THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 10 and 11

 

 

Posted 05-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 10

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Martin and me burned rubber all the way to Hotel Franco. I ran into the lobby, leaving Martin to drive around looking for a free parking space. Fred, the old man tending the desk, gave me the fish eye when I came in. It was his job to keep hookers off the premises, except for those who paid him five dollars per trick. I guess it was the handcuffs I wearing that immediately gave him the wrong idea about me.

"Has D.C. Callahan come in yet?" I asked breathlessly.

He was giving me that kind of look. "You just missed him."

"Just missed him? Was anyone with him?"

He must have been in a good mood, since he offered me a little info on the house.

"Two lady friends."

"Did did he leave with someone else, a young black lady?"

He looked impatient when he said, "He came in and went out with the same two."

Martin must have found free parking in record time because just then he came in through the street door. "Are we too late?" he asked, winded.

"They've already been here and gone," I told him. "It sounds like they didn't get Schitz -- or she's still up there, minus a few quarts of blood."

That had been a joke, but it made me realize that any murder committed in my room might be pinned on me!

"Might Schitz be that black girl in the red dress?" Fred asked.

I leaned forward over his desk. "Do you know where she is?"

"I have to keep the guests' confidences," he said.

He was speaking a language I understood. Freddy boy was chiseling for a bribe.

"She wasn't a hotel guest," I pointed out. "She was Mr. Callahan's personal guest."

That distinction didn’t seem to hacked it and Fred went back to sorting the hotel mail.

"Give him a fin," I told Martin.

"A fin?" Pard echoed. "What am I going to eat on tonight?"

When I shot him my "Don't be such a tightwad" look, he saw reason.

"Oh, all right," he sighed and a few seconds later slapped his endangered specie down on the counter top.

The clerk stuffed the bill into his shirt pocket and said: "She went out two hours ago -- just a little after Mr. Callahan left. She was accompanied by a gentleman named B.J. Waters."

"Blackjack Waters, the pimp?" Martin asked perplexedly.

The old man sniffed. "I don't think he ever mentioned his occupation, and I never put much stock in gossip."

"Did Callahan say anything before he left?" I asked.

“When?”

“The last time you saw him.”

"He asked where the black girl went."

"And you told him?"

"Of course. She was his guest."

"Do you know where B.J. lives?"

"Sorry, no," replied the clerk.

I shifted toward Martin. "What do we do now?"

"Check the phone book?" he suggested.

“Phone books? What are you, an archaeologist? Phone books were buried in the same grave where the deep-sixed the public phone!”

I glanced back to Fred. "May I have the key to 314."

He frowned. "I can't do that without Mr. Callahan's permission."

"I'm --" Again, I clammed up just in time. "I'm...Mr. Callahan's personal secretary. Martin can vouch for that."

Old Fred took another gander at my legs and cleavage. "Is that so?" he asked coolly.

"I know what you're thinking," I said stiffly, "but I'm wearing a disguise for an undercover assignment."

“That’s the honest truth, Fred," Martin pipped in.

Fred turned his skeptical eye upon my pard. "I'd like to help, sir, but it would be a highly irregular."

That excuse didn’t cut it. "Martin, do you have another fiver?" I asked.

"No, just chump change."

"How much?"

He dug about a dollar and a quarter from his pants pocket. The clerk appeared unimpressed.

But I’m a P.I. and that means I know how to think on my feet. Leaning in closer to give Fred a good look at my credentials, I whispered: "I like being looked at,” I said, doing a Marilyn. “If you loan us the key very temporarily, you can do more than just look."

"Sheila!" Martin blurted.

"Stifle it, Dewitt! This is an emergency."

Without going into detail, what happened next wasn't exactly the sort of thing that I’d like to put into my diary, but taking one for the team was the right way to make the creep fork over my the room key.

Once upstairs, I saw no sign that Schitz had ever been there. There was quite a bit of disorder, but I could blame the three rhinoceroses from Beyond the Rim for that. It was my hunch that the pimp must have intercepted the Congressman even before she'd reached my door. That left the question as to why she’d ducked out with him? Had she been forced?

If I was going to catch up with my missing body, Martin and I had to beat the aliens to Blackjack's place because otherwise Schitz was dead meat. She was my only link we had to the aliens. Besides, I belong to the World Class Booty Protection agency and I wouldn’t like to see that kind of body go bye-bye. But before I could play the action hero part I had to get the cuffs off. I knew where I kept the key, but I had to put on an act so that Martin wouldn’t figure out my real identity. I pretended to search randomly before "luckily" finding them in a drawer.

Martin meanwhile, was looking for evidence my refrigerator. "What’s the matter?” I asked. “You hungry? There's a pack of beef jerky in there."

He eyed me curiously. "How did you know that?"

A tough question, but I used to watch Topper reruns so I knew what to say. "Because -- Because D.C. mentioned this morning that...that he had a pack of beef jerky in the fridge. What did you suppose? That I'm a mind reader? Or that I've been here before?"

As soon as those words were out, I was sorry. I should have made Sheila confess that she’d been having a torrid affair with me. That would have been status, man. But I couldn’t worry about one little slip up; I had more important things on my mind.

Martin grabbed the dried meat and the two of us chowed down. I also did a number on my box of crackers, downing their every glorious crumb with Coke chaser before digging into my address book. B.J. had a reputation as a dunker and so I figured that some of the mugs running floating crap games locally would know how to reach him. Otherwise, that girl in the mirror was going to be keeping watch on me for a long, long time. The odds were that after the aliens wrapped up their woman hunt, they’d probably go deep undercover and that would be all she wrote, at least as far as I was concerned.

Chapter 11

The General Narrative, continued

Suspended with her nipple clamps still in place, Ginger Spice Schitz could only stand suspended in the laundry room with gritted teeth, toughing things out. While she was feeling miserable, that sleazy music kept blaring into her brain and was actually starting to sound like one hell of a song. Also, she was beginning to think that B.J. looked awfully cute – in manly sort of way.

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

All these young businesswomen wearing black clothes and gray,
They never seem happy when they get their own way.
This one chick's called Sammy and another's Carrie;
Not a woman among 'em doesn't wish she were me!

Suddenly Schitz heard someone yelling: "B.J.! Take these things off me! I can't stand it! You can be my sweet man! I don't care!"

It took a couple of seconds for the Congressman to realized that the shouting had come out of her own mouth. What, exactly, had she just consented to?

Ginger heard the pimp's approaching footsteps and, groaning, started fighting to escape her manacles again, but it was too late. The doorknob turned and, when the portal swung open, Blackjack was standing there. But he wasn't alone this time. Behind him stood a man and a woman -- and she knew the man!

"Callahan!" Schitz blurted. "Get me out of here!"

The P.I., wearing a rumpled trench coat, stepped around the pimp, saying, "It wasn't easy finding you, Miss Schitz, but you'll be all right now. We're taking you with us." He scowled at Blackjack. "Get her loose, you bum, and make it snappy!"

"Okay, okay, sir," B.J. sniveled, all his brashness gone. He came up to the nude girl and plucked the alligator clamps off her nipples and, afterwards, freed her wrists. The black beauty was casting a puzzled look at the svelte blonde.

"Leigh here is my associate," Callahan explained. "Leigh, take the lady into the bedrooms and find her some clothes."

"Will do," replied Spielman. The ersatz Leigh put her arm around Ginger, saying, "Come on, honey. We'll get you decent."

Ginger looked back at Callahan. "I thought it was that brunette, Sheila, who worked for you."

"Sheila's minding the office," Callahan explained tersely. "It’s Miss Spielman who works with me and Martin when the mean street needs the feminine touch."

Schitz nodded blankly. When the women were out of earshot, Callahan shifted toward B.J, asking, "Will you be taking that old body of yours along with us?"

The black man shook his head. "It’s not old. But, since you ask, I want to have B.J.’s equipment when Schitz wakes up. I want to give her the full treatment in the sack before I switch back."

"I've never gotten all that attached to any body I've had so far!"

"Doing the dirty in that bod is so crazy hot you wouldn't believe it! But to cover our tracks I need to stay as Waters until the real Callahan shows up, if she shows up. Then I'm going to make it look like the pimp and Callahan's secretary killed one another."

 The Callahan-alien nodded. "Good thiinking, Gerrog! But how about the rest of us staying to give you some back up?"

"No. Schitz is too important. It’s going to look bad enough that we haven’t gotten her over to the techs already. Djomni can hang with me, but I need you and Roissar to deliver Schitz for processing. Once she’s been given a new attitude, there’s one babe who won’t be witnessing against us."

The Callahan frowned. "I don't like it. You’re underestimating Callahan. I know every thought in that dick's head and he isn't as dumb as he acts. Don’t take him for granted."

The false B.J. shook his head. “We have to chance it. The Committee will have our heads if they find out how we let Schitz slip away. Even as things are going, we’ll be lucky they don’t find out about our screw up somehow."

Leigh and Ginger reappeared a few minutes later, with Ginger looking fine, having been squeezed into a bright green minidress. "Why didn't you give me a chance to dig out something less provocative?" Schitz was complaining.

"Stop bitching, Congressman," Leigh replied harshly. "Dressed like that, you can go into the Capitol building with nobody giving you a second glance. Besides, we have to take the high road before those low-roading aliens show up."

This was a scary thought and it made sense to Ginger.

Callahan took the black girl by the arm. "This way, Congressman."

"Is there any way I can get my body back?" the politician asked in a wavering tone of desperation.

"Hard question, sir,” the phony dick said. “We’ll brainstorm about that possibility later."

Once the bogus B.J. was left alone in the apartment, he made for the bedroom to check on the real pimp. B.J. was still lying dead-to-the-world in the body of a redheaded working girl.

Just then, Djomni, the alien who usually did the team's driving, now shuffled out from the kitchen. He’d been a low profile so that the others wouldn't have to explain to Schitz why Callahan was keeping company with a ragged derelict.

Gerrog filled in his subordinate on the developing plan and then the two of them sat in front of the TV to wait for something to happen. There was a raunchy Disney movie playing and Djomni was really getting into it; he was always a prime audience that degenerate Hollywood stuff.

But his team leader wasn’t wasn’t paying attention to the boob tube; instead in was sorting through Blackjack's thoughts and memories looking for details that would improve his impersonation. The pimp’s mind held little of interest but, yet, there was something knocking around in the back of it -- something that was hard to get at. Gerrog was guessing that it was something that the player didn’t want to remember. The alien finally shrugged and put the mystery out of his mind. With any luck, he'd be ditching this body soon and the real B.J. would be dead.

About twenty minutes later, the door knocked and Gerrog ordered Djomni to hide in the kitchen with his gun ready. Then the false mackman crossed the room to peer through the door’s security lens. His heartbeat quickened to see Callahan’s secretary standing on the other side. Behind her was a young man whom Blackjack’s memory vaguely recognized as Callahan's partner, Dewitt.

The alien felt the automatic in his pocket. He was going to make this visit short and sweet. . . . 

 

To be Continued in Chapter 12

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 8 and 9

 

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 8 and 9

 

Posted 04-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 8

Narrative of D.D. Callahan, continued

A fourth alien seemed to be playing cabbie for the other three and he was in the body of one those down-and-out slum guys, the kind that these Martians seemed to use for general-purpose thugs. The Leigh-alien was up front alongside him, while "Callahan" and the coppertop had me pinned between the two of them. I was absolutely humiliated to be taking my last ride in the backseat of a Ford Taurus, but them's the breaks. At least the rush-hour traffic was making our progress slow.

Know thy enemy, I always say, and the best way to get into their head is to get them talking. "You guys are toast!" I sneered. "When the feds find out what you're up to, the president is going go at you goons like a terrorist nation." That was crap of course. I knew that the guy in the White House would probably send his crooked son meet to meet with them in Ukraine cut a lucrative deal. My last hope was that they hadn’t done their homework when it comes to presidential politics.

The two in the backseat only laughed. I wasn’t sure if they were laughing at Mr. Brandon or me.

I took off on a new tack. "You guys don’t seem to have any ethics? Who runs your operation, anyway? Fearless Leader?"

Red snorted. "Our guiding figures are the most brilliant minds in the galaxy. We call them the Committee."

That made me feel a lot better. If a committee was running this invasion, it didn't stand a chance.

"Are you aware that some of your world's most powerful leaders have already been replaced by our agents," she added.

“Since when?” I asked.

“Since FDR.”

Oh, him. Yeah, if he was an alien that would explain a lot of things about what went on back then.

“What about Randy Bill? That guy just had to be one of you.”

“He still is,” said the babe in mauve.

“Why is he still around? Why hasn’t the old wreck been switched out for a new model?”

“That wouldn’t work out for our long-term plans. We're keeping him shot up with vitamins and Big Pharma magic until he finishes what he was set up to do.”

I was depressed that I wouldn’t be able to watch Bill’s funeral on TV, but at least I could die happy knowing that I didn’t have to blame the American people for the Democrat Party.

It must have been my look of misery that had put a Satanic smile on the red-head’s love-bows. "Cheer up, Callahan. We don't actually intend to kill you -- not immediately. You'll just wish you were dead."

I scowled at her face – well, to be honest I was actually glimming her legs – and said, "Hey, don’t give me that! You told Schitz that you were going to kill her -- him."

The phony Callahan butted in. "There’s no need to kill her until an agent of ours need body for a new assignment. We just thought it was fun seeing how scared the twit could get."

"You guys have a great sense of humor, I can see that."

For some reason, my throwaway sarcasm started the whole pack of them yucking. Usually I like people who enjoy their work, but these hyenas had what it takes to get on my nerves.

Just then, I saw a glare between the buildings up ahead and it told me that we were closing in on the Potomac River. Were these strong-arm goons going to strangle me and dump my body -- Sheila's body -- after all? While I held my breath, the derelict banged a ralph into a small parking lot behind commercial building with plywood over its windows.

"End of the road, bimbo," the driver said to his rear-view mirror, but I got the idea that he was actually talking to me.

They held the door open, expecting me to get out. I was keyed up to make a break for it, but as soon as my spiked heels touched asphalt, it was all I could do to keep from falling on my prat. Maybe that was the reason they were making me wear those nutty things. I decided to making a show of being even worse off than I really was, hoping to put my escort off-guard. When the Callahan reached out to steady me, I kneed him in the crotch, kicked off those damned pumps, and started running like Seabiscuit on a dry track!

I was also yelling at the top of my lungs: "Help! Anybody! Murder!"

At at the moment I wasn't sure if murder was on the table, but if I'd yelled "sex change" who’d have given a hoot?

While bruising my feet while trying to run on that uneven pavement, I tossed a look-see over my shoulder. The aliens were gaining on me and Red was able to run faster than me while still wearing her own sexy heels. I guess a person can overcome even the worst of handicaps.

"Let go of that woman, you creeps!" someone hollered from nowhere. I thought the shout was coming from a dark alley ahead but, with the sun in my eyes, I couldn't see who it was.

"Look out!" I shouted. "They're dangerous! Shoot them, officers! Shoot!"

It was a tin-plated bluff, but was keying off Schitz’s story of these same bad guys mading like rabbits just because a squad car had shown up while they were manhandling her. My ploy really worked on these four jerks, because they got off my case and hotfooted it back to their lousy Taurus. It took their derelict driver only five seconds to gun that tin can of theirs back into the traffic flow. I breathed a sigh of relief; if these mugs were dumb enough to be afraid of the alumni of January 6th, maybe they weren’t as smart as they thought they were.

Anyway, I’d been saved, but by whom?

My stentorian rescuer was already sprinting out of the shadows. To my surprise, the guy really was packing heat and I could hardly believe that the cavalry had turned out to be my own partner, Martin Dewitt!

He braked his rubber heels right in front of me. "Are you all right, Miss -- ?"

Miss?

Oh, of course! Martin wouldn't know me from Adam. I mean, he wouldn't know me from Sheila. My head was spinning. What could I say? The way I’d been swapped out wasn't anything to brag about, not even to my best friend. If he knew that I'd suddenly turned into a girl, how could he respect me? No, I had to pretend to be Sheila until I could catch up with that body thief and force him to return the merchandise.

"Sheila!" Martin exclaimed.

"Thank God you showed up, Dewitt!" I babbled. "You saved my neck! They were going to make me look like one I was one of those murdered hookers." I let it go at that; I wasn't exactly sure what, precisely, they had had on their deranged minds.

He gave me the up and down, like any decent, red-blooded American boy would – at least any red-blooded decent American boy who hadn’t been turned into a wimp by attending an Ivy League college. "That explains that wild dress, but what's the deal? Just before those guys ducked into that dumb-looking car, I thought I saw that two of them were Leigh Spielman and Callahan!"

I shook my head -- Sheila's head -- wildly. "No, Martin, you've got it all wrong! They weren’t the good guys. What Schitz told us is true. Those were aliens! They got the drop on...on D.C., Spielman, and me! The aliens switched with us -- I mean, with the two of them; I came off all right. Now their bodies are running an operating system that’s called "Crazy Killers from Galaxy 10!"

That news rocked Martin. "Wait a minute, Sheila. Are you saying that that icredibly gorgeous bimbo actually was Schitz, and now they've stolen Callahan's and Spielman's bodies, too?"

"Something like that!"

“So why didn’t they switch you?”

“They...They told me I had a bad flavor. I didn’t get it. It must be an alien thing.”

“Whatever they were thinking, you lucked out!”

I nodded absently. "They wanted to find out where D.C. stashed Schitz, and so they switched his mind with a... uh --"

"Oh, no! You don't mean they switched him with some sleazy hooker?”

I couldn't let Martin start thinking that. I had to say something quick to save my pride.

But I’d been too slow answering. "Sheila ---?"

"I -- I'm sorry, Martin. Callahan is dead. But he died like a man. They switched him into some flea-bitten old wino and bashed in his head with a brick. They told me afterwards that they’d put his body into the dumpster behind our building! Leigh -- the real Leigh -- is in there with him, too."

"Dead? That's horrible!" The guy really looked appalled. I could appreciate that.

"You're telling me?!" I said.

"How -- How did they switch him into a male wino? I thought a person had to have sex with an alien to get switched over."

Drat! I'd forgotten about that messy little detail. By trying to save my rep as a man's man, I'd put my macho image into an even greater jeopardy.
"No, that's not how it is! Since when do you believe anything that a lefty politician tells you, Martin?"

"You mean all they had to to was touch ---?"

I had to change the subject, and fast. "What are you doing here, Dewitt -- I mean, Mr. Dewitt? I thought you were at the Rex Company warehouse."
Still looking plenty shocked, Pard mumbled, "I got lucky. The warehouse was empty, but it looked recently abandoned." His expression hardened. "I went to the courthouse to ask some questions and it turns out that Rex Company was just a dummy corporation registered with another phony outfit, one that owns this closed-down tool and die shop, too. I’d swung ovr to check the premises when the Ford Taurus drove up. Now, I suppose, the aliens are going to abandon this place, too."

"Yeah. But before they do that, we have break in like gang busters and check it out. What a day t his is! If I wrote a rescue like this into a story, no one would believe it!"

"You write fiction?" he asked.

Another slip up! Callahan wrote fiction, not Sheila. "Sure!" I bluffed. "Didn't I ever mention it? Well, maybe not. We never really sat down over a Java with donuts to talk about hobbies."

I saw hesitation in his hawk-like eyes. "To tell the truth,” he sad, “I've always wanted to get to know you better, but you kept telling me to take a hike."

That was for sure! Sheila had really been a piece of work. But now I was stuck with explaining why she had always acted so badly, so that we could start working together to find my stolen body. "Well, uh, yeah, I'm shy. But I've been trying to beat down my bashfulness. I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression. I never wanted to be mistaken for some kind of cold bitch."

He eyed me again. "Well, you’re sure not looking shy – or cold -- in that streetwalker rig."

"Well, you try wearing a combo like this I'll tell you what you look like," I suggested irritably.

Fortunately, fashion wasn't uppermost on Dewitt's mind. "Damn!" he swore. "If those bastards murdered my partner, and killed Miss Spielman, too, they're dead meat!"

I nodded. "I'm with you one hundred percent, Martin, but it won't be easy going up against Plan 9 From Outer Space! We've got to find where those crumbs are hanging out and then slap them with an ace."

He looked at me keenly. "Any ideas?" Only then did I notice how his six-one body towered over mine. Trying to look him in the eye could have given me a crick in my neck!

I nodded again. "Well, the space men are still looking for Schitz. They'll be heading for my -- for D.C.'s apartment."

"Is that where D.C. stashed the congressman?"

"Yeah! But don’t just stand there jawing! We've got to haul ass!"

“But we have to check out this dead factory!”

“Skip it for later! A life is at stake! Where’s the Honda?”

“Back there,” he said pointing.

At my first step, I winced with pain. "Could you help me find my shoes, Martin?" I asked. "Thisa lumpy asphalt hurts my feet!"

We found the shoes right off, but because my hands were still cuffed behind my back, I needed his in putting on those arch-killers. “Okay, great! Let’s put the pedal to the metal!”

"Wait a minute, Sheila," he said, "you cant’ come. This business is too dangerous for a lady --"

"Stuff it, Martin! I ain't that much of a lady!"


Chapter 9

The General Narrative, continued

To Ginger Spice’s surprise, taking a shower with a black Adonis was making her feel hot in all the right places. The pimp's hands were all over her like a pair of bloodhounds while rubbing in the suds. His every touch had a thousand synapses firing inside her curvaceous body.

Suddenly, B.J.'s hands slipped under Schitz's arms, drawing her in close....
"No!" Ginger yelled, shoving the randy dude back. That made B.J. lose his footing and smack down on the tiled shower floor. The nude girl used the fact that he was floored to throw open the shower door and make for the living room.

Blackjack, getting up, gave his bruised pelvis a good rubbing. 'Oh, shit! That's one mixed up broad!' he was thinking. Though miffed, the pussy chaser didn’t have to worry about Ginger Spice giving him the slip. The door was locked and the pad had no fire escape.

The pimp dried himself off and then pulled on a fresh pair of boxer shorts. Only then did he go looking for Ginger. He found sitting on a wet spot on the settee, feeling trapped and looking glum. B.J. tossed his towel into her face.

"Your wet behind is wrecking the furniture, you dumb bunny! Do you know how much ass you'll have to sell to replace the upholstery?"

Ginger took the towel and used it to cover her water-beaded breasts. While she was obsessing about being a lady, Blackjack was pondering his options. Once he figured out what he wanted to do, he grabbed the dark-complected girl and jerked to her feet. He was done with being a nice guy. This uppity gal needed to be sweetened up.

"You and me have got to have a contract, so lemme lay it out for you,” he said. “If you say our loud that I'm your sweet man, that'll put the seal on our street marriage. You'll belong to me from then on and I'll start taking care of you – if you like it or not."

The ebony gal gave him a glare. "You belong in lock-up! I want out of here!" Schitz had no idea where she was going to go if she did leave, but as a Congressman he had never had a plan for planning beyond the next bribe opportunity.

Blackjack, his patience used up, hoisted Ginger up and flung her over his hard, Tarzan-like shoulder. Ignoring the babe’s kicks, yells, and beating fists, he toted her into his laundryroom. There, he set her down on her bare feet under a pair of Velcro cuffs that dangled from the ceiling. Before she knew what was what, he had cuffed one of her wrists. Ginger, realizing what he was going to do next, struck at him with her free arm, but B.J. captured it, too and in five seconds he had her with both arms raised.

"Let me go, you son of a bitch!" she yelled.

"I wanted to be nice, sugah, but you keep insulting my hospitality. You can either be my bitch or my pooch. It's up to you."

"Go soak your head!"

"You said you were a lawyer, and you sure do act uppity like one," said Blackjack. "I only wish you were a real mouthpiece you could do my shystering for free. But because you don’t have a law degree, you’re going to have to make it on the street selling that nice behind of yours." He left the room and returned with a light, supple chain with an alligator-type clip affixed to either end.

"This little accessory is the think you need to concentrate your mind," the pimp said. He clipped each of her nipples in turn, leaving Ginger to yelp at the discomfort.

"Take these things off me, you bastard!" she demanded. The chocolate bunny violently jiggled her breasts, but the hardware wouldn't shake loose.

"Am I your sweet man?" Blackjack asked, his teasing voice as smooth as rippling silk. “Say yes and you’ll be my street wife for ever and ever.”

"No!"

"Then I'll have to leave you here to get acquainted with your new friends."

B.J. went to fetch his continuous-play cassette player. Into it, he shoved a subliminal tape that all the pimps swore by. It was an hour-long recording of the underground ditty "I'm a Ho," played repeatedly. This was a very, very special version of the song. It had been altered by a smart-as-hell audio tech working for the FBI. He’d already known that the feds were ass-deep into mind-control. That was how they were able to turn out all those mass-murdering shooters so that the people would feel guilty and give up their Second Amendment rights. But that was only the tip of the iceburg.

The Dems had loaded the FBI down with randy, degenerate freaks who were making their moolah from running world-wide dope sales and human trafficking. They had ordered the FBI tech to create a super efficient subliminal recording to make captive women' enthusiastic about selling sex.

According to the story told on the street, the tech, despite his job satisfaction, had gotten tired of his pretty-but-lazy wife’s bad attitude. She’d been hanging around the couple’s apartment guzzling coffee and jabbering with snooty feminist friends. He’d had put instructions on the CD that would make any woman who heard it want to hear it again and again. After a few playings, its powerful message would begin to sink in. It worked like a charm, and his wife, along with her irritating girlfriends, were all turned into flat-backing hotties under the skin.

Soon, all that those freeloading man-haters could think about was getting good sex and making money from it. The tech didn't actually want own wife to start selling it – not if it meant that she’d be bringing SDTs home with her, but with the attitude repair she’d subjected her to, she started treating him nice, the way that a ho makes her pimp happy. The tech found out that streetwalkers really do make the best wives. The couple's marriage got plenty happy and the tech loaded out the tape to friends who were having problems with their own love lives. Before long, bootleg copies were hitting the street and professional players were duplicating them wholesale. It made the job of turning out a new girl as easy as pie.

When he checked in on her, the black girl was still glaring at him with looks to kill. He placed the tape player on the floor, just out of reach of her long legs, and turned it on:

I wear five-inch stilettos and my hem's up to here;
I'm a wild workingwoman and my lovin' comes dear.
I walk just like Monroe, 'got Jane Russell's shape;
When I do my love dance all the vice cops go ape.

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

When my mother criticized me I just told her I'd leave
And answer the calling of Our Good Lady Eve.
That chippie, she was turned out -- the Scriptures say so --
And the Devil made Evie the very first ho!

Eve's a ho

Ho-ho-ho

Eve's a ho

Ho-ho-ho!

Some say that I'm tacky, that I wallow in sleaze,
But I'm earning a living and I do what I please.
Most wives don't respect me, them that's happily wed,
But I know all their husbands, 'cause I met them in bed!

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!

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

I don't need a guru who can lead me to grace;
All I want is a sweetie who' can send me to space.
Man is the master and I'm just a tease;
Don't think that I'm praying when I'm down on my knees!

I'm a hooker 'tis true!

Do-do-do-do!

Don't you wish you were, too!

Do-do-do-do!

They call me exploited 'cause a guy takes my green,
But I’m making him happy and he never acts mean.
He's my hard-lovin' daddy and he's got what I need;
He's my life-long religion; he's my Apostle's Creed.

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

All these young businesswomen wearing black clothes and gray,
That type isn’t happy when they get their own way.
This one chick's called Sammy and another's Carrie;
Not a woman among 'em doesn't wish she were me!

I'm a hooker, 'tis true!

Do-do-do-do!

Don't you wish you were, too!

Do-do-do-do!

If there's a glass ceiling, then I'm strutting right through;
There's no feminazi who can rock like I do.
Don't want their pity; I don't need she-pals;
Old Steniem sure was clueless 'bout us street-walking gals.

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

I'm a ho,

Ho Ho Ho!

Blackjack then went back into the living room and punched the power button on his TV remote. The picture came on, but he was too wound up to enjoy the show. He didn’t have Georgia on his mind, but he sure had Ginger there.

All of a sudden, a door knock sounded. Always suspicious of court guys serving warrants, B.J. first went to check the peep-lens. He relaxed hugely to see a beautiful face on the other side.

The pimp unlocked the door and faced off with a smiling redhead. This whistle bait, he thought, had the words "working girl" written all over a body that just wouldn’t quit. He flashed a wide grin. "What can I do for you, Darlin'?"

The visitor gave him a naughty-girl smile. "Are you Blackjack Waters?"

"That's me. Excuse me, babe, but you don't look like you’ve come selling  Field and Stream subscriptions."

"I haven't, but I've got plenty else to sell. May I come in?"

He stood aside. "Welcome to my parlor."

The redhead breezed past him and when Blackjack locked the door behind her, she gave a quirky smirk and asked, "Oh my, are you locking me in?"
He grinned disarmingly. "No, honey, it's for somebody else."

"Breaking in a new girl?"

"I might be, but that's my business. What I’m interested in is your business." He ushered her to the settee. "Take a load off, pretty woman."

The working gal sat down and crossed her legs. The look of those long stems made B.J.'s heartbeat speed up.

"I was referred to you by the Snow Man," the girl explained.

"How's the Snow Man doin'?" Blackjack asked, not being the least interested in the Snow Man just then. After fighting with Ginger for a solid hour, he wanted some quality time with a piece of willing booty.

"He's on top of things," the redhead said offhandedly. "He's doing so well, in fact, that he gave me your address, instead of taking me on himself. He said that you had a couple of bad breaks and were down to just a pair of girls. He thought you’d be up for somebody like me."

"Snow Man's got a big mouth," B.J. replied with a scowl. Having the other players thinking that he was a charity case was the last thing he wanted. His health had been a problem lately, but the mackman had been on medication and was raring to go. "And the Snow's got things wrong. I've got three girls now."

"I didn't mean to give offense."

'Those eyes of hers would melt gold bricks,' he thought. Then he put on his managerial expression. "I'll be telling you when you give offense, chickadee, and you ain't done it yet. So, you need a business agent? Is that why you looked me up?"

She nodded. "My man back in Scottsdale won a long vacation on the state-court lottery. Somehow the Nazis managed to beat the cheat and get a Republican elected for mayor. Now all the Scottsdale mackmen are all running for cover. Desert heat got to be too much for me, too."

Blackjack liked what he’d been hearing. "You've come to the right town, sweet cakes. The crooked mayor is our bitch."

His comely visitor eased herself back on the couch, her teasing lips looking kissably soft. "So, what do you say? Do you like what you see?"

"Honey, I liked what I saw even before I opened the door. But I’m not one to judge a book by its cover, if you know what I mean."

Her expression became all business. "What page do you want to begin on?"

"I like to go to the ending. That’ll tell me if the book is worth reading" he said.

The girl in mauve stood up, straightened her shoulders and lightly cleared her throat. "If that's the score, what are we waiting for?" 

TO BE CONTINUED

 

 

 

 

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 6 and 7

 

Posted 03-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 6

Narrative of D.D. Callahan, continued

By the time I got back to my office, I was feeling like a sap. How could I have let the Mystery Woman get off scot-free, without even copping a feel? If word of that got out, I’d be a laughing stock. I just hoped that I could bear down after work and make up for lost ground.

It looked a mess with papers lying on the floor. I was suddenly concerned. Our secretary certainly had a careless attitude to her job, but she was also a neat freak usually. "Sheila? You still here?" I yelled.

I heard someone moving behind the inner office door; 'mystery solved,' I thought with a chuckle. I supposed that Sheila was sitting at my desk again, pretending to be a bigwig like me. Being a fun guy, I wanted to pop in and give her a loud horselaugh. But when I opened the door, what I saw made me stop and stare. Sheila was there all right -- only she wasn't sitting behind the desk. She stood in front of it, expectant-like, with one hand placed on her hip in a sexy kind of way. Most notably of all, the usual ankle-length skirt was missing.

It was about time that she got rid of that she was wearing creeped me out. I was reminded me of that big, wide grin that Captain Hook always got from his crocodile buddy.

"I don't know who you're waiting for dressed – or undressed – that way, sweetheart," I said, "but it's only me." I stepped around her and sat down my boss chair. Because I’d been around the block a few times, I started to wonder whether Sheila was trying to set me up for a sexual harassment rap.

Sheila turned around and did the hip-rolling “dame walk” to my side of the desk. She leaned forward, steadying herself with one hand braced against the desktop. “You've kept me waiting, bad boy!" she said. "What am I ever going to do with you?"

I wanted to say, "You can do anything you like, crazy legs, as long as it's sordid and sexy." Instead, I took a quick look-see, trying to spot the Candid Camera. "What's this about, Sheila?" I asked, dry-mouthed. Suspecting that there might be a hidden microphone I said, "This kind of behavior really shocks a straight-laced employer full of rectitude like me."

"Come off it, D.C.? I know you didn't hire me for my office skills. I thought that both of us knew what the real deal was. I’ve been doing everything I can to make you want me. I even played hard to get. Usually, that’s all it takes to start the bouncy-bouncy stuff. What does a girl have to do in front of you to let you know that she wants it?"

Was she crazy, or had I been oblivious to a lot of cool signals? All of a sudden, I was no longer sorry that I had left Schitz behind and come right back to the office.

"What's wrong?" Sheila asked. "Did that black streetwalker wear you out?"

"I was only her client," I said. "I mean, she was only my client. But if you want to get jealous of that fox, that's okay, too. There’s nothing in the world cuter than two girls competing for the same guy."

She grasped my tie. "Where is she now?" Sheila was trying to sound casual asking that question, but for some reason she was pulling my chocker so hard that I was starting to strangle.

I gulped hard. "Don't yank so hard, Miss Coffin. All t his time I had you figured for the demur kind."

"Demure girls finish last, hotshot. Don’t you get it? You're every woman's dream of a super hunk. I’d blush to tell you about the fantasies I've been having about the two of us getting down and dirty!"

The way she was acting now, I doubted that there were many things that could make her blush. To be fair, though, I'd had a few fantasies about Sheila, too. All that said, I still didn’t trust here, so I only asked, “Yeah? How did they go?"

She looked frustrated.

I took another gander at the layout of the office. There had to be a camera and mike tucked in somewhere.

"No, I want to hear your fantasies first,” she said. "I'll be your genie. I’m going to make your wildest, craziest wishes come true."

"I've been hoping you'd say that," I replied, swallowing hard. “I’ve had this opium dream about you getting caught up on your backlog of filing. The other thing that makes me hard is imaging you giving Martin and me a big smile whenever we ask you to make coffee."

She let my tie go and took my lapels in both hands. "How can you talk about filing at a time like this, D.C.?"

"Filing is important, don’t you know?" Keeping hands-off this girl of my dreams was deuced hard, but I wasn’t going to let her pull a fast one on me. "I can’t figure what's gotten into you, babe, but this isn’t either the place or the time for either of us to succumb to beaver fever."

Oops! My use of the term "babe" to an employee could hang me if this actually was a harassment scam.

"What are you saying, D.J.? Up to now I had you figured as a man who knows what he wants."

"Are you so sure that you know what you yourself want?" I croaked, my throat feeling parched.

“All I know is that I want you and I want you to want me back."

"You wouldn't mind putting that sweet little endearment into writing, would you, doll? --just in case you feel like suing me later."

Letting go my of my suit, she straightened up. "If you don't believe I'm on the level, I'll just have to show you how serious I am."

"So show me," I said with a smirk. "I'm from Missouri." Actually I was from Wisconsin, but I didn’t size up this one boy-toy as anyone who was looking for a geography lesson.

Sheila went a couple steps away and started taking off her shirt. Then she paused. "Would you like to help me get comfortable, D.C.?"

"Well, actually..." I couldn't fight it any more. The next thing I knew, my hands were all over her, and hers were on the exact parts of my body where I wanted them to be. She went after my shirt buttons and those dirty little cowards surrendered without a fight. The next thing I knew, her bosoms were slammed face and rubbing hard. She was fulfilling a fantasy that I hadn’t even asked for. Her boobies tasted better than sweet cream. The favorite part of myself was starting to feel taller than Mount Everest. "Use it or lose it," some naughty little devil was whispering into my ear.

I stood up, loosened my belt, did a shimmy, and kicked off my trousers. And Sheila was stripping down to less than her essentials, too.

It was a heaven-sent relief to get rid of my Fruit of the Looms; they'd gotten much too small for me over the last five minutes. Now that the two of us were finally in the grips, Sheila was hotter than Mount Vesuvius. But shame on that mountain; my gal Friday was making the earth move like no volcano could ever pull off. I pushed the junky stuff off my desk with one hand while doing good work with the other. Now that the concerns of comfort were taken care of, we got down to business.

Way down.

I love hot, wet things as much as anybody but, all of a sudden, everything changed -- and not for the better. I yelled like a banshee, as if I’d shoved my pride and glory into a 120-volt lamp socket. I'm not kidding; it was just like that. Since when had lovemaking become just like electrocution?

Whatever that wild woman was doing to me, it had the effect of putting my lights out.

When I could finally see again, my shoulders were aching as though I'd been sleeping on a lumber pile. I groped for a blanket, not immediately realizing that I wasn’t home in bed.

I could tell light from dark, but everything was a blur. Also there was a deafening ringing in my ears. As I lay back, I could still remember having a great five minutes with Sheila, so why was I feeling so rotten now? I wasn’t so old that I should be floored by a simple horizontal tango. All over I felt damned strange and as weak as a kitten which had had too much catnip. Had the minx slipped me a Mickey? No, impossible; I couldn't remember eating or drinking a thing.

As  lay there, I inch by inch, recovered motor control enough to lift my head. That inch or so of elevation brought on another wave of dizziness. Just as I settled down again, I started hearing voices.

Hands were clenching me, and these were not Sheila's dainty little potato grabbers. They were big, hard meat hooks. Some some person was turning me to my side and raising me up. I opened my bleary lamps and found myself about six inches away from an ugly face that somehow looked familiar.

"What a mug!" I slurred. "Don't I know you, Bud?"

I looked again. I sure as hell did know that smarmy puss! It was the same guy who’d been hanging around my bathroom for my life in all different states of undress.

Cripes! It was looking at my own face, only I was looking at it from the outside! And that face was next to Leigh Spielman’s. That didn't figure. But if I had a choice about dreaming about one or the other of the two, I’d pick snappy little Leigh every time.

"Spielman? What's the deal ---?" I mumbled, but my words sounded squeaky. "Hrummp, hrummp," I grunted, trying to get my firm baritone back.

Without really intending to, I caught sight of a pair of legs in sheer hose. They were great legs, but why were they in a place where my own legs should be! They had on the kind of women’s shoes that I liked best – the four-inch heel type. But I couldn't figure why I was ogling that sexy foot-gear over the tops of a couple of dark mountains. These I tried to push them out of my line of sight, but they came right back, as if made from rubber.

Leigh Spielman leaned over me. "How are you doing, Mr. Callahan?" she asked. "Or should I say, 'Miss Coffin'?"

Miss Coffin? I looked around trying to find her, but she was gone from the room. I still felt woozy so I groped at my head, only to find that my skull didn't feel exactly right -- especially the hair. I'd have to have slept about as long as Rip Van Winkle had to grow a thatch as long as the stuff I was grasping.

Even though I might not always be the fastest horse out of the starting gate, I was pretty good at getting up to speed. I suddenly remembered Schitz telling me about how the aliens had pulled a body-switching stunt on her. On him?

My God!

"Sheila? I'm Sheila?"

No, that was impossible. It was just a bad dream from listening to Schitz’s silliness.

I made a clumsy jump the desktop and stumbled because of the nutty heels I was wearing. I went down to my knees, yelling, "You dirty crooks! Bring back my bonny -- my body -- to me!" Just then I saw a second woman waltzing up, a redhead who – almost -- had a mauve dress on. Before I could tell her to make herself comfortable, she reached out to touch my face. I batted her hand away; when I did that, she flashed a sneery kind of grin, like a Cheshire cat thinking evil thoughts about the family canary. "Get used to it, Callahan," she said. "What you’ve been given, you[re going to keep. But we’ve got plans for the new you."

"W-What plans?" I muttered.

The redhead didn’t try to be coy. "We traced Senator Schitz to your office. We need to find out where you'd hidden her, and so we switched bodies with your girl Sheila. Her memories didn’t tell us anything useful, so now we’ve switched with the one guy who can tell us what we need to know."

"So that's what you’re after!" I growled indignantly. "Well, you don’t know D.C. Callihan. I’d never double-cross a client, not even a low-life like Schitz!"

The redhead made a face – and not a nice one. "You don't have to tell us anything, Callahan. We know what you know. Like I've said, when we switch with somebody, we get all his memories."

I winced. "All of them?"

What a gruesome thought! There were things that I haven’t even mentioned to my analyst.

"What a rip-off!" I complained. "You get my brilliance, but I don't get anything from you, except – what the hell am I wearing?"

The copper-top shook her head. "It’s called a little black dress. Bimbo outfits make abducting women easy. People don't look twice when they see a streetwalker getting roughed up. But you're wrong about not getting anything from us. You've actually gotten quite a lot."

"What? Martian V.D.?"

"Our sex-drive. Or, actually, half of it."

"Only half?" To tell the God's truth, the less radioactive contamination these saucer jockeys passed on to me, the better.

"You got the female half. Every member of our species carries the libido of both genders. Our sexual drives are super-charged compared to yours. It’ll take some time for your brain to assimilate them, but you'll start feeling their full force before very long."

I stared, wide-eyed. "Female sex-drive? No way! I feel perfectly normal!" I looked at the female alien and a shudder ran through me. "What did you do with the real Spielman?"

"We put her into a wino’s body. Normally we would have taken both her and Sheila down to the Potomac, but we're in a hurry today."

She was talking about murder – double murder! What made it the crime of the century was the fact that they had blotted out the only two good-looking women in the whole damned building. "You bastards!"

I tried to spring, wanting to slug her, but my vertigo took me down again. Pretty clearly, body switching was something that could take a lot of the pizzazz out of a human being.

"Save your sympathy, Callahan," Red warned me, "you'll need it for yourself."

Suddenly the metaphorical light bulb came on inside my reeling noggin. "Say, you wackos are the ones behind all those the derelict and streetwalker murders, aren't you?"

The one with incredible fashion sense smiled. "This will be a different crime. We’ve planted evidence to make it look like D.C. Callahan killed them."

"Wait a minute, you creeps! You can't frame me. I've worked hard making people think of me as the great American hero."

With no reply, the two of them grabbed me, one taking each arm. Whatever these Martians had in mind, this manhandling was no way to treat a lady!



Chapter 7

The General Narrative, continued

Blackjack half-led, half-dragged Schitz from the parking basement into the elevator. It opened just across from his flat. "See that door? That’s the door to your new home," he told her.

He shoved Schitz over the threshold and she fell forward over a beanbag chair. Lying on her carpet, Schitz rolled over and got the impression of a big room full of expensive, ill-assorted furniture. Suddenly, two other girls trotted into view. The short one wearing pink was short; the other, in blue, had a fashion model's physique and a subtly Latin cast.

"Gina, Evelyn, my sweets," B.J. addressed them, "this is your new wife-in-law …." He only now realized that he didn't know the new girl's name. "What do they call you, love toy?" he asked her.

"Go to hell!" came her sputtering reply.

Blackjack shrugged. "Okay, have it your way. From now on, your street handle is gonna to be 'Ginger Spice.' Like it?"

Schitz -- Ginger Spice -- yelled indignantly and scrabbled to her knees: "I'll Ginger Spice you, you puffed up prick!"

"She's got spice, that's for sure," the Latina remarked, her smile tight and unsympathetic.

"Boy, is she pretty, B.J.," Gina volunteered, sounding a little worried. Maybe the precious little hooker suspected that the black girl was going to be some major competition.

The olive brunette sighed and shook her head. "You always like them sassy, don't you, B.J.? But don't let this one get you too excited. Remember what the doctors said about your ticker."

Blackjack scowled. "If I have to cut back on living the way I wanna live, I might as turn into compost! Say now, gals, Ginger and me is gonna to do some man-to-woman negotiating. Ain't it high time for y’all to head out where the Johns is?"

Evelyn's brown eyes flashed with annoyance, but her heat-lightning flare-up  quickly subsided. "We were just going, B.J."

He unlocked the door for their exit. The two young women went out into the hall and Blackjack swung the self-locking door shut.

"Tonight we'll get acquainted," he promised Ginger.

"Ginger Spice" got up from the floor, her fists clenched. "You can't keep me here! What about my Civil Rights?!"

"This isn't the Attorney General's office, baby," B.J. replied. "On the street, a gal has one right – to do everything that her sweet man tells her to do, and that’s bout it." He sauntered to the bar, where he a filled a pair of glasses from a decanter. He handed one of them to Ginger, saying, "Drink up, girlie. It'll calm you down and pick you up."

Schitz loved to drink and just then she needed hard booze more than anything. She  down the port in three swallows and it calmed her nerves somewhat.

'Think, idiot, think!' Schitz rebuked herself. What were her options? She couldn't beat the big, strong man silly and also didn't have a red cent to bribe him with. And she had no clear idea where to from here. Life wasn’t worth living if one couldn’t be in control. Everything Schitz respected about herself derived from the power and status that her old identity carried with it. She had an election coming up; how could she possibly steal it in a body like this one? If out of office, she couldn’t even depend on her law license for a livelihood. She'd never be able to prove that the license was hers. Her head whirled, partly from the potency of the drink, but mostly from the situation. The one thing she was sure of was that she was not going to stay with this low-grade pimp, even if she was worried about what would come afterwards.

"Feeling better now?" Blackjack asked with insincere solicitude.

"I'm hungry!" the girl informed him, taking the tone that Schitz had always used when talking to servants. And she really was famished; who knew how long it had been since this particular body had eaten? In fact, she was feeling weak and faint.

"When you’re with me, sweet cheeks, you’ll always have something to eat," the mackman promised her. "Just don’t try to bite me. But there is a few rules your gonna have to learn. If a gal who doesn’t bring home the bread won’t have any bread to chew on."

She glared rebukingly. "What bread?"

"I’m talking about your job. You're job is all about making me happy. And I'm not too happy right now with you smelling like you just ran the Marathon. You need a shower, and I need one, too. As they say, 'Save water, shower with a honey.'"

"Take a flying leap!"

"Baby, your attitude does try a patient man," B.J. opined. "No more crap! You gotta learn respect. What I order, you do! That's Rule Number One. Doesn't the Good Book say, 'love, honor, and obey?'"

"No it doesn't, you buffoon. And you don't get to make any of the rules, got that?" The black girl, emboldened by the port, stood facing him with her hands braced on her hips.

"That isn’t how it works in my pad," he informed her. "Now, I wanna see you naked. After that, us two is going to take that shower."

Ginger, backing away, raised up her empty glass as if to throw it at him.

"If you break that glass, I'll burn your ass!"

Ginger threw the crystal furiously. B.J. ducked and went to grab her. The girl wrestled herself out of his hands and dodged about the room, her host in hot pursuit. She toppled furniture into his way, trying to trip him, but the mess she was creating only made Waters the madder. The black girl made a dash for the locked exit, but tugged at it in vain.

"Yiii!" she cried as B.J.’s strong arms squeezed the breath out of her.

The muscular pimp dragged Ginger, kicking and clawing, toward the couch. He pressed her on the cushions and smoothly pulled her low-cut dress down to her navel.

"You bastard!" Ginger yowled, but Blackjack continued her undressing, dragging the garment to her ankles and snatching it away. Since she lacked both bra and panties, B.J.’s new girl was looking about as fine as a woman could.

"You is just incredible," Ginger heard him say. "You make those other two look like alley cats. I bet you’ll be able to earn more than the two of them put together."

Not liking that kind of prophecy, Ginger leaped to her feet and scrambled out of reach. But Blackjack only grinned and started to doff his jacket. Meanwhile, Ginger was using her hands to cover the most noteworthy parts of her nudity.

Now wearing just shirtsleeves, Waters approached Schitz and took her by the wrists. "Chill out, baby doll. You’ve gotta get a lot more friendly from this point on or else I'll give you that ass-burner I promised."

A life in politics had taught Schitz to lie if brute force wasn’t an option. "All r-right, all r-right," Ginger stammered. "I'll be good. Just be nice."

Blackjack grinned. Before long, he figured he’d have this hot number purring like a tabby cat.

"Oh, I'll be nice," he promised. "There's no sweet man sweeter than old B.J." He stepped back, wanting to see if she was going to be good or if she was just shucking him.

The second he released Ginger, she sprang away and snatched up the brass lamp from the coffee table. This she swung viciously, with intent to kill, but Blackjack sprang away, receiving no more than a bruise on his right arm. His temper flaring hot, the pimp dived at the girl and shoved her down on the couch. Then dragged her into the bedroom and tossed her upon the mattress. "You shouldn't have starting getting physical," he informed her. “Bad things happen when a girl hits somebody who isn’t another girl.”

Ginger looked up with murder flashing in her dark eyes. "Go to hell! I'm no whore!"

"If you is no whore now, you is gonna be by tomorrow, Ginger Baby," he said. "You is an uppity class of gal who hasta learn her place in the pecking order."

B.J. sat down beside her and, when she tried to roll away, he grabbed her. In a smooth motion he dragged her across his lap and held her down with one hand. His captive fought wildly, but he was more than strong enough to use her the way he wanted. With his right hand he took a large, brass-handled hairbrush from the nightstand.

"You is gonna learn what it's like being a girl with hot cheeks,” he said. “I never met a ho yet who didn’t start acting mo' respectful once her petty ass got properly burned!" Ginger's incoherent threats stopped coming as soon as the flat of B.J.'s brush started falling, feeling hotter than anything ever applied to that part of her anatomy before.

"Yeow!" Schitz howled. "This is assault! It's a federal crime! The Attorney General is a friend of mine!"

"Don't jive me, baby. A lowdown ho like you never got so lucky as to be screwing with the Attorney General. You has been signed up in a school for manners, and right here, right now, you is gonna learn everything you need to know about life. He raised the hairbrush again and then let it down hard.

Whack!

Ginger yelled again, but didn’t say anything. She was learning fast.

Blackjack wanted this gift from heaven to get out on the street as soon as possible, so he decided that he was going to give her the full bad girl taming treatment then and there.

Whack!
 

Whack!
 

Whack!

 
Whack!

Ginger's yelling almost split B.J.'s eardrums, but the pimp always enjoyed this part of the “breaking in” process best. He applied a generous plenitude of educational smacks, aiming sometimes at one of her delectable hemispheres, and sometimes at the other.

By the time that the exhausted girl's vocalizations had degenerated into hoarse groaning, he reluctantly terminated the lesson.

B.J. allowed Ginger to lie moaning across his lap for a couple of minutes. She looked a sight with her nose running and her lips were bubbling with spittle. Her cheeks -- of her face -- were wet with tears. Unexpectedly, the mackman rolled his pupil to the carpet and stood up. "On your feet, love blossom," he said. "It's time for that shower you so much need. And B.J. always keeps his promises."

To Be Continued...

 

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 3, 4 and 5

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...

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 2

Posted 01-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

 

Chapter 2, The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued....

 

Chapter 2

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Leigh Spielman's take-no-prisoners attitude had given me all the inspiration that I needed to finish a scene in my story that had me flummoxed up to now. I pounced on the keyboard, tapping like I was trying to beat the Dutch:

Beth was by her lonesome in the office stuffing documents into her alligator-hide briefcase. She was thinking about the close call with that smart shamus Baxter and from now on she didn’t want stay around anyplace where he might come calling again. Her plan was to duck out on a graveyard flight to a tropical paradise and payoff to some Third World dictator to keep her cozy. After that it would be endless rounds of golden slipper cocktails and strolls along wide, immaculate beach fronts while thinking of new ways to spend her money.

Beore that Nick Baxter had muscled in everything had been going her way. She'd had the D.C. cops floundering and the randy D.A was eating out of her hand. Best of all, the newspapers given her their 'victim award” for the month of July. Every news reader with an I.Q. under 80 was on her side. Only Nick Baxter seemed to know how to put two and two together.

But she wouldn’t feel safe as long as she was in the same country as that gumshoe. As a precaution, Beth opened her right-hand desk drawer and hefted out a .357 Magnum moose-shooter. She packed the thing into her valise along with all those incriminating papers that she still needed to burn. Without the “receipts,” Basil Greenstreet's accountant was going to take the fall, leaving Beth Angler smelling like a rose.

Just then the door behind her flew open with a jarring bang. Beth froze, which nixed any chance she had had of grabbing for her man-stopper. Nick Baxter was standing there with a glacier-blue heater aimed at her head and a half-burned stogie balanced between his clenched jaws.

"I followed your Italian-built bucket all the way from Arlington," he informed the swank dame. "You're one hell of a reckless driver, Miss Angler. What's the hurry? Lamming it, maybe?"

Nick had a stare that would have broken most hardened criminals, but Angler was a chickadee with nerve. Being a trial shyster for a while, she'd been rubbing elbows with America’s worst. That meant that she was a hardened criminal who wasn't going to bend or fold easily. Maybe she hadn’t been planning to be all bad when she'd first left Chicago as a spoiled rich kid. But those big law schools left everyone with Lefty leanings twisted in the head.

"Hit the road, you jerk-off!" she said through gritted teeth.

The gumshoe grinned. "Those skirts who look like Vassar and talk like Hollywood and Vine really turn me on, babe. But you made a bad mistake when you emptied a .357 Magnum into my partner's back."

Beth Angler blanched. Baxter had put that piece into his puzzle, too. If he found the murder weapon that was hidden in her case now, she'd go down for Murder One. "It wasn't me," she jabbered. "It was Greenstreet's accountant!"

Nick's big, ugly face clouded. "Naw, it was you all right and you're going to the sizzle-chair for doing it! The place I’m going to look for evidence is inside that lizard skin you carry around."

She couldn’t help but jump when Nick mentioned briefcase on the desk. That move telegraphed to Nick that he'd slammed the nail on the head. He expected her to make a dive for her shooting iron, but Beth Angler but she didn’t. She actually tossed a sexy, come-on smile his way.

"Can't we make some kind of a deal?" she murmured.

Nick narrowed one peeper. "So what kind of deal are you driving at, honey bun?"

She started unbuttoning her suit jacket. Baxter smoked his cigar smoke while enjoying the show. Beth Angler was an embezzler, a murderer -- and a closet bimbo, too. This situation had possibilities.

"I promised the accountant's mother that I was going to nail you," Nick warned her.

"So nail me, big man."

“If I do, what do you expect in return?”

“Maybe a break…” she said in a sultry, breathy way.

"You get the next play," he said with a wink. "Handle this right and maybe I'll feel like going easy on you afterwards."

'Or maybe not', he was thinking . . . .

Dewitt interrupted my narration just when I was getting to the good part. "D.C., did you see this article in the paper? Another bum was choked to death last night and dropped into the Potomac. How many does that make?"

"About two dozen," I said, leaning back from my keyboard and yawning. "Some psycho must really have it in for skid-row winos. You know, these rum-bum murders started right after Inauguration Day. Do you suppose -- nah! It's got to be a coincidence."

"They say there's been a rise in hooker killings, too. Same M.O. Bums and hookers. What’s the connection?”

From the outer office came a mutter of voices. "Ma'am, you just can't go barging in!" Sheila was saying.

At first, I thought that Spielman was back for Round Two, but when the door swung open we saw a young black woman trying to squirm around our secretary. "Step aside and let the lady in, Miss Coffin," I said. "We've got time enough for a little neighborhood outreach." Then I added, "Go watch the phones, Sheila; I don't think you'll be need to take notes."

Sheila was glad enough to leave and so left the chocolate bunny behind with us. She had an uncertain expression on her cute-as-can-be face as she wobbled up to my desk. Either her ankles were hurting pretty badly or she wasn't used to high heels. Since she was just then wearing skimpy spandex, that didn’t figure.

"Have a chair, Miss," I offered.

The black girl glanced uneasily around the office before putting the nicest part of her body into that rummage-sale bought wicker chair that was facing my desk. Her hemline immediately rode way up, just like it was designed to do. Unfortunately, I had a row of books on my desktop that blocked my view of her cleavage while she was sitting so low .
Don't call me 'Miss,'" the chippy said. "I had to see you, Mister Callahan. It's a matter of life and death!"

I blinked perplexedly. She wasn’t using the diction of a run-of-the-mill hooker. An educated hooker? Well, why not?

"Where exactly are you from?" I asked.

"This is very -- embarrassing to explain," she began haltingly. "I'm not a really a girl."

Oh, hell! "You're a female impersonator?"

"No! I'm -- I'm actually Congressman Adam Schitz!"

Dewitt and I traded glances. Even so, I had to be tactful. "I think you've been breathing in some bad bindles, ma'am. I've met Congressman Schitz -- and believe me, you aren't him! For one thing, you don’t have his watermelon head and a pencil neck. And the way you’re dressed doesn’t make me think your a Congressman. But I don’t want to get out of line. Maybe skin-tight microminis are the new fashion. It would certainly beat what we’ve been seeing on the street lately.”

"I am Adam Bennett Schitz and I can prove it!" she insisted, leaning forward and putting her hands on my desk. Man, did she do the forward-lean well!

"Two years ago, I hired you to prove my opponent was cheating on his wife,” she said. “You returned a report that said he wasn't, but I don’t accept “no” votes. I got some of my friends in the FBI to call you a Russian asset. The press ate it up and muddied your name so badly that the Republican candidate had to deny that he ever knew you. Nobody bought into that and his numbers fell so low that he dropped out of the race!"

I wasn't impressed. That was news past its expiration date. "It sounds to me like Schitz's been shooting off his mouth around one of his party girls – you, if I’m being too subtle. You need a shrink, lady, not a detective."

"Give me a chance to explain!"

"You've got five minutes, pussycat. I'm a busy man."

"The truth is, we've been invaded by aliens from outer space!" confessed the girl.

I let out a moan.

"They can switch minds with a person if he has sex with them!" she added excitedly.

Dewitt finally stirred. "I get it! This is right out of those X Files reruns. You think you're Schitz and you've just had an alien body-switch. Well, you don't look much like an alien, Miss -- and I'm too polite to spell out what you do look like."

"That's because I wasn't the first person the alien switched with! He'd already stolen the body of this girl. There’s a lot of aliens going around in the bodies of Earth people! They entice people to go down on them and -- and then the switch happens."

"And how did you end up jumping into the sack with an alien, uh -- Congressman?" I asked.

"Somebody I trusted gave me the number of an escort service," the chocolate cookie explained with a pained look.

"Well, all I can say is that you must hang around with some real low-lives, ma'am."

"Don’t say that! I'm a U.S Congressman!"

I decided not to make a joke out of that one-liner. "So, what happened then?" I wasn't buying into this sitcom plot, but I wanted the chippie to finish her silly story and go home.

The busty hustler hugged herself and shivered, but maybe that was because of the cold draft coming from the air conditioner. That red spandex of hers certainly didn't cover much -- God bless it!

At last, she caught her breath and said, "W-When I woke up in the night, I was her."

I could imagine the picture. It was just kinky enough to make a good story. But it didn’t have much zing because she'd already telegraphed the punch line. "Yeah, I thought it had to be something like that. Tell us a little about the aliens, ma'am, since you're the expert."

"They took me prisoner," the Party Polly went on.

“Were you already a girl when they did that?”

“I’m not a girl!”

“I’m a gentleman so I’m not going to ask you to prove that.”

Exasperated, the black beauty soldiered on. "They had Earth bodies, but the was something not right about them --" Her voice trailed off.

"Why? Did their eyes glow?" I asked.

"No, it was just that they were all so randy. They did things to me -- and enjoyed doing them!"

“Did you enjoy it, too?”

“Certainly not!”

“Well, okay. Exactly what all did they do?”

She shivered again. "T-They bound me naked to the head of the bed. One of them was a gorgeous redhead.”

“Was that a male redhead or a female one?”

“Female! I wouldn’t have let a man touch me!”

“So, all this bedroom fun was actually consensual?”

“No it wasn’t! But I absolutely wouldn’t have wanted a man to be doing things like that to me!”

"Where did she touch you?" I asked, my mouth going dry.

"She told the others to leave, and then this alien woman took off all her clothes before getting down on her knees at the foot of the bed. . . ."

"Yeah, yeah? She was going down. What happened next?"

"Schitz" scowled. "What happened was like those despicable, degrading scenes that I used to watch on the VCR as a kid. You know what I mean!"

I nodded. “Yeah, I know. I still have a video rental card around somewhere. But we need details. You're going to have to stop beating around the bush, babe -- no pun intended. What did that hot-sounding babe do to you?"

"She got me so excited that I was almost in tears. While my mind hated it, it made this X-rated body feel so godammed happy! It was even better than nose candy! That’s when two of the male aliens came back and one said, 'Okay, Schitz, the fun's over.’ Then the other one asked, ‘Are we going to dump this bum into the Potomac?’”

I sat back. "That's cute, Cuddles. You’re even managing to work in those streetwalker murder cases they’re talking about on the TV every night."

She stood up indignantly. "I'm telling the truth!"

"You absolutely can't be Congressman Schitz, so that makes you either a liar or a nut case."

All my insult did was to incite her to jabber all the faster: "Then the other alien said, `Yeah, why not? How would you like to make the headlines one more time, Congressman?'”

The redhead stood up and said, “No! We’ll keep him as a girl. He’ll at least be of some use that way.”

Then they put me into heels and this tight dress. They even smeared lipstick on my mouth.”

“So I see. They didn’t do such a bad job of it.”

“And dragged me out to their car," she added. “When we got down to the piers, the aliens stopped in front of a warehouse."

"A whorehouse?" Man, this was a story that I should have been writing myself! I wondered what the best ending should be. I absolutely didn’t want to do a Hollywood-style cop-outs where the Congressman changes back into his crummy old-self at the end of the story. What’s the use of going off on a trip if you’re going to end up at the exact same place that you started out from?

"A warehouse!" she corrected me.

"What warehouse?" Dewitt asked.

Schitz shifted toward my pard. "A Rex Company warehouse along the eastern riverfront," she said. "I think it must be one of their secret bases."

"How did you get away?" I asked.

"A squad car drove up, saw the two guys playing rough with me, and stopped. The police came out to ask what was going on."

"Two D.C. cops doing their job?" I interrupted. "Your story is beginning to sound fishy."

"That's what did happen! The aliens ran for cover. I started yelling for help and the officers picked me up, but I didn't dare tell them the truth."

"Of course not, sweetheart," I nodded tolerantly. "You wanted to save that little suprise just for us."

Her voice hardened. "The aliens said that they've taken over the bodies of a lot of people -- especially people in authority. What if the aliens already control the police -- the whole government even? So I came to you."

“I don’t think aliens could do worse than the people who are in charge now,” I said.

Suddenly, her face sank forward into her cupped hands; for the first time I started to feel sorry for the dame, even if she was a nut-filled cookie. Maybe she actually believed her own crazy story. I figured she might need real help, not just bad jokes. I said to Dewitt, "This lady's really scared about something, Martin. Why don't you go check out that warehouse?"

He tossed off his familiar there-you-go-again smirk. "So it’s going to be another freebie for some sob-sister, Callahan?"

"So what's your problem?" I asked testily. "Have you got a high-stakes game of solitaire waiting for you back home? Martin, you'll be putting on an alderman if you don't get some exercise once in a while."

He reluctantly stood up. "All right, but I think it's a waste of time and gasoline. You've always been a pushover for a panhandler, D.C. No wonder Sheila is the only one in this office who ever takes home a paycheck."

I just glowered at him. We always paid Sheila first because the government doesn't care if a owners make squat; it’s always the employee who come first. I knew we'd land in hot water if we ever missed a single payroll.

Then I noticed my pard putting on that black leather jacket of his. "Hey, you aren't going out wearing that thing, are you?"

"What are you ragging about now?"

"You forgot your snap-brimmed hat," I reminded him. "It was your birthday present, remember?"

He threw up his arms. "D.C., nobody wears those snap-brim antiques anymore."

I gave him my senior-partner glim. "That's gratitude for you. Detectives wear fedoras for the same reason that chimney sweeps still wear stovepipe hats. It's tradition."

"I don't see people paying anything for tradition and, anyway, a hat would look wrong with this jacket."

"Is it my fault that you come to work out of uniform?" To spare his feelings, I decided not to add that his blue jeans, jacket, and motorcycle boots would have been more appropriate on a schoolyard dope pusher.

He waved away my advice. "D.C., whenever you’re able to meet an honest payroll, I'll wear a ballerina outfit if that’s traditional."

"I don't swing that way," I told him. "But thanks for warning me that you do."

After that nifty zinger, Martin gave up the bickering and let the door clunk shut behind him. I was left to entertain "Congressman Schitz" all alone. "Until my partner gets back," I told her, "I think you need a good detox -- I mean, a good rest. Can I take you home, or to a motel?"

I detected a tremble in her sigh. "I don't have any money to rent a room, and if I went home I'd have to explain to my wife how I got this way. She might even pretend that she doesn’t believe that I'm really me. I was hoping you could spare me a loan."

"You don’t look like a politician, but you sure think like one. I'll take you to my flop instead. At least you won’t be able to steal me blind; everything I ever owned has already been repossessed."

She stood up indignantly. "I'm not a thief! I'm a member of Congress!"

“You’ve got to stop feeding me these obvious straight lines, Sweetie.”

Then, all of a sudden, she started to shake.

"Say, don't take it so hard, lady. You'll be all right."

The girl sank down into her chair again. "It's not just that this whole business is so -- so horrifying. I feel so -- so –"

"Scared?"

"I was going to say horny! I keep feeling like I want to have sex? Am I going crazy?"

I eyed her carefully. The idea of taking this hot chick home really did sound like the best possible solution to her problem.

"You're not crazy," I told her. "You're a normal red-blooded American girl. What you need is a dark, quiet room where you can lay down, rest back, and spread your legs."

Pushing up out of my chair, I stepped around the desk, opened the door, and yelled for Sheila. She came over, looking put-upon, as usual.

"Sheila," I said, "I'm going to find this lady a place to stay. I should be back before closing time." Our gal Friday gave back one of those sweetly endearing 'couldn't-care-less' shrugs.

Then the black vision of loveliness said, "We should leave by the back way, Callahan, just in case I was followed. They're aliens and they probably have incredibly effective surveillance equipment."

"Maybe, but I think your equipment is even more incredible," I said.

At that, I took my hat and flogger off the rack. True, a mack was too hot to wear during this heat wave, but trench coats always looks damned good when carried sportingly over a manly shoulder.

I sighed. Street girls always had a way of complicating a man's life, but this one was certainly a temptation. I wondered if I should be taking risks just for the sake of a good time. On the other hand, the day hadn't started out so great and maybe this was fate's way of giving me the kind of a break that I really deserved.