Date: Sun, 14 Jul 2002 15:32:39 EDT
From: Christopher Leeson <cdl77@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Big Switch by Christopher Leeson

THE BIG SWITCH

Or, "The Dame Curse"

By Christopher Leeson



			Chapter 1

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 "...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 about the irony of that.

	"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 V 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 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 that dusting paid that well.  Anyway, Dopey wasn't even her employer.

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

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

	"I asked, 'What did you have to do to get it-'

	"She closed up like a clam; her red lips got tight.  I knew I'd
have to do more cave-man stuff before I found out anything.  So I grabbed
her shoulders and shook her until her pearly-whites rattled.

	"I said: 'Now look, Miss Judit Hilmar.  If you don't want to get
slapped till you're groggy, you'll talk.  How would you like a good sock in
the jaw for openers-'

	"'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 a kick out of touching her skin, but
didn't let on.  I only asked: 'Why are you so afraid to get mixed up in the
Bracken case?  Or are you already involved-'

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

	"'Why illegally?'

	Her eyes closed and her mouth pursed in pain.  "North Europeans
can't get work permits in the U-S of America."

	"I unclenched my fist.  That sounded like the straight dope, so I
let her babble on.

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

	"Even though I'm a sucker for refugee sob stories, I had to come
across like a hard case if I was going to strike pay dirt.  'The law is the
law,' I growled, using my most intimidating bad-guy voice.

	"Instead of pleading some more like I expected, she looked at me
funny-like and pressed up flush against me.  'Do not force me," she said.
'I can do things for you." The first thing she did was wrap her arms around
me.  Warm, soft curves were heating my chest and she was offering me a pair
of luscious lips --

	"Well, after all, I'm human.  So, I leaned down and kissed her,
felt her mouth against mine.  My blood was racing so fast that I could have
entered it in the Kentucky Derby --"


#

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

	Dewitt leaned forward in his swivel chair and put his elbows on his
desktop.  "That's a damned hot scene, D.C!  Are you trying to give your
reader a hard-on?"

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

	He cocked his head to one side.  "I like it fine, but don't you
think it's kind of old-fashioned?  Everything you write sounds like it
comes out of the 1930's, but that immigration policy Judit mentions started
in the Seventies.  And like I've said before, not even tough guys talk that
way anymore."

	"I still talk that way!"

	"Yeah, but you come across like a fugitive from Black Mask, circa
1929."

	"Hmmp!" I grunted.  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 know some words with more than four letters in them.
What do you have to say about the plot?"

	"Is it realistic?  You're a detective, D.C. Have you ever roughed
up even one chick on the job?  I know I've never have."

	"Me neither," I admitted reluctantly, "not since I left Sears,
anyway.  But I might get lucky one of these days.  I'm not forty yet, after
all."

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

	"She's Swedish."

	"A Swedish French maid, then.  My point still stands." Dewitt shook
his head.  "Tell any American woman who isn't already a hooker that she has
to dress like a French maid and she'll sue you for harassment.  Besides,
you can't get a white person to do housemaid work for any kind of money."

	"Not even an illegal?  If he brother's illegal, maybe she is, too."

	"I don't know about that.  But Swedes are highly-educated and I
can't imagine any smart babe not being able to find something better.  The
multinationals don't care if you're foreign-born or illegal.  All they care
about is whether or not you're willing to work cheaper than American
citizens."

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

	His brows knitted.  "That's cheap thrill.  Do you want to go that
way?"

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

	"Schmucks?  Are you calling yourself a schmuck, D.C?  You read more
of that stuff than anybody I know."

	"I've been called worse things," I said with a shrug."

	"Like 'late with the rent-'"

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

	Dewitt pushed himself to his feet and shuffled to the air
conditioner in the window behind him.  "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."

	"At least cold weather makes it easier to wear a trench coat," I
said.

	"D.C., we can't go on like this without some real dough.  All the
other agencies are digging up for dirt for the Administration.  Maybe we
should climb on the bandwagon, too."

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

	Martin shook his head.  "I don't like getting my hands dirty
either, but business has been terrible and your stories aren't selling
either.  If we don't get enough income to defray the outgo we'll come to
work one of these days and find the front door padlocked."

	I stiffened.  "We might have to climb in through the window, but
we'll still have our dignity."

	Martin tossed off a weary look.  "Dignity and a dollar and a half
will buy one cup of coffee to share."

	"I know where you can still get a cup of coffee for a nickel in Las
Vegas," I said, trying to be the optimist.  #

 Since we had no cases pending, I went back to pecking on my manuscript.  I
thought my opening paragraph was still too weak.  In a jiffy, I had
performed an extemporaneous revision:

	Pennsylvania Avenue runs from Rock Creek to the Anacostia River,
through crack-infested hoods where even the flatfoots walk in pairs for
safety and streetlights are farther apart than honest politicians on the
Hill.  After sunset P.A.  is a pitch-black cemetery full of prowling
ghoul-shapes and skulking specters muttering in low voices.  Most people
say God made Washington D.C. to punish the sins of the world.  But I think
it came to be when the devil cleaned out the ash cans of Hell and dumped
the rubbish next to the Potomac for composting.  .  .  ."

	Just then our receptionist Sheila came.  She never knocked, even
though she had just about the best pair of knockers this side of Maryland.
That chippie was stacked like a deck in a backroom poker game.  Most gees
go gaga over blondes, I know, but for me it's brunettes with green eyes.
That's why I hired Sheila, instead of some middle-aged frump able to type,
file, and do MS Windows.  It wasn't that Sheila was dumb; it's just that
for some reason she didn't care about her job.  She also had no clothes
sense ?  no miniskirts, no plunging necklines, no tight sweaters.  Nothing,
in fact, to bring back any repeat business.

	"Yes, Miss Coffin?" I asked, trying hard to keep my glance above
her tie-knot so she couldn't go to the EAP to cite me for lookism.

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

	I knew exactly where Leigh Spielman was, since she had stomped in
right behind Sheila.  As it happens, Leigh was another of those
great-looking tessies with no patience for us working stiffs.  What steamed
me was that I could have been rubbing elbows with the best class of broad
-- if only I'd been willing to put out that extra ten-spot a month to rent
office space over the Mr.  Tease Club.

	"Which one of you turned on that air conditioner?!" Leigh Spielman
demanded with a baby-powder-blue glare.

	"Me!" admitted Dewitt, not sweating it.  I always admired the
coolness Pard displays when it comes to facing off with a geed-up dame.  In
my book that make him the kind of man you want to have within you in a dark
alley.  That's not to say that Callahan and Dewitt ever have to spend much
time in dark alleys.  On a typical day things didn't usually get any darker
than the lighting King of Clubs, where the two of us usually had one for
the road after 5:00.

	"Listen, Dewitt," Spielman was saying, "I told you that your air
conditioner scrambles my hard drive!  Well, it's happened again."

	"That's not possible, Lady," I disagreed politely.  "It doesn't
hurt our hard drive, so how can it hurt yours?"

	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 with a head-shaking sigh.
"We're flat broke.  That's one good thing about the P.I.  business; we can
thumb our noses at lawsuits threats."

	"I already know you two are bums.  But I'll find some way to get
back at you!" she warned.

	Still trying to pour oil over troubled waters, I said, "Miss
Spielman, you seem to be saying that Martin scrambles your hard drive.  If
you stop and think about it, this could be the start of a wonderful
relationship."
	"Pigs!" she spat.  "The gloves are off from now on.  One more
incident and I'll put you out of business.  Consider yourself on notice!"

	Dewitt looked like he was listening to her more wistful than
scared.  "One more utility bill and we're out of business, anyway," he
volunteered.  "But I'll take the matter up with my partner.  Sheila, would
you escort our neighbor to the door?"

	Sheila always warmed up to people who came in to give us a hard
time, but Leigh ignored our secretary's comradely beckoning and stalked out
right past her.

* * * * *



		  Chapter 2

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 Leigh Spielman's take-no-prisoners attitude had given me the
inspiration I needed to bring one of my book characters to life, so I
pounced on the keyboard, tapping like I was trying to beat the Dutch:

	Beth was alone in the office stuffing documents into her
alligator-hide briefcase with both hands.  It had been a close call with
the shamus, but she wouldn't wait around to find out what he came up with.
All it would take to set things right was a graveyard flight to the land of
sun and fun, a payoff to some Third World dictator, and then her life would
become an endless round of golden slipper cocktails and leisurely strolls
along wide, white beaches.

	Except for that damned dick Nick Baxter everything had gone her
way.  The cops were floundering around; the D.A.  was eating out of her
hand.  Only Nick Baxter seemed to know how to put two and two together.
She felt him closing the noose on her even now.  As a precaution, Beth slid
open the right-hand desk drawer and hefted her .44 magnum moose-shooter.
This she packed into her valise on top of the papers, papers that, in the
right hands, would show her up for a murderer and embezzler.  Without them
Dopey Sailor's brother would have to take the fall and Beth Angler would
come out of Slime City smelling like a rose.

	Just then the door flew open with a jarring bang.  Beth froze long
enough to nix any chance of grabbing the man-stopper in the case.  Nick
Baxter was standing there, a glacier-blue heater clenched in his hard, hot
fist, a stogie balanced between his clenched jaws, and a smolder in his
cigarette-ash peepers.


	"I followed your bucket all from Beverly Hills," he informed her.
"You're one hell of a reckless driver.  What's the hurry?  Lamming it
maybe, Ms Angler?"

	Most lawyers would have broken, but Angler was a nervy dame.  A
trial shyster, she'd rubbed elbows with some of the worst scum in the city.
She'd picked up their outlook, their way of getting ahead, but she also had
learned how to talk down to their gutter level: "Get out of here, you
jerk-off!"

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

	She blanched.  If he found her gun now she'd go up for Murder One.
"It wasn't me," she jabbered.  "It was the comic's brother!"

	His big ugly face clouded in anger.  "It was you all right, Babe,
and you're going to fry for it!  Maybe what I need to toss you into the
slammer is right there inside that lizard skin."

	She lurched, telling him that he had hit the nail on the head.  The
dame was desperate, but Nick was ready for just about anything.  Even so,
he never expected a ball-buster like Beth Angler to suddenly go coy.
"She's got ice water in her veins," he thought cynically, but down deep, he
had to admire a skirt who was as fast and deadly as a famished cheetah in
gazelle-hunting mode.

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

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

	She started unbuttoning her suit jacket.  Baxter sucked in on his
cigar, interested.  Embezzler, murder -- and, he now realized,
bimbo-under-the-skin, too.  A fancy combination, he thought with a bent
grin.  .  .  .

	"I promised myself I was going to nail you," the dick finally
rumbled.

	"So nail me, big man." The look she was giving him placed her a
couple down from bimbo, on second thought.  There were things that even
bimbos wouldn't try.

	He was still determined to send her to prison, but maybe he should
show her that she wasn't any better than the hookers and sneak-thieves that
she'd be bunking with for the next twenty years or so.  That's why Nick
cautiously lowered his gun and unzipped his fly with his free hand.

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

	Or maybe not, he was thinking .  .  .  .

#

 Dewitt interrupted the flow just when it was getting good.  "D.C., did you
see this article in the paper?" he asked.  "Another streetwalker was choked
to death and dropped into the Potomac last night.  How many does that
make?"

	"About twenty," I said, leaning away from the keyboard.  "Some
psycho must really have it in for party girls."

	"I wonder where the New York senatorial candidate was around nine
last night ---" he wondered out loud.

	"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 on the other side of the door.  "Ma'am,
you just can't go barging in!" Sheila was saying.

	At first I thought that Spielman was back for Round Two, but when
the door swung open we saw a young black woman in red spandex pushing into
the room, crowding Sheila backwards.  "Step aside and let the lady in, Miss
Coffin," I recommended.  "We've got time enough for a little neighborhood
outreach." Sheila got out of my line of sight gladly enough and the
ruby-plumed chickadee wobbled past her as if she wasn't used to high heels.

	Since I couldn't believe that possible, I assumed she was more than
half smoked.  "Have a chair, Miss," I offered, never taking my eyes off her
hemline, which was about as high as a hemline could go without becoming
interesting.  I couldn't wait to see her sit down.  She had me so absorbed
that I didn't even notice that Sheila had already exited.

	The black girl looked around, pulled up a chair, and sat down.
Damn!  My desk was one of those high ones.

	"Don't caaal me 'Miss,'" the chippy said.  "I had to see you,
Mistah Callahan.  It's a mahdah of life and death!"

	I blinked perplexedly at the nuances of her accent.  I know the
sound of black English; you can't help picking up a little of it if you
hang around Government Town for more than a weekend, but this gal was
slinging an upper-crust Bostonian lingo.

	"Where exactly are you from?" I asked.

	She was breathing hard, like she'd just run in a Marathon.  "This
is vuhy -- embarrassing to explain," she began haltingly.  "I'm not a
really a girl."

	That statement doused the raw lust I'd just started to feel.
"You're a female impersonator?"

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

	Dewitt and I traded glances, then I looked back at the girl 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.  At this
juncture she leaned forward and put her hands on my desk, a gesture that I
appreciated considerably, taking into account the plunge of her neckline.
"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 youh butinski couhoboration.  But you outsmuhted
yourself, because having a sleazeball like D.C. 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 goods and I never buy anything past its expiration
date.  "It sounds like O'Malley's been shooting 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 tossed a look Dewitt's way, hoping that 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.

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

	Dewitt finally stirred.  "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 the aliens 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.

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

	"Well, all I can say is that you must run with some bottom-feeding
low-lives, Ma'am."

	She raised her petulant chin.  "If you can't trust the husband of a
New York senatorial candidate, 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
to the point where I could call her nuts and throw her out.

	She shivered, like she was remembering a bad trip, or else was
reacting to the blast of the air conditioner.  That spandex didn't cover
much, after all -- God bless it!

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

	She'd telegraphed the punch line to her story so I wasn't much
surprised.  "Yeah, I thought it had to be something like that.  Tell us
something about the aliens, ma'am, since you're the expert."

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

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

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

	"Like what?" I asked, my professional interest rising.

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

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

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

	This case seemed to be more complicated than I thought.  I decided
to get all the facts before I called it.  "Yeah, yeah?!  What happened
then?!"

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

	I nodded.  "Yeah, Disney isn't what it used to be since Eisner took
over.  But you're going to have to stop beating around the bush -- no pun
intended.  What exactly happened?"

	"She got me so excited that I was almost in teuhs.  I hated it, but
this body seemed to like it and need it!  It was like the craving for
liquor -- something I know about!  Then two of the male aliens came back in
and one of them said, 'Okay, O'Malley, the fun's over.  Then the other one
asked, "Are we going to dump her into the Potomac?"

	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.  "I'm telling the truth!"

	"You can't be Senator O'Malley, so does that make you a liar or a
nut case?"

	I have to admit she was a persistent one, continuing her jabbered
story: "Then the other alien said, `Yeah, why not.  How would you like to
make the headlines one more time, Senator?" Then they dressed me this way
and 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 his way.  "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 drove up and saw them dragging me along, and it
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 nodded tolerantly.  "You wanted to
save that little treat just for us."

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

	Suddenly her face sank forward into her cupped hands and for the
first time I started to feel sorry for her.  Maybe she actually believed
her own crazy story.  I guess that's the reason why I said to Dewitt, "This
lady's really scared of something, Martin.  Why don't you go check out that
warehouse?"

	He fired off that old there-you-go-again glance.  "Another freebie
for a sob-sister?"

	"So what's your problem?" I asked testily.  "Have you got a
high-stakes game of solitaire waiting for you at home?  You'll put on an
alderman if you don't stretch your legs once in a while, Martin."

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

	I just glowered in silence.  We paid Sheila first because the
government doesn't care if an owner made squat; the employee always came
first.  We'd land in hot water if we ever missed a payroll.

	Then I noticed him putting on that black leather jacket of his.
"Hey, you aren't going out looking like that, are you?"

	"Like what?"

	"You forgot your hat," I reminded him.

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

	I gave him my senior-partner a glim.  "Detectives have to wear
fedoras for the same reason that chimney sweeps still have to wear
stovepipe hats.  It's tradition and people respect tradition."

	"I don't see them paying much for tradition and, anyway, any hat
looks wrong with this jacket."

	"Is it my fault that you come to work out of uniform?  I know you
could find a gray double-breasted suit at any Salvation Army store for five
dollars or less.  It's all to the good if it looks a little lumpy on you."
To spare his feelings I decided not to add the observation that his blue
jeans, jacket, and motorcycle boots would have looked better on a
schoolyard dope pusher.

	He waved away my advice.  "D.C., whenever you can meet an honest
payroll, I'll wear a ballerina outfit if you ask me to."
	"I don't swing that way," I told him.  "Thanks for warning me that
you do."

	After that nifty zinger, the door clunked shut behind him and I was
left to entertain "O'Malley" all alone.  "Until my partner gets back," I
began, "I think what you need is a good detox -- I mean, a good rest --
Miss.  Can I take you home, or to a motel?"

	I detected a tremble in her sigh.  "I don't haave any money to rent
a room, and if I went home I'd have to explain to my wife how I got this
way.  She can be a real 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!  I'll take you to my flop instead.  At least you can't steal me blind;
everything I own has already been repossessed."

	She stiffened with pique.  "I'm not a thief!  I'm a senator!"

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

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

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

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

	"Scared?  That's understandable."

	"I was going to say horny!  Why would I need sex at a time like
this?  Am I going crazy?"

	I eyed her carefully.  The idea of taking her home with me sounded
better and better.

	"You're not crazy," I told her.  "You're a normal red-blooded
American girl with natural urges.  I'm partly to blame.  When a girl like
you gets around a good-looking side of beef like me these things happen.
What you need is a dark, quiet room where you can lay down, rest back, and
spread your legs."

	I got up at that point, stepped around the desk, opened the door,
and yelled for Sheila.

	She came over looking put-upon, as usual.

	"Sheila," I said, "I'm going to find this lady a place to stay.  I
should be back before closing time." Our gal Friday returned me that
endearing couldn't-care-less shrug.

	Then the black girl said, "We should leave by the baaack way,
Callahan, just in case I was followed.  They're aliens, afteuh all."
	"Right," I agreed, "and they come to Earth with powers and
abilities far beyond the reach of mortal men -- or however that goes."

	At that, I took my hat and flogger off the rack.  The latter was
too hot to wear this time of year, but a trench coat always looks damned
good carried sportingly over the shoulder.

	* * * *





		  Chapter 3

	The General Narrative

	 Leigh Spielman swore under her breath while her computer's back-up
tape ran.  Someday, she told herself, she'd have an office in a building
that people like those two bargain-basement snoops couldn't afford.  Maybe
it would be in Arlington, maybe in Falls Church, but where didn't matter.
Anywhere outside this disgusting city had to be an improvement.  What was
the use of being a financial planner in a town where everyone was either
broke or had a numbered account in the Cayman Islands paid for with
Mainland-Chinese donations?

	Suddenly the door clicked behind her and Leigh jumped, not
expecting anyone.  She swung about and there stood a red-blonde woman enter
wearing a short, black, acetate-lycra dress and followed by two
derelict-types in shabby old suits.

	"Who are you?" Leigh asked suspiciously.

	"Did a black streetwalker come into this building?" the female
demanded.

	"I haven't seen anybody," Spielman replied impatiently.  "Check
with the people across the hall.  They always have some low-life either
coming in or going out."

	The redhead glanced back at her companions.  "She has an agreeable
shape.  I think one of you could use it."

	"What are to talking about?" Leigh inquired, disguising a growing
sense of disquietude.  "I told you I didn't see your friend.  You have no
reason to loiter in this office!"

	Leigh moved over to show them the door, but flashing hands suddenly
grabbed her.


	"What are you doing?!" Spielman shouted in fright, but a filthy
palm clapped itself over her mouth.

	"Throw her across the desk," the redhead directed her companions.
"You two can flip to see who gets her."


#

	Meanwhile, Sheila sat alone next door in Callahan's chair, trying
to imagine herself as Cybill Shepherd in Moonlighting.  How glorious it
would be, she thought, to be the owner of anything at all.  At the age of
twenty, she was still a secretary -- a job she disliked and considered
insufferably beneath her dignity.  She should have been giving orders to a
large staff of employees by now!

	But success wouldn't come easy unless she married money, Sheila
knew.  What bothered her most was that her family was a respected one back
in her hometown.  Her brothers and sisters were going places while her
present 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 grease
monkey.  It had once been worth a laugh; now it looked like the story of
her life.

	Had she made a mistake!  Could things have turned out differently?
Should she have worked harder to be able to qualify for college?  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!  A rash decision
like that could lock her in at the bottom rung of social status forever.
No, she dared not get involved with any good-looking down-and-out, such as
Martin Dewitt or that guy down at the Subway sandwich place.

	Just then Sheila heard someone entering the outside office and got
up suddenly, not wanting Dewitt or Callahan to catch her sitting at the
boss's desk and give her the horse laugh.  Quickly, she crossed to the door
and peered through the crack.  Three people were milling about on the other
side, all of them grim-faced and vaguely sinister.  One was the excitable
businesswoman from next door, Leigh Spielman, but another was a young
redhead in a black minidress and the third looked like the worst kind of
tramp, one whom she could almost smell from where she stood.

	Suddenly they started toward the door!

	The tramp roughly pushed the portal inward, a rude act that sent
Sheila stumbling backwards.

	The redhead stepped out in front of the pack.  "We're looking for a
black girl dressed in a short red dress.  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."

	Now Spielman butted in, the sourness of her expression even more
pronounced than usual.  "Where did he take her?"

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

	The derelict crowded the secretary back against Callahan's desk.
She held her breath against her fear and his odor, while trying to send out
passive body language signals to the effect that he didn't have to get
violent.

	"She knows something," said Leigh with a tight sneer.  "She's
holding out!"

	"M-Ms Spielman?" Sheila began quiveringly, "what are you doing?  I
could understand if you brought the police or your lawyer by, but who are
these people?"

	The streetwalker edged up and pinched Sheila's chin between her
fingers.  "This one's pretty, too.  Maybe you could use her, Erlech."

	The tramp perked up, apparently liking the idea.

	"What are you talking about ---" Sheila asked breathlessly, her
heart beating wildly in her breast.

	"I was getting tired of this body anyway," the down-and-out agreed
without answering her question.  "It's got fleas."

	The redhead now assumed a voice of authority: "Maybe she really
does know more than she's telling.  But even if she isn't, she's the best
way we have to get at this Callahan person.  Make it happen fast, soldier;
there's no telling when one of the dicks'll pop back in and we want you
ready for him."

	"Make what happen?" Sheila murmured apprehensively.  "Ow!" she
cried as the hobo grabbed her arms and forced her back on the cluttered
desk top.  .  .  .

	* * * *





		  Chapter 4

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued

	 During the drive to my digs at the Hotel Franco I kept wondering
why any babe as well-endowed like the Lady in Red would fantasize being Ted
O'Malley when she had Napoleon, Elvis Presley, and even Marilyn Monroe to
choose from.

	The way I saw it, she ought to have thanked her lucky stars that
she wasn't Ted Fitzgerald O'Malley.  It wasn't just Ted who was bad, his
whole clan.  The father, Sean, had been a union thug back in the 'Twenties
who got rich selling hooch during Prohibition.  His scams brought in money
and influence, enough to make him a powerful figure in New England's
political machines.  He strong-armed the unions for contributions to FDR,
who paid him off handsomely, giving him the British ambassadorship during
World War II.  Sean's hard drinking and anti-British attitude embarrassed
the administration constantly, but it was Britain, not Sean, that went into
decline after the war ended.  Once back home, O'Malley Senior worked
Massachusetts politics for all they were worth and by the time the man's
whiskey-tortured liver gave up and called it quits, both his sons had been
elected to the Senate.

	O'Malley's horse-faced daughters made banner headlines contracting
bad, short-lived marriages with Old Money playboys and sleazy Hollywood
hot-shots.  The older O'Malley brother, Rob, got mixed up with organized
crime and was assassinated during his run for President.  The powers that
be pinned the hit on some immigrant kid with no friends, no money, and no
connections, but everybody knew that the Giancana mob had blipped Rob
O'Malley.  According to the word on the street, he hadn't delivered the
political goods they'd bought and paid for.

	Probably, Rob had just fallen into the habit of reneging on
campaign promises like every other Lefty, but, whichever way you cut it, he
had made himself a stand-out reputation for dishonesty even among
professional criminals.  Ted, on the other hand, stuck to dirty
politics-as-usual, avoided getting shot, and soon became the patron saint
of the Red-Diaper Generation and a top-ranking American shill for the Evil
Empire.  During the Reagan years, Dan Ortega's Nicaraguan junta was Ted's
favorite charity.  More recently, word had it that party hatchet man
O'Malley had gotten more than his share of the President's illegal boodle
from Mainland China.

	To survive as a shamus in W.D.C. a man has to do political stuff,
but I'd hit rock-bottom when I took a job from Ted O'Malley.  He didn't
like the way I tried to set things right after he lied about my report on
his opposition and got me black-listed with his big-shot buddies.  The
other party, the Stupid Party we called it, never hires detectives, never
tries anything sneaky to get ahead, so I was out in the cold.


	The temperature was ninety by the time we reached Hotel Franco, but
I was still out in the cold.  Just to keep the boredom in check I'd been
taking on freebie cases, like I was doing now.  I led the black chippie
into the shabby lobby and let her cool her stiletto heels alone for a
minute while I checked my mail.  The Mystery Woman, I noticed, tried to
stay out of sight around a corner.  What a funny dame.  It was almost as if
she thought that that that stone fox body of hers was something to be
ashamed of.  My philosophy is that if a girl's got it, she ought to flaunt
it.  None of them are getting any younger, you know.

	I watched her keep hitching her hemline down to cover her thighs,
and then hiking it up again when she showed too much cleavage.  I could
have enjoyed the show all day, but I was on a mission of mercy and wouldn't
have felt right about having too much fun.

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

	"Can't we get out of heuh?" she asked with a shiver.  "People auhe
stauhing at me!" She wasn't looking at the general mix of Franco bums, but
at a well-dressed man near the cigarette machine.

	I recognized B.J.  Waters in a flash, a two-bit player from the
'hood who ran a small string of pros downtown.  His initials stood for
Benjamin John, but he was better known around town as "Blackjack." He
couldn't seem to take his eyes off the chocolate bunny in the red dress.

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

	I smiled mischievously.  "If I take you up to my room, they're
going to be damned sure you're a hooker!" I reached into my pocket for my
set of twisters and pushed them into her sweating palm.  "Luckily for you I
don't want to be away from the office longer than necessary.  That's the
key to my digs.  I'll be back about six to tuck you in.  Ciao!"

	The spandex knockout accepted the keys with a look that told me I
shouldn't hurry back.  I was glad to be rid of her for a while, too.  Be
that as it may, I couldn't resist taking one last glim at her gams over my
shoulder.  What a classy chassis!  I knew the pop tart was nothing but
trouble, but hey, trouble is my business.

	And, man, on some days I really get the business!



* * * * *




		  Chapter 5

	The General Narrative, continued


	 The girl who insisted on calling herself O'Malley might not have
liked Callahan much, but she missed him once he was out of sight.  Giving
her hem another nervous tug, the black female looked quickly about and then
ran to the elevator.  She thought she was home clear when a dark hand stuck
itself between the closing elevator doors and they whirred open to welcome
in an additional passenger.

	"Hello, little darlin,'" said Blackjack Waters, sidling in beside
the girl while the doors hissed shut behind him.  "I followed you in off
the street."

	Dismayed, O'Malley exclaimed, "You're one of the aliens?!"

	B.J.  looked puzzled.  "I'm no alien, Love-Child.  I'm a true-blue
American hunk.  I just had to warn you about this elevator.  You can call
me B.J., by the way."

	"What auhe you talking about?"

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

	He obligingly demonstrated.  The elevator, just as obligingly,
shuddered to a halt.

	O'Malley was almost thrown down by the resultant lurch, but B.J.
caught her around the waist and drew her up close.

	"What did you do that for, you idiot?!" she demanded, her eyes
bright with fury.

	"Don't worry, Baby, I know how to start it again.  And even if I
didn't, the custodian'll turn it on again from the basement -- when and if
he's sober enough to notice it's stuck.  But we've got us a few minutes to
talk turkey, Precious." He took another hard, appreciative look at her.
"Oooooh.  You are just so fine.  If I've never seen you on the street, it
must be because you're new in the 'hood."

	"What's it to you?" O'Malley challenged, too angry to remember that
she was a hundred-and-fifteen-pound weakling instead of a fat slob closer
to two-hundred and fifty.


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

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

	"Got no sweet man, Ruby Lips?  That's perfect, 'cause you've just
found yourself one.  You can just keep on doing what you've been doing,
except that yours truly is going to be your business manager from now on."

	Infuriated, O'Malley gripped the pimp's lapels and shook him hard
-- or tried to.  In fact, she could hardly jiggle his mass of muscles.

	"Whew!  You need a bath," B.J.  said with a sniff.  "We'll take one
together back at my pad."

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

	"And I say you are, Sweet Cheeks" he assured her teasingly, backing
her against the wall just by edging closer.  He stood over her, projecting
charisma, and then said, "Lift your lips, honey, 'cause you is going to get
a kiss to remember."

	The glare she flashed was in equal parts fear and revulsion.  "Like
hell -- mmummph!" she began, but his mouth on her lips had smothered her
rebuke.  In her initial shock O'Malley dropped Callahan's keys underfoot.

	"You're sweeter than candy," the pimp said breathily, letting her
out of his close embrace.  He reached out to touch her face, but she
contemptuously swatted his hand away.

	"You're a fighter, I'll give you that," he said.  "A gal like you
can last a long time on the mean street.  Come on; kiss me again, Sweet
Lips.  You give a man the habit faster than a snootful of coke."

	Incited to violence, she popped a right hook into his prominent
cheekbone, but it hurt her knuckles more than it hurt his face.

	The tall man scowled as he rubbed his lightly-bruised cheek.  "All
right, Baby, two can play those kinds of games." He grabbed her arm, swung
her around, and pressed her against the wood paneling of the elevator.
Then, too swiftly for her to realize what he was doing, he took a cord from
his pocket and bound her wrists behind her back.

	He then stood back to let her spin about like a cornered wildcat.
Blackjack appreciated the way that her arm position forced her breasts
forward until they almost popped out of her V-neck plunge.
	"You've got everything, baby mio.  What should I sample first?" he
teased lightly.

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

	B.J.  grinned.  "Not even the mayor himself would interfere with a
man and his wife."

	"I won't marry you!" O'Malley declared.

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

	"You don't undeuhstand!" O'Malley babbled, desperation replacing
indignation.  "I'm not a hookeuh!" I only put on this dress because --
because I lost a bet!  I'm a lawyuh!"

	B.J.  smiled "That's perfect!  Every lawyer is a ho at heart." His
gaze burned hotly on her cleavage.  "Oooh, I do like your doodles.  Gotta
see more of 'em."

	Before she had time to blink, B.J.  had tugged her dress down,
laying bare her jiggly charms.  The pimp cupped a breast in each hand and
kneaded them like silly putty.  O'Malley gave a cry and tore at her
bindings, but the mackman's only response was to brand her bouncing boobies
with searing kisses.  He felt her nipples hardening under his smooching
lips and encouraged them to do so with the lick of his tongue.

	"Oh, God!" O'Malley bleated as the strength went out her.  She slid
down along the wall and bumped her fanny to the floor.  B.J.  shifted
deftly and the next things she knew his hand was between her widely-spread
legs.  "Uhh-uhh!" O'Malley aspirated in stupefied shock.

	Blackjack now realized, if he hadn't before, how lucky he had been
to spot this gal before another player snatched her up.  The babe had
ginger in her, but also fire in her belly.  A man-hunger like the one she
had on display was worth her weight in dollar signs.

	B.J.  decided to find out how quickly he could bring her to
surrender.  He touched her bikini briefs and found them wet with warm
secretions.  The pimp gleefully fondled O'Malley through the fabric of her
panties, running his fingertips up and down the divide of her love canal,
torturing it with gentle friction.  After a moment of sensuous torment, she
gave a lurch that told him that he was playing with a finely-tuned
instrument and looked forward to the beautiful music they would make
together.


	"Sweet Jesus!  Don't!" O'Malley was babbling, tears streaming over
her cheeks.
	"No, Pussy, I'm not stoppin,'" Blackjack told her.  "I know a bad
girl when I meet one, and I'm goin' to give you everything you can take.
Maybe you'll like it better without your panties in the way."

	"No!" she cried, fighting to escape, but without her hands to help
couldn't get traction enough to rise and, anyway, he had her pinned in the
corner.  Suddenly she felt his fingers hooking the elastic of her panties,
felt the garment slip down to her calves.

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

	O'Malley's breath was coming in a staccato of moans.  Her teeth
gritted as he touched impudent finger to fine fur, her eyes closed as she
tried not to feel the waves of pleasure that his manipulations were
evoking.  "You're lovin' it, Pussy Cat," Blackjack crooned softly, "I know
you are.  The sweet man knows."

	In fact, the sensation so overwhelmed O'Malley that tears ran down
her cheeks and her body beaded in feverish sweat.  Her garments began to
give off a musky reek and the longer the pimp kept up it up, the more his
captive craved continuance.

	The mackman, slowly and deliberately, agitated his finger in its
close, dewy envelope until O'Malley begged, "Stop!" But B.J.  didn't feel
like stopping; he wanted to demolish her coyness, her snappy pride.  She
was the kind that players described as "uppity." Some women tamed easily,
but the uppity ones had to be broken like the cowboys broke horses in those
TV Westerns.  Accordingly, he switched his attack toward her clit.

	The assault on her clitoris was too much for O'Malley and she went
wild, yelling, straining at her binding, squirming, wriggling.  Regardless,
Blackjack blithely went on with the "love lesson," finger-frigging her,
trying to force her over the edge.  He'd never met a woman hotter.  Whether
she was a lawyer like she claimed or not, after a couple weeks with him
she'd be working the street and loving it.

	Just then, the pimp detected the girl's spasms, the involuntary
thrusting of her pelvis.  He knew this for the signal that her control was
giving out.  Excited, he kept at her, permitting her no respite, wanting
her to find out that she wasn't master of her own body, that he was.  And
when a man got to be the master of a woman's sexuality, she would love him
with a mad, unreasoning passion.

	Suddenly the excitement became too great for any human body to
constrain and O'Malley screamed as an irrepressible orgasm of staggering
power swept through her beautiful young body in powerful rolling waves of
pleasure.
	B.J.  wouldn't quit; he forced her to come for all she was worth,
and then forced her to come again, until she was utterly spent.  She could
only lay there dazed, her eyes half-closed and helpless.  The pimp had been
waiting for this moment.  She was too spent to be anything other than
passive for a while -- and her passivity would make it easier for him to
get her home.  One he had her behind locked doors it would be time for
love-lesson number two.

	With a heavy sigh, Blackjack stood up and wiped his fingers on his
handkerchief.  The minx was still panting at his feet and he felt like a
jungle king standing over a captured woman.  Any minute now, he knew, the
elevator might start again and the doors would open.  No one would have the
nerve to say "Boo" to a strong and confident man in the company of a common
ho, but it would be better to get her presentable-looking and then quietly
usher her outside to his car.

	The pimp picked up the key his new girl had dropped, along with her
shoes and panties.  The shoes he tossed into her lap, but the panties he
stuffed into his coat pocket.  Inexperienced girls, and that was what she
was, if he read her right, hated being bare-bottomed in a short dress.  If
she were worrying about how to walk and sit in public, she wouldn't be so
liable to run away or make a scene.  In fact, she would probably be glad to
be whisked away to some place private as soon as possible.

	B.J.  untied O'Malley's hands, lifted her to her feet, and hitched
her dress down.  "Straighten yourself up, Woman," he ordered, "and put on
your shoes.  Then you and me are going places."

	O'Malley, still dizzy from having experienced her first female
orgasm, let the black man take her hand without pulling away.  As the
elevator car began to move again, he took stock and decided that she looked
presentable enough.  An instant later, the doors whooshed open to the
lobby.

	"You'd better be careful how you walk, Chickadee," he cautioned,
"if you don't want these bums to see paradise." Then the flamboyant player
wrapped a controlling arm around her, just in case she got it into her head
to make a break for it.  "Don't worry about the panties; once we get you
home you'll be dressed up real fine."

	B.J.  ushered her over to the check-out desk and tossed Callahan's
key in front of the grizzle-bearded clerk, telling him, "Inform Mr.
Callahan that the lady enjoyed his hospitality but she's movin' on up.
Bye, now."


	Drawn stumblingly along behind him, O'Malley still felt too swept
away to speak.  The man exuded a strange kind of power that overwhelmed and
suffocated anyone he focused it upon -- the same effect that Lyndon Johnson
had had upon people.  Blackjack had warned his captive to be quiet and
something told the black girl that she'd better listen.  Also, O'Malley
thought she'd rather die than become a center of attention in a crowded
room without her briefs on.

	A few seconds later, the two of them were crossing the hot pavement
of the hotel parking lot to Blackjack's white sports car.  He lifted the
spandex-clad girl into the bucket seat and the heat of the leather burned
her bare flesh enough to make her utter a little cry of pain.

	B.J.  sprang into the driver's seat and reached out to place his
hand on her sweat-dampened thigh, ostensibly to reassure her, but actually
to exert a claim, the ascendancy of his will over hers.  Something primeval
was thus communicated between them -- him the hunter and she the female
being conducted to his cave.  O'Malley's feverish eyes danced around the
parking lot, searching for something without knowing what, and again got
the idea to shout for a cop.  Yet, for no reason she could understand, she
couldn't raise her voice above a whisper, not with those domineering eyes
fixed on her.

	In the next moment the car pealed out the driveway and into the
zooming traffic .  .  .  .



* * * * *





		  Chapter 6

	Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued


	 By the time I got back to my office, I was feeling like a sap.
How could I have let the Mystery Woman go without even copping a feel?  For
an omission like that, I could lose my license!  Well, not exactly, but in
my heart of hearts I could have lost my license.  But in a way, I wasn't
sorry; the dame had to be crazy, and crazy people make me nervous.

	When I got back, the front office was empty.  "Sheila?!  You still
here?" I yelled.

	Someone stirred behind the inner door; mystery solved, I thought
with a chuckle.  Sheila always liked to sit at my desk and pretend that she
was a big-wig.  I wanted to catch her and give her the horselaugh, but when
I opened the door, I could only stop and stare.  Sheila was there all right
-- only she wasn't sitting behind the desk.  She was lying back on it
barefooted, her blouse half-open, and her skirt unbuttoned to show about a
mile of thigh.

	That made me wonder, but she didn't look like a naughty kid caught
in the act.  Instead, she flashed a Colgate smile, but it reminded me of
the grin that Peter Pan used to get from the crocodile.  I was put on my
guard.

	"I don't know who you were expecting, Sweetheart," I said with a
strained chuckle," but it's only me." I stepped around behind the desk and
sat down.  Sheila reached out, grasped my tie, and pulled my face up close
to hers.  "You've kept me waiting, bad boy!" she said.

	I took a quick look-see around, trying to spot the Candid Camera,
and then tugged my tie out of her biscuit hook.  "What's this about,
Sheila?" I asked dry-mouthed.

	"What do you think this is about, D.C.?  You hired me because you
liked my body.  Did you know that I only took this job because I liked your
body?  I've been hoping for six months that you'd finally put the move on
me, but you never did.  I can't take anymore, D.C."

	I swallowed hard.  "I don't like to be a wet blanket, Doll, but if
that's how you feel, you're body language needs some work.  You've sort of
given the impression that you were hoping I'd step in front of a
tractor-trailer going sixty."

	Her eyes seemed to get bigger and go tiger.  "I always loved the
way you talk.  You're so tough and you're so strong, D.C., you're every
woman's dream of a real man.  You wouldn't believe the fantasies I've had
about you!"

	I eyed her with renewed curiosity.  "Yeah?  What were they like?"

	Since this situash might have been the build-up to some sort of
gag, I wasn't going to say anything that would make me blush if it got
played back in court.

	"Is there something I could do for you, Handsome?  I'd do just
about anything."

	"I've been hoping to hear you say that," I said with a hard
swallow, "because there's a lot of filing you've never gotten around to."

	She gripped my lapels in tight, sweaty little fists.  "How can you
talk about filing at a time like this, D.C.?"

	"It isn't easy, but I'm a grownup." With her breathing into my
face, keeping hands-off was deuced hard.  "I don't know what's gotten into
you, but I'm not sure that this is either the time or place for beaver
fever."

	"I'm sure," she said, bringing her rubies up so close to my nose
that I could smell the minty-freshness on her breath.

	"You wouldn't mind putting that in writing, would you, Doll?" I
asked.  "Just in case you feel like suing me later on."

	She let my suit go and leaned away.  "You don't believe me.  I'll
just have to show you how serious I am."

	"Well, okay," I shrugged.  "I'm from Missouri." I'd been keeping
tab and I didn't think that I had so far said or done anything compromising
in a court of law.

	But Sheila didn't intend to make things easy.  She started taking
off her clothes and, all of a sudden, I wasn't scared anymore.  We'd been
slammed by the worst economy in fifty-eight years and it had made me
lawsuit-proof.  I stood up and bent forward to catch her puckered kiss on
my chops; it tasted good.  My hand slipped behind her back and got tingly
when it touched bare flesh.

	She exhaled a satisfied little murmur and her fingers went to my
tie again, this time to unknot it and toss it aside.  Next, she pounced on
my shirt buttons and they offered no resistance.  I took hold of her
shoulders and kissed her neck; the taste of Sheila's reminded me of sweet
cream.  I'd grown about as tall as Mount Everest from touching and smelling
her and so I started thinking, "Use it or lose it." So I loosened my belt,
kicked off my trousers and I did the former.  Sheila was hotter than a
Mexican volcano and made the earth move about the same way.  I guess I was
doing pretty well by her, too, since it was only two minutes before she
went up like the Oklahoma Federal Building.

	Suddenly I felt like I was making love to a 120-volt lamp socket.
I'm not kidding!  It wasn't love-making anymore; it was electrocution!

	That's when the lights went out.


#

 My shoulders aching as if I'd been sleeping all night on bare boards I
finally came out of it.  Then I remembered where I was, and that I really
had been sleeping on bare boards.

	My vision was still all wool and I couldn't see anything except a
blur.  As far as sound went, there wasn't much else than a ringing in my
ears.  As I lay back scraping my scattered wits together, I sort of
remembered that I'd been having a great time with Sheila.  What had gone
wrong?  I wasn't so old that a horizontal tango should floor me.  I felt
damned strange, light but as weak as a kitten.  Had the mink slipped me a
mickey?  No, impossible; I couldn't remember eating or drinking a thing
since stepping into the office.

	Inch by inch I recovered enough motor control to brace my elbows on
the desktop and lift my head.  The effort I'd made brought on another wave
of dizziness, which forced me down again.  Just then, I started to hear
voices.

	Hands grabbed me, not Sheila's dainty little ones, but big hard
steak-grabbers that turned me over and raised me up.  I opened my dim lamps
to stare into an ugly face that somehow looked familiar.

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

	I looked again.  I sure as hell did know that smarmy puss!  The guy
had been hanging around my bathroom a lot.  It was my own face, only I was
looking at it from the outside!  And next to the guy wearing it was Leigh
Spielman.  That didn't figure.

	"Spielman?  What's the deal ---" I mumbled, but clammed up again
when my voice came out all wrong -- thin and high-pitched.  "Hrummp,
hrummp," I grunted, trying to clear my throat.

	All these shocks taken together brought me around fast.  Without
really intending to, I happened to look 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.  Even stranger, it I was looking at my footgear
over the tops of a couple of green-topped mountains.  I tried to push them
out of the way, but although they gave easily, they sprang right back.

	Still woozy, I took another look at myself and gave a gasp.  I had
on a green dress about the size of a dollar bill!  I touched my head.  My
cranium didn't feel right to me -- especially the hair; I'd have to have
slept as long as Rip Van Winkle to grow thatch like.

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

	I might be the fastest horse at the starting gate, but it usually
doesn't take me long to get up to speed.  Leigh had just called me "Miss
Coffin" and I remembered O'Malley telling me how the aliens had switched
her.  That meant --

	My God!


	Had Sheila been an alien?  Where is the Immigration Service when
you really need them?!  What an incredible thought!  When Sheila was giving
me her body, was she really giving me her body?  Was I her?  I sure didn't
like that idea!

	"Sheila?  I'm Sheila!?" I lurched up again, supported my upper
torso on my elbows and yelled: "You dirty crooks!  Bring back my bonny --
my body -- to me!"

	Just then I saw a second woman waltzing up, a redhead wearing a
little black dress.  Almost wearing; it was that small.  She reached out
toward my face, but I batted her hand away.  She then flashed a sneery kind
of grin, like some Cheshire cat thinking evil thoughts.  "Get used to it,
Callahan," she said.  "We've got plans for you."

	"W-What plans?" I muttered, looking between those three
good-looking faces.

	I hadn't expected any favors from these low lives, but the
minidressed knockout decided to cue me in.  "We traced Senator O'Malley to
your office.  We had to find out where you'd hidden her, and so we switched
bodies with Sheila to tap her memories.  She didn't know anything, and so
that forced us to switch her with you."

	"So that's it," I growled indignantly.  "Well, you won't get
anything out of me.  I wouldn't double-cross a client, not even a low-life
like O'Malley!!"

	The redhead sneered again.  "You don't have to tell us anything,
Callahan.  We already have the information we need.  Like I've said, when
we switch, we get all our victims" memories."

	I winced.  "All of them?"

	What a gruesome thought!  There were things I wouldn't want my own
brother to find out about me, much less have them become the gossip of
alien invaders from outer space.

	"What a rip-off!" I complained.  "I don't get anything from you
except this bimbo outfit.  That doesn't seem fair."

	The copper-topped babe shook her gorgeous head.  "It's good policy
for kidnapping.  People don't get involved when they see a streetwalker
being roughed up.  But you're wrong; you've actually gotten something very
important from us."

	"What?"

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

	"Only half?" I echoed, slightly relieved.  To tell the God's truth,
the less contamination I got from these jaybirds from space the better I
liked it.

	"To be specific, you got the female half.  Every member of our
species carries the sex-drives of both genders.

	I stared wide-eyed.  "Female sex-drive?  No way!  I feel perfectly
normal!"
	"You're better off than your secretary, at least."

	"What do you mean?  Where's the real Sheila?" I demanded.

	"We switched her into the body of a skid-row wino and then bashed
her head in with a brick.  If we need another body like that, they're easy
to find.."

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

	"Of course."

	"You bastards!"

	I was a close to those girls as any man whose guts they hated could
be.  Psychos who kill beautiful women are the worst kind of scum.  Maniacs
and space-invaders ought to lay off the chippies until the crow's feet come
at least.

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

	Another light went on inside my reeling noggin.  "Say, you're the
lousy wackos behind all those the streetwalker murders, aren't you?!"

	"You don't know what lousy is yet," the redhead said.  "The two
bums we offed are out back in the dumpster and we've planted evidence to
link you to their deaths.  You'll get the blame and your good name will be
dragged through the mud."

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

	They grabbed me, rolled me over on my cushions, and clicked a pair
of my own nippers on my wrists behind my back.

	Whatever they were up to, this was definitely no way to treat a
lady!

	* * * *





		  Chapter 7

	The General Narrative, continued


	 Blackjack half-led, half-dragged, O'Malley from the parking
basement into the elevator and up into his flat.  "This is gonna be your
home from now on, gal, so don't you be giving me any trouble," he told her
as he set the special lock on his door.  This wasn't the first time that a
girl had been asked to stay longer than she may have wanted to, and good
locks made for good guests.

	O'Malley tumbled backwards over a beanbag chair and bumped the
carpet with a startled cry but no real pain.  Lying on her back, she got
the impression of a big room full of expensive but ill-assorted furniture.

	Responding to the noise, two others came scurrying into view.  The
one in blue was short, about O'Malley's own stature, and honey-blond; the
other, wearing pink, was had a fashion model's physique to go along with a
subtle Latin coloration.

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

	"Go to hell!" came O'Malley's sputtering reply.

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

	Ginger Spice -- yelled as she scrabbled to her knees: "I'll Ginjuh
Spice yuh, yuh prick!"

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

	"But she's pretty, B.J.," Gina volunteered, a little worried that
the leggy black girl would become a new rival.

	Evelyn sighed and shook her head.  "You always like them sassy,
don't you, Blackjack?  I can guess how you're going to be spending this
weekend, but don't get too excited.  Remember what the doctors said about
your ticker."

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

	Evelyn's eyes flashed, but the heat lightning quickly subsided.
She only shrugged and said, "We were just going, B.J."

	He unlocked the door and held it open for them.  "Well, move your
asses!"

	The two young women picked up their purses and whatever else they
needed and then the one followed the other out into the hall.  Blackjack
then reset the lock as Ginger looked on.

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

	Ginger Spice O'Malley clambered to her bare feet, both intimidated
and overwrought.  "You caan't keep me heuh!  What about my Civil Rights?!"

	"Civil what?" B.J.  asked mockingly as he sauntered to the bar to
pour something from a decanter into a pair of glasses, one of which he
offered one to the Ginger.  "Drink up, girlie.  It'll calm you down and
pick you up."

	If there was one thing that Ted O'Malley liked it was liquor.  The
senator had liked it so much that sometimes even a friendly press reported
it.  The Conservative media, what there was of it, had for years made a big
deal of his drunken antics and his molestation of women.  Despite all his
faults, The Washington Post still loved him.  They new they had to depend
on people like him to stop any new tax cut or election reform.

	Ginger gulped down the port in three swallows; it calmed her nerves
somewhat, but it unfortunately relaxed her inhibitions and re-aroused the
sexual craving that had been suppressed for a while.

	Think O'Malley, think, she rebuked herself.  What were her options
in this situation?  She couldn't beat him in a fight, didn't have a cent to
bribe him with.  And if she did get free, what then?  She couldn't imagine
starting a new life in such a body.  Ginger had no connections, no access
into the halls of power which would make life worth living.  Her head
whirled, partly from the strong drink, but mostly from the imponderables of
her fate.

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

	"I'm hungry!" the girl informed him in the manner of an
ill-mannered child.  But she really was famished; who knew when this
particular body had eaten?  Until now it she'd been too worked up to
register hunger, but she was growing weak and faint.

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

	She glared indignantly.  "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!"


	"Baby, you do try a patient man," B.J.  opined, his voice
hardening.  "No more shit!  You've got to learn respect.  I give the orders
and you obey them!  Doesn't the Good Book say, 'love, honor, and obey?!'"

	"No it doesn't, you buffoon.  And I maake my own rules." The black
girl, emboldened by alcohol stood with her hands braced on her hips,
unintentionally maker herself look so sexy that B.J.  had to struggle to
refrain from crushing her in his arms right then and there.

	"Not anymore!  In my pad, you do what you're told.  Now, I want to
see you get naked.  We're gonna have a shower together."

	She backed away and lifted the empty glass to threaten him with.

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

	Ginger impulsively threw the vessel directly at his head right then
and there.  B.J.  dodged the missile agilely and sprang toward her,
vengeance in his heart.  The girl avoided the man's first grab and dodged
about the room.  Her host pursued and she toppled furniture in his way to
trip him up, but the destruction only made him the madder.  Finally, the
black girl made a dash for the exit and tugged the knob wildly but vainly.

	"Yiii!" she cried as his strong arms crushed the breath out of her.

	The muscular man dragged his unwilling prey, kicking and clawing,
into his bedroom and there threw her across the comforter.  Swiftly, he
pinned her shoulders to the silky fabric, straddled her, then pulled her
dress top down to her navel.

	"You bastard!" Ginger yowled, but Blackjack shifted position again
and kept tugging until he could sweep the light fabric off over her feet.
At last, he stood back to appreciate the bosomy girl, who was naked except
for her stockings.

	"You are just incredible," Ginger heard him say while he stripped
off her garters and nylons.  "You make those other two look like alley
cats."

	Blackjack quickly doffed his jacket and settled himself beside his
unwilling guest, whose hands had covered her breasts, thus spoiling his
view of them.

	He seized her wrists.  "Chill out, Baby Doll." His tone was both
excited and strained.  "If you won't be friendly, I'll give you that
ass-burner I promised."

	"All r-right, all r-right," Ginger stammered and tried to smile.
"I'll be good.  Just be nice to me."
	He regarded her closely.  If she had started to ask for favors
instead of making demands, he thought he might at last be getting through
to her.

	"Oh, I'll be nice," he promised.  "There's no sweet man sweeter
than old B.J." He let go of her arms, curious to see if she was giving up
the fight or was just shucking him.

	The second he released her, Ginger sprang to seize the brass lamp
on the bed stand.  She swung it viciously, but Blackjack saved his head,
receiving just a bruise on the thigh.  His temper flaring, the pimp shoved
her down again threw his weight upon her.  Then, holding her pinned, he
pressed his lips so close to her that they almost touched.  "You shouldn't
have done that," he said with a calm sincerity more ominously threatening
than even a shout.

	She strained against his hold in desperation.  "Go to hell!  I'm no
whore!"

	"If you're no whore now, a ho is exactly what you're gonna be,
Ginger Baby," he said, breathless with anticipation.  "It's time an uppity
gal like you learned what bein' a ho's all about."

	He changed position and dragged her across his lap.  Controlling
her by twisting her right arm behind her back, he took a large metal
hairbrush from the nightstand.

	"You won't be sittin' down for a while, Hot Cheeks, but you'll be
more respectful once your ass stops burnin'!" He lifted the flat of the
brush high and struck the flat side against her flesh with force.

	"Yeow!" O'Malley cried.  "Don't!  This is assault!  I'll get even!"

	"What you're gonna get is some manners," he said and prepared to
strike again.

	Whack!

	Ginger hollered, but had learned the folly of making threats.
Blackjack noted this with satisfaction and began O'Malley's spanking in
earnest.

	Whack!

	Whack!

	Whack!

	Whack!

	Ginger's backside sprang about and she yelled incoherently while
B.J.  enjoyed himself.  He disregarded the girl's shrieks and, with cruel
deliberation, aimed sometimes at one hemisphere and sometimes at the other.

	This girl was long-overdue for a hiding, the pimp told himself, and
it was a chore he relished.  At last, when the girl's vocal protests had
degenerated into hoarse, inarticulate ejaculations, there remained but
little pleasure in continuing.  So, reluctantly, B.J.  ceased.

	Ginger lay moaning across his lap, slowly getting her breath back.
Her face was pressed to the comforter, her nose ran, her lips were bubbling
with spittle, and her cheeks were wet with tears.  Blackjack rolled the
soon-to-be streetwalker to the floor and then stood up to unzip his pants.
"Get up, Love Blossom," he instructed her.  "It's time for that shower I
promised you.  And B.J.  always keeps his promises."

* * * * *







		  Chapter 8

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 A fourth alien was acting as driver, another one of those
down-and-out slum guys that these aliens seemed to use for general-purpose
thugs.  The Leigh-alien sat in the front seat beside him, while their two
buddies pinned me between them.  I found it humiliating to be riding my
last mile in the back seat of a Ford Taurus, but them's the breaks.  At
least the rush-hour traffic was keeping our progress slow.

	Know thy enemy, I always say.  To feel the creeps out I tried some
bluff and bluster.  "You guys are toast!" I sneered.  "When the feds find
out what you're up to, the president is going to treat you like a terrorist
nation who didn't give him a campaign contribution!"

	"That's how much you know.  The President's our biggest fan.
Second-biggest, if you count the First Lady."

	"How did you swing that?" I asked, disconcerted.

	"Illegal contributions to the DNC," came a smug reply.

	"That's disgusting!" I growled, not so much at the space invaders,
as at the low state of American politics.  "You've got no ethics at all!
Who runs your operation anyway?  Fearless Leader?"
	"Ha!" Red snorted.  "Our leaders happen to be the most brilliant
minds in the galaxy.  We call them the Committee."

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

	"Some of the world's most powerful leaders have already been
replaced by our agents," she added.

	"I read Black Camelot last year," I said.  "Was Kennedy an alien,
too?"

	"No -- but a guy like that could have taught us a few things," the
mug with my mug replied, and then laughed contemptuously.

	I rested back glumly.

	A Satanic smile overspread Red's love-bow lips.  "Cheer up,
Callahan.  We don't actually intend to kill you -- at least not
immediately.  You'll just wish you were dead."

	If hanging around the mortal veil meant spending much more time
with four wrong numbers like this butcher shop quartet, I thought I'd
prefer the snuff treatment.  "You told O'Malley that you were going to kill
her -- him," I reminded him.

	"We always kill," the Callahan said, "but not immediately.  We just
wanted to see how scared O'Malley could get."

	"I guess she got pretty scared.  Did you have to clean the seat
covers afterwards?"

	For some reason my toilet humor started them all yucking.  Usually
I like people who enjoy their work, but not this pack of hyenas.

	Just then I glimmed a rippling glare between a couple buildings
which told me that we were closing in on the Potomac River.  Were these
strong-arm goons going to strangle me and dump my body -- Sheila's body --
after all?  The derelict turned into a small parking lot and drove out of
sight behind a padlocked commercial building.

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


#

	They held the door open for me.  I keyed myself up to make a break
for it, but as soon as my spike heels touched pavement it was all I could
do to keep from falling on my prat.  I decided to act like I was even worse
off than I really was to put my escort off-guard.  When the Callahan
reached out to steady me, I kicked him in the crotch and kicked off those
damned heels.  Before the others could grab me, I made like Stratosphere at
the Saratoga race trace!

	I'd also started yelling at the top of my lungs: "Help!  Anybody!
Murder!"

	While murder may or may not have been an immediate possibility, I
thought it was more likely to bring help than a cry of "sex change" would.

	Bruising my feet on the brick pavement, I tossed a look-see over my
bare shoulder and saw that the aliens were rapidly gaining on me.  What
amazed me was that Red was running in high-heeled shoes.  I guess a person
can get used to almost anything.

	"Let go of that woman, you creeps!" someone yelled out of nowhere.
I thought the shout had come from a dark alley-mouth nearby, but with the
sun bouncing off the glass windows on either side I couldn't see anyone.

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

	It was a tin-plated bluff, but I was remembering the way that these
same bad guys had turned tail when the law showed up in O'Malley's story.
I guess they must have thought that I could see who was coming better than
they could, because the aliens stopped chasing me and hot-footed it back to
their car.  It only took them about five seconds to gun it back into the
traffic flow.  I was saved!  But by whom-

	My stentorian rescuer now sprinted out of the shadows and rushed to
the driveway just in time to see the alien's exhaust dissipating around a
corner.  To my surprise, the guy really was packing heat.  I could hardly
believe it!  The cavalry turned out to be my own partner, Martin Dewitt!

	He turned back and bustled up right in front of me.  "Are you all
right, Miss ---" he began.

	Miss?  Of course!  Martin wouldn't know me from Adam.  I mean, he
wouldn't know me from Sheila.  My head spun.  What could I say?  The
terrible thing that had happened to me wasn't something I'd want to talk
about, not even with my best friend.  If he knew I'd turned into a girl how
could he ever respect me?  No, it was better to pretend to be Sheila for
now, until I could collar the body thief and force him to return the
merchandise.

	"Sheila!" Martin exclaimed in recognition.

	"Thank God you showed up, Dewitt!" I babbled.  "You saved my neck!
They were going to make me look like one of those murdered hookers."
	His gave me the up and down.  "That explains that wild dress," he
said with a nervous grin, "but what's the deal?  Just before those guys got
into the car I thought I saw Leigh Spielman and Callahan!"

	I shook my head -- Sheila's head -- wildly.  "No, Martin, you've
got it all wrong!  That wasn't them.  What O'Malley said is true.  Those
were the aliens!  They got the drop on D.C., and Spielman!  The aliens
switched with them; they've got crazy killers from outer space in their
heads!"

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

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

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

	I couldn't let him think that.  I had to make up a story that would
save my pride.

	"Sheila ---"

	"I -- I'm sorry, Martin.  Callahan is dead, I'm afraid, but he died
like a man.  They switched him into some flea-bitten old wino and bashed
his head in with a brick.  They put his body into the dumpster behind our
building!" If I eventually showed up in my own body I could explain what
really happened and apologize for bunking Martin.  I was almost sorry that
I'd fibbed when he registered a tortured expression of disbelief.

	"Dead?  How did they switch him into a male wino?  I thought you
had to have sex with them before they could make the switch."

	Drat!  I'd forgotten about that messy little detail.  By trying to
save my rep as a man's man I'd put it into even greater jeopardy.

	"No, that's not how it is!  Do you have to believe everything a
politician tells you, Martin?"

	"You mean just a touch ---"

	I had to change the subject, and fast.  "What are you doing here,
Dewitt -- I mean, Mr.  Dewitt?  I thought you were at the Rex Company
warehouse."


	Still looking plenty shocked, Pard mumbled, "I just got lucky, I
guess.  The warehouse was empty, but it looked recently abandoned." His
glance hardened.  "That made me think that somebody was pretty damned
worried about being caught doing something they shouldn't be doing, and so
I went and asked some questions down at the courthouse.  It turns out that
Rex Company is just a dummy corporation registered with another phoney
outfit, one that owned this other shut-down factory here.  I couldn't find
out much, so I decided to check the premises out personally.  Now, I
suppose, the aliens will abandon this place, too."

	"You were right about being lucky, Martin!  If I wrote a rescue
like this into a story no one would believe it!"

	"You write fiction?" he asked, blinking in mild surprise.

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

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

	Yeah, that was true.  Sheila had been a snob from Day One.
Somehow, I had to explain it away her coldness so we could work together to
get my body back.  "Well, uh, yeah, well, I'm shy.  But I've been trying to
beat it lately.  I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression about me."

	He eyed me again.  "You sure don't look shy in that streetwalker's
rig."

	"You try wearing it and tell me how you feel," I suggested
irritably.

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

	I stepped closer.  "I'm with you all the way, Martin, but won't be
easy going up against Plan 9 From Outer Space!  We've got to find them and
then out-think them."

	He looked at me keenly.  Only then did I notice how he towered over
me.  "Any ideas?" he asked.

	I nodded again.  "The space men are still looking for O'Malley.
They'll be heading for my -- for D.C.'s apartment."

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

	"It's a long story, Martin!  We've got to haul ass!" But at my
first step, I winced with pain.  "Could you help me find my shoes?" I
asked.  "The gravel hurts my feet!"

	We found the shoes right off, but with my hands cuffed I needed
Pard's help to put them on.  "Where's your Honda parked?" I asked urgently
once I was again fully shod in those killer pumps.  "We've got to head them
off."

	"Wait a minute, Sheila," he with a scowl, "this business is too
dangerous for a lady --"

	"Stuff it, Martin!  I'm not that much of a lady!"

* * * * *







		  Chapter 9

	The General Narrative, continued


	 Taking a shower with a black Adonis seemed to bring out Ginger
Spice's alien-induced sexual craving with a special vengeance.  The man's
hands explored the hollows of his her back as they spread the suds,
starting ever synapse in her nervous system firing with erotic stimulation.

	Suddenly B.J.'s hands slipped under O'Malley's arms and brought her
flush against him.  She felt the blood coursing through her body like an
awakened river, felt her heart beating in her throat.  Then the pimp's
fingers slipped between her thighs.  .  .  .

	"No!" Ginger cried and shoved him back; B.J.  lost his footing and
slipped.  He landed painfully on his bumpus and the nude girl threw open
the shower door to make a dash for the living room.

	Blackjack got up and rubbed his bruised pelvis.  "Oh, shit!  That
mixed up broad!" he swore.  Though miffed, he wasn't too worried that
Ginger Spice would get far.  There was the locked door and the lack of a
fire escape to keep her prisoner.  Moreover, he couldn't see her going
outside nude and dressing would slow her down.

	B.J.  dried himself and pulled on a fresh pair of boxer shorts
before he went looking for Ginger.  He found her sitting on a wet spot on
the settee looking glum.  He tossed his towel into her face.

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

	Ginger clutched the towel to her water-beaded breasts with a
shudder, but didn't look his way.  Blackjack just stood there thinking hard
for a few seconds, then he reached out and pulled her to her feet.  This
gal needed the cave-man treatment baaaad.

	"You and me have got to have a contract, so let me lay it out.  All
you have to say is that I'm your sweet man and that'll be enough for a
street marriage.  You'll belong to me and I'll take care of you."

	She dug in her heels.  "You belong in lock-up!  I want out of
here!" O'Malley didn't really know where she would go if he released her,
having only a vague idea about applying for welfare.  She had been buying
votes with give-away programs for thirty-five years and thought it high
time to get back a little of her boundless compassion and golden-hearted
charity.

	Blackjack, his patience exhausted, bent low, and flung his new wife
over his hard, Tarzan-like shoulder.  Ignoring her kicks, yells, and
beating fists, the player toted the ex-senator into the storeroom and set
her down against a thick pipe.  Before she knew what was what, he had
snapped a manacle around her left wrist.  Ginger struck at him with her
free arm, but B.J.  captured it, too, and it took him only ten seconds to
fetter securely to the pipe.

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

	"I wanted to be nice, Sugah, but you keep insulting my
hospitality," B.J.  told her.  "You can be my woman or my pooch.  It's up
to you."

	"Go soak your head!"

	"You sure act as uppity as any lawyer," said Blackjack, hoarse with
exasperation.  "But I know ways to cure uppitiness!"

	Now he went out and quickly returned with something that looked
like a chain necklace.  Only when Ginger could see it close-up did she see
that the chain had alligator-type clips affixed to either end.

	"This will concentrate your mind," the pimp assured her as he put
the clips in place.  Ginger gasped in pain and a tremor of apprehension
coursed through her.  O'Malley had read enough dirty magazines to know that
the chain was a torture device and that the longer they were worn on a
woman's nipples the more they would hurt.

	"Take these things off me, you bastard!" the black girl demanded,
thrashing her torso right and left in a vain attempt to shake the
uncomfortable clips off.


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

	"No!"

	"Then you'll just have to get acquainted with your new friends."


#

	Anticipating victory, B.J.  went to fetch his continuous-play
cassette-player, into which he shoved a tape that all the pimps swore by.
It was an hour-long recording the underground ditty entitled "I'm a Ho"
playing repeatedly.  But this was a special version of the original.  It
had been altered by an audio tech that had loaded it with subliminal
messages meant to adjust a woman's attitude.  According to the story, the
tech had gotten tired of his pretty-but-lazy wife and her snooty,
coffee-guzzling friends.  They'd hang around his apartment practically
every day, yakking about feminism and dissing men.  Finally, he decided to
put a stop to it.  Thanks to the doctored tape he played for them, his wife
and her girlfriends all underwent a subliminal education.

	The first message on the tape made the hearer want to hear the tape
again and again.  Each repetition enhanced the attitude-altering effect.
Soon the freeloaders had been re-programmed; they'd all gotten too busy
making money on the street to loaf around his place.

	The tech didn't actually his own wife to go out flat-backing, but
she had started thinking like a hooker and, as they say, ex-hoes make the
best wives.  The couple's marriage became a happy one and the tech soon
loaned the tape out to male friends who also felt unappreciated by their
women.  Soon bootleg copies had hit the street where professional players
got hold of them and starting running off their own copies.

	The black girl looked feverishly askance at B.J.  when he returned,
but she was still to hard-headed to beg.  Suit yourself, he thought as he
placed the tape-player on the floor, just out of reach of her long legs,
and turned it 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 was turned out -- the Scriptures say so;
	The Devil 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 meet 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 who's a number one ace.
	I know Man's the master and I'm willing to please;
	Don't think that I'm praying when I'm down on my knees!

	I'm a hooker 'tis true!  Do-do-do-do!
	Don't you wish you were, too!  Do-do-do-do!

	They call me exploited 'cause a guy takes my dough,
	But I'm making him happy, I just want you to know.
	He's my hard-lovin' daddy, he's the man 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 to the living room and punched the power button
on his TV remote.  The picture came on, but he was still to wound up with
Ginger to even notice what the program was.  Nipple clamps were a good way
to start breaking in a stubborn gal.  Even Evelyn, who'd fought him longer
than any woman he'd ever turned out, had started yelling her fool head off
after just a couple hours.  After that, Evelyn had been willing to do
almost anything rather than have a second treatment.

	All of a sudden, a knock sounded on the door.  Always suspicious of
cops serving warrants, B.J.  first checked the peep-lens, relaxing at once
when he espied the a beautiful face on the other side.

	The pimp unlocked the door to face off with a smiling redhead.
This whistle bait, he thought, had "working girl" written all over her.
His face split into a wide grin and he inquired, "What can I do for you,
Darlin'?"

	The girl's face brightened as she sized him up.  "Are you Blackjack
Waters?"

	"That's me," the big man didn't mind admitting.  "Excuse me, Baby,
but you don't look like you're come selling Field and Stream
subscriptions."

	"I'm not, but I've got plenty else to sell," she replied
suggestively.  "May I come in?" He stood aside and bowed.  "Welcome to my
parlor."

	The beauty breezed past him, but when Blackjack locked the door
behind her she gave a quirky grin and asked, "Oh my, is that lock for me?"

	He grinned disarmingly.  "No, Honey, it's for somebody else."

	 "Breaking in a new girl?" "I might be, but that's my business.
It's your business I'd like to hear about." He ushered her to the settee.
"Take a load off, Pretty Woman."

	The redhead sat down and crossed her legs.  B.J.'s heartbeat
speeded up considerably to see stems like hers so well-displayed.

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

	"How's the Snow Man doin'?" Blackjack asked absently, not thinking
about the Snow Man at all.  After fighting with Ginger for an hour he
needed to spend some quality time with an agreeable woman.

	"He's on top of things," the girl said off-handedly.  "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 was making
a comeback and needed somebody like me."

	"Snow Man's got a big mouth." B.J.  replied with an irritable
scowl; he didn't want the street to think he was a charity case.  His
health had been a problem lately, but he was feeling a lot better over the
last few weeks.  "And the Snow's got things wrong.  I've got three girls
now."

	She looked nonplussed.  "I didn't mean to give offense."

	His lips twisted cynically.  "I'll tell you when you give offense,
chickadee, and you ain't done it yet.  So, you say you need a sweet man?
Is that why you looked me up?"

	She nodded.  "My man back in New York won a long vacation in the
state-court lottery.  The other Big Apple mackmen are all running scared
from Giuliani and, anyway, I've gotten tired of the cold and fog."

	Blackjack liked what he had heard so far.  "You've come to the
right town for a hot time, Sweet Cakes."

	The visitor sat back and a secretive smile softened her lips as she
said, "I guess the important question is, do you like what you see?"

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

	Her glance was steady and all business.  "Where would you like to
do it?"

	"I've got a king-sized bed," he said.

	Standing, she straightened her shoulders and lightly cleared her
throat.  "If that's the case, why are we standing here?"



* * * * *





		  Chapter 10

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 Martin and me burned rubber all the way to Hotel Franco.  I
bustled from the parking lot to the check-in desk while Martin drove around
looking for a space.  Fred, the old man behind the counter, gave me the
fish eye.  It was his job to keep hookers out off the premises unless they
paid him five dollars.  The handcuffs I was still wearing must have made
him think that he could hit me up for ten.

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

	He looked me over and decided to answer.  "He came in a little
while ago with two friends.  They went upstairs, then came down and went
out again.  You just missed him."

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

	"Yes," he answered, made suspicious by the tone of my question.

	Martin now hurried into the lobby.  "Are we too late?" he asked,
winded.

	"I don't know," I replied.  "They've already been here and gone.
It sounds like they didn't get O'Malley -- or she's still up there minus a
few quarts of blood.  Worse, it would have been another murder they'd have
pinned on me!

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

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

	Now Fred paused, either decided to play it coy or enjoying his view
of my cleavage too much to spoil it.  "I have to keep the guests
confidences." he finally said.

	Oh, sure!  I'd heard that one before from a lot of different desk
jockeys.  It always meant that the guy was a chiseler hooking for a bribe.

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

	The difference didn't seem to make much difference to Frederick and
he went back to sorting the mail.

	"Give him a fin," I told Martin.

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

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

	"Oh, all right," he sighed and slapped his endangered specie on the
counter top.

	The clerk stuffed the bill into his shirt pocket, saying, "She went
out two hours ago -- just a quarter hour after Mr.  Callahan brought her
in.  She was accompanied by a gentleman named B.J.  Waters."

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

	The old man sniffed.  "He never mentioned his occupation and I
never put much stock in gossip."

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

	"He asked where the black girl went."

	"And you told him?"  "Of course.  She was his guest."

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

	"Sorry, no," replied the clerk.  "I overheard the red-haired woman
say to Mr.  Callahan that she knew someone who'd know his whereabouts."

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

	"Check the phone book?" he suggested.

	"Great idea!  There's one in mah -- in Callahan's room," I
exclaimed.  "There's also a spare key to these nippers."

	His brows drew together.  "How do you know that?"

	"Uh, it's logical, isn't it?"

	"I suppose, but --"

	I glanced back toward Fred.  "Give me the keys to 314."

	He looked at me censoriously.  "I can't do that without Mr.
Callahan's permission.

	"I'm --" Again, I'd almost made a fatal slip.  "I'm Mr.  Callahan's
personal secretary."

	Old Fred was a hard man to convince.  "Is that so?" he asked
coolly.

	"I know what you're thinking," I said stiffly, "but I'm disguised
for an undercover assignment.  Anyway, you sure as hell know Mr.  Dewitt
here, Callahan's partner."

	The clerk nodded coolly in Martin's direction.  "I'd like to help,
Sir, but it would still be a highly-irregular."

	I knew that the only thing that Fred really considered irregular
was spilling his guts without getting his palm greased again.  "Martin, do
you have another fiver?" I asked.

	"No, just chump change."

	"How much?"

	He dug about a dollar and a quarter from his pants pocket.  The
clerk appeared unimpressed.  It was all up to me, I knew.

	Leaning closer once more, I whispered: "I know what you've been
looking at since the minute I walked in here.  If you let us have the key
for a few minutes you can do more than just look."

	"Sheila!" Martin blurted, scandalized.

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


#

	The experience I had with Fred back in the alcove was definitely
something to keep out of my diary, but at least it had gotten me the loan
of the desk key.

	Once up in my room we found no evidence that O'Malley had ever been
there.  There was quite a bit of disorder, of course, but instinct told me
that the three rhinoceroses space were responsible.  Probably the pimp had
intercepted the senator before she'd even reached my door.  What was harder
to guess was why had she gone with him?  Had she been forced?  However one
cut it, O'Malley was in for a rough time with a character like B.J.  I
wouldn't wish anything like that on a Democrat ?  unless it was one of
those backing Campaign Finance Reform.

	Martin and I had to beat the aliens to Blackjack's place, wherever
that was, or she was dead meat.  Not to put the cart before the horse,
though, I pretended to search randomly for my handcuff keys before I
"luckily" found them in a drawer.  Afterwards, I thumbed through the white
pages looking for the listings of people named Waters.  None of them were
named as Benjamin John and it figured.  An outlaw like B.J.  usually
arranged for an unlisted number.

	Martin had been reading the names over my shoulder, his breathing
coming slow and deep.  I looked back at him and said, "There's a pack of
beef jerky in the fridge."

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

	Playing Cosmo Topper yet again, I said, "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?"

	Martin didn't argue, but went to the refrigerator.  I could have
used a feed bag myself just then, but I couldn't resist the tingle in my
bladder any longer, though I wasn't eager to experience my new plumbing.

	Afterwards, I came back and dug into my address book, looking for
gambling contacts.  I was going to try the bookies and the handlers of
floating craps games since B.J.  had a reputation for being a dunker.  It
was like I was gambling, too, trying to see if I could find O'Malley before
the aliens did!



* * * * *




		   Chapter 11

	The General Narrative, continued


	 Because of the pain of her nipple-clamps, Ginger Spice O'Malley's
could almost overlook the burning ache in her arms and shoulders caused by
her struggle to get free.  Her distraught state of mind was made even worse
by that blaring music kept playing.  Yet the longer she listened, the
better it sounded.

	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!"

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

	She gasped.  What had she said?  Her only hope lay in an absolute
refusal to cooperate.  She waited with baited breath, dreading the sound of
approaching footsteps.  A strangled cry of dismay left her lips when a
thumping stride on the carpet outside announced that someone was coming.
Again O'Malley fought wildly against the strength of her manacles, but it
was too late.  The doorknob turned and the portal swung open.  Just as she
had feared, Blackjack was standing between the jambs, but he wasn't alone
this time.  Behind him stood a man and a woman -- and she knew the man!

	"Callahan!" O'Malley blurted, beside herself with relief.  "Get me
out of here!" The dark-haired man in the rumpled trench coat stepped around
the pimp, saying, "It wasn't easy finding you, Miss O'Malley, but you're
all right now.  We're taking you with us." He scowled severely at
Blackjack.  "Get her loose, and make it snappy, you bum!"

	"Okay, okay, sir," B.J.  sniveled, all his late brashness gone.  He
compliantly plucked the clamps off O'Malley's nipples and freed her wrists.
Her features grimaced in discomfort as she drew her stiffened arms forward.

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

	"Will do," replied Leigh, who came forward to put her arm around
Ginger and lead her away.  "Come on, honey.  We've got places to go."

	Ginger looked back at Callahan.  "I thought that brunette Sheila
worked for you," she murmured, a bare hint of suspicion in her tone.  She
sensed something too pat about this sudden rescue and B.J.'s sudden
passivity.  If the pimp had wanted her so badly why was he throwing in the
towel just because a down-and-out dick showed up-

	"Sheila's minding the office," Callahan explained tersely.  "Leigh
works with me on the really tough cases."

	O'Malley nodded blankly.  When the women were out of earshot
Callahan shifted toward B.J., asking, "Should we take your old body along
with us?"

	His mouth set in a bent grin.  "No, I want that body back.  I won't
keep this one for very long -- just long enough to trap Callahan.  I'm
going to make it look like the pimp and the dick killed one another."

	"Good idea!" the Callahan-alien agreed.  "Why don't we all wait and
back you up?"

	"Because O'Malley is too important.  We have to check her in before
anyone in authority starts asking questions.  Djomni can stay, but you and
Roissar have to escort O'Malley to the lab without wasting any more time.

	The Callahan frowned, his blue eyes level under drawn brows.  "I
don't like it.  I know every thought in that dick's head and he can be as
tricky as all hell.  We should call in for more muscle."

	B.J.  gave his subordinate the 'you're a dunce" look.  "Absolutely
not!  The Committee would have our heads if they found out how we let
O'Malley slip away and that she's been talking to people.  Hopefully she'll
be reprogrammed before anyone thinks about questioning her.  We'll be lucky
if this snafu doesn't end with us getting liquidated as defectives."

	Leigh and Ginger reappeared a few minutes later, with Ginger
squeezed into a hot-pink frock from Gina's wardrobe.  "Why didn't you give
me time to find something less provocative?" O'Malley was complaining.

	"Stop bitching, Senator," Leigh whispered harshly.  "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 away before they arrive."

	That sage advice effectively quieted Ginger's protests.

	Callahan walked up 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, a
hint of desperation in her voice.

	The man's expression was tough and grim.  Hard question, Save it
for later."


#

	Once left alone, the false B.J.  made for the bedroom where the
real pimp laid dead-to-the-world in the body of the red-headed working
girl.  The alien had used many different bodies over the years.  He never
got sentimental over any one of them, but a first-rate body like that
always had it's uses.

	Just then, Djomni, the wino driver, emerged from the kitchen,
having kept out of sight as long as O'Malley was around.  It wouldn't have
been easy to explain why Callahan was keeping company with a ragged
derelict.  The bogus pimp filled him in on the plan and then sat down to
think.  To the team-leader had been sorting over Blackjack's thoughts and
memories without finding much of interest.  But yet there was something --
something that the pimp had been keeping suppressed.  The secret nagged at
him, but he couldn't focus it.  The alien finally shrugged.  With any luck
he'd soon be out of the body and the thoughts buried in it wouldn't matter.

	About twenty minutes later, the door knocked yet again.  The
mock-pimp alerted Djomni and checked the security lens.  His heartbeat
quickened at the sight of the real Callahan and the man behind him, one
whom he recognized as Callahan's partner, Dewitt.

	The alien checked the gun in his pocket.  This was going to be
short and sweet.  .  .  .



* * * * *










		   Chapter 12

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 It was a full thirty seconds before Blackjack's door swung open.
"Howdeedo, Pretty Woman," B.J.  Waters boomed at me.  "What can we do for
you?"

	I glanced at Martin, who was keeping a lookout, then I got down to
brass tacks: "Look, B.J., there's trouble brewing.  Did you get a visit
from D.C. Callahan, or maybe from somebody you didn't know?  Or maybe it
was somebody you did know, but you thought was acting funny?" That just
about covered the whole population, I thought.  Sheesh!  This alien
invasion business really could make a guy paranoid.

	The pimp frowned thoughtfully at my question.  "No, can't say that
I have.  Not lately, anyway.  What's the beef?  Is D.C. makin' some sort of
trouble?"

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

	The black man addressed Martin over my head: "What is this?  I know
you're D.C.'s partner.  Why are you two actin' like your pal's one of the
bad guys?"

	"D.C.'s gone sour," said Martin.  "If we find him I have to take
him down.  This lady can fill you in on the details.  I'm keeping watch in
case he shows up."

	"Well, come on in," B.J.  said amiably enough as he stepped out of
the way.  Martin sidled in, too, but remained at the peep hole.

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

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

	"Well, it's a shame that you're a straight lady.  I could use a
girl who's stacked like you."

	I just bet he could, the jerk!

	"You didn't explain why D.C. would want to mess with me," he
continued.

	"Is it because I took that lady of his out for coffee?  I didn't
mean to step on the dude's toes.  I know how tough he is.  It's just that
she seemed so lonely."

	His show of respect for D.C. made me warm up to him just a little.
"Yes, the girl's part of it.  D.C. is going to come looking for her, or
he'll send people just as bad as him.  Your only safe bet is to get rid of
her in a hurry."

	"I already got rid of her," Blackjack averred, all innocence and
sincerity.  "She didn't seem to like my business proposition and so took
off as soon as she bottomed out on doughnuts.  I thought she'd gone back to
the hotel."

	I didn't swallow the man's story.  Most likely, O'Malley would have
gone back unless something happened to her.  Something must have happened,
and the most likely thing was B.J.  Waters.  I couldn't imagine a dedicated
pimp like him letting a babe like O'Malley waltz away scot-free.  "Would
you mind if we had a look around?" I asked, trying to keep my voice sweet
and non-confrontational.

	His brows shot up.  "You wound me, little lady, but I want to keep
D.C. off my back.  Look the place over, all you want; you'll see that
there's nobody here but my gal Gina."

	"Where's this Gina?" I asked.

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

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

	Blackjack showed me to his bedroom door.  "We'll just peek in on
her, okay?"

	I nodded and peered in on a nude girl curled up on a disordered
bed, red hair covering most of her face.  I knew at once that it couldn't
be O'Malley.  Nor did I see any place else to hide a person in that room.
The brass bed stood so high I could easily see under it and the closet
doors already hung wide-open.

	We withdrew without a peep.

	"Look," he said.  "I can put the word out on the street.  If any
chacha who looks like Miss O'Malley is still shebopping around Washington
it'll get back to me in a day or so.  Your number is in the phone book,
right?"

	"Yes," I affirmed, "under 'Detective Agencies." Now, I'd still like
to search the rest of the place."

	He threw up his hands.  "You can't still think that I'm hiding
O'Malley?"
	"Now more than ever, Smart Guy.  You have that kind of face."

	A big, benign smile spread across his map.  "I'll take that as a
compliment."

	Ever since we'd entered 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 working out in there," he replied.

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

	As it turned out, the storeroom actually was empty.  There was
bondage restrains attached to a big pipe -- the sort of thing you might
find in any sexual athlete's pad.

	"Your favorite song?" I asked, glancing down at the tape player on
the floor.

	"I like it," he said with a shrug, then stooped to switch it off.

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

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

	I let him go and poked my nose into the kitchen all alone.  I
checked to see if anyone was locked inside the refrigerator, but only
discovered enough food to make me envious and very, very hungry.  When had
this body last eaten?  I wondered.

	At this juncture, the only place left to hide a girl-sized object
was the kitchen broom closet.

	Something seemed to warn me just then.  It wasn't woman's
intuition, naturally, since I wasn't a real woman.  I guess it had to be
chalked it up to my gumshoe instincts, which hardly ever fail.  For
whatever reason, I was drawing bad vibes from the closet and so, preparing
for a surprise; I stood back and opened the door swiftly, simultaneously
checking it out through the door crack.

	In a flash, I saw the man and I saw his heater.  He lurched
forward, loaded for bear.  Not pausing to think, I threw all my weight
against the door, throwing him off his feet.  His head banged against the
metal edge of a kitchen counter as he went down like a sack of potatoes.

	Hopped up on adrenalin, I sprang on top of him and twisted the
automatic from his slack hand.  But I needn't have been so
Johnny-on-the-spot; he was out like a light.  That's when I heard the
free-for-all erupt in the living room.

	Gat in hand, I dashed to the swinging door ready to start blasting.
I drew up short; Martin and Blackjack were raining punches on one another.
I aimed my crime-stopper at Blackjack's broad back and waited for him to
try something so dirty or life-threatening that it would justify my
drilling him.  Suddenly the pimp collapsed to the floor and choked for
breath.

	Martin, bruise-jawed stood over him bewildered.  "I didn't think
I'd laid a good one on him," he muttered through aching teeth.

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

	"What happened in the kitchen?"

	"Some wino came at me with a howitzer and so I belted him.  He's
down for the count."

	"You belted him?"

	"Sure," I replied smugly.  "What do you think?"

	"You amaze me, kiddo."

	Suddenly I got a chilling thought.  "Martin, that gutterpup in the
kitchen was the alien driver.  That means that B.J.  must be an alien,
too!"

	Martin checked the pimp's condition.  "What's wrong with him?" he
asked bemusedly.  "He pulled a gun on me, but I knocked it out of his hand.
Then he tried to knock me apart with his bare fists The next thing I knew
he suddenly grabbed his chest and went down."

	"What a minute!" I piped.  "That redhead in the bedroom....  I've
seen her before, too."

	Speak of the devil.  A turning knob brought us around to see a
bleary copper-topped looker standing there nude.

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


	"Don't call me a bitch, you bitch!" the redhead squawked.  Then she
touched her throat and tried to clear it.  When her glance fell and she
realized she couldn't see her feet, she yelled: "What the hell!?"

	"What's wrong?" Martin asked.

	The dame gazed up at us with a funny expression.  "I'm dreaming
that I'm a broad!"

	Her accent seemed wrong for her complexion.  All at once, I managed
to put two and two together, came up with four, and asked, "Hey, how long
have you been a chick, Baby-o?"

	She gave me a stare like I was talking nuts.  "Who you calling a
chick ?"

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

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

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

	Without answering, I said to the girl, "You're Blackjack Waters and
you're a man, right?"

	She held her upper body up with her elbows.  "Of course I'm a man!
When I wake up, you'll see."

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

	Martin swallowed a gulp; his voice, when it came back, grated
harshly.  "Then the aliens have O'Malley already?"

	True, damn it!  We'd been racing behind the curve all day long!

	"Well, we can at least beat the crap out of these alien creeps and
find out where they've taken her!" Pard recommended, kicking Blackjack in
the side, trying to awaken him.

	"Stop it, Martin, he's out cold.  Let me feel for a pulse." I did,
then stood up shaking my head.  The alien was deader than a Democrat's
hopes in Dixie.

	"He's gone West," I said.

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

	"Maybe he wasn't so tough after all," I said, not understanding
B.J.'s timely check-out any better than Martin.  "We'd better check the guy
in the kitchen before he wakes up and gets cantankerous!"
	No chance of that, either.  The bum's skull had cracked like China
porcelain where it had hit the counter edge.  There wasn't much blood,
though, which meant that death had been instantaneous.  Without intending
to, we were batting a thousand in the body count department.

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

	Meanwhile, the woman we'd left in the bedroom now came into the
living room looking for attention.  I went out to calm her and found her
standing over the pimp's body blabbering: "He's not asleep!  He's dead; I
mean I'm dead!  I mean, I'm dreaming I'm dead!"

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

	She looked up at us.  "Why are you two still in my dream?  Why
isn't there anybody I know?" Suddenly she recognized the tall dick behind
me.  "Wait!  You're...you're D.C. Callahan's partner!"

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

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


#

	 By now, Blackjack had thrown on a green robe and sat slumped in an
upholstered chair, confused and still bleary.  We quietly sipped our port
until the redhead gathered her wits enough to demand answers, and then did
our best to paint the picture for her.  She didn't say much at first, only
shook her head in incredulity now and then.  I think she was hearing the
words all right, but still thought she was dreaming.

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

	We let her reel away.  Sleep wouldn't fix B.J.'s problem, of
course, but maybe it would help fortify her for the next sixty years of her
life.  I still didn't feel so great myself -- mortified, dog-tired, and
wolverine-hungry.

	"I'm starved," I said to Martin.  "Luckily B.J.'s got a full
larder."


	"I hope so," my partner sighed.  "I'll need some grub if I expect
to stand in the soup line tomorrow."

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

	"Yeah, bad for us -- but not as bad as for poor D.C. Christ,
Sheila, I still can't believe he's really doing the Big Sleep.  Just
thinking about it rips my guts out."

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

	He looked at me and frowned.  "Sure I liked him!  He had a wacky
streak, but he was as good a Joe as there's ever been.  Why do the
rottenest things always happen to the best people?"

	"I've been asking myself that all day," I remarked wistfully.

	He clenched his fist in front of his chest.  "It was O'Malley's
fault for getting us in this stew!"

	I must have been too heartsick to be angry; I could only shrug and
say, "What do you expect a person to do in her situation?  The only thing I
don't understand is why she came looking for us instead of one of her
big-shot lawyers.  O'Malley couldn't expect a class reunion.  He was the
jerk who ruined -- D.C.'s -- career."

	The light shimmered in his eyes.  "Don't you see it, Sheila?
O'Malley knew she couldn't go for help to any of those pettyfoggling crooks
she -- he -- hung out with on the Hill.  There's no honor among thieves.
When his ship hit the sand he had to go looking for help from the only
honest man he'd ever met in this rotten city -- and that man was
D.C. Callahan."

	"Quite a eulogy," I said, my face suddenly feeling warm.  I'd used
to worry that when I was gone nobody would have a decent thing to say about
me.  What a pleasant surprise to find out that wasn't true.

	"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
District killing people.  Aliens!  God, but the whole idea is just too
creepy!  Maybe I'm the one having the nightmares."

	"No use going off the deep end, Martin.  If there are aliens in the
world, we'll just have to take it in stride.  It's not like the Discovery
Channel hadn't try to warn us.  Anyway, worse things than that have been
home-grown, right out of Arkansas."

	Martin looked talked out and so we took a cold, sleepy supper
together without saying much more.  Afterwards, my belly full, I felt about
twenty-five percent better.  Hopefully, I'd be out of this body before it
put on any unsightly weight.

#

	Usually, the first hour after I eat is not my best time for
clear-headed planning, but I did my best.  We had to; we were in one hell
of a fix, especially me.  Martin and I didn't know where O'Malley had been
taken, or even whether she was still alive, but we couldn't give up as long
as there was the remotest chance of saving her.  My determination surprised
me; I didn't like O'Malley, but even a non-paying client is still a client
and so I owed her.  Maybe the aliens weren't jiving when they'd said that
they hadn't intended to kill either her or me right away.  But if not, that
begged the question of what exactly they did plan to do -- and then came
the visions of bloody, worm-like chest-busters that made my skin crawl.

	A sound at the outer door sent Martin and me ducking behind the
furniture.  A second later, two people suddenly walked in on us -- two
dames dressed for action of the best kind.  Since they didn't seem to be
packing heat, I stood up warily, thinking that I might come on as a little
less threatening doing the jack-in-the-box trick than would my big lug of a
partner.

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

	The darker babe stiffened as if I had doused her with ice water.
"And who the hell are you?" she demanded with a scowl.

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

	Now Martin showed himself, too, and the girls froze at the sight of
his .38.  A gent at heart, Martin obligingly stuffed the hardware into his
pocket.  Me, since I didn't have a pocket or even a purse, put my bean
shooter behind my back and stood there smiling like a valedictorian from
Vassar.

	"Where's B.J.!?" Evelyn asked, her dark eyes hot on my face.
	"Something's happened," I said around the lump in my throat.
"Blackjack dropped dead tonight."

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

	Oh-ho!  So, Blackjack had heart trouble.  A chance coronary could
explain a lot.  "A bad ticker?"

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


	"Did you shoot him?" Evelyn asked us, cold and direct.  She didn't
look mad, just interested.  I gathered that she was more likely to give his
killer a slap on the shoulder than a punch in the gut.

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

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

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

	"Can't you chicks let a man get some sleep?!" grumbled the redhead
through heavy yawns.

	I grinned abashedly.  "We'd better call class back into session;
we've got a couple new students."

#

	Evelyn seemed to get it; Gina, the shorter, more curvaceous one,
came off as a smidgen slow on the uptake.

	"How long is Blackjack going to stay this way?" Evelyn asked.  I
looked at her keenly; some people's eyes are like windows and they invite
you in.  Other people, like this Evelyn, had gleeps like mirrors; a person
can't get at what they're thinking until they show their hand ?  and it
usually has a brick in it.

	"I don't know," I admitted.  "Maybe he has to sleep with a male
alien.  That might make him a man again, but he'll never be Blackjack after
this.  B.J.'s body is deader than a Christmas tree on the Fourth of July."

	"Shit!" said the man under discussion.  "Shit!"

	"That's not the only thing," I cautioned.  "I heard the aliens say
that when they switch a man into a woman's body he gets a female sex-drive,
and vice versa, of course."

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

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

	"It gets worse," Martin put in.  "These aliens don't like leaving
witnesses behind.  They're after Sheila and probably after me, too.
They've already snatched O'Malley.  Odds are that they're going to be
coming back looking for their dead buddies -- and since they're not nice
guys they'll probably take down all three of you."

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

	Martin shook his head.  "It wasn't us.  Blackjack made his own
trouble when he brought O'Malley here.  You'd got to make plans to protect
yourselves.  We can't take this crazy story to the cops.  I suggest you
disappear -- fast."

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

	"Wherever you go," I emphasized, "it's best if you keep moving
around for a while.  We don't know what powers or what technology these
spaceballs have for tracing people.  We haven't seen anything special yet,
and that's a good thing.  On the other hand, if they still have pull inside
this Administration, like I've heard them say, the heat could go
super-nova."

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

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

	"Think quickly then," Martin advised the hooker.  "Grab what you
need and get yourselves lost."

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

	Martin laid it out cold.  "You can't let that worry you.  Keep
trading in your aluminum cans until you can afford a sex-change, but for
now you have to save your neck."

	"I've got a plan," I cut in.  "After you three clear out, Martin
and me'll set up an ambush for the bad guys.  They're bound to come
waltzing back sooner or later." "You're going to kill them?" Evelyn asked.

	"No, question them.  We told you we have a client in danger,
remember?"

	"Gee," said the blonde, "It's still hard to think that that busty
hussy with the crazy legs was a man, a senator even!  Imagine that,
Evelyn." "I don't have to," her friend replied flatly, her stare fixed
squarely at B.J.

	Martin suddenly went pensive.  "I never thought I could feel sorry
for a grafting clown like Ted O'Malley, but now I'm beginning to wonder.
At least he's human."

	"I only wish more people were," I replied with a sigh.

* * * * *






		   Chapter 13

	The General Narrative, continued


	 The Ford Taurus turned down a bumpy lane and steered up into a
driveway with an iron gate across its end, which Leigh got out to open.
Beyond the woven wire barrier O'Malley saw a closed-down factory looming in
almost total darkness.

	"Why are we stopping in this God-forsaken place?" she asked
Callahan.

	"It's the best hiding place we know of," he replied.  "My
underworld connections recommend it highly."

	"I don't want to stay in a dead building alongside fugitives from
the law!"

	"We're the only ones there," he assured the ex-senator.  "And the
building looks a lot better on the inside.  Anyhow, we don't have much
choice.  The aliens will be looking for all of us.  Dewitt and Miss Coffin
are already inside."

	"Okay, okay.  It's just that I've been through hell today."

	"You don't look so good, Senator.  Have you chowed down lately?"

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

	"Well, we've got about two hundred dollars worth of groceries
stashed in the hideout."

	"Do yuh have any other clothes?" she asked.

	"No problem," Callahan said with a grin.  "Sheila brought enough
baggage to fill Saks Fifth Avenue; maybe something of hers will fit you."

	O'Malley replied with a look of disquiet.  "Callahan, how long will
we have to hide?  Do yuh have a plan for getting us out of this?  For
getting my old body back?"

	"Martin and me have been working out an angle.  We aren't sure how
it will play out, so we'd prefer not to get your hopes up."

	"Don't do me any favors, Mistah," she replied disapprovingly.  "The
one thing I need now is hope!"

	"We'll play it yuhr way then," the detective responded ambiguously,
just as Leigh returned to the driver's seat.

	Stopping in the lot behind the factory, Callahan assisted O'Malley
from the back seat.  The ex-senator actually didn't need a lot of that kind
of help anymore; she was feeling a lot steadier in stilettos, her body
being already accustomed to women's shoes.  Nonetheless, it wasn't easy
navigating the uneven asphalt of the cracked, weed-grown parking lot.

	Her companions ushered her to a rear entrance where Callahan
pressed what looked like a key-card up against a metal fixture, which
turned out to be a disguised electrical lock.  This move surprised O'Malley
and she asked, "How did yuh rig something so fancy this quickly?"

	"It wasn't us.  A lot of mob money's been spent here."

	O'Malley shrugged.  "Yeah, I know about mob money.  My brother
O-D'ed on it."

	Without replying, the detective duo led her down a twelve-foot
aisle at the end of which was a newer door next to a faintly-lit magnetic
box.  Callahan used a key-fob to open it and they stepped through.  The
hall beyond lacked decoration of any kind, except for old company posters
and stale announcements, but the floors were cleanly-swept at least.

	Suddenly the detectives looked at her and she sensed a change in
their manner.  "Well, you gave us a run for our money, Senator," Leigh
suddenly said sneeringly, "but we always get our man."

	The black girl gasped, suddenly suspicious.  "What are you saying?"

	Callahan's grip on her arm tightened.  "We're saying we're the big
bad aliens you've been trying to get away from all this time." The blood
drained from O'Malley's face.  "No, you're putting me on!"

	Spielman shook her head.  "No way, Jose.  We got Callahan's body a
half hour after he left you at his hotel.  Now we're going do to you what
we intended before you escaped."

	"No!" O'Malley cried, pulling away and almost falling down.

	"Nowhere to run, Babe," grinned Callahan.  "Now we've got our own
man in Congress wearing your body and casting your vote.  We would have
switched you earlier, but you always voted the way our guys in the
leadership told you to, anyway.  But so many of our people are coming over
from Russia that we can't afford to generous.  I guess you were wrong when
you said that illegals don't take American jobs," he added with a laugh.
"Look, I can pay yuh people off!" O'Malley pleaded.  "I've salted away
millions from phony book deals and multinational kickbacks!"

	"We've already got control of all your money," Spielman said
amusedly.  "Haven't you realized that you're penniless."

	"W-What are you going to do with me?!" the prisoner stammered, not
wanting to hear the answer, but trying to gain time to think.

	"We're going to put you to work until we need your body for another
of our agents to use.  Now, move your tush, Sweetie Pie!"

	She dug her heels but they dragged her along per force.  "I'll
never work for you!" O'Malley yelled.  "You'll have to kill me first!"

	The ruckus must have attracted attention.  A man wearing a lab came
out of one of the doors just then.  "So you finally brought O'Malley in?"
he remarked acidly as he looked them up and down.  "Where did you two get
those new bodies?"

	"It's a long story.  We had to lay low overnight; someone got our
description as kidnappers.  Gerrog will make the formal report when he
checks in."

	Lab Coat shrugged; he was a scientist and it wasn't his job to
supervise the clean-up squads.  "You're lucky that we have enough time
tonight to do the modifications right away," he said.  "Bring her along."

	The three aliens manhandled O'Malley into a room, which turned out
to be a lab lined with computerized equipment.  They shoved her into a
chair rigged with an electrical apparatus of some sort.  The false Leigh
and Callahan quickly bound the black girl's wrists and ankles with velcro
straps, then one of them fitted an awkward metal helmet over her head.

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

	The false Callahan condescended to explain.  "Most people have some
latent telepathic talent; psychics have a lot more.  The helmet lets you
receive the information that we're going to feed into your memory cells.
It's basically a mechanical simulation of what our race does naturally as a
survival adaptation."

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

	"A lot of what we give you will fade away in a few months" time,
but you probably won't live that long.  When we need that body, we'll just
switch you into some derelict and drown you in the Potomac."

	O'Malley stared open-mouthed when she heard her fate pronounced.

	Lab Coat now turned a dial, which enabled an electrical effect that
numbed the conscious portion of her brain.  In fifteen seconds she had been
placed into a state of altered consciousness.

	The technician tested her trance, looked satisfied, then said,
"O'Malley, you will hear my questions and will answer them with absolute
truthfulness.  Do you understand-

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

	"Good.  Now, when I ask you a question, you give the answer twice.
You must answer the question in exactly the same way both times.  If you
understand, nod."

	O'Malley nodded.

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

	"No!" O'Malley answered truthfully, but then fell silent.

	"Remember," the Lab Coat admonished, "I said you must answer each
question twice!  Again, do you want to be cooperative?"

	"Yes!" O'Malley exclaimed truthfully.

	Now the technician was ready to begin the processing.  The first
answer allowed the machine to tag that part of the brain that stored a
particular memory or attitude.  Then the data bank immediately over-wrote
the original memory with a selected substitute.  The second answer was
required simply to confirm that the new memory was firmly in place.  It
looked like O'Malley would be an especially good subject.

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

	"Four," O'Malley replied.  "Mother was a society lady.  Dad was a
political leader."

	Then she repeated her answer and was not conscious that the second
answer was totally different from the first.  "None.  Mother was a whore
and dad was one of the johns who screwed her.  She never knew which john."

	"Are you male or female?"

	"Male!


	"Female.  Isn't it obvious?"

	"What is your profession?"

	"I'm a U.S.  Senator.

	"I'm a ho."

	"What's your name?"

	"Theodore Sean O'Malley.

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

	"Which would you rather make love to?  Men or women?"

	"Women, of course!

	"Both, but I always prefer men with first-rate equipment."

	"If an employer struck you physically, what would you think?"

	"I think I'd find a way to destroy him!

	"I'd think it was because I'd let him down and he only hit me so
I'd remember to do better next time."

	"What is your greatest ambition?"

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

	"To be a big-screen actress with my picture in all the movie
magazines."

	"Who do you most trust?"

	"Myself.

	"My sweet man!"

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

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

	"That's the way sweet men are.  And I want my man to wear the best
clothes, drive the best cars, and go to the best nightclubs!  That's how I
show the world what a big success I am!"

	"What is your favorite pastime?"

	"Golf.

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

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

	"`Here lies a Pretty Woman who could really suck and fuck!'"

	"What fashions do you prefer?"

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

	"Really tight, really short dresses, and heels so high they let me
touch the sky!"

	After many other questions of this kind, Lab Coat progressed to the
dialect lesson.  This was important, since it would arouse suspicions if a
whore from the ghetto spoke like one of the Boston Irish.  Therefore, he
showed Latisha Jones a screen displaying many words and phrases and told
her to read each word out loud.

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

	"Now read them again, Miss Jones."

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

	Before he was finished, the scientist had implanted about a
thousand Eubonic pronunciations into Latisha's vocabulary.  Then the lesson
passed on to phraseology.

	"Now, Latisha, I want you to read each sentence you see on the
screen twice."

	Jones read the first sentence, which was: "`Right after the music,
this man came on the radio shouting about something amazing that he wants
to sell.'"

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

	After two more hours of grueling work, O'Malley's Eubonic speech
patterns were firmly implanted.  Finally, Lab Coat decided to add the
finishing touch:

	"Miss Jones, can you read or write?"

	"Y'betcha, Ah shor kin!"


	When Latisha gave the second required answer, she said:

	"No, suhr!  Ah ain't nebber bin t'school, yuh know!  Nebber wanted
ta go."

	The alien technician switched off his equipment, his job done.  A
Harvard education had been deep-buried electronically in just ten seconds.
He felt the warm glow of satisfaction knowing that the invasion force had
another ripe, eager young streetwalker earning American money to help take
over America.

* * * * *





		   Chapter 14

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 B.J.  Waters and his girls had just tossed some stuff into
suitcases and then disappeared for parts unknown.

	Now left alone in the apartment with Martin, I took first watch.
That was my idea, being worried that my partner would play Sir Galahad and
stay up all night.  That stunt didn't go over with me because I'd need him
well-rested at my back when the aliens finally showed up.

	Before bedtime, we'd rigged a crude trap at the door to put the
aliens at a disadvantage.  Even so, I couldn't shake the notion that we
might be wading in too deep.  What would stop those extraterrestrial jokers
from bringing in battalions of reinforcements-

	Well, what was the alternative?  Give up on O'Malley?  Stay in
Sheila's body forever?  No way; I'd go down fighting!

	Stake-out is one of my least favorite jobs.  Most of the time a
detective's life is not very dangerous and it's hardly ever exciting.  This
setup was different.  I wished to high heaven we could just bow out of it
and call the cops.  The trouble was, talking about aliens to city bulls
would win a guy an all-expense-paid trip to the loony bin -- and at lot
worse if the brass turned out to be aliens, too.

	I had no problem staying awake.  I felt like I had a famished mink
caged inside and even Tom Daschle on the cover of TIME Magazine looked kind
of good to me.  I don't want to exaggerate, but if a sex-starved motorcycle
gang broke in just then, I'd probably have considered it a lucky break!

	Instead of torturing myself with sexual fantasies, I tried to
concentrate on the best way to find O'Malley.  In this captial, trying to
find one particular girl dressed like a hooker was like looking for one
particular straw in a straw stack.  Flat-backing was just about the only
growth industry that Washington had left.

	Chances were that the aliens would have taken O'Malley to one of
their lairs.  They probably had a large number of safe houses, just like
any other criminal enterprise.  They might even have taken her out of the
city.  Things were looking pretty grim for both the senator and for me.

#

	 I stuck out my watch until three and then got up to kick Martin
out of bed.  I heard him breathing in his slumber, and then went into his
room.  Suddenly I stepped on something in the dark and fell face-first
across my pard's sleeping body.

	"Aliens!" he started yelling.

	I just barely ducked a roundhouse that would have decked me.
"Martin!  Cut it out!  It's me!" "Wha--?  S-Sheila?"

	He stopped struggling and snapped on the lamp.

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

	"Hey, cool it, Pard!  I'm just letting you know it's time for your
watch."

	He grunted.  "You didn't have to jump in bed just to tell me that!
Not that you're not welcome."

	"Don't get your hopes -- or anything else -- up, Buster.  I just
stumbled." I glanced down at the floor, wondering what had tripped me up.
Then I saw a black, high-heeled pump.  There was also a lycra minidress of
the same color beside it, and that got me to thinking.

	"Hey!" I exclaimed.

	"What?"

	"That outfit!  It belonged to the alien before she switched with
B.J."

	He stayed quiet for a couple heart beats, then asked, "So what?"

	"I was just thinking that maybe she left a clue to tell us where
she and her gang hung out.  Maybe that's where they've taken O'Malley!"

	"I've got you!" Martin, swinging around to a sitting position.
"But it's not likely that she keeps her calling cards in her Wonder Bra."

	"Think like a detective, Martin!" I got down on my hands and knees
to look under the bed.

	"What are you after?"

	"Her purse," I said, "but I don't see it."

	"You ought to start thinking like a detective yourself," he jabbed
back.  "A woman wouldn't just drop a bag on the floor; she'd put it down
somewhere to free her hands so that she could work at her zippers." He
stood up wearing nothing but cranberry-colored briefs and went to the
bureau.  "Ah!" my exhibitionist partner murmured as he plucked a red
plastic purse from the dresser.

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

	The bag held nothing but ordinary woman-stuff, along with a spork
from a fast-food restaurant, a cafe napkin, and a lipstick-smudged tissue.
But it also contained a couple rings of keys, one of which had a large
brass twister, some kind of swipe-card, and a plastic do hinkey that I
recognized as a fob-key for an electronic lock.  Otherwise, there was
nothing except several little slips of printed-paper.

	"Wherever she's been it has a lot of locks," I observed.

	He nodded absently.  "The trouble is, there's nothing to tell us
how to find the doors that these keys open."

	"What are those papers?" I queried.

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

	"Wait a second, Martin!  If she had several coupons from the same
place that has to mean she was hanging around that neighborhood for some
reason.  Maybe she has an apartment nearby, or else it's next to an
important alien headquarters that she had to report to a lot.  More likely,
it's the latter; most people don't bother with fast food joints in their
own neighborhoods.  I don't know how much alien assassins earn, but I doubt
they'd stick to it if it bring them enough to afford a kitchenette
apartment."

	Martin looked up in mild surprise.  "You're damned good at that
kind of reasoning, Doll!  I never figured that you had a detective bone in
your body!"

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

	Oops!  No reason to slug the guy.  He was talking about Sheila, not
D.C.

	"I mean it's not fair to jump to conclusions.  If either one of you
two would have just once taken me out on a case you'd have been surprised."

	"Take you out?  You wouldn't let us get past, 'Good morning, Miss
Coffin.'"

	"That's not true!" I said with a grin.  "When did I ever object to
'Good night, Miss Coffin-'"

	I guess the funny stuff meant that I was feeling giddy from lack of
sleep; even so, I pushed my luck and said, "The fact is, I took a job with
a detective office just so I could learn the ropes and become an operative
myself someday.  I knew the work would be good training before I started my
own agency later on.  I live and breathe the detection business, don't you
know?  I've read all the good writers."

	Martin's brows flickered.  "That's incredible!  You read and write
detective stories?  You and D.C. should have been best friends."

	Opps again!  I had to get him off that track -- and fast.  "Sames
repel, opposites attract," I told him.  "Anyway, D.C put me off by
continually undressing me with his eyes."

	"Is that the reason you didn't warm up to me either?"

	I gave him the glom, curled my lip, and said: "Is that what you
were doing, you dirty young man?"

	"It's what I'm still doing," he admitted with a smirk, "and that
outfit you're wearing does half the work for me."

	I pushed him away.  "I'll have to put blinders on you!  What a
lech!"

	He took another gander at the coupons.  "They come from a place
called the Carousel," he said.  "I never heard of it.  Maybe it's a
one-restaurant establishment, or part of a chain not well-represented
around these parts."

	"Quick," I said, "let's check the phone book!"

* * * * *






		  Chapter 15

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 Without Ma Bell's help, it would be a lot harder for us detectives
to make ourselves look brilliant.  The Carrousel's number was listed, all
right, but when we called we only got a recording that said the cafe opened
at seven in the morning and there would be a pancake special for $1.98.
That sounded good to me, but the message didn't mention the price of
coffee.  High-priced coffee is where the joints usually rip you off with
their cheap-meal specials.  Anyway, Martin and me didn't have two dollars
between us.

	"We'll have to hang around here till morning," said Martin
resignedly.

	I was too excited to stand still.  "Maybe if scouted the area
around the Carrousel tonight we'd spot a likely place for alien activity.
They seem to like old warehouses and factories."

	He shook his head.  "No, bad idea.  We could chase around all night
without finding anything.  There's a good bet that the help at the
Carrousel can remember a knockout like the redhead, especially if she ate
there more than once.  Besides, if one of those space goons comes back here
tonight we might be able to beat O'Malley's whereabouts out of him.  Or
her."

	"Oh, you'd hit a woman, would you?"

	"I'd hit a woman who wasn't a real woman."

	I smiled blandly.  "Well, don't ever do that unless you have a darn
good reason."

	"What are you talking about?"

	"Nothing.  I'm just getting punchy from staying up so late."

	"Go to bed, Sheila.  I'll wake you at nine."

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

	He shook his head in remonstrance.  "That'll give you less than
three hours of shut-eye."

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

	"When you were doing what?" he asked.

	"When I was a Girl Scout.  Do you think us chicks didn't have to
sweat blood to win those merit badges!"

	"Sounds like they run a really tough outfit," he observed with a
grin.

	"The Girl Scouts build women!  If I had a daughter I'd put a Scout
beret on her tousled little bean and send her out to push cookies!"

	He glanced at me sidewise.  "You like kids then?"

	What a question!  I mumbled, "I'll sleep in one of the other
bedrooms," and then left quickly.  #

	I chose Gina's room to bunk down in and I wasn't sorry to be
slamming the mattress.  In what seemed like two shakes, the sun woke me up
trying to get into my head.  A funny deal, sleep.  Even though I'd dropped
off the instant my head hit the pillow, here I was wide-awake and it wasn't
even six o'clock.  Bummer!  I wondered if Sheila was one of those people
who didn't need many z's.  I hoped not, because conking out for ten hours a
day is half the fun I get out of life.  But, of course, I didn't think I'd
have to be Sheila for very long.  That thought was the only thing that had
let me sleep at all.

	I think that it was my antsiness and not the sun that kept me from
getting back to sleep.  I rolled out of bed and sat on the edge.  Those
aliens hadn't been kidding about their extra-terrestrial sex-drive.  I
wanted and needed a cold shower badly, but decided to check out Gina's
wardrobe first, hoping to find a pair of blue jeans and a plain cotton
shirt.  But my dream outfit didn't turn up, probably because Gina had taken
her practical things with her when she'd gone on the lam.  Anyway, the
stuff she left behind would have looked better under the light of a lamp
post.

	In my search, I'd found her lingerie drawer and, to my surprise,
got a charge by running my hands through it.  The next thing I knew, I
found myself picking up a silky little thing and inhaling its laundry-room
freshness.  Bad move; I felt myself breaking out into a sweat.

	When that happened, I dropped the garment and faced off with the
bureau mirror, frowning disapprovingly at what I saw.  A comb hadn't
touched that hair since the morning before and I'd slept on it since.  I
picked up a comb from the dresser top and tried to bring a little order to
the fright wig.  Easier said than done; by the time I finished teasing the
snarls, I resembled an Italian actress in a cheap adventure movie.

	On the other hand, I like cheap Italian adventure movies.  All of a
sudden, I found myself unbuttoning my pje top, and let it slip off my arms.
After that, I stepped out of the elastic waistband of the bottoms and
suddenly Sheila was standing there in the all-together.

	Wow!  All that and no stable in the way!  It was more than a
red-blooded American male could resist, and so I cautiously touched one of
Sheila's glories.

	Jeepers!  They were sensitive!  How did Sheila ever ever keep her
hands off them?  In fact, I knew less than ever how any girl with that kind
of body have been such prude?  That thought gave me an idea and I sauntered
back to the lingerie drawer.

	My addenda called for a little privacy.  The door had no lock, so I
braced a chair under the doorknob -- just like I did to keep my brother
Jack out of my room when I was fifteen and sneaking a peek at some of his
men's magazines.  Back in those days I was so desperate for a girl that I
wanted to move to some sleazy bar in Borneo, where the best-stacked and
most willing ones seemed to hang out.

	Charge white-hot by my reminiscences, I returned to the dresser and
picked out a black corset.  The under wiring didn't look too comfortable,
but I bit the bullet and wriggled into it.  Actually, the outfit didn't
feel much better than I'd expected, being too tight around my ribs, but I
liked what I saw in the mirror.  There she was, the kind of girl in the
kind of outfit that sets a teenage boy's blood on fire.  I couldn't help
but wonder whether women had as much fun looking at themselves as men had
looking at them.  Maybe so; it would explain why it took dames so long to
dress.

	I continued adding accessories, pretty much knowing where thing
fits.  I wasn't a virgin, after all, and at one time, I was probably
subscribing to more lingerie catalogues than Gypsy Rose Lee ever did.  Soon
I had the G-string where it belonged and a pair of nylons pinned securely
to the garters.  Whoa!  The total effect almost knocked me out!

	The reflected girl was a bunny in every way.  I mean, she could
have passed muster wearing with ears, a bow tie, and cotton tail.  Yeah, I
could see that Sheila would have made a great cocktail waitress.  What a
pity that she'd hidden her light under a bushel!

	This was definitely better than a Playboy Magazine.  I struck one
pin-up pose after another in front of the mirror.

	When the black outfit got old, I doffed it and tried out a
three-piece teal-green set and stood back to take in the effect.

	"Sheila, I think I love you!" I heard myself saying as I backed up
from the mirror to get a better look.  That's what got me into trouble --
not looking where I was stepping.  I caught my heel on an electrical cord
and jerked a lamp down off its stand.  It hit the throw-rug with a loud
bump and the next thing I knew Martin was pounding on the door like a
Prohibition agent in 1929.

	I froze.  Here I was wearing something I wouldn't want to be caught
dead in.  Because I was too tongue-tied to yell something to calm him, he
assumed I was in danger and started banging the door with his shoulder.
Though I'd braced the chair beneath the knob, I'd left the throw rug under
its legs and the tiles were so slick that the rug slipped at the impact.
In another second, there stood Martin looking at me wearing not much more
than gooseflesh.

	He smiled apologetically.  "Sheila!  Sorry I barged in.  What was
that noise?"

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

	He gave me the up-and-down, like he liked what he saw.  "Oh, okay.
I suppose I'm little jumpy.  Did you sleep all right?" At a time like that,
he wanted conversation!

	With a warm flush heating my cheeks, I nodded nervously.  "I woke
up about five-thirty and that was all she wrote."

	"I hope that was enough sleep.  We have a big, bad day ahead of
us." He tone sounded ordinary, but his twinkling eyes were having their own
conversation with my body.

	Sheila's body, I mean.

	"Yeah," I agreed, my throat tightened with annoyance, "another day
like yesterday and we'll both be done in!" I didn't want to make a big deal
of it, but I on reflection I think that a gentleman should have looked the
other way.

	"You don't have to get involved in this mess," he said, still
showing no inclination to leave.  "In fact, I wish you'd take off and hide
somewhere until it's all over."

	Suddenly I felt too annoyed to be self-conscious.  "Hold on!  I've
got as much at stake as you do.  Why do you think my life more important
than yours?"

	"Because you're a girl!"

	"Don't rub it in!  I mean, what does my being -- what I am -- have
to do with anything?  Do you suppose I'll leave my par -- uh, my employer
-- in the lurch because of a genetic condition?" Then, calming a little, I
said, "Remember that old song, Martin?  'All it takes is heart." And,
brother, I'm full of heart!"

	He threw up his hands, stern-faced.  "Dames!  You're all alike!"

	I returned him an indignant glare.  "I'm not all alike, bucko.  I'm
one of a kind!"

	He drew in a ragged breath.  "I'm only saying you're like every
other woman because you won't listen.  No dame ever does."

	Crossing my arms defiantly, I said, "Why should I listen to you,
Einstein?  It's not like you're smarter than me!"

	He held his temper and even tried to smile.  "You're plenty smart,
Sheila, but you don't know everything.  Like, I wouldn't trust you to do
brain surgery on my Aunt Rosie.  You're out of your league!  We're up
against a mob that would have given Elliot Ness nightmares.  I'm only
trying to say, I don't want to lose my girl!"

	All my excitement chilled out at those words.  I couldn't believe
my ears.

	"Your girl?"

	That's what he'd said.  You could have knocked me over with a
feather duster.

* * * * *







		   Chapter 16

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 What actually knocked me over was catching my heel in that damned
throw rug.  Martin tried to catch me before I went down, but only succeeded
in tripping himself on a chair leg and falling across me on the mattress.

	"M-Martin, p-please!" I gasped breathlessly.  "Get off."

	He raised himself up with his arms.  "Did I hurt you?"

	"No!" I said, giving him a shove only to find that he was as heavy
as a beached whale.  "Hey, Bub, back off!"

	He didn't seem to be in any great hurry.  I suppose I wouldn't have
been either in his place.  "Last night it was you who jumped into bed with
me," he reminded me.

	"That didn't count; it was an accident!"

	"This is an accident, too."

	"Yeah, well I don't weigh as much as you!" I pointed out.

	He took my meaning and rolled to the side, but didn't go far.

	"Sheila," he said, "I want to level with you.  I've felt very
attracted to you ever since yesterday."

	I shot him a exasperated scowl.  "Since yesterday?  That long?
Well, fella, do you really think that eighteen hours of unbridled lust
makes you our generation's answer to Abelard?!"

	"I mean, I always thought you were gorgeous, but I never started
liking you until yesterday.  I didn't think that we were compatible.  Maybe
the danger and excitement has changed one of us, if not both."

	"I'm the one who's changed, Martin," I jabbered.

	He flashed me an inveigling smile.  "Well, then let's hope you
never change back."

	"Don't jinx me.  I was hoping we could get things back to normal
before too long!"

	That took the grin off his puss.  "What are you trying to say,
Sheila?  That you don't feel differently about me?"

	"This isn't about you and me, Martin.  We're both just reacting to
the danger, like you said.  I'm sure we'll both think better about this
tomorrow.

	He touched my arm; he must have had an electrical charge built up
because I felt a shock.  "What I want to keep thinking that you're the most
beautiful woman in the world."

	"Beauty -- what is it?  If you need beauty, go to an Elizabeth
Hurley movie."

	He shook his head.  "The kind of beauty I'm talking about is more
than just physical.  It's a beauty that speaks to me here." He touched his
heart.

	"Martin, I don't like where this is heading!  I'm a straight-laced
type.  Mother didn't raise her little b -- girl to be a tramp."

	His looked amazed and wronged.  "That's not what this is about.
Anyway, you couldn't be a tramp even if you tried."

	"You haven't seen me try yet!" I said and immediately regretted it.
I just can't help being a wise guy.

	"I think I'd like to see you try, then," he said, his hot breathing
brushing my midriff.

	I half rolled away, but still felt his gaze scorching my shoulders
above the halter line.

	"You're trembling," he said.

	"I need fresh air.  Either that or you need to brush your teeth."

	He gave a soft chuckle.  "If you're having trouble breathing, maybe
you need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

	I clapped my hands over my lips, but he wasn't choosy.  He pressed
me back down flush with the mattress and and settled for osculating my
cleavage instead -- a target covered sufficiently with an ash-can lid.

	"Bejesus!" I blurted.  Such a feeling!  I wondered it he had a toe
stuck in a light socket his mouth sent such electricity thought me.  Damn
that alien sex-drive!"

	"Shhh," Martin whispered as he pulled my hands away from my face.
Then he held them down at my sides while he smooched all over my mouth.  I
couldn't believe it was happening; I was swapping spittle with Martin
Dewitt!

	Martin let go of my wrists all of a sudden, but I was so spazzed
out that I missed the strategic moment to slug him.  Already his grabby
fingers had slipped into my waistband; before I could protest the invasion
of the panty-snatchers, my thong had gone to pay a call on my ankles.

	Martin, supposing himself overdressed, too, took off his shirt,
leaving just the tank top.  Before I could say or do anything he was back
crushing my body in a bear hug.

	What bothered me most was the fact that it didn't feel half bad.

	I liked girls, not guys.  I so much did not like guys that I
couldn't understand why I was feeling what I was feeling.  I still hadn't
figured it out by the time he got around to trying to unhook my bra.

	At that moment, luckily -- or unluckily -- the phone rang in the
other room.

	"Damn!" Martin swore.

	"Damn, damn, damn!" I swore right back at him.

#

	"It's just one of Blackjack's customers," I panted, realizing only
then that my hands were firmly clutching his shoulders.  "Forget it!"

	"What if it's the aliens?"

	"Tell them to get their own guy!"

	He yanked free of me and stood up.

	"If an alien answers, hang up," I mumbled.

	"No!" he exclaimed insistently.  "If we don't answer it'll put the
aliens on guard!  I'm not supposed to be here.  You'll have to do the
talking!"

	Martin dragged me after him, but I had to take short steps like a
Japanese wife since my thong was still around my ankles.  "Make them think
you're one of B.J.'s girls!" he recommended quickly.

	"Gottcha!" I said, my mind clearing with the rush of adrenalin.

	"H-Hi!" I stammered into the receiver, trying to imitate Gina's
tweetie voice while at the same time wrestling my thong back up with my
left hand.

	"Give me Blackjack," a man said on the other end.

	"You want B.J.?" I asked, stalling, hoping he's say something
useful in finding O'Malley.

	"That's what I said, babe!" This time I recognized the voice.
Weird; I was talking to myself!

	I lip-spoke the name of "Callahan" to Martin and he lip-spoke right
back to me: "He's out.  Message."

	"Blackjack went out a little while ago," I told the caller.  "I
think he just wanted to buy a smoke.  Can I take a message?"

	"No.  Have him call 'the aviator.'"

	"What's the number there?"

	"He knows it."

	The line clicked off.

	"He hung up," I said, crestfallen.  "All I got was some useless
code word: Aviator."

	"Maybe I should have pretended to be B.J."

	I nixed that.  "Uh-uh.  You don't sound like Blackjack and the
Martians must have signs and counter signs for speaking to their own kind.
They'd have to, since they need to recognize each other in different
bodies.  It's better to keep them guessing than tip them off with that kind
of blunder." His expression tensed.  "They'll get suspicious when Blackjack
doesn't call back."

	"I know," I agreed.  "That just about kills any chance of an
ambush.  But I suppose we still might find out something at the Carrousel."

	Dewitt nodded and looked at his wristwatch.  "It's about a quarter
after six.  Just time enough for a cold shower!"

	"Ladies first," he said.  "Or would you prefer to share?"

	"On second thought, maybe you're the one you really needs the cold
shower," I told him.



* * * * *



		   Chapter 17

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	"Sheila!"

	Martin had pronounced the name loudly.  I glanced through the
windshield and saw that we'd just turned off Constitution Avenue.

	I'd been lost in thought since leaving B.J.'s.  How could I have
let myself go like I had?  Now the next time Martin and I ended up alone,
he'd want to pick up where we'd left off.  Thinks were going to get pretty
tense.  In fact, just being so close to him in the car made me feel tense.

	"We'll be out of gas soon," my pard was saying, "and I've pulled in
the last of my markers around town already.  There's no one left to hit on
except you."

	"Aren't you even going to park first?" I inquired wryly.

	"I mean hit on you for a loan.  You're the last person I'm on
speaking terms with that I haven't touched."

	I let the obvious rejoinder go and considered what he'd said.  He
was right of course; Sheila was the only one in the company getting paid
regularly.  That meant she might have a stash.

	"Sure," I told him.  "As much as you want.  But we'll have to see
if my bag's still at the office.  I've got no checkbook on me, or credit
cards either.  I don't even have my apartment keys."

	"Thanks, Sheila, you're super.  You'll have my marker, for all it's
worth."

	I looked at him incredulously.  "Martin, you're word is a gold
brick as far as I'm concerned!"

	"Yeah, well, I've been called a gold brick before.  In the National
Guard, for instance."

	Just then, I had to scratch an itch; the wig I'd borrowed from
Evelyn's room tickled my forehead horribly.  Its style was controlled
chaos, angling for the messy-sexy look.  It was hot even this early in the
morning, but at least it saved me the trouble of trying to arrange my own
hair.  I mean, Sheila's hair.

	"I like your new outfit," he remarked, in the way of converstion,
after having glommed me out of the corner of his eye for the last twenty
minutes.  "Especially that hair."

	"Yeah, sure, you like the hair," I said with a derisive snort.

	"Well, to be perfectly honest, what I really go for is that vinyl
miniskirt."

	I gave my hemline a determined tug southward.  "You big lug!  Every
time I dress up like a hooker you want to tell me you like my outfit!"

	"Well, I do.  And if you're so sensitive, why didn't you put on
something more traditional?"

	I sniffed.  "What could be more traditional than the world's oldest
profession?" .

	He gave an obliging shrug.  "If it's okay for you, it's doubly okay
for me." "It's not okay!" I informed him.  "I didn't realize how hellish it
would be sitting on vinyl on a hot car seat!"

	"Why did you decide to dress like a bimbo again?" he asked,
apparently warming up to the subject.

	"There wasn't much in either one of those girls" closets which
didn't begin with the letters M-I-C-R-O," I told him.  "And, anyway, if we
have to keep swimming with the sharks of Pimp World, it makes sense to
blend in."

	"I like your logic, but is that the only reason you picked out that
outfit?"

	"Of course!  What do you think I am?"

	"I'm not sure, but I can always hope."

	What a smarmy guy!  I decided to take him down a peg.  "You should
talk about fashion!" I said snootily.  "That leather jacket and those
wrap-around cheaters make you look like a smack pusher."

	He bridled.  "They do not!  They make me look like a hard ass,
which is good in my line of work.  And, anyway, this rig's the latest
thing."

	"Well, I always liked the way Callahan dressed better."

	"You didn't!?"

	"I did!"

	"I liked the guy a lot myself, but he was an anachronism.  Can you
imagine a guy being into Alan Ladd in this day and age?"

	"What's wrong with Alan Ladd?!" I asked.  "He did a great tough
guy, even though he had to stand on a box when they filmed him next to
Veronica Lake."

	Martin grinned.  "I'd rather stand next to you than Veronica Lake
any day.  You turn me on like she never could, even if she wasn't about
eighty years old!"

	I punched him in the arm.  "What doesn't turn you on, you galoot?
Hell, I can't even put on a negligee without you slamming me to the mat
like Hulk Hogan -- that is, if Hulk Hogan had just gotten back from China
on a slow freighter with an all-male crew!  Is that how your mother taught
you to treat girls?"

	Instead of smiling, he said: "Sheila, we have to talk."

	"We are talking!"

	"We have to talk about what almost happened."

	I braced my shoulders against the seat.  I'd been doing my best to
distract him so that we wouldn't have get around to that subject.

	"Nothing happened!" I insisted.  "What's there to talk about?"

	"You know what would have happened if that phone hadn't rung."

	"Yeah.  I would have tossed you out on your keester in another
thirty seconds."

	"In your dreams!"

	"Button up and drive, Casanova!"

	He chuckled.

	"Now what are you laughing at, Weisenheimer?"

	"I never noticed until just now how much of D.C.'s lingo you picked
up."

	I didn't follow.  "What are you flapping your tonsils about?"

	"Your speech patterns.  You're the toughest-talking doll I ever ran
into!  Sure, I've known plenty of chicks who talk dirty, but you don't talk
dirty; you talk with guts -- like a man."

	I shrank.  Speech patterns, vocabulary.  I hadn't given those
things much thought; I'd had too much on my mind to remember that Sheila
used Standard English.  I'd been working on my detective dialogue for so
long that yammering in Hammettese had become my second nature.

	"I -- didn't realize that I wasn't speaking like a perfect lady," I
apologized.  "I suppose it's because D.C. was such a charismatic guy, the
kind of alpha male that people look up to, the kind that sets the
standards, that naturally he would make a lasting impression on me.  But
you're right; maybe I should lay off the -- I mean, I ought to refrain from
needlessly indulging in D.C.'s outdated urban patios."

	Martin's lips spread wide.  "No, don't.  That stuff sounds as cute
as all hell coming from you.  Every time I hear it, it makes me want to hug
you."

	I snorted.  "Keep your hugs to yourself, wise guy.  I wasn't put on
this earth to be cute!  What do you think -- that I want to be treated like
some goddamned dialect comic?!"

	He shrugged.  "I'd love you even if you talked sign language."

	The L-word!  All of a sudden I felt like I was standing on the
torch-deck of the Statue of Liberty and going all wobbly-kneed, unable to
think of anything to say.  .  .  .

	I stared straight ahead, pretending I hadn't heard the four-letter
word.  I tried to look calm, even though I was all leapin' lizards just
under the vinyl upholstery.  For whatever reason, Martin piped down, too,
and we drove on in awkward silence.


#
	The Carrousel turned out to be a small deli in a block-wide strip
mall surrounded by a worn-out industrial area.  Martin parked and the two
of us went indoors to grill the manager -- a big guy with a craggy,
sympathetic face and a badly-broken nose.  He looked like a middle-aged
prizefighter retired from the ring and taken to the bottle.  His fry-cook
outfit bulged with muscles, but his spare tire bulged even more; I think it
could have carried an eighteen-wheeler all the way to California.

	We described the redhead we were looking for and he listened
patiently.  "Yeah, I've seen her," he nodded when were were done.  "She
started coming in almost every day a couple weeks ago." He finally looked
me above the cleavage line.  "Do you and her work together?"

	"Why do you suppose she was a detective?" I asked.

	He stared at me quizzically.  "Detective?"

	Martin poked me in the ribs, and then asked our informant, "Do you
have any idea where the redhead lived?"

	"Lived?  Is she dead?"

	"Not exactly," said Pard, "but she's dropped out of sight and we
need her to help us find a missing person."

	"You two aren't going carrying trouble with you, are you?"

	Martin shook his head.  "I can't see how.  Anyway, she'll probably
never come around this neighborhood again."

	I didn't think she would either, unless B.J.  had a taste for
cut-rate cafe cuisine.

	The fry cook shrugged.  "I saw her going up or down that driveway
more than once." He stabbed his thumb over his shoulder and I saw the drive
he meant through the rear window.  "She wasn't the only one, even though
it's never been open since I've been here.  I've sometimes wondered whether
a gang isn't using the place."

	"That's interesting," I coaxed.

	"A couple days ago the redhead came in with three down-and-out
bums," the man went on.  "I thought she was a pro, but she wouldn't let any
of my customers hit on her and I couldn't understand why she was hanging
around with such down-and-out rummies.  But if she was really a detective
in disguise, maybe that explains it."

	"Nothing can explain this case, Mister," I advised him frankly.

	Martin and I thanked the man and then went outside to scout the lay
of the land.  A padlocked gate blocked the driveway he'd mentioned.

	"I'll check out those key rings in the lock," Martin said.

	I let him go and waited for him back at the car.  He rejoined me
about five minutes later looking serious but excited.  "One of the keys
fit," he announced.

	Good news that.  My internal radar told me that we were getting
close to O'Malley, and maybe to the rat that'd stolen my body.  In fact, I
could almost see his tail twitching from where I stood.

	"There's a lot of box elders growth inside the walls," Martin went
on, "so it won't be easy for anyone watching from the factory to see us
come in.  Unfortunately they're aliens and they might have Star-Trek-type
scanners.  We might be walking into a trap.  It would be smarter to wait
until dark, just in case we have to make a break for it."

	I thought that over and nixed it.  "No, Martin.  If they've got
high-tech darkness won't matter much.  We're here to save a life and so we
can't be fuzing around -- delaying, I mean.  I'm all for going in right
away, but I'm not asking anybody to jump into the skillet alongside me."

	I heard his quick intake of breath.  "What?!  You're the nuttiest
dame I ever met!  There's no way I'm letting you go in there alone."

	"Then either come with me or stuff me in the trunk and lock it,
because this is my job and I'm going to do it."

	"Don't tempt me.  It sounds kind of sexy."

	"Save your pervert fantasies for later, Dewitt.  If you're coming,
come.  But just remember that it was your own call and I didn't twist your
arm."


#

	Looking as nonchalant as possible, we walked to the gate, unlocked
it, slipped through, and closed it behind us before taking to the brush.

	"Damn!" I hissed.

	"What's wrong?"

	"I tore my pantyhose!"

	"For crying out -- They weren't yours anyway, so turn off the
five-alarm!"

	"Do you want me looking like a tramp?"

	"Yeah, I do.  It turns me on."

	I would have liked to lower the boom on my randy partner, but the
summer lightning in his eyes told me to keep mum and to do as I was told.
I was getting no-nonsense signals from him now that the tempo had speeded
up, though I'd never known him to be such a take-charge person before.  I
should have resented him for playing the boss, but his attitude reassured
me somehow.

	With him leading the way, we skulked up close to the building and
then ran crouching along its foundation, keeping out of view of the smeary,
dust-plastered old windows above us.  We found a number of doors and tried
every one we came to, looking for a place to use either the swipe card or
the electrical key that shared the ring with the brass key to the outer
gate.

	"Blast!  There's nothing here either," Martin complained after we'd
struck out on door number three or four.

	"I've got a hunch," I whispered.  "The lock we're looking for may
be disguised."

	"Disguised?  So how do we find it?"

	Without explaining, I plucked the fob-key from his hand and touched
it to every metal fixture I could find on each door we came to.  On the
third attempt, we heard a click.

	"Baby, you're incredible!" Martin exclaimed.

	I tried to look and sound modest.  "Yeah, man -- call me Honey
West!"

	"You're prettier than Honey West," he said with enthusiasm.  "Anne
Francis was built like a fireplug even when she was young."

	I looked up into his face.  "There you go again, making a big deal
about appearances!  What do they matter?" "It would matter a lot to you, if
you looked like Roseanne instead of Barbi Benton!" "Hummph!" I grunted; I
hope I've got a few years before I get that long in the tooth!" He muttered
a rejoinder, but I missed it, more interested in picking up a fallen
half-brick.

	"What's that for?"

	"A secret weapon," I explained, stuffing it into my purse.  "I
didn't know karate like Modesty Blaise, so a little ballast might come in
handy.

	Martin, clutching his peashooter close to his chest, drew the door
open and then, glimming nothing behind it, ducked inside.  That was my cue
to play follow the leader.

	A little way ahead loomed another door, but this time the swipe box
was plain to see and the card he tried on it worked like a charm.

	"Things can get dirty inside," Martin warned as he pulled the door
open a crack.  "An alarm might even go off every time the swipe box is
used."

	"Okay, so it's a risk.  I told you, you didn't have to come."

	"Chicks!  You're all nuts!"

	"Men, you're all so ?  sensitive."

	Nothing more to be said, we both held our breaths and slipped
inside, knowing full well that up ahead buzzed a hornet's nest of inhuman
monsters from outer space.  It was enough to give a man the screaming
meemies, but was also the best chance I had to get my highjacked body back!



* * * * *





		  Chapter 18

	The General Narrative, continued


	Just after midday, made suspicious by Gerrog's failure to call in,
the Callahan?  and Leigh?  aliens raided Blackjack's pad.  They picked the
door lock easily enough and satisfied themselves that no ambush waited
within.  An additional thirty-second search of the premises turned up the
two corpses stashed in the storeroom.

	"Damn!" Spielman cursed.  "Do you suppose they got out of the
bodies before they died?"

	The male's voice sounded cold when he answered.  "No.  We'd have
heard from them by now.  Somebody's going to burn for this.  Let's find out
who was here."

	An additional search turned up D.C.'s cast-off green hooker dress.
"Callahan was here!" declared Spielman, the intensity of her fury almost
choking off her breath.  "Gerrog set a trap for that damned dick, but got
whacked himself!" the other alien growled.  "Even as a woman he's
dangerous.  Who'd have believed it?!"

	"The real Blackjack is missing, too," Spielman reminded her
partner.  "We're going to have to find her, or it's another nail in our
coffins!  I can't remember having such a bad week; do you think we're
losing our edge?" "We just keep getting in deeper!" the man agreed, his
mouth thin and grave.  "Damn that Gerrog!  We should have just admitted our
first mistake and taken our medicine for it.  Now the Committee is going to
have our necks!"

	"The cops haven't been here yet," Spielman pointed out, "and I know
people saw us coming in.  We don't dare keep these bodies for much longer;
there'll be an A.P.B.  out with our description." The other shook his head
and said through gnashing teeth, "We still have time enough to find
Callahan and settle accounts." "Gerrog set a trap for that damned dick, but
got whacked himself!" the other alien growled.  "Even as a woman he's
dangerous.  Who'd have believed it?!"

	"The real Blackjack is missing, too," Spielman reminded her
partner.  "We're going to have to find her, or it's another nail in our
coffins!  I can't remember having such a bad week; do you think we're
losing our edge?"

	"We just keep getting in deeper!" the man agreed, his mouth thin
and grave.  "Damn that Gerrog!  We should have just admitted our first
mistake and taken our medicine for it.  Now the Committee is going to have
our necks!"

	"The cops haven't been here yet," Spielman pointed out, "and I know
people saw us coming in.  We don't dare keep these bodies for much longer;
there'll be an A.P.B.  out with our description."

	The other shook his head and said through gnashing teeth, "We still
have time enough to find Callahan and settle accounts."



* * * * * *





		  Chapter 19

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 Martin's hoarse whisper broke the silence of the cavernous
factory: "For space-invaders, their security system sure can't amount to
much."

	"Are you kidding?" I commented.  "Compared to the Los Alamos
nuclear labs this place is Alcatraz!  Maybe we'll find O'Malley tucked
behind a file cabinet!"

	We only had to peer around the next corner to assure ourselves that
we weren't dealing with a dead building.  Just a few doors down stood a
character made to look like a security guard.  I knew we had to take the
guy out; even if we could bluff past him, we wouldn't want a gunman
straddling our line of retreat.  My pard and I hustled into an old employee
lunchroom to make plans.

	"If you can distract him, I'll bash him when he's not looking,"
Martin suggested.

	"What do you mean 'distract" him?"

	"He's an alien with a hair-trigger hard-on, remember?"

	I poked him in the chest.  "Only a diseased mind could concoct a
plan like that!"

	"Have you got a better one?"

	I didn't.  "All right," I said, "but you'll owe me a big one after
this is over."

	"Are you being suggestive?"

	I touched my purse.  "Better not talk that way to a woman with a
brick in her bag!"

	Setting aside the banter, we put together the choreography of the
upcoming scam, but even though it was Martin's idea, he looked none too
happy.

	"Sheila, are you sure saving O'Malley is worth the risk?"

	I met his questioning gaze head-on.  "I told you I'm not chicken."

	"You don't have anything to prove."

	"Sure I do," I said.  I veered toward the exit without any more
explanation.  The plan we had called for Martin and me to walk up to the
guard as if we didn't have a care in the world.  But there's walking and
then there's walking.  I tried to imitate the Holly-Wood-and-Vine gyration
that I'd witnessed White House interns doing.

	The guard seemed to like my red-and-black outfit because he totally
ignored Martin while giving me the up and down.

	"Hi," I bubbled, resurrecting my Gina voice.  "You're still in that
same old husk, huh?!  I changed mine yesterday and it's made a new woman of
me." I gave him a wink and clicked my tongue.

	"I can sure see that, honey," the celestial tuna leered.

	So far, so good.  At this point, I was supposed to walk past and
let his eye follow my dokus down the hall, giving Martin the chance to
blindside him.  But I didn't get far before the guard grabbed my arm.

	"Hey!" I complained.  "That hurts!  I wouldn't mind a little action
later on, but I'm overdue for my report!"

	"Who are you?" he snarled.  "Your vibes are all wrong!  You're
human!"

	I swung my weighted purse in a short, swift arc and he gave a low,
strangled grunt as he doubled over.  In follow-up, I maced him on the back
of the head and sent him to the floor like a bucket of cement!

	Martin belatedly pushed me out of the way and took over.  He
stooped over the guy, checked him out, and said, "He's out of it!  Good
work." Then he appropriated the large gun and set of keys from the alien's
belt.  "These might come in handy," he remarked, putting his own small
Rossi back into his pocket.

	"He knew me for a human just from my vibes," I whispered.  "It's
going to be damned hard faking these guys out."

	Pard gave a grim nod.  "That was too close.  We can't try anything
like that again." He stood up and tried the new keys on the door that the
guard had been guarding, hoping, I guess, that O'Malley was being held
prisoner inside.  Unfortunately, all we saw was a lab full of computerized
equipment.

	"Give me a hand," Martin hissed.  Dragging the alien rent-a-pig
over the threshold reminded me how weak my present body was and made me
wonder whether weight-lifting could do anything for it.  No, that was
bad-think.  I had to think escape, not adjustment.

	Surrounded by all those enemy think-boxes, I suddenly felt like
doing the bull-in-the-china-shop shtick.  "They guard this place, so these
things must be important," I said to Martin.  "It might even be the record
room for their whole operation."

	"And encrypted up the kazoo, too.  I'm no good with computers; are
you?"

	I shook my head.  "All I know is a little word-processing."

	"I wish we could at least Dutch them, but it would take too much
time and make too much noise."

	I agreed, and so we settled for tying up the guard with wire from
Martin's Junior P.I.  Action Set.  Afterwards, we check out the hall again,
piking right and left.  Fortunately, nobody was around.

	"Let's find the basement," I suggested.  "Bad guys always like to
lock people in basements."

	A tense muscle flicked in Martin's jaw.  "All right, but this time
you walk behind me!"

	"We're not Japanese, Martin."

	"Stow it for once, Woman!  I'm responsible for you!  I want to get
you back to your mama's loving arms."

	I looked daggers at him.  "If this is going to work out, you have
to treat me as an equal."

	"God, I can't wait to throw you over my knee!"

	I wagged my head.  "You're so kinky!  I don't think any girl is
with you!"

	"Save the pillow talk for when I get you alone!" he advised.

	I let him have the last word; it didn't take us long to find the
descent to the lower level since someone had carelessly left a sign hanging
that read "Stairs." No one was to be seen in the basement hall, either.
Where were the rest of the aliens?  In Congress?

	Most of the doors we found weren't locked but they were so
under-utilized that they didn't have to be.  Wherever we found a lock that
was locked, we've put our ear to the panel.  If all was quiet behind it --
and they all were quiet -- we'd tap gently and try to get a rise.

	"Maybe O'Malley isn't here, after all," Martin suggested gloomily.

	"Just a few more," I urged; "we can't give up so easily."

	"I'd rather get you out of here alive than rescue a hundred
O'Malleys!"

	I could tell he was leveling with me.  "I'm flattered," I told him,
"but we've got a job to do."

	"Why?  You're just the secretary.  Why do you think you owe
O'Malley anything?"

	"I don't want to be a secretary all my life," I told him, and that
was the truth.  Hustling along and growing more and more pessimistic by the
minute, I suddenly heard a snatch of song:

	"Don't need a guru who kin lead me ta grace;
	"All Ah want is a sweet man who keeps me in mah place.
	"Ah know Man's de massa an' Ah'm willin' ta please;
	"Don't tink dat Ah'm prayin" when Ah'm down on mah knees!"

	It was the same song that had been playing at Blackjack's place.
It didn't sound like O'Malley, but if not her, who was it?  And was the
singer human or alien?

	"Who's in there?" Martin asked through the door, his roscoe ready.

	"Jes" me, Latisha!"

	Neither of us had ever heard the name before.

	"Latisha, are you locked in?"

	"Yeah."

	"Why?"

	"Don't know.  Guess dey want me ta wait till mah sweet man comes
for me."

	"Wouldn't you rather come out and walk around?" asked Martin.

	"Sho-nuff!  But who is dat out dere?  Y'sound awfully big, strong,
an' cuddly!"

	"I'm all of that," Martin assured the unseen woman as he tried the
guard's keys one after another.  Soon he found one that did the trick.
Fluorescent ceiling lights lighted the room inside, but only one bulb was
still working.  There were restrooms though, which was probably the reason
why they used it for a prison cell.  I instantly recognized the black girl
as the missing O'Malley.

	"O'Malley!  For Christ's sake, why didn't you tell us it was you?"

	She looked at me bewildered.  "Ah'm not O'Malley.  Mah name is
Latisha Jones!  Ah told you."

	I looked to Martin.

	"That's O'Malley, or it used to be," he agreed with a nod.

	"What's going on?" I wondered out loud.  "Did they switch him
again?"

	"It would take at least two switches to put an ordinary hooker into
that body.  And why would they bother?  Miss Jones, how long have you had
that body?"
	"Wha" kind o" question is dat?  Since de day Ah 'uz born,
naturally!"

	"Maybe she's faking us out; maybe she's an alien!" I suggested,
leveling my gun at her forehead.

	She shrank back, staring.  "Hey, what you doin'?"

	Martin pushed my gun-arm aside.  "Why would they lock her up if
she's one of their own?"

	That one had me stumped.

	Suddenly the girl asked, "Don't Ah know you two?"

	I blinked.  "Do you?"

	"Yor dat nice Mr.  Callahan's friend.  An', yeah, yor his secretary
lady, only now you got yorself dressed up real nice-like."

	"Exactly when did we meet?" I asked.

	"Jes" yesterday, missy.  I vis'ted yor office.  Don't yuh remember?
Sumbuddy was affer me, I tink.  Guess it musta been de vice cops."

	"She's got O'Malley's memories," Martin said, "sort of.  But what
did they do to her?"

	"It must be some sort of brainwashing!" I conjectured.  "Martin, if
there's any chance that this really is O'Malley we can't leave her behind!"

	"You're right.  Maybe her memories will come back once she's in
familiar surroundings."

	I took the black girl by the arm, coaxing, "Come on, Latisha, you
have to come with us."

	"But I gotta wait fo" mah sweet man!" she protested.

	"Who's your sweet man?"

	She thought hard.  "Guess it mus" be Blackjack."

	"That's right, you belong with B.J.," I agreed.  "Do you know where
you are now?"

	"Dunno.  Mr.  Callahan, he brought me from Blackjack's place!  De
man in de white coat and dat cop put me down heah."

	"Maybe you don't know that Mr.  Callahan is really a police spy," I
told her conspiratorially.  "He double-crossed you and turned you over to
the cops for -- for whatever it is that you did.  Blackjack sent Martin and
me to put you back on street ?  I mean .  .  .  .

	O'Malley grinned from ear to ear.  "Dat B.J!  He 'uz always tinkin'
o" his gals.  Ain't he one nice, ever-lovin' man!  Come on, cutie pie,
let's yuh an" me git outta here!" She winked at Martin.  "Yuh, too,
Sweetums!"

	Dewitt took O'Malley or, rather, "Latisha," by the arm and we
retraced our steps, the hooker-wanna-be keeping up a soft chatter despite
all attempts to make her pipe down.  "Gal," she whispered behind my back,
"do you know dere's a rip in yor nylon?"

	I glared at Martin.  "You see!  Everybody notices!"

	"Both you dames are absolutely nuts!" he snapped impatiently and
stepped out farther ahead.

	What an attitude!  I could have told him that neither of us "dames"
were dames, but decided to keep that under my hat.

	Reaching the upper landing, Martin peered through the double doors
and scoped the hall both ways.

	"Shoot!" he hissed.  "There's some guy in a lab coat and a -- a cop
-- coming."

	I knew that he'd said "cop" for Latisha's benefit; it had to be
another alien security man.  "If they're going downstairs we're in serious
jelly," I said, stating the obvious.

	Then I got a flash.  "Latisha," I said, "go down to that landing
and stand there in plain sight.  If the cops come in and see you, just
raise your hands and smile.  Martin and me will jump 'em from behind while
they're looking at you."

	The brainwashed O'Malley nodded eagerly and scurried down the ten
steps to her place.  So far, the personality transplant had been an
improvement; at least she was more obliging than the old senator had ever
been.

	Martin and me sprang into our places just as the long-unoiled
hinges squeaked faintly.  I held my breath and squeezed my Saturday night
special as the Martians shouldered their way in.

	The guy in the lab coat flashed on Latisha right away.  "You!" he
blurted and, just as we'd hoped, neither he nor the guard looked to either
to the right or left.  "How did you get loose?!" the tech-looking alien
demanded.

	The senator just raised her hands and smiled.

	"Help me grab her," the one in white told his buddy.  When the
former stepped to the edge of the stair, Martin shouted: "Now!" and threw
himself at the guard's back, using him as a cue-ball to shove the tech down
the stairs.  Latisha sprang out of their way as the both men made a bumpy
roll down to the landing.

	Martin and me jumped the bruised aliens, hoping that the fall had
knocked the sizzle out of them.  The guard reached for his gun, so Pard
slammed his balled fist into the guy's face, laying him out cold.  Then he
checked the tech, who was already out for the count, courtesy of the brick
wall he'd bashed his head into.

	 I helped Martin hogtie and gag the wrongos while Latisha just
stood there looking impressed with our teamwork.  Once we had dirty duo
wrapped up like Christmas presents, I took the girl by the wrist.

	"Come on, honey.  Now we can get out of here!"

* * * * *






		  Chapter 20

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 "Incredible, Martin, we pulled off a caper -- just like in the
books -- movies, even!"

	Martin's reply sounded thick and unsteady.  "I don't ever want to
have to go through anything like that again!  Give me a good, sordid
divorce case any day!"

	I wasn't about to let anyone rain on my parade.  "Wow!  I could
write a book about this, non-fiction even, but who'd ever believe it?"

	"Write it as fiction," he recommended in a tired voice.

	I shrugged dismissively.  "It's too crazy even for fiction!"

	"Yuh gonna take me back ta mah Blackjack now?" Latisha suddenly
broke in, just as we reached our detective office.

	Good question.  So far we hadn't given any thought to exactly what
we were going to do with O'Malley once we had her.  We'd saved her, but
saved her for what?  She obviously wasn't in her right mind and it didn't
seem right just to slap her on the back, show her the gate, and wish her
lots of luck.  I been hoping that Martin would have some ideas, but he'd so
he'd been hanging back and letting me handle the "girl talk." What a skunk!

	"Latisha, doll," I began, "we couldn't tell you back at the -- jail
-- because we were afraid that you'd get upset and do something foolish.
The truth is, something awful's happened to Blackjack."

	"Wha" y'tailing me?  Wha" happen ta mah precious B.J?"

	"You weren't with Blackjack very long," I said carefully.  "Maybe
he never got around to telling you that he had a really bad ticker."

	"Ticker?" She frowned.  "Now dat y'mention it, Ah think Ah did hear
de o" de wife-in-laws say sumpin" 'bout dat.  Ah didn't tink it cud be
true, 'cuz dat man could go lak a DC9!"

	"I guess he went like a DC9 just once to often.  His doctor'd
warned him to drop the boose, the smack, and girls, but he'd never listen.
Right after you left his place that bad pump of his blew a gasket."

	Now Martin cut in: "We were with him when it happened, Miss.  His
dying wish was that we bust you out of jail and help you get along
afterwards.  Don't worry about anything.  You can stay with Sheila until
you know what you want to do next."

	I shot the bastard a basilisk glare that could have turned a rhino
into pork chops.  While I was all for saving O'Malley's life, I didn't
intend to be Sheila for the long haul, so there was no possibility of me
taking in house guests.

	"Poor B.J.," Latisha was saying, "he 'uz one mean bastard, but ta
know dat he 'uz tinking 'bout me up ta de end jes" shows how much he loved
me.  Poor fella."

	"Maybe he'll be reincarnated," I suggested, knowing that he already
had been.

	The black girl returned a puzzled stare.  "Is dat when dey burn you
up an" put you awn a shelf in a li'l jar?"


#

	"What Ah gonna do?" Latisha was thinking out loud.  "It ain't safe
fo" a gal ta sell ass w'out a big, strong man takin" care o" her."

	She turned hopefully toward Martin.  "Yuh is a studly male, jes"
lak B.J.  was.  Y'got a stable of yor own, handsome?  Got any use fo" a new
gal?"

	"No," replied Martin squeamishly.  "I'm not in that line.  I'm a
private dick --"

	"Ah don't know nothin" 'bout private yor dick is, huun-ee, but Ah'm
anxious ta find out."

	"I don't know how to run a business like Blackjack's," he wheedled.
"I'm a detective."

	"You kin learn, tall, white and wicked," she coaxed.  "A man kin
mak a lot mo" money runnin" hustlers den doin" wha" yor doin," Ah betcha.
Dere's a lot less chance o" gittin" hisself killed, Ah tink!"

	My pard inhaled a deep breath.  "Maybe you should take a vacation
from that kind of life yourself," he suggested.  "You ought to be able to
do a lot better."

	"What else Ah gonna do?  Ah can't read or write.  Don't know much
'bout nothin" 'sep" fuckin'!"

	"Maybe you've got an aptitude for politics," I ventured hopefully,
but immediately regretted do so.  I wouldn't want to set O'Malley back on
the wrong road now that she at last had the chance to walk the straight and
narrow.  While streetwalking isn't something I'd recommend to any daughter
of mine, it has deep traditional roots and never sinks so low as politics.

	"Don't you remember anything -- about the past, I mean?" Martin
asked.

	Her long, heavy lashes flew up.  "Ah remember everything!  Do yuh
tink Ah got 'nesia, lak in doz soap operas?"

	"Then maybe you remember a man name named Theodore O'Malley."

	She tittered.  "'Fraid Ah got no haid fo" names.  Mostly de fellows
jes" call demselves 'John.'"

	"But isn't the name familiar to you?  He's very well-known."

	She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully and asked: "Wha" team do he play
fo'?"

	I smiled commiseratively and put my hand on her shoulder.  "Maybe
what you need is a good night's sleep"

	She nodded.  "Ah is all fo" dat.  It's jes" dat Ah don't lak
sleepin" alone much.  'Specially not tonight!  Ah got it so bad Ah could
take awn de whole Navy base down in Baltimore!"

	I thought I knew how she felt.


#

	O'Malley wasn't our only problem.  It wasn't safe to hang around
the P.I.  office as long as the aliens were looking for us.  But first, I
had to get Sheila's keys, check book, and credit cards.  I also needed her
car keys.  Being able to use her wheels was a stroke of luck since my own
car keys had gone with the alien impersonator.  It was a small loss,
though; my Chevy needed transmission work that would have cost a lot more
than its dollar-ninety-eight value.

	I found Sheila's bag still inside her desk drawer, which put me
about fifty bucks and a couple credit cards to the good.  While Latisha
kept Martin busy in the other room, I busied myself forging Sheila's
signature.  While I could have passed a fingerprint test as Sheila, a
handwriting analysis would have tripped me up.

	Luckily, Sheila had been one of those natty people who balanced
their checkbook after each draft, and so I knew I ad over fourteen hundred
on deposit.  She probably had a savings account, too, and the number and
balance would be on her last bank statement, which wouldn't be too hard to
find once I crashed her apartment in Falls Church, Virginia.

	Hearing the inner office doorknob jiggle, I shoved my penmanship
lesson into the wastebasket just as Martin scooted in trying to shake off
Latisha's clinging hands.  I suppressed a grin.  While I didn't wish Martin
ill, misery loves company.

	"Miss Jones -- please!  You're not someone I want to start
something with," he was saying.

	"Wha" dat white girl Miss Sheila got dat Ah ain't got?"

	"I'll tell you what she's got, Martin!" I said, rising from my
chair.  "She's got gas money!" I showed him the credit cards.  "I found Sh
-- my -- purse and it's loaded!  -- I mean, I'm surprised there's anything
still in it.  I thought that those creepy aliens would have robbed me!"

	"Great!" my pard muttered distractedly, still trying to disentangle
himself from Latisha's persistent grasp.  "Look, lady, I've got to talk to
my employee.  Go play by yourself!"

	"Glad to, if'n yuh wanna watch," she teased.

	Martin's cheeks flushed lightly.  Until now, I didn't know the man
could blush.  I thought it made him look vulnerable and damned cute.

	Just then, the finality of Martin's rejection sank in and Latisha
put her nose into the air and stalked back into our office, slamming the
door behind her.

	"That dame is a twenty-four caret problem," I sighed as I sat down
again.

	"You're telling me?  Maybe we should have left her with the
aliens!"

	I shook my head.  "That's uncharitable, Martin.  Whatever else she
is or was, she's a human being.  If you hadn't rescued me, I'd be just like
her by now."

	"I think I could stand being assaulted by someone I liked, but
she's driving me crazy!  What are we going to do with her?"

	I leaned back in the swivel chair.  "I thought you had all the
angles figured out.  You were going to fob her off on me and wash your
hands of her."

	"It was the best solution I could think of.  At least she doesn't
want into your pants!"

	I glanced at the closed door.  "I don't know; she seems sort of
AC/DC to me.  But if we can't live with her, we'd better get her out of
town for her own safety.  Those bad guys aren't going to stop looking for
her, not if I know my Martians."

	"But you don't know Martians."

	I sniffed.  "Maybe not, but I read some science fiction, too.  The
only thing that worries me is what O'Malley will do in her state of mind.
I mean, it's only what she used to do as a senator, but that was only
symbolic prostitution."

	His mouth twisted with distaste.  "And I hate to think what will
happen to me if I can't get her off my back!  Do you suppose she's ever
going to snap out of it?"

	I shrugged.  "Search me.  But since when did you become such a
Puritan?  What's wrong with Latisha anyway?  She's anything but
bad-looking.  Are you prejudiced?"

	"About blacks?"

	"No, about guys with sex-changes."

	"Yes!" he replied in a low, throaty grumble.  "I guess I am!  I
suppose your people would call me a Nazi for that."

	My neck stiffened, my jaw set.  "What do you mean 'the people I
hang out with?" I thought you were the people I hung out with.  Don't we go
to the same bars, don't we vote alike?"

	He looked at me quizzically.  "I never saw you in any bar I've ever
gone to, and sure don't know how you vote.  I've always figured you for a
Lefty, like most unmarried chicks."

	Futz!  Blunder Number Two-Hundred and Twelve!  I'd forgotten that
it'd been me in those cheesy bars with him, and Martin hadn't known
Sheila's politics any more than I had.  But from what he'd said, I was glad
that I hadn't given him the straight dope about myself.  I couldn't stand
the thought of Martin acting nervous around me because I was a freak of
nature.

	"Isn't it strange that the police haven't been swarming over this
place?" Martin said, changing the subject.  "Haven't they found those two
bums in the dumpster yet?"

	"Blame the city's lousy garbage-collection," I sighed resignedly.
"Those guys might become compost before the sanitation truck comes around."

	"If they planted evidence to incriminate Callahan, shouldn't we go
recover it?"

	At that, I sprang to my feet.  "Now that's an idea!  You take care
of Sadie Thompson and I'll go frisk the stiffs before the cops show up!"

	He stared at me, appalled.  "You?  You want to paw through the
pockets of two day-old corpses?  It's filthy work, Sheila.  Let me do it!"

	I shook my head emphatically.  "No, you can't.  If you touch them
you'll be in as much trouble as Callahan."

	"What about you?"

	"I don't matter!"

	He blinked incredulously.  "What are you talking about?  Why
doesn't it matter?"

	I didn't dare explain.  "I'm not going to argue about this, Pard --
I mean, Boss."

	I got up, glided around the desk, and then gave a backward glance
at Martin.  "I'm awfully glad that you worry about me, guy, but, like they
say, there are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio.  A woman has to do
what a woman has to do."

	And the first thing she has to do, I thought, was to make sure she
doesn't end up being a woman for the rest of her life!

	I went out the door then and took the fire stairs down to the alley
door.  The coast was clear, and so I hurried to the dumpster and lifted the
lid just a little; it felt as heavy as lead.

	That's when the odor hit me!  Aye-yi-yi!  A couple cadavers slowly
baking inside a metal oven go bad surprisingly fast -- and these particular
stiffs probably hadn't smelled any too good even when they were still
walking around!

	Disgusted, I let the lid slam shut.  For love or money, I just
couldn't make myself climb inside that trash bin.  I'm as tough as they
come, but this was something beyond my experience.  What I needed was a gin
and tonic to brace my resolve.  Maybe it would be easier to rob the dead if
a man were plastered.

	Dreading to face Martin again after having made such a bravura
exit, I climbed the stairs back up to our floor.  But just outside our
office, I was surprised to hear voices.  We had visitors.

	Visitors of the worst kind!


#

	"Where's Sheila?" somebody snarled.

	At first I supposed that it was the cops, but quickly realized that
it couldn't be them.  If they'd known about the murders they wouldn't have
left the dead duo in the dumpster.

	"She's a long way from here!" Martin was telling them.  "You can
kill me, but you're not getting anything out of me!"

	"We can switch you," Spielman warned him, "then we'll have every
secret in your head."

	Martin turned into Leigh Spielman?  I sure didn't want to see that!
I had to do something fast, but what?  Like a dummy, I'd left my roscoe
back in Sheila's desk.

	"We can't risk trouble here," the phony Callahan said, "not with
those bodies still waiting to be found.  Let's take these two to one of our
safe houses."

	"No!  We can't!" protested Spielman.  "The caretakers will make a
report and the Committee will know how we've messed up."

	The bogus Callahan put her mind at ease.  "Don't sweat it.  I know
a house with no permanent staff.  It's off Brinkley!"

	"Yes, you're right," Spielman agreed.  "The neighbors around there
won't make a fuss about a few screams in the night."

	When I heard their feet start to shuffle I knew that they'd be
coming out at any second -- and here I was, empty-handed and flat-footed.

* * * * *







		  Chapter 21

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 I suddenly remembered the old-fashioned steel snow-shovel stored
in the maintenance closet -- not one of those prissy plastic jobbies they
sell down at K-Mart, but a good heavy one.  I dashed to get it and returned
to the door less than half a minute later, armed and dangerous.

	Just in time!  The door swung inward; at the first glimpse of
Spielman's head, I brought the shovel down.

	Clank!

	The alien imposter fell back into the office as limp as a rag doll,
her gun flying out of her hand and skidding across the terrazzo floor.  The
door slammed shut and before I could snatch up the gun and reopen it, I
heard:

	Argg -- Ooff!

	I shoved the portal open; it wasn't locked.  I saw Martin trading
pile-driver blows with the false Callahan.  I charged inside ready to lend
artillery support to the good guys, but a clean shot was impossible the way
they were grappling.  Martin didn't seem to need any help, actually.  He
was pummeling my impersonator like a punch-drunk palooka!  I hated the idea
of that handsome face of mine getting bruised and bloody, but it was for
the long-ranged good.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Latisha cringing
behind Sheila's desk, just like any useless politico when tough choices are
called for.

	Worried that the two bruisers were making too much noise, I poked
my head outside and checked the hall.  In fact, by now there were several
other heads poking out of various doors along both sides of the corridor.

	"No trouble, folks!" I yelled with a grin of chagrin.  "The boys
are just trying to bash a rat!  Isn't it a crime, the kind of pests we have
to put up with for all the rent we pay!?"

	That seemed to satisfy the rubbernecks.  In Washington D.C. people
learn to duck and cover whenever there's trouble in the air.  I shut the
door again, just as Martin, panting heavily, said, "All right, we've got
him!"

	I glanced over my shoulder and confirmed that it was true.  "Yeah,"
I said loudly, "you really got the rat!  Look at the length of that tail.
Do you figure he's carrying bubonic plague or something?"

	Martin and Latisha scoped me as if I'd gone flippo.

	"Keep your voices down," I told them.  "People are listening."
"Yeah," wheezed Martin.  "Good thinking."

	When Pard stepped aside I saw my runaway body lying senseless on
the floor.  My ticker did an endo at the sight of him.  This was my big
chance!  If I played my cards right I could get back inside my rightful
body!

	"Tape that monkey's mouth shut," I told Martin, "we don't want him
yelling his fool head off and making it look like we're the wrongos here."

	Martin nodded agreement and fetched some strapping tape from
Sheila's desk.  Meanwhile, I checked out Leigh's body.  No breathing.  No
pulse.

	"Holy shit!" I gasped.  "I killed her."

	My head reeled.  Another killing!  How had I become a
one-homicide-a-day man?  Or did I mean woman?  When I stood up, I felt
dizzy and staggered back against the door to keep from falling down.

	Martin caught me before I keeled over.  "Sheila, you couldn't help
it!" he told me.

	 "That poor girl!" I babbled.  "That poor, mean-spirited,
bad-tempered, frigid girl!"

	He shook me.  "No, it wasn't her.  It was an assassin from outer
space.  You're a hero."

	My eyes burned, my breath came in tremulous snatches, but I slowly
got hold of myself.

	"S-Says you!" I said shakily.  "Everybody else will think I killed
her!"

	Martin frowned resolvedly.  "You're not going to take the fall for
this, Sheila.  Listen, we'll dump her body someplace far away.  Leigh
Spielman will be just another forgotten statistic by the time some Boy
Scout troop digs her up."

	I sat down upon Sheila's desk, my face in my hands.  "Christ,
Martin, this isn't like that nameless drunk at B.J.'s.  We knew Spielman;
she worked right across the hall.  A day never passed when we didn't wish
that she'd move out and leave us alone!"

	He put his arm firmly around my shoulders.  "I know, I know.  But
it wasn't your fault.  If worst comes to worst, we can try to pin it on
Callahan!"

	I looked up, horrified.  "Pin it on -- who?!"

	Then I got the drift.  He meant the other Callahan.  If my double
had planted evidence to make me look guilty, he'd only have out-smarted
himself.  With two murdered winos already on his scorecard he'd have a hard
time beating the Spielman rap if we acted like most eye-witnesses and lied.

	Then I realized what a bad idea that was.  I wanted my original
body back without a murder case on its back.

	"Your first idea is the best one, Martin," I muttered.  "Take Leigh
somewhere and dump her!  But go easy on blaming things on Callahan.  He was
a sweet guy and he's got family that we don't want to hurt.  Maybe we can
feed the cops some other story."

	"What other story?"

	"I don't know; we'll think of something."

	"Did you get the evidence out of the dumpster?" he now remembered
to ask.

	Giving a shudder, I said, "No, I couldn't touch those rotten stiffs
after all.  I guess I'm not as tough as I thought."

	He clutched me a little closer.  "I tried to tell you that a dozen
times.  You're just a sweet, tender-hearted chick."

	I groaned.  My problem wasn't so much a tender heart as a weak
stomach -- that and too keen a sense of smell!

	"I've got to try again," I told him, "and you've got to get rid of
Spielman."

	He was looking down at the dead girl, his expression pained and
reluctant.  "I don't like it," he said, "but I'll do it."


#

	After Martin and the stiff had gone on their last ride together, I
took stock of the situation.

	From what I'd overheard the aliens say, it the Martian gunsels
hadn't reported their Easter egg hunt to their bosses.  That meant that
should the last alien, the one in my body, meet Mr.  Jordan we'd be home
free.  Unfortunately, killing him was out of the question as long as he had
my body.

	Oh, what a slippery slope!  When I got him switched into Sheila's
body, was I then going to murder?  What kind of psycho was I turning into?
Sure, I'd killed two aliens already, but I hadn't meant to use lethal
force.  If I blipped off Sheila now it would be in cold blood.  The whole
idea made me sick.

	Well, I'd have to worry about health concerns later on.  First on
the agenda was to becoming D.C. Callahan, no matter what the cost.

	My plan could best be pulled off in the privacy of the inner
office, I knw, so I turned to Latisha, saying, "Help me drag him into the
other room, please."

	"Wha" fo'?"

	"I'm hot for his body," I explained in terms she could understand,
"I want to screw him while he's all tied up before my boyfriend gets back
and catches us together!" In the fact of the matter, all of that was true.

	Her face spread out with surprise and admiration.  "Yuh is full o"
surprises, gal!  Hell!  What y'know?  Under all dat white skin yuh is a
sistah!  Gimme yor seconds, baby, 'cuz Ah really kin use'em.  Lord-dee,
Ah'z so hot Ah cud fry eggs 'tween mah thighs!"

	Working in tandem, we snagged the prisoner into the main office and
laid him on the floor with his back against the wall.  Now came the tricky
part.  I knew that if I switched with him the way we were, Sheila would be
both alien and free while I'd be tied, gagged, and at her mercy -- a
probably-fatal circumstance.  I thought hard about how to get around it.

	Then it came to me.  With Latisha's help, I exchanged his tape
bindings for lengths of strong cord.  One I used to tie his hands behind
his back, using a special knot that an amateur magician had once shown me.
After he was securely bound, we stripped off his pants.

	I felt kind of queasy at the sight of him naked from the waist
down.  I wondered if that was why I couldn't get a steady girl friend.  On
the other hand, Latisha seemed to like what she saw.  She said, "Yuh is a
woman afta mah own heart!  De only ting Ah can't understand is why a fancy
lady lak yuh got de hots fo" a bad ass lak dat!"

	Agitated and short of breath, I tried to make it sound good: "You
don't understand.  The crazy way he's acting isn't like Callahan.  This
sort of thing has happened before.  It comes on him when he's not getting
the right kind of sex.  You'll see a big change in the way his head works
once I give him some T.L.C."

	"If'n dat's so, why dontcha let me do it instead?  Y'don't come
'cross lak any emergency-room nurse to me, girlie."

	She had a point there, but I had a ready answer.  "He's my man and
I don't want him doing it with anybody but me.  Got that, lady?"

	She showed me her palms and backed off.  "Sheesh!  Hab it yor own
way, Sweetie.  Yuh shor is possessive, though!"

	She was half-right.  I certainly wanted to possess that body.
Fortunately, the sight of a half-dressed man was enough to click on the
Dame Curse.  I began to think that I could actually pull it off.

	"Latisha," I began tentatively, "could you get him -- excited --
for me.  When I start, I want to finish it off fast."

	The black girl blinked in puzzlement.  "Do you?  Me, Ah lak it nice
'n slow." She shook her head.  "Yuh surely is a strange one, Sheila baby!
D'ya want 'im or dontcha?  Yuh jes" said he's yor -- Well, Ah'll jes"
nebber understand yuh people if'n Ah libbed ta be a hundred.  Since
y'busted me outta dat cop tank an" yuh 'uz such a good friend to mah sweet
man Blackjack, Ah owes yuh one!"

	Turning back toward my ringer, she sized him up and licked her
tongue in anticipation.  I felt genuinely flattered by her show of
appreciation for Callahan's manly good looks.  Then again, since O'Malley
was suffering from the same Dame Curse as me, she would probably have
reacted the same to the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

	To make a long story short, Latisha went at the alien like a hog
running to slop, or Monica Lewinsky to the Oval Office.  From what I could
tell, her patient wasn't feeling much pain.

	It was like one of those videos from the adult section.  Watching
her go to town on the body thief stirred up something fierce and hungry
inside me.  Was it envy?  Was it the impulse to push her out of the way and
get some for myself?  I shivered, and not because my plastic clothing
wasn't all that comfortable under the air conditioning.  If I could be
feeling that way after just twenty-four hours with the Dame Curse on me,
what kind of person would I be in a week's time-

	Then suddenly I grew optimistic.  The more-out-of-control the alien
sex-drive made me, the easier it would be to bring about the switch-back.
Anyway, like it or not, I had to do it.  D.C. Callahan wasn't cut out to be
a skirt!

* * * * *






		  Chapter 22

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 I started taking off my clothes, which was no big deal since there
wasn't much to them.  The pair on the floor were really going to town and I
started to worry that Old Faithful might do it's thing ahead of schedule.
Could the alien switch bodies with a woman who giving him a B.J?  Not
daring to risk finding out, I pulled Latisha away from her place of
employment.

	"That's enough warm-up," I told her, handing her a pair of
handcuffs.  "Here, snap them on me." I turned and put my hands behind my
back.

	"Handcuffs?  Baby, y'really lak tings wild!"

	"Keep the key and don't lose it," I urged.  "And don't pay
attention to anything I say after I've had him.  I always go nuts when I
have sex."

	"Ah see." She gave a crooked smile.  "And Ah taut Ah 'uz de baaaaad
'un!"

	"Just do it, Latisha -- please; it means a lot to me.  And one
other thing: tape my mouth shut right now and don't take my gag off until
Callahan is up and around."

	"Are y'gonna let 'im go?"

	"No!  He'll let himself go.  If Callahan comes to his senses he'll
remember how to get out of that special knot I used." She took the roll of
tape I offered her.

	"Tape yor mouth shut, babykins?  Ah taught Ah'd seen eberry ting by
now, but hangin" 'round detectives sho" is an edjacation!"

	Because Latisha seemed a little muddle-headed, I went over her job
expected of her one more time.

	"Dat sho" is a lot o" stuff ta remember!" she muttered, looking
worried.

	"Please don't forget any of it!  I'm trying to bring Callahan back
to sanity without either him or me getting hurt."

	"Maybe you is, but yuh shor wanna do it in a funny way!"

	"Put the tape on me," I said.  "I can't do it myself wearing these
derbies."

	She did a double-take.  "Ah hate ta tell ya', chick-ee, but you'z
not wearin" any hat."

	"Derbies are handcuffs!"

	She wrinkled her brow.  "If'n dey is, dis is de first time Ah ebber
heard 'bout it!"

	"Please, Latisha!"

	"Okay, okay.  Jes" talk in English afta dis so Ah don't git
confused."

	She cut a strip of tape off the dispenser and pasted it over my
lips.  That done, she backed away and looked me up and down.

	"Is dis de way yuh uptown people always play dis game?"

	I nodded.

	"'Magin" dat!  Sheesh!  If'n nice gals lak yuh do it dis way, wha"
fo" all de johns hefta come down ta my part 'o town?"

	With a toss of my head I conveyed the idea that I wanted Latisha to
wait in the other office.  Maybe she didn't mind having an audience, but I
was still kind of shy.


#

	Naked, bound, and gagged, I pushed the door shut with my hip and
faced off with Callahan, who was staring at me like a snake contemplating a
farmer with a hoe.  I thought that I'd done everything I could do to make
this work, and so, taking a deep breath, I knelt in front of him.  Then I
hesitated, unsure how to begin.  My arousal seemed to slip away now that I
was confronted by the need to actually perform.  I tried to shore up my
enthusiasm by imagining that he was a girl whom I had the hots for during
my Army days.

	The exercise didn't help much; D.C. might have been a sharp-looking
guy, but thinking of him as a chick just wasn't possible.  Regardless, I
started rubbing my cheek against his stubbly face.  Where's the Dame Curse
when you need it?  Every fiber of me wanted to be somewhere else.  For the
first time, I understood why so many women demanded money for this sort of
thing.  Who could ever like it?

	 Suddenly, the alien's arms came free and clutched me in a
suffocating anaconda squeeze.  Horror!  I would have screamed, except that,
like an idiot, I'd had myself gagged!

	"Too bad, Sweetheart," the Martian said, pushing me away and rising
to his feet.  "You forgot that I know every thought in your pretty little
head.  I remembered that knot trick!"

	Struggle was useless; I myself had seen to that.  My face burned
with indignation.  I was going to die now, and all just because I'd been
too explain to my best friend what I had to do.

	Then phony Callahan reached down and ripped the tape off my face,
almost taking my lips with it!  I yelled like I was being killed, which,
while not totally off the mark, was a little premature.

	"Yuh all right in dere, sweetie?" Latisha inquired through the
door.

	"Tell her it's all okay or I'll kill her," my deadly double
threatened.

	"It's all right, Latisha!" I shouted.  "It's just so good I have to
scream.  I screamed so loud that my gag came off.  But it's ducky, I donn't
need it anymore!"

	"Okay, suit yorself!"

	Now that Latisha had settled down, my captor poked my hip with his
toe.  "You are just so dumb, tessie!"

	I could agree with him on that as I seethed at my own stupidity.
"Hey, so I slipped up!" I finally said.  "I can't think of everything!
I've had a lot on my mind lately."

	He seemed to be enjoying in my situation.  "This is one hell of a
way for D.C. Callahan to cash in -- as a jingle-brained twist."

	I flared.  "If you have to kill me, at least stop calling me those
cute names!"

	He cocked an ironic eye.  "You used the same cute names on girls."

	"Yeah, well, I always did it in a warm, lovable way that made me
sound like a fun-loving man-about-town!  You talk like a jerk!"

	"Sorry, Babe, I can't turn it off.  In this body it's natural for
me to blabber this way."

	"There's nothing much that's natural about you!  Just answer me one
question."

	"What?"

	"Where do you come from?  Mars?  The Fifth Dimension?"

	"My race is from a planet in a star system that you couldn't
possibly have heard of."

	"Well, I didn't think you were Lithuanian!"

	"Quit the stalling, Callahan.  I have to kill you no matter how
long it takes."

	"So why not draw it out?  Do you have an appointment or something?"

	Without replying, he went over to Martin's desk and picked up
Spielman's gun.

	"I wish I could keep you around for laughs," he said, "but you're a
lot more dangerous than I thought, even though I've got your memories.  I
have to do is kill both you and your partner, take O'Malley back to base,
then find B.J.  and kill him, too."

	"It sounds like you've got a full day ahead of you."

	He snorted.  "The only way I can save my own neck from the
committee is by eliminating all the witness and blaming everything on my
dead associates."

	I felt drained, hollow.  "Sometimes you aliens sound so human!"
Well, Democrat, at least.
	His volume dropped, but his tone grew even more dangerous.  "Don't
insult me."

	"Hey, lighten up," I said brightly.  "I only meant --"

	"No more talk!" he snapped.  "I just want you to die knowing that
your plan never could have worked.  Sex only makes the transfer of our
bio-plasmatic memory engrams easier; it doesn't force it to happen.  I can
bang anyone I want to, for as long as I want to, without switching."

	"For as long as you want?!  You make a regular guy envious!"

	"A pity I can't give you a demonstration."

	"You can!" I blurted.  "If this is curtains for me anyway, why not
be a total cad?!" Actually, I didn't think doing it with him would be so
good; I only wanted to buy some time.

	He laughed.  "I think you'd do just about anything to stay alive
for another ten seconds!"

	"Ten seconds?  Is that how long it takes you space guys?  And women
complain about Earth men!"

	Now my impersonator brayed like a jackass.  I looked up at him
hopefully.  I didn't have any plan, but where there's life there's hope.

	"What are you waiting for, Big Guy!  Here I am, handcuffed, naked,
helpless.  I bet you'd like making me feel cheap and dirty."

	I thought only a pervert could have resisted an offer like that.
The next thing I knew, his rod was pointing at my head.

	His gunmetal rod, I mean.

	"Any last words, buttercup?"

	I stared into his face, once my face, now so hard and unrelenting.
"Let me compose something worthy of me," I urged.  "I like long goodbyes."

	He was getting impatient and taking careful aim.

	"Okay, okay!  Last words.  Let me think." I closed my eyes,
desperate to go out with panache.  Nothing clever would come, so I just
shrugged and said what was on the top of my mind:

	"Goodbye, Martin.  I love you!"

	My evil twin looked at me with wilting contempt and said: "Ain't
that sweet!  Okay, that's it.  Farewell, my lovely.  .  .  ."

#

	Suddenly I heard the door slam open, its glass breaking with the
impact.

	Simultaneously, a gunshot exploded with the decibels of a bomb and
the hardware in the alien's fist leaped from his hold like a frisky trout.
The Martian dodged behind Dewitt's desk and grabbed the football trophy on
it to defend himself with.  Martin, my would-be rescuer, snapped off
another shot, but he was no great shakes as a marksman and his slug
wastefully broke a web of cracks in the plaster behind the assassin's head.

	"No, Martin, don't kill him!" I pleaded.

	Even without my appeal, I don't think Martin had it in him to plug
my own body.  Instead, my pard sprang at the body-snatcher intending to use
his roscoe like a blackjack.  The alien struck out with his own blunt
instrument, but Dewitt swerved in time and only caught a glancing blow on
his arm.  Before the bad guy could get his balance back, Martin brained him
with the piece in his right hand and feed him a knuckle sandwich out of his
left.  That one-two punch knocked the spaceman on his prat, but the crafty
devil kicked Martin's legs out from under him on the way down.  Both
struggled in the space between the desk and the wall for control of my
partner's smoking popper.

	As for me, I was getting nowhere struggling against the steely grip
of my nippers, but, fortunately, the dazed face of Latisha showed itself in
the doorway at just that second.

	"Latisha!  Get the gun!" I yelled.  "Shoot the -- shoot Callahan!"

	She stared at me wide-eyed.  "Ah don't wanna touch no gun!"

	I wanted to curse; brainwashed senators can be so frustrating.

	"Then get the handcuff key!  Get me out of these things so I can do
something!"

	She hovered indecisively.  "Y'said not ta listen ta you!"

	"That was before!"

	She thought that over, and then nodded.  "Okay!"

	The black girl ran up to me, dropped to her knees, then fumbled the
key into one of the handcuff locks.  "First y'wanna be in bracelets, den
y'want out!  Den de two handsome men start fightin" agin -- jes" wha" is
dat's wi" you people?!"

	While Latisha chattered, the phony Callahan managed to work his way
up on top of Martin, trying to twist the gun toward my pard's temple.

	"First you, smart guy, and then the dame!" the ersatz gumshoe
vowed, his voice strained through clenched teeth.

	The flub-dub hooker-wannabe at last popped one of my bracelets open
and I shoved her out of the way as I leaped for the alien's dropped Betsy.
Snatching it up, I spun one-hundred and eighty on my hip into a firing
position.

	I only wanted to stop the phony Callahan with a warning shot, but
the muzzle of Martin's gun was already in line with his skull and the
alien's thumb was fighting for control of the trigger guard.  He almost had
it.  What I did next was automatic, pure reaction to emergency without a
grain of thought.

	The blast rattled the window glass and Callahan's head burst like a
melon set up for target-practice.  The echo of my gun hadn't died away
before the rod they'd been fighting for also went off.

	I screamed and the room went dark.


#

	"Sheila?!" Martin was yammering.  "Are you okay?"

	 I stared up at my buddy's face with unfocused deadlights.  His arm
supported my shoulders while his free hand held my left wrist.

	"Me okay?  Me?  What about him!?" I puffed, scarcely able to
breathe.

	Martin shuffled over to the stiff on the floor, check him, then
shook his head.  "He's had it."

	He's had it?

	That meant I'd had it, too.  Everything started to go dark again.

	"Baby, what is it?"

	I moaned, "Whatya think?  I-I've just committed suicide...!"


#

	Once I'd come around, we traded action-adventure stories.  It seems
that Martin had gotten out into the traffic with Spielman tucked into his
trunk, but the more he thought about it, the crazier the scam seemed.  He
soon gave up and turned back to the office, intending to put his head
together with mine and come up with a phony cover story that would shave a
few years off our sentences before we called the police.

	For my part, I gave him some sort of crapola about being the victim
of alien mind-control, claiming that the Martian had forced me to turn him
loose by using the Evil Eye.  I couldn't tell him the truth, not yet
anyway.

	"Did you mean what I heard you say, Princess?" he suddenly asked.
The intensity of the look in his eyes scared me.

	"Mean what?"

	"About loving me."

	I frowned, knowing that I should put him off and tell him that I
had been out of my mind didn't mean it, but I didn't have the heart.  I was
tired of lies, tired of pretending.  "Yeah, I guess I meant it.  So what
about it?"

	He showed me "what about it." Before I could draw another breath he
was kissing me, wildly, passionately, clawing at my body, reducing me to a
helpless, groaning victim of unnatural lust.  .  .  .

	No, scratch that.  That was what I was doing to him!  He was just
trying to breathe.

* * * * *






		   Chapter 23

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan continued


	 I've always hated to write letters, but never so much as I hated
writing this one:


	Dear Jack,

	If you got this letter, it means that I've bought the farm.  By now
you've probably heard that I've gotten neck deep into some bad stuff.  From
wehre I stand, it looks like my life isn't worth the stamp it'll cost to
get this to you.

	Dying isn't what scares me most, actually.  What hurts is that
people are going to be saying some terrible things about me for a while.
It'll hurt you, too, but I'm telling you that you've just got to tough it
out.  The stories aren't going to be true.  I can't offer any details,
though, because if I don't take the rap some innocent people are going to
suffer, and I don't want that.

	Life is funny.  Sometimes it all comes down to just the toss of the
coin.  Except for one little thing -- all right, one big thing -- my life
probably would have rolled along in the same old rut until I was old and
gray.

	Things didn't work out because those are the breaks.  Plenty's gone
wrong with my life lately, but I don't think it's because I've been a bad
guy and I hope you never thought I was either.  I'm glad that Mom and Dad
aren't around to catch the news or face the neighbors at church.  There's
just you and your family, but that's bad enough.  I'm glad now that the
kids hardly know their uncle and your wife never liked me.  I don't want
too many people missing me and feeling bad.

	Maybe you can bear it, too.  We've grown apart lately, and until
now I was sorry about that..  You always thought I was a chump for giving
up the steady paycheck that comes with selling shoes.  I've always known
you were right-on about some of the things you said, even though I always
pretended to disagree.  This job sure hasn't been very remunerative and I
can't even say that it's been exciting -- unless you dodging creditors
instead of bullets is exciting.  I also can't claim that most of it has
been very interesting.  Then again, interesting isn't always a good thing.
When the Chinese curse you they wish you "interesting times," and from that
perspective, the last few days sure have been interesting.

	One good thing, though, I'm going out as a detective.  My becoming
a P.I.  was to get job satisfaction.  I've made plenty of mistakes over the
years, but putting up my private investigator shingle wasn't one of them.
How can I explain to an everyday Joe like you what a life of
crime-detection means to a guy like me?  When you say, "I'm a plumber," did
you feel the thrill I felt when I finally could say, "I'm private eye"?

	There's a lot I can't tell you, at least not as long as we're both
on this side of the Great Beyond.  When get together in the Other Place,
I'll be able to let you in on a lot of secret stuff that has to stay under
wraps for now.  You'll have a hard time believing it, but I'll give you
this hint: You'll feel more like giving me the hee-haw than punching me in
the jaw.

	What I'm hoping is that when you read this letter you'll just toss
it in the can and say, "What a jerk!" The trouble is, Jack, I don't believe
that you're that kind of guy.  I know how hard I'd crash if the tables were
turned and I'd suddenly got the news that you'd been tagged out.  And,
worse, that the good name you share with me is going to be turned to mud.
Just keep the suffering in bounds, would you, Bro?  That's all you have to
do to keep me happy in Cloud City.

	I'm giving this letter to a friend, a wonderful girl who loves the
detective business as much as I do.  I told her to send to you if Idon't
make it though the next couple days.  And I'm pretty sure I won't.

	That's about it.  I guess this is goodbye.

	Your brother,

	Dennis Charles Callahan

#

	 I'd only gotten about halfway through the first paragraph before I
started bawling.  Why do women have to be so emotional?

	It almost killed me to say goodbye to Jack, but I couldn't do it
otherwise.  I had to make a break either with Callahan's life or with
Sheila's.  I chose to put Callahan away because his life didn't have deep
roots, while Sheila has a big family and they'd miss her.  She has a
mother, dad, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, uncles, aunts,
grandparents -- the works.

	They're all still strangers, but as far as know, none of them are
bad people and I've found some really nice letters and Christmas cards from
them in Sheila's keepsake box.  Maybe it would even be a blast to be part
of a large family for once.  I'm thinking about dropping in on the Coffin
clan over the Holidays and getting to know them.  I'm not sure how I'll
pull that off, but if I'm lucky, they'll only think that poor Sheila's gone
crazy.  I'll probably take Martin along and introduce him to the folks.  A
love affair will probably explain why my head doesn't seem to be on right.


#

	It's time for the summing up.

	When the ersatz Callahan died, the alien threat to us personally
was over.  They're still a menace to the world, of course, but I'll be
damned if I know what to do about it.  Judging from recent history, the
aliens are boneheaded when it comes to running countries.  I wouldn't be
surprised if the trainwreck of the U.S.S.R was their handiwork.  Maybe the
only way America can get rid of them is to tank.  Probably they follow the
axiom, "Foul your nest and move West." In this case, moving west will take
them to Japan -- and good riddence.

	Here's a gob of good news.  The first time I checked the mail after
the police let us go, I found a letter addressed to Callahan.  It turned
out to be a contract-offer for one of my "Nick Baxter" novels.  Three
thousand smackers and the promise of royalties!  Wow!

	Martin was less than ecstatic.

	"That's nice," he said, "but the money's all going to go to D.C.'s
brother Jack.  I suppose he can use it, but wouldn't it have been great if
Callahan were still here to get the good word?  He'd feel better about
having a book in print than getting the money it'd bring in."

	I must have looked like the cat that swallowed the canary when I
said, "It's not Jack's money."

	He looked at me, not understanding.  "What do you mean?"

	"Check Callahan's will, Martin.  I happen to know what's in it --
ah, because I typed it for him."

	"Well what's in it?"

	"He left everything to his company, including his copyrights, and
you're the company now."

	"Why would he do a fool thing like that?"

	"Give the guy a break, Marty!  When he drew up his will,
D.C. didn't have two sticks of gum to rub together, nothing but a
debt-ridden agency and a stack of manuscripts that no editor would touch
with a ten-foot pole!  He didn't suppose he was doing you any favor by
leaving everything to you."

	Now Pard started looking hopeful.  "Do you think the publisher
would want any more of D.C.'s novels?"

	I shrugged.  "I think we should get an agent for his estate and
push a few more of his books to the same company.  Anyway, Callahan's
success is something that really encourages me.  I'd like to try my hand at
one of those Nick Baxter adventures myself."

	He laughed.

	"What's tickling your funny bone?" I asked, annoyed.

	"A girl can't write like a tough guy!"

	"Oh, yeah?" I said.  "Just watch my smoke, buddy!"

	And I was as good as my word.  Whenever I get a spare moment, I
peck away at the stirring adventures of N.B., just like I used to.
Practice makes perfect and I can only get better.  Also, I think my female
characters are getting more realistic.  They all come out as insatiable
nymphomaniacs.  Well, a fella has to write what he knows, doesn't he?  I
haven't sold a second book yet, but I won't sweat it.  When the publisher
sees himself making millions off the first, opportunity will come knocking.
We're keeping our fingers crossed.

	Now back to the bad stuff.

	During the inquest, Martin and I did our best to smear as much muck
as possible on D.C. Callahan's coattails.  According to our alibi, D.C. got
involved with a bad woman, Leigh Spielman from across the hall.  They
started killing for thrills.  We told the cops that D.C. died in an attempt
to murder Dewitt and me, a fact that Latisha Jones corroborated.  Of
course, I also had to confess that I'd hit Spielman with the snow shovel,
but that was dismissed as unintentional and justifiable homicide.

	As for the stiffs in B.J.'s apartment, well, we lucked out there,
too.  We had to admit having been at the crime scene, but we claimed that
Blackjack's dying words accused Callahan and a blonde woman of killing the
wino in the kitchen.  As for B.J., the coroner decided that he'd died of
natural causes.  Witnesses placed Callahan and his dame at the scene of the
crime not once but twice and the dead wino had last been seen entering the
building in their company.  The stiffs in the dumpster had already been
chalked up to the deadly duo, so it wasn't much of a leap of faith for the
boys in blue to saddle their new Bonny and Clyde with the pimp-pad killing.

	The papers took the thrill-killer story and ran with it, calling
Callahan and Spielman the "Death Wish" assassins, making them out as
psychos with a vendetta against the city's poor and disadvantaged.  By the
time Gina and Evelyn surfaced, the whole open-and-shut affair had gone
stale and nobody pushed too hard to reopen it.  Better yet, B.J.'s girls
stubbornly claimed that they didn't know anything.  All the threads of the
case taken together didn't make one bit of sense, but who was keeping
score?  Maybe it's for the best.  If the fuzz were good at their job, who'd
ever need private eyes like Callahan and Dewitt?  It's the P.I.  who gets
his man, like God intended.

	Ted O'Malley, or -- more precisely, Latisha Jones -- gave the
testimony that saved our necks.  We'd been afraid that nobody would believe
a nameless mystery woman, but it turned out that there really had been a
Latisha Jones with a rap sheet on file for soliciting.  I suppose Latisha
had been the name of the hooker originally born into that knockout body,
just another victim of the body-switchers.

	Social services tried to make O'Malley stay in a home for troubled
women, but she was just too restless and kept running away.  Martin and me
went looking for her and found her doing her thing with the usual suspects.
We didn't want to leave her on the mean streets, so we fixed her up with
one of my -- one of Callahan's -- old contacts in the West -- the manager
of one of those special Nevada ranches, one called the Corral 69.

	 Installing Latisha into a legal bordello wasn't the perfect
solution, I'll admit, but there was no other work that she was either
qualified or willing to do.  She stayed at the Corral for just six weeks.
Even though very popular with the customers, Latisha never really settled
down and was bored stiff by desert life.  One day she hitched into Reno and
never came back.  Martin and me could only shake our heads at the news.
O'Malley will have to sink or swim until her memory comes back.  If it ever
does return, maybe she'll take up another career.  Thank God that she isn't
in Congress anymore.  It's better that an evil alien will go to Hell for
messing up decent people's lives than O'Malley, who's been given a chance
to redeem himself.

	Herself.


#

	As for the B.J.  case, Martin and I knew what the cops didn't, that
the real Blackjack Waters was still very much alive.  Even so, we didn't
give him much thought, until one day, when I was dropping off a batch of
letters at the corner mailbox, I turned around and almost bumped boobs with
a red-haired hottie wearing dark glasses.

	She recognized me, too.

	"You're that secretary from the Callahan agency," she remarked in
those rich, liquid Black English tones that clashed with her pink
complexion.  At first, I could only stare.  The outfit had on was "barely
legal" -- a black lycra-spandex, ladder-cut job.  It was a rig sinful
enough to keep an Episcopalian minister up all night praying.  And it
wouldn't be Salvation that he'd be praying for!  Looking bushed, B.J.  sat
down.  "Gotta take a load off my feet," she said.  "I must have walked ten
miles already today!"I could see her problem; the high-heeled platforms she
had on looked about as bad as anything in Sheila's closet.  I'm still
clueless as to why women buy such nutty shoes -- but since four-inch heels
always make my legs look great, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing flats.

	"You haven't been turned out yet, have you, Sugar?" she asked in
apparent sincerity.

	Taken aback, I replied, "Ah, no.  I'm still doing that old job of
mine."

	Her meue told me that she didn't approve of my career.  "You're in
a rut, gal, and that's too bad.  A real woman hasn't lived until she takes
up with a sweet, every-loving man."

	"The man I've already got is sweet enough for me," I told her.

	"That handsome dick in the leather coat?  He'd make a good pin-up,
but loving that kind of man never works out in real life.  He's not a
player."

	"I'm glad he's not," I replied stiffly.  "I don't want to be played
with."

	She shrugged, like I was stupid or something.

	"How -- ah -- how are you getting along, B.J.?" I asked.  "How are
Evelyn and Gina?"

	"The wife-in-laws are both fine.  We're all still together, working
for this new sweet man that Evelyn found us -- Bogota Rico."

	"I've heard of him," I said, unable to repress a shiver.  Rico was
a Columbian, an up-and-comer from the barrio who'd started out pimping, but
who'd gotten involved in even nastier action.  He had big, bad friends in
high places.  His name had come out as one of those who had paid to sleep
in the Lincoln Bedroom.

	"Is Rico one of your old friends?" I asked.

	A laugh floated up her pipes.  "Not hardly!" she exclaimed.  "We
hated each other's guts when we were both players because we were always
trying to take one another's girls away.  Well, a couple days after I last
saw you, Evelyn brought Rico over to our motel.  He said he was taking over
my operation and that he wanted me to be part of it."

	"Evelyn set that up?"

	"Yeah.  At first I thought she'd double-crossed me, but I soon
figured out that she was really doing me a favor.  A woman can't run a
string on the street and what did I know about setting up a house?"

	"How do you -- like the work?" I inquired carefully.

	She frowned.  "I didn't like it much at first.  It wasn't what I
was used to.  Rico didn't know who I really was and thought I was just
acting uppity, so he really lowered the boom on me.  I tell you, it doesn't
take a man like that long to straighten a gal out!  It's been cool with him
ever since."

	"Cool?"

	Her cheaters flashed the sun into my eyes when she looked up.
"Yeah, it's cool.  Why should I knock myself out every day taking care of a
string of ungrateful girls, arguing with them when I want to rest, leaving
my poker game to go bail them out of the pokey?  Now I got a sweet man
taking care of me.  Wouldn't you want it that way, too?"

	"If I were in your line, I suppose I would," I said, just to humor
her.

	The air went out of the conversation once she'd rung that that
concession from me, and even though B.J.  had only rested for a couple
minutes, she got up again.

	"Well, gotta rush, baby-o.  Rico expects five hundred dollars a
day, or else he uses that hair brush that Evelyn gave him." She touched her
tush and winced.  "Up to last month he only expected three hundred dollars,
but now he knows I can pull down five big ones easy."

	"He raised your price?  The greedy rat!"

	She smiled pityingly.  "No, you still don't see!  I'm glad he wants
five.  It shows he counts me with his top girls, and that's an honor!  By
the way, if you ever want to look me up, ask around for "Betty Jo." That's
my street handle, but my friends still call me B.J."

	It didn't take much imagination to guess why.

	"Good luck!" I said sending her off with a wave.  The days are gone
when I'd want to slap a tush like hers.  I stood there for a minute,
watching her go and listening to the song she was singing:

	"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 meet them in bed!"

	Who could have figured?  O'Malley had been brainwashed and so I
could give her a pass.  But what could explain a loony tune like Betty Jo
Waters in twenty-five words or less?

	I guess I knew the answer.  People are just marks to guys like B.J.
Street sharks are users and takers; they have a dark hole where their
hearts should have been screwed in.  Once B.J.  had ceased to be a player
she didn't have any choice but to become a mark.  I hope she could keep
telling herself that somebody loves her, because that's all she has left.

	Fortunately, it's on that point that B.J.  and I parted company.

* * * * *







		  Chapter 24

	The Narrative of D.C. Callahan concluded

	 Now, back to where I left off.

	After the police grilling, Martin drove me to my -- to Sheila's --
place in Falls Church and put me to bed.  He stayed overnight, but slept
out in the living room.

	When I woke up the next morning, I felt even more depressed than
ever.  I just lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling, not knowing
what to do with myself, not wanting to go on.  I had two choices, as I saw
it.  I could either mix myself a strychnine cocktail or get used to the
idea of living somebody else's life, a somebody who happened to be a dame.

	A perennially randy dame.

	Suddenly there came a rapping-tapping on my chamber door.  It was
Martin, and nothing more.

	"Sheila, are you all right?" he asked.  "You sound like you're
crying."

	"I don't cry!" I yelled back.  "I wouldn't know how to cry if I
tried.  Go away, you big dumb Belgian!  I don't want to talk!" Along with
all my other problems, now I was afflicted with a partner who suffered from
auditory hallucinations.

	Martin opened the door slowly and looked in on me.  When I saw that
he was wearing just his pants I rolled over and refused to look at his
rippling muscles.  My cheek touched a wet spot on the pillow that hadn't
noticed before.  I figured that I must have been drooling.

	My ex-pard inched closer and I felt the give of the mattress under
his weight.

	"You're taking it hard, Princess.  I'm pretty busted up myself," he
confided softly.  "And I was scared spitless at the police station until
they let us leave.  But the worst thing of all, I miss Callahan."

	I sniffed.  "Yeah, well, you can't miss D.C. half as much as I do.
He was something special to me."

	"Come on, Sheila, don't cry.  If you just stop and think about it,
there's a lot about life that's pretty good."

	"I'm not crying!" I stubbornly maintained as I groped toward the
Kleenex box.  I couldn't reach the nightstand, so Martin plucked a sheet
and pressed it into my hand.

	"I don't know how I'm going to live after this," I mumbled after a
good honk.

	He took my hand in his and squeezed it.  "You and me are going to
go on living just like before.  I'm going to make that two-bit agency work
for Callahan's sake -- and for yours.  But first, I'm going to rename it."

	I looked up at him, surprised and put-out.  "Yeah, I guess it's the
Dewitt Investigative Agency now.  You're really moving up fast!"

	He shook his head, but his tone remained tender.  "No, I want to
call it the Callahan Private Investigation Agency."

	My mouth hung open, but then I collected myself and sniffed, "You
don't have to prove anything to Callahan.  Let the dead stay buried.
D.C. wouldn't want to have anything sentimental done behind his back.  You
were a buddy and a pal to him.  To a man, that's as good as being a
brother."

	"Yeah?  And how do you know so much about men all of a sudden?"

	Looking away, I said, "I read a book about men once."

	He laughed softly.  "Well, that's nice.  Every guy wants a girl who
understands him."

	I didn't answer.

	"I wouldn't blame you if you want to take off after all we've been
through," he said, "but I hope you won't.  And somehow, I don't think you
will.  You've got grit.  I never thought you fit in at the office before,
but now I can't imagine you anywhere else.  If you wanted to run, you had
plenty of reasons and opportunities before this."

	I shut my eyes.  I didn't want a pep talk.  I'm the type who gives
pep talks; I don't listen to them.

	"For a while it'll be just you and me," he went on.

	"Yeah," I said with a snort, "it'll be hard for you to find a new
partner, somebody who'll take on half of the company's debt with no hope
for an income!"

	"It's not that.  I just wouldn't want to bring in an outsider, not
for a while anyway.  I wouldn't want to make Callahan's ghost feel
crowded."

	I shifted, feeling uncomfortable with him so close.  "A ghost?
Yeah, that's a pretty good description of him right now."

	Pard suddenly changed the subject.  "In the office you said you
loved me.  I don't remember if I ever told you that I love you, too."

	I looked him in the eyes, slightly incredulous, slightly indignant.
"No you don't!  I've just got this great bod."

	He laughed again.  "You do!  I could see that from the first day.
The difference is that now I know you have a good soul, too."

	I rolled away from him.  What a thing to say!  Would I have to put
up with guys saying mushy, embarrassing things to me all my life just
because I was a girl-

	His fingers encircled my wrist.  "Too often folks don't level with
the people they care about until it's too late.  That's not going to happen
with us.  Not this time; it's too important."

	I had nothing to say.  I figured it was just what any guy would say
to any girl as gorgeous as me.

	Just then, he tugged away the sheet, baring my shoulders, and put
his fingers under my chin.  When He turned my face his way, I saw his lips
were coming in like a Mustang fighter.  I stiffened and tried to shove him
away.  "Don't, Martin!  You don't know what that sort of thing does to me!"

	"I think I do," he said, "and I'm counting on it."

	"It's not nice to exploit a guy's weaknesses," I complained after a
moment's pause.

	"Do you want me to leave?"

	"No," I heard myself saying.


#

	Dad always said that a gentleman always accepts a lady's "no" for
an answer.  I guess Martin was a gentleman then, because the next thing I
knew he was under the sheet with me.  I sat bolt upright.  "Martin, listen
.  .  .  !"

	"Wha---" he murmured, shimmying closer.

	"Until we know where our relationship is headed, I think --"

	"Yeah .  .  .  ?"

	"I think you should get a box of condoms."

	Oh, God, had I actually said that?  I should have asked for just
one condom, not a whole case of them!  Now he was going to think that I was
an easy mark, that I was that kind of girl.  Oh, blush!

	"Don't sweat it, Princess.  Why do you think that man with my kind
of income carries inside his wallet?"

	My face felt like hot towel covered it, but I managed to say,
"You're such a lech!"

	"Yeah, I am.  Doesn't that make you a lucky girl?"

	Before I could answer, he sat up, took off his pants, took his
billfold out, and prepared.  I looked away then, not caring to watch.
Also, I was getting more than a little panicky.  An innocent smooch here, a
little grope there, and suddenly we were on the verge of something serious!

	Martin returned to my side; he slipped under the comforter and then
took me into his arms and held me, squeezed me close ?  and when his hand
he reached down, I felt my briefs go bye-bye.

	I didn't fight, I was too frazzled either to resist or to help him.
The fact that he was a guy still didn't sit so well with me intellectually,
but on the purely emotional level we seemed to make a good fit.

	Yipe!  I cried out when he touched my guy magnet!  "Sheila," he
whispered into my ear, "are you a virgin?  I don't want to get too rough
for you to handle."

	Virgin?  No, not after what I'd done to Sheila.  "No way," I
answered.  "I can take anything you can dish out!"

	The Third Degree stared with a lip-nibble at my breasts while a
pair of hands roamed free all over my body, feeling, tickling, pinching.
Once Pard had made my boobs feel thoroughly loved, he pinned my shouldes to
the mat like a wrestler, his specific gravity on top of me forcing a moan
through my lips.  It felt like I was being asphyxiated, so why was it so
good for me-

	It only got worse when Martin touched me in a place where I wasn't
used to having a place.  He continued his foreplay, but when he had me
purring like a kitten, he got himself into position.  It was like drowning;
my whole life seemed to flash before my eyes, and before I could return to
the here and now, a single aimed thrust told me that I wasn't in Kansas
anymore!

	I'd been had!  He'd made a woman of me while I was reliving the
fistfight with Sammy Harker in fifth grade; I hadn't contributed a deuced
thing to our bliss except a yelp of surprise.

	"You belong to me," he was whispering in my year.  I thought a good
rejoiner would have been, "I must, since you've staked your claim, but all
I actually said, was a faintly murmured, "Yeah, ooh." With two little
words, one slang, one not even in the dictionary, I had given him formal
title to my body and soul.

	Now that he'd made his purchase, Martin decided to put me to
consumer use.  His hips began to move, slowly and only shallow plunges at
first, but they quickly built up power and depth of stroke.  While
experiencing what Mrs.  Callahan never raised her little boy to experience,
I struggled to think.  Did I want Martin or just his body?  Was it real
feelings or only the Dame Curse?  Did he want me or just my body?

	Well, we could hash that through later; right now, it was "take
what you can get." And, actually, we were each getting quite a lot.  That
is, I knew I was, and Martin didn't act like he was being shortchanged
either.

	But would a gentleman let a lady know?

	What I did know was that my flesh quivered like Jell-O every time
he slammed me.  This was no Romeo and Juliet thing; it was Desert Storm!
My mind spun like a quarter on it's edge, one side registering pleasure and
the other side pain.

	It was too much for me and I'm ashamed to say I started to wimp
out.  "No!" I gasped suddenly.  "Stop, please, I'm not used to this!"

	He seemed not to hear me and the pain-pleasure continued -- but
what delicious pain!

	By that time, I was running on automatic.  It was flint on steel;
Martin had struck a spark and created an inferno.  It was like an electric
shock into nitro!  I grew vaguely aware of the taste blood on my tongue.
His or mine, who knew?  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered that
I had made love before, but never like this.  That kind of love had only
been a word; this was different because it was the real thing, a daiquiri
cocktail compared to short beer.

	We savaged each other for about a quarter hour, biting and clawing,
kissing, licking, each trying to get more from the other than it was
humanly possible to give.  Then I felt a rush of pleasure exploding through
my entire body.  My brain went blank and muscles deep inside me started
throbbing ecstatically.  At that point I lost control; my hips jerked, my
nipples got as hard as pen points, and my mouth formed an involuntary 0.
Then the earthquake happened.  My cry of pleasure-pain drowned out all the
sound my partner was making and we lost ourselves.  A moment later the
gymnastics were over, but we lay wrapped in one another's arms and the
denouement had left us feeling tingly and satisfied all over .  .  .  .





		   Chapter 25

	The General Narrative, concluded

	 Martin thought his office had a lovely view.  That's because
Sheila was bending over, sorting papers into the bottom drawer of the file
cabinet.  He took in her high heel the cute derriere now straining the
fabric of her plaid miniskirt.  Most of all, he appreciated her calves in
those old-fashioned silk stockings she dug up somewhere, the kind with the
sexy black seam.  Actually, Sheila liked the way he was dressing now, too.

	His gal Friday had been after him for weeks to start dressing like
"a real detective." Martin, who already thought of himself as a real
detective, had dug in his heels.  Finally, his resident minx had offered a
deal that he couldn't refuse: If he'd dress like a real detective, Sheila
had said, she'd dress like a real detective's secretary.

	"I thought you were already doing that," Martin had replied.
"Anyway, I've had no reason to complain."

	Sheila had given no reply, just the kind of smile that said, "You
haven't seen anything yet, Big Boy!" He still disliked wearing the tie and
the hat that went with his secretary's idea of a "real detective," but
seeing Sheila's admiring smile when he arrived in the morning made up for
any loss of dignity.

	Now, unable to restrain himself, Martin reached out and touched the
leather miniskirt.  Sheila kept on working and tried to ignore him.

	"Don't you feel it, Sexy?" the shamus finally asked.

	The girl sniffed.  "What do you think?!  It's not like those mitts
of yours feel like feather-dusters!"

	"I mean, don't you feel a sort of -- presence?  I'd swear that
D.C. was here with us, so close to us that I could reach out and touch
him."

	Sheila turned, set aside her filing and, with a resigned sigh,
said, "You've got to let go of the past, Martin.  D.C.'s gone.  He -- loved
you ?  a lot -- like a kid brother, you know -- but he's never coming
back."

	The P.I.  met Sheila's gaze boldly.  "Is that what you've done?
Have you let go of the past?"

	She gave back a curious, almost suspicious glance.  "Yeah.  That's
what I've done.  Why not?  The past wasn't so great, was it?!"

	Martin rested back into his swivel chair.  "Maybe not.
Everything's come down in such a mess!  The government's still in the hands
of people-hating outsiders obsessed with money, sex, and power --"

	His companion laughed.  "What you're describing is politics as
usual, Martin!  Maybe the aliens are worse than the average politician, but
not by much."

	"I wish I could be as cool as you are, Baby."

	She bent closer and gazed into those eyes of his that were always
more like windows than mirrors.  "I think you're plenty cool, Big Guy."

	"Yeah, thanks," he said with a grin he couldn't suppress.

	Suddenly her tone changed.  "We've got to talk, Martin."

	He looked at her again, sensing the nimble working of an active
imagination.  Employees usually looked that way when they were about to ask
for a raise, but he knew that that couldn't be.  So he sucked in a
steadying breath, wondering whether this would be the moment that she'd
finally lay her cards on the table.  To his surprise, the girl suddenly
slithered into his lap.

	"Just what do we have to talk about?" he asked warily.  Then a
terrible thought struck him.  "Oh, Christ!  Don't tell me you're pregnant!"

	She swatted his cologned hair with an open palm.  "No way!  I'm not
really for kids ?  yet."

	"Then what is it?"

	"It's just that I think that you've been working too hard."

	He puzzled.  "Sure I have.  But I make up for it by not charging
much."

	"I think it's time you took on a new partner," she persisted.

	"And why do I need a new partner?"

	She tossed her head.  "Because business has picked up," she said.
With Callahan gone, we're off the black list.  You're working all the time.
You need a back-up, you need relief."

	"You're talking about a vacation?  You minx!  It's you who won't
let me get any sleep."

	"You must be thinking about somebody else.  You're hardly
Valentino, baby.  You fall asleep the second your head hits the pillow!
You're spreading yourself too thin -- and you're driving me to Frustration
City."

	"So what's the solution, Green Eyes?  Bringing in a stranger?
You're not pushing one of your cousins on me, are you?"

	She shook her head.  "No, it's somebody much better than that.
It's somebody who knows the score."

	"Somebody like you, maybe?"

	Her lips spread wide.  "Good insight.  I always thought you were a
smart guy."

	"And I've always thought you were one hell of a secretary.  But a
partner?  I'm not so sure."

	"Think of it," Sheila pressed.  "'Dewitt and, uh, Coffin.'"

	"Can't do that.  I just painted 'Callahan Private Investigating
Agency' on the door."

	"So?  How much does a little paint cost?"

	"Plenty.  The sign painters are unionized.  You're the one who pays
the bills, aren't you?"

	"We can get some do-it-yourself letters."

	"I'd hate to look like a cheapskate!  Listen, Sheila, I need time
to think about partnership."

	"You'll have plenty of time to think from now on, since you'll be
lying in bed alone."

	"Hey, that's not playing fair!  I thought you were a classy dame.
I didn't think you were that kind of girl."

	"Okay, got you.  That was a low blow.  No decent woman ever throws
her guy out of bed.  Anyway, I'd miss it more than you do."

	"I'm glad you finally admitted the power I have over you, woman!"
he trumpeted.  Then his tone softened.  "So, you think you're good enough
to be a gumshoe, huh?"

	"Didn't I handle myself pretty well with the aliens -- for a dame,
I mean."

	"Who says you did?"

	"You said it!"

	"Well, then it must be true.  I've been wondering how long it would
take for Sheila Coffin to realize how good she really is."

	She swatted him again.  "Don't agree so easily!  I haven't even
mentioned the offer you can't refuse."

	Martin's brows perked up.  "Okay, lay it on me, Beautiful.  I don't
know what else you can offer that you aren't already giving me plenty of."

	"Listen, you lech, I was only going to remind you that if I were
your partner, you could stop paying me a salary."

	"You'd want that?" he asked, looking genuinely amazed.

	"I'm a gambler.  I'm willing to bet on our success."

	"You don't know what a bore street work is.  It's no fun watching a
dark building from a stake-out car all night long."

	"As long was we're together we'll manage."

	"Uh, uh," he corrected her.  "As long as we're together in the back
seat, we'll manage."

	She batted him again and he tweaked her breast in retaliation.  All
of a sudden, they were digging under one another's clothes and tickling.
They didn't settle down again for a full two minutes.

	"Tell me more about your idea," Martin panted.

	Sheila, too, finally caught her breath.  "Now, where were we?
"Were you agreeing or disagreeing with the basic proposition?"

	"I think I was agreeing," the P.I.  answered.  "At least we were
agreeing about the back seat -- and if you swat me again I'll spank that
lovely bottom of yours"

	Sheila lowered her hand.  "Partners then?  Morning and night?"

	"That's not enough," he said.

	"What's not enough?"

	"You forgot afternoon and evening."

	She smiled sweetly and light danced in her eyes.  "I stand
corrected."

	Sheila kissed him then, which he took as an invitation to place his
hand under her hemline.

#

	Martin felt relieved knowing that Sheila seemed satisfied to keep
her "secrets" secret, at least for now.

	Whenever the detective got too swell-headed, he only had to
remember how clueless he had been after D.C.'s switch.  It had not been
until he had first made love to Sheila that it had registered on him that
something was not right.  When his new girl friend had gotten up to make
breakfast that morning, Martin had suddenly noticed that she seemed lost in
her own apartment.  For the first few minutes he had watched her
floundering with amusement, supposing that what had just passed between
them had her dazzled.  But amusement grew into perplexity when he observed
saw how hard it was for her to find so much as the cups and the spatula.
Briefly, he had supposed that she had been traumatized by their close
encounter of the third kind, but soon an alternate scenario began to fall
into place.

	It was then that he realized that this woman couldn't be the real
Sheila.  She hadn't been acting like Sheila, neither in the home nor at the
office.  Was she an alien?  No, that couldn't be.  They'd have sex, and an
alien would have switched with him or murdered him by now?  This girl had
actually killed an alien to save his life.  Besides, aliens took not only
the body but the memories that went with them.  They were perfect
imposters.  Didn't that meant that this person, whoever she was, had to be
an ordinary person switched by aliens?

	But who could she be?  Why wouldn't she admit who she was?  Whoever
she was, she knew a lot about their everyday business.  When he started
thinking along those lines, a light went on.

	Oh, God!

	Martin had said nothing to Sheila.  Instead, he had made an excuse
so he could spend the rest of the day alone.  For hours he strolled around
Fort Marcy Park, kicking the pop cans, trying desperately to come up with
some better theory than the one he had.  By early afternoon, he could no
longer even pretend to deceive himself.

	D.C. Callahan was alive!  Worse than that, he, Martin Dewitt, was
hopelessly, desperately, in love with him -- with _her_.  They had even
made out in the sack, for crying out loud!

	Anguishing over what had happened brought no answers as to why each
of them had let it happen.  Instead, Martin began to realize that if
Callahan were alive, that was an important thing.  Wasn't it also a good
thing?  Wasn't it about the best thing possible?

	At twilight, he found himself back at Sheila's apartment just in
time for supper.  She had fixed hamburgers and since Martin hadn't eaten
all day, they tasted great, despite his perplexed state of mind.  Every
time she looked away, Dewitt stole a studying glance at her, trying to
reconcile the old D.C. with the new Sheila.

	Although he had intended to go back to his own apartment that
night, bedtime found the two of them together under the covers again and
making love.  But he was a conflicted man and it showed in their
lovemaking.  When Sheila asked him why he was holding back, Dewitt had
yammered something about delayed shock from all they'd been through.
Martin could never remember very much more about that night, except that
they had kissed at lights-out and held one another close.

	By the third night, Martin's original passion had revived, but a
sense of awe at the miracle of Callahan's return still possessed him.
Sheila, sensing something amiss, had asked: "Are you making love to me,
Martin, or is this some kind of worship service?"

	The fourth time was the charm.  The doubts plaguing the detective
had faded into the background.  He didn't have the hots for Callahan; he
didn't have them for Sheila.  This person was someone new, and she was a
wonderful girl -- gutsy, knowledgeable, and funny.

	But was this urgent, powerful thing that he felt really love?
Martin tried other terms -- happiness, completion, satisfaction,
contentment, attainment -- but none of them served better than the best
four-letter word poetry ever composed.

	Love was a nutty thing, though; who ever really understood it?
Now, today, here in the office, Martin held Sheila close enough to feel her
heart beating.  The good, warm feelings he felt made him realize that what
they had was precious but perishable; it had to be preserved with careful
nurturing and built-upon into something permanent at all costs.  How long
could the arrangement go on?  Dewitt didn't think that D.C. would keep him
in the dark forever.  When she "fessed up," how would that change their
relationship?  Well, the day of reckoning hadn't come yet.  Until it did,
and for every day thereafter, Martin vowed to do his level best to make
D.C. -- to make Sheila -- happy.  Before he was done with her, she'd
realized that she'd been the lucky one after all.

	"Do you love me, pudding?" Martin's new partner murmured into his
ear.  He shivered, liking the way her hot breath tickled.

	"You know I do, Princess," he assured her, his voice husky and
tight.  "Gimme some lip!"

	"I love it when they ask for sass," she replied with a tense,
breathy exhale.

	Then, just like when Sheila was still a secretary, they smooched
big-time, until the clock told them to go chow down at the Burger King
across the street.



	FIN