my party dress and didn’t bother to slip into my pajamas before I got under the coverlet. Within two shakes, Martin had settled in beside me wearing only his boxers. As inebriated as we were, we needed to talk.
"Where did these Italian gangsters come from suddenly?” he asked. “I thought the new ethnic gangs had bum-rushed all the I-Ties out of Washington."
"The Mafia is like a mustard stain; its hard to get rid of," I said. "They're still around, like flies in November, but they’re not what they used to be. They're outgunned now and running scared. Killing a federal prosecutor is not any move of a Lion King would make. When Dutch Schultz tried it in the 30s, the Mafia took him out instead. What the Morellis did is the desperate move of a wounded badger."
"How are we going to protect someone for five days against the Morettis?" Martin asked. "Taking this case is like leap-frogging into a bear trap. Even if the mob’s on its last legs, how do we stand up to what's left of them?"
"We just have to do it the way you said you said. We do it smart."
"It’s easy to say ‘smart,’ but hard to be smart. Do you have more to offer than just platitudes?"
I thought for a moment. "First off, we don’t dare play it the mob's way. They expect Val to either to run or to hide. They'll believe she can't run fast enough, and hide hide well enough. We have to persuade her from doing either."
"So what’s the best thing for her?"
"What if we make her look like an easy kill? If the mob doesn’t feel pressured, it make them move in on her in a slow and easy way."
“You’re saying they might go slow and easy about murder?”
That’s went I crossed my arms and braced my shoulders against the pillow. "Val's a traveling performer. She goes from one gig to another. The mob knows that, and they also know the D.C. police—for all they're worth—have their eyes on her. I think the Morellis wanted her to run, so they could ice her in another jurisdiction. It might through them off balance if we make it look like she's dumb enough to continue with her gig in Washington. They might pause a moment to wonder about what in hell she’s doing. They might start to wonder if she’s such an easy target after all. They might suspect that she’s the bait someone – maybe the cops – are using to lure them into a trap."
"Maybe, maybe, maybe. Are you going to bet that girl's life on a 'maybe'?"
"You know me better than that. I’m just putting a few trip wires in the gangs way. It might buy us some time. While they're wondering why she doesn’t make a break for it, they might move a little more slowly. What we have to do is make sure that she’s never left alone and unprotected."
“Do you really consider the two of us any real protection.”
“We’re all she’s got.”
"What’s the deal? Do you want us to stick with her around the clock?"
"Here's the deal. We move into her hotel room. I'll be acting like her roommate. You can pass yourself off as my boyfriend, a down-and-outer who’s always hanging around a babe like me. That means we’ll both be around Val to give her cover."
“Won’t they figure out that we’ve shown up to be her bodyguards?”
“Probably. But the more we can give them to think about, the better for us.”
Martin sank into the pillow, considering this. "You’re thinking is pretty good, but the clock's against us. Val's got only three days left on her Velvet Room booking. If she stays beyond that, the Morellis will know it's because she's been waiting for witness protection. Hell, some crooked cop has probably given the mob the whole spiel already. They’ll know they have to move against her before the cops effectively intervene."
"When her contract at the Velvet Room is over, we’ll hunker down at the hotel. To add a little more confusion, we can put out that she's too sick to travel."
"That'll be a hopelessly transparent ploy, I'd say."
"I know it is, but I can’t think of anything else to help us run out the clock."
"It's all a long shot, and a dangerous one. And how do you expect us to cover the girl at the club? If the Morettis decide we're bodyguarding her, won’t they put us on the hit list, too."
"Probably, but that might slow them down, too. The larger the butcher bill, the more careful the lumpy-suit boys will have to be. History slams them with a warning. When the Capone gang killed just seven unimportant thugs on St. Valentine's Day, the public relations stink that rolled up put the entire gang into a tailspin. The whole outfit finally crashed. And the Morettis are nothing compared to what the Chicago mob used to be."
"We’d need a lot of 'hope and by golly' to make this scheme work. One mob killer with an itchy trigger finger could make it all come falling down. But you still haven't told me how we can protect Val at the club without provoking the gang too much."
"Oh, come on! You can hang around there pretended to be a customer. Don't tell me you're not up to sitting on your duff drinking beer for three days?"
"What about you? You can’t guzzle that much liquor? You didn't drink half of what I drank tonight, and I had to carry you home."
"We’ve got a few cards to play. I have a friend of a friend who knows Dominic Santelli, the big dude who runs the Velvet Room. Street talk says that he's a square-shooter. If we can get him on our side about protecting Val, all he has to do is allow you hang around for three days acting like a lush, and give me a job on the floor so I can run interference for the girl."
"What kind of job can you do? Stripping?"
"Oh, get off it! A joint doesn’t hire strippers off the street. Those girls are trained professionals. There are schools that teach stripping and the girls use agencies to get their bookings. But I could wait tables. I used to bus drinks and meals in a restaurant-bar. It was a better job than selling shoes."
“Selling shoes?” replied Martin. “Did you know that Callahan sold shoes, too? It was just before he put out his detective shingle.”
I’d slipped. I didn’t want Martin to find out that his current squeeze had been his former boss and best friend. “Ah, yeah!” I said. “Knowing the shoe business gave me and D.C. something major in common. We could talk about it for hours.”
“I never heard any of those conversations,” my partner replied with an odd grin. “And I’m glad of that! So, you’re up to serving food and liquor?
"The work is no big deal. All you need is two hands, two feet, and a willingness to accept tips. Floor work will let me stay close to Val when she’s on her shift, and if Dom cooperates, he can see to it that she and I have the same shifts. You run surveillance from the floor. When she heads home, we go with her. We'll be twenty-four-seven bodyguards."
Martin rolled over on his side and faced the nightstand. "This is insane. The Morettis aren't stupid. And the two of us together aren't tough to stop them when they decide to move."
"Okay, beautiful. If you don't like the idea, give us a better one."
I knew that Martin didn’t have his heels dung in. He just had a knack for anticipating danger spots. It served him well as a detective. I countered each point he raised until the clock ticked toward four in the morning. Finally, he played his trump card.
"What makes me dislike this case is that I don't want you doing anything so dangerous. I almost lost you a few months ago. I never want to be back in that spot again."
I softened. "I know. You're so sweet I could eat you. But what choice do we have but to play the cards we're dealt? We're in business to take risks, after all."
He rolled back to face me. "No we're not. We're in business to make money. And against these odds, three thousand is only enough for bait at the end of a fishhook."
"Money? I'm in this operation to make myself feel alive. I was making more money when I had that shoe store job."
We both fell silent after that. Outside, D.C. traffic hummed its endless, dreary song.
"Fine," Martin spoke up at last. "But tell me, if things go sideways, are you willing to die for a stripper you don't even know?"
"No, but I'm willing to take a few risks when an innocent person is being kicked around. But if you want to know the truth, the only person I'm willing to die for is... you."
"Damn it! You always go for my soft spot, don't you?"
"What soft spot? You're talking about that heart of yours, maybe, you big, fuzzy bear?"
That's when the smooching started. As much fun as it was, we couldn't keep it up for long, seeing as how it was after four o'clock in the morning.
#
The General Narrative, continued
The next afternoon, Sheila, Martin, and Val met with Dominic Santelli in his office above The Velvet Room.
He was sixty, silver-haired, sharp-eyed. His office was tasteful: leather furniture, framed Sinatra photos, a bookshelf with actual books—nonfiction, mostly. And there were no velvet paintings either. No neon lights and no girly sleaze. The ambiance bespoke a man who paid the capital’s exorbitant taxes and kept his nose clean. There were too few people of character in Washington, D.C.
Val explained the situation: a murder witness with the mob after her. Because she had no place to run, she'd hired protectors. Dom took a second look at her companions.
The businessman supposed that the two young people with the dancer were the bodyguards. A male-female paring was unusual, but the male half looked formidable. But Dom couldn't help but wonder what the girl with him brought to the table.
Club boss’s expression hardened. "The Morettis. I heard about the Hayworth hit. It happened just outside the club, and it hurt business." He regarded Val with something like respect. "You've got guts, kid. Stupid guts, but guts."
Val introduced Sheila and Martin. Martin slid his business card across the desk—the Callahan-Dewitt Detective Agency card. Though Callahan was known to be dead, Dewitt had maintained the use of his name.
Dom picked it up, read it, and looked at them with new interest. "Private investigators. Val hired you?"
"For five days," Sheila said. "Then she goes into witness protection." She succinctly explained the plan they'd worked out.
The older man leaned back in his chair, thinking. Finally, he said, "All right. Here's the deal. I'll hire you as a cocktail waitress, miss – minimum wage plus tips. You stay close to Val and watch for trouble. But don't make it too obvious that you're mind is not on your job. And if there's going to be shooting, you take it outside. I don't need the Morettis or the cops shutting me down. Understood?"
"Understood," Sheila said.
"Good." Dom stood. "You start tonight. See Mercedes for your uniform and training.” He looked next at Val. “And Miss Romano, after this booking, don't come back until your trouble is behind you. Not because I don't like you. It's because I do like you. I don’t want to have to carry the memory of seeing you dead in my parking lot."
Val nodded, uncertain whether to cry or to smile. "Thank you, Mr. Santelli."
#
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued
Mercedes was the club's personnel director and the unofficial manager of the dancers. Thirty-five, bottle-blonde, she was a former showgirl herself, as sharp as a razor and ready for a fight. She took one look at my mini-skirted legs when Dom filled her in on the cover story. She said, "You'll look good in the costume, Scarlett, but have you ever worked a club?"
"Not a club like this," I admitted. "But I worked at a restaurant-bar before I went into the military."
"Military experience is a plus in a tough town like this one, but you don't look military."
"Gal Gadot was military, too. A girl can't help her appearance."
"You also don't look like you're in your twenties yet. How long did you serve?"
"Not as long as I intended. I was discharged. Do I have to give you the details?"
Dom broke in. "She told me the facts, Mercedes. It's all right. She's a good kid."
The older woman accepted that at its face and circled me like a drill sergeant inspecting a recruit. She glanced at Val and asked, "Why are you in here, Val?"
"Scarlett's my friend. She's staying with me until I leave town. I'd like her to have a job before she's on her own again," Val said.
Mercedes sighed. "All right, Scarlett. You'll get a chance, but don't screw up. You smile, you hustle food and drink, you don't take shit from customers, and you tip out the bouncers. You need them on your side. They're the ones who'll save your ass when some drunk gets handsy. Got it?"
"Got it."
"Good." She led me out of the office to a large hall closet. She pulled a garment bag from inside, saying, "Our waitresses wear these. Emerald green is the club's color. Elegant but professional. There's the restroom. Try it on."
The dress was a revelation. It was male-gaze stuff with a hemline that ended at about the same place the spanky did. When I stepped out of the changing room, Mercedes nodded in approval. I was glad that I had already lost any shyness I had about showing off my legs.
"You look the part. Now for the important introductions."
She led me downstairs to the main floor, where two men were checking the bar inventory. "This is Big Leo, a former Marine." He looked like a Marine—arms like tree trunks. "The other man is Joey"—wiry, fast, with years of experience written in the scars on his knuckles.
Big Leo looked me over. "New girl?"
"Scarlett," I said, using my cover name. "Val asked the boss to give me a job."
"Dom's got an eye for the pretty ones," Joey said. "We take special care of the new girls. You see anything hinky, you signal us. Don't handle problems that are too big for you."
They showed me the exits, the panic buttons, the camera blind spots. These guys knew their job. I felt a little better about the plan we'd worked out.
Mercedes checked her watch. "Four hours until opening. Get dressed, practice walking in those heels if you're not used to stilettos, and pray you don't fall and mess up that pretty face."
I looked down at the high heels she'd given me—four-inch spikes, emerald green to match the dress.
"I'll be fine," I said. "I can even dance on heels if I have to."
Mercedes's lips quirked. "A soldier who’s used to Playboy Bunny-style shoes? Well, you're at least interesting, kid."
#
The General Narrative, continued
The Velvet Room opened at eight PM sharp.
Sheila stood behind the bar in her emerald dress and heels, balancing a drink tray and trying to remember everything Mercedes had told her in the last four hours. The club was classy—art deco styling, soft lighting, a stage with professional sound and lights. It wasn't the dive-look that most strip bars had.
Martin sat at the bar, making each beer last, his eyes constantly scanning the room. Dom had told the bouncers that Martin was there to watch out for his girlfriend, Scarlett, who was new on the floor. He told them not to bounce him out for loitering.
Val performed her first set of the evening, a slow, controlled routine to Nina Simone. Watching her move, Sheila saw that she was good at her job. In the cheap bars, the dancers would come out on stage nearly naked already. Val wore a proper dress and shed it in pieces very slowly, with flair. This wasn't just stripping—it was performance art, with timing, grace, and confidence. Val knew how to give men real substance for their entry fee.
After her set, Val worked the floor, offering guests private dances and chatting with regulars. Sheila closely shadowed her, carrying drinks and watching faces. Distracted, she did her duties as if they were only an afterthought. Sheila supposed that Mercedes must have been told not to lean on her. She wondered what excuse Dom had used to explain what was a poor performance.
But the work in the club was harder than it had been where Callahan had worked years before. For one thing, Sheila didn't have the arm strength of a man in his twenties. The tray grew heavy after an hour. Drunk customers gave her crude compliments. One grabbed her wrist when she delivered his whiskey; she twisted free with a steady smile, and Big Leo was there to help her in seconds. His formidable presence induced the man jabber an apology and double her tip. As long as getting badly used meant getting more money into her pocket, Sheila was game for more.
As a man, Callahan had spent as much time at strip joints as he could afford—which wasn't much. But now, male eyes were on her as well as on the dancers. Things felt different. Sheila still enjoyed watching the strippers, but with feelings different from the old days. She had to keep reminding herself to study security angles and scan for threats. Now she was watching the girls with admiration instead of longing. Their movement seemed to fascinate her differently from how they had before. There was artistry in the way they moved, the control they had, the individuality they put into their motions.
A professional dancer Dom had brought in was performing a routine to Etta James. The way she worked the pole in timing with the music, the way she teased the inevitable reveal—it was mesmerizing.
What she was seeing was reaching down inside Sheila somehow, touching her deep down. What was it? Curiosity? Fascination? Ever since she'd become a woman herself, Sheila had been looking at beautiful women differently. It was like she was seeing something new, but couldn't define what that new thing was. But tonight, watching these beauties shed their costumes, she felt like she was getting very close to understanding what was before her transfixed eyes.
Sheila occasionally had to shake herself to prevent her focus from drifting.
The night ended without incident. Back at Val's hotel room—where Sheila had earlier placed her necessary belongings—Val collapsed into bed with relief after getting home safely. She could almost hope that the danger had gone away.
Sheila shook her head. "Don't rest too easily, doll. They'll come. They're just watching, studying. When they see the opening they need for making a clean kill, they’ll move."
Martin, who'd ridden back to the hotel with them, checked the room's security. "We can't let up for a minute,” he said. “The more the bad guys learn about their target, the more dangerous they become."
After he bedded down in the second room, Sheila, in a sleeping bag, lay awake on the floor of Val’s bedroom, staring at the ceiling. Her feet ached, her back hurt, and she smelled like cigarette smoke and cologne.
But she keep thinking about the stage show. More and more she realized that it wasn't the men with money in their pockets who controlled the room, but the women on stage. The women knew how to work the room when going out among the audience to mingle. When they did that, they came across as than just untouchable, distant images of art in motion.
Callahan had been in so many clubs. Sheila could only wonder why the Velvet Room had had a more profound effect on her than those other joints had had on her male alter ego.
It was bad enough wondering who Sheila Coffin was. Now it was like she was starting to wonder who D.C. Callahan had been.
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2
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