The Big Switch  
or, "The Dame Curse"
by: Christopher Leeson    © 2001

 

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 pretty good to me, but the message didn't the price of coffee. High-priced coffee is where the joints usually rip you off with their cheap-meal specials. Anyway, we didn't have two dollars between.

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

I was too excited to want to sit around. "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 and not find 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 one. 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. "I hope you'll only do that if you had a good reason."

"What are you talking about?"

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

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

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

He pressed his lips together 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 remarked grinningly.

"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! My cheeks hot, I mumbled, "I'll sleep in one of the other bedrooms," and 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 was just past 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 once a day is half the fun I get out of life. But, of course, I wouldn't have to be Sheila for very long. I didn't dare think differently.

But thinking about it at all depressed me. I had gone to bed as Sheila and awakened again as Sheila. It was a shock and I made a vow never to do anything like that again. And why should I? My body was still out there somewhere and I was bound and determined to crawl back into through its ears, if necessary.

I think that it was my antsiness and not the sun which 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, 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, Gina had packed her practical things with her when she took it on the lam. Anyway, the stuff left behind was of the fashion that looks best lighted by a lamp post.

In my search I'd found her lingerie drawer and, to my surprise given the state of my mind, got a charge by running my hands it. I always liked touching lingerie, of course, but this time it was different somehow. The next thing I knew, I found myself picking up a silky little thing and touching it to my nose to inhale its laundry-room freshness. Bad move. I felt myself breaking out into a sweat from it's scent and softness.

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 also slept on it since. I picked up a comb from the dresser top and tried to bring a little order to the haystack. Easier said than done; by the time I finished teasing the snarls this way and that I resembled an Italian actress in a cheap adventure movie.

Then I did a double take and frowned with interest. I like cheap adventure movies, after all, and Sheila was damned cute. After all, wasn't that the only reason I'd hired her and the only reason that Martin and me kept her on? It sure wasn't personality, and we'd never got to now her well enough to feel sorry for her. All we'd ever gotten out of the deal was dirty looks. Then I checked my reminiscences and sighed; poor Sheila herself got a lot worse than a dirty look in the end.

But by looking into the mirror I could imagine that she was still alive. I was remembering seeing her naked in the office and it turned me on big-time. She wasn't naked just then, of course; she was wearing a conventional pair of PJ's, the least sexiest thing that Gina had left behind.

All of a sudden, I unbuttoned the top, let it slip off my arms, then stepped out of the elastic waistband. Suddenly Sheila was standing there in the all-together.

Wow! The 3-D effect you get from looking at a real live girl has it all over Playboy Magazine, especially because there was no staple to get in the way. It was more than a red-blooded American male could resist and I cautiously touched one of Sheila's glories.

Yeepers! They were sensitive! How did Sheila ever restrain herself? And how could any girl with that kind of body have been such a prude? I got an idea and sauntered back to the lingerie drawer.

It would have been a pity to let such a golden opportunity go to waste, especially since I didn't intend to keep the body I had for long. My plan called for a little privacy, and so I braced a chair under the doorknob, like I did to keep my brother Frank out when I was a teenager with a new men's magazine to page through. Then I returned to the dresser and picked out a black corset. The underwiring 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. I couldn't help but wonder whether women had as much fun looking at themselves as men had looking at them. If so, it would handily explain why it took dames so long to dress.

I continued dressing, pretty much knowing where everything fit. I wasn't a virgin, after all, and at one time I'd probably subscribed to more lingerie catalogues than Gypsy Rose Lee. Pretty soon I had the G-string where it belonged and a pair of nylons pinned securely to the garters. 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, cuffs, collar, and a cotton tail while making a good living serving slush to ogling drunks. What a pity that Sheila had hid her light under a bushel! Why? Martin and me were broad-minded; if Sheila had come to work dressed like an ecdysiast enjoying a Rio during the Brazilian summer we wouldn't have thought any the less of her.

Wanting to admire Sheila from every angle, I struck a pin-up pose, and then a second, and a third.

Guys will know what I mean when I say that girl-watching is like eating potato chips; you can't stop with just one girl, or, in this case, one getup. So I doffed what I had on and tried out a different outfit, this one a three-piece teal-green set, added the accessories, and stood back to take in the effect.

Incredible! Every nerve in my body was alive and alert. I wondered whether female buffalos looked just as good to their bulls was women do to men. No, on second thought that was impossible. Nobody makes lingerie for buffalo cows.

"Sheila, I think I love you!" I heard myself saying as I backed up from the mirror to get a better look at those in fantasmo gams. 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.

I froze in panic. Here I was wearing something I wouldn't want to be caught dead in and because I was too tongue-tied to yell, "It's okay. I just had a little accident!" he assumed I was in danger and started banging the door with his shoulder. Though I'd braced the chair under the knob, I'd left the throw rug under its legs and the tiles were so damnably slick that the rug slipped. In another second there stood Martin, looking at me wearing not much more than gooseflesh.

He smiled apologetically when he realized that I wasn't being eaten alive by aliens. "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.

"Yeh," 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, bucker! 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 does."

Crossing my arms defiantly, I said, "Why should I listen to you? 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 me. 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. I couldn't believe my ears.

"Your girl?"

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

* * * * *

Chapter 16
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

What actually knocked me over was tripping over the crumpled rug. I'd backed up and snagged my heel in that damned crumpled rug when Martin took a step toward me. Pard 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 me."

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," giving me the same kind of look that Fred had back at the Franco.

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

He took my meaning and rolled off me, 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 twenty-four hours of unbridled lust makes you Cyrano de Bergerac!"

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

"I'm the one whose changed, Martin," I jabbered. "Believe me, it's me."

He flashed an inveigling smile. "Well, then let's hope you ever change back."

"Don't jinx me. I was hoping we could get 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 at all?"

I shook my head like a baby's rattler. "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. "I want to keep thinking that you're the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Yeah, well I don't like you looking at me like I was a lamb chop. Beauty -- what is it? It doesn't mean anything. If you need beauty, Romeo, 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 more than the beauty you see; it's a beauty that speaks to me here." He touched his heart.

I don't know why, but when he did that I shivered. "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.

"Hmmm," he said.

"Whatdaya mean, 'Hmmmm?'"

"What exactly are you feeling right now, Sheila?"

"I feel like I need a shot of bourbon to settle my jimjams."

He seemed to cheer up. "Then I guess we've got a lot in common."

I looked away, but still felt his scorching me. I wanted to bolt out of that room before he started pawing me like a blow-up doll.

"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."

He'd telegraphed that one and I clapped my hands over my lips. Unfortunately, he wasn't choosy and settled for kissing my cleavage instead -- a target so broad I couldn't have covered it sufficiently with a ash-can lid.

"Bejesus!" I blurted. Such a feeling! Was he drawing 110 volts or what?

"Shhh," Martin whispered and pulled my hands away from my face. He held my wrists down at my sides while he kissed my mouth. I couldn't believe it was happening; I was swapping spit with Martin Dewitt! Interestingly, though, his breath smelled just fine when I really got a whiff of it.

Martin let go of my wrists all of a sudden, but I was so spazzed out that I didn't realize until later that that had been the strategic moment to slug him. Because I missed my opportunity, his grabby fingers slipped down to my waistband Jim Quick and before I could protest my thong had gone to visit my ankles.

Martin, supposing himself overdressed too, sat up and took off his shirt, leaving just the tank top and before I could say or do anything he was back beside me, crushing my body in a bear hug.

What bothered me was the fact that it didn't feel half bad.

The truth is, I liked girls. I liked girls so much that I couldn't understand why I was feeling what I was feeling. I think I just sort of blanked out it and was running on pre-programmed automatic until I felt one of his hands under me trying to unhook my bra.

At that moment, luckily -- or unluckily -- the phone rang out 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. "Forget it!"

"What if it's the aliens?" he asked, suddenly alive to danger.

"Tell them to get their own guy!"

He yanked my arms from around his neck and stood up.

"If an alien answers, hang up," I mumbled, still trying to tongue-bathe him.

"No!" he exclaimed insistently. "If we don't answer it'll put the aliens on guard! You'll have to do the talking!"

Martin dragged me after him by the wrist, 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 instructed me quickly.

"Gottcha!" I said, my mind clearing just a little as I picked up the phone and the adrenalin started to rush.

"H-Hi!" I stammered into the receiver, trying to imitate Gina's tweetie voice while at the same time pulling my thong back up.

"Give me Blackjack," a man said on the other end.

"You want B.J.?" I asked.

"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. "That didn't tell us much. All I got out of him 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. 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 a blunder."

His facial 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," I said.

I needed a shower, and a cold one. Brrrrr.

* * * *

Chapter 17 The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued"Sheila!"

Martin had spoken loudly. I glanced up with a start and noted that we'd just turned off Constitution Avenue.

I'd been lost in thought since leaving B.J.'s, mulling over the big mistake that I had nearly made. Idiot! How could I have let myself go like that? Now the next time Martin and I ended up alone he'd want to pick up where we'd left off and things were going to get pretty tense.

"We'll be out of gas soon," my pard was saying, "and I've pulled in my last marker as far as loans are concerned. There's no one left to hit on except you."

"Me?! Now?"

"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.

"Sure," I told him. "But we'll have to see if my bag's still at the office. I've got no check book 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, don't you know that?"

"Yeh, 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 was wearing tickled my forehead horribly. It's style was controlled chaos, angling for the messy-sexy look. It was hot in such weather, 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 finally admitted, 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 snort.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, what I really go for is that vinyl miniskirt."

I gave my hemline a tug southward. "You big lug! Every time I dress up like a hooker you tell me you like my outfit!"

"Well, I do. And if you're so sensitive, why didn't you put on something more traditional?"

"What could be more traditional than the world's oldest profession?" I retorted with a smirk.

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 awful it would feel to wear vinyl while sitting on a hot car seat!" My top was vinyl, too, and, believe me, the heat wouldn't let me forget it for a second!

"Why did you pick vinyl," he asked, apparently warming up to the subject.

I sniffed. "There wasn't much in either one of those girls' closets which didn't begin with the letters M-I-C-R-O. And, anyway, if we have to keep swimming with the sharks of Pimp World, it makes sense not to look out of place."

"I like your logic, but is that the only 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. "That leather jacket and those wrap-around cheater make you look like a smack pusher."

He bridled at that crack. "I do not! They make me look like a hard ass, which is good in my line. 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 being into Alan Ladd in this day and age?"

"What's wrong with Alan Ladd?!" I asked, feeling defensive about my boyhood hero. "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!"

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 back 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. "Exactly 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 talked a lot dirtier than you do, but 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 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. 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. It makes me want to just hug you."

I snorted. "Keep your hugs to yourself, wise guy. I wasn't put on this earth to be as 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. . . .

I stared straight ahead, pretending I hadn't really heard the four-letter word and tried to look calm, even though I was leapin' lizards under the vinyl upholstery. For whatever reason, Martin piped down, too, and we drove on in a kind of awkward silence.

#

The Carrousel turned out to be a small deli in a block-wide strip mall surrounded by a worn-out industrial area. The last administration had made a hash of the economy with high taxes, over-regulating, dragging big employers who didn't ante up to court, and finally the chickens had come home to roost. It was bad all over the country, but around Washington the downturn was more like the Crash of '29. The capital looks down-in-the-gills at the best of times, but whenever truly hard days come along it's instant Hooverville.

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 prize fighter retired from the ring and taken to the bottle. His fry-cook outfit bulged with muscles, but his spare tire bulged even more; it could have carried an eighteen-wheeler all the way to California.

We described the redhead we were looking for and he listened patiently while enjoying the look of my stems. "Yeh, I've seen her," he nodded, lifting his glance to my neckline. "She started coming in almost every day a couple weeks ago." He finally looked me in the eye. "Do you and her work together?"

"Why do you suppose she was a detective?" I asked.

He stared. "Detective?"

Martin poked me in the ribs, 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 pick her up and I couldn't understand why she was hanging around with those 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. The driveway he'd mentioned was blocked by a padlocked gate.

"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 who'd stolen my body. In fact, I could almost see his tail twitching.

"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 astonished breath. "What?! You're the nuttiest dame I ever met! There's no way I'm letting you go in 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. Playing love game with you would be a hell of a lot more fun than chasing alien killers."

"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 reclosed 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 to look like a tramp!"

"Yeah, I do. It turns me on."

I would have liked to lower the boom for that wisecrack, but the summer lightning in his eyes told me to keep mum. 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 the impression he have of being on top of things 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 which shared the ring with the key to the outer gate.

"Blast! There's nothing here either," Martin complained about the time we'd struck about for 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 in time?"

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 better than Honey West," he said with enthusiasm. "Anne Francis was built thick even when she was young."

I looked up into his face. "There you go again, making a big deal about appearances! You're just incorrigible!" He muttered a rejoinder, but I missed it when I reached down to pick up a fallen half-brick.

"What's that for?"

"A secret weapon," I explained. "I didn't know karate like Honey West, so a little ballast in my purse might come in handy.

Martin, clutching his pea shooter close to his chest, drew the door open and then, glimming nothing behind it, ducked inside. That was my cue to follow the leader.

A little way ahead loomed another door, but this time the swipe box was plain to see and the card he had worked like a charm.

"Things can get dirty inside," Martin warned as he pulled it 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!"

Nothing more to be said, we both held our breaths and slipped inside, knowing full well that up a head buzzed a hornet's nest of inhuman monsters from outer space. It was enough to give a man the screaming meemies, but was also a chance 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. The door lock picked easily enough and no ambush waited within. An additional thirty-second search of the premises turned up the two corpses stashed in the store room.

"Damn!" Spielman cursed. "Do you suppose they got out of the bodies before they died?"

The male's voice was cold when he answered. "No. We've 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. cast-off green hooker dress.

"Callahan was here!" declared Spielman, 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 that character'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 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. 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 be much."

"Are you kidding?" I answered. "Compared to the Los Alamos nuclear labs this is place 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 lunch room 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. "Don't 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 saunter along with the same kind of Holly-Wood-and-Vine gyration that I'd witnessed a hundred times among the interns around the White House ground. I'm speaking of the last administration, of course. The good, clean-living American kids that the new guys brought in have nothing to teach me about being a "bad girl." Even though I doubted that I had the swivel down exactly right, the vinyl show-stopper I had on was calculated to make up for any minor shortcomings on my part.

In fact, the guard totally ignored Martin while he gave 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 a click.

"I can sure see that, honey," the tuna leered.

So far, so good. Now I was supposed to walk past him and let his eye follow my dokus down the hall, to give Martin the chance to blindside him. But I didn't get far before the guard lurched after me and 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!"

This situation called for action. I swung my purse in a short, swift arc and he gave a low, strangled grunt as he doubled over. I maced him on the back of the head with the same weapon and that 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 and put his own small Rossi 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 was guarding, hoping, I guess, that O'Malley was being held prisoner inside. Unfortunately, all it concealed was just some kind of a lab full of computerized equipment.

"Give me a hand," Martin hissed and we dragged the alien rent-a-pig over the threshold. The chore 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. My mortifying predicament would be a very temporary one.

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 grimaced and 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 but, fortunately, seeing nobody.

"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," he said, "but this time you walk behind me!"

"We're not Japanese, Martin."

"Stow it for once, Woman! I'm responsible for you!"

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 for a chance to throw you over my knee!"

I wagged my head. "You're so kinky! I don't think a girl can be safe with you!"

"Save the pillow talk for when I get you alone!" he advised.

I let him have the last word and it didn't take us long to find the descent to the lower level since someone had carelessly left an sight over it that read "Stairs." No one was to be seen down there, 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 everything was 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 looked at him and could tell he was leveling with me. "I'm flattered," I said, "but we've got a job to do."

"Why? You're just the secretary. Why do you think you owe O'Malley anything?"

"Don't ask hard questions," I told him.

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? 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 her as he tried the guard's keys one after another. Soon he found one that did the trick. The room inside was lit by fluorescent ceiling lights, but only one bulb was still working. There were rest rooms though, which was probably the reason why they used it for a prison cell. I instantly recognized the black girl as O'Malley, something I absolutely hadn't expected.

"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 both? 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.

"Hey, what you doin'?" she asked in fright.

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 dat secretary lady of his, but 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 you remember? Sumbuddy was after 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 here."

"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. Uh, I don't really meant 'street'," I apologized.

O'Malley grinned from ear to ear. "Dat B.J! He 'uz always tinkin' o' his gals. Ain't he one sweet, ever-lovin' man! Come on, cutie pie, let's you an' me git outta here!" She winked at Martin. "You, too, Sweetums!"

Dewitt took O'Malley or, rather, "Latisha," by the arm and we retraced our steps, Latisha keeping up a soft chatter despite all attempts to get her to pipe down. "Gal," she whispered behind my back "do you know dere's a rip in yor nylon?"

I looked Martin's way. "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 didn't think that that was a good idea.

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 was another alien security man. "If they're going downstairs we're in serious jelly," I said, stating the obvious.

Then I got a flash and spun to address the black girl. "Latisha, 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 and scurried down the ten steps to the landing. At least she was more obliging than the old senator had 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 they Martians came 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 up us.

"Help me grab her," the one in white told his buddy. When he 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 of them made a bumpy roll down the steps.

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 his face, laying him out cold. Then he checked the tech, who was already out for the count, having banged his noddle on the brick wall.

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 hand.

"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 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 tone.

I shrugged dismissively. "It's too crazy even for fiction!"

"You gonna take me back ta mah Blackjack now?" Latisha suddenly broke in just as we reached our detective office door.

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 far hung back and let 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 killed a rhino. 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 ta take care o' her."

She turned hopefully toward Martin. "You is a studly male, too, 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 yor dick, huun-ee, but Ah'm anxious ta find out mo' 'bout it."

"I don't know how to run a business like Blackjack's," he wheedled. "I'm a detective."

"You kin learn, boss man," she coaxed, her enthusiasm waxing. "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!"

He inhaled a deep breath. "Maybe you should take a vacation from that kind of life yourself. "It can't be a good life and you ought to be able to do a lot better."

"How Ah gonna do dat? Ah can't read or write. Can't add. Don't know much 'bout nothin' 'sep fuckin'!"

"Maybe you've got an aptitude for politics," I ventured hopefully, but immediately regretted the suggestion. I wouldn't want to set O'Malley back on the wrong road now that she 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 beats national politics beat all to hell.

"Don't you remember anything -- about the past, I mean?" Martin asked.

Her long, heavy lashes flew up. "Ah remember everything! Do you 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 to sleep alone much. An' not tonight! Ah ain't had it fo' so long dat Ah tink Ah could take awn de whole Navy base down in Baltimore!"

To illustrate the point she stepped up so close to Martin that he must have felt the heat of her bazooms through his leather jacket. "You go yorself a place 'round heah, good-lookin'?"

#

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, and so we were all for getting lost and laying low. But first I had to get Sheila's particulars -- her 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. It needed transmission work and who wants to drive a 1985 Mercury anyway?

I found that Sheila's bag was 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 by practicing forging Sheila's signature so that I could rob her checking account. Interestingly enough, while I could have passed a fingerprint test as Sheila, a handwriting analysis would trip me up on the first throw.

Luckily, Sheila had been one of those natty people who balanced their check book after each draft, and so I knew I had about 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, which her application said was in Falls Church, Virginia.

Hearing the inner office doorknob jiggle, I shoved my penmanship lesson into the waste basket just as Martin scooted in trying to shake off Latisha, who'd hooked her arm in his. I suppressed a grin. While I didn't wish Martin ill, misery loves company. I couldn't decide which should have grossed him out more, knowing about O'Malley's sex-change or resenting the ex-senator's lousy voting record.

"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?"

"Guess what, Martin!" I said, rising from my chair. "We've 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 while trying to disentangle himself from Latisha's persistent grasp. "Look, lady, I've got to talk to my employee. Go play by yourself!"

"Ah will if'n you wanna watch," she teased.

Martin's cheeks flushed lightly. Until now I didn't know the man could blush. 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 admonishingly. "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 you, but she's driving me crazy! What are we 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 I could think of. At least she doesn't want into your pants!"

I glanced at the closed door. "I'm not so sure about that. But if we can't live with her, the next-best thing would be to get her out of town. Those bad guys aren't going to stop looking for her, if I know Martians."

"But you don't know Martians."

I sniffed. "Maybe not, but I read lots of books about take-over-the-world dirt balls. But it's not just Martians that worry me; I'd hate to imagine what will happen to O'Malley in her state of mind."

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 thinks she's a dame, and her body is one-hundred percent dame, too. She's anything but bad-looking to boot. Are you prejudiced against people with sex-changes or something?"

"Yes!" he said in a low, throaty grumble. "I am! I suppose that the people you hang out with would call me a Nazi in the compassion department."

My neck stiffened, my jaw set. "What do you mean 'the people I hang out with?' I thought you were my people. 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 are."

Futz! Blunder Number Two-Hundred and Twelve! I'd forgotten that it'd been me who went with him into those cheesy bars, and Martin hadn't known Sheila's politics any more than I had. But from what he'd said about sex-changed people, I was glad that I hadn't given him the straight dope about myself. I couldn't stand the thought of Martin drawing off and getting nervous around me because he thought I was a freak of nature.

My pard's expression changed along with the subject. "Isn't it strange that the police haven't been swarming over this place? Haven't they found those two bums in the dumpster yet?"

"Blame the city's lousy garbage-collection," I said resignedly. "Those guys might be 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, appalled. "You? You want to paw through the pockets of a couple 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. "How can you say that? What are you talking about?"

I couldn't explain because I didn't dare to. "I'm not going to argue about this, Pard -- I mean, Boss."

I glided around the desk, took a step toward the exit, and then paused with a backward glance. "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 to the alley. 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 fast -- and these particular stiffs had never 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 the trash bin with those rotting corpses. I'm as tough as anybody, but this was something I'd never had to do before. What I needed was a gin and tonic to brace my resolve. Maybe it would be easier to rob the dead if I were plastered.

Crestfallen about facing Martin again after having made such a bravado exit, I climbed the stairs back 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 the cops had finally come along, but quickly realized that it couldn't be them. If they'd known about the murders they wouldn't have left the dead duo lying in the dumpster. These visitors had to be the aliens!

"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? Ugh! I 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 in 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 palookah! I hated the idea of that handsome face of mine getting bruised and bloody, but it was bitter medicine I was prepared to take 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 decisive action is called for.

Worried that the two bruisers were making too much noise. I poked my head outside and checked the hall. In fact, there were several other heads also poking out of the 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 what he said was true. "Yeh," 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 nuts.

"Keep your voices down," I told them. "People are listening."

"Yeh," wheezed Martin. "Good thinking."

When Pard stepped aside I could I see my runaway body lying senseless on the floor. My ticker did an endo at the sight of him helpless and in our power. This was my big chance! If I played my cards right I could get my body back!

"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? I must have turned as white as a sheet. Anyway, when I stood up I felt dizzy and staggered back against the door.

Martin caught me before I fell. "Sheila, you couldn't help it!" he said in commiseration.

"That poor girl!" I babbled, inconcealable. "That poor, mean-spirited, bad-tempered, frigid girl!"

He shook me. "It wasn't her. It was an assassin from outer space. They murdered Leigh and you only avenged her. 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 be in the clear if we can just 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 on 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 in the office right across the hall. A day never pass 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?!"

Oh, I finally got the drift. He meant the other Callahan. If my double had planted evidence to make me look guilty, he'd only out-smarted himself. With two murdered winos already on his scorecard he'd have a deucedly hard time beating the Spielman rap if we acted like eye-witnesses and lied.

It wasn't such a good idea, actually, though Martin didn't know it. I wanted my original body back and would prefer not to be convicted of Murder One.

"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's was a sweet guy and he's got family. 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 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. You're a sweet, tender-hearted chick."

I groaned. My problem wasn't so much a tender heart as a weak stomach -- that and a keen 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 full of pain and reluctance. "I don't like it," he said, "but I'll do it."

#

After Martin and the corpus delicti had gone on their last ride together, I took stock of the situation.

From what I'd overheard the aliens say, it sounded like the Martian gunsels hadn't reported their Easter egg hunt to their bosses. Just like humans, they didn't want anyone to know that they were lame-brained screw-ups. That meant that should the last alien, the one in my body, met Mr. Jordan we'd be home clear. Unfortunately, killing him was out of the question as long as he had my body.

Oh, what a slippery slope I was riding! Even if I got him switched into Sheila's body I'd then have to murder her. What kind of psycho was I turning into? Sure, I'd killed two aliens already, but I hadn't mean to use lethal force. If I killed Sheila now it would be in cold blood. The whole idea made me sick to the stomach.

Well, I'd have to worry about my health later on. First on the agenda was to becoming D.C. Callahan again.

My plan could best be pulled off in the privacy of the inner office, and 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 language she could understand, "and I want to screw him all tied up before my boyfriend gets back to catch us together!"

Her face spread into an admiring smile. "You is full o' surprises!" Then face brightened even more. "Hell! What y'know. Under all dat white skin you is a sistah afta all! Gimme yor seconds, baby, 'cuz Ah kin use'em. Lord-dee, Ah'z so hot Ah cud fry eggs 'tween mah thighs!"

Considering it, I decided that I wouldn't mind that so much if were Callahan again. It might even be a good way to celebrate.

Working in tandem, we snagged the pigeon into the main office and set him on the floor with his back against the wall. Now came the tricky part, I knew. 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 disagreeable and probably-fatal circumstance. I thought hard 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, but Latisha seemed to like what she saw. Turning to me she said, "You is a woman afta mah own heart! De only ting Ah can't understand is why a fancy lady lak you got de hots fo' a bad ass lak dat!"

Agitated and short of breath, I replied, "You don't understand. The crazy way he's acting isn't like Callahan. This 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, girlie."

She had a point there, but I had a ready answer. "He's my man and he doesn't do it with anybody but me. Got that, lady?"

She showed me her palms and backed off. "Sheesh! Hab it yor own way. You shor is possessive!"

She was half-right. I certainly wanted to possess that tied-up body. Fortunately, even though I felt queasy, the sight of a half-dressed man was enough to click on the Dame Curse. I began to think that I actually could bring it off before I threw up on the man's suit coat.

"Latisha," I began tentatively, "could you get him -- excited -- for me. When I start, I want to finish it fast."

The black girl blinked in puzzlement. "Do you? Me, Ah lak it nice 'n slow." She shook her head. "You is a strange one, gal! D'ya want 'im or dontcha? You jes' said he's yor -- Well, it don't matter none. Ah'll nebber understand you people if'n Ah libbed ta be a hundred.. Since you busted me outta dat cop tank an' you 'uz a good friend to mah sweet man Blackjack, Ah owes you 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 plastic clothing doesn't mix well with air conditioning. If I was feeling this way after just twenty-four hours with the Dame Curse, what kind of person would I be in a week's time?

Then suddenly I grew optimistic again. The more-out-of-control the alien sex-drive made me, the easier it would be to manage the switch-back. In fact, I was so excited that thought imagined that I could take on an entire monastic order, much less one lonely little, tied-up Martian satyr.

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 at it 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 it, 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, you really lak tings hot 'n' 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 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 you 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 picked up the role of tape I'd set out beforehand.

"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 one more time.

"Dat sho' is a lot o' stuff ta remember!" the black girl muttered with a worried expression.

"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 you 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 you uptown people always play dis game?"

I nodded.

"'Magin' dat! Sheesh! If'n nice gals lak you 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's hoe. I thought that I'd done everything I could do, and so, taking a deep breath, I knelt in front of him. Then I hesitated, unsure how to begin. Feeling my arousal slipping away now that I was confronted by the need to put out, I tried to shore up my enthusiasm by imagining that he was a girl I had the hots for when I was in the Army. The exercise didn't help much; D.C. might have been a sharp-looking guy, but as a chick he was batting zero. Regardless, I started the process by rubbing my cheek against his stubbly face. Every fiber of me wanted to be somewhere else. For the first time I understood why so many women demanded money before they'd do this sort of thing. . . .

Suddenly, the alien's arms clutched me in a suffocating anaconda squeeze. Horror! This was all wrong! The bad guy's hands were free while I was still bound and helpless! I would have screamed, except that, like an idiot, I'd had myself gagged beforehand!

"Too bad, Sweetheart," the Martian said, releasing me, rising to his feet, and letting me slide off his lap to the floor. "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 untrusting to share my personal problems with my best friend!

The 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.

"You 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 just have to scream. I screamed so loud that my gag came off. But it's ducky, I didn't really need it anymore!"

"Okay, suit yorself!"

Now that Latisha had settled down, my captor poked me in the hip with his toe. "You are just so dumb, tessie!"

I seethed, angry at my own stupidity. "Hey, so I slipped up! I can't think of everything! I've had a lot on my mind lately."

He seemed to be taking in my situation with relish. "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 at me. "You use the same cute names."

"Yeah, well, when I use cute names I always do it in a warm, lovable way that makes me sound like a 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 babbler this way."

"There's nothing much 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!"

"Quite the stalling, Callahan. You know 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 most people think. I don't want the Committee to know I ever met you. What 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 is by eliminating the witness and blaming everything that went wrong on my dead associates."

I felt drained, hollow. "Sometimes you aliens sound so human!" Well, Democrat, at least.

His volume dropped, but his tone sounded even more dangerous. "Don't insult me."

"Hey, lighten up," I said brightly. "I only mean --"

"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. 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 guy envious!"

"A pity I can't give you a demonstration." I thought he sounded a little smug.

"You can!" I blurted, grasping for straws. "If this is curtains for me anyway, why not be a total cad?!"

He glommed me again and laughed. "I think you'd do just about anything just 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, praying that his libidinousness might be just what I needed to squeeze a few more minutes out of the last inning. 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."

Only a pervert could have resisted an offer like that, and I guess he was a pervert because I heard a click as his rod pointed at my head.

His gunmetal rod, I mean.

"Any last words, buttercup?"

I stared at his face, once my face, so hard and unrelenting. "Let me compose something worthy of me," I urged. "I like long goodbyes."

He wasn't buying it. He was 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, 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 the gun they'd been fighting for also went off.

I screamed.

#

"Sheila?!" Martin was yammering. "Are you okay?"

I stared up at my buddy's face through a pair of unfocused deadlights. His arm was under my shoulders while his free hand pressed the pulse of my left wrist.

"Me okay? Me? What about him!?" I puffed, scarcely able to breathe.

Martin 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 fighting off a swoon, 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 the thought about it, the crazier the scam seemed to be. He soon gave up and turned back to the office, intending to put his head together with mine and come up with a phoney cover story that would shave a few years off our sentence to the slammer 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. "Yeh, 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. To be perfectly honest, that was what I was doing to him!

* * * * *

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 and it looks like my life isn't worth the postage stamp it'll cost my estate to get this to you.

Dying isn't what scares me most, actually. Everybody's got to cash in some time or other. What hurts is that people are going to be saying some pretty 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. Maybe I can make it a little easier by letting you know that 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 a 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. It didn't work out that way 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 don't think I am either. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that maybe, just maybe, the box they'll pack me in is going to look a lot worse than what's inside.

I'm glad that Mom and Dad aren't around to catch the breaking news. There's just you and your family, but that's bad enough. On the other hand, the kids hardly know their uncle and your wife never liked me. I'm glad of that, since I don't want too many people feeling down about me.

Maybe you won't, either. We've grown apart lately. You always thought I was an chum for giving up the steady paycheck that comes with selling shoes. You were right-on about some of the things you said, even though I've always pretended to deny them. This job sure hasn't been very remunerative and I can't even say that it's been exciting -- unless you consider dodging creditors instead of bullets 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 the last few days sure have been interesting!

One good thing, though, I'm going out as a detective. My becoming a P.I. all came down to 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 every-day Joe like you what a life of crime-detection means to a guy like me? Does plumbing contracting give any man the same sense of pride that I've felt ever since that first day when I was finally able to say to people, "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 a punch 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 the kind of guy who's going to let himself off the hook that easily. 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 was turned to Mudd. Just keep the suffering in bounds, would you, Bro? That's all you have to do to make 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. She's going to send to you if don'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 who would miss her. She had 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 be enough to 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 was over. They're still a menace to the world, of course, but I'll be damned if I know what to do about that little factoid. As powerful as the spacemen seem to be, they lost the last presidential election and couldn't get either house of Congress back, either. Judging from recent history, the aliens are gold-plated boneheads when it comes to running countries and I wouldn't be surprised if the U.S.S.R was their handiwork, too, before it tanked. Is it possible that they're responsible for the collapse of civilizations all through human history? Maybe they follow the axiom, "Foul your nest and move West." Maybe human society isn't so bad after all; maybe it's just alien infiltrators who are screwing it up.

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 who 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 a stick of gum to his name, 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 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 annoyedly.

"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 character are getting more realistic. They all come out as insatiable nymphomaniacs. Well, a fella has to write what he knows, doesn't he? No second book has been sold as yet, unfortunately, but when the publisher sees himself making a million off the first one that might change. 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 me and Dewitt, 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 accidental 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 the 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 claimed that they didn't know anything. All the treads 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? The way things stand, 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 she had been the hooker who had been originally born into that knockout body and had fallen victim to a body-switcher some time ago.

Social services tried to make O'Malley stay in a home for troubled women, but she was just too restless for that and kept running away. Martin and me went looking for her at last and found her doing her thing with the usual suspects. We didn't want to leave her where she was, so we fixed her up with one of my -- one of Callahan's -- old contacts in the West -- the manager of a special Nevada ranch, one called the Royale Corral.

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 Royale 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 swim in her own stream 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. Her impersonator on the Hill doesn't vote different form the old O'Malley, but it's not possible to vote worse. It's better that an evil alien will go to Hell for messing up people lives than O'Malley, who's been given the 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 hoty 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 didn't fit with her complexion. At first I could only stare. The outfit she was almost wearing was what I would call "barely legal" -- a black lycra-spandex, ladder-cut job. It was a rig that could have kept an Episcopalian minister up all night praying. And what he'd be praying for is something I'd blush to say!

Looking bushed, B.J. sat down. "Gotta take a load off my feet," she said. "I must have walked ten miles already today in these things!"

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 the nutty shoes they do -- but since four-inch heels always make my legs look great I wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything else.

"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 for the wall, maybe, 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 that way."

She shrugged, like I was being 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 in Little Columbia -- Bogota Rico."

"I've heard of him," I said, unable to repress a shiver. Rico was the text-book example of the sort of man one didn't want to mess with. He was a local up-and-comer from the barrio who'd started out pimping, but who'd gotten involved with even nastier action. He had big, bad friends in high places. His name had been printed in the papers as one of those who'd slept in the Lincoln Bedroom during the previous administration.

"Is Rico one of your old friends?" I asked.

A laugh floated up from her throat. "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 she'd was really done 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, remembering. "I didn't like it much at first. It wasn't what I was used to. Rico didn't know who I really was, so he thought I was acting uppity and really lowered the boom on me. Pretty soon, though, I straightened out and it's been okay ever since."

"Okay?"

She looked up and her cheaters flashed the sun into my eyes. "Yeah. Why should I knock myself out taking care of a string of ungrateful girls when I can have a sweet man to take care of me? Right?"

"Right!" I agreed quickly.

The air went out of the conversation at that point 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 from each of his girls, otherwise he uses that hair brush on them." She touched her tush and winced. "Last month my quota was only three hundred dollars, but now I have to bring in five big ones just like everybody else."

"He raised your price? The greedy rat!"

She smiled. "No, you don't see! That only 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 for me to guess why.

"Good luck!" I said sending her off with a wave. I stood there for a minute and listened to her sing as she walked slowly away:

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 stared until she was out of sight. Who could have figured that B.J. would turn out the way he had? O'Malley had been brainwashed and so could be given a pass. But who could explain a loony tune like Betty Jo in twenty-five words or less?

I guess I knew the answer. People are just marks to guys like B.J. Waters. Street sharks are users and takers and they have a dark hole where their hearts should have been screwed in. Once B.J. had ceased to be a player, psychologically it automatically turned her into a mark. She thought she was in love, she thought she was loved in return. Every other hooker in the world thought the same thing. What all of them tried desperately to hide from themselves was the fact that on the mean street love is only a word.

Fortunately, it was on that very point that B.J. and me parted company.

* * * * *

Chapter 24
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, concluded

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 the day before, because this time I knew I was Sheila for keeps.

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.

Besides the loss of identity, I'd awakened feeling so randy that the little porcelain chimpanzee on Sheila's vanity was starting to look like my kind of man. I touched my hot spot, hoping to get a little relief, but it only made things worse overall.

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 dumb Belgian! I don't want to talk!" Along with all my other problems, now I had a partner suffering 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 until they let us leave the police station." He touched me on the hip. "But most 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."

"Sheila, are you ashamed to be seen crying? Don't be. I've been crying, too, in here." He tapped his heart. It wasn't the first time he'd done that. A fellow really needs fresh material if he ever hopes to be top banana.

"I'm not crying!" I repeated firmly, groping toward the Kleenex box. I couldn't reach the night stand, so Martin plucked a sheet and pressed it into my hand.

"I don't know how I'm going to live," 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 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. "Yeh, I guess it's the Dewitt Investigative Agency now. You really move in fast!"

He shook his head, but his tone remained tender. "No, I want to call it the Callahan Private Investigation Agency."

"You don't have to prove anything to Callahan," I told him, trying not to feel touched. "Let the gone get going. D.C.'d wouldn't want anything sentimental done behind his back. You were a buddy and a pal to him. To a he-man like D.C. that's like being a brother."

"Yeah? And how do you know so much about men?"

Still not looking at him, I said, "I read a book about men once."

He laughed softly. "Well, that's nice. A 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. 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 to find a new partner who'll take on half of the company's debt with no hope for an income!"

He leaned in closer. "It's not that. I just wouldn't want to bring in an outsider, not for a while. I wouldn't want to make Callahan's ghost feel crowded."

Now, at last, I looked him in the eye. "If his ghost really was haunting the place he'll be fired for non-performance."

What I really met was that Sheila, my 2.0 version anyway, was soon going to be fired put on the street. Some secretary I'd make!

Then again, the real Sheila hadn't been much of a secretary, either. She'd charmed us with her vital statistics, but everything else about her had been sub-standard. Why should Dewitt expect anything better now?

Pard suddenly changed the subject. "In the office you said you loved me," he said. "I don't remember if I told you that I love you, too."

I wasn't buying. "No you don't! I've just got this great bod."

He laughed again. "You do! That's what I thought the day Callahan hired you. The difference is that now I know you also have a good soul."

I covered my head with a corner of the sheet. What a thing to say! I was determined not to be washed with soft soap.

His fingers firmed around 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 to me. Not this time; it's too important."

I had nothing to say to that but something started to ache in side of me.

He tugged away the sheet, bared my shoulders, and put his fingers under my chin, which made me face him again. His lips were coming in like a Mustang fighter to a lan