THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 14-15

Posted 08-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 14

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

B.J. Waters and her girls spent a few minutes tossing stuff into suitcases before disappearing into parts unknown. With Martin and me left alone in the apartment, I volunteered to take the first watch. I didn’t want my partner playing Sir Galahad and staying up all night. I needed him in top form when the aliens showed up.

Before he hit the sack, he helped me rig a crude trap at the door, one that would put the Martians at a disadvantage while making one hell of a racket. But were we being too cocky? Couldn’t the clowns from space bring in a whole battalions of reinforcements? That thought left me wondering if the two of us shouldn’t run like hell, just the way that we’d advised B.J. and company to do? But my main problem was that if I amscrayed, I'd stay Sheila until they laid the sod o'er me. Rather than accept living a life like hers, I'd go down fighting!

Stakeout has always been one of my least favorite activities involved in P.I work. Mostly, a detective's life is not very dangerous; worse, it's hardly ever exciting. This setup was different, though. It would have been so much better if we could just call the cops. The trouble was, talking about aliens to the city bulls about thing they pretended not to believe in was the best way in the world to win an all-expense-paid vacation to the loony bin.

In my state of mind, I had no problem staying staying sharp while waiting for unwelcome visitors. But I started to feel like there was something wrong with me. Like, it suddenly occurred to me that Gavin Newsom, on the cover of Time Magazine, was a hot-looking guy? And, what was worse, if a sex-starved motorcycle gang had suddenly broken in on me just then, I felt all primed to mark it down as a lucky day!

Instead of torturing myself with such unwelcome fantasies, I tried to think of some way to find Schitz. In this capital, trying to find one girl dressed like a hooker was like searching for one certain straw straw in a straw stack. Flatbacking was the only growth industry the present administration had already sent to China.

Chances were that the aliens would have taken Schitz to one of their lairs. I had always thought that a space invasion would be like The War of the Worlds, but these aliens were going at it in a sneaky way. They probably had a large number of safe houses where they could hide their prisoners. They might even have taken the congressman out of the city. Things were looking pretty grim for both Schitz and for me.

I stuck out my watch until three and by then I couldn’t take much more. So I went to kick Martin out of bed. But, clumsy me, I stepped on something on the bedroom floor, tripped, and fell face-first across my pard's sleeping body.

"Aliens!" he started yelling.

I just barely ducked a roundhouse that would have dislocated my jaw. "Martin! Cut it out! It's me!"

"Wha--? S-Sheila?"

He stopped struggling and snapped on the lamp.

"What’dahya think you're doing?" he asked blearily.

"Hey, cool it, Pard! I'm just letting you know that it's your time to get on watch."

He grunted. "You didn't have to join me in bed if that’s all you wanted to say! It's not that you're not welcome, though."

"Don't get your hopes -- or anything else -- up, Buster. I just stumbled." I glanced down at the floor, wondering what had tripped me. I saw a high-heeled pump and there was also a black minidress in a pile beside it.  That got me to thinking.

"Hey!" I exclaimed.

"What?"

"That outfit! It belonged to that alien who switched with B.J."

"So what?"

"Maybe she left a clue tangled up in her things, something to tell us where she and her gang hang out. Maybe that's where they've taken Schitz!"

"I've got you!" said Martin as he swung himself into a sitting position. "But it's not likely that she keeps business cards in her Wonder Bra."

"It's not her Wonder Bra that I most want to check out." I got down on my hands and knees to peer under the bed.

"What are you looking for?"

"I’m trying to find her purse," I said, "but I don't see it."

"You must be half asleep. A woman doesn't just drop her bag on the floor; she puts it in a safe place." He stood up, wearing nothing but a tank top tee and a pair of white boxers. In two shakes he had pulled a black plastic purse out of the top drawer of the dresser.

"Dump it out on the bed," I advised him eagerly.

When he did, we could see that the reticule held the ordinary sort of woman-stuff, along with a spork from some fast-food restaurant, a cafe napkin, and a lipstick-smudged tissue. But it also contained a couple rings of keys, one of which had a large brass twister, some kind of swipe-card, along with a plastic doohickey that I recognized as a fob-key of the type generally used for electronic security locks. Besides that, there was nothing except several small slips of printed paper.

"Wherever she's been, it must have a lot of locks," I observed as I checked out one of the key rings.

He nodded absently. "Is there anything to tell us what doors those keys are supposed to open?"

"What are those papers?" I asked.

He held one of them up to the light. "They're coupons for some fast-food promotion. They say that you earn one for each Happy Meal you buy. After you've collected ten, you can turn them in for a burger-French fries-soft-drink meal. I'd say we’ve just iced a budget-conscious alien."

"I'm glad they’re into junk food and don't eat people, like the space guys on V did. Wait a second, Martin! She has several coupons from the same place. That has to mean that she’s been hanging around one particular neighborhood. The question is, why would she need to do that?"

"Maybe she has an apartment nearby," he suggested.

I shook my head. "A person hardly ever eats at a lowbrow cafe in his own neighborhood, not unless he really hates cooking or the landlord bans hotplates. I don't know how much an alien assassin take in, but I doubt that the type would stick with murder for hire if he weren't earning enough to afford a kitchenette apartment. Mostly, its people at their places of work who visit a local fast-food joint every day. It beats packing a bag lunch."

Martin looked up in mild surprise. "That's good figuring, doll! never supposed that you had a detective bone in your whole body!"

I flared. "Hey, you mug! You've got no right to say such a rotten –"

Oops! I ha no reason to punch out my best bud. He was talking about Sheila, not D.C.

"I mean it's not fair to jump to conclusions about a person. If either one of you gents had ever asked for my help in solving a case, you'd have been surprised."

"The truth is, we never got many cases where we needed to solve things. Anyway, you never joined in the shop talk with us."

"Well, I’m the shy type!" I said. "The fact is, I took the secretary job to learn the P.I. ropes before I hung out my own shingle. Thinking about crime detection really turns me on. I've read all the good writers and even written P.I. stories of my own."

I saw incredulity on Martin's face. "I didn't realize that you were into detective stories. All the books I saw you bring to the office were regency romances.”

“Um, well, a man doesn’t live by bread alone.”

“If you’re a writer, you and D.C. should have been best friends."

Drat! I had to be careful about telling too much of the truth. "Sames repel, opposites attract. You know that, Martin. His incredible literary skill made me afraid to talk about writing when he was around. Whenever a woman tries to go head to head with a man on the really important things, she can't help but to finished second best. Anyway, D.C was a powerful sexual animal. Sometimes I felt like his eyes were undressing me. It would get me so excited that I had to fight to hold myself back.”

“I thought that girls didn’t like that sort of thing.”

“Don't ever believe what a chick tells you!” I said. “We drive ourselves crazy thinking of ways to make men come on to us first just because we don’t want to make ourselves look like sluts coming on to them.”
 
“If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have been advising D.C. to be on his best behavior around the ladies.”

“You didn't?! So that was why D.C. was always playing so hard to get!”

“I had an ulterior motive for stopping him from moving in on your to aggressively.

“What.”

“I was waiting to get the right signal from you. I was attracted myself and didn't want D.C. snatching you out of my reach.”

“Well, maybe it worked out for the best. D.C had qualities that no ordinary guy could match,” I said.

“Why's that?”

“Suave, debonair, powerful -- and women are suckers for older men.

His smile broadened. "Don’t write off us young guys. I feel suave, debonair, and powerful whenever I look at you. In fact, I can't stop looking at you since you showed up in the little black number. And, by the way, I think you look nice the way you're dressed now."

I punched him in the arm. "So a girl only needs to dress like a hooker to catch your attention, huh?"

He smiled but instead of pushing the envelope, he started reading the fine print on the coupons. "They come from a restaurant called the Carousel. I never heard of it. Maybe it's a mom and pop place and not part of any chain. The address and phone number is printed at the bottom."

“Maybe you’ll make a good detective yet,” I said.

Chapter 15

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

When we dialed the Carousel's number, we got a recording. It said that the cafe opened at seven in the morning and there would be a pancake special for $1.98. That sounded damned good, but the message didn't make any mention of the price of coffee. High-priced coffee is the scam that chow joints use to rip a man off once they hook him in with their cheap-meal specials. Anyway, Martin and I didn't have two dollars to spare between the pair of us.

"We'll have to hang around this place till morning," he said resignedly.

But standing still didn't sit so well with me. “If we scouted out the Carousel tonight, maybe we could zero in on some place nearby where the aliens are likely to hang out. So far, they seem to go for old warehouses and shut-down factories."

He shook his head. "No, that’s a bad idea. We could chase around all night without finding anything. It's a good bet that somebody who works at the Carousel is going to remember a redhead like the one you've described, especially if she ate there more than once. Besides, if we hunker down here and one of those space goons stumbles in, we might be able to beat Schitz's whereabouts out of him. Or her."

"Oh, so you're willing to hit a girl all of a sudden, huh?"

He gave me an incredulous look. "Do you really consider a body-switching monster to be a girl.”

“Body-switched monster? Isn’t that being a little harsh,” I replied.

“I like girls who are sweet on children and small animals, having a soft spot for alien invaders is carrying things too far.”

"I think it’s about time for me to go to bed,” I answered back. “It's after three."

"You do that, Sheila. I'll wake you up at nine."

"Six! I want to be at the Carousel when it opens."

He scowled. "That'll give you less than three hours to get your zees."

"I can take it! Hell, I once went without sleeping for forty-eight hours when I was --" I stifled myself. I'd been on the brink of saying, "When I was in Afghanistan."

"Was what?"

"Ah, when I was with the Girl Scouts. Surely you realize that chicks have to sweat blood if they expect to win all those merit badges!"

He grinned. "They sound like a really tough outfit."

"The Girl Scouts build women! If I had a daughter, I'd slap a Scout beret on her head and get here feeling at home in the deep woods. You can never have enough mean-as-hell cookie pushers!"

Martin’s expression turned serious. "You like kids then?"

"K-Kids?" That question threw me. Instead of answering, I mumbled, "It's time I hit the mattress in one of the other bedrooms," and then scooted away.

I went into Gina's room and flopped down on her mattress. I slept until the need for a bathroom trip woke me up. By the time I got back under the sheets, Mr. Sandman had taken it on the lam. It was only a little after 5:00 a.m. and I felt bummed out!

One thing that kept me from getting back into dreamland was that my mind was testing ground for sexy fantasies. I should have expected trouble when I bedded down in the perfumy air of a hooker’s room!

Lying there stone cold awake, I was getting randier by the minute! Those aliens hadn't been kidding about their extra-terrestrial sex-drive being contagious. For a while I tried counting buff guys while they leaped over a fence, but that only made things worse. Admitting defeat, I decided to get up and get dressed.

I shucked off B.J.'s male-sized tee shirt that I'd been using for pajamas began searching for day ware, hoping to find a sensible a pair of blue jeans and a plain cotton shirt. But everything left behind by Gina had been tailored for bad girls. Probably, she had taken away all her modest things when abandoning the pad.

But while I searched, I got the strangest sensation from my hands shuffling through the lingerie drawer. I'd always liked the feel of nylon, but it never had such a powerful effect on be before. The next thing I knew, I was pressing a laundry-room fresh chemise to my nose and breathing deeply of the scent.

Bemused, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror. Wow! That tangled head of hair was making me look slovenly! I picked up a comb and tried to bring a little order to what looked like a fright wig. Easier said than done; by the time I finished teasing my way through the snarls, I was looking like some Italian actress in the role of being the main squeeze of a swordsman in an adventure movie. On the other hand, I’ve never had anything against cheap Italian adventure movies. Also, there was all that peach-smooth lusciousness without even a staple to get in the way! My heart aflutter, I put my hands on Sheila's glorious rack.

Jeepers! Her boobies were and incredibly sensitive handful! I could now guess why women wanted to retreat into the privacy of the ladies' room so often. All of a sudden, I was anxious not to let anyone see me the way I was.

Because the bedroom door had no lock, I braced a chair under its knob -- just like I used to do to keep my brother Jack out of our room while I was paging through the men's magazines he'd bought at a rummage sale. The women in those paintings were usually pictured in torn blouses and skirts ripped to the hip. I could envy those jungle headhunters and Nazi SS men who were privileged to give chase to them. I'd always resented that magazines like them hadn't been published for decades; they'd vanished from the racks in the 70's. My theory was that when the drugged-out hippies came in the front door loaded with lice and smelling of BO, America’s real men, holding their noses, ducked out the back exit. A pity. Without those red-blooded heroes spreading around their clear sense and sagely wisdom, the country had taken a deep dive into hell.

Pretty soon, I drifted back to the lingerie drawer. There was an itsy bitsy two-piece baby doll on the top. It was the kind of thing that I’d frequently imagined Sheila wearing. Suddenly I realized that I had a rare opportunity to make a dream come through. The next thing I knew, I was stepping into that sable pair of skimpy briefs and sliding that little top down over my head. I at once checked myself in the mirror told and decided that the outfit looked absolutely perfect on Sheila. Then I went exploring the closet and rummaged around until I found a pair of vinyl pumps. Once those five-inch heels on my feet, I needed to hang onto the dresser to keep from falling over. Having finally gotten my balance, I struck a sassy pin-up pose and checked myself out in the mirror.

Not bad.

But don't get the wrong idea about me. I wasn't doing anything sick. In my own mind, I was simply dressing up a king-sized version of a Margot Robbie Barbie doll. 

It was a game that turned out to be addicting. It wasn't long before I had changed into a white, lace-paneled, Lycra bustier sprinkled with petite red hearts. Again, I liked what I saw. What a babe Sheila was! Or, rather, had been.

It was a funny situation – the girl I saw reflected was me, but she also wasn't me. I couldn't help but fantasize throwing myself over my own shoulder and sweeping myself away for a little fun in the sack!

"Sheila, I think I love you!" I heard myself saying. I had the impulse to get a gander at the full length image of my naughty secretary, from the top of her head down to her high heels, I backed away from the mirror. Unfortunately, while stepping without looking, I caught one of those heels on an electrical cord and the lamp was jerked off the nightstand. It thudded to the linoleum with a bump and the next thing I knew, Martin was pounding on the door like a Prohibition agent.

Though I'd wedged a chair under the knob, its legs were braced on a slippery throw rug that went sliding as soon as Martin applied his shoulder to the door. With the chair falling away, the door flew open. Before I could shout "Get lost!" Martin was standing there clutching a mahoska in his mitt.

He tried not to look like he was scoping me out, but this wasn't my first rodeo. He said, “Sorry I barged in. What made that noise?"

"Nothing!" I told him shakily. "I -- I just knocked over a lamp!"

"Oh. I see. Have you been sleeping all right?"

I wanted to duck under the covers to hide, but I decided to brazen it out. "I was out for a couple hours," I told him.

"That’s not good. You ought to try for a little more shut-eye; we have a big, bad day ahead of us." He was trying to sound nonchalant, but his his glance was scorching me.

"Yeah," I agreed, my throat tight. I felt like socking him. You'd think that he would have had the grace to turn his back.

"You don't have to get involved in this mess," Martin said. "In fact, I wish you'd find someplace to hide until things get sane again."

“But by that time that happens you could be dead!” I reminded him.

He shrugged. “Them’s the breaks. I haven't had too many chances to be the hero. This seems like a good place to start.”

“What kind of talk is that? My life isn’t any more important than yours!" I declared.

"Of course it is! You're a girl!"

"Don't rub it in! I mean, people overrate sex." Oops, I should say the word sex around a single man who didn't have a girlfriend. So, I quickly said, "Remember that old song, Martin? 'All you really need is heart'? Well, brother, I'm full of heart!"

He grinned. “I’ve been noticing that there are plenty of hearts on that rig you’re wearing.”

“Don’t make a joke of everything!” I said coolly.

"Well, I'll say something serious then. I really do want you to get away to a safe place."

"I don't think that's such a good idea," I said.

"But I do, and that overrules what you're thinking!"

I crossed my arms and held my chin high. "What is this? Are you supposing that you're smarter than me?"

Martin sighed. "You're plenty smart, Sheila, but you don't know everything. Like, I wouldn't pick you out of a crowd to do brain surgery on my Aunt Rosie. You’ve got no detective seasoning! We're up against a mob that would give even Elliot Ness the heebie-jeebies. That’s a megaton of danger ahead of us and I don’t want to lose you not that I've discovered how great you are.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I don't know how you did it, but somehow, since yesterday, you’ve remade yourself from a four to a ten.”

"I have not! I’m exactly the same as I've always been.” I looked down at my barely dressed body. "You don't see the real me; you only see what I'm wearing."

“What you're wearing is fine, but if you insist on hanging around, I wouldn't mind joining you for breakfast at the Carousel Cafe. Since we’ve that pack of coupons, we’ll be able to chow down in good style.”

I really hoped the big ape was only talking about food, but I wasn’t so sure!

TO BE CONTINUED...

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 13

Posted 07-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 13

The General Narrative, continued

The darkness already becoming dense, Leigh turned the Ford Taurus off the Washington street. A bumpy lane led them up to the iron-gated driveway of an industrial site. Putting the car into park, Leigh got out and opened the barrier. Schitz, watching from the back seat, stared dubiously at what was a closed-down factory.

When Leigh resumed driving, she parked behind the main building building of the derelict property. Callahan assisted Schitz in exiting the car’s back seat and then the detectives ushered her indoors by way of a rear entrance accessed by way of an electronic key fob.

“What is this place?”  the black girl asked.

"It's an abandoned mob hideout," he replied. "My underworld contacts recommend it highly."

“Are you sure the mob’s actually abandoned it?" the politician asked.

"Don't worry. We'll be the only ones here," Callahan assured Schitz. "And the insides of the building will look a lot better than what what you can see from out here. Anyhow, we don't have much choice, not with the aliens scourging the city looking for us. Dewitt and Miss Coffin must be inside already, setting things up."

"Okay, okay. I just want a safe place where I can rest."

"Yeah, you look worn out, Congressman. Have you gormed a decent meal lately?"

Schitz shook her head. "No. I've never been so hungry in my life."

"If Sheila’s done the shopping she’s supposed to, we’ll have a couple hundred dollars of groceries stashed inside."

"Do you have any other clothes I can wear?" she asked.

"No problem," Callahan said with a grin. "When our secretary overnights, she brings enough baggage to stock a Saks Fifth Avenue; maybe something of hers will fit you."

Schitz frowned. "Callahan, how long will we have to hide? Do you have a plan for getting us out of this? For getting my old body back?"

"Martin and I were working on that angle before we split up. We’ll do our best, but we'd prefer not to get your hopes too high too soon."

"Don't do me any favors, Mister," she replied grumpily. "What I need more than anything is hope!"

"We'll talk about that when we’re settled in," the sleuth responded ambiguously.

The detective duo led the hooker-dressed girl down an aisle to a security door. Callahan used a key-card to open it, revealing a hall that was without decoration of any kind, except for old company posters ballyhooing decade-old announcements. It must have been inhabited, though, since the floors were cleanly swept.

Suddenly, the girl noticed that the detectives were wearing strange and alarming expressions. "Well, you gave us a run for our money, Congressman," Leigh suddenly said, "but we always get our man."

The black girl gasped. "What are you saying?"

Callahan's tightened his grip on her arm. "We're saying that we've already taken out your detective pals. We're the same big bad aliens that you've been trying to get away from all this time."

The blood drained from Schitz's face. "No, you're putting me on!"

Spielman shook her head. "No way, José. We got hold of Callahan a half hour after he left you off at his hotel. You're all alone, Senator. Now we're going pick up where we left off."

"No!" Schitz cried, pulling away, her precarious heels almost tripping her. “There’s no place to run, babe," said the Callahan alien. "By now your wife is sleeping with the teammate of ours who's wearing your skin."

"Why are you hounding me?" Schitz demanded. "Are you Republicans? Non-RINO Republicans, I mean."

"Not hardly.”

"Look, I can pay you people off!" Schitz pleaded. "I've taken in millions from influence peddling payoffs and nobody knows about it!"

"Our guy already knows, baby doll, because he knows every thought in your head," said the false Callahan. "You've got that killer body and that micro dress you're wearing, and that's about it."

"W-What are you going to do with me?" the prisoner stammered.

Callahan looked her up and down. "We’ll keep you around in case we have a use for that sexy body of yours again. But in the meantime, you won’t be sitting around eating bonbons. On our planet, everybody has to work!"

"What kind of work?" asked Schitz. She hadn't held a real job since before entering law school.

"In your case, streetwalking, baby, streetwalking," Leigh clarified.

She dug her heels. "I'll never do that for you! You'll have to kill me first!"

"We won't kill you as long as we have a use for you," the blond replied. They started dragging her along again, but her yells caused a man wearing a lab coat to come out of a door up ahead. 

 "So you finally brought Schitz in?" he remarked acidly. "What took you so long, and where did you two come up with the new bodies you're wearing?"

"The snatch wasn’t a clean one and we had to lie low,” said the false Callahan. “It's a long story. Gerrog will be making the formal report when he checks in."

Lab Coat shrugged; it wasn't his job to supervise the field squads. "You're lucky that we have enough time on our hands to process her immediately. Otherwise, you four would have all your classes in a sling – or however it is that the human say that. Hurry up. Bring her along."

The three aliens manhandled Schitz into a lab lined with computer equipment and shoved her into a chair rigged with an electrical apparatus of some sort. The false Leigh and Callahan bound the black girl's wrists and ankles to the chair with straps before the white-coated one fitted an awkward metal helmet over her head.

"W-What's this for?" asked Schitz, her stomach twisted into hard knots.

"The helmet allows us to feed information directly into your memory cells," the lab guy explained. "When the process is completed, you won’t have much of a future, but you’re going to have one hell of an enjoyable past to remember."

She tried to shake the helmet off without success. "Don't try messing with my mind, you monsters!"

The Lab Coat turned a dial that sent a wave of static into Schitz’s mind, making it hard for her to think. After fifteen seconds of struggle, she passed into a quiet state of altered consciousness.

The technician then told her, "Schitz, you will hear my questions and will answer them with absolute truthfulness. Do you understand?"

"I -- do," the black girl replied somnambulantly.

"Good. When I ask you to repeat an answer that you've already given, you will do so. You must try to answer with the same words you remember saying the first time. If you understand, nod."

Schitz nodded.

"First question: Do you want to be cooperative?"

"No!" Schitz answered truthfully.

"I see. Now tell me again, do you want to be cooperative?"

"Yes!" Schitz exclaimed.

Lab Coat nodded in satisfaction. The Congressman was proving to be a good subject. Most humans of low intelligence were good subjects.

"How many siblings do you have? What did your mother and father do?" asked the tech.

"Five," Schitz replied. "Mother was a society lady. Dad started out as a mob man. He did a hit for the Johnson Administration and that landed him a job at the White House for the rest of the term."

"Fine. Now repeat what you just said."

"I'm an only child. Mother was a whore and dad was one of her johns. She never knew which one of them had knocked her up, but it boosted her welfare check and that was all she cared about.”

"Are you male or female?"

"Male!"

"Repeat!"

"Female. Isn't it obvious?"

"What is your profession?"

"I'm a U.S. Congressman."

"Repeat!"
 

"I'm a ho."

"What's your name?"

"Adam Bennett Schitz."

"Repeat!"

"Latisha D. Jones. The D stands for Delilah."

"Which do you prefer making love to? Men or women?"

"Women, of course!"

"Repeat!"

"I’ll put out for anyone who pays me, but I always prefer men."

"What color are you?"

"White. I get slightly red in July."

"Repeat!'"

"Didn't you notice that I was black and beautiful, honey pie?"

"If an employer of yours ever struck you physically, what would you do?"

"I'd pay off MS 13 to crush his bones to make my bread!"

"Repeat!"

"I'd try to figure out what I did wrong and fix it."

"What is your greatest ambition?"

"To be President of the U.S.A."

"Repeat."

"To be a famous actress with my picture in all the movie magazines."

"Who do you most trust?"

"Myself."

"Repeat!"

"My sweet man!"

"How would you feel if your sweet man took all your money and spent it on himself?"

"I'd want to shove an ice pick through his eye!"

"Repeat!"

"I want my fancy man to have the best of everything. If everyone can see that he's the best, that makes me hot stuff, too!"

"What is your favorite pastime?"

"Golf."

"Repeat!"

"Fucking!"

"What would you like to see engraved on your tombstone?"

"'Here lies a patriot of gracious heart and noble soul, a transcendent spirit who dedicated his life to the betterment of Mankind. His tireless labor has left the world a better and kinder place for all the generations that are yet to come.'"

"Repeat!"

"'Here lies a pretty woman who could really suck and fuck!'"

"What fashions do you prefer?"

"Three-piece English suits, worsted fabric especially, worn with silk shirts and Italian wing-tips."

"Repeat!"

"I don't care what I wear as long as it shows off my my boobs and my gams. But I do want to wear heels so high that they let me touch the sky!"

After many another question, Lab Coat instructed “Latisha” to read from a computer screen, instructing her to repeat each word that she saw out loud.

"Child, time, them, boy, on, honey, tell, they, wishing, thing..." she recited.

"Now read them again, Miss Jones."

"Chahl, taam, dem, bawee, awn, huun-ee, tail, dey, wishin', thang . . . ."

Before the scientist was finished, he had implanted about a thousand Eubonic pronunciations into Latisha's vocabulary.

"Now, Latisha, I want you to read each sentence that appears on the screen."

The first sentence she saw was: "Right after the music, this man comes on the radio shouting about something amazing that he wants to sell.'"

"Say what you read in your own words."

"Right after de music, dis man he come on de radio shoutin' 'bout sumpin' 'mazin' dat he wanna sell."

After two more hours of instruction, Schitz was speaking a passable dialect of black urban English. It wasn't perfect, but after a few months of street living she’d be sounding like a kid raised inside a government housing project.

 'Now,' Lab Coat mumbled to his companions, 'for the finishing touch':

“Miss Jones, can you read or write?”

"Sho-nuf, Ah kin! Ah went ta Havard."

"Would you repeat that?"

"No, suhr! Ah ain't nebber cared much fo school! Nebber wanted ta any o' dat head stuff. Mah stepfoddah, he were a haaaandsome man. He taught me jes' 'bout awl a workin' gal will ebber need ta know."

The alien technician at last switched off his equipment. His department would set her up with one of the several alien agents operating streetwalker stables for the benefit of the invasion. The subject was Latisha now, remembering a new past life history. She would not have a clue that she had ever been been anyone called Congressman Adam Bennett Schitz.

TO BE CONTINUED....

THE BIG SWITCH by Christopher Leeson Chapter 12

 

Posted 06-07-23 

THE BIG SWITCH

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 12

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What way?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where's this Gina?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your favorite song?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What was that noise from the kitchen?"

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

"You belted him?"

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

"You amaze me, kiddo."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

TO BE CONTINUED...

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