THE BIG SWITCH

	Or, "The Dame Curse"

	By Christopher Leeson





	Chapter 1

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan


	"...I made a flying dive for the dining room where I'd heard
the sound.  Then I saw the French maid.  She was trying to get out
through a French window.  I didn't stop to think how ironic that was.

	"I jumped for her, grabbed her.  She was trying to stuff
something down under the lace of her uniform.  I got my fingers into
the vee of her neckline and yanked.  The material tore.  I ripped at
the bosom of her petticoat until something fluttered to the floor.  I
grabbed it.  It was an oblong of paper.

	"The French maid tried to snatch it back.  I slapped her
across the face, pinioned her slim wrist with one hand.  Then I looked
at what I'd wrested from her.  It was a check made out to Miss Judit
Hilmar and was signed 'Dirk Bracken.'  I knew the name; Bracken had
been comedy star Dopey Sailor's real name.  The check was for five
thousand smacks.  I didn't think dusting paid that well.  Anyway,
Dopey wasn't even her employer.

	"I said:  'Where the hell did you get this?'

	"'It's mine.  Mr. Sailor g-gave it to me two or three d-days
ago,' she stammered.  Her accent was more Swedish than French.

	"I asked, 'What did you do for it?'

	"She closed up like a clam.  Her red lips got tight.  I knew
I'd have to pull the cave-man stuff on her to find out anything.  So I
grabbed her shoulders, shook her until her pearly-whites rattled.

	"I said:  'Now look, Miss Judit Hilmar.  If you don't want to
get mauled groggy, you'll talk.  How would you like a good punch in
the jaw?'

	"'No -- no --!'

	"'Okay, then, Sister.  Answer me.  Why were you trying to
sneak out the window?'

	"I ran my fingers over her shoulder, pretended I was about to
punch the hell out of her.  I'll admit I got something of a kick out
of touching her, but didn't let on what she was doing to me on the
inside.  I only said:  'Why are you afraid to get mixed up in the
case?'

	"All of a sudden the Aryan cutie pressed herself up against
me, put her arms around my neck.  She said:  'Please Mr. Detective --
I'll do anything you ask if you'll keep me out of this!  I -- I have a
brother who was smuggled into this country illegally.'

	"'Why illegally?'

	"North Europeans can't get work permits in America."

	"She was on the level on that point, so I let her continue.

	"'If I'm dragged into this shooting, the police will question
me, look into my family.  They might find out about my brother and
deport him.  You don't know what life in Sweden is like!'

	"I always feel sorry for refugees, but had to come across like
a hard case if I was going to get at the truth.  'The law is the law,'
I told her.

	"I don't think she liked that sentiment, but instead of
pleading like I expected, she looked at me funny-like just then and
pressed up closer.  She fitted against me like tissue paper.  Warm,
soft curves were touching my chest, and she was offering me her lips
--

	"Well, after all, I'm human.  So I leaned down and kissed
her...felt her lips against my mouth.  My blood was racing --"

	#

	I sat back from the CRT and I reached for my cup of Java,
already tepid.  "Well, Martin, how do you like it?"

	Dewitt leaned back in his swivel chair and rubbed his blond
stubble with his thumb.  "That's a damned hot scene!  Are you trying
to give your reader a hard-on?"

	"Yeah!  So you like the story, right?"

	 "I like it fine, even though it's kind of old-fashioned.
Everything you write sounds like it's set back in the 1930's, but that
immigration policy it mentions comes from no earlier than the
Seventies.  And like I've said before, not even tough guys talk that
way anymore."

	"I still talk that way!"

	"But you've been boning up on old pulp magazines for twenty
years, D.C.  You come on like a fugitive from Black Mask."

	Dewitt was only my junior partner, but since I'd asked for his
opinion I didn't have any choice but to take it on the chin.  "Okay,
so I knew a few words with more than four letters in them. Anything
else you want to say about the story?"

	"Is it realistic?  You're a detective, D.C.  Have you ever
roughed up even one dame on the job?"

	"Well, no," I admitted reluctantly, "not since I left Sears.
But I might get lucky.  I'm not forty yet, after all."

	"And isn't it corny to bring in a French maid?"

	"She's Swedish," I corrected him.

	"A Swedish French maid, then.  My point still stands."

	"I'll admit it isn't easy for a foreign-born Swede to get a
work permit in the good old U.S. of A. these days, but she might be an
illegal like her brother."

	Dewitt shook his head.  "Tell any woman in America who isn't
already a hooker that she has to wear an outfit like that and she'll
be suing you for harassment.  Besides, you can't get a white person to
work as a house servant for any kind of money."

	"Not even an illegal?"

	"I don't know.  But Swedes are highly educated and I can't
imagine any smart chick not being able to find something better.  In
Silicon Valley they don't care if you're foreign-born, or if you're
illegal.  You've got a job just so long as you're willing to undercut
the American wage scale."

	"Some women like to dress up as French maids.  Maybe she's
kinky.  I could make her really kinky."

	"It might seem like you're forcing it and serving up cheap
thrills."

	"What's wrong with cheap thrills, Martin?  It's only escapism!
Most of the schmucks who read P.I. stories probably imagine that every
rich person has a bevy of cute little French maids working for him!"

	"Schmucks?  Are you calling yourself a schmuck?  You read more
of that stuff than anybody."

	"I've been called worse things," I said with a shrug, "and so
have they."

	"Like 'late with the rent?'"

	Now that was a really low blow!  "Don't remind me," I
grumbled.

	Now Dewitt pushed himself to his feet and went to the air
conditioner.  "We might as well get some use out of this before the
electric company shuts off our current.  This heat wave makes me wish
for winter.

	"All the detective agencies in Washington are cleaning up
since this administration came to town, blackmailing witnesses,
scaring off bimbos," Martin went on.  "Maybe we should get on the
bandwagon, too."

	"You mean sell out?  Trade in dignity for a pot of mulligan?"

	"I don't like getting my hands dirty either, but your stories
aren't selling and if we don't get enough income to snuff the outgo
we'll come to work and find the front door padlocked one of these
days."

	"So?  We might have to climb in through the window, but we'll
still have our honor."

	My partner tossed me a weary look.  "Honor and a dollar and a
half will buy us one cup of coffee to share between us."

	"I know where you can still get coffee for a nickel in Las
Vegas," I informed him, still unpersuaded.

	#	

	We had nothing else to do, so I went back to pecking on my
manuscript.  I thought my opening paragraph was still too weak, so I
did an extemporaneous revision:

	Pennsylvania Avenue runs from Rock Creek to the Anacostia
River, through crack-infested hoods where even the flatfoots walk in
pairs and streetlights are farther apart than honest politicians.
After sunset P.A. is a pitch-black cemetery full of prowling
ghoul-shapes, skulking specters muttering in low voices and reeking of
unwashed clothes.  God didn't design Washington D.C.  The devil
cleaned out the ash cans of Hell and dumped what he found inside next
to the Potomac for composting. . . ."

	Just then our receptionist Sheila pushed through the door
without knocking.  I don't know why she always did that; it wasn't as
if she didn't have a nice pair of knockers.  In facts, she was stacked
like a poker deck in an uptown clip joint.  Most gees go ga-ga over
blondes, I know, but I like brunettes with green eyes.  That's why I
hired Sheila instead of some middle-aged frump who could actually
type, did MS Windows, and didn't have a phobia against alphabetical
filing.  It wasn't that Sheila was dumb; I figured she just didn't
care.  

	But the absolutely worse problem with our gal Friday was that
she'd been on the lam the day the Big Boss passed out the fashion
sense.  Gray dress suits were about as sexy as she ever got on the
job.  I really think she did it to frustrate us.  When I think of Mary
Tyler Moore's getaway sticks flashing under the desk in the Richard
Diamond reruns I could have beaten my head against the wall until the
pain went away.

	I'd once talked to Sheila about establishing a dress code,
tried to tell her that looking nice in the front office might give us
some repeat business, but she served notice that she'd go to the
E.A.P. if I ever brought up the subject again.  Sheila might not know
anything about doing a good job, but she knew everything about using a
thug bureaucracy to twist an employer's arm.  American Womanhood, how
low thou hast fallen!

	Sheila stepped toward me while glomming Dewitt out of the
corner of her eye.  At the ripe old age of twenty-two she probably
thought that she should be doing something toward her retirement, and
so was on the lookout for evidence to support a civil suit.  You can
send nuclear missile blueprints to Red China for cash and carry and no
one will call you a bad guy on the evening news, but "lookism" is
strictly forbidden.

	"Yes, Miss Coffin?" I asked, trying hard to keep my glance
above her tie-line.  'Tain't easy, McGee.  

	"It's Ms Spielman again.  She's --"

	I knew where Leigh Spielman was.  She was already barging in
on us from the outer office -- looking as steamed as a Cape Cod
oyster.  She was another of those great-looking dames who you can't
touch with a ten-foot pole.  This building seems to draw them in like
cockroaches.  It's not my fault for not putting out another ten-spot
per month back when I was setting up and renting that office space
they had upstairs over the Garter Club.

	"Which one of you turned on that air conditioner?!" Leigh
Spielman demanded.

	"Me!" admitted Dewitt without batting an eye.  It takes nerve
to cross a ball-breaker.  That's the kind of man you want to have
behind you in a dark alley.  Not that Callahan and Dewitt had to spend
much time in dark alleys.  On a typical day we were far more likely to
close the office early and rack up a few at the King of Clubs.

	It always amazed me that with lips like hers Spielman's voice
always sounded like fingernails grating across a chalkboard. "Listen,
Dewitt, I told you that your air conditioner scrambles my hard drive!
It's happened again."

	"That's not possible, Lady," I spoke up.  "It doesn't hurt our
hard drive."

	She wasn't listening.  "I'll get a restraining order if I have
to!  I'll go for compensatory damages."

	"That won't help you, Ma'am," I said.  "We're flat broke.
That's one good thing about this business; we can thumb our noses at
lawsuits."

	"I'll find some way to get back at you!" she warned.

	Instead of letting this get out of hand, I tried to mainline a
little reason into the discussion.  "Miss Spielman, what you're
actually saying is that every time Martin walks into this office he
scrambles your hard drive.  This could be the start of a wonderful
relationship if you'd just stop and think about it."

	"Pigs!" she spat.  "The kid gloves are off from now on.  One
more incident and I'll put you out of business.  You've been warned!"

	Dewitt was looking more irritated than scared.  "One more
utility bill and we're out of business," he informed her.  "But I'll
take the matter up with my partner.  ...Sheila, would you escort our
good neighbor to the door?"

	Sheila approached Leigh sympathetically, but ignoring our
secretary's friendly demeanor Leigh spun about-face and stalked out.
Sheila followed her out.

	Now that both local harpies had faded into the wings, Martin
shuffled back to his desk and picked up his copy of The Washington
Times.  He pretended to read it-- like he always does when he's
browned off.

	But this time Dewitt couldn't stay quiet long.  "Miss Dairy
Fresh on the outside, Senator Clinton on the inside.  I wish real
women were like the ones in those stories of yours.  There's a right
way to be a bitch, and then there's the way that the Sheilas and
Leighs do it!"

	I laughed under my breath, even though Martin had it wrong.  A
bitch is a bitch is a bitch.  It's her comeuppance that makes her
memorable, and bitches only seem to get taken down in fiction.  I was
thinking just then of Bogy's last scene with Mary Astor in Maltese
Falcon. . . .

	* * * * *











	Chapter 2

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan , continued


	All the recent gum-bumping with snippy chippies had given me
an inspiration, so I pounced on the keys and started tapping like I
was trying to beat the Dutch:

	Beth was alone in her office stuffing documents into her
briefcase with both hands.  It had been a close call, but a graveyard
flight to the land of sun and fun, a payoff to some Third World
dictator, and then golden slipper cocktails and wide beaches for the
rest of her life.  

	The cops were idiots, the D.A. was eating out of her hand;
only that damned dick Nick Baxter seemed to have picked up her scent.
As a precaution, she jerked open the right-hand desk drawer and hefted
her .44 magnum moose-shooter.  She smiled at the thought of what use
it might be put to, then packed it into her valise along with a sheaf
of papers -- papers which, in the right hands, would prove her a
murderer and an embezzler.  Without them, the thin man would take the
fall and Beth Angler would be left smelling like a rose.  

	Just then the minx heard the door fly open, so hard and fast
that the glass broke.  Beth froze; there was no time to make a grab
for the man-stopper.  Nick Baxter was standing there, a heater
clenched in his hot fist and a smolder in his cigarette-ash eyes.

	"I followed your bucket from Beverly Hills," he informed her.
"Lamming it, Ms Angler?"

	Angler had nerve.  A trial lawyer, she'd rubbed elbows with
the worst scum in the city and so knew how to talk down to their kind:
"Get out of here, you jerk off!"

	"If you wanted to be left alone, you shouldn't have put a.44
magnum slug into my partner's back."

	Her face went white.  If he found her gun she'd up for Murder
One.  "It wasn't me," she jabbered.  "It was the thin man!"

	"It was you all right, Babe, and you're going to fry for it!
Maybe what I need to put you in the slammer is right there inside that
cow leather."

	To Nick's surprise, Beth suddenly went coy.  "She's got ice
water in her veins," he thought.  She was as fast and deadly as a
cheetah in hunting mode. 

	"Can't we make some kind of a deal?" she inquired through
faintly-smiling lips.

	Nick narrowed one eye.  "What kind of deal do you have in
mind, Doll Face?"

	She started unbuttoning her suit jacket.  What had been a
wary, forced smile now broadened in the face of Nick's reaction.

	"I promised myself I was going to nail you," the dick rumbled,
fighting down his momentary weakness.  "Maybe this bean-shooter isn't
what you need most."

	"You're right about that, big man."  The she-lawyer was coming
on like the slut he'd always thought she was, her Christian Dior
outfit notwithstanding.  Nick lowered his gun and then zipped down his
fly with his free hand.  He knew what she was, but wondered if she
knew it, too.

	"On you knees, Mouthpiece, and maybe you'll get some kind of a
break afterwards . . ."


	No promises.  He had said "maybe."

	#

	Dewitt interrupted me at just at the start of the good part.
"D.C., did you see this article in the paper?  Another streetwalker
was choked to death and dropped into the Potomac last night.  How many
does that make?"

	"About twenty," I said.  "Some psycho must really have it in
for party girls."

	"I wonder where the junior senator from New York's been this
summer --?" he asked with a grin.

	"You know, these hooker murders started right after
Inauguration Day.  I wonder if -- nah!  It's got to be a coincidence 

	Just then we heard a mutter out in Sheila's office.  "Ma'am,
you just can't barge in!" she was saying.

	I wondered if Spielman was back again for some reason.  But
when the door popped open we saw an insistent young black women in a
red spandex mini-dress crowding Sheila backwards into our room.

	"Step aside and let the lady in, Sheila," I remarked.  "We've
got time for a little neighborhood outreach."

	Sheila was glad enough to step aside; the chickadee with the
crazy legs wobbled past her, looking like she either wasn't used to
high heels or she was totally smoked.  

	"Have a chair, Miss," I offered, never taking my eyes off her
hemline.

	I didn't even notice when Sheila exited; that's how good our
visitor looked.  The black girl looked around, pulled up a chair, and
sat down.

	"Don't caaal me 'Miss,'" the chippy said.

	Because I couldn't see her legs anymore I was able to pick out
the oddity in her accent.  I know black lingo; the girl was speaking
something that sounded more like upper-crust Bostonian.

	"Where exactly are you from?" I asked.

	She was breathing like she was warming up for the Boston
Marathon.  "This is vuhy -- embarrassing to explain," she began
haltingly.  "I'm not a really a girl."

	"You're a female impersonator?" I asked dubiously.

	"No!  I'm actually -- Senator Theodore O'Malley!

	Dewitt and me traded glances.  I looked back at the girl,
pushed back my mop and said, "I think you've been breathing in some
bad bindles, lady.  I've met Senator O'Malley -- and believe me, you
aren't him!"

	"I am Ted O'Malley and I can prove it!" she insisted, taking a
forward posture that presented me with about as good a look at Heaven
as I'm likely to get in this lifetime.  "Two yeuhs ago, I hired yuh to
prove my opponent was cheating on his wife.  Yuh returned a report
that said he wasn't, but I lied to the press and my opponent got
forty-eight hours of media pummeling before the Post published his
denial along with your butinski corroboration.  But I forgave yuh,
because to have a sleaze-ball like J.D. Callahan on anybody's side is
the kiss of death.  His numbeuhs fell into the single digits and he
dropped out of the race!"

	That was old news, so I wasn't buying.  "What you're saying
just means that O'Malley shot off his mouth around one of his party
girls.  You need a shrink, Lady, not a detective."

	"Give me a chance to explain!"
 
	"You've got just five minutes, Doll."

	I gave Dewitt the dust, hoping he'd contribute something, but
he only shrugged.

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

	I let out a moan at that, but she hurried on:  "They can
switch minds with a person if he has sex with them!"

	Dewitt finally pitched in.  "I get it!  You think you're
O'Malley who's switched bodies with an alien.  Well, you don't look
much like an alien, Miss -- and I'm too polite to say what you do look
like."

	"That's because I wasn't the fiuhst peuhson the alien switched
with!  He'd already stolen the body of this girl.  All those that I've
seen have the bodies of Earth people!"

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

	"Somebody I trusted gaave me the number of an escort service,"
the chippy explained.

	"Well, all I can say is that you must know some low-lives,
Ma'am."

	She scowled.  "If you can't trust the husband of a New York
senator, who can you trust?  ...Anyway, this girl -- this blaack girl
-- met me and I escouhted her to a hotel that a lot of my colleagues
in Congress use, one veuhy reputable -- and veuhy discrete."

	"What happened then?" I asked, just to speed the silly story
along.  I didn't believe I could make a nickel off such a case, and in
fact I'd feel like a crook if I was so low as to try and shake this
nutty dame down for a dime.

	She shivered, like she either was either remembering a bad
trip or reacting to the blast of the air conditioner.  It was probably
the latter; that spandex didn't cover much -- God bless it!  

	At last she forced it out.  "W-When I woke up in the night, I
was her." 

	I kept my reaction low-keyed; after all, she'd telegraphed the
punch line.  "Yeah, I thought it had to be something like that.  Tell
us something about the aliens, if you're able."

	To tell the truth, by this point I was considering the story
as an X-Files" script, except that it was coming off too sexy.  The
Hunger might have picked it a couple year's back, but That
Euro-trash-styled bomb only lasted a half-season.

	"They took me prisonuh," the Party Polly went on.  "They had
Earth bodies, but thehuh was something not right about them --"  Her
voice trailed off.

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

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

	"Like what?"  I asked, my level of interest rising.

	"They bound me naked with my haands tied to the head of the
bed.  One of them was a gorgeous redheaded girl.  She stood thehuh
looking at me for a while, like she was getting tuuhned on, then
slowly reached out to touch me."

	"Where?" I asked, my mouth dry.

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

	I knew I needed all the fact to fairly evaluate the merits of
the case.  "Yeah, yeah?!  What happened then?!"

	"O'Malley" scowled.  "It was like those despicable, degrading
scenes you find in Hollywood movies.  You know what I mean!"

	I nodded.  "Yeah, Disney isn't what it used to be.  But you're
going to have to stop beating around the bush -- no pun intended."

	"She got me so excited I was almost in tears.  I hated it, but
this body really seemed to need it!  It was like the craving for
liquor -- something I know about!  Then two of the male aliens came
back into the room and one of them said, 'Okay, O'Malley, the fun's
over.  The Potomac River is going to be your last trick.'"

	I sat back.  "That's cute, Cuddles.  You even managed to work
the streetwalker murder case into your little flying-saucer fantasy."

	 She stood up indignantly, all five-feet-three of her.  "I'm
telling the truth!  They dressed me up this way, and then put me into
the trunk of a cauh."

	"A cauh?"

	"An automobile!  When we got to the piers, they stopped in
front of a wauhehouse."

	"A warehouse?"

	"Yes!"

	"What warehouse?" Dewitt asked.

	"O'Malley" shifted to face my junior partner.  "A Rex Company
Warehouse along the eastern riverfront," she said.  "I think it must
be one of their hideouts."

	"How did you get away?" I asked. 

	"A squad car came up, saw them dragging me along, and stopped.
The two police came out to ask what was going on."

	"That doesn't sound like D.C. cops," I interrupted.  

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

	"Of course not, Sweetheart," I said.  "You wanted to save that
little treat for us."

	"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."

	Suddenly her face fell forward into her hands.  Telling the
story seemed to take lot out of her up and for the first time I
started to think that maybe she believed her own crazy story.  So
that's why I now said to Dewitt, "Her story's for the birds, but I
think this lady's really scared of something.  Martin, why don't you
go check out that warehouse?"

	"Another freebie for a sob-sister?" he sighed.

	"Enough with the sighing!  It'll be good for you.  You'll put
on an alderman if you don't stretch your legs once in a while."

	"All right, but I think it's a waste of time.  You're always a
pushover for a panhandler, D.C.  No wonder Sheila is the only one in
the office who ever takes home a paycheck."

	"That's because you're a partner in this business and she's
only an employee.  We'd be in a lot of trouble if we ever missed a
payroll." 

	"Yeah, yeah, I know."  Then, without any more argument, he got
up and headed for the door.

	"Hey, don't dust yet," I said.

	"What is it?"

	"You forgot your hat."

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

	"Detectives wear them for the same reason chimney sweeps still
wear stovepipe hats.  It's tradition and people respect tradition."

	"It looks wrong with this leather jacket."

	"Is it my fault that you come to work out of uniform?  You can
get a gray double-breasted suit at any Salvation Army store for five
dollars."  To spare his feelings I didn't add that his bluejeans,
jacket, and motorcycle boots would have looked better on a schoolyard
dope pusher.

	"When you can meet an honest payroll, I'll wear a ballerina
outfit if you ask me to."

	"Don't hold your breath," I told him.  "I don't swing that
way."

	After the door clunked shut I faced "O'Malley" alone saying,
"While my partner is away, I think what you need is a good detox -- I
mean, a good rest -- Miss.  Can I take you home, or to a motel?"

	Her answer came so matter of fact that I could almost think
she wasn't a hooker:

	"It will have to be yuh place.  I don't haave any money to
rent a room.  If I went home, I'd have to explain to my wife how I got
this way.  She can be a witch!  I was hoping yuh could spare me a
loan."

	"You sure do think like a politician, Doll, that's all I have
to say!"  The way things were stacking up, I'd be ending up poorer
than when I'd started.  "It'll have to be my flop then.  At least you
can't steal me blind; everything I own's already been repossessed."

	"I'm not a thief!" she exclaimed, piqued.  "I'm a senator!"

	I shrugged.  "A half dozen of one, six of the other."  

	She suddenly started to shake.  

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

	Her breathing was coming fast.  I tentatively took hold of her
so she wouldn't fall.  Nice work if you can get it.

	"It's not just that this whole business is so --  so
horrifying," she panted.  "I feel so -- so ungodly horny!  Why would I
want sex at a time like this?  Am I going crazy?"

	I eyed her carefully.  All the telltale signs of a skirt hot
to trot were there -- right where God intended that they should be.
It was enough to make a man religious.

	"Nah --" I said, "you're not crazy.  You're a normal
red-blooded American girl with natural urges.  But we'd better get you
into a dark, quiet room as soon as possible."  The more I thought
about it, the more I liked my prescription.

	Without wasting any more time, I stepped to the door and
yelled for Sheila.

	She came in.

	"Sheila," I told her, "I'm going to find this lady a place to
stay.  I'll be back before closing time."  She returned a
"couldn't-care-less" shrug, which made me think that good help is hard
to find.

	"We should leave by the back way," said the black girl behind
me, "just in case I was followed.  They're aliens, after all."  

	"Right, and they come to Earth with powers and abilities far
beyond the reach of mortal men -- or however that goes."  Without
looking back I took my hat and flogger off the rack.  The latter was
too hot to wear the latter, but a trench coat looks darn good carried
sportingly on the arm.

	* * * *











	Chapter 3

	The General Narrative


	Leigh Spielman, by now inputting a backup tape into her
crashed PC, swore under her breath, still thinking about the
bargain-basement snoops next door.  Someday, she told herself, she'd
have an office in a building that people like them could never afford.
Maybe it would be in Arlington, but it didn't matter.  Anywhere
outside this rotten city would be an improvement.

	Suddenly the door clicked behind her and the financial planner
threw a surprised glance over her shoulder.  She saw a red-blond young
woman entering wearing a short, black, acetate-lycra dress and
followed by two derelict-types in shabby old suits.

	"Who are you?  What do you want?" Ms Spielman demanded,
turning to face them.

	"Did a black hooker come into this building?" the woman in
black demanded.  

	"I haven't seen anybody," Spielman answered annoyedly.  "Check
with the people across the hall.  There's always some low-life coming
in or out."  Then she remembered the door which she was sure she had
locked.  "Did you pick my lock?"

	Instead of answering, the redhead glanced back at her
companions to say, "She has an agreeable shape.  I think one of you
could use it."

	Whatever she meant, the men seemed to agree, since they
started to beam a pair of rotten-toothed smiles.  

	"What are to talking about?" the young professional growled to
disguise her sense of growing fright.  "I told you I didn't see your
friend.  Now leave my office this instant!"

	Leigh now made to step around the trio to seek the relative
safety of the hall, but flashing hands grabbed her and, while two of
the intruders held her, the third -- the one dressed like a
streetwalker -- took her by the lapels and pulled her suit jacket down
to pinion her arms at the elbows.  

	"What are you doing?!" Spielman shouted, but a filthy hand
clapped itself over her mouth to silence her.

	"Put her on her back across the desk," the redhead said.

	"Who do you want to have her?" one of the tramps asked.

	"You two can flip for her," the redhead replied with a shrug.

	#

	Meanwhile,  next door, Sheila sat alone in Callahan's chair,
trying to imagine herself as Cybill Shepherd in those Moonlighting
reruns.  At the age of twenty she was still a secretary!  She didn't
like her job in the least and would rather have been giving orders to
a large staff of lowly employees between solving glamorous cases and
the cream of society.  

	What bothered Sheila most was that her family was respected
back in their home town, and she wasn't here in Washington.  Her job
reminded her of that old job-training advertisement on TV, the one
that carried a "don't let this happen to you" warning.  In it, a
young, inexperienced secretary-wannabe can't find employment except in
a seedy auto garage that's run by a leering creep of a manager and a
slobby greasemonkey.  

	Well, at least Sheila looked better than the actress in the
commercial.  She knew all too well that she didn't have much going for
her except her looks.  But she lacked what she needed to cash in on
them.  She couldn't sing, couldn't dance, and jobs of pointing at a
game board in a TV quiz show were hard to find.  It scared her to
think that she might have to mix with low-brow males until she got
desperate enough to marry one of them.  What a nightmare!  That would
lock her in at the bottom rung of social status forever.  That was the
main reason that she refused to get involved with good-looking
down-and-outs like Martin Dewitt.

	Just then, Sheila heard a clumping in the outside office where
her desk was and got up suddenly, not wanting Dewitt or Callahan to
catch her sitting at the boss's desk and give her the horse laugh.
Accordingly, she sprang up and crossed to the door.  A mumble of
unfamiliar voices cause her to peer through the crack.

	Three people occupied the outer office.  One was the
businesswoman from next door, Leigh Spielman, but another was a young
redhead in a cheap-looking black minidress.  The third was a shabby,
unshaved tramp whom she could almost smell from where she stood.

	They were coming toward the door!  

	The tramp pushed the portal roughly inward, sending Sheila
stumbling  back.  The only thing that kept her from starting to scream
for help was the fact that the very respectable Ms Leigh Spielman was
part of the group.

	"We're looking for a black girl dressed in a short red dress,"
the redhead said.  "Did she come in here?"

	"Well, yes," Sheila began, too intimidated to dissemble.  "But
she went out about an hour ago with Mr. Callahan.  He said something
about finding her a place to stay."

	"Where did he take her?"  Spielman asked Sheila brusquely, her
expression even more intense than usual.

	"I-I don't know," stammered Sheila.  "You'll have to ask D.C.
when he comes back."  Then she added, "They'll be returning any
minute."

	The derelict pushed forward, forcing Sheila back against
Callahan's desk.  She held her breath against her fear and his smell
and went passive to signal that he didn't have to get violent.

	"If no one's here," offered Leigh Spielman, "we'll have to get
the information directly from Callahan."

	"Ms Spielman?" Sheila spoke up with a growing sense of
disquiet.  "What are you doing?  I could understand if you brought the
police or your lawyer in, but who are these people?"

	The streetwalker took Sheila's chin between her fingers,
observing, "She's a pretty girl,too."  With her free hand she tweaked
the secretary's breasts through her jacket.

	"Hey!  Cut that out!" Sheila exclaimed.

	"They seem to be real," the streetwalker remarked
thoughtfully.  "I think she'd make a lovely whore."

	"What --?" Sheila gasped.

	"I was getting tired of this body anyway," the tramp agreed.

	"Get it done then; we don't have a lot of time," the redhead
directed him.

	"Do what?"  Sheila gasped with alarm.  "...Ow!" she cried out
as the hobo twisted her arm behind her back and forced her toward the
cluttered desk top.

	* * * *











	Chapter 4

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan , continued


	All during the drive to my flop, the Hotel Franco, I kept
wondering why the black babe was fantasizing being Ted O'Malley when
she had Napoleon, Elvis Presley, and even Marilyn Monroe to choose
from.

	She ought to have been glad that she wasn't Ted O'Malley.  Not
only Ted, but all the O'Malleys came from bad seed.  The father, Sean,
had been a union thug back in the 'Twenties that got rich selling
hooch during Prohibition.  That made him a powerful figure in New
England's political machines, outfits that always seemed to keep a
light in the window for gangsters and con men.  FDR had made Papa
O'Malley British ambassador during World War II and Sean always acted
like he wasn't sure whether his war was with Germany or England.  WWII
ended with Britain in permanent decline, but Sean himself was on the
rise as the political powerhouse in Massachusetts.  By the time his
whiskey-tortured liver sent him to Satan's barbecue both his sons were
senators.  

	The older O'Malley brother, Rob, got mixed up with organized
crime.  Like father like son, I guess.  He was assassinated during a
run for president.  Some immigrant kid with no friends, no money, and
no connections was framed for the hit, but people said that it was
actually the Giancana mob that had blipped Rob O'Malley .  It seems he
had taken their money and not delivering the political goods they paid
for.  Whichever way you cut it, Rob was just plain dishonest, even
among crooks.  Ted, on the other hand, stuck to dirty
politics-as-usual, avoided getting shot, and soon became the patron
saint of the Red-Diaper Babies.

	Politics always give me indigestion.  I'd hit rock-bottom
working for O'Malley.  He didn't like the way I'd called him a liar
and I hadn't eaten a square meal since he put out the word to the
Washington Establishment that I wasn't a team player.  There are two
parties in Washington, but Republicans didn't hire detectives and so I
was out in the cold.

	We reached the hotel and I let the black chippie into the
lobby where I checked my mail.  I came back to see the Mystery Woman
trying to hide in a corner, as if she had something to be embarrassed
about -- hitching that great-looking dress down over her thighs, then
up again when she showed too much cleavage. When she did that, of
course, her panties played peekaboo.  I could have watched her doing
her thing all day and never get tired of it, but I was on a mission of
mercy.

	"Nothing but bills and ads," I told her, stuffing the junk
mail into my hip pocket.

	"Can't we get out of heuh?  People are stauhing at me!  I want
some privacy!" she said in that weird Boston accent of hers.  I saw
that she was looking out of the corner of her eye at a man near the
cigarette machine.

	I recognized B.J. Waters, a two-bit player from the 'hood who
ran a small string of pros downtown, and who had gone down on his luck
lately.  The initials stood for Benjamin John, but he was better known
as "Blackjack."  The doll at my side must have felt his scorching
eyes, because she started her hemline-neckline routine again.

	"Please, Callahan," she urged.  "Let's go up to youh room!
Everybody down there thinks I'm a hookuh!"

	"If I took you up to my room they're going to be sure you're a
hooker," I warned her, reaching into my pocket for my ring of
twisters. "Luckily I don't want to be away from the office any longer
than I have to.  Here's the key to my digs.  I'll be back about seven
to tuck you in.  Ciao!"

	I think she was glad to be rid of me, and I felt the same way
about her.  But I couldn't help giving her one last glance over my
shoulder.  What a shape!  She was nothing but trouble, but hey,
trouble is my business.

	* * * *











	Chapter 5

	The General Narrative , continued


	The girl who called herself O'Malley might not have liked
Callahan, but missed him the instant he went out the door.  She gave
her hem another nervous tug, looked quickly about, and then ran to the
elevator.  Just as the doors were sliding shut a dark hand struck
itself between them and they whirred open.

	"Hello, little darlin'," said Blackjack Waters, sidling in
beside her and letting the door close behind him.

	Her lips pursed in terror.  "You're one of the aliens?!"

	B.J. looked puzzled.  "I'm no alien, Love-Child.  I'm a
true-blue American."  He introduced himself.  "I just had to warn you,
about this elevator."

	O'Malley replied in a fluster.  "What auhe you talking about?"

	"I mean, this lift is a hundred years old.  You have to use it
just right or it'll jam on you.  Like, if you accidently push the
two-button at the same time as the five-button, you'll get stuck
between floors."

	He obligingly demonstrated and the elevator, just as
obligingly, shuddered to a stop.

	O'Malley almost fell down with the force of the lurch, but
B.J. caught her around the waist and drew her up close.  

	"What did you do that for, you idiot?!" she demanded.

	"Don't worry, baby, I know how to start it again.  And even if
I didn't, the custodian can turn it on from the basement.  But we've
got us a few minutes to talk turkey, Precious.  You are so fine.  You
must be new on the street.  I never saw you until you came in with
that honky."

	"What's it to you?" O'Malley challenged, too angry to remember
how intimidating this man was and how her present weight was only a
hundred and fifteen pounds.

	"I know Callahan; he's a good guy, but this is my street, and
no gal works this 'hood' less'n she beats her feet for ol' B.J.  Who's
your sweet man, Buttercup?  I'm going to waste him for letting you
cross the line."

	"I don't have a sweet man!  What do yeuh think I am?"

	"No sweet man, Ruby Lips?  That's perfect, 'cause you've got
yourself one now.  You can keep on doing what you've been doing,
except that ol' B.J. is going to be your business manager from now
on."

	Incensed, O'Malley gripped the pimp's lapels and shook him
hard -- or tried to.  In fact, she could hardly jiggle a man his size.
"Whew!  You need a bath," B.J. said with a sniff.  "We'll take one
together over at my pad."

	Frustrated, the girl flung herself away from him.  "Auhe you
crazy?  I'm not going anywhere with yeuh!"

	"I say you are," he said teasingly, backing her against the
wall just by edging closer to her.  "Lift your lips, baby, 'cause you
is going to get a kiss to remember."

	"Like hell -- mmummph!"  Her angry rebukes were smothered by
the engulfment of her mouth by his lips.  In her initial shock she
dropped the keys that Callahan had given her.

	"You're sweeter than honey," he said breathily afterwards.  He
reached out to stoke her cheek, but she swatted his hand away.  

	"You're a fighter.  A gal like you can last a long time on the
mean street.  Come on, kiss me again, Sweet Lips.  Better get used to
doing what you're told."

	She popped a right hook into his cheekbone, but it hurt her
knuckles more than it hurt him.  

	He scowled and rubbed his lightly-bruised jaw.  "All right,
Baby, if you can play rough, I can play rough."  He grabbed her arm,
swung her around, and pressed her cheek against the phoney-wood
paneling of the elevator.  Then, with a deft motion, he took a cord
from his pocket and used it to bind her wrists behind her back.
Standing back, he let her spin about to face him again, but he crowed
her into the corner again and savored the press of her firm curves
against his chest.

	"You're like a candy store.  What treat should I sample
first?" he said, his good humor resurging.

	"Let me go!  This is against the law!"

	"The mayor knows the score, Honey Bunch.  He won't interfere
with a man and his wife."

	"I won't marry you!" O'Malley shouted, aghast.

	"We're already married.  I've got two other wives and I'm the
sweet man to all three of you.  Ever have a wife-in-law before?"

	"You don't understand!" O'Malley explained desperately.  "I'm
not a hooker!"  She thought up a lie on the fly.  "I only put on this
dress because I lost a bet!  I'm a lawyuh!"

	B.J. smiled, like a hungry man contemplating a rump roast
during the Irish Famine.  "That's just perfect!  Every lawyer is a ho
at heart -- especially the shes.  Did'ya ever hear the one about the
lab that stopped using rats and started using lawyers because they
found out that there were things rats refused to do?  I'm gonna save
you from a life of degradation and sin and make an honest working
woman out of you."  His hot gaze shifted to her cleavage.  "Oooh, I do
like your doodles.  Gotta see more of 'em."

	Before she realized that he meant what he said, B.J. had
pulled the straps of her dress down to her elbows, exposing her nubile
charms all the way down to her belly button.   Blackjack took a breast
in each hand and kneaded them like silly putty.  O'Malley gave a shout
and tried tore at her bindings.  The pimp's response was to plant hot
kisses on her bare boobies.  He felt her nipples hardening and
lengthening and encouraged them with his lips and tongue, though his
captive shrieked in rage.

	"Oh, God!" O'Malley bleated the strength went out her of her
and she slide to the floor.  B.J. let her go down and the next things
she knew, his hand was feeling between her legs.  "Uhh-uhh!" O'Malley
grunted, shocked by the unaccustomed sensation.  Blackjack realize
now, if he hadn't before, how lucky he had been to run into this gal.
She gave every sign of being easy to tame, but had fire in her belly.
In his stable she'd be a man-hungry lioness worth her weight in dollar
signs.

	B.J.'s hand had reached the silken triangle of her bikini
briefs.  It was warmly wet to the touch with her love juices in full
flow.  It was like she was famished for physical love.  Fight him
though she may, she needed it badly.

	The pimp fondled the girl through the fabric of her panties,
running his skillful fingertips up and down the divide of her
sensitive love canal.  After a moment of playing her like a fine
instrument, she gave a lurch that told him she was keyed tight and in
tune.

	"Sweet Jesus!  Don't!" O'Malley cried, tears streaming over
her cheeks.

	"No, Baby, I'm not stoppin'.  I know what a gal like you
wants.  It'll be even better later on without your panties in the
way."

	Shocked, the black girl fought to escape, but couldn't get any
traction the way she was pinned.  Suddenly she felt his fingers
hooking the elastic of her panties, slipping the garment down and
away.  

	"Oh, Lady-dee-o," B.J. murmured excitedly, "I can't wait to
get you home and get you naked.  You and me are going to love the
night away!"

	He started stroking her.  O'Malley's teeth gritted, her eyes
closed as she tried to block the wave of pleasure he was evoking, her
breath coming in a staccato of moans.  "You're lovin' it, Sweetums,"
Blackjack crooned softly, "I know you are."

	O'Malley had been burning up with need all day, but couldn't
have imagined the fire within her flaming with such searing intensity.
Tears ran down her cheeks, her body broke out in a feverish sweat,
suffusing her hair and garment with a musky reek.  The longer the pimp
kept up his manipulations, the more O'Malley felt ready to go mad with
the need of release.

	The man, pleased by her reactions, slowly agitated his finger
in its close, dewy envelope, giving his captive her first hint of what
surrounding to a man was like.  "Stop!" begged O'Malley in a voice so
tight and strained as to be almost inaudible, but B.J. knew he was
getting to her, that he was demolishing her coyness.  For a ho she had
a lot of self-control, he decided.  He had to strip that self-control
away, to teach her body to react wildly on impulse.  Therefore, he
switched his attack from her labia to her even more sensitive love
button.

	The intensifying assault was too much for O'Malley, who went
wild, yelling hysterical shrieks, straining at her binding, squirming,
wriggling.  Regardless, Blackjack went on with what he considered her
first love lesson, slowly finger-frigging her, trying to force her
over the edge.

	Just then the pimp felt the spasmodic contortions of his
captive's hips and bottom, the involuntary thrusting of her, as if her
body was begging for even closer contact with the man's busy fingers.
He knew this for the signal that her control was giving out and so
kept at her, wanting it to happen, wanting her to know that he could
make it happen for her no matter how angry he made her.  Every player
knew that the best way to make a woman the slave of the street was to
make her slave to her own body's unbridled need.

	His strokes grew regular, coming long and slow, the delicious
friction building a tidal wave of pleasure inside O'Malley's
sweetly-tortured loins, until his busy fingers became a match to her
tinder, until the excitement was too great for a human body to
constrain.  O'Malley screamed as an irrepressible orgasm swept through
her body.

	B.J. forced her to come for all she was worth, forced her to
come until she was utterly spent.  This was the moment he had been
waiting for; making a woman orgasm her brains out made her passive for
a while -- and passivity would make it easier for him to get her home.


	With a heavy sigh, Blackjack stood up and wiped his fingers on
his handkerchief.  The minx crumpled at his feet, still panting in the
afterglow of what to her had felt like an orgasmic earthquake.  Any
minute now, he knew, the elevator might start to move and while no one
would care what a strong and confident man did to a ho, it would be
better to get her presentable and usher her out of the hotel quietly.

	The pimp therefore picked up the key the black beauty had
dropped, along with her shoes and panties.  The shoes he tossed into
her lap for her to put on, but the panties he stuffed into his big
coat pockets.  This was a maneuver that pimps knew for the controlling
of inexperienced girls.  A new girl was put into a micro-mini and
then, once out in public, deprived of her panties.  It made a girl
feel at a disadvantage.  If she was worrying about how to walk and
sit, she wasn't about to think about running away.  In fact, she would
want to be taken home as soon as possible.

	Now the player put his hand behind the girl's head and pushed
it forward, making her kneel with her nose to the carpet, while he
pulled the knot out of the tie about her wrists.  Then he lifted her
to her feet and hitched her dress so that it didn't show anything
illegal.  "Straighten yourself up, Woman.  You and me are going
places."

	O'Malley was dazed and compliant.  As the elevator car began
to move again as if by its own volition, he thought she looked
presentable as the doors hissed open to the lobby.

	"You'd better watch how you walk, Chickadee," he cautioned,
wrapping an arm around her, just in case she wanted to make a break
for it despite all.  "Careful how you walk.  You're bare-assed for
now, but once we get you home you'll dress up real fine."

	The next thing O'Malley knew, they were standing at the
check-out desk.  The honey man tossed Callahan's key down in front of
the clerk, telling him, "Inform Mr. Callahan that the lady enjoyed his
hospitality but she's movin' on up.  Bye, you all."

	The thought to ask for help fluttered through O'Malley's
dazzled mind, but for some reason she felt cowed and the words
wouldn't come.  The man beside her exuded a strange kind of power,
overwhelming, suffocating -- just like Lyndon Johnson had.  Because he
didn't want her to make a scene something inside her simply wouldn't
let her make one.

	A few seconds later they were out on the hot pavement of the
hotel parking lot and Blackjack was lifting her into the bucket seat
of his pearly-white sports car.  The heat of the leather seat burned
her bare back and derriere, evoking a little cry of pain.

	B.J. sprang into the driver's seat and planted his hand on her
sweat-dampened thigh -- reassuring her, but also exerting a claim upon
her, expressing an ascendancy of his will over hers in a way that
needed no words.  It was something primeval -- jungle hunter and
captive woman on their way to the cave.  Again O'Malley thought about
shouting for a cop, but found she couldn't lift her voice with his
eyes fixed upon her.  In the next instant the car pealed out into the
traffic and turned toward a neighborhood which, although full of his
party's constituents, O'Malley had always avoided before like the very
plague. . . .

	* * * *











	Chapter 6

	Narrative of D.C. Callahan , continued


	By the time I reached my office I was feeling like a sap.  How
could a savvy dick have let the Mystery Woman off the hook without
even copping a feel?  If anyone found out I could have lost my
license!  But in a way I was relieved.  Crazy people make me nervous.

	The outer office was empty.  "Sheila?!  You still here?!" I
yelled, shutting the hall door behind me.

	Someone stirred in the back office; mystery solved.  Sheila
liked to sit at my desk and pretend that she was a big-wig.  But when
I opened the door, so help me God I couldn't avoid taking double.
Sheila was there all right -- not sitting behind the desk, but lying
on it barefooted -- her blouse half-open, her skirt unbuttoned and
showing about a mile of thigh.  

	For starters I thought I'd caught her beating the dummy, but
no, since when she looked my way she didn't act like a naughty kid
caught in the act.  Instead she flashed a smile, the kind that Peter
Pan got from the crocodile.

	"I don't know who you were expecting, Sweetheart, but it's
only me," I remarked, stepping around behind the desk and sitting
down.

	Sheila reached out for my tie to pull my face up close to
hers.

	"You've kept me waiting, bad boy!"

	I took a quick look-see for the Candid Camera.  Then, not
seeing it, I retrieved my tie out from her biscuit hook.  "What's this
about, Sheila?" I asked, worried that she was trying to set me up for
a harassment suit.

	"What do you think this is about, D.C.?  You hired me because
you liked my body.  Well, I took the job because I liked your body.
I've been hoping for six months that you'd make the first move.  A
woman just can't be a lady around you, can she?"

	I swallowed, flabbergasted.  "I don't like to be a wet
blanket, Doll, but you're not very good at body language.  You gave me
the impression that you hoped I'd step in front of a tractor-trailer."

	Her eyes went tiger.  "I always loved the way you talk.
You're so tough and you're so strong, D.C.  The fantasies I've had
about you!"

	"Yeh?  What were they?"

	I was genuinely curious, but couldn't help thinking that this
was building up to some sort of gag -- and didn't want to say anything
that wouldn't help my case if it got played back on a courtroom tape
recorder.

	"Is there anything you'd like, Handsome?  I'd do anything for
you."

	Now I had her!  "I've been hoping to hear you say that for six
months, because there's a lot of old filing you never got around to."
This sure was a day for wacky women!

	"How can you talk about filing at a time like this, D.C.?" 

	"It isn't easy, but I've been around the block."  I could be
flippant, but keeping my hands off her was hard.  "I don't know what's
gotten into you, Poundcake, but I'm not sure that this is the time or
place for beaver fever."

	"I'm sure," she said, bringing her rubies up so close I could
smell the Scope on her breath.  

	"You wouldn't mind putting that in writing, would you?" I
asked.

	"You don't believe me!" she said, letting my tie go.  "I'll
just have to show you how serious I am."  

	"Well, okay.  I'm from Missouri."  So far I hadn't said or
done anything that I wouldn't want to be video-taped, and intended to
keep it that way.

	She started taking off her clothes and suddenly I was thinking
about video tape of another kind.  Maybe that was because I suddenly
remembered that I was lawsuit-proof.  I stood up, and she seemed to
like what she saw when I did.  I bent to her kiss, my hand slipping
behind her back and tingling when they touched the bare flesh.  Her
fingers went to my tie again, this time to unknot it and toss it
aside.  Next she pounced on my shirt buttons.  They didn't have a
chance.

	I didn't know a lot about Sheila background, but it didn't
take long to form a theory that she must have done graduate work in an
old and honorable profession.  Her hands were fantastic and all of a
sudden the desk top was feeling awfully comfortable against my hip.

	Sheila Coffin's skin was warm and smooth and when kissed
tasted as sweet as melted cream.  What she was doing with her hands
was enough to drive a man utsnay.  Long before this I'd grown as hard
and tall as Mount Everest.  There's a saying that I take to heart:
"Use it or lose it" and so I took the plunge.  Sheila really moved
under me; hotter than a Mexican volcano.  I guess I was doing pretty
well by her, too, since it only took her two minutes to go up like the
Oklahoma Federal Building, even thought I'd only started to work up a
sweat.

	What a come!  I've felt lesser charges after sticking my toe
into a lamp socket.  I'm not kidding.  It was like a hot current
racing through me, stinging me from the roots of my hair to the roots
of my toenails.  This wasn't love-making; it was electrocution!

	Suddenly the lights went out.

	#

	When I started to come out of it my shoulders were aching as
if I'd been sleeping on bare boards.  On second thought I remembered
that I must have been doing just that.  

	I couldn't see anything around me, just a blur, and as far as
sound went, there was just a ringing in my ears.  As I lay back
scraping my scattered wits together I sort of remembered that I'd just
been making out with Sheila.  What was wrong?  I wasn't so old that a
horizontal tango should floor me?  Had the mink slipped me a mickey
for some reason?  No, I couldn't remember eating or drinking anything
since stepping into the office.

	Inch by inch I was coming around, recovering enough motor
control to brace my elbows on the wood and lift my head.  Then I
realized how strange I felt.  

	I felt light but as weak as a kitten.  My coordination was on
the fritz and I knew that if I tried to stand up I'd fall.  But as
airy as I felt, there was some kind of weight where there shouldn't be
anything heavier than the curly black hair on my King-Kong chest.  The
effort to rise brought on another wave of dizziness which forced me to
sink down again.  Lying on my side made my head spin a little less,
but of a sudden I thought I was hearing voices.

	Just as suddenly I felt hands on me -- big hard steak-grabbers
that turned me over and raised me up.   I opened my dim lamps to an
ugly face that somehow looked familiar.

	"What a mug!" I remarked as if I were coming off a bender, my
voice a slurred whisper.  "Don't I know you?"

	I looked again.  I sure as hell did know that puss!  I'd seen
the face in the bathroom a lot.  It was mine!  I was standing over
myself with a smarmy smirk on my kisser.  And beside "me" was Leigh
Spielman, and behind her was a great-looking redhead in a black dress
as short as it was shiny -- and it was about the shiniest dress I ever
saw.

	"Spielman?  What's the deal --" I mumbled, but clammed up when
my voice came out all wrong -- insubstantial and high-pitched.

	All these shocks together teamed up to bring me around fast.
Without really intending to, I looked down at my legs.  They were
great legs, I have to admit, but they weren't mine!  At the end of
each was a black, high-heeled shoe, and both were sheathed in seamless
nylon.  Even stranger, it was like I was looking at them over the tops
of a couple of mountains.  I tried to push the majesty of Nature out
of my line of sight.  

	Ow!  Not so rough, Callahan! 

	Still dazed, I took another look at my legs.  What was I
wearing?  A short green dress that didn't cover much more than a
dollar bill would have!  I touched my head, the one at the one on top
of my shoulders, I mean, not the one glomming down at me like a
Halloween ghost.  It didn't feel right to me -- especially the hair
that suggested that I'd been sleeping for a year or two without the
attention of a barber.

	As my sight cleared I saw that it was Leigh Spielman who now
leaned over me.  "How are you doing, Mr. Callahan?  Or should I say,
'Miss Coffin'?  

	I might be slow on the take-off, but I can win a race now and
then.  Holy Shit! I muttered, finally realizing what had happened.  It
was what that black girl had told me!  It really must have been
O'Malley!  Her story was true!  I'd been switched.  But whose body was
I switched into?  Had we ever been introduced?  

	Hold on!  Leigh had just called me "Miss Coffin."  I
remembered O'Malley saying that the aliens had switched him while he
had had sex with one of them.  She'd become the same sugar-wooga she'd
-- he'd -- been bonking!  That meant --

	My God!  Had Sheila been an alien?  Where is the Immigration
Service when you need them?  When Sheila was giving me her body, was
she really giving me her body?  Was I her?  Her?  Me a her?

	"Sheila?  I'm Sheila!?  What is this?  Give me back my classy
chassis!"

	The redhead was reaching out to pinch one of my kajoobies.  I
batted her hand away and she flashed a sneery kind of grin, like a
Cheshire cat thinking evil thoughts.  "Can't do that, Callahan.  We've
got plans for you just the way you are."

	"W-What are your plans?" I muttered, protecting my goal posts
just in case she tried another forward pass.

	"We traced Senator O'Malley to your office," the minidressed
knockout obliged.  "We needed to find out where you'd hidden her, so
we switched bodies with Sheila.  She didn't know anything, and that
forced us to switch her with you."

	"So that's it," I growled with disgust.  "You really wanted
O'Malley.  You don't care about me at all!  Well, what are you
offering?" I asked hopefully.

	She shook her gorgeous head.  "Nothing.  We already have the
information we need.  When we switch, we get all our victims'
memories."

	I sat up straight.  "All of them?"  

	Sheesh!  There were things I wouldn't want my brother to know
I'd been thinking about, much less some alien space invader.  "So you
get everything I know," I complained, "but I don't get anything from
you except this bimbo outfit.  That doesn't seem fair."

	The coppertop shook her head.  "The clothing makes you easier
to handle.  People won't get involved when they see it's just a
streetwalker being roughed up.  But you've actually gotten something
very significant from us.  The subjects we exchange with get a carbon
copy of our over-developed extraterrestrial sex-drive.  Or at least
half of it."

	"Only half?" I said, slightly relieved.  The less my head got
messed up by these characters the better.

	"In your case, the female half.  Every member of our species
carries the sex-drives of both genders, but only the appropriate one
operates in a human body at any particular time.

	I blinked, finally understanding what she was saying.  "Female
sex-drive?  No way!  You're putting me on!  I feel perfectly normal!"

	"You won't live long enough to find out now normal you are if
you give us any trouble.  The good news is that your heightened sexual
state will subside to normal on its own when you reach menopause."

	"I'm afraid to ask the bad news."

	She grinned evilly.  "The bad news is that you'll never live
long enough to reach menopause." 

	"Where's the real Sheila?" I asked gruffly.

	Red seemed to be the talkative type.  "We switched her into
the body of a skid-row wino and then bashed her head in with a brick.
We frequently use tramps and derelicts to store our mental essences
between assignments.  From there we're able to transplant them into
others as the need arises.  No one asks questions when one of the type
turns up dead."

	A shudder ran through me.  "Did you kill Spielman, too?"

	"Of course.  She was a lovely woman and we can use her body to
lure another man of power to his ruin, like O'Malley was lured, like
you were lured."

	I realized the hideous threat in their plan.  Not many men on
the Hill could resist playing deck tennis with Leigh Spielman,
especially if they put her body into something cheap and trampy,
Heaven forbid!

	"You murdering bastards!" I yelled.  I hated it when a
beautiful young fox got snuffed.  Mad killers should always wait until
a woman gets crow's feet.

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

	Another light went on inside my dazzled noggin.  "You're the
psychos behind the streetwalker murders!?"

	"Yes.  There's been just as many derelict murders, but for
obvious reasons the press never makes much of them."

	"If you're not just aping Jack the Ripper, what are you
after?"

	Red tossed her head.  "We use beauty and sex to infiltrate
your halls of power.  If one of our human tools becomes of interest to
the police, our agent transfers into a body of temporary storage -- a
skid row denizen, usually -- and dispose of the woman's body.  These
drastic measures only became necessary since the last administration
left office.  Before that, we had all the protection we needed."

	"How do you sleep at night?" I asked.

	She shrugged.  "It's all in a day's work.  On our home world
we were lowly criminals and the authorities banished us into space.
We swore to locate a new world were we would rule as absolute
tyrants."

	"So you found Earth," I surmised.  "Why the rough stuff?  Why
not just apply for a green card?  You don't even need one.  If you let
on you vote Democrat you get the fast-track naturalization treatment."

	"We don't want to be citizens, but rulers.  It is your
peoples' endemic corruption that induced us to stay and rule.  Our
race is driven by all the same motives -- a craving for wealth, power,
and sex -- only more so."

	"Have you taken over Hollywood, too?" I asked suspiciously.

	She snorted derisively.  "Your people have yourselves to blame
for Hollywood."

	Little by little, I was getting the big picture.  "If you've
been stealing politicians' bodies and running for office yourselves,
no wonder the choices on the ballot have been so lousy!"

	"You don't know what lousy is yet," she remarked.  "The two
bums are out back in your building's dumpster.  We've planted evidence
on them to link you to their deaths.  You'll get the blame and your
reputation will be dragged through the mud -- but by the time we're
through with you that will be the least of your problems."

	"Wait a minute, you creeps! I've worked hard on my rep!"  

	They grabbed me, rolled me over on my cushions and put nippers
on my wrists behind my back.  

	A lot of things were running through my mind just then, but
most of all I was thinking that they weren't up to snuff on the Emily
Post way to treat a lady!

	* * * *











	Chapter 7

	The General Narrative , continued


	Blackjack led, half-dragged, O'Malley from the parking
basement up to his flat.  "This is gonna be your home for quite some
time, so don't you be giving me any trouble, gal," he told her as he
locked special lock on his door; it needed a key to be opened from the
inside.  This wasn't the first time he had brought an unwilling girl
up to his pad for a prolonged stay.

	O'Malley, wobbly-kneed and overwrought, got the kaleidoscopic
impression of a big room full of flashy decoration and expensive but
ill-assorted furniture.  Before the girl entirely regained her
equilibrium she had stumbled backwards over a beanbag chair and fell
to the carpet with a startled cry but no real pain.

	Two young women scurried into the front room just then.  One
was short, about O'Malley's own stature, and honey-blond; the other
was taller and had more of a fashion-model physique along with Latin
coloration; she also looked to be the more intelligent of the two.

	"Gina, my sweet, Evelyn," B.J. was saying, "this is your new
wife-in-law --"  He stopped when he realized that he didn't know
O'Malley's name.  "What do they call you, Sweet Thing?"

	"Go to hell!" the black girl shouted up from the floor.

	"Okay, have it your way," Blackjack said with a shrug.  "From
now on your street name is going to be 'Ginger Spice.'  Like it?"

	"I'll Ginjuh Spice yuh, yuh prick!" she yelled as she got to
her knees.

	"She's got spice, that's for sure," the Latina observed
without smiling.

	"But she's pretty, B.J.," Gina put in, sounding a little
worried, as if she thought that she had a serious new rival.

	"You always like them sassy, don't you, Blackjack," said
Evelyn.  "I know how you're going to be spending this weekend.  You'd
better watch the excitement, though.  Remember what the doctors said
about your ticker."

	"Hey, if I have to cut back on living well I might as well be
composted!" the black man scoffed.  "...Say now, gals, Ginger and me
have to do some man-to-woman negotiating.  Why aren't you two out on
the street where the money is?!"

	Evelyn's eyes flashed with what looked like indignation, but
the fire quickly subsided.  She only shrugged and said, "We were just
going, B.J."

	He unlocked the door for them.  "Well, then get a move on!"

	The two young women snatched up what they needed and one
followed the other out.  Blackjack shut the door behind them and
relocked it for Ginger's benefit.

	To his guest he said, "Tonight we'll get acquainted."

	Ginger Spice O'Malley clambered to her bare feet, intimidated
but furious nonetheless.  "You caan't keep me heuh!  This is the era
of Civil Rights!"

	B.J. shook his head and sauntered over to a bar where he
poured something from a crystal decanter into a pair of glasses.  He
brought the latter back to the girl and offered her one.  "Drink up,
girlie.  It'll calm you down and pick you up."

	This was the first offer from Blackjack that she'd welcomed.
If there was one thing that Ted O'Malley liked it was liquor.  He
liked it so much that sometimes it taxed the good  will of the
friendly Beltway press corps to keep his disgraceful inebriated antics
out of the newspapers. God bless the Washington Post she thought as
she took the proffered vessel and slurped it down quickly.  

	The heavy port calmed the anxiety-ridden captive somewhat, but
allowed her to feel the returning sexual craving that the physical
excitement had suppressed.

	Think O'Malley, think, she admonished herself.  What were her
options?  She couldn't imagine starting a new life in the body of
"Ginger Spice."  Ginger had no money, no connections, no access into
the halls of power.  And power was the spice of life itself to Ted
O'Malley.

	Her head whirled, partly from the strong drink, but mostly
from the imponderables of her fate.

	"Feeling better now," Blackjack asked, trying to sound
solicitous when all he felt was lust.

	"I'm hungry!" the girl declaimed like an ill-mannered child.
Ginger hadn't eaten since she been Ted the night before.  Until now it
hadn't mattered since she'd been too worked up to feel hunger, but by
now it was making her weak and faint.

	"We'll chow down soon," the dude promised her.  "But around
here a gal has to earn her supper."

	She swung indignantly his way.  Ted O'Malley hadn't done an
honest day's work in his life and didn't intend to start now.  "What
are yuh talking about?"

	"You need a shower, and I need one, too.  As they say, save
water, shower with a honey."

	"Taake a flying leap!" she advised him.

	"Baby, you do try a patient man," B.J. opined with a shake of
his head.  "No more shit!  I'm the man and you're the woman.  I give
the orders and you obey them!  That's what God intended!  Didn't he
say, 'love, honor, and obey?!'"

	"I maake my own rules," she proclaimed fiercely, her hands on
her hips. 

	"Not anymore!  In my pad you do what you're told," he
returned.  "Now, I want to see you get naked, then we'll take that
shower."

	She backed away, lifting the empty glass to threaten him.

	"You break that glass and I'll burn your ass!"

	Maybe it was the port that had made Ginger reckless, but for
whatever reason she threw the vessel directly at his head.  He dodged
nimbly and sprang toward her.  The girl avoided his first grab and
dodged about the room with her host in wild pursuit.  She toppled
furniture in his way to trip him up, breaking things in the process,
but her efforts only made him the madder.  Finally she made a dash for
the exit and tried to open it.

	"Yiii!" she cried as his strong arms locked around her.  

	The muscular pimp dragged his beautiful prize, kicking and
clawing, into his bedroom, where he threw her across the comforter.
He pinned her shoulders to the silky fabric and then transferred his
weight to his knees, to leave his hands free to pull her dress down,
as he had in the elevator.

	"You bastard!" Ginger yowled, but Blackjack kept tugging until
he got it over the swell of her small, round hips, and then swiftly
dragged it down over her legs and off her feet.

	Then he stood back, tossed the musky rag against the wall and
surveyed his latest trophy.

	O'Malley put one hand over her pelt, and the other over her
bee bites.

	"You are so incredible," B.J. was saying.  "You make those
other two look like alley cats."

	When he was finished she was absolutely naked.  Ginger's
liquor-dulled mind roiled.  That miserable hooker dress hadn't been
much, but without it she couldn't even go out into the street.

	Blackjack had just stripped off his jacket by now and settled
himself beside his unwilling guest.  He clasped her hands and drew
them away from her breasts.

	"What miracles God hath wrought," he whispered kissing the
little jutting cylinders that crowned them.  Ginger tried to roll
away, but he seized her shoulders and held her fast.

	"Chill out, Baby Doll," he advised her with a strained voice.
"If you won't make nice-nice, I'll give you that ass-burning I
promised you."

	"All r-right, all r-right," Ginger stammered, trying to smile.
"I'll be good.  Just be nice to me."

	Now she was asking for favors instead of demanding them.
Blackjack guessed that he might finally be getting through to her.
"Oh, I'll be nice," he said.  "Just ask anyone; they'll tell you
there's no sweet man sweeter than old B.J. in W.D.C."  He let go of
her to test if she really had begun to see reason.

	The second she was unconstrained Ginger leaped to seize the
brass lamp to bash him with, but Blackjack sprang out the way,
receiving just a bruise on his shoulder.  His temper flaring, he swung
his leg out and knocked her against the headboard.  Then he grabbed
her arm and pulled her against him.  When she was helpless, he started
talking into her face, their lips almost close enough to touch.  "You
shouldn't have done that!" he told her with frightening sincerity.

	"Go to hell!  I'm no whore!" she fired back.

	"A ho is exactly what you are, Ginger Baby, an' it's time you
started to learn what being a ho means."

	He dropped to a sitting position and threw the naked beauty
across his lap, twisting her arm behind her back to control her.  He
then took a large metal hairbrush from the nightstand.

	"You won't be sitting down for a while, Sweet Cheeks, but
you'll be a much better woman when your ass stops burning!"  He lifted
the flat backside of the brush high, then let it collide with the
girl's backside with great force.

	"Yeow!" O'Malley cried as the brass touched her like a lick of
flame.  "Don't!  This is assault!  I'll get even!"

	Whack!  The brush fell again, forcing another cry from
Ginger's lungs, but she ceased to threaten him.  

	Whack!

	Whack!

	Whack!

	Whack!

	Ginger was yelling incoherently with pain while her bottom
bounced marvelously upon Blackjack's lap.  He disregarded the girl's
shrikes and, with cruel deliberation, aimed sometimes at one luscious
cheek, and than at the other, then across them both, giving special
attention to the spots that evoked the loudest cries.  

	For all the frustrations she had given him, her yells were
music to the pimps's ears, while the agitated plunging of her hips and
buttocks enthralled his eyes.  But soon, all too soon, her breath
began to fail her, her buttocks ceased to leap very high, and her
shrieks degenerated into inarticulate ejaculations.  His arm wasn't
tired yet but there seemed little pleasure to be had in continuing her
punishment.  So, most reluctantly, he ceased.
	
	In the aftermath Ginger lay moaning across his lap, her cheek
pressed to the comforter, her nose running, her lips wet with spittle.
Her eyes were aflame with the tears of pain and humiliation and her
breath came in forlorn little pulls.  

	Yet the punishment had brought back memories.  Ted's father
Sean had been a brutal man, a lout born in the Dublin slums who had
left Ireland one jump ahead of the law before he came to America.  He
rose high in the new land, but had always intended that his sons to
rise even higher.  They were both wild, pleasure-loving louts and he
had to beat the hell out of them when they didn't do things his way.
Ted would have liked to have been an idle playboy like his idol Hugh
Hefner, but, by the time he had become a Senator, he had realized that
father knew best.  Something about B.J. reminded Ginger of her father
-- a man you didn't talk back to, a man who you didn't do anything to
-- except listen to and revere.

	Blackjack dumped her on the floor then stood up and unzipped
his pants, saying, "Get up, Love Blossom.  Time for that shower I
promised you.  B.J. always keeps his promises."

	* * * *











	Chapter 8

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued


	It's kind of humiliating to ride one's last mile in a Ford
Taurus, but that's fate.   At least our progress to the End of the
Line was agreeably slow in the midst of the rush-hour traffic.  There
had been a forth alien waiting in the car acting as driver when we got
there.  He was another one of those down-and-out slum guys with a gray
beard and a shabby suit coat.  The Leigh-alien sat beside him in the
front passenger's seat, while the alien redhead and the alien me
pinned me in Sheila's body between them in the back seat.  

	"You guys are toast!" I told them.  "When the feds find out
what you're up to, the president is going to treat you like Saddam
Hussein!"

	The phoney Callahan frowned.  "Okay, so we have to go easy
until the next election.  Last year we could have taken you direct to
the justice department and let our buddies there make you disappear."

	This allegation shocked me.  "What?  You mean to tell me that
the attorney general and her top people were all aliens?"

	"Of course.  Didn't you ever suspect?"

	"Well, now that you mention it . . ." I replied.  Say, who
else have you got on your team?"
	
	"Have you seen the political endorsement list put out by the
AFL-CIO?" the driver bragged.

	"How come you don't let Republicans into your club?" I
demanded.

	Red shrugged.  "It's hard to nail them.  The GOP isn't kidding
about that family-values stuff.  What's worse, any Republican who
indulges in sex, greed, or power-tripping is going to be shot down by
the media or the feminists.  That's how we lost Bob Packwood and Dave
Durenberger."

	"Who runs your operation?  Fearless Leader?"

	"The most brilliant minds in the galaxy," Red volunteered.
"They're called the Committee."

	That made me feel better.  If this invasion was being run by a
committee, it didn't stand a virgin's chance in the Oval Office.  "I
read Black Camelot," I said.  "Was Kennedy an alien, too?"  

	"...'S'matter, Sheila," the redhead teased, "getting
paranoid?"

	"You can call me late to pay the rent, but don't ever call me
Sheila!" I snarled.  The problem was that Sheila's angel voice doesn't
snarl so well.  Maybe that was the reason that all those snide and
nasty things she'd said to Martin and me during the last few months
never sounded all that bad.

	I rested glumly back in the seat, too dejected to keep pumping
my captors for information.  But resting quietly wasn't such a good
idea because I suddenly felt randier than I ever had during my whole
life, or at least that part of my life that had passed since Sheila
had shucked her togs on my desk top a couple hours earlier.

	"You're starting to squirm, Callahan," the mug with my mug
pointed out with a snigger.  Are you starting to feel sexy?"  The
phoney Callahan put his hand just above my knee and from there started
heading for Jersey City.

	"Cut that out!" I shouted.  "I'm not that kind of a girl!"

	"Touchy, touchy," he said, grinning.

	"And get this, Curly Joe," I added, "your lingo, like
everything else about you, is a bad imitation of the real thing!  You
can take my body, but when you try to talk the way a real man talks it
makes me -- I mean, it makes you -- come off like a donkey!"

	The ersatz Callahan snorted, and it wasn't one of those
friendly, good-natured snorts, either.  "The lingo goes with the
territory," he said.  "Our race survived the evolutionary brickbat by
becoming perfect impostors.  Speech habits are part of it.  Maybe now
you know how dumb you sound to other people."

	All four laughed scornfully in chorus.  I guess aliens have an
off-base sense of humor -- and that's another reason why I don't like
them.

	"I can be a riot.  You ought to keep me around for a while," I
suggested hopefully.

	Red shook her head.  "Don't worry about that.  We actually
don't intend to kill you, at least not immediately."

	I kind of liked the sound of that, but if it meant spending
days or weeks modjitating with these four wrong numbers, I wasn't sure
that a quick end might not be better.  "You told O'Malley that you
were going to kill her -- him."

	"We were, but not immediately.  We were just teasing her to
see how scared she'd get."

	"She was pretty scared," I said.  "Did you have to clean the
seat covers afterwards?"

	My toilet humor started them all yucking again.  Usually I
like people who enjoy their work, but not these hyenas.  

	Suddenly I glimmed a reflected glare between a couple
buildings and knew we'd were close to the Potomac River.  The derelict
was steering the Ford into a small parking lot behind a padlocked
factory.

	"End of the road, bimbo," the driver informed his rear-view
mirror as he stopped.

	I don't think I've ever gotten through rush-hour traffic
faster.

	#

	When the aliens yanked me out of the car I was keyed up to
make a break for it, but as soon as my spike heels touched the
pavement it was all I could do to keep from falling on my prat.
Nobody can put on shoes like those and hit the ground running, but
making a virtue of necessity, I acted like I was even worse off than I
was to put my escort off-guard.  When Callahan turned my way to drag
me along, I kicked him in the crotch and head-butted him against the
Leigh and Redhead alien.  His weight knocked the phony Spielman on her
duff and caused enough disruption to let me kick off those damned
shoes and started hoofing it!
 
	I also started yelling at the top of my lungs:  "Help!
Anybody!  Murder!"  I hadn't seen a murder yet, but if I started
yelling "sex change" I doubt that anyone would have realized how
serious the situation actually was.

	I tossed a look-see over my bare shoulder and saw the
redhead-alien gaining on me, while the others catching up to her fast
-- though the one wearing my skin was still bent over like a
chimpanzee.  

	Suddenly it dawned on me what a dumb thing I'd done.  I wanted
to get back into that body as soon as I could and here I had risked
damaging a vital piece of unwarrantied equipment!

	I didn't have much time to contemplate a life of appalling
chastity at the moment because the redhead was breathing down my neck,
trying to grab my arm.  Since my skin was slippery with perspiration I
managed to shuck her off the first time, but couldn't turn and fight
against four, especially not with my hands cuffed.

	"Let go of that woman, you creeps!" someone bellowed out of
nowhere.  The yell seemed to have come from a shadowy alley nearby,
but with the sun shining off the windows on either side of it I
couldn't see who was there.

	"Look out!" I shouted.  "They're dangerous!"  Then I got a
brainstorm and yelled:  "Shoot them officers!  Shoot!"  

	It was a bluff, but I remembered the way these guys had run
from the law in O'Malley's story, and so I guessed that the were
allergic to brass worn on blue cloth.

	And it seemed that I'd read their program exactly right!  The
aliens loped back to their car faster than greyhounds and gunned it
back into the street, not sparing the speedometer until they were out
of sight, if not out of mind.  Those were not exactly the sort of
people who were easy to forget.

	The man who had shouted now stepped out of the shadows and to
my surprise he really was packing a roscoe.  To my bigger surprise, he
was my partner Martin Dewitt!  Talk about balm for dusty eyes!

	"Are you all right, Miss --?" he asked, jogging up to join me.

	Miss?  His words warned me just in time!  Martin wouldn't know
me from Adam.  I mean, he wouldn't know me from Sheila.  What could I
say?  I wasn't sure that I wanted my best buddy to know what an awful
thing had happened to me.  If he knew I'd turned into a girl how could
he respect me?  It was better to pretend to be Sheila for a while,
until I could get the lug who'd stolen my body and let his horny
disposition solve the problem for me.

	"Sheila!" Martin exclaimed, finally recognizing me.

	"Thank God you showed up, Martin!" I babbled.  "You save my
life -- or maybe my virtue; I don't know which.  They dressed me up
like this and were going to make me look like another one of those
murdered hookers."  

	"That explains that wild dress," he said with a twisted grin.
"But am I seeing things!  Just before they got in the car I saw that
one of them looked like Ms Spielman, and another was a ringer for
Callahan!"

	I shook my head -- Sheila's head -- wildly.  "No, Martin,
you've got it all wrong!  What O'Malley said is true.  Those were the
aliens!  They got the drop on D.C., and Spielman from next door!
They've got aliens in their heads and they're crazy killers from outer
space now!" 

	That new really rocked Martin.  "Wait a minute, Sheila.  Are
you saying that that bimbo actually was O'Malley, and now they stole
Callahan's body, too?!

	"Something like that!" I nodded frantically.  "They wanted to
find out where he stashed O'Malley.  So they tricked Callahan and
switched his mind with, uh --"

	"Oh, no!  You don't mean they switched him with a hooker?
Where is he now?"

	I clammed up.  Dewitt was a smart guy; too smart by half.  I
didn't want him to go looking for Callahan in a hooker's body, or have
to tell him that I'd died in the disgraceful shape of the same, so I
bunked.  "Of course not!  Callahan is dead, Martin, but he died like a
man. ...They switched him into some flea-bitten old wino's body and
bashed his head in with a brick.  They put his body into the dumpster
behind our building!"  

	"Dead?"  Martin looked astonished, his brows bunched in a
puzzled frown.  "A male wino?  I thought you had to have sex to make
the switch."

	Drat!  I'd forgotten that little detail.  By trying to save my
rep as a man's man I'd put it into even greater jeopardy.  "Do you
believe everything a politician tells you, Martin?"  

	"You mean --?"

	If ever there was a time for a fast switcheroo where a subject
was concerned, this was it.  "What are you doing here?"

	He slicked back his sweat-soaked forelock, still looking
plenty shocked.  "Just lucky, I guess.  The warehouse was empty, but
it looked recently abandoned.  That made me think that somebody was
pretty damned scared of something, and so I asked some questions down
at the courthouse about Rex Company and got some answers that stunk.
Rex Company was just a dummy shell owned by another phoney outfit, one
that owned this shut-down factory here.  So I decided to check it out.
Now I suppose the aliens will abandon this place, too."

	"You were right about luck!  If I wrote this rescue into a
into a work of fiction no one would ever believe it!"

	"You write fiction?" he asked, mildly surprised.

	Another slip!  It was Callahan who wrote fiction, not Sheila.
"Sure!" I bluffed.  "Didn't I ever mention it?  Well, maybe not.  We
never really had the chance to talk about our hobbies."

	"I've always wanted to get to know you, but you kept telling
me to take a hike."

	Yes, that was true.  Sheila had been an obnoxious snob.  How
could I explain her snooty behavior without making myself look bad?
"Well, uh, I'm shy," I explained, "but I've been trying to beat it
lately."

	He smiled painfully, like he couldn't forget that his best
friend had just kicked off.  "You sure don't look shy wearing that
streetwalker rig.  It looks great on -- uh, no, excuse me, I didn't
meant that!"

	I'd been too flustered up to that point to think about the way
I was dressed.  I glanced down at myself.  How was I ever going to sit
down wearing what I was wearing?  Worse, I'd always looked sickly in
green.  

	"Damn!" Dewitt swore as he came out of his initial shock.  "If
those bastards murdered my partner they're dead meat!"	

	"I'm with you all the way, Martin, but won't be easy to go up
against those turkeys!  D.C.'s body is still running around, trying to
kill O'Malley.  He'll be heading for m' -- for D.C.'s apartment."

	"So that's where she -- he -- is?"

	"It's a long story, Martin!"  I said, dashing away to get my
shoes.  The gravel hurt my feet and I needed footgear, even though I
hadn't had much luck walking in those foot-killing pumps previously.
"Where's your Honda parked?  We've got to head them off."

	"Wait a minute, Sheila," he said.  "This business is too
dangerous for a woman --"

	"Stuff it, Martin!"

	* * * *











	Chapter 9

	The General Narrative , continued


	Taking a shower with a black Adonis like B.J. Waters was
exactly the wrong prescription for Ginger Spice's aliment.  The way he
swirled his hands over her naked body, spreading the suds, excited all
her erogenous zones at once, set her whole nervous system quaking.  

	Seeing her reaction, the Tarzan-proportioned pimp put an arm
behind her back and drew her up close, kissing her as passionately as
he had in the elevator.

	"No!" Ginger had cried and shoved him back; he lost his
footing and slipped down along the slick wall to land on his bumpus.
The nude girl took his moment of discomfiture to open the shower door
open and make a dash for it, sopping water across the bathroom floor.

	"Oh, shit!  That mixed up broad!" Blackjack swore as he got up
and rubbed his bruised pelvis.  As irate as he was the pimp used no
unseemly haste, not being too worried that Ginger Spice would go far.
There was the locked door, of course, and the mere fact that they were
four stories up without a fire escape.  Moreover, she'd have to dress
before she went outside and that would slow her down considerably.  

	No, his new girl wouldn't get away, but he had had just about
enough of her inconsistency, the way she blew hot and cold --
sometimes doing both at the same time.  She had to know who was
wearing the pants.  He could be as tough as he needed to be when
breaking in a new girl; he had proven that with Evelyn.  But after
seeing how easily excited she could be in the elevator he had hoped to
turn her out by gentling her along, like he had eased Gina into the
life with effusive loving.  Evelyn had been different, of course, the
spoiled kid of a couple of Latinos who had made good in the restaurant
business.  She had run away from home to get away from discipline and
he'd found her hanging around the bus station panhandling candy bar
money.  In a month he had the once-stuck-up rich girl selling ass on
street corners and turning every penney she earned over to him.

	Both Gina and Evelyn were good wives now, but with the right
attitude Ginger could take in more than either of them.  He wasn't
going to lose her, no matter what.  He would ride Ginger hard using
spurs until she was willing to play taxi to any customer with a
C-note.

	B.J. dried himself, then pulled on his boxer shorts and went
looking for Ginger.  He didn't have far to go.  O'Malley had realized
that there was no place to run and hadn't even tried to dress herself.
She was just sitting in a wet spot on the settee.  He tossed his towel
at her face.

	"You're wrecking the furniture.  Do you know how much ass
you'll have to sell to replace that upholstery?"

	Ginger clutched the towel to her cold, water-beaded breasts
and looked confused.  Blackjack Waters had a knack for reading people
and confusion was okay with him.  Women who knew their own mind were
nothing but trouble.  If they had messed-up heads, or if he could mess
them up a little, he could then give them a direction of his choosing,
a purpose of his personal design.  He'd done that for plenty of ditsy
hos-to-be before.  

	With that thought in mind, he pulled her to her feet by the
hair.  It was time to lay down the law.

	"Ow!" she cried out and, suddenly defiant again, clawed at his
face.  O'Malley was now willing to scratch, having figured out that
her punches were no good.  B.J. caught her wrists, turned her around,
and locked her in a close hug.

	"I told you not to ruin the furniture!  I told you not to
fight.  You don't seem to understand the situation, gal.  We have to
have a contract, so lemme lay it out for you.  All you have to say is
that I'm your sweet man, and we're have a street marriage.  Then
you'll belong to me and I'll take care of you real fine.  You'll love,
honor, and obey me, and give you all the cherishing a woman like you
needs.  You'll get room and board and some pretty things now and then.
I bet our your old man never did that much for you, did he?"

	The very intensity of her desire to be touched sexually
powered her show of defiance.  "You're a two-bit flesh-peddler who
belongs in lock-up!  All I want is something to wear, then I'm out of
here!"  O'Malley only had a vague idea that once she was free she
would apply for welfare.  She was absolutely determined never to work
for a living!  

	For an answer Blackjack grabbed her and flung her over his
hard, bare shoulder.  As the ex-Senator kicked and yelled like a
cavewoman being carried off to a captor's cave, the pimp toted her
into a store room that opened off the kitchen.

	The mackman dumped her down against a thick pipe set into a
corner and then, before she guessed what he intended, he snapped a
restraining cuff around her left wrist.  Belatedly realizing her
danger, Ginger struck at him wildly, but he captured her free arm and
in an instant had her right wrist fettered as securely as the left to
the pipe.

	"Let me go, you son of a bitch!" she yelled, gorgeous in her
struggling, wild-eyed she-beast nakedness.

	"I wanted to be nice, Sugah, but you kept insulting my
hospitality.  I'm not letting you loose until you tell me that I'm
your sweet man.  That'll be a marriage in a country where there ain't
no divorce.  You'll be part of the family business after that.  You'll
finally belong to somebody and you'll never be alone again."

	She found breath enough to say, "Go soak your head!"

	"Maybe you are a lawyer," he ventured with a shake of his
head.  "You're as uppity as any lawyer.  But that's okay 'cause I've
got ways to cure uppitiness in a woman!"

	Now he went to a cabinet and plucked something out of a small
drawer.  At first it looked to Ginger like a chain necklace.  Only
when he brought it closer could she make out what it was -- a supple
chain with something like an allegator clip affixed to either end.

	"This will concentrate your mind," he promised, putting the
nipple clips in place.  Ginger's jaw dropped when she felt the pain of
them.  They hurt, not much at first admittedly, but O'Malley had read
enough dirty magazines to know that they were a torture device; the
longer they were worn, the more they would hurt.

	"Take these things off me, you bastard!" the black girl
yelled, thrashing her torso right and left as if she could shake them
loose.

	"Am I your sweet man?" he asked, his voice like rippling silk.

	"No!"

	"Then you'll just stay here and get acquainted with your new
friends.  They like your titties as much as I do."

	#

	The determined street shark decided the time was right to
fetch his boom box, the one with continuous play, and into it he
shoved a tape that all the pimps had been sharing passing around
lately.  It was an hour tape with the same song repeating, the
underground novelty ditty, "I'm a Ho."  But this was a special version
of the recording, altered by an audio tech who put subliminal messages
into it.  According to the story, the tech had gotten tired of
supporting his pretty-but-lazy wife and her snooty, freeloading
friends who were always hanging around the apartment dissing men.
Thanks to the tape he played for them, the girlfriends underwent his
special brand of subliminal education and soon got too busy to hang
around the apartment.  His own marriage improved considerably with his
wife's changed attitude toward men and sex.

	When B.J. returned to the storage room with his box, Ginger
looked feverish askance at him, but she refused to beg and he wasn't
there to release her.  He only placed the tape-player on a box and
turned the loud music on:

I wear five-inch stilettoes and my hem's up to here;
I'm a wild working woman and my lovin' comes dear.
I walk just like Monroe, I 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 -- all the Scriptures say so,
'Twas the Devil who made Evie the very first ho!

Eve's a ho
Ho-ho-ho
Eve's a ho
Ho-ho-ho!
 
Some say I'm tacky, that I wallow in sleaze,
But I'm earning a living and I do it with ease.
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!

Don't need a guru who can lead me to grace;
All I want is a sweet man to keep me in my place.
I know Man's the master and I'm willing to please;
Don't think that I'm begging 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 dough,
But I'm glad that he does it and want you to know
He's my hard-lovin' daddy, that he's all that 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 business women wearing black clothes and gray,
They'll never be happy if they have their own way.
This one chick's called Murphy, the other Ally
-- 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 is a glass ceiling, then I've strutted right through;
There's no feminazi who can match what I do.
Don't want their attention and don't want to be pals;
Steniem sure is 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 went back into the living room and punched the power
button on his remote control.  The TV went on, but at first he didn't
even notice what the program was.  Nipple clamps were a good way to
start breaking in a stubborn gal, he was thinking.  Even Evelyn, who
had fought him longer than any other woman he'd ever turned out, had
started yelling her head off after just a couple hours of wear.  

	He listlessly surfed the dial until he found BET.

	It was only a few minutes later when he heard a knock on the
door.  Always suspicious of cops serving warrants, B.J. went to the
peep-lens and peered out into the hall.  He relaxed at the sight of a
beautiful face on the other side.  

	He unlocked the door and drew it open to a redhead who smiled
at him.  He smiled back, liking the way she filled her black lycra
dress.  This whistle bait, whoever she was, had "working girl" written
all over her.

	"What can I do for you, Darlin'?" he asked.

	"Are you Blackjack Waters?" she inquired with a professional
smile, her eyes smoldering under their heavy mascara.

	"That's me," the big man admitted.  "Excuse me, but you don't
look like you've come selling Field and Stream subscriptions."

	"I'm not, but I've got plenty to sell.  May I come in?"

	He stood aside compliantly.  "Welcome to my parlor."

	She breezed past him with the confidence of a woman who knew
the ropes.  Blackjack shut the door behind him and locked it again.

	"My oh my," the redhead remarked with a quirky grin, "is that
lock for me?"

	"No, Honey, it's for somebody else."

	She smiled knowingly.  "Breaking in a new girl?"

	"I might be, but that's my business.  You're here to talk
about your business, ain't you."  He flipped his fingers in the
direction of the settee.  "Take a load off, Pretty Woman."

	She sat down and crossed her legs.  B.J.'s heartbeat speeded,
they were that good a pair.  

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

	"How's the Snow Man doin'?" Blackjack asked distractedly,
taking in the breathtaking cleavage her neckline revealed.  His mouth
felt dry; after being frustrated by Ginger Spice, he wanted this woman
baaaad.

	"He's on top of things.  He's doing so well, in fact, that he
gave me your address instead of taking me in himself.  He said that
you were down to just a couple girls, but looked like you were about
to make a comeback."

	"Snow Man's got a big mouth." B.J. replied irritably; he
didn't want the street to know him for a charity case, especially
women whom he wanted to dazzle.  "Anyway, the Snow has got it wrong.
I've got three girls now."

	"I didn't mean to give offense."

	He subdued his scowl.  "I'll tell you when you give offense,
chickadee.  ...So, you need a sweet man?  Is that why you came looking
for me?"

	She nodded wistfully.  "My man back in New York won a long
vacation on the state's tab.  The other mackmen up there are all
running scared since Giuliani got on their backs.  And, anyway, I've
gotten tired of cold climates.  People say that all the gentleman
players do their thing down in W.D.C.  They probable mean the
politicians, but I thought I'd check the men out anyway."

	Blackjack shrugged.  "There's still a few of us good ones
left."

	The visitor sat back, quite relaxed and still smiling.  "I
can't help but notice the way you're staring at me.  Do you like what
you see?"

	"Honey, I liked what I saw before I opened the door.  But you
can't judge a book by its cover, if you know what I mean." 

	"I know what you mean."  She looked around the room.  "Where
would you like to do it?"

	"I've got a king-sized bed to fit a king-sized man!"

	She smiled and stood up.  "Then let's say we inspect the
merchandise."

	* * * *











	Chapter 10

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan , continued


	Martin and me burned rubber all the way back to my hotel,
whereupon I raced from the parking lot to the check-in desk.  Or, more
precisely, I wobbled to the check-in desk precariously-balanced in
those damned hooker shoes.  The old man behind the counter, Fred, gave
me the fish eye.  I guess it was the way I was dressed; and it didn't
help any that I was still wearing handcuffs.

	"Did J.D. Callahan come in yet?" I asked, ignoring his
insulting glim.

	"He came in with two ladies and went right back out again.
You just missed him."

	"Did the same three leave -- and only three?"

	"Yes."

	Martin finally caught up to me.  "Are we too late?" he asked,
winded.

	"I don't know," I replied.  "It sounds like they missed
O'Malley somehow.  Anyway, he says the same three just came in and
went back out after checking upstairs."

	"Could O'Malley be a black girl in a red dress?" Fred asked.

	I turned a hundred and eighty.  "Do you know where she is?"

	"I have to keep the guests confidences," he confided smugly.
That meant the chiseler was hooking for a bribe.

	"She wasn't your guest.  She was Mr. Callahan's," I reminded
him.

	He began sorting the mail.

	"Give him a fin," I told Martin.

	"A fin?  What am I going to eat on tonight?  ...Oh, all
right."  He put his endangered species of cabbage on the counter.

	The clerk stuffed the bill into his shirt pocket.  "She went
out two hours ago, in fact, she left only a few minutes after Mr.
Callahan brought her here.  She was accompanied by a gentleman
well-known in the neighborhood.  B.J. Waters."

	"Blackjack Waters, the pimp?" asked Martin.

	The old man sniffed.  "He never mentioned his occupation and I
don't put much store in gossip."

	"Did Callahan say anything to you before he left a few minutes
ago?" I inquired.

	"He asked me what you're asking me -- where the black girl
went."

	"And you told him?"

	"Of course.  She was his guest."

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

	"Sorry, no," said the clerk.  "The red-haired woman did
mention to Mr. Callahan that she knew someone who'd know where to
locate him."

	"What do we do now?" I asked Martin.

	"Check the phone book?" he suggested with a shrug.

	"Martin, you're a detective's detective!" I said, wanting to
slap him on the shruggers but finding myself unable to do so.  We've
got to get these off," I said, sticking out my cuffed wrists, "if I'm
going to be of any use in a fire fight!"

	"A fire fight?  Are nuts, Sheila?!  We've got to find you a
safe place while I got out looking for those mugs.  You're in a lot of
danger; for all you know the creeps might come back to finish the job
they started on you, like they came for O'Malley."

	"What do you think I am?  A China doll?!  Let me at those
bastards and watch the fur fly!"

	He was digging in his heels, but I knew how to talk to Martin
when he got stubborn.  "It's something I've got to do.  I didn't treat
D.C. right when we were lucky enough to have him around.  
This is my last chance to win one for the Gipper!"

	"Sheila. . . ."

	"Come on, Martin!  What does it matter if I put it on the
line?  You don't even like me."

	"I didn't," he admitted stumblingly, "but I'm not sure about
that anymore."

	"Then we have to get these cuffs off," I repeated.  "They're
D.C.'s; he keeps spare keys up in his room."

	I glanced toward the shakedown artist behind the desk.  "Give
me the keys to 314."

	"I can't do that without Mr. Callahan's permission," he
informed me.

	"I'm --"  I caught myself before making a fatal slip.  "I'm
Mr. Callahan's personal secretary," I concluded.

	He shot me another "no-go" look.

	"I know what you're thinking," I said, my cheeks feeling hot.
"But I'm disguised for an undercover surveillance assignment.  Anyway,
you sure as hell know Mr. Dewitt here.  He's Mr. Callahan's partner."

	The clerk nodded coolly toward Martin.  "I'd like to help,
Sir, but it would still be highly unusual."

	"Martin, do you have another fiver?" I asked.

	"No, just chump change."

	"How much?"

	He shook about a dollar and a quarter out his coin purse.  The
clerk appeared unimpressed.  It was up to me, I knew.

	I leaned closer and whispered:  "I know what you've been
looking at from the minute I stepped in here.  If you let us have the
key for a few minutes you can do more than just look at them."

	"Sheila!" Martin exclaimed.

	"Pipe down, Dewitt!  This is business."

	So me and the old goat went off to the phone alcove where he
copped a feel when no one was looking.  I thought I'd hate it, but the
groping punched the turbo button on my alien-enhanced libido.  What a
disaster!  If a gaffer like him could turn me on with a double-handed
pinch I was in very deep doggy-do!

	#
	
	Up in my room we confirmed that either O'Malley had either
never gotten that far, or hadn't been there long enough even to
wrinkle the bed.  There was a little disorder, but that could easily
have been from the courtesy of the three rhinoceroses that we'd raced
from the factory unsuccessfully.  

	But as long as we were here I had things to do.  First I
pretended to search randomly for my handcuff keys before I "luckily"
found them in two shakes.  I let Martin spring me, since a Houdini I'm
not.  Then I thumbed through the white pages looking for the listings
of Waters families.  None of them were a Benjamin John.  It figured.
An outlaw like B.J. would probably arrange for an unlisted number.  

	Martin was reading over my shoulder, his breathing sounding
slow and deep, like he was smelling a lilac bush.  I decided to get
his mind off the shape of my shoulders.  "There's a pack of beef jerky
in the fridge," I said.

	He looked askance.  "How did you know that?"

	When would I ever learn?  Time to play Cosmo Topper again!
"Because he mentioned this morning that he had a pack of beef jerky in
the fridge.  What do you think?  That I've been here before?"

	He didn't argue and went for the refrigerator.  I could have
used a feed bag just then, too, but I couldn't resist the tingle in my
bladder any longer and was forced to try out the new plumbing in the
bathroom.  The experience didn't help my mood at all.

	Afterwards I dug my address book out of the nightstand, the
business one that has a lot of names in it, not the social one which
has only the first page full.  Almost full.  I needed to turn up some
street contact to find Blackjack and was in luck because I knew some
guys who knew some guys.  With a little calling around, by pulling in
a marker here and there, I didn't think it would take long.  A bookie
is always a good place to start when trying to trace a high-roller
like B.J.  I only hoped that I could pass "Go" and collect O'Malley
before the alien hit team put him out of the game.

	#

	Getting Blackjack's address proved to be fairly easy, but we
were so pressed that I didn't have time to rig up something decent to
wear out of D.C.'s unpromising wardrobe before we breezed out the
door.  Maybe it was for the best; what did Callahan have to wear that
wouldn't make Martin take double?  Anyway, where we were going my
nutsy rig would look right in style and up to date.  

	* * * *











	Chapter 11

	The General Narrative , continued


	Ginger Spice O'Malley's arms ached after long, futile struggle
to get free.  Worse, the nipple clamps hurt so much that she'd almost
do anything to get them removed.  Almost, but not quite.  Not yet.

I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!

I'm a ho,
Ho Ho Ho!

All these young business women wearing black clothes and gray,
They'll never be happy if they have their own way.
This one chick's called Murphy, the other Ally
-- Not a woman among 'em doesn't wish she were me!

	That song was driving her crazy, but she never suspected how
it was also programming her unconscious.  Suddenly the subliminal
lyrics switched on a light in her mind.  All at once she realized that
she needed food, needed clothes, needed a roof over her head, and a
bed.  She also needed a man most of all.  A sweet man to take care of
her!  She could have it all if she'd just say the words.

	"B.J.!" she suddenly cried out.  "Take these things off!  They
hurt too much!  I can't stand it!  You can be my sweet man!  I don't
care anymore!"

	No sooner has she spoken the words than her throat tightened
in terror.  This promise wasn't like a campaign promise; the man
beyond the door was going to take her words seriously -- and he would
make her take them seriously, too.  He had said that giving in to him
would be like contracting marriage in a country where there was no
divorce!  

	She hoped he hadn't heard and listened for his footsteps in
near-panic.  The faint thumping on the thick carpet outside told her
that he had heard her shouting clearly.  The doorknob turned and the
portal swung open.  Blackjack was standing there, just as she'd
feared, but he wasn't alone.  Behind him stood two other people, a man
and a woman.  She knew the man!

	"Callahan!" O'Malley shouted.  "Get me out of here!"

	The shamus in the rumpled trench coat stepped around the pimp,
saying, "It wasn't easy finding you, Miss O'Malley, but we're taking
you with us."  He looked severely at Blackjack.  "Get her loose, and
make it snappy!"

	B.J., his brashness gone, compliantly plucked the clamps off
O'Malley's nipples.  "Ow!" she cried, their removal producing a sharp
pain.

	Next he freed her ankles and then her wrists; her features
twisted in discomfort as she drew her stiffened arms forward.

	"Leigh here is my girl Friday," Callahan explained to
O'Malley.  "Leigh, take the lady and find her some clothes."

	"Will do," said Leigh, helping Ginger toward the door.  "Come
on, honey.  We've got places to go."

	Ginger glanced back toward Callahan.  "I thought that brunette
Sheila worked for you," she said, a hint of suspicion in her voice;
there was something too pat about this rescue, and also in B.J.'s
sudden passivity.  If he wanted her so badly why was he giving her up?
There was something going down that she couldn't put her finger on.

	"She's minding the office," Callahan explained tersely.

	Leigh urged O'Malley away and when the women were out of
earshot Callahan asked B.J.:  "Should we take your old body along with
us?"

	The black man shook his head. "I've decided to set a trap
here.  This body is too notorious.  I intend to switch back into the
redhead's body when I'm done."

	"What trap?" the false detective asked.  

	"Callahan is still out there," the false B.J. replied.  "He
could be a major problem.  It's best to wait and let him come to us."

	"You're right!" Callahan agreed.  "Why don't we all wait with
you?"

	Blackjack shook his head.  "Because O'Malley is too important.
We have to get her processed before anyone in authority starts asking
questions about the delay.  Djomni can back me up; you and Roissar
have to escort O'Malley to the lab without anymore time wasted.

	Callahan frowned.  "I don't like it.  I know every thought in
the dick's head, and he's as tricky as all hell.  We should call in
for more muscle."

	B.J. looked at his subordinate if as he were a dunce.
"Absolutely not!  The Committee would have our heads if they found out
how much trouble we've had with this O'Malley case.  Hopefully she'll
be reprogrammed and not be questioned by the leaders.  We'll be lucky
if this doesn't end with us liquidated as defectives."

	The bogus snoop gritted his teeth commiseratively.  "It all
comes from having to be so secretive when operating in America.
Remember the good old days in China, running wild in the slave labor
camps?"

	"I'm not into nostalgia.  Now hit the road."

	Leigh and Ginger emerged from Gina's bedroom a few minutes
later, with Ginger wearing a little black number belonging to Gina.
"Why didn't you give me time to find something else?"  O'Malley was
complaining.

	"Stop bitching, Senator," Leigh snapped sourly.  "It looks
good on you and we're in a hurry!  The aliens can trace you here as
easily as we did.  We've got to get out of here before they arrive."

	That advice was enough to convince Ginger to be quiet.

	Callahan joined the pair and took the black girl by the arm.
"This way, Senator."

	"Is there any way I can get my body back?" the black girl
asked.

	"Tough question.  Save it for later," Callahan replied with a
tone that didn't brook further discussion.

	
	#

	Once alone, the false B.J. made for the bedroom where the real
Blackjack lay dead to the world in the body of the red-headed working
girl.  He had used many different bodies over the years.  It had been
many years since he began existence as an intelligent pod on a
hatchling's body.  The hatchling form had only two functions:  It held
the bio-intelligent energy of his race which had to be transferred to
members of other species in order to fulfill its destined role.  Then
the hatchling metamorphed into the race's brooder form, a
non-sentient, non-mobile life-stage which produced one to three eggs,
each of which gave rise to a new hatchling.  The duty of the
transferred intelligence was to protect warriors to safeguard the
helpless brooder, but sheer intelligence impelled it to seek a destiny
all its own.  The intelligences of the species had chosen a name for
themselves:  the Anointed.

	Anointed scientists had long been studying their own natures
and those of human beings.  According to their findings, all cerebral
information, that stored information which defined consciousness and
personality, were in essence bio-electrical recordings archived in
those organic data banks which are called the animal brain.  The
Anointed possessed a self-perpetuating matrix of plasmatic energy
capable of traveling from host to host.  The Anointed had long-since
found that the transfer was easiest in the midst of the intense
bio-chemical stimulation of animal sex.  During the transference
process the memories of the new host were over-written by those of the
Anointed entity.  But just as a computer operating system might be
programmed to make data back-ups automatically, the plasma
transference process saved a complete copy of what was overwritten,
placing them in the evacuated memory cells of the old host.  

	Outwardly it would appear that the two beings had exchanged
minds, but this was only superficially true.  The Anointed believed
that only data was transferred.  They did not believe, as many humans
did, in the existence of the soul.  But was it inconceivable that
something much more substantial than mere dead memories was
transferred from the new host to the old, something that the Anointed
themselves denied existed?

	#

	There was a knock that B.J. had been expecting.  Djomni, the
wino driver, had come up and the bogus pimp let him in.  While the
former made himself lunch in the kitchen, his leader turned off the TV
and sat down to think about the situation.  Something in the back of
his stolen mind was bothering him.  B.J.'s memories were mostly of the
common sort, full of lustful episodes and materialistic grasping, but
something worrisome lurked under it all.  There was information that
the player's mind had been trying to forget.  Nonetheless, the alien
was sure that would come to the surface before long; guilty secrets
always did.

	All of a sudden, the door knocked yet again.  The mock-pimp
arose, checked the security lens, and saw the girl's face which he
knew for Callahan's.  He also recognized the man who stood behind her
for Callahan's partner, Dewitt.  They had arrived sooner than
expected, but this didn't daunt the alien assassin, except to the
extent that he hadn't yet filled Djomni in on his plan. 

	"Djomni!" he called.  "It's Callahan and his partner.  Hide in
the broom closet; when you hear me shout, or when anyone opens the
door, come out and waste them!  I'll handle the other one in the
confusion!"

	* * * *












	Chapter 12

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan , continued


	The door swung open to a dark, grinning face.  "Howdeedo,
Pretty Woman," B.J. Waters boomed.  "What can we do for you?"

	I got right down to brass tacks while Martin kept a lookout
for unwelcome company.  "Look, B.J., there's trouble going down.  Did
you get a visit from D.C. Callahan or maybe from somebody you didn't
know?"

	"No, can't say that I have.  Not lately.  What's the beef?  Is
D.C. making some sort of trouble?"

	"It's a long story.  If he does comes by, don't let him in,
and don't let in anybody who's with him, male or female."

	"What is this?" B.J. asked, his smile fading when he looked
over my head at Dewitt.  "You're D.C.'s partner.  Why are you acting
like he's one of the bad guys?"

	Without taking his eyes off the elevator behind us, Martin
answered:  "D.C.'s gone bad.  If I find him I have to take him down.
This lady will fill you in on the details."

	"Well, come on in," B.J. said, stepping out of the way.  I
followed him inside, with Martin acting as the rear guard.  My pard
stationed himself at the peephole while I questioned B.J.

	"Dewitt," the player inquired, "is this your lady friend?  I
do like your taste."

	"I'm his secretary," I explained, then gave him my spiel about
being dressed for a covert assignment.

	"Well, that's a shame.  I could use a girl like you."

	I just bet he could, the jerk!

	"But you didn't explain why D.C. would want to mess with me?"
he went on.  "...Oh, is it because I took that doll of his out for
coffee this afternoon?  I didn't mean to step on the toes of a tough
dude like him.  It was just that she was a stranger in the
neighborhood, she seemed lonely, and I wanted to extend the
hospitality of the community."

	"The girl is part of it.  D.C. is going to come looking for
her, or he'll send people just as bad as him.  Your only sure bet is
to get rid of her in a hurry."

	"I already got rid of her," Blackjack averred, all
sincere-looking.  "She didn't like my business proposition and took
off as soon as she filled up on doughnuts.  I thought she'd go back to
the hotel, since she seemed to know Callahan."

	A likely story.  I couldn't imagine a swaggering pimp like
Blackjack Waters letting a babe like O'Malley go scot-free.  I could
more easily imagine him tying her up and stuffing her into the nearest
closet.  "Would you mind if we had a look around?"

	"You wound me," the pimp said with mock dismay, "but B.J. is a
straight-shooter.  You'll see that there's nobody but my gal Gina
here."

	His tone was still genial, but something told me he was hiding
something.

	"Where's this Gina?" I asked.

	"She's in my room, asleep.  I have to ask that you don't wake
her.  She's not feeling well and needs her beauty rest."

	Maybe.  If I had to live with this turkey I'd be sick, too.
"You're going to let me see her," I said, more of a demand than a
question.

	"Sure.  Just peek in by the door though, and don't make any
noise."

	He led me to the bedroom door and opened it to let me look
inside.  I saw a nude girl curled up on a disordered bed, her red hair
covering most of her face.  That, and her fair skin, of course, told
me that she couldn't be O'Malley.  Nor was there any other place to
hide a girl in that room.  The brass bed stood so high that I could
easily see under it, and there was no need to frisk the closet either,
since its folding doors already hung wide-open.  

	We withdrew quietly.  

	"Look," he said.  "I can put the word out on the street better
than any detective agency could.  If a girl who looks like Miss
O'Malley is still shebopping around Washington something might get
back to me.  Your number is in the phone book?"

	"Yes," I assured him, "under 'detective agencies.'  Callahan
may have gone underground, but the rest of us haven't.  ...Now, I'd
like to search the rest of the apartment."

	"You can't still think I'm hiding O'Malley?" he protested.

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

	Since we'd come in I'd heard music playing; 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 doing some work in the room."

	"We'll see."

	He was telling the truth when I peered inside.  The storeroom
was unattended.  But I wasn't satisfied yet and made him show me the
other bedrooms.  At last we stood outside the kitchen.

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

	So I went in alone and looked around.  There was no one in the
refrigerator, but there was plenty of food and I paused to wonder when
this body had last eaten? 

	I next checked the open pantry, then zeroed in on the broom
closet.  

	I don't know why I was being so careful.  It wasn't woman's
intuition, since I wasn't a real woman and I wouldn't want to have
women's intuition if it was at sale a Target.  I think it was just
because B.J. had shown me all the other rooms but had me go into the
kitchen alone.  Whatever the reason, I opened the closet door swiftly
and peered inside through the crack behind it.

	In a flash I saw a man spring out packing a heater.  Not
pausing to wonder what the deal was, I threw all my weight against the
door and threw him off his feet.  The gun went off as his head banged
hard against the metal edge of the kitchen counter.

	I followed up my advantage, springing on top of him and
twisting the automatic from his slack hand.  But I needn't have been
so gingery; he was out like a light.  Just then I heard yells and the
racket of a free-for-all.

	Gat in hand, I dashed to the swinging door and peeked outside.
Martin and Blackjack were raining punches on one another.  I cocked
the roscoe, but didn't dare shoot with my target and Martin so close
together.  Suddenly the pimp collapsed, choking for breath.  
	Martin stood there looking at him, amazed.  "I didn't think I
laid a good one on him."

	"He must have a glass jaw," I suggested as I ran up to give
him a good slap on the back.  "That guy who fired the artillery in the
kitchen was the alien driver.  That means we're too late and B.J. must
be an alien, too."

	"What's wrong with him?  He was the one attacking when he
suddenly grabbed his chest and went down."

	"Pimps talk tough, but they're only good for slapping around
girls.  Speaking of skirts, I've got an idea that the chippie in the
bedroom is the same redhead who took me for a ride."

	Speak of the devil!  The redhead, maybe awakened by the noise,
was standing with a sheet around her at the bedroom door.

	"Keep her covered," I told Martin.  "She's pure poison!"
Then, to her, I said, "Where are your partners in crime, bitch?!"

	"Don't call me a bitch, you bitch!" the redhead squawked.
Then she blinked at us like she had had too much Diphenhydramine and
was trying hard to come out of it.  

	"I don't know you, Sugah, but the dude with you sure looks
familiar," she frowned.

	"I think our alien friend is having a psychotic episode," I
told Martin.

	"Why's everyone calling me an alien?!  I'm as American as
Michael Jackson!"

	Her accent sounded funny, not like before.  "Is that Southern
you're trying to talk?" I asked.

	"South Brooklynese," the girl answered.  "Oh, Jeez, I'm
talking to dream people." She looked down and touched herself.  "And
I'm dreaming I'm a gal!  Shit!  I wish I could wake up!"

	"Wait a minute!" I interjected.  "How long have you been a
dame?"

	She lifted her pert chin indignantly.  "Hey, who you calling a
dame?"

	"You!  You look like a dame.  What's your name?"

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

	"Do aliens go nuts?" Martin asked me.

	I ignored his question and concentrated on the redhead.
"You're Blackjack Waters and you're a man, right?"

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

	I looked back at Martin.  "She's harmless!  It's the bozo on
the floor who's the alien.  We're too late!  B.J.'s been switched!"

	"Then the aliens have O'Malley already?"

	"Right.  Damn!  We've been behind the curve all day!"

	"Well, let's beat the dope out of the creep before he gives us
the slip!"

	We switched our attention back to the false Blackjack lay and
Martin started slapping him awake.  The trouble was that all the
slapping in the world wouldn't have raised his imitation of the
Titanic.

	"Stop it Martin.  Let me feel for a pulse."  I did, and
satisfied myself that he was deader than a Democrat's hopes in Dixie.


	"He's gone West," I said, getting up.

	"It can't be!  He was doing me worse damage than I ever did
him, and I'm still up and running."

	"The guy in the kitchen!" I suggested.  "He might know
something."

	He might have, once upon a time.  But his skull was broken
where it had hit the counter.  There wasn't much blood, so he must
have died instantly.  We were batting a thousand in the body count
department so far.

	"Maybe aliens get fragile when they take over a body.  I don't
know," I said dejectedly.

	"Hey!" a woman's voice behind us yelling.  "What the hell
happened to me?"

	We looked back at B.J., the female version, holding open the
kitchen door still wrapped in a sheet.  She still made me nervous,
having gotten to know that face as an invader from space.
	
	"It isn't easy to explain," I said.

	"I saw myself sleeping in the living room!" she muttered
confusedly.

	"He's not asleep.  He's dead,"  

	This I had said as tactfully as I could manage.  Frankly, my
nerves were shot by that time.

	"Why are you two still haunting my dream?  Why isn't there
anybody I know in them?"

	"That's how the ball bounces, Blackjack," I said
commiseratively.  "I think you do know Martin here, and I'm his
secretary."

	She squinted at the big dick behind me.
You're...you're...you're D.C. Callahan's partner?!"

	"Yes," Martin responded with nod.  "We're going to have to
explain a few things, but you'd better sit down first and let us pour
you a drink."

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

	"Just one thing, Martin," I volunteered.  "Could you get these
stiffs out of sight.  They hurt the ambience."

	#

	By now Blackjack had exchanged the sheet for one of his -- her
-- robes and fell into a white leather-upholstered chair.  When she
seemed steady enough to take the truth, we ladled it on in scoops.
She didn't say much while we were laying it out in black and white,
but just shook her head now and then.  I think she was hearing us, but
wouldn't let herself understand or believe what we were saying.

	The only thing we weren't up front about was the killing of
the wino in the kitchen.  I'd done it in self-defense, but it would be
crazy to give a person like Blackjack Waters information to blackmail
us with.  Instead, I told him that the body must have been some
innocent person they switched and had dealt with in the same manner
that they had dealt with the skid-row bodies at our office.  I also
suggested that was an attempt to make the dead Blackjack look like a
murderer.  Beyond that, we told B.J. the body had been there when we
arrived, that the aliens must have done it, and that we didn't know
anything more. 

	At the end of the recap, our host -- hostess -- got up, still
looking dazed.  "I've been watching too much of those fucking horror
shows on TV," the redhead said.  "I'm going to go back to bed and wake
up when this nightmare's all over."

	We let her wobble away.  Sleep wouldn't fix her problem, of
course, but it would fortify her for facing a new life in the morning.
I knew how she felt and wasn't feeling so great myself.  I was dog
tired and hungry.  Martin must have been suffering in the latter
department, too, despite the light snack he'd chucked down in my flop
box.  He could eat like a wolf, I knew, though it never seemed to put
on an ounce on him.  I always said he must have a metabolism like an
atomic reactor.

	"I'm starved," I told him, sitting down.  "B.J.'s dugout is
stocked better than -- D.C.'s, at least."

	"I hope so.  I'll need some energy to stand in line at the
soup kitchen tomorrow."

	I rested my head back against the couch pillow and closed my
eyes.  "Things really have gone from bad to worse for us, haven't
they, Martin?"

	"Yeh, bad for us, but not as bad as it went for D.C.
..Christ, Sheila, I can't believe he's really doing the Big Sleep.
It's only starting to hit me now that he's actually gone -- and it
feels like having my guts ripped out."

	I opened my eyes.  "So you really liked the guy, then?"

	"Sure I liked him!  He had a wacky streak, but he was a good
Joe and a great guy.  Why do these things always happen to the best?"

	"I've been asking myself that all day," I said with a weary
sigh.  "It just goes to show that you just never know how fate's going
to mug you behind the next corner.  When we got up this morning the
world seemed so normal."

	"It was O'Malley's fault for getting us involved!  She was
like a bottle of nitro!"

	"What do you expect her to have done in her situation?  The
only thing I don't understand is why she came looking for us when she
hit the skids.  She ruined -- D.C.'s -- career.  I mean, she did when
she was a he."

	He gave a resigned smile.  "Don't you see it, Sheila?
O'Malley knew she couldn't go for help to those pettyfoggling crooks
and shysters she -- he -- used to hang out with on the Hill.  There's
no honor between thieves.  When the ship hit the sand, O'Malley
instinctively went for help to the only honest man she'd ever met in
this rotten city -- and that was D.C. Callahan."

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

	"The man deserves a monument," Martin went on, "but I don't
know if he'll even get a headstone -- not with his body still bumming
around the city killing people.  ...Aliens!  God, but the whole idea
is too creepy to believe!"

	"It just goes to show you what kind of a bad crowd this town
draws in," I said.  "No use going off the deep end.  Anyway, worse
things have come out of Arkansas."

	"Maybe we should do what Blackjack is doing -- go to bed and
try wake up."

	"Lot's of luck.  I'm afraid I'll never sleep again!" 

	Martin and I took a cold, sleepy supper and afterward