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