Stories written by The Professor (1—3) and Barbie Lee (4—5)
Deity Arms: Come Fly With Me
by The Professor (c. 1999)
Bob O’Brien enjoys the fringe benefits his job as a pilot for Atlantic Air Express provides, particularly during layovers. When the opportunity to move into a new apartment near Greenwich Village in New York City arises, Bob jumps at the chance to be able to enjoy the nightlife to the fullest. Unknown to Bob however, the landlord of the Deety Arms has some interesting ideas about what he and other workers at the Arms view as entertainment. Come fly with Bob as he discovers firsthand what customer service entails for those who fly Atlantic Air.
Authors note:
This is the first story of my promised new universe, and I’m pleased to announce that any and all of you are more than welcome to write stories in it. In fact, that’s one of the major reasons I wrote this story. My story is designed as a standalone tale, although I may revisit Deity Arms from time to time. It makes an excellent setting for my stories which would be inappropriate for Ovid. For example, there’s no place for airline flight attendants in Ovid. The town is far too small for commercial air service.
When I began the Ovid cycle, I fully intended to let others write about it. Then I discovered a problem I should have realized before I started: in small towns everything is interrelated. Residents of a small town find their lives intertwined with each other, so if I allowed someone else to write an Ovid story, I’d have to figure out how to fit it into my tales. That just wouldn’t work.
Deity Arms doesn’t present that problem. New Yorkers, like residents of any large city, can live right next to each other for years and never meet. That means Deity Arms can allow for almost limitless stories that don’t interfere with each other.
I’ve tried to keep Deity Arms fairly simple, but by its nature, it can’t be as elegantly simple as Bill Hart’s magnificent Spells ’R’ Us, or as versatile as Jennifer Adams’ fine creation, the Medallion of Zulo. At Deity Arms, you’ll find a strange assortment of gods and goddesses. Some, like Mr. L, are based on real gods, but so little is known about them that almost any attribute can be given to them. Others, like Luk, represent gods so minor and obscure that no one remembers them. Luk is strictly a figment of my imagination. So you see, you can create and use gods until your heart is content–even ones who never existed!
Likewise, Deity Arms has no actual street address. It is vaguely near Greenwich Village. For those of you who don’t know New York, don’t worry. It is just an old, funky, somewhat arty neighborhood like those found in many large cities. The area immediately around Deity Arms changes, since businesses in the real world come and go. Who knows? Maybe there’s even a branch of Spells ’R’ Us nearby and the Medallion of Zulo may be as near as the closest second hand shop.
So have fun with it. I hope you enjoy my story, and I hope it will prompt you to write one of your own. I’d be happy to help you–sort of fill in the details if you need my help. Just be like Mr. L and have fun!
–The Professor
Luk was a jealous god.
Now, that didn’t mean that he would have no other gods before him. Quite to the contrary, Luk was content to be a minor god for all of his immortal life. The problem was, he was jealous. Other gods were at least remembered, even if they were no longer worshipped, but not Luk. Luk had been last worshipped long before Alexander had incorporated his homeland into part of an empire. He had been a minor god even then.
Luk first became aware of himself in an age before written history. In what is now the Balkans, he found himself a war god of a now-nameless tribe near the Black Sea. At first, he enjoyed some small success, inspiring his followers to victorious battles (skirmishes, actually) over neighboring tribes.
Then came the Greeks and Macedonians with their bronze swords and shining armor, and worst of all, their insufferable gods.
The defeat of Luk’s people was too insignificant an event to find its way into recorded history. One minute, he was worshipped by a small but reasonably prosperous tribe: the next minute, his ramshackle temple had been torn to the ground, its wooden supports used to make a fire over which three of the tribe’s fattest sheep were sacrificed to Zeus.
Luk was of course, very jealous of Zeus. The Greek god and his fellow Olympians had it all, it seemed. First, the Greeks worshipped them and then the Romans. Then, once their theology had been supplanted, they moved on into more secular roles. Luk understood they had even managed to migrate to America where they were probably prospering once more.
Well, Luk thought to himself, at least he was on his way to America now. Perhaps there, his fortunes would change. They couldn’t get much worse. The last century had been a living hell for the forgotten god. It seemed as if every turn of events produced another war in the region. It was worse than the Turkish invasions. He had even been shot in two of the wars, but he didn’t remember which ones they had been. There had been so many. Of course, being immortal, he was in no real danger, but being shot had hurt, damn it! His face had taken on a look of weary middle age, and his hawkish nose seemed almost to droop, matching the slant of his shoulders.
But, he thought, as he got off the plane at New York’s Kennedy Airport, his belly full of delicious airline food (which shows just how low he had fallen), perhaps things were looking up.
He had managed to make it into the United States by posing as a Kosovar refugee. In a way, he was, he mused. After all, he had lived in virtually every part of the Balkans. At some time in history, he must have considered himself a Kosovar. Anyhow, America, unnerved by its lack of success in the region, had opened its doors to the Kosovars. For Luk, it was a golden opportunity.
‘But what now?’ he wondered as he stood at the curb near the taxi stand outside the terminal. Perhaps he should have stayed with the gaggle of Kosovars that had flown to America with him. But no, he knew his future lay upon a different path. He just felt it. Ever since he had landed, he had felt it. Something was pulling him into the city. Something that would start him on the road to a better future.
“Where to, buddy?”
He looked over his shoulder to see a swarthy man leaning on a yellow taxi. He wore a yellow badge indicating that his name was Kemal. The man’s accent was vaguely Turkish.
“Excuse me?” he replied in his own heavily accented English.
“New to town, eh?” the cabbie asked with a grin.
Luk shifted uncomfortably. Cabbies all over the world loved newcomers. They never knew when they were being ferried far out of their way. “I need a hotel,” he managed at last. “A cheap one.” There. That would tell the cabbie he had little money. Sadly, it was true.
The cabbie shrugged. “Okay. There’s lots of cheap ones real close.”
Luk shook his head. “No! Not close.” He pointed in the direction of Manhattan. “Over there.”
“A cheap hotel in the city, huh?” the cabbie laughed. “Okay, we find something. Not to worry.” He grabbed Luk’s shabby cardboard suitcase. “You come: we find.”
Luk sighed, climbing into the cab. This was going to cost him he knew, but he had to find out what was pulling at him.
The towers of Manhattan loomed closer and closer, and for the first time in more years than he could count, Luk felt a glimmer of hope. There was something there on that urban island–something that would change his immortal life for the better. His destination came to him in a flash as the cab emerged from the tunnel connecting Long Island to the city.
The driver looked surprised. “No cheap hotels there,” he explained. “That too near the Village.”
“Village?” Luk repeated. Manhattan was hardly a village.
“Greenwich Village,” the driver told him. “It expensive now. All artsy-fartsy. Even bad places expensive now.”
Could his instincts be wrong? No, whatever was pulling at him was there, on the edge of the village. If he refused to heed its call, his future might be bleak. “I don’t care. Go there–now!”
The driver shrugged. A fare was a fare. This little immigrant with his weasel-like face and ragged clothes would not last long in the city. Damned immigrants, he thought to himself, not appreciating the irony that he had been in America only two years himself.
The cab lurched to a stop after cutting across two busy lanes of traffic.
“What’s wrong?” Luk asked, clutching his ragged coat to his chest.
“No wrong,” the driver growled. “We here–where you say.”
Luk looked out of the cab. He had been so lost in thought that he had not been paying attention to his surroundings. That was not good, he realized. A cabbie would be able to drive him all over the city for an inflated fare unless he paid attention. Oh well, the damage–if there was any–was already done.
The neighborhood was a pleasant one, he realized with a wave of relief. Unlike the concentrations of tall buildings at the southern end of the island, this area consisted of smaller buildings, mostly two or three stories high or less, made of brick and brownstone, arranged around a small park which occupied a small block of its own. Most of the buildings were modest but neat, a store or restaurant gracing the street floor with apartments or inconspicuous offices on the upper floors.
“Which building is it?” he called out to the driver as he exited the cab.
“Don’t know,” the driver admitted, pulling his tattered suitcase from the trunk and setting it on the curb. “Did not see number you gave, but must be here. Is that block.”
Luk peeled a bill from his meager roll of money, then sighed as the driver’s hand remained extended for more. Reluctantly, he placed another bill in the driver’s hand.
The driver’s meaty paw surrounded the bills. He didn’t offer any change as he smiled and leaped back into the cab, screeching away from the curb and back into the chaos that was New York traffic.
Luk could only shake his head. He had paid too much, he knew. But what was his choice? He was just a poor forgotten god from a rural province. The big city was a frightening mystery to him. He wasn’t even sure where he was supposed to go.
Then a thought struck him. The pull was still there, but it was all around him. Which direction was it actually coming from? He closed his eyes while gripping his suitcase tighter as protection against would-be thieves. The neighborhood looked pleasant enough, but one could never tell. With his eyes closed, he began to feel the pull. It was coming from the nearer side–the north side–of the square. Triumphantly, Luk opened his eyes.
Before him stood a large building in the middle of the block, its brownstone façade weathered by age and city pollution. It rose six stories above the pavement, making it by two floors the tallest building on the square. Above the polished heavy oak front doors, two gargoyles perched on a ledge. Between them, carved into the stone, were two words: Deety Arms. But part of the stone on one of the words had either worn or been chipped away, for the second ‘e’ looked more like an ‘i’ at first glance.
Deety Arms. Or maybe it was Deity Arms. In any case, it was a fitting sign. His confidence returning for the first time in what seemed like centuries, he strode toward the oak doors.
A bit of his confidence waned as he entered the building. The polished oak wainscoting and plush green carpet in the lobby bespoke of old wealth. Even the hunter-green wallpaper above the wainscoting reeked of money. Luk had felt the old brownstone might be a key to his future, but what possible future could he have here? He was just a poor country god, not sophisticated in the ways of the world.
A security guard looked up from his desk as Luk approached. The guard was big and burly, and Luk cringed under his harsh scrutiny. “Can I help you?” the guard said, surprising Luk with his politeness.
“I... I...” Luk began nervously. His English wasn’t good enough to explain how he had been drawn into the building.
Before he could flee in embarrassment, a man suddenly popped out of a door near the guard’s desk. He was tall and slender, and although his skin was that of a young man, his hair was white and close-cropped. Luk wasn’t sure of modern styles, but he was sure the dark blue suit the man wore was very expensive. He stared at Luk with intense blue eyes. Then he adjusted his obviously expensive tie and offered a hand to Luk, a thin smile on his lips. Nervously, Luk accepted the hand, not at all surprised to find its grip firm but reassuring.
“You must be our new applicant,” the man said in a cultured accent. “I’ll be with you in just a moment. Horace here will give you an employment application. Fill it out and I’ll be right with you.” He turned away, then stopped and turned back to face Luk, a new coldness in his eyes. “Make sure you fill out the application completely and honestly. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir!” Luk said, nearly snapping to attention.
The smile returned. “Good. Then I’ll be with you shortly.” He disappeared again behind the door.
The guard actually gave Luk a friendly smile. “Don’t worry, Mr. L just likes to show off a bit. He got that look from his favorite TV show, Fantasy Island.”
“Fantasy Island?” Luk mumbled, not understanding.
The guard chuckled, not noticing Luk’s ignorance. “Yeah. Boy, you should have seen what he did with the poor bastard who cancelled that show. I wouldn’t have wanted to be in his shoes. By the way, his shoes are now a size seven–women’s. Mr. L made him one of the Rockettes. He–she now–does two shows a day over at Radio City.”
Luk wasn’t sure what the man was talking about. It sounded like English, but he had no idea what the guard was talking about.
Deciding that it was best just to keep his mouth shut, Luk accepted a clipboard and pen from the guard and sat down in a visitor’s chair to study the attached application form. To his surprise and delight, he found the form was in his native tongue–or rather in the language he had been speaking for the last couple of centuries.
Familiar with the first questions, he quickly filled out the form. He had really had no intention of applying for a job when he had wandered into the lobby, but why not? He had no other prospects. It wouldn’t hurt to try to get a job.
Then the questions deviated into things he had never been asked before. Things like:
Luk had never imagined having to answer such questions. Who exactly was this strange Mr. L anyhow? Whoever he was, he knew Luk was an immortal. No one had suspected him of that in many centuries. No one believed in the old gods anymore, did they?
Luk was perspiring profusely as he finally signed his name to the application. Nervously, his hands shaking, he returned the clipboard to the guard.
“Hey, don’t sweat it, buddy,” the guard consoled him. “Mr. L is really a straight shooter. You got nothing to be afraid of.”
Luk had no idea what a “straight shooter” was. He hoped that didn’t mean Mr. L was armed. Luk had been shot more than once in his long life, and although he couldn’t be killed, being shot as noted before still hurt like hell. Luk didn’t like being shot one little bit. But the guard had also said he had nothing to worry about. He hoped the guard knew what he was talking about.
Before he could worry more, the door opened again. It was Mr. L. The strange man took the clipboard from the guard and glanced at it for a second. Then, with a toothy grin for Luk’s benefit, he said, “Well, all right then, Mr. Luk, shall we talk?”
Luk was ushered into a suite of offices decorated much like the lobby. He wasn’t sure exactly what he had been expecting, but what he saw could have passed for offices anywhere in the world. Attractive young secretaries sat at neat workstations, their eyes never leaving the screens of their computers, while young executives in neat business suits studied documents or talked on the phones in small, tasteful offices. Mr. L’s office was by far the largest, situated at the far end of the office suite with windows overlooking the square.
“Please be seated, Mr. Luk,” he said formally.
“Just Luk, please,” Luk replied. He wasn’t used to any titles before his name.
Mr. L smiled. “Of course. Just Luk then. Now, I assume you were urged to come here.”
“Yes,” Luk replied. “I felt... something. It brought me here.”
“Of course it did,” Mr. L agreed, sitting behind his large oak desk as he studied the application. “Hmmm... I see here you were a war god. So did you spend a lot of time with the military?”
“Uh... no,” Luk managed. “I got to be honest. I not much of a war god.”
Mr. L smiled. “Actually, that’s good. War gods tend to be a little rigid.”
Luk didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. Considering the power he suspected this Mr. L possessed, it seemed safer to be relieved.
Mr. L continued to thumb through the application. “So it would appear you have no special talents.”
Luk thought of mentioning he was a pretty decent farmhand but he doubted if that would raise his stock in Mr. L’s eyes. “No. None.”
“No special abilities or attributes?”
“No.” What, he wondered, was an attribute? Well, he probably didn’t have any anyway.
Mr. L sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Luk, I can’t tell you how often I see this. It’s so sad, really. One minute you’re a god with worshippers and sacrifices and the next minute...” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, his manicured fingernails nearly glistening. “It would be better if you had some useful talents,” he went on.
Luk’s heart sank. Was he about to be turned away? Mr. L noted the fear in his eyes. “There’s nothing to be concerned about, Luk. We’ve never turned away a god yet. Of course, you’ll have to start at the bottom, but it will be something you’ve had experience with before. We provide lodgings as well. You’ll be on the seventh floor–it’s a modest accommodation, but I think you’ll be comfortable there.”
“Seventh floor?” Luk asked. Maybe his English was worse than he thought. Or maybe he had meant the second floor. After all, the building only had six floors–didn’t it?
“I’ll explain later,” Mr. L said with a wave of his hand. “For now, let’s get you started.”
“Uh...” Luk began reluctantly.
Mr. L cocked his head. “Is there a problem, Mr. Luk?”
“No... no problem,” Luk assured him. He regretted his interruption but he had to know. “What... what do we do here?”
There was a devilish gleam in Mr. L’s eyes. “What do we do here? Why, we have fun, Mr. Luk. We have fun...”
“Atlantic four-one-seven, you are cleared to land...” The voice droned on with runway and wind speed information. I gave the requisite “Roger, Newark,” repeating my instructions to the tower and putting us into a gentle descent that wouldn’t even jangle the nerves of the most jittery passenger in the back of the bus. It wasn’t exactly fancy flying, but I enjoyed it. It was a living.
I had flown airliners for fifteen years–ever since I had gotten out of the Air Force. It wasn’t as if I missed flying fighters because I never had flown them. While in the military, I had flown KC-135’s. That’s the big pup that carries aviation fuel for midair refuelings. It’s like the plane that explodes in the movie Air Force One. Yep, that’s a KC-135. It’s nothing but a big gas can in the sky.
So, flying 737’s for Atlantic Air Express was a treat after flying KC-135’s. Oh, I know. A lot of pilots don’t like the 737. It’s not a glamorous plane at all. It’s small and squat, and in the industry, they’re often called “FLUFs.” That stands for “fat little ugly fuckers.” But take a look at the big new birds. They practically fly themselves. In fact, you can load in software that will allow them to taxi out, take off and land without human intervention. The pilot can be there just to take the blame if something goes wrong. Now where’s the fun in that? Not the 737, though. You’ve got to fly the FLUF. That’s what makes it fun.
In fact, that’s probably why I ended up flying for a little shoestring outfit like Atlantic. There I was, young Air Force Lieutenant Robert O’Brien, Air Force Academy class of seventy-eight. I could have flown for anybody but I loved the 737. The Air Force has some and I had wanted to fly them, but they needed crews stupid enough to go up into the sky with thousands of pounds of aviation fuel in the place where there should have been passengers. So I made up my mind: when I got out of the Air Force, I would only fly for an airline that exclusively flew the 737.
Well, there was another factor, too. I wanted to live in New York. I mean, I was a swinging bachelor again after my wife took off just before I got out of the military. She was out on the West Coast and I wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Besides, I was raised in upstate New York and taught from an early age that Yankee baseball was the only baseball worth following. Also, if you’re a bachelor, New York is a great place to be. There are tens of thousands of eligible young women, and half the eligible guys are gay. ‘All the more for guys like me,’ I reasoned.
Atlantic Air Express was just starting up then. Flying out of Newark, the airline was a niche marketer. That meant it didn’t go after every passenger. Instead, it made a reputation for business travellers by flying two-hour routes out of Newark with frequent arrivals and departures. Flights to the West Coast were less frequent, but they arrived and departed at convenient times. Fares weren’t the cheapest but they weren’t the worst either. Bill Farnsworth, the founder of the airline, was well connected, and he managed to get good slots at many airports, so flight times were convenient for business travellers. When you fly for business, time is money, so convenient flight times often can make up for more expensive fares.
He was a marketing genius too. He knew what the full package business travellers wanted. First, they wanted enough seat room to spread out their Wall Street Journal in the morning and use their laptop coming home that evening. He gave it to them, with a First Class section that was both big and affordable. Sure, that meant a few less seats, but the seats he had were usually filled, both in Coach and First Class.
Next, he realized that a good cup of coffee and a gourmet Danish went over a lot bigger than a rubber omelet and soggy sausage. Have you ever noticed how the big boys in the airline industry put out a food product that would cause a riot if served in a prison? I mean, United even manages to screw up a cup of Starbucks coffee. So that was what Bill did. He made sure we served light, simple and above all, tasty fare. And the passengers loved it.
Then, there were the flight attendants. I mustn’t forget them. There was a time when flight attendants were sweet young things. They were high school beauty queens and college dropouts who used the opportunity to fly to meet well-heeled businessmen and pilots. Object: matrimony. The system worked great for a while. Airlines lured the business traveller with flight attendants that looked like they had just stepped out of the pages of Playboy. One airline even advertised “the Air Strip.” During that performance, an attractive flight attendant would start out in something almost like a sarong. Then, after takeoff, she would strip down to a more revealing outfit. No, it wasn’t obscene–just revealing. Southwest Airlines started out dressing their attendants in hot pants and go-go boots back in the disco era.
Then, all of a sudden, flight attendants decided they wanted to be treated like professionals instead of flying cocktail waitresses. They demanded to fly after being married. Hell, they demanded to fly when they were pregnant. Labor was in short supply and the women’s movement was in full swing. In short, they got their way. That’s why some of the flight attendants today look like somebody’s Russian grandmother. The rest are male.
Again, Bill Farnsworth to the rescue. Amid criticisms that he was trying to start Hooters in the air, he recruited a bevy of sweet young things to be his flight attendants. They smiled, they even giggled, and they served drinks to tired businessmen as if they were getting them relaxed before a night of fun in the sack. Pay a little extra for a ticket on Atlantic? Sure, why not? You could always put it past accounting if you tried. Then you got a convenient flight time, a decent snack, and a little extra legroom to put that woody of yours you got when a flight attendant in a skirt short enough to make Ally McBeal blush served you your afternoon scotch. Yummy!
Yes, no doubt about it. Bill Farnsworth was a miracle worker. He had come out of nowhere with plenty of seed capital. Nobody knew where he got the money, but he seemed to have plenty of it to throw around. He had leased three 737’s and started running them on East Coast routes. The next thing everybody knew, it was half a dozen planes–then a dozen. Now, with nearly thirty planes in the air, he was a force to be reckoned with.
The big airlines had tried everything to put him out of business. They tried matching–even beating–fares but they couldn’t match his cabin service. When a businessman had the chance to pay about the same fare on Atlantic Air or one of the big boys, why not get pampered by a sweetheart on Atlantic Air? The alternative was getting a bag of peanuts or road kill served up by a middle-aged flight attendant with hips so wide she could barely make it down the aisle.
Next, they tried fomenting labor trouble. It shouldn’t have been that hard. Our unions had all agreed to lower wages than any other airline. Add to that the fact that the flight attendants were one small step above waitresses at Hooters and it should have spelled labor trouble. Nope. The unions would walk into Bill Farnsworth’s office and agree to just about anything he proposed. Nobody knew why–it just worked that way.
“The cabin is secure, Captain,” a sweet feminine voice came through the intercom.
“Thanks, Muriel,” I said brightly.
“Any time, Captain.”
My co-pilot, Jeremy Miller pushed a shock of dark blonde hair away from his forehead and grinned his usual lopsided grin. “Why do I get the idea you weren’t just thanking her for securing the cabin?”
I grinned. Jeremy had watched Muriel and I leave together the night before. We had been on layover in Atlanta. Since Jeremy was from there, he had spent the night with relatives, leaving me alone in our hotel room. I had had my eye on Muriel for about a month. As it turned out, she had her eye on me, too. And as they say, the rest was history. “You’ve got a dirty mind, boy,” I said, imitating his Southern drawl, “and I love you for it.”
Jeremy laughed as I turned the aircraft for final approach. “When are you gonna settle down and get hitched, Bob?”
“Never!” I said emphatically, cutting back on the power. “I tried that once and didn’t like it.”
“You don’t want to have kids?”
“Whatever for?” This was an old discussion. Someone reading a transcript of our conversation would have assumed that Jeremy was the older, more mature, speaker. All he wanted in life was a good job, a loving wife, and a house full of kids–preferably someplace south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Except for the good job, we shared no common goals.
Still, I liked Jeremy. He was a good kid. He hadn’t flown military, but he would have been a good officer. He had a lot of self-discipline. He had wanted to fly as long as he could remember. He did odd jobs in high school just to make enough money to take flying lessons. I got the idea his parents could have afforded to pay for his lessons, but they wanted him to pay for them himself just to see how much flying meant to him. Then in college, he flew short hop air cargo to smaller cities out of Atlanta. He logged more hours than I ever did in KC-135’s, and I had a lot of hours. Then, when he got out of college, he snagged a job with Atlantic Air. I knew he would have preferred to fly for one of the bigs–particularly Delta since they were headquartered in Atlanta. No such luck though. He tried to get on there when they were in a temporary hiring freeze. So he ended up with Atlantic.
I had flown with him several times. Although he had only been with Atlantic a couple of years, he could handle a FLUF with the best of them. I was senior enough that I could usually pick my schedule, so I tried to fly with Jeremy on the Atlanta run as often as possible. That way, I got a room to myself. I could sometimes find a willing flight attendant to share my bed. And if I couldn’t, there was plenty of action in Atlanta.
We made an effortless approach and landing at Newark. I was actually glad to get back on the ground. I had been flying a lot over the last couple of months. Now, I only had one day off. Then it was back to a four-day grind which would leave me overnighting in three different cities. But that was it. After that, I had ten days off before flying again. I planned to look for a new place in Manhattan during those ten days. I had renewed my place in Jersey on a month-to-month basis in hopes of finding something in the city. The problem was my income. As I’ve indicated before, pilots with Atlantic don’t make the big bucks they pull in over at American or United. And living in the city wasn’t cheap. If you wanted to live well in Manhattan, it helped if you were a Middle Eastern oil potentate.
Jeremy and I checked in at the crew lounge for messages and found ourselves in the middle of a big party. Most of the crowd were flight attendants, jumping around and squealing while showing a lot of leg. It was heaven, I’ll tell you. A few pilots were there, too. I noticed they were mostly the single guys like me, looking for someone to take home after the party. Foremost among them was Jack “Doc” Vincent. He got the nickname “Doc” because he wanted to be every flight attendant’s personal gynecologist. I mean, I was usually on the make, but Doc made me look like an untalented amateur. “Watch out for Doc,” was part of every flight attendant’s informal training.
Doc was just on his way out. I waved at him from across the room, and he waved back, pointing with a gleam in his eye at a little brunette flight attendant in front of him who was obviously leaving with him–Doc always did have a thing for brunettes. “There’s a lot more of them,” he once told me with a devilish grin.
I almost passed the party up. Muriel had drained me dry the night before in Atlanta, and to be honest, I was getting a little old to burn the candle at both ends. As it was, I had let Jeremy handle the controls for almost the entire flight. I wanted to go home and sleep straight through until I had to fly again. But curiosity got the better of me. I recognized one of the flight attendants on the edge of the little crowd. It was Donna Westfall. She and I had screwed like minks one night last winter in Detroit, where we had been stranded during a snowstorm.
“What’s the occasion?” I yelled over the laughs and giggles.
“We’re just having a little going away party for Jennifer Higgins,” she told me with a grin. “She’s moving to Chicago to work for American.”
That was often an occasion for a party at Atlantic Air, I thought. The money and working conditions were better at the larger airlines. At forty-three, I was one of the older pilots at Atlantic. Most of the young guys left after five years or less. It was the same with the flight attendants, especially once they decided to get married and/or have a family. Jennifer fell in that category. At thirty, she was pretty close to the upward age of our flight attendants. She had lived in Manhattan and had met some corporate rising star. Word was he had been transferred to Chicago, so it looked as if she was going to follow him there.
‘Jennifer looked happier than the proverbial pig in shit,’ I thought as I poured myself a glass of punch and took a minute or two to enjoy the party. I was happy for her. She wasn’t my type–a little too much of the ‘girl next door’ look for me with her short red hair and dusting of freckles. But I had always liked her. She had flown with me a number of times, so I made my way up to the little crowd surrounding her to wish her well.
“Thanks, Bob,” she said to me with a grin when I had congratulated her.
“Say...” I said to her suddenly, “has anybody leased your apartment in Manhattan yet?” I figured if they hadn’t, I’d sublease it from her, assuming it was decent. Apartments in the city that a flight attendant could afford had to be rent controlled. If I could sublease from Jennifer, I might be able to afford to live in Manhattan after all.
She gave me an indulgent smile. “I don’t think you’d like it, Bob.”
“Why not?” I had visions of it being a dump. Jennifer knew I’d be looking for a bachelor pad.
“Well...” she began slowly, “the décor is pretty feminine.”
“That could be changed,” I pointed out. “Where is it?”
“Well, it’s kind of hard to find. It’s near the Village.”
Near the Village and she could afford it? But it was hard to find, she said. That meant it might be tucked in off the street. I visualized a quiet, inexpensive if small apartment, near great nightlife. This was looking better and better.
“I might be willing to sublet,” I offered. “Or I could assume your lease if they’ll let me.”
“My lease is up at the end of the month,” she explained quickly.
That was a bummer. “Look Jennifer, even if I have to pay more, I’d really like a shot at your place. I’ve been looking for something in the city for a long time.”
“Some place where you can pick up a girl at a bar and get her back to your place before she sobers up?” Jennifer asked dryly.
“Now Jennifer,” I gasped in mock surprise, “do you really think I’m that kind of a guy?”
Jennifer looked at me with those beautiful green eyes of hers as if she was trying to come to a decision. As I said, we had known each other for a long time. She seemed to be debating if she should go to bat for me or not. “Look, I’ll give you the address. You can check it out if you want. I don’t think it’s right for you though. I’m leaving first thing in the morning for Chicago, so it’ll be empty. I can have the manager show it to you.”
“Great!” I said with a grin. “Do you think there’s any chance at all to extend that lease?”
“Well, probably not since I’ve already given notice,” she explained. Then, seeing my disappointment, added, “But I think the landlord would allow you in at the same rate if I spoke to him.”
“Who’s the landlord, Mother Teresa?” I quipped. No landlord would write a new lease at the same rate if he could figure out a way around it, rent controls notwithstanding.
“His name is Mr. Logan,” she replied, ignoring my jibe. “He’s very nice. He’ll remind you of Malcolm McDowell.”
“Who?”
“You know, the actor.”
“Oh, sure.” I did remember him, come to think of it. He had been the baddie in Blue Thunder, a movie all pilots got a chuckle out of.
Her green eyes seemed to drill into my very soul then. “Look Bob, I really don’t think you’ll like the place. I really recommend you look elsewhere.”
“I really think I want to see the apartment,” I replied. “Am I not good enough for your building?”
That did it.
“Here’s the address,” she said, writing it down on a slip of paper. She acted as if she had just made a major decision. “By the way, don’t try to drive there. Take a cab. It’s a little hard to find.”
She was right about that. I thought I knew the city well, but Kemal, my driver was taking me down streets I didn’t even know existed. Considering the fact that he had an accent so thick that it sounded as if he had just gotten off the plane from Istanbul, I was surprised he found it so easily.
I was impressed. I had expected something out of Joe’s Apartment–a roach infested dive. But the building was impressive–almost stately. Facing a little square which boasted a park, it was surrounded by what looked to be a variety of decent restaurants and bars which might be good spots to troll for women. The building itself was brownstone, six floors high. Carved into the stone was the name Deety Arms. I began to wonder uncomfortably if Jennifer had family money or something. The building looked too nice to be affordable, particularly on a flight attendant’s salary. If the inside was as nice as the outside, I thought I just might have found the biggest bargain in the city. I might even be able to stop looking at other places and take in a few Yankees games.
The lobby was impressive, too. A single guard sat comfortably at a small desk, surrounded by comfortable trappings. The carpet was thick and fairly new and the lighting was soft and relaxing. Hell, this building made the modern apartment I lived in over in Jersey look like the projects.
The guard smiled. He was a big powerful looking guy, but he acted like a real pussycat. He asked in a friendly tone, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah...” I looked at his nametag. “...Horace. I’m looking for a Mr. Logan. I’m interested in Jennifer Higgins’ place.”
His eyes lit up. It wasn’t surprising. This was how things were done in the city. You didn’t just go from place to place looking for an apartment if you were smart. Instead, you knew somebody. You were a friend of a friend. You were related–whatever it took. Good, reasonable places in the city disappeared faster than cheap wine at a derelicts’ convention. “I’ll just see if he’s in,” Horace said, subtly giving me the once-over.
He disappeared behind a solid oak door, leaving me to look around the lobby. I didn’t see much of it, though. I was busy watching people. There were two delightful looking black women on their way back from a shopping trip. They were dressed for action and each had a big Bloomie’s sack. That was a good sign. It meant there were at least some young women in the building.
Then there was the janitor. He was a piece of work. Short, sort of homely in a nondescript sort of way, he carefully polished the wainscoting in the lobby. I caught a look at his name embroidered on his tan coveralls: ‘Lucky.’ Now there was a guy who had been misnamed. If he were about three inches shorter with a name like that, he could have been the Lost Eighth Dwarf in Snow White. He looked up at me and nodded. I nodded back.
Just then, the oak door opened. I almost gasped when I saw the man who came through it. Jennifer was right–this guy was a perfect twin for Malcolm McDowell. He gave me a polished smile and held out his hand. “You must be Mr. O’Brien,” he said in a slight British accent. “Jennifer told me you’d be dropping by.”
I took his hand. If there was ever a perfect handshake, this man had it. It was firm without being too firm and formal without being unfriendly. “Yes, I’m interested in seeing her place–if it’s still available.”
There was a subtle sparkle in his eyes. “Oh yes, it’s certainly available. I’ve been holding it for you. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes, please.”
Jennifer’s apartment was on the fifth floor with a view overlooking the square. The glass had to be incredibly thick for there was no sound coming up from the street below. The apartment wasn’t large–just a living room, small kitchen, single bedroom and bathroom, but it was all I would ever need. As I looked at the femininely decorated place, I became convinced that Jennifer must have had family money. There was no way a flight attendant for Atlantic Air could afford such an apartment. It wasn’t that the furniture was expensive: it wasn’t. Oh, it was nice in a girlish sort of way, but hardly top of the line. No, what made this apartment more than I could swing was the apartment itself. The location, the view, and the décor all smacked of big bucks. Besides, I would have to spend a small fortune making the place look as if a man lived in it.
“What do you think?” Mr. Logan asked me after I had had a chance to wander through every room at least twice. It wasn’t a huge place, but for me, it would be perfect.
“It’s nice,” I said as noncommittally as I could. Actually, I loved it, but I wasn’t going to let him know. Better to let him think I didn’t think it was worth... well, whatever the figure was. This place had to go for at least three grand a month. Either Jennifer’s family was loaded or she had won the lottery.
“Thank you,” Mr. Logan said with a smile. “Now, shall we discuss terms?”
I sighed. Might as well get the bad news over with, I thought. He’d give me the number and I’d tell him I’d think about it. Then, we’d shake hands and I’d never see him again. “Sure.”
He produced a folder I had not seen him carry into the apartment. He must have had it in the apartment already, I reasoned. In it was a lease. With my pilot’s vision, I was surprised to see my name was already on it. A bit presumptuous, I thought.
“Now, the term of the lease is one year,” he began. “However, you can break the lease with sixty days’ notice so long as we have another tenant waiting in the wings, so to speak. There’s a small damage deposit, of course, and no pets are allowed without the expressed permission of management. Now, if you’ll just sign here...”
I raised my hand. “Wait a minute, Mr. Logan. We haven’t discussed the rent yet.”
He looked at me in mock surprise. “Oh, haven’t we? Well, the monthly rent will remain the same as Miss Higgins paid. That would be eleven hundred dollars a month.”
I nearly dropped my drawers. Eleven hundred a month for an apartment like this near the Village? It was impossible. I managed to start to say, “How...?”
Mr. Logan smiled. “How do we keep the rent so low? Well, let me give you a little history of Deety Arms, Mr. O’Brien. This building was built by John Deety back in the late eighteen hundreds. He was a theologian–Harvard trained–and a younger son in one of New England’s most prominent families. He wanted this to be a special place, so he turned it over to a management firm which still handles it to this day. So you see, since the ownership remains the same, there is no huge debt service to worry about as there would be if the property had changed hands. Our firm is very old and well financed. We prefer to choose our tenants carefully and charge them fairly.”
“But you don’t know anything about me,” I pointed out, not ready to believe I could have a dream place for eleven hundred a month. Hell, I paid more than that already to live in Jersey!
“Oh, but we do,” Mr. Logan said with an enigmatic smile. “Miss Higgins was kind enough to tell us about you. You seemed just right for our little family.”
Jennifer said nice things about me? I mean, granted, I had never given her cause to dislike me. As I said before, she wasn’t really my type–too much of a girl next door for me. But she had to know I had quite a reputation among the flight attendants. I doubted if she approved. Well, why look a gift horse in the mouth?
“Where do I sign?”
With another smile, Mr. Logan pointed to a line on the contract and handed me a pen. I took a moment to look over the agreement. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was as he had said. I noticed the building was operated by El and Associates, LLC. El was an odd name, I thought. Maybe it was Spanish, since ‘el’ of course means ‘the’ in that language. I checked the date. It coincided exactly with the date I would have to extend my old lease. No way, though. It was bye-bye Jersey for me and hello New York. I signed gladly.
“Excellent,” Mr. Logan said, taking the lease and my twenty-one hundred dollar check which covered the damage deposit and first month’s rent. “Now, when do you think you’ll be moving in?”
“I’m not sure,” I told him. “I’ll need to set up a moving company and...”
“Perhaps we can help you there,” he interrupted. As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. “Ah, that would be Mr. Luck.”
And it was. The little guy I had seen polishing the woodwork entered the apartment with a respectful nod to Mr. Logan. “Mr. Luck here can arrange for your move. We have arrangements with a moving company.”
We discussed the move in detail. I was at first reluctant to use their company, preferring Mayflower or United or one of the other big companies. But as I discussed it with them–well, really with Mr. Logan as Mr. Luck just nodded when Mr. Logan spoke–it became apparent to me that they would be able to move me cheaply and professionally. Also, they would be able to move me while I was out on my four-day schedule.
So I was well on my way to being a New York resident. I rushed back to my place in Jersey, gave them my notice, and began to get ready for the movers. That had been what had really sold me on using their movers. I wouldn’t have to pack anything up: they’d handle it all–and for peanuts! I had explained to Lucky–or Mr. Luck if you will–how to arrange the furniture and where to stow the rest of the boxes. He nodded dutifully, and as I left the apartment, he and Mr. Logan remained behind to take care of the details. It would be good to return from my trip and have my own stuff waiting for me in my new place.
“You are most fortunate, Luk,” Mr. L said after the newly signed tenant had left.
“Yes,” Luk agreed, not really sure why he was fortunate.
If Mr. L noticed his confusion, he said nothing about it. “Often we go for weeks before a suitable candidate presents himself. This time, we can begin at once. Now, you know what you need to do?”
“This O’Brien, he told me where to put everything.”
Mr. L shook his head with a sigh. “No, no, no, Luk. Forget everything he told you. Now, here’s what you need to do...”
The four days I was away seemed like four years. I was so anxious to get back to my new apartment. As I had ridden away in my cab, I noted that there appeared to be a number of good restaurants and other nightspots right in the neighborhood. It would be great. I could scout around for a girl, wine and dine her, and whisk her off to my apartment without walking a hundred yards.
I managed to find a few things to occupy my time and make the days go by faster. Her name was Gloria and we were on a flight to Denver together. She was one of the newer flight attendants–young and impressionable. Something of a romantic mind hummed under that blonde hair of hers, and I think she had dreams of seducing and marrying a pilot. Silly girl.
I scored again the next night in San Francisco. Not a flight attendant this time–just a local girl who thought being a pilot must really be cool. Another silly girl. Being an airline pilot is like being a bus driver in the sky. Even FLUFs practically fly themselves.
“So you found your dream apartment,” Jeremy surmised. We had just crossed the Mississippi heading back to Newark from a flight to LA. Jeremy had joined my crew at LAX, and I had been regaling him with stories of my new place from the moment we had climbed to cruising altitude.
“You gotta see it, Jeremy,” I told him proudly. “And you can’t believe the service. They’re handling the whole move. By now, they’ve already gotten Jennifer’s stuff out of there and mine in. It’s a real turnkey deal.”
Jeremy shook his head. “I never heard of any apartment building doing all of that. And the rent sounds too good to be true. You wouldn’t be bullshitting a poor old Southern boy, would you?”
“It’s all for real,” I told him proudly. “And I owe it all to Jennifer. Funny, I didn’t even think she liked me that much. I mean, we’ve flown together a few times, but that was it.”
“What?” Jeremy drawled in mock surprise. “You mean there’s a flight attendant out there that you haven’t boffed? And now since she resigned you won’t get the chance.”
“Okay,” I laughed. “My reputation surely isn’t that bad?” Secretly, I was a little proud, though.
“Nearly as I can tell, only Doc Vincent has you beaten,” Jeremy informed me.
“Doc Vincent gets ’em too drunk to know what he’s doing to them,” I pointed out. I meant it, too. Sure, I liked the ladies, but with me, it was mutual. I liked to make sure my partner had a good time too, and I think they appreciated that. With Doc, it was a one-way street. I was a lothario; Doc was a sleaze ball. There was a difference, I told myself.
Jeremy just chuckled when I didn’t reply.
By the time we landed in Newark, I was as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve. I wished Jeremy a good flight–he was on his way back to Atlanta where he lived–and hopped in a cab to head to my new digs.
“Where to?” the driver asked in a Middle Eastern accent. I looked up at him. Talk about a small world! It was Kemal.
“Same place as last time,” I told him lightly.
“Oh sure, I remember you,” he said with a grin. “I know where to go.”
He did too. It was Thursday afternoon and traffic into the city was already heavy. But Kemal seemed to know all the back routes where traffic was lighter. That presented a problem for me though. I was trying to get my bearings so I could find the place on my own, but Kemal whizzed by street signs and landmarks so quickly that I really wasn’t sure how to get to my new home on foot. ‘Maybe I’d have to find Kemal every time I wanted to go home,’ I thought with a chuckle.
And suddenly, there it was–home sweet home. I practically flew in the front door.
“How’s it going, Horace?” I asked the burly guard as I flashed my room key.
“Just fine, Mr. O’Brien,” he smiled. “And you don’t have to show me your key. I know all the residents here.”
“You have a good memory,” I told him.
“I try,” he said laconically.
The moment had arrived. I gave a contented sigh and unlocked the door. I was curious to see how Lucky had arranged my furniture. Then I opened the door, and...
“What the hell?”
I probably made tenants two floors away jump. I couldn’t believe the sight that greeted me. All of Jennifer’s furniture was gone as promised, and new furniture was in its place–but it wasn’t my furniture. What was there was like something out of John Wayne’s nightmares. If I thought Jennifer had feminine tastes, I had another thought coming. Every chair, every lamp, every stick of furniture reeked of femininity. Oh, it wasn’t cheap stuff, but the pastel shades and laces and flowery patterns said it all. Even the pictures were feminine–bouquets of flowers and playful kittens adorned my walls.
I rushed to the phone to call Mr. Logan’s office. I groaned as I noticed that even the phone was a soft pink shade. Carrying it into the bedroom as it rang, I got an even worse surprise. Beyond the frilly flowered bedcover was an open closet door, and in the closet, neatly hung, were dozens of feminine outfits.
“Mr. Logan,” the cultured voice answered.
“This is O’Brien,” I growled into the phone.
If I was trying to sound pissed, Mr. Logan chose not to notice. “Oh yes, Mr. O’Brien. I trust Mr. Luck took care of everything for you.”
“Took care of everything?” I practically yelled. “Have you been up here?”
“Well... no,” he replied. “I left the details to Mr. Luck.”
“Then I think you’d better come up here and look!”
“Of course. I’ll be right there.”
True to his word, he was there in moments, a nervous looking Mr. Luck in his wake.
“Take a look at this,” I yelled with a sweep of my hand.
Mr. Logan looked a little taken aback. “Well, I must say your tastes are a little different from what I would have expected.”
“This isn’t my furniture!” I howled. “Where is my stuff?”
Mr. Logan turned to Lucky. “How could you make such a mistake?” he asked indignantly. “This is not Mr. O’Brien’s furniture.”
Lucky mumbled something, but I couldn’t quite hear it.
“That’s not an excuse!” Mr. Logan blustered. “Now, call our movers and see what happened.” Turning to me, he said solicitously, “Mr. O’Brien, you have my profound apologies. Be assured we will correct this unfortunate error as quickly as possible. Now, please try to make yourself as comfortable as possible. We will get back to you within the hour.”
With that, he and Lucky rushed out the door.
As the door closed behind them, the frown disappeared from Mr. L’s face, replaced by a wide grin. He placed his hand on Luk’s shoulder, causing the smaller man to jump slightly.
“An excellent job, Mr. Luk,” he said with an appreciative chuckle. “You’ll do very well here, I’m sure.”
Good to his word, Mr. Logan called me within an hour. It was about time, though. I felt like an unwanted guest surrounded by all the feminine furnishings. There wasn’t even anything worth reading: the only magazines in evidence being Vogue and Cosmo. I settled in to watch a little television while I waited, sinking into a soft, peach-covered chair as I flipped through the wasteland of afternoon television. My only concession to comfort was loosening my tie, since I was still dressed in my uniform.
I knew that no matter what, I would have to spend at least that evening in this alien place. Well, I sighed, it wasn’t the first time I had spent the night surrounded by all this femininity. Of course, the other times, it had been in on layovers in other cities. During those times, I had been a welcome guest in some local girl’s bed. Somehow, this wasn’t the same.
“Mr. O’Brien,” Mr. Logan began, “again, I must apologize profusely for this unfortunate mix-up. We have traced down your belongings. By accident, your goods were sent to Omaha.”
“Omaha! What the hell?”
“Yes, I agree,” Mr. Logan replied. “We are taking steps to remedy the error at once. In the mean time, please try to make yourself as comfortable as possible. Of course, there will be no charge to you until your proper furnishings arrive.”
“So how long until I get my stuff?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“Oh, not long,” Mr. Logan answered brightly. “We should have everything in place by Monday.”
“Monday? But that means I’ll have to use this stuff through the weekend. I can’t do that.”
“If you need anything–clothing, toiletries, accessories, we will provide them for you,” Mr. Logan assured me. “I’m sorry, but it’s all we can do.”
As I hung up the phone, I realized I had no other choice. My old apartment was probably rented out. As for a hotel, I wasn’t made of money. Decent rooms in the city are out of sight. I was being offered a free place to stay for a few days. I looked in the bedroom at the frilly coverlet on the bed: white with little bunches of pink flowers printed on it. Well, I had slept in worse places. Besides, it would give me a couple of days to explore my new neighborhood.
Resigned to my situation, I began to unpack my overnight bag. I would take a shower, get changed, and do a little exploring. Thankfully, I had a fresh change of clothes in my bag. Seasoned flight crews learn to pack extra clothes just in case there’s some sort of overnight delay. I’d shower first and go from there.
Lucky had done a great job of unpacking everything, I realized. The place actually looked lived in with no packing boxes in sight. If it had been my stuff he had worked with, I would have been delighted with the results, but all of this feminine crap was starting to make my skin itch. The bathroom was like the home office of a cosmetics company, with every conceivable feminine beauty aid spread out on the counter. Even the soaps and shampoos were scented. I sniffed each one and picked the ones that smelled least like a flower garden and tried to remind myself that this was only for the weekend.
The shower felt great. Even the liquid body wash I had reluctantly selected felt good–almost soothing to my skin. And I had to admit after I got out of the shower that the shampoo and conditioner had done a great job. My hair looked healthier. Even the flecks of gray in it had seemed to disappear.
I dressed quickly in a sport shirt and khaki slacks and felt like a new man. I would have to go out tomorrow and buy enough stuff to get me through the weekend, but at least I was set for now. I had actually gotten a bit of my good mood back. I was primed and ready for a night on the town.
Horace was still at the front desk. “Good evening, Horace,” I greeted him with a cheery smile.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Brien,” he returned with an equally charming smile.
“Look, Horace,” I began, leaning against the side of his desk, “I’m kind of new to this part of town. Where would be a good place to go for a little action?”
Horace looked a little uncomfortable. “Exactly what kind of action would you be looking for, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Well,” I started, ignoring the implications of his question, “I was thinking of something a little upscale where I could get a bite to eat, something to drink, and maybe an attractive young lady for the evening.”
“A hooker?” he asked bluntly. I could see a touch of disgust behind his impassive face.
“Oh no, Horace. I have a rule–I don’t pay for sex. I haven’t done that since my Air Force days. I’m just looking for a date.”
Horace relaxed a little. I hadn’t expected him to be so prudish. I wondered what he would have done if I had come strolling into the building with a hooker on my arm. Horace was pretty good sized. I wouldn’t want to see him when he got angry.
“Well...” he drawled after a moment’s thought, “...you might try the Southwest Grill across the square.”
“Mexican food?” I ventured.
“Some,” he agreed. “Other stuff, too. You know, the Southwestern grilled steaks and all that sort of thing.”
“Sounds good,” I said with a grin.
It turned out to be a good choice. It was just what I was looking for. The customers were all upscale New Yorkers with a substantial number of them being single women. The commuters had all started home by the time I entered the fake adobe bar which occupied a third of the floor space. That left all the singles who lived in Manhattan to keep the place busy.
I sat at the bar sipping what may have been the world’s best margarita while I checked out the prospects for the evening. I hated to eat alone, so the mission was to find an attractive young lady, wine and dine her, and take her back to my place. Well, maybe not to my place. One look at my apartment the way it was now and she would figure I was Richard Simmons’ best friend. I would just have to hope she lived nearby and didn’t have a roommate.
I caught the eye of more than one girl that evening, so I started to feel good. But I had my eye on one in particular. There was this blonde–she had big blue eyes. The fact that they were sad eyes made her all the more alluring. She wore a short red cocktail dress, smoky hose, and dark red shoes. The way she was perched up on her barstool made her look like a young girl who had never dressed so provocatively before. She was beautiful and vulnerable. I was in love.
“Nice, huh?” That was from the bartender. He looked like he was right at home in a place called the Southwest Grill. Tall and well muscled under his denim shirt, his features were clearly American Indian, accented by the single long braid of black hair down the center of his back. He grinned, showing perfect teeth. “You want me to introduce you?”
“I can handle my own introductions,” I said with a grin of my own.
“By the way,” the bartender said, “I haven’t seen you here before. I’m Trick in case you need anything.”
“Rick?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, Trick. The name on my driver’s license is T. Richard Running Bear. T and Rick make Trick.”
“Bob O’Brien,” I replied, shaking his hand. He had a firm grip, and I felt an odd tingle when I shook his hand.
“New around here?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m just moving in over at Deety Arms.”
“Oh,” he said with a flat tone of disappointment.
“Is something wrong with Deety Arms?” I asked with some concern. After all, this guy worked right across the street from my building. If there was anything wrong, he would have heard about it.
“No, nothing at all,” he replied carefully. He closed his eyes for a moment. As he did so, I felt that odd tingle in my hand again, almost as if something had been removed. I began to wonder if I had pinched a nerve. “Another margarita?” he asked when his eyes had opened again. Maybe he was just tired.
“Sure,” I agreed. “Make it just like the last one. I fact, make two.”
I placed the extra margarita in front of the blonde. “Trick here makes a great margarita,” I told her.
She looked at me with a sad smile. It was all I could do to meet her gaze since my eyes naturally wanted to wander down to her ample breasts which were straining at the satiny red material of her dress. “I prefer white wine,” she said with a nod at her half empty glass. Her voice was pure honey.
“With Southwestern food?” I asked with mock alarm.
She turned back toward her drink. “I’m not hungry tonight.”
“Just came in for a drink after work then?” I asked casually.
“Something like that,” she replied evasively.
“Vera here is new too, aren’t you?” I looked up to see Trick intruding on our conversation. “She’s trying to make it as a model. She wants to be the female answer to Valdez.”
Valdez? Then I remembered. He was that male model from Spain who had disappeared a week earlier. He had just left one of his well-known trysts with a young female model and had never shown up again. I remembered seeing his picture in the paper. Besides, you tend to remember a big blonde, blue-eyed guy with the unlikely name of Valdez.
“I was just getting ready to invite Vera to dinner,” I explained. I had hoped the obtuse invitation would be sufficient to get her to accept and get Trick to back off.
“That sounds like a wonderful idea, doesn’t it Vera?” Trick asked.
“If you say so,” she said softly, a touch of something like resignation in her voice.
“I do,” he confirmed. “In fact, in honor of your first dinner together, the next round of margaritas is on me.”
Well, if Trick wasn’t a hell of a nice guy. Without another word, I put my arm gently around Vera and we walked in for dinner together.
Mr. L put down the phone on his desk. Luk and Horace breathed a little sigh of relief–he wasn’t angry. That meant nothing had gone wrong.
“Horace,” he began with a sigh of his own, “I don’t know what you were thinking of, sending him to Trick’s place. You know our Mr. O’Brien is just the sort Trick enjoys playing with.”
“But I thought with that new guy–that model–he just changed, he’d be busy for awhile. And he does make a great margarita.”
“Yes, he does,” Mr. L agreed. “Fortunately, no harm was done. He was able to ascertain that Mr. O’Brien was one of ours. In fact, he even managed to get him together with his new play toy. Apparently, he gave her the old ‘you’ll get your body back when you’ve slept with a hundred different men’.”
“Are they still falling for that one?” Horace groaned. “I thought that one went out during the Renaissance.”
“Apparently not,” Mr. L mused. No god ever failed underestimating the naíveté of the human species. Of course, when you looked at it from their perspective, it was understandable. They had been taught from an early age that magic wasn’t really possible, so the tricks of the trade the gods used seemed new to every succeeding generation.
Luk looked confused. “Excuse me... what happened?”
“Nothing... fortunately,” Mr. L told him with a sharp look at Horace. “You’ll find, Mr. Luck, that a number of businesses in this area are run by our fellow beings. Trick runs the Southwest Grill. Be careful of him. He’s quite a prankster, and he lives just a couple of doors down the hall from you. Some of our other guests–particularly some of our American Indian guests–find him quite irritating.”
Luk understood what Mr. L meant, except on the seventh floor, there were no halls–or even rooms for that matter. Technically, it wasn’t even a floor, but the term would do.
“So our friend Trick has told his new toy that she can have her male body back once she has slept with a hundred different men,” Mr. L went on. “It’s the oldest trick in the book. By the time she meets that requirement, she’ll be so much a woman that the thought of going back to her male body will be absolutely repugnant. In the meantime, she will have become what is known in the popular vernacular ‘a slut’.”
“Oh,” Luk managed.
“Well, don’t worry,” Mr. L continued. “It appears no harm was done. Now, let’s get ready for our next surprise for Mr. O’Brien.”
Vera wasn’t quite what I expected. Talk about all dressed up and no place to go, she had been dressed as if she was going to a party: yet it turned out she had no plans for the evening. She had little to say during dinner, but I finally figured that out. When she did speak, I noticed a slight accent I couldn’t quite place. Maybe she was self-conscious about it.
After dinner and a couple more margaritas, it was time to make my move. “I’ve really enjoyed talking with you this evening,” I told her. Actually, I had done most of the talking. “I’d like to continue this, but I think we’ve taken up this table long enough.”
“Yes. I too, am enjoying our talk,” she said, but her eyes showed some discomfort.
“Well,” I ventured, “I’d invite you back to my place, but I just moved in so it’s something of a mess.” I didn’t want to tell her what it really looked like, obviously.
“I... I live just a block from here,” she replied.
Bingo! I smiled. She smiled. Now the only remaining problem was how I could walk out of the restaurant with the raging hard-on I already had.
Vera was pretty decent in bed. I don’t mean to say she was outstanding. In fact, she was a little hesitant, but sometimes that can be endearing. She certainly knew enough to know how to please a man, though. I could have gone for a second round, but to my chagrin, Vera seemed to lose interest after the first time. After a little stilted cuddling, I realized I was about to overstay my welcome, so I dressed quickly. There was to be no overnight stay it seemed.
“I’ll call you,” I told her with a hug at the door. I didn’t know if I would really call her or not, but it always seemed like the right thing to say.
“Sure,” she replied. I got the feeling she would be happier if I didn’t bother.
Well, that was just as well, I thought as I walked back to my apartment. She lived too close. If she had really had a thing for me, I’d find her on my doorstep day or night. That could be embarrassing if I had any other plans for the evening. And while she was good, she wasn’t that good. Chalk it up as one more one-night stand.
As tired as I was, I almost hated to climb into bed. Not only was the bedspread flowery and feminine, but the sheets were as well. They had an almost silky feel, and I realized with a little male revulsion that they were satin sheets. ‘Any port in a storm though,’ I thought. It had been a long day, and I was too tired to care what my bed looked like. It was just a bed and I was tired. I was asleep in moments.
“My butt is sore,” Garmon complained, stretching his leathery wings as Grimcost flew to a spot on the ledge beside him.
“Your butt’s always sore,” Grimcost snorted, a bit of steam pluming from his dog-like snout. He reached with a clawed talon and brought down an insect in mid-flight. Popping it into his mouth, he promptly spat it out again. “Not ripe,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
“Hey,” Garmon suddenly said, “have you seen the new guy?”
Grimcost looked at his fellow gargoyle with interest. “No, I was on the north side of the building today. What’s he like?”
“Come on,” Garmon called, fluttering up into the air. “I’ll show you.”
They perched on the ledge outside the apartment window just in time to see Luk sneaking in the door.
“What’s he doing?” Grimcost asked.
“Shh!” Garmon warned him. “He’s just setting up the change.”
“I hope they don’t change him into a kid,” Grimcost muttered. “They took that hockey player down on four and changed him into a little girl. Now she whines all the time. I mean, it gives me a headache.”
“Naw, I think they got other plans for him,” Garmon said, noting the women’s clothing Luk was carefully placing in the closet. “Look, those are uniforms.”
“What kind of uniforms?”
“Just watch.”
It took me a few minutes to wake up the next morning. That was unusual for me. I usually woke up quickly. It was a holdover from my old Air Force days. It was probably the weird dreams I had experienced. I had dreamed there were these two gargoyles with New York accents perched on my windowsill. They were chatting happily to themselves, while that weird little Mr. Luck puttered around my apartment. It must have been the margaritas. I yawned and stretched, surprised at how good the satin sheets had felt. The apartment had been quiet. That was a plus in a city like New York where street noise goes on all night long.
I got up and looked in my bag for a new pair of briefs before heading to the shower. Funny... there weren’t any there. I could have sworn I had at least one more clean pair in the bag. That would be a problem. I hated to wear underwear two days in a row. Well, I would have to live with it.
I padded on into the kitchen. Damn! I had forgotten to go by the market the night before. That meant no coffee or anything. ‘Maybe the nameless woman whose stuff I was using had some coffee packed away,’ I thought. I hadn’t really looked in any of the cupboards or drawers. Maybe I would get lucky. I did. There were several flavors of Gloria Jean’s coffees in the cupboard–whole bean just as I liked them–and a grinder. Another cupboard produced some dainty but useable coffee cups. Minutes later, the mixed smell of hazelnuts and coffee permeated the room.
I made one more quick search for clean underwear, but no luck. In fact, there was no clean anything. I could have sworn I had packed an extra shirt as well. I had pretty well pitted out the shirt I had worn the night before in the New York heat and humidity. I’d just have to go without a shirt.
But wait! A brilliant thought struck me. I might be stuck with a girl’s stuff, but T-shirts were generally unisex, and many women wore oversized men’s T-shirts. Hopefully, the owner wouldn’t mind me borrowing one. Carefully, I started rummaging through the drawers, quickly scanning past the lacy bras, panties and rolled-up pantyhose. I felt a little like a voyeur as I did so, but the end justified the means.
At last, I found a drawer neatly packed with T-shirts. I discarded the first two since one displayed a picture of flowers and another a kitten. What was it with this girl and her flowers and cats? Besides, everything was way too small for me.
Then I had another thought. A lot of women I knew used oversized T-shirts only to sleep in. I plunged down to the lower drawers and was quickly rewarded. There, nestled among the lacy, feminine nighties was a single T-shirt. As I unfolded it, I silently prayed that there wouldn’t be a kitten or a flower on it. There wasn’t! It was a New York Yankees T-shirt in an extra large. My persistence had paid off.
I vaguely toyed with looking through the drawers for some boxers. I also knew a lot of girls who liked to wear men’s boxers. I might get lucky. It was funny–a woman could wear men’s boxers and be perfectly normal, but if I wore this girl’s panties (assuming they would fit), that would make me a transvestite.
Now where had that thought come from? I certainly had no thought of wearing this woman’s panties.
But a little voice deep inside me said, at least they’d be clean. Besides, Jockey made stuff for women too. Granted, it was cut differently, but... No! The thought was just too bizarre. I’d make do with what I had and buy more underwear later.
So I showered and climbed back into yesterday’s briefs. The T-shirt fit fine, and the jeans I had been wearing the day before were in good shape. I even found a stretched out pair of sweat socks in one of the drawers. They were a little tight, but my feet weren’t terribly large for a man, so they fitted okay.
I found myself becoming a little curious about my unknown benefactor as I sipped on my coffee and read the paper I had bought on my way in the night before. She was young, I was sure. I could tell that from the clothing I had gone through and the personal items I had run across. There were no photos or anything, and I assumed they were still boxed up somewhere. Maybe she had even packed them herself and taken them with her rather than trust irreplaceable photos to the movers.
I began to wonder what she did for a living. Mr. L hadn’t mentioned it, but I assumed she was moving into another apartment in Deety Arms. If she was going to be paying rent equivalent to mine, she could be doing almost anything for a living. But if her belongings had been intended for another apartment building, she would have to be pretty well off to afford decent furniture and Manhattan rents. A quick look in the closet might give me some clues. I really had nothing better to do. For all practical purposes, I was on vacation.
I opened the closet and was suddenly assaulted by the subtle scents of her clothes. Whoever she was, she had good taste in perfume, for the scent that lingered was pleasant and fresh. There were mostly casual outfits–jeans, khaki and denim skirts and the like. And there were a couple of dressy outfits which looked like women’s business suits, but their colors and styles didn’t look conservative enough for her to be a lawyer or CPA. There were also several evening outfits, including the proverbial ‘little black dress.’ Its style and size again spoke of a young woman–and one with a nice shape.
Then, at one end of the closet, I discovered to my surprise what my mystery woman did for a living. She was a flight attendant–for Atlantic Air Express no less! I had found nothing to identify her by name, but I was sure I must have flown with her at some time or another. Atlantic wasn’t that big a line, so the odds were that I knew her. It all made sense. There must have been a second vacancy in the building. My mystery flight attendant must have known Jennifer, and Jennifer must have recommended this building to her as well as me.
I wondered who she was. Was it somebody I had slept with? I hoped not. As I’ve said before, I don’t like it when my lovers live too close. Maybe it was Cindy, the little Oriental girl from San Francisco. She lived on the Jersey side not far from my old place. She had said something about wanting to move to Manhattan. There was one way to find out. Cindy was attractive, but a little flat chested. I checked one of the bras: 36C. Nope, it wasn’t Cindy.
Now, I would remember a 36C. But there were a lot of well-built women flying with us. Maybe she had left something in one of the pockets of her uniform. Like most women’s uniforms, it was tailored in such a way that the pockets were worthless, but I knew occasionally women slipped little things in there–like receipts. I stuffed my hand in the side pocket of one of the dark gray uniforms and was rewarded with the same tingling sensation I had felt the night before in the bar. That worried me. There might be something wrong with my hand that would keep me from flying. I rubbed my hand and the tingling went away. Well, it didn’t exactly go away. Rather, it felt as if it moved up my arm, but it lessened as it went. I would have to ask my doctor about it.
There had been nothing in the pocket that would help me find out the woman’s identity. I was becoming more curious by the minute. It was like a puzzle which had to be solved. There had to be something in the apartment that would help me identify her.
But if I was to solve the puzzle, where would I look next? The kitchen! Many women used the kitchen as sort of a home office, paying the bills from the kitchen table. I had not seen any sign of a computer anywhere, so the odds were good my mystery woman did her personal bookkeeping the old-fashioned way–at the kitchen table. Of course, there was a high probability that any current bills were still with her. She wouldn’t trust those to a mover. In fact, there was a good chance that the records were still boxed up someplace. I couldn’t imagine where, though. The overzealous movers appeared to have unpacked everything.
I began going through some of the drawers in the kitchen. After searching four drawers loaded with the usual paraphernalia, I was rewarded with a neat stack of envelopes stuffed with bills and receipts. Each envelope was labelled by month and year in a neat feminine hand. Jackpot!
Luk shifted uncomfortably as he watched the unsuspecting pilot search through the kitchen. He looked up at Mr. L. “Are you sure he cannot see us?” he asked in a low voice.
“I assure you, Mr. Luk, he can neither see nor hear us,” Mr. L replied with a wicked smile. They were only a few feet from their hapless victim.
“And why he not notice the changes?” Luk pressed.
“The first changes are quite subtle,” Mr. L explained. You never notice how tall you are until you stand next to someone you know for example. Don’t worry, he’ll notice soon enough.”
I had her name! Not that it did me a lot of good. Holly Webster. Holly Sue Webster to be precise. I had never heard of her. And I thought I had at least a passing acquaintance with every flight attendant on the line. Let’s see... maybe she had been married and Webster was a maiden name she had reverted to. So what Hollys did I know that flew for us? There was Holly Crocker, a fine looking black girl. No, she was married now to some guy in Cleveland. She worked for Continental now.
Holly Masters? Oh god, I hoped not. She was always trying to land a pilot for a husband. Guys like Doc Vincent and me always suspected she’d figure out a way to get pregnant and try to get the guy to marry her. But judging from the size of the bras, it wasn’t that Holly. She was no 36C unless she was stuffing the cups with tissues.
With that, I had run out of Hollys. Atlantic Air was a small line. I was sure we only had those two Hollys. So who was my mystery woman? Was she attractive? Most likely she was. Bill Farnsworth made sure all his flight attendants were attractive. Was she single? Again, political correctness be damned: few married women chose to be part of “Hooters in the Sky” as the attendants at some of the other lines called us.
‘Well, enough idle speculation,’ I thought. I still had things to do. I needed to check with Mr. Logan and find out the status of all my stuff. Then, there were all the other things I needed to do, like grocery shopping, taking the uniform I had worn the day before in for dry cleaning, and changing my Post Office box to a substation in the Village. Like many single pilots, I kept a Post Office box since I might be gone for several days at a stretch.
I still had a couple of things to do before going downstairs. I still needed to shave. I went back to the bathroom and pulled my razor out of my kit and...
That was funny. I had already shaved. My face was as smooth as if I had just used a new blade instead of my electric razor. Since I had been half-asleep when I got up, I must have shaved without thinking about it. That was the odd thing about moving. It tends to change all of your routines. I usually shaved after my shower, but I must have shaved first that morning.
The other thing I needed to do was to notify the company of my new phone number. I wasn’t officially on vacation: I was just not scheduled to fly for a few days. That was a common situation for pilots. However, that meant I was on call, so I needed to let them know where I’d be just in case they needed me to fly.
“Hey Brenda,” I said cheerily to the woman who answered the phone at Flight Ops.
“Hi yourself Bobby,” she replied. We were old friends. She was a former flight attendant who had married one of our pilots–a friend of mine–and went off flight status.
“Look, I’ve just moved, so I need to give you a new phone number.”
She was silent for a minute. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I replied, perplexed at the concern in her voice. People moved all the time. What was her problem?
“I never thought you’d do that.”
“Well, I got tired of living in Jersey,” I explained uncomfortably. Why was it I felt like we were carrying on two different conversations? I gave her the new number.
“Okay Bobby, I’ll start the paperwork,” she said a little sadly. “Good luck.”
As I hung up, I got the uncomfortable feeling that there was something wrong. Maybe she hadn’t heard me right. Maybe it was a bad phone connection. Well, I’d call her back later and confirm the information I had given her.
I was in a pretty good mood as I headed down to Mr. Logan’s office. I was clean, well rested, and I had even been able to fasten my belt one notch tighter than usual, meaning my exercise program to get rid of a middle-aged gut was working. There was no security guard at the desk, so I went directly in to Mr. Logan’s office.
Inside the door was a small reception area and a modest office behind it. Although the small offices seemed quiet, the insulation in the walls must have been thin because I could hear the sounds of a large busy office beyond the wall. I wondered what business was over there.
“Ah, Mr. O’Brien,” Mr. Logan said brightly as he stepped out of his office to greet me. “I have good news for you. By tomorrow morning, we’ll have made everything right in your apartment.”
That was good news. So the movers would be there in the morning. I could make it through one more day, I supposed. I had been afraid he would tell me that I would have to wait until the first of the week. New York might be the city that never sleeps, but it doesn’t work much on weekends if it can avoid it.
“I’ll be out of town over the weekend,” he explained without waiting for me to reply. “Mr. Luck will be coordinating everything.”
“Fine,” I replied, although I didn’t really think it was so fine. Hadn’t it been Mr. Luck who had screwed up the last move? Well, maybe it hadn’t been his fault. Besides, Mr. Logan seemed to have confidence in him.
So I spent the rest of the day running my errands. There was a little grocery store in the neighborhood, so I didn’t have to go far for staples. I surprised myself with what looked good to me though. Like most single men, my diet had never been the healthiest in the world. I ate a lot of prepackaged meals and junk food. None of it had looked particularly good to me that day though. I concentrated on low fat stuff–salad fixings, yogurt, even some liquid diet meals. I did cheat and get a pint of ice cream–chocolate at that. Usually, I didn’t care much for chocolate, but I seemed to have an odd craving for it.
I had it all delivered to my place. The delivery boy must have thought I was some kind of a fruit when he saw how the place was decorated and furnished. I felt it necessary to explain to him that my stuff was yet to be delivered, so he relaxed a little bit around me. I gave him a decent tip.
By the time I had run all of my other errands, it was nearly five. As usual on a Friday evening, the city was in gridlock. I decided to head back to my place and take a little snooze before going out for the evening. Things had worked out well for me at the Southwest Grill the night before. I thought I’d try my luck there again.
I plopped down on the bed, exhausted for some reason. ‘I hadn’t been so tired in years,’ I thought. Well, there was another sign of creeping middle age. The next thing I knew, the few strands of gray in my hair would spread and young guys on the street would start calling me “gramps.” I’d have to start concentrating less on the twenty-something flight attendants and start working on the first-time divorcees. As they say, life’s a bitch, I thought as I drifted off to sleep...
“Taking George for a walk, Mrs. Dunn?” Mr. L asked the still attractive middle-aged woman in the lobby. She was dressed as if she were going to high tea in a smart pastel suit and conservative heels. Her jewelry spoke volumes about her–old and expensive and a sure sign of significant wealth.
She smiled at Mr. L. “Oh yes, Mr. Logan. Except it’s Georgia now, you know.”
The small poodle whose leash was securely wrapped around Mrs. Dunn’s hand seemed to cower in embarrassment at hearing the name. She whimpered softly.
“Oh yes, that’s right,” Mr. L remarked as he patted the unhappy dog on its foppishly trimmed ears. “How are you today, Georgia?”
The look in the dog’s eyes was one of pure hatred, but although she trembled to do something desperate, she could only involuntarily wag her little tail and pant. She did manage a tiny whine.
“I’m just taking her to the park,” Mrs. Dunn explained. “She’s made a little friend over there. He’s about her size and very interested in her.”
“Yes, I know which one you mean,” Mr. L agreed. He knew most of the neighborhood dogs, having had a great deal to do with them being dogs in the first place.
“Yes,” she sighed. “George used to love the park. Did you know that’s where he met most of his trollops?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Well, very nice to see you, Mr. Logan,” she said. “I’d better get Georgia over to the park. You know how dogs in heat can be.”
“Oh yes,” he said with a nod. He was glad he didn’t have to talk further. It was about time to check on Mr. O’Brien again.
I slept straight through, eschewing dinner. For the second night in a row, I had strange dreams. Only this time, in addition to Mr. Luck and the gargoyles, Mr. Logan was there as well. He was looking over everything like a military inspector, stopping occasionally to point out something to Mr. Luck who would scurry over to correct it. I was too tired to think what the dreams meant.
It was a gloomy New York morning when I awoke. Rain was gently beating against my bedroom window and there was a distant rumble of thunder. I groaned and rolled over on my stomach, but I thought I must have landed on a pillow, because something didn’t feel right. Only half-awake, I tried to push the pillow away, feeling a sudden pinch on my... extended... nipples.
I leaped up to a sitting position, uttering a sudden cry that didn’t sound like me at all. Things flopped and slid all over the place that shouldn’t have flopped and slid at all. Two weights swung about on my chest, and long hair flopped in my face and against my shoulders. My butt seemed to spread out further than it should have. Suddenly, I was completely awake, but a part of me insisted I must still be asleep.
I had gone to sleep fully dressed, but that wasn’t the case now. I was dressed only in... in... a pink baby-doll nightie. That wasn’t what really upset me the worst though. Pilots are a funny breed, and more than one had probably awaked from a drunken stupor to find himself similarly attired as some sort of a prank. No, what bothered me was what was in the nightie. I looked straight down at a magnificent pair of full breasts–a solid C cup if ever I had seen them. Looking beyond them was an indented waist, a flat stomach, an obvious void between my legs, and hips that flared out into pools of inviting flesh tapering down into slim, smooth and completely hairless legs. They ended with small, well-formed feet with bright pink polish on each of the toenails.
Well, I did what anyone would have done in my position. I screamed bloody murder. That didn’t help much since the scream was as feminine as I could ever imagine.
That done, I tried to control my ragged breathing, if for no other reason than to stop those perfect breasts from heaving up and down. I couldn’t stand the little feminine gasps that my system was producing. I brought my hands up to my face to push the long brown hair away while at the same time trying to ignore how slender my fingers had become and how the polish on the long nails matched that on my toes.
What the fuck was going on?
“This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening,” I muttered over and over as if it was my mantra.
But it had happened. There was no denying that. I suppose I could have tried to delude myself that it was all a dream, but it wasn’t. I was awake, alert, and female. It wasn’t possible. It was obviously magic, and magic wasn’t possible. But it had happened, so it was possible. I was nearly frozen into inactivity by the illogical argument that was spinning through my head.
Wait a minute...
I thought about the dreams I had been having the last couple of nights. I kept seeing Lucky and Mr. Logan and a strange pair of gargoyles. And what was it Mr. Logan had said to me yesterday? Oh yes, he said that by tomorrow morning–this morning now–he would make everything right in my apartment. He didn’t mean he would change out the furniture. He meant he would change me to match the furniture. ‘Why, that son of a...’ No, I’d better not even think that. I needed to get him to change me back and I doubted if calling him names would help much.
I had to call him. I jumped up to get to the phone. The sudden movement caused my breasts to swing uncomfortably. I’d have to be more careful. Oh god, I’d have to wear a bra now. I had to call Mr. Logan right away. He was behind this: of that I was sure.
To my sudden surprise, I realized that I had neglected to get his phone number. Well, no big deal. I would just look up the number in the phone book. But I soon discovered there was no Deety Arms listed. I called information, but they had no listing for the building. As I replaced the receiver, I realized with a sigh that I would have to go down to his office. That meant I would have to get dressed... as a woman.
‘Well, I could manage,’ I thought. Women wore jeans and sweatshirts and all the stuff men wore. I would just look like a small guy. Probably nobody would even notice I was a girl. I looked down at my impressive figure. Yeah, right. Nobody would notice. Of course they wouldn’t notice–at least for the first tenth of a second. Then every guy I passed would be mentally undressing me no matter what I wore.
But there was no choice. I literally stumbled into the bathroom, trying to get used to the sway of my breasts and ass. It was almost like trying to learn to walk all over again. First things first. I went to the bathroom, having to use my new plumbing for the first time. Fortunately, I had to go so badly that I didn’t even have time to think about what to do. The flow just came naturally. I even remembered to wipe myself off like I had seen girls do. The area in my groin was very sensitive to the touch. I had never experienced anything quite like it before. It was not unpleasant, just... different.
As I finished up, I took a moment to look at myself in the mirror. It was the first time I had seen my new face. In a way, it looked like the face of the younger sister I never had. I had my same Irish coloring–fair skin, blue eyes, and brown hair. But my skin was far smoother and my features less rugged. My nose was small with a few small freckles. My jaw was less pronounced, and my ears were considerably smaller, hidden in part by my longer hair. My eyes seemed somehow larger, but it may just have been the fact that my eyebrows were thinner and my lashes were fuller and longer. In short, it was an attractive face, but not a beautiful one. I had shed almost twenty years in age as well, and now appeared to be in my early twenties. I had that perky sexy look that was common among Atlantic Air flight attendants, and...
Wait a minute! Oh no. No way. No wonder I didn’t know Holly Webster. She was me. But whoever did this wouldn’t get their way. There was no way I was going to put on one of those tight uniforms and wiggle my ass through the airport. No way at all. Yours truly was not a coffee, tea or me girl.
But what could I do? If I went to the police and told them I was a male pilot who had been transformed into a female flight attendant, I would be spending the rest of my days weaving baskets out at the funny farm. I had to get whoever had done this to me to change me back.
Whoever was pretty easy to figure. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to put all the pieces together. Good old smooth as silk Mr. Logan had to be behind this. But why? What had I ever done to him? I had to talk to him. He had said he was leaving for the weekend, but maybe he hadn’t left yet.
But I remembered I couldn’t call him. I would have to go down to the lobby–as a girl. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, but there was no avoiding it. I’d have to find something to wear.
It felt strange to be going through a woman’s lingerie drawer, even if I was that woman. As I rooted through the drawer praying that there was something in there that didn’t look like it came from Victoria’s Secret, I realized that unless I talked my way out of it, I would be wearing stuff like this for the rest of my life. Oh sure, even if I was stuck like this, I could always buy men’s briefs and wear them, but men’s briefs weren’t cut to accommodate the enlarged butt and narrowed waist I now possessed. And what about the little pocket in briefs for the family jewels? Its emptiness would be a constant reminder of who and what I used to be. With a sigh, I found a pair of silky white panties which looked relatively modest and put them on.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I was now naked except for the panties. I looked like something out of Playboy. I could see the article now: ‘Girls of the Airlines–Come Fly With Me.’ My body gave an involuntary shudder at the thought.
Still, I had to admit to be completely fair that if I had to be a girl, it was better to be a nice-looking one. I had a very nice figure and an attractive face. I might not stop traffic, but I bet I could slow it down a bit. It was odd. I wanted my own body back in the worst way. I had no desire to be a woman. Yet this was a nice body, one to be proud of. It was a body that had been taken care of.
‘Well, enough of that,’ I thought, bringing myself back to the problem at hand. Time to cover up the boobs. When I had discovered those 36C bras, I had never dreamed I would be putting one on. After struggling with it for a minute or two, I managed to get my new breasts seated right in the cups. It actually felt good to get them secured. They tended to move around less. I felt like I could turn around suddenly without having one of them jump up and slap me in the face. Of course, all that force had to go someplace. I felt the straps of the bra cut into my shoulders. I adjusted them a little, but I could see that bras had apparently been designed by a man.
I might have to have feminine garments next to my skin, but that was it. For outerwear, I selected a white sweatshirt that said ‘I Love New York’ on it. Of course, it had a heart instead of the word ‘love,’ but that was to be expected. Then I found a pair of jeans. The sweatshirt was no problem–it was just a sweatshirt. It would be a little warm, but the compensation was that it did about as much to hide my breasts as anything would. Of course, nothing could really hide them. Why fool myself? The jeans were another problem though. They weren’t the loose fit Levis I was used to as a man. Instead, they clung like a second skin. I pulled the sweatshirt down a little further so that the swell of my hips was less evident. That stretched the sweatshirt down far enough that my breasts were more prominent. I couldn’t win.
Now shoes. Tennis shoes would work, but it practically hurt my stomach to try to bend over in those jeans and tie them. I slipped on a pair of women’s flats instead, hoping no one would notice. Then I looked in the mirror. I hadn’t exactly made myself beautiful, but so what? I was just trying avoid an indecent exposure charge, not go out for a night on the town.
With a very feminine-sounding sigh, I headed for the elevator. I thanked God that there was no one in it. I wasn’t ready to play sneak a peek in the elevator with some guy. Of course, when the elevator door opened, I had to face someone as a girl for the first time.
“Good morning, Ms. Webster.”
I could have killed Horace for that. He was courteous and he was cheerful. I hated him. “Cut the crap Horace. I want to see Logan–now!”
Horace looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Ms. Webster, but he’s getting ready for a business trip and I don’t think...”
“That’s right Horace,” I growled, throwing open the door to Logan’s office, “don’t think.”
Mr. Logan looked up from his desk. “Oh, good morning, Ms. Webster. I’m afraid I don’t have much time this morning.”
“What did you do to me?” I practically screamed. “And why?”
He favored me with a small smile. “I would think what I have done is very obvious. But I can’t take all the credit. It was a community effort.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, my curiosity suddenly piqued.
Mr. Logan steepled his fingers. “Deety Arms is something of a refuge. Quite a number of our residents and all of our staff are what you might call semi-retired deities.”
“Deities? As in gods? You’re joking,” I mumbled, sitting down across from him. Actually, given the tightness of the jeans, I sort of fell stiffly into the chair.
He shook his head. “No joke, Ms. Webster. Did you think old gods just disappeared because no one was worshipping them anymore?”
Actually, I didn’t think any of the old gods were real, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. After what had happened to me, I was ready to believe in everything from Santa Claus to the Easter Bunny. Hell, I’d even believe in the Tooth Fairy if it meant someone would change me back into my normal self.
“No, we don’t disappear,” he went on. “Instead, we are doomed by our immortality to wander the earth forever. Forever is a very long time. Then, with the dawn of the modern world, many of us found that cities like New York have become the crossroads of the world. We began to meet each other, searching for common interests and common goals. Some, like the old Greek and Roman gods stuck together in their own communities advancing their own plans. Others have aligned against them. We are too minor to take part in their fray, so we have banded together for other purposes.”
“What other purposes? Why did you do this to me?”
He grinned. “Purpose? Why? Does there have to be a reason for everything, Ms. Webster? Just accept that the purpose and the why are because we can.”
My pretty new eyes narrowed. “Why are you even telling me all this? Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell others?”
“You may tell whomever you like,” he replied. “No one would believe you. And even if they did, we would be able to handle them just as we handled you. Of course, quite a number of our residents are not quite themselves either. Nothing you can say or do would change the fact that you are now a young woman named Holly Webster.”
“But you could change me back if you wanted to,” I suggested.
“Yes, but we don’t want to,” he said bluntly. “Holly Webster will be much more entertaining than Robert O’Brien.”
“But I’ll be missed.”
“By whom?” he shot back. “You have no family. Your friendships are shallow. No mate will mourn your absence. Do you think one of your many girlfriends will come looking for you? Personally, I doubt it.”
“What about my job?” I retorted. “When Robert O’Brien doesn’t show up for work, somebody will get suspicious.”
He shook his head with a chuckle. “No, I’m afraid Robert O’Brien resigned from Atlantic Air Express.”
“What?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember?” He waved his hand and I suddenly saw an image projected on the wall. It looked like... yes it was. It was Brenda in Flight Ops sitting at her desk. Her phone rang and she put it on speaker.
“Hey, Brenda,” my voice–my old voice–came through the speaker.
“Hi yourself, Bobby,” she replied, not looking up from the paper she had been reading.
“Look, I’m going to resign from Atlantic Air Express, effective today.”
She was silent for a minute. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I replied.
“I never thought you’d do that.”
“Well, I got a better offer,” my voice explained.
“Okay Bobby, I’ll start the paperwork,” she said a little sadly. “Good luck.”
With that, the wall dimmed.
“That isn’t what I said!” I protested.
“No,” Mr. Logan agreed, “but that is what she heard. As far as your employer is concerned, you quit. I doubt seriously if anyone will care.”
“But they will care,” I insisted.
“Why?” he asked. “When was the last time you were at any of their homes here in the area–other than to have sexual relations with one of the flight attendants, that is?” When I was silent, he continued, “You see, you have no good close friends. Oh, there are people who liked you, but they won’t take the time to look you up. All they know is that you resigned. Your final check will be sent to your Post Office box and that will be it. Robert O’Brien will never be seen or heard from again.”
“Change me back!”
“No.”
“I won’t play your game,” I told him, “whatever it is. I won’t be Holly Webster.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then who and what will you be? Deety Arms is a business, you know. We expect our rent payments on time or we shall be forced to evict you. Then where will you live? What will you do?”
“I can fly,” I told him, trying to sound forceful “There are airlines that will hire women pilots. In fact, a lot of them are begging women to fly for them.”
“But Holly Webster is not a pilot,” he pointed out. “Holly Webster is a young woman with limited skills. She had only a couple of years of college, no degree, and no work experience except as a flight attendant. I would advise you to think carefully before you throw Holly’s life away.”
It was a not-so-subtle threat. I was trapped, and he knew it. He and his minions had forced me into the life of Holly Webster, and for now, I had no choice but to live it. What else could I do? Be a waitress? Clerk in a convenience store? Go sell this body on the street? There were no better prospects, I realized grimly. I was silent.
“Good,” he nodded with a smile. “I see you understand. Since you have decided to be more cooperative, I’ll give you a small gift.”
He waved his hand and I felt a sudden tingling around my head. “You now possess sufficient skill to dress and apply makeup in a proper feminine fashion. You will also find when the time comes that you know how to apply a tampon.”
“Thanks a lot,” I mumbled sarcastically.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, choosing to ignore the sarcasm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to leave.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw Horace just behind me. My audience with Mr. Logan was most definitely over.
When the new Holly had left and the outer door had closed by Horace behind her, the walls outside Mr. L’s office seemed to melt away and the other offices of Deity Enterprises came alive. Luk was standing by one of the walls as it dissolved, chuckling to himself.
“All right, Mr. Luk,” Mr. L said, grabbing his briefcase, “you will be in charge for the weekend. I want you to know I’m giving you a lot of responsibility. Should anything go wrong, you know how to contact me.”
“Yes, sir,” Luk replied obediently. “What I have to do about Ms. Webster?”
Mr. L turned and looked at Luk with an impish grin. “Nothing at all,” he said. “I have other plans for Ms. Webster.”
I was fuming as I slammed the door of my apartment, my new breasts heaving uncomfortably as I fought for breath. I didn’t want to live one more minute in this body I had been given. I wasn’t a woman. I didn’t like to wear feminine things. I didn’t like to go to chick flicks. I didn’t like to watch my waistline. And I didn’t like men–I mean I didn’t like men in that way.
I was more frustrated than I could ever remember being in my life. I honestly felt like crying. It had to be this body, I realized. When frustrated, women cry and men hit something. Well, I’d show them. I might look like a woman, but I was still a man. And as a man, I felt like hitting something. I slammed my dainty fist into the door.
“Ow!” I cried, and unbidden, tears did come to my eyes. Only now they weren’t just tears of frustration: they were tears of pain. My hand stung. My stronger, harder male hand wouldn’t have felt a fraction of the pain I had just experienced. Maybe next time, I’d just cry first and avoid the pain.
The phone suddenly rang, causing me to jump. I looked at it as if it was some instrument of the devil. Of course, in Deety Arms, that was probably possible. On the third ring though, I reluctantly picked it up. “Hello?” I said, inwardly cursing my high-pitched voice.
“Holly Webster?”
“Y... yes,” I admitted reluctantly.
“Oh thank goodness you’re there. Listen, I’m Marge Garcia. I’m the Senior Flight Attendant on your flight this afternoon.”
What flight? Oh shit. I looked next to the phone and found a work schedule printed out for a Holly Webster. I was due to be on an early afternoon flight to San Francisco. I had thought that like my male self, I would have a few days off. Maybe I could work up enough guts to appear in public as a woman. Now, I had to be Holly Webster, flight attendant, that very day.
“Anyhow, Bill Farnsworth is going to be on the flight,” she went on. “We’re not supposed to know–you know how he is–but a friend of mine in Flight Ops told me. Look, we’ve never flown together, but we all need to be extra sharp today. Make sure everything is perfect. That means hair, makeup, jewelry, the works. Oh, and wear the shortest skirt you have. You know how he likes that. See you at the airport. I have to reach Mindy Charles. She’s flying with us. Bye!”
I hadn’t managed to get a word in. I knew Marge casually. We had been on the same flight a couple of times, but she was too frenetic for me. She lived for her job and did it well. The other flight attendants didn’t like to fly with her because she had them on their feet every minute of the flight. I thought I knew Mindy too. She was a cute young blonde, probably about the same status with the line as the woman I had become.
I took a moment to sit down and groan. I would have to go through with being Holly, at least for now. I had no other choice. That meant I needed the job. It seemed I was about to be initiated into the life of an Atlantic Air flight attendant whether I liked it or not–and believe me, I didn’t like it.
I packed first. It was to be an overnight trip, so I threw whatever I could think of in my bag. San Francisco is still a fairly dressy town, so I took a white blouse and dark blue skirt combination. I would have preferred jeans and sneakers, and there was a chance I’d end up someplace less formal, so I threw that in too. The blouse wouldn’t go with that, so I threw in a light blue cotton sweater. Of course, I needed different jewelry for each outfit and...
Wait a minute. Why did I know so much about what to take and all? Of course. It was Mr. Logan’s little gift. I thought about short-circuiting his little plan and taking only grubbies, but I realized I had to fit in. Most flight attendants went out together on overnights. It was a form of mutual protection. As the hunted, we needed to travel in herds. If I didn’t have the right clothes, I’d be on my own. The last thing I wanted to be was a sweet young thing all by myself in San Francisco.
So okay, I went with the flow. I packed the way any flight attendant would pack. I began to appreciate a problem women had. Because of their need for specialized outfits to fit different occasions, they had to pack twice as much as men. As a man, I would have thrown in a pair of dark slacks, a sport shirt to match, and worn my uniform shoes and socks with the outfit. That would get me through almost any place in the country. As a woman though, I needed a casual outfit and a dressy outfit, just in case. Then I needed different shoes for each outfit and matching accessories. No wonder women always seemed to have twice the luggage men carried. At least nightwear was no problem. Fortunately, Holly had some pajamas as well as the nighties. Since I didn’t plan to do any bedroom entertaining–now or ever–I stuffed the pajamas into the bag.
Getting myself ready was almost an entertaining experience, bordering on the erotic. When I just let myself go and didn’t think about it much, I was quite expert at dressing and applying makeup. Physically, I might be a woman, but mentally, I was as male as I had been the day I was born. My male self was practically panting as it watched an already attractive woman become even more alluring as she added foundation, blush, eye shadow and lipstick to her feminine face. I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but I was turning myself on. I suppose those male thoughts had to physically manifest themselves somehow. Since there was no male equipment for those thoughts to affect, they did the best they could with what I now had. In a word, I was starting to feel moist and warm between my legs.
It was a nice feeling. It wasn’t as insistent as the male equivalent, but it was, well... nice. But as pleasant as it was, it was unwelcome. I had to get ready. I didn’t have time for self-stimulation. That would come later, I realized grimly. I didn’t want to think about it, but I knew that the time would come when I would have to learn how to provide pleasure to this new body of mine. I had never been turned on by the idea of lesbian sex, and making it with men was completely out of the question. That left nothing but an occasional rendezvous with Freddie Fingers. But I wanted to put that moment off as long as I could. It would be surrendering to my new body, and I was determined to avoid that for as long as possible.
That was easier said than done. I was actually feeling a little warm already. I went to the kitchen and got a glass of cold water. It wasn’t much, but maybe it would cool me just a little. As I settled myself down, I had an uncomfortable thought. What if Mr. Logan and his crew had not just changed me into a woman, but had changed me into an extremely horny one? Experimentally, I tried to imagine myself intimately with a man. No, it didn’t sound like something I would be interested in doing. I was relieved at that.
But then I realized that although it wasn’t something I wanted to do, it didn’t seem particularly repugnant. I had been a one hundred and ten percent heterosexual male my entire life. The idea of climbing into bed with a man had about the same appeal as climbing into a vat of poisonous snakes. Now though, while I didn’t relish the idea, I was able to accept it at least intellectually.
Well, that was a problem to be dealt with later, I realized. I had to finish getting ready. Soon I was wearing an open-necked cranberry blouse with the collar neatly lying over the lapels of my dark gray jacket. The matching skirt was short enough to please an army of Bill Farnsworths, showing off slim, nylon-clad legs. My heels required a little walking practice, but they weren’t so hard once I got used to them. One last brush of my hair and one last check of my makeup and I was ready to face the world–sort of.
Horace gave me an almost lewd grin. “Good day, Ms. Webster.”
“Good day to you, Horace,” I replied primly, hoping he hadn’t noticed the flush I felt in my face.
The cab I had ordered was waiting, and the driver, a grandfatherly sort–one of the old-style cabbies from New York’s more genteel era. I was grateful that he was respectful and polite instead of one of the younger drivers who would have probably been breathing down the front of my blouse.
I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky when I got to Newark. I used to watch the flight attendants strolling down the concourses, dragging their wheeled overnight bags behind them. I wasn’t alone. Every heterosexual male from thirteen up was doing the same thing. I tried to steel myself for the ordeal, but I couldn’t help but feel like a deer being driven into a pack of wolves. At best, this was not going to be a pleasant day.
My worst fears were realized the minute I stepped out of the cab. It was my first experience getting out of a car in a skirt and heels, and I was a little clumsy at it. I tried to get out as I would have when I was a man. That caused my skirt to hike up, and from a few feet away, I heard a guy in a Rutgers T-shirt say excitedly to his buddy, “Hey, Paul, look–a beaver shot!”
I recovered quickly and swung my legs together. I was trying to ignore my red face by concentrating completely on getting out of the cab without losing my balance on the unaccustomed heels. I managed, but just barely.
I know every male wasn’t looking at me as I made my way down the Atlantic Air concourse, but it certainly seemed that way. Whenever I would look around for something, I would notice at least one man looking away as he was suddenly caught staring at me. Men walking toward me would smile as they locked onto my eyes, but more often they wouldn’t bother, focusing instead on my bouncing breasts. I was completely humiliated. I wanted to run and hide, but I knew it would do no good. I had to work or things would be worse for me. So I did my best to ignore the stairs and rushed to my plane.
“You’ll be up front today,” Marge told me. Marge Garcia was an attractive Hispanic woman in her early thirties. She had a pleasant smile and a friendly manner, but she let you know she was in charge. “Keep the coffee hot and keep it coming. Bill Farnsworth with be in the third row.”
“Uh... why did you put me up front?” I asked. I was reluctant to serve Bill Farnsworth, a man I had met several times when I too, was a man. The thought of him seeing me in this new guise was embarrassing for me.
“Frankly honey, because you’ve got the biggest boobs,” she explained, grinning at my discomfort. Mindy Charles, our other flight attendant giggled at that as she inventoried the snacks for the flight. “Bill likes ’em big and busty. I hope you can handle it okay.”
“Sure,” I said, wondering if I really could. That meant I was in First Class for the flight. The good news is that I would be with seasoned travellers. The bad news was that they would keep me hopping all the way to the West Coast. And I suddenly realized that unlike the other flight attendants who had brought flat-heeled shoes for the actual flight, I was going to be stuck in heels all the way. I’d have to remember that next time or my ankles would be so sore I wouldn’t be able to walk. Apparently, Mr. Logan’s little gift hadn’t warned me about that. I guess he wanted me in heels, the bastard.
After we had our marching orders, the flight deck crew sauntered on, and I do mean sauntered. I knew both the pilot and co-pilot. Rick Hansen was a good pilot, although I was better, and Stan Hackman, his co-pilot, had flown with me before. They greeted us with a hearty “Hi, girls,” and headed for the flight deck. I felt suddenly lost and alone. I had been booted out of the fraternity, relegated to a new role as a lowly flight attendant. The only time soon I’d be on the flight deck would be to deliver one of them a cup of coffee.
I didn’t have much time to feel sorry for myself though. The first of the passengers had started to arrive. I was suddenly busy helping them stuff luggage in overhead bins, hanging up their coats, and taking drink orders before takeoff. I envied the girls in back. They didn’t have to hustle hanging up coats and mixing drinks: only First Class rated those amenities. But the ones I really envied were Rick and Stan up on the flight deck. They would be leisurely reviewing the flight plan and the weather and going through the pre-flight checklist prior to departure. I was nearly in tears of frustration as I thought about the life I had lost.
Bill Farnsworth and his travelling companion hadn’t arrived, and it was only ten minutes until departure. I found myself hoping they didn’t show up at all. Then the pressure would be off. No such luck though. From the galley where I was mixing a gin and tonic for one of my passengers, I heard a booming voice call, “You want the window or the aisle?” The voice could only belong to Bill Farnsworth.
Sure enough, a moment later, Bill Farnsworth stepped through the door. He was a large man, although not fat. Like many well-to-do Texans, he walked with a swagger that made you think he was wearing cowboy boots instead of thousand dollar a pair handmade Italian shoes. His suit and tie were strictly Wall Street, but the rugged face told the story of a man who before his airline days had spent a lot of time outdoors–probably on the back of a horse.
“Hello, darling!” he said to me, giving me a friendly hug that almost caused me to spill the gin and tonic I had just mixed. “How’s about a couple of bourbon and waters for me and my friend here?”
He had nodded at a figure just entering the plane. I turned to see... oh that son of a bitch! It was Mr. Logan! I nearly gasped. Mr. Logan simply gave me one of his typical grins as he handed me his suit coat and slid into the seat by the window.
“Now you be nice to him, you hear,” Bill Farnsworth whispered into my ear. “He represents one of our biggest investment groups. We want to keep him happy.”
So what else could go wrong? I wondered with a silent groan. I had been changed into a woman, forced to work at a job I didn’t want, and now, I was going to have to smile and be nice to the being that had caused it all to happen. I was not having a good day.
Actually, the flight went better than I had thought it would. Although we were pretty full, most of the First Class passengers were happy with a nice snack and a couple of drinks. The snack turned out to be a fruit and cold meat plate, easy to serve and no preparation time. Most of the First Class cabin had settled down to read or nap, so I didn’t have too many drinks to get.
Of course, Bill Farnsworth and Mr. Logan were the exceptions to the rule. How they could put away so many drinks was beyond me. It seemed to have no affect at all on them. To make matters worse, they almost seemed to be playing a little game where I would have to deliver something to Mr. Logan by bending over Bill Farnsworth. The result was a stimulating shift of my breasts that both of them seemed to enjoy immensely. I felt like a medieval serving wench being ogled by lusty knights. I wanted to crawl into a deep hole and die.
So it was with a sigh of relief that I handed the two of them their coats as we deplaned in San Francisco. Bill Farnsworth rewarded me with a smile and Mr. Logan commented, “Well, Holly, you did an excellent job today.”
“She was good, wasn’t she?” Bill Farnsworth said with a proud grin. “Honey, maybe you ought to have dinner with us tonight.”
What was I supposed to say to that? It was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. I wanted to get out of this revealing uniform and hide in bed with a pillow over my head until I stopped breathing. To my surprise, it was Mr. Logan who pulled me out of the soup.
“Bill, we’re going to be tied up with the Boeing rep tonight, remember?” he said.
“Damn!” Bill muttered. “I forgot all about that. Well, sorry, honey, I guess I’ll just have to give you a rain check.”
I gave him the best smile I could, hoping that it would rain so long he’d have to build an ark.
Rick and Stan were busy making plans for the evening as we all shared a van to our hotel. God, how I envied them! They had the poise and the confidence that came with being aviators. They’d go find a bar someplace, and although they couldn’t drink alcohol, they’d have a great time and probably end up in the sack with some local sweetheart. As for the girls, we had been on our feet for hours, rushing back and forth up and down the aisles every time we heard the chime of the flight attendant call button. We were pooped. All I wanted now was to soak my sore feet in hot water.
“You girls want to join us?” Rick asked.
Oh sure, join them. That would solve their problem–they wouldn’t have to look for girls because they’d have us. Mindy had been known to go for the right guy, but apparently neither Rick or Stan met her standards. “Sorry, guys,” she said. “Not tonight.”
“And I’m visiting relatives,” Marge added.
All eyes turned to me. “Uh... thanks, guys, but I’m too tired.”
No one insisted. Thank god neither Rick or Stan were as insistent as, say Doc Vincent–or Robert O’Brien for that matter. They both shrugged and went back to making their plans for the evening.
“Hey,” Mindy suggested, “why don’t you and I go out and get something to eat? I know a great little seafood place that’s just five minutes from here.”
“I’m really tired,” I said, trying to beg off. I was also frustrated, embarrassed, and a mental vegetable. I had wiggled my new ass in public quite enough for one day.
“Oh come on,” she insisted, squeezing my arm, “you have to eat. We can change and go over there and be back before eight. What do you say?”
She was right. I had to eat. And I didn’t want to eat alone. I’ve always hated room service, and at any restaurant I went to alone, I would be an inviting morsel for some young buck eager for female companionship. I would probably watch my food get cold while I fought off guys. At least with Mindy there, I had a little protection in numbers. “Okay,” I agreed. “Make it in an hour.”
“Great!” she said with a smile. “Oh, wear a skirt. It’s a nice place.”
“Okay.” I had worn one all day. A couple more hours displaying my legs wouldn’t kill me.
So the blouse and skirt I had packed came in handy. Okay, I knew I looked good in a uniform, and I tried to forget how I had looked in the nightie, but this was the first time I had dressed myself in ‘civvies.’ I was on my own this time. I had to pick an outfit from scratch for the first time. I think looking at myself in the mirror then, in my blouse and skirt with all the right jewelry, including earrings, and the right makeup, I felt almost normal for the first time since my transformation.
I mean, I wasn’t being forced to go out to dinner with Mindy. It was a personal choice. I could have just stayed in my room, or gotten out of my heels and slipped on a pair of jeans, but I had chosen to go out to eat as a well-dressed young woman. It was something of an emotional triumph over the fear and embarrassment I had felt as I had gotten ready for work. Maybe I could make it through this ordeal after all.
I still hadn’t given up trying to get back to my normal male self. At that point in time, I didn’t think I ever would give up. I didn’t want to be a woman. There had to be some way back to masculinity. But I was realistic enough to realize that whatever opportunity to return to normal the future might hold, for now I was stuck like this. By accepting Mindy’s invitation, I had made the decision to live as normally as I could. And if that meant dressing and acting like the woman I had become, so be it. I was physically and mentally ready to meet Mindy and go out into the world as a woman.
The restaurant Mindy had selected was excellent. We got there early enough to be seated at once. That was fine with me. The dining room was softly lit and the tables grouped intimately, so I felt less... exposed than I would have if we had been forced to wait in the lobby for a table.
While the restaurant was fairly formal in décor, the wait staff was fairly casual in manner. The waiter was about our age (or rather the age I had recently become). He was friendly and attentive, and at first, I thought he was hitting on Mindy. Then, I realized he was treating me the same way. Well, it figured. If I had been my old male self, he would have been a bit more laid back, assuming Mindy to be my girlfriend or wife. Now though, all he saw were two attractive–and unattached–young women, so why not hit on them? I wasn’t as disturbed by that as I was by the fact that I actually found myself enjoying it just a bit. What the hell was happening to me anyway?
“Hey look, we finished up early,” Mindy said as the last of the dishes were cleared away. “What say we have a nightcap before we head back to the hotel?”
“I don’t know...” I began. I was almost uncomfortably full. I had eaten far less than I would have normally, but my new system didn’t seem to want much food. I had also managed one glass of wine and actually felt a little buzz from it, so I was reluctant to drink more.
“Oh, come on,” she said, her hand on top of mine. “This has been fun. I’d like to talk some more.”
Actually, I wanted to talk some more, too. I was learning a lot from Mindy about the female perspective. Mr. Logan had given me the ability to dress like a woman, but I needed to know more about how to act like a woman. With our innocent conversation about everything imaginable, I was learning a lot about how women think. “Okay,” I agreed, “but just one.” I had to admit, after years of travelling as a pilot and being unable to drink before flying the next day, it was something of a treat to be able to have a drink. So we adjourned to the bar.
“Look at him,” Mindy said with a nod.
I took a sip of my amaretto and glanced as casually as I could in the direction she was indicating. We had been discussing men. It was a subject I thought I knew well until I began discussing them with her. Of course, she had no idea that until that day, I had been a man all my life. I had always thought it was my powers of persuasion and my rugged good looks that had steered women into my bed. Not so, according to Mindy. According to her, what had probably impressed women was my self-confidence. It had made women think I was someone they could be secure with. Secure? Was that what women really wanted? Apparently it was what Mindy wanted.
“You know who I really wanted to know better?” she had said wistfully.
“No, who?”
“Bob O’Brien.”
It took all the willpower I could muster not to choke on my drink. “Why him?” I asked slowly.
She tossed her blonde hair back with a flick of her head. “Oh, I don’t know. He always seemed confident enough but...”
I leaned forward. “But what?”
She sighed, “He always seemed a little sad.”
“Sad?”
“Yeah,” she confirmed. “Oh, I know, he had a reputation of being quite a swinger, but I don’t think he really enjoyed it that much. I heard he was divorced. I think he was a little lonely.”
Oh, honey, you didn’t know him very well, I thought to myself. He enjoyed himself a lot. But I had to admit there was a tiny element of truth to what she said. I had been starting to show my age, and I know more than one young flight attendant thought I was just a dirty old man. The hair was getting ready to turn all gray, the paunch was a little bigger than it had been, and when I played tennis with one of the young women, I had to play a lot harder than I had a few years before. It was funny, but I hadn’t really realized all of that until just that moment. Could it be that my eyes had told a story that my mind had yet to understand? It was an unsettling thought. But back to the guy she drew my attention to. When I looked at him, at first I just saw a guy. Then suddenly, he looked back at me. I tried to turn away before he noticed my gaze, but I wasn’t quick enough. He grinned at me. I felt my face flush.
“Why did you look away?” Mindy asked.
“He... he saw me looking!” I blurted.
“So? I knew he was looking at you,” she laughed. “He’s been looking at you ever since we sat here. And he’s a hunk!”
A hunk? Well, he was nice looking... I meant for a guy. He was about the height I used to be, well built without being muscle-bound. He had dark hair and what in the dim light of the bar looked like blue eyes. He had on a sport coat with a polo shirt underneath. And come to think of it, I had remembered all of that from just a glance at him. What was happening to me?
“He’s coming over!” she whispered with excitement.
I felt the sudden urge to go hide under a rock again. The last thing in the world I wanted my first evening as a woman, was to be picked up by a man in a bar.
“Hi, are you two waiting for anyone?” ‘Not the most original line in the world,’ I thought critically, but I had used it myself, and as often as not, it would get the job done.
“No,” Mindy said with a pleasant smile. “I’m Mindy Charles and this is Holly Webster. Would you like to sit down?”
Now I had heard Mindy prattle on for most of the evening about a guy she was dating–exclusively–back in New York. I knew the charm she was turning on was because she wanted to be a matchmaker. I had told her I didn’t have a boyfriend and really hadn’t had much experience with guys. Well, it was true, at least from the female point of view. So now here she was, trying to line me up with a ‘hunk.’ I’d get her for this.
“Hi, David Bradley,” he said, wasting no time in offering me his hand. Reluctantly, I shook it and did my best to smile. It felt odd to feel a strong masculine hand wrap around my smaller, daintier one. Although his handshake was gentle, I felt very vulnerable in that moment.
While David and I sat there, silently trying to think of something to overcome the uneasy silence, Mindy looked at her watch and announced, “Oh, look at the time! It’s already late in New York, and I promised to call my boyfriend. Can you get back to the hotel okay?”
She was about as obvious as a bloody meat axe. Sure, she had planned to call her boyfriend, but she was looking for an excuse to leave me with that guy. I glared at her, but she took no notice.
“Don’t worry,” David said, picking up quickly on his cue, “I’ll get Holly back to the hotel.”
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘but not until after he had made a serious attempt at me. Well, fine. Let it happen,’ I thought. I could handle myself. I mean, sure he was nice looking–for a guy–but I had no interest in guys. I might be female, but I was going to be a celibate female. Just call me the Flying Nun.
“So,” he began when Mandy had left, “where are you from?”
And so it began, the innocuous small talk upon which most relationships, good and bad, begin. The details of the evening are thankfully blurred in my mind. David–“just call me Dave”–was a nice guy. He was polite, gregarious, and understood that no meant no. If I had been born female, I would have probably enjoyed the evening. Dave was a real Boy Scout, and a good-looking one at that.
I think that was what bothered me most of all. As we sat there, talking about everything inconsequential we could think of, I found myself intrigued by his appearance. His features were rugged without being harsh. His smile was warm without looking like the confident leer so many men affect. His eyes were a deep blue that I found myself somehow attached to. In short, I was physically attracted to him.
Was that the way it was going to be? Were the magical changes made to my body severe enough that my very way of experiencing sexual attraction would change? I could now look at someone like Mindy and not see a potential conquest. I could acknowledge that she was indeed, attractive, but it was not an attractiveness that caused a stirring anywhere in my body. Conversely, as careful as I was to avoid being drawn to Dave, I would find myself wondering what it would be like to...
“I know a great place for dancing,” Dave ventured. “Would you like to try it?”
Would I? A part of me was curious. But I held firm. I shook my head. “Sorry, I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.” It was true, and it did make a wonderful excuse.
The disappointment in his eyes was clear, but gentleman to the last, he just said, “Oh.” Then a little brighter, “Then I’d better get you back to your hotel.”
And there was no funny stuff on the drive to the hotel. I found myself wondering if he really didn’t like me. Worse yet, I found it worried me a little to think that might be the case.
“Thanks Dave,” I said in as friendly a tone as I could manage as he stopped the car at the entrance to my hotel. “It was fun,” I lied with effort.
Brightening, he reached in his pocket and produced a business card which he pressed in my hand. “Look, I’d like the chance to show you around San Francisco. Maybe next time you’re in town, we can get together.”
Impulsively, I gave him a little kiss on the cheek. Although I don’t think I was really attracted to him, I had been a woman just long enough to realize that chivalry needed to be rewarded. “Good night, Dave,” I said, hoping he didn’t notice that I hadn’t said I would call him. I had no intention of ever calling him again.
“So what are you doing back here so early?” Mindy demanded as I stepped in our room. She was all ready for bed, face in some horrid green mudpack and an old pair of flannel pajamas on. I hoped her boyfriend had never seen her like that. It was enough to scare off the Frankenstein monster.
“We have an early flight, remember?”
“You let a gorgeous guy like that go?”
“He gave me his card,” I retorted, showing her.
“Let me see!” she said, jumping up and grabbing the card. “Oh, Holly, you little fool!” she exclaimed.
“What now?” I sighed, pulling off my blouse.
“He’s a doctor! Looks and brains! What on earth was wrong with him? Was he gay?”
“He seemed quite happy,” I jibed, pulling off my bra and feeling relief among my back muscles which had been doing their best to hold up my breasts all day.
“Very funny,” she sneered. “I give you George Clooney and you give me Groucho Marx.”
“He was very nice,” I told her honestly as I slipped on my pajamas. “I’m just not ready for a relationship.” ‘That sounded appropriate,’ I thought, and it was certainly true.
“Well,” she groaned, “you can lead a horse to water...”
“Thanks anyway,” I told her. “I appreciate the thought.” I did, too. But I swore to myself that if Mindy ever tried to line me up with a guy again, I’d kill her in cold blood.
Compared to my first day as a woman, the second seemed almost normal. At least there was no Mr. Logan to gloat over my transformation. It was an early morning flight to Newark, and not a particularly popular one. We were only about half-full. Marge had me in the back of the bus, and after we had dished out a light breakfast and some drinks, I even got a little time off my feet, for which I was grateful. My feet still ached from yesterday’s flight. I’d have to remember to bring a pair of flats along next time or I’d need a walker within a week.
Next time.
I guess that meant I expected there to be a next time. No, I hadn’t given up so quickly on getting my real life back, but until an opportunity presented itself, I knew I would have to live out the life of Holly Webster and all that would mean.
In some ways, it was like my first days as a plebe at the Air Force Academy. There I had been a brash young high school hero–good at sports and school and a hit with the girls. I had shown up with longish hair and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and Docker pants. Then suddenly, my hair was shaved practically to the scalp, I was wearing fatigues, and it seemed as if everyone was yelling at me. But I adapted. I became Cadet Fourth Classman Robert H. O’Brien, aspiring candidate for an Air Force commission, and Bob O’Brien, high school hero faded into the background.
That was the way it was for me all over again, only this time, Bob O’Brien would have to make way for Holly Webster, Atlantic Air Express flight attendant. Bob O’Brien had survived Cadet Robert O’Brien, and he would survive Holly Webster–no matter how long it took.
But as resolute as I might be, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. To be Holly Webster, I would have to be on stage all the time. I would have to learn to think like a woman or I’d go mad. And at the same time, I would have to try to find some reason for Mr. Logan to change me back. That would be difficult since I had no idea why he had done this to me in the first place.
I looked at the flight schedule in my purse. I wouldn’t even have a day to recover. I was due to fly to and from Cleveland and then to and from Chicago on Monday. Then, I flew to Atlanta on Tuesday–twice. The rest of the week looked about the same. Then I had Friday and Saturday off before starting all over again. As a pilot, I had enjoyed more time off. It seemed as if flight attendants weren’t given schedules as easy as pilots. It also seemed I wouldn’t have a crack at Mr. Logan before Friday, assuming he kept regular office hours.
I’d check to see if he was back yet as soon as I got home, but if he wasn’t, no big loss. That would just give me more time to soak my aching feet.
Luk had a terrible headache. He had been proud when Mr. L appointed him acting manager for the weekend. Then he found out that being acting manager was hardly a reward. While many of the human tenants had been radically changed by one god or another, they were still New York tenants, and the demands they put on him were almost too much to bear.
But that was nothing compared to what went on all weekend on the floor occupied by the various gods. Although the seventh floor was the only one occupied by immortals, it was much larger than the human floors, stretching out in multiple dimensions almost as far as Luk could see.
The trouble started Friday night when Mr. Gorham and Mr. Orkin got into it. They lived across the hall from each other on seven, and they hated each other. As Horace explained, Mr. Gorham was an African god of thunder named Gor, and Mr. Orkin was the Basque god of thunderstorms, known as Orko. To prove their individual claim to exclusive power over thunder, each had made loud rumblings that reverberated all along the seventh floor. Needless to say, the other residents complained.
No sooner had he gotten that under control with help from Horace’s security staff when O’Hara, the wizened little leprechaun who ran a shoe shop across the square claimed that one of the tenants on four had tried to follow him home “to steal me life savings, he was!” He had promptly changed the suspected felon into a fifteen-year-old female and required him to be the girlfriend of an entire street gang. Luk had managed to get her back–again with help from Horace–and get the leprechaun to change her back, forgetting her brief time with the gang. It had taken all of Luk’s persuasive abilities with his broken English to remind the leprechaun that all transformations had to be personally approved by Mr. L. He reminded O’Hara that strictly speaking, he wasn’t a god at all, and his continued residence depended upon his following the rules. O’Hara wasn’t happy, but he had complied.
The whole weekend had been like that, and now, all he could think of was that in one more day, Mr. L. would be back. He was about to crawl back into the office when he heard the click of high heels as the front door opened. He groaned inwardly. It was that pilot who had been changed into a woman. He expected the new woman to badger him. He wasn’t disappointed.
There was a different security guard at the desk when I entered Deety Arms. I was starting to think Horace was the only security guard in the building. I didn’t need to talk to security though. Lucky was standing there, out of his coveralls and actually wearing a tie. It looked like those cheap ones you see displayed by street vendors over on Fifth Avenue with the garish patterns on shiny rayon.
“So did you get a promotion, Lucky?” I asked, panting a little. My wheeled suitcase had been hard to get up the few steps at the entrance. It was another reminder of how much weaker this feminine body was.
“I weekend manager,” he said proudly. “Mr. L, he trust me.”
“Right,” I agreed. It just went to prove not all gods had high intelligence. Nobody wanted to be weekend manager in an apartment building. It was like being under fire without benefit of combat pay. “So when does Mr. L get back?”
“Tomorrow,” Lucky said, shifting uncomfortably. “But he no help you. You stuck like that for good.”
I winced. I suspected he was right. “Just tell me one thing, Lucky. Why did he do this to me?”
Lucky looked at me as if I were some new kind of idiot. “Why? Because he can.”
I was still thinking about that answer the next day as I flew to Cleveland. Because he can. That didn’t bode well for any chance of getting back to my previous life. It implied that Mr. Logan–or whatever his real name was–was arbitrary and capricious. I had suspected it, but Lucky’s statement seemed to confirm it.
Well, he could have done worse to me, I realized. I supposed there was nothing to stop him from turning me into a streetwalker or a stripper or some big fat chick or god–no, the gods–knew what. I missed being a pilot. It was almost painful to be so close to the flight deck and yet be little more than a passenger. Still, I was around the industry I loved, even if my role in it had changed.
I was also finding there was more to some of the flight attendants than I had realized before. Dana Witherspoon was one of the attendants on my Cleveland flight. I had nearly cringed when I had first seen her that morning. I had bedded her shortly after she went on flight status, and I had an irrational fear that she would somehow recognize me in my new identity. Of course, she didn’t. What I hadn’t realized about her was that she was a great baseball fan. She loved the Yankees almost as much as I did. But I had been so intent to get her into the sack that I hadn’t realized she was a fan.
Like a lot of guys, I had always considered women to be a distinctly separate species. I had never understood my wife in my short time I had been married. And if I were completely honest with myself, I had never really bothered to understand any woman since then. Now I was one of them. They talked to me as if I were just one of the girls. For probably the first time in my life, I was starting to understand how interesting women could be. And now it was too late for me to appreciate it.
Well, that wasn’t true. I did appreciate it. I was relieved to find out that there was more to being a woman than I had suspected. They–we–were more emotional. I had already detected a more emotional side to my nature than I had experienced as a man. And there was some thing about children. I began to notice them and be moved by how they held their mother’s hand or snuggled up against her warm breast. I had never noticed these things before.
Did it mean I was beginning to think like a woman? Probably. How could I avoid it? I dressed like one, acted like one, sounded like one, and I was treated like one. It was only natural that I would start to think like one. But I didn’t want to think like a woman.
I flew back to Newark and rushed down the concourse to catch my next flight for Chicago. I’d be in Chicago by three, have a two hour layover, then catch another flight back to Newark. That would get me in late, but I would have a couple of days off. Maybe then I could forget some of these women’s thoughts. I planned to wear nothing but jeans and T-shirts for two days. No makeup, no pantyhose, no skirts, no heels, no earrings–nothing. I might have heavy breasts and wide hips to contend with, but at least I’d be dressed like a human being again. And I’d watch nothing but macho action flicks on TV. I’d drink beer and watch sports. I might even smoke a cigar. Screw this woman crap. Even if I couldn’t talk Mr. Logan into changing me back, I refused to start thinking like one.
Then, I looked at another mother with her baby and I had to smile. Again, I felt a woman’s need to nurture. I felt soft and vulnerable.
It was like that all day. It was as if there was a war going on inside me. For every masculine thought and impulse, there seemed to be a female counterpart which demanded consideration. I would serve a beer, savoring the aroma as I poured it, my taste buds activated by masculine desire. Then, I would serve it to some corpulent businessman and be disgusted as he slurped it. No way was I going to drink something like that and have it go to fat.
Then I’d look at a beautiful woman and think back to my masculine days. If I had been my old self, the first thing I would check would be to see if she was wearing a wedding ring. Not now though. Now, I found myself looking at her dangling gold earrings and wondering where she bought them and how they would look on me.
In Chicago, the last of the passengers gone, I had nothing to do for about an hour. That was when my plane back to Newark was due to arrive. I turned down an offer from the other flight attendants who would be flying back to Newark with me. They were going over to the Hilton for a quick dinner. I had planned to wander around O’Hare for a little while. I wasn’t very hungry anyway.
I stopped though before leaving the gate at the sight of a familiar face. It was Jennifer Higgins. I wanted to go pound on her forever telling me about Deety Arms. ‘But she wouldn’t know me,’ I thought. After all, when she saw me last, I was a different person.
But I was wrong.
“Hello Bob, or I suppose I should say Holly,” she said with a hint of a smile. She was uneasy, I could tell, but how did she know who I was?
“Jennifer, how...?”
“How did I know who you were?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Well, Horace owed me a favor,” she explained. “I asked him to let me know when you’d be in Chicago. Since the gang at Deety Arms knew your whole schedule, it wasn’t as if it was secret information.”
“But why do they care about my schedule?” I wanted to know.
She looked around to see if anyone was watching us. “Look, let’s go back to my office. We can get a cup of coffee and talk privately there.”
Jennifer had done all right for herself. She now worked for the Airport Authority as Assistant Director of Passenger Relations. It rated her a small but comfortable office in the honeycomb of administrative areas that the public rarely sees. She looked at ease in her tan suit, white blouse and heels. Although not quite as revealing as the uniform I wore, her outfit was very feminine and downright sexy. I tried to chase off the speculation of how I would look in it.
“Okay Holly,” Jennifer began when we were seated and had our coffee, “we can talk freely now.”
“You did this to me,” I accused. My anger had been building since the moment I saw her.
“You did it to yourself,” she returned without vehemence. “I tried to discourage you from taking my apartment. I was after Doc Vincent.”
“What?”
“Don’t you remember?” she asked. “Doc was at my party, but he left before I could get to him. He would have jumped at my place.”
As I had, I thought.
“But he left just as you were arriving.”
“So I was your secondary target,” I surmised.
“Holly, that’s why I wanted to talk to you,” she said. “I wanted to explain what happened and why. But to do that, I need to start at the beginning.”
“I’m listening,” I said, sipping my coffee. I would have liked to fold my arms over my chest to show my scepticism, but I knew I’d just be reminded of the size of my breasts.
“Do you remember Phil Martin?”
It wasn’t a question I had anticipated, but I did remember him. He had been a hotshot pilot with Atlantic Air until a couple of years ago. Then, he had moved on. We hadn’t been exactly friends, but we knew each other. “I remember him,” I replied. “Isn’t he flying for some Asian airline now?”
“That’s the official story,” she admitted, “but it isn’t true, any more than the story of Robert O’Brien’s resignation is true.”
I looked at Jennifer carefully. I knew where this was leading, but it couldn’t be! Phil had been a tall, lanky guy–blonde with a receding hairline. He had inherited quite a bit of money from his parent’s estate and used it to live an enviable bachelor’s lifestyle. The only reason he kept flying was that he enjoyed it so much. I tried to imagine Phil Martin repackaged as Jennifer Higgins with her red hair and feminine bearing. It was hard to do. Jennifer was all girl and had been ever since I had first met her.
She smiled at my distress. “That’s right, I am–or was–Phil Martin. Then, two years ago, I spent the night with a girl in her apartment. That apartment was in Deety Arms. She was a real girl, by the way, but one that I had insulted at a party about a month earlier. Of course, this girl didn’t look like the girl I had insulted. They had changed her into a girl I couldn’t resist.
“The morning after, I woke up like you see me now. I was Jennifer Higgins. There was no sign of the girl from the night before. I never saw her again, but she had left me a letter telling me she had plotted with Mr. Logan and his staff to do this to me–to get even for the way I had treated her.”
“So you’re like me,” I said softly.
She nodded. “Yes, I’m like you. I had a tough time with it at first, just like you probably are now. But after a few days, it just started to seem normal. Logan and his crowd seemed to lose interest in me. Then, after it seemed normal, it started to feel... right. Eventually, I met Jack–my fiancé–and you know the rest. I quit and moved here.”
“But why me?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going to happen?”
To my surprise, she laughed. “Oh, come on now, Holly. If I had told you that you shouldn’t try to get my apartment because a bunch of ancient gods might turn you into a woman if you did, do you think you would have believed me?”
“Okay, good point,” I conceded. She was right. There was no way in the world I would have believed her. I might have thought she was as crazy as a loon, but it wouldn’t have stopped me from going after her apartment.
“I did lie to you about one thing though. My lease had six months to go,” she admitted. “I just told you it was up to discourage you from looking at the place. You have to admit, I did everything I could to talk you out of the place.”
Well, when she was right, she was right. “Okay, so tell me something Mr. Logan and his friends didn’t tell me. Why are they doing this? Do you have any idea?”
“I think so,” she said slowly, “although you’ll never get them to admit it. I think they’re bored and maybe envious of us.”
“Envious?” I repeated, nearly laughing as I said it.
Jennifer nodded slightly. “Look Holly, put yourself in their place. Take Mr. Logan for example. Horace and the others call him ‘Mr. L.’ So I got curious once I found out they were gods. I found a reference to a god in the Middle East far before Christianity. He was called El, and he was powerful beyond all imagining. He headed a council of gods that included an early version of our own god. Then, there’s Horace. I don’t know for sure, but there was an Egyptian god centuries ago named Horus. He was the son of Osirus and Isis. Horace told me once he grew up around the Mediterranean.”
“Now wait a minute,” I interrupted, “I’ve never heard of El, but I have heard of Horus. I took a class in comparative mythology back at the Academy. We’re talking about powerful gods here. What would they be doing running a little apartment building in New York?”
Jennifer sighed and shook her head. “They are still powerful. As nearly as I can tell, they run an investment empire out of that building that is absolutely huge. You can hear sounds around Mr. Logan’s office–sounds like you would hear in a busy broker’s office–but there’s no one there.”
I knew. I had heard them myself and just assumed they were coming from someplace next door.
“The problem,” she went on, “is that no one worships them anymore. So for all the wealth that they’ve been able to accumulate, they’re bored. It probably comes with immortality. The only thing they find interesting is us.”
“Us?”
She smiled. “That’s right. We’re like some sort of huge ant farm to them. Remember when you were a kid? You’d put a stick in front of an ant just to confuse him. Then you’d watch him scurry around until he got past the stick. You’d lose interest in him when he got back on the right path.”
“So what does that have to do with our situation?” I asked.
“Think about it Holly,” she pressed. “This sex change is the stick they’ve put in front of an ant–you. They’ll watch you run around, confused and embarrassed, until you aren’t interesting anymore. They know what flights you’re on. I would imagine there are one or two of them on every flight. You won’t recognize them, but they’ll be there. You’re the entertainment that makes their immortality just a little less tedious.”
“So you’re saying they lose interest when I’m not confused and embarrassed,” I surmised. “That means they lose interest when I start to consider myself normal.”
She nodded again. “Pretty much. I got pretty good at recognizing them. You can tell after a while. It might be a man or woman that looks at you just a few seconds too long, or a child that looks up at you with the eyes of an adult, or a clerk that takes just a little too much interest in what you’re buying. You’ll see what I mean eventually. Then, one day, you’ll start to think of yourself as Holly Webster instead of the former Bob O’Brien. You’ll be too normal for them, and they’ll move on to find some other victim.”
“So if I suddenly start going to bed with guys, they’ll leave me alone?” I asked. “That seems like too high a price to pay.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said with a wicked grin. “But seriously, you don’t have to go to bed with a guy to get rid of them. They might even find that interesting. I think they see something inside us, and that’s what they look at. Going to bed with a guy is just part of it.” She looked at her watch. “I’d better get you back to the concourse. You’re due back to work in about ten minutes.”
“Okay,” I agreed, rising, “but one more question. If I’m interesting to them as Holly, they won’t change me back, right?”
“Right.”
“But if I start to think of this as my normal life, they still won’t change me back, will they?”
She gave me a sympathetic look. “Oh Holly, I’d like to tell you there was a way back to your old life, but I don’t think there is. They had a reason to change you into Holly–it was entertaining. But there’s no reason to change you back.”
“Then I’m stuck,” I muttered, feeling unwanted tears well up in my eyes.
“Give it a fair trial,” Jennifer urged. “I was as male as they come, but I wouldn’t change back now for anything.”
I gave a small smile I didn’t really feel. “Okay. I’ll try.” I supposed I really didn’t have much of a choice.
Jennifer even gave me a sisterly hug as she left me on the concourse. I found myself returning it. While I had been very angry with her at first, I began to realize that she was right. I had pushed her for information about her apartment. I had nobody to blame but myself. And she had even called in a favor from one of those gods just to get information about me. I left her feeling I had a friend. We even promised to keep in touch, and I promised to attend her wedding if I could the following month.
The flight back to Newark was mostly full, but the duties of my job were becoming rote to me now. As I poured drinks and handed out snacks, I had time to think about what Jennifer had told me. First, there was the matter of my being under observation. I hated to be paranoid, but if she was right, did that mean I was being observed even now? I looked at the passengers, giving them a warm if unfelt smile as I served them their drinks. Was it the little boy in 22A who acted too mature for his age? Was he one of the ancient gods? Or how about the elderly couple back in 27B and 27C? They seemed to communicate without speaking a word. Whoever my observers were, I apparently had only one defense against them. I had to become the person they had changed me into.
But was being left alone by the gods worth the price? It would mean I would have to become Holly Webster in thought and deed. I would have to be a young single woman in Manhattan in every observable way. I would have to shop at Bloomingdale’s and enjoy it. I would have to laugh and cry at Sandra Bullock movies and stay away from Van Damme films because they were too violent. I would have to notice babies in the park and smile at them and talk to their mothers. I would have to notice men...
I grimly realized that my sexual orientation would give me away no matter what else I did. That was going to be a problem. Now, to be completely honest, I had to admit I was curious. It was easy to ignore what was–or wasn’t–between my legs most of the time. Sure, I could cross my legs tightly now since there was no obstruction there. And I now had to wipe after peeing–that was an odd sensation. But I had resisted the temptation to play with myself. Even as a guy, I had tried to keep masturbation to a minimum, mostly by finding a female partner to make it unnecessary. As a woman though, I had been reluctant to try it. It was almost as if I feared that it would mean I could no longer change back.
The problem was still preying on me as I got back to my apartment. Part of me wanted to experiment, to see what it was like. The other part of me wanted to resist as long as possible. ‘But why?’ I asked myself. I was never going to be Robert O’Brien again. There was nothing I could say or do that would cause Mr. Logan and his staff to change me back. If I continued asking, they would just derive additional pleasure from my discomfort.
Maybe I could be a lesbian. I opened a copy of the New York Times I had purchased at the airport and looked at the lingerie ads. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be with one of the models. Nothing seemed to be happening. All I could think about was the fact that I now wore garments very similar to theirs. So okay, I found women attractive, but not sexually attractive.
But maybe I needed something more than just a newspaper picture. Then I remembered how Jennifer and I had embraced. There we were, hugging each other closely, our breasts pressed against each other so directly... No, there had been nothing sexual about that. Now if I had been my old self, I would have been as hard as a rock with an embrace like that. I tried to picture Jennifer naked. I could do it, but nothing about the picture aroused me.
So okay, it was time to view things from the other perspective. With a deep breath, I looked at the male underwear ads. To my relief, I couldn’t really say I was stimulated by the view. On the other hand, the pictures were not all that bad either. I began to appreciate the contours of their bodies, the ruggedness of their faces, and the power in their limbs. I began to wonder what it might be like to...
But no, I wasn’t attracted to them. I mean, I wasn’t repelled by the thought of... of... I just didn’t want to think about it. Not now. Not yet.
“But when?” a little voice seemed to ask. I threw the paper down in response.
I would swear that I heard a chuckle from the windowsill. I turned and looked out into the night. There was nothing there. Could they be observing me even in my own apartment? I thought of the old Sharon Stone movie, Sliver, where she was being observed in her own apartment. Well, I wasn’t going to give them a show. I shut myself in the bathroom and got ready for bed. ‘No experimentation for me,’ I thought, ‘nor for my unseen audience, if there was one.’
But I dreamed. Oh, did I dream. Impulsively, I had put on a baby-doll nightie when I went to bed. I had awakened as a woman in one, but I was curious what it was like to sleep in one. It was probably a mistake. It seemed to heighten the sexual tension even further to have the soft, silky fabric caressing my body. Maybe I had worked myself up a little after all. Now, I stood in a dreamscape in that nightie. Just out of focus, a number of shapes appeared–human shapes. Some were female, and those I looked at with curiosity but nothing else. Others were male, and it was the male figures who seemed to intrigue me. There was one in particular. He was tall, well built, and I imagined on him a handsome face, although I was unable to see it clearly. He walked toward me and I walked toward him. But suddenly, I could get no closer to him. He was just out of reach. I put out my hand to touch him, but he seemed to float away.
I don’t know how long the dream went on, but it seemed like a long time. I would reach out to him and he would move away from me. I was becoming increasingly frustrated and increasingly... something else too. It was as if there was something between my legs and at my breasts–a feeling of longing.
Then I awakened. I knew something had changed. There was a dampness between my legs. Half-asleep, I reached for it. As my fingers touched my mound, I began to feel a satisfaction I had never imagined. It was almost like a hunger that is suddenly sated or a thirst that is slaked. I was too groggy to know how long I did it, but suddenly, I seemed to erupt in a wave of pure sensation. I was now awake enough to know I had brought myself to orgasm. As the sensation began to ebb, I was sure I could hear the sounds of some inhuman voices snickering outside my window.
“Up yours,” I mumbled to them dreamily as I fell back to sleep.
It’s difficult to say when it happened. Nothing so important could have happened to me in a minute or an hour. But hours turned into days and days became weeks without my noticing. When you fly for a living, time has less meaning. You may find yourself in half a dozen cities in multiple time zones over the course of a day. You might awaken to the cool crisp mornings of Denver and be sweltering under an Arizona sky by evening, with noon under the muggy skies of Newark. Your working day might be as short as a quick hop to Pittsburgh and back or as long as a flight to the West Coast and back, followed by a trip to Florida. Weekends have no meaning. They are just other days when you find yourself flying. Your weekend might be a day toward the first of the week–say Monday–or it might be four days long. The flight schedule dictates your life.
I became truly comfortable with my job in a couple of weeks. I knew where everything was, I knew what to expect, and I was prepared for nearly everything. I began to recognize some of the flight attendants that I had flown with before as one of them. Rather than rating them like I had as a pilot by how easy they were to get into bed, I began to rate them by how well they took care of their passengers. We talked girl talk most of the time, and although I found much of it dull, it was sometimes interesting. A couple of the flight attendants I found to be baseball fans as I was. We even managed to take in a game or two when we could–especially when we could see the Yankees on the road. It even began to seem normal there in a baseball stadium wearing a tank top and cutoffs, my hair in a loose ponytail, squealing with the other girls when the Yankees scored a run.
There were rough spots as well. My third week was a busy one, so of course, that was the week I had my first period. The thought of blood flowing naturally from my body was at first repugnant, but by the third day, it was just one more thing to be endured. At least I had experienced little pain or nausea. I managed though, with the help of the other flight attendants. I found out they all looked out for each other. That extended to warnings about the pilots, too.
“Oh god!” Susan Dexter, the senior flight attendant on my morning flight to Atlanta groaned.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. We were the first two of the crew at the gate in Newark, and Susan had busied herself looking at the flight information.
“We drew Doc Vincent this morning,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
Of course I knew Doc, and knew him well. Since we were both captains, we never actually flew together, but I knew him. We would sometimes be in pilot meetings together, and other times, we would overnight in the same city. We had partied together on those overnights, trolling for local girls. Doc and I both seemed to score fairly often, but with me, it was always just a bonus when the girl would go to bed with me. If she didn’t, well, it was her loss as well as mine. With Doc though, it was as if scoring was the most important thing in the world. If the girl he picked up wasn’t in bed with him in a couple of hours, it was as if she had personally insulted him. He was miffed from then on. More than one flight attendant had spent future flights in tears after refusing Doc–or so I had heard.
I was curious about Doc from a woman’s perspective now. I had heard his name mentioned since my transformation, and never favorably. But that had just been in passing. I was about to see Doc in action. I knew without question that Doc would zero in on me. Susan was engaged and made sure all the pilots knew it, and Paige, our other flight attendant was black. Doc wasn’t too crazy about black girls. He wasn’t openly prejudiced, but he just didn’t seem attracted to them. I understood he grew up in a small town in southern Ohio. Sometimes, little towns in the North were more prejudiced than the Southern towns across the Ohio River, or so I’ve been told.
“Who is Doc Vincent?” I asked as innocently as I could.
Susan looked at me with something approaching pity in her eyes. “Doc is bad news,” she told me. “He makes a play for every girl he can, and you’re just his type.”
I felt a little bit like a gazelle being told there were lions about. I was getting used to stares from men, and a few had even tried to pick me up, and I had held my own, but something told me Doc was going to be a problem.
“Look, Holly,” Susan said seriously, “Doc is nice-looking and he seems friendly enough, but he’s got a mean streak. Do you remember Janice Walters?”
I nodded. Well before my transformation–in fact over a year before–Janice had been every male pilot’s dream girl. Blonde, leggy and a rack that was enough to make a grown man cry, there wasn’t a heterosexual man alive who wouldn’t have given a month’s pay for one single night in her bed. Only one pilot had succeeded, and no, it wasn’t me. Doc Vincent scored with her on an overnight to Miami. We knew because his co-pilot had to sleep in a chair in the lobby that night since the room was in use.
“Doc got Janice drunk down in Miami,” Susan explained. “The poor girl had no tolerance for alcohol. One glass of wine was almost enough. I was in the same hotel that night, but I was with a different flight crew. I had to take her flight back to Newark the next day, because officially, she was sick. I talked to her though, and she told me what happened. Doc got her roaring drunk and promised to take her back to her room. Instead, he took her to his room. She was too hammered to realize what was happening until it was too late. The next morning when she woke up, Doc was gone and there was her blood on the sheets.”
“Blood?” I asked. “Janice was a virgin?”
Susan looked at me sternly. “My god, you sound like one of the men. A lot of girls are virgins into their twenties. Janice was ‘saving herself,’ as she used to put it. She was raised in a very strict, very religious family. She called the senior flight attendant on her flight and said she just couldn’t go to work that day. I knew the attendant she had called, so the two of us went to her room. She was a wreck.”
I was dumfounded. I hadn’t wanted to have sex with a man because of who I had been, but I had always assumed that deep down, all girls were as hot to jump into the sack as I had been. They were all just waiting for the right moment–or the right line. Now, I was being told that a girl who had looked like sex on wheels had been a virgin, and worse yet, that she had been devastated when she had lost her virginity unintentionally.
“She never flew for the line again,” Susan continued. “There was an investigation, but everything was hushed up. Bill Farnsworth saw to that.”
“And what happened to Janice?” I asked, almost afraid of what the answer might be.
To my relief, Susan said, “She got better. She married some guy back in Nashville where she grew up. I even had an invitation to the wedding. The last I heard, she had a little girl.” She looked at me suspiciously. “You don’t think that makes it all right, do you?”
Or in other words, what kind of a girl are you? That was what she was asking. “No,” I said honestly. “I don’t think that makes it all right. I... I think I know what it meant to her.”
As funny as it sounded to me then, I really did know. I was a woman now, and I realized that I would most likely be one for the rest of my life. I had never slept with a man and I didn’t want to sleep with one, but I knew in my heart that eventually, the urges I had already begun to feel would drive me in that direction. But the thought of sleeping with a man against my will was the most repugnant thing I could think of. If I had still been a guy, I admit I would have been more sympathetic to Doc. I would have rationalized that Janice wanted it or she would have never put herself in that situation. Now though, I realized that Doc had been wrong.
Was it rape? I had to cop out. I wasn’t there. Maybe she had been so drunk that her inhibitions had fled. Maybe, for just a small moment in time, she wanted it. No matter though. Her reaction the next day proved that even if it hadn’t been rape in the classical sense, it was wrong. Doc had to have been sober. Few pilots would take the chance of destroying their careers by drinking the night before a flight. He was sober and she was drunk. He had maneuvered her into a position where she may have even been afraid to say no. Then, he had bragged about it to all of us. I had even been envious. Not now though.
“Hello, ladies!”
The voice was deep and masculine. I looked up to see Doc Vincent standing before me. I had known Doc for a long time, but now I saw him through the filter of a different sex. Bob had known him as a contemporary–a guy who loved to fly almost as much as he loved to party. He and Bob could have been brothers in some ways. Now though, it was Holly who saw him, and Holly saw a sleaze ball. She saw a man who had no respect for women and would use them to his own ends, then brag about it. She saw a man who was, behind the thin veneer of respectability, a lying, overbearing, prejudiced piece of shit.
“Hello Doc,” Susan answered primly.
He barely noticed. His eyes were on me. “And who have we here?”
“Holly, meet Doc Vincent,” Susan said, as if she had just introduced me to a snake. “Doc, this is Holly Webster.”
“A pleasure,” he said with a grin. He looked at me the way a starving man would look at a ham sandwich.
“I got the latest weather. It might be a little rough south of D.C.,” a familiar voice called. I looked away from Doc, glad for the excuse. It was Jeremy Miller. So he was flying with Doc. That was too bad. It meant that when we had our overnight in Atlanta, Jeremy would visit his family and Doc would have the hotel room all to himself. Doc would be on the prowl in spades. I had to try to stay out of range.
Jeremy looked at me and read my nametag. “Hi, Holly,” he said, a little shy. “I’m Jeremy Miller.”
He offered his hand in a gentlemanly fashion and I took it. With Jeremy, what you saw was what you got. He had introduced himself to me about the same way he had introduced himself to Bob. I found I liked that. Of course, Bob had been as tall as he was. I had to look up now. And Bob’s hand hadn’t been enveloped by Jeremy’s hand the way Holly’s hand was.
I found instantly that in spite of the sex change, I still liked Jeremy. It was an instantaneous decision, but one I was comfortable with. I found myself silently wishing all men were like Jeremy. Then I extended that to mean I wished I had been more like him when I was a man.
We were in the air right on schedule. The flight was a late afternoon one, arriving in Atlanta at about six. Most of the passengers were businessmen on their way home from New York. They were tired. All they wanted was to catch a little rest before facing afternoon Atlanta traffic. So as far as the passengers were concerned, I had an easy flight. My problems were all on the flight deck. Every fifteen minutes or so, Doc would call up for some coffee. I knew he was just using as an excuse to work on me. I hoped he drank so much of the stuff that he had to pee in his pants.
“Hey, how about having dinner with me tonight?” he finally asked. We were just ready to start our descent, so it was his last chance to work on me in the air.
“I... I...” I began to stammer. I hadn’t expected him to be so abrupt. I wanted to tell him I had plans, but he’d just persist. I had seen him in action when we trolled together. He could be very insistent.
“She’s going with me tonight Doc,” Jeremy suddenly said.
I looked at Jeremy in surprise. Doc couldn’t see his face, so he missed the mischievous wink I got from his co-pilot.
“Yes... yes... that’s right,” I concurred.
Doc sighed. “Well Jeremy, my boy, I didn’t think you had it in you. You just met her and you’re already taking her home to meet the folks.” He gave an unpleasant snort. “Maybe next time, Holly dear.”
“Sure,” I said, fleeing from the flight deck. Only if the next time was during a snowstorm in hell.
I spent the rest of the flight trying to figure out why Jeremy had rescued me. I had just met him. Of course, before I was changed into Holly, I’d known him well, but he had just met Holly before the flight. As Doc wandered off after the flight in search of more willing female companionship, leaving Jeremy and me as the only two people on the aircraft, I asked Jeremy, “Why did you save me from Doc?”
He grinned, brushing that shock of dark blonde hair back. “I guess it’s just because you looked like you could use the help. I didn’t spoil anything for you, did I?”
“Spoil anything?” I repeated, confused. Then I blushed. “Oh, no. I didn’t want anything to do with Doc. Thanks, I appreciate it.”
He grinned again. “Then have a nice evening.” Slipping on his hat, he turned to go.
“Wait a minute!” I called out to him. He turned back toward me. “Then you didn’t really want to get together?” I blushed again as I realized how that sounded. What was wrong with me? Jeremy had just rescued me from Doc and... Of course. He was just telling a little lie to help me. He didn’t really want to get together with me. What a relief! But why didn’t it feel like a relief?
He shook his head and chuckled. “I be damned if you aren’t a forward girl. Well, I’ll tell you what. I think it might be kind of nice to have a little company. Besides, my folks love company, and they’ve got plenty of room.”
“But I don’t want to intrude,” I protested. What was I getting myself into?
He looked at me for a moment as if trying to decide what to say next. Then, with a sigh, he began. “Holly, even though I just met you, I’ve noticed you around. Now, to tell you the truth, I’ve wanted a chance to meet you for a while. If you’d like to spend the night with me at my parents’ place, I’d consider it an honor. We’ll have separate rooms, of course.”
“Oh! Of course.”
I accepted gladly. Who could refuse such a Southern gentleman? His explanation, delivered in that soft Southern drawl of his, was enough to make me trust him. And it would get me far enough away from Doc that he wouldn’t be able to bother me. Besides, I liked Jeremy. As for the separate rooms, well, I was the Flying Nun, wasn’t I?
It turned out getting to his parents’ place involved another flight.
“You look surprised,” he remarked with a smile as he led me to a Cessna 172 tied down among the private planes. “My folks live about an hour away by car in traffic at this time of day. We can fly there in about fifteen minutes or so. They have a private strip at the house. You aren’t concerned about a small plane, are you?”
To someone outside the airline industry, it might have sounded like an odd question to ask a flight attendant. But the truth was that many flight attendants were very nervous about flying in small planes. I grinned and shook my head, though. “I learned to fly on one of these.”
Oops! I hadn’t meant to say that. In fact, I had learned to fly on a Cessna 172 back at the Academy. No one knew I had ever been a pilot though.
“You fly?”
“Not for a while,” I replied, trying to recover. “I don’t even have my log book with me.” Nor did I have one as Holly. I couldn’t prove I was actually a pilot.
“Well then,” he mused, “I guess I’ll have to get us up, but once we’ve cleared Hartsfield, I’ll let you fly it.”
As often in my short womanhood that I had sworn I would never have sex as a woman, I think I would have spread my legs for Jeremy in that moment. I was going to be able to fly again! It wasn’t exactly a 737, but it was a fun aircraft to fly. I grinned from ear to ear.
Mr. Logan picked up the phone just before it rang, as was his custom. “L here.”
“Hello, Mr. L,” a throaty woman’s voice came through the line. He had been expecting the call. Umai had been on the flight to Atlanta with Holly Webster. While Holly had been carefully observing the passengers, expecting some stray god or goddess to be observing her, she never imagined that Paige, the sweet young black flight attendant who had worked with her in Coach while Susan worked First Class was, in fact, a goddess.
Umai was one of the goddesses of Turkey, worshipped long before the Ottomans brought the word of Allah to that land. Her fair skin and blonde hair, while symbols of her deity, were hardly what one would expect of a resident of that part of the world. In fact, for her role as Paige, she had changed into an attractive young black woman, just to make sure Doc would have no interest in her. She had been a goddess of passion and of the hearth, and she delighted in influencing new transformees like Holly.
“How did it go, Paige?” Mr. L asked, although he was already sure of the answer. Umai did not fail in her mission–ever.
“Just fine,” Paige laughed. “She doesn’t have a clue what is about to happen to her. It will be so quick, she won’t have any time at all to think about it.”
“Are you close enough to appreciate it?” he asked.
“Of course, they can’t see me, but I’m riding on top of the wing,” she laughed. “Thank the gods for cell phones.”
“Enjoy yourself, Paige,” Mr. L said warmly, hanging up the phone. He looked up from his desk at Luk who was awaiting instructions. “Well, Mr. Luck, our work with Ms. Webster is nearly complete. I would imagine we will soon have a vacancy.”
“You want I should put ad in paper?” Luk asked.
“No,” Mr. L replied with a wicked smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
The plane was a dream to fly. After years of flying the big birds for the Air Force and for Atlantic Air, I had almost forgotten how much fun it was to fly a small plane. I could feel every change in the wind, every air pocket in the sky. I was grinning from ear to ear.
“Say, you really can fly this,” Jeremy remarked.
I looked at him with a teasing smile. “Did you ever doubt me?”
“Not for a heartbeat,” he laughed. “I just didn’t know you could fly it this well.”
I beamed at him.
“Did you ever think about being an airline pilot?”
“Oh, it crossed my mind,” I said evasively. I didn’t think he’d understand if I told him the truth. And for some reason, it was important to me that he know me as Holly. I had been Holly long enough that I had my ‘history’ down pat. I was from upstate New York (roughly where Bob O’Brien was from, but no one noted the connection), my parents were dead, I had no siblings, I had a couple of years of college from a small school no one had ever heard of. In short, my history was similar to any number of flight attendants on the line.
“I think I’ll take a chance on you and let you land,” he told me. I fought the sudden urge to kiss him on the cheek.
Landing a small plane isn’t the same as landing a 737, but I managed okay. Jeremy had radioed ahead, so his father was waiting for us when we arrived. He was the stereotypical Southern gentleman–an older version of Jeremy even down to the twinkle in his eye and the lopsided boyish grin.
I spent the evening mostly in the company of his mother and younger sister. I would have preferred to spend the time with Jeremy and his father, discussing the prospects for the Atlanta Braves, but since I was now a woman, I was relegated to the kitchen with the other women. It turned out to be okay. Jeremy’s mother was an intelligent woman, and his sister had just finished getting her business degree from the University of Georgia not twenty miles down the road.
I had gone out to dinner with many of the flight attendants while we were on overnights, so I had learned to appreciate other women for their intelligence. I no longer thought as I once had that women spent all their time talking about babies and the like. But there in that kitchen with Jeremy’s mother and his sister Sarah, I surprised myself and I actually had a good time. My parents were dead and I had no siblings, and soon, I found myself thinking of Jeremy’s mother as, if not a surrogate mother, at least a favored aunt. Sarah was the sister I never had. Bright and vivacious, she displayed an intelligence and poise I hoped I could emulate.
I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that it was that night I first became comfortable with being a woman. It felt natural there in the kitchen with them, preparing dinner. And after dinner, as the men cleaned up, Wanda–Jeremy’s mother–and Sarah took me for an evening walk in their extensive gardens.
“I had no idea Jeremy was from someplace like this,” I commented, looking around at the antebellum estate. It looked like a scene from Gone With the Wind, and I felt out of place without a hoop skirt.
“This place has been in my husband’s family for over a century,” Wanda laughed. “His great, great grandfather made a fortune in timber. The family isn’t into that now. The current family assets are tied up in agriculture and international trade.”
“And Jeremy didn’t go into the family business?” I asked.
“No,” Wanda sighed. “Ever since he was a little boy, all he ever wanted to do was fly. We didn’t approve at first, of course, and Jack made him earn his own money to take flying lessons. It’s going to be up to Sarah here to run the business whenever Jack retires.”
I understood what flying meant to Jeremy. I had felt the same way. I was so grateful for the opportunity to fly Jeremy’s Cessna that I silently vowed to really take flying lessons when I got home. I would be a pilot again, even if it was only on my days off. It would be tough on a flight attendant’s salary, but I’d find a way.
“Jeremy seems quite attracted to you,” Wanda finally ventured.
Oh-oh, I was being sized up. Well, he had brought me home to meet his family. But that didn’t mean anything. Jeremy had just been bailing me out of a bad situation.
“I like Jeremy too,” I found myself saying, trying to keep the response as bland as possible.
“Oh mother,” Sarah laughed, “quit prying.” Then to me, she added, “It’s just that Jeremy has never brought any girl out here before.”
“Well, he’s not getting any younger,” Wanda said defensively.
“He’s twenty-six, mother,” Sarah pointed out. “You act as if he’s over forty and unattached. He’s hardly in that pitiful state.”
Forty? Unattached? Pitiful? Is that what I had been? Pitiful? Here was a bright, beautiful girl that as a man I would have been zeroing in on telling me that I would have been pitiful. To make it worse, I was actually beginning to see her point.
I was still thinking about that as Jeremy and I strolled that same garden a bit later. Since we had to be up early, we had said our goodbyes, and as if by some unspoken signal, the rest of the Miller family retired to the house, obviously to give Jeremy and me some time to ourselves.
He had gently taken my hand as we began our walk, and to my amazement, I found myself pleased that he did. We walked together, with Jeremy stopping occasionally to point out something which had triggered a childhood memory. I learned more about Jeremy in that hour in the garden than I had learned in all the times I had flown with him.
“I sawed a limb off that tree,” he said, pointing at a stately magnolia near the garden. “I was only ten at the time. I climbed up there and sawed one off over on that side. My father caught me and gave me the whipping of my life.”
I laughed, “It’s hard to imagine someone as sweet as your father giving you a whipping, even if you did deserve it.” Had I really said “sweet”?
“He likes you too,” Jeremy commented. “In fact, the whole family likes you.” Without warning, he gently turned me to face him. “So do I.” The kiss was unexpected, but to my shock, not unwelcome. Instead, I accepted it with relief. I pressed gently against him, feeling the warmth of his lips. I began to feel sensations I had only had faint glimmerings of before.
No.
No. This wasn’t right. I might look like a woman. I might even have to act like a woman. But I wasn’t a woman–not really. I couldn’t allow myself to yield to a man this way–even a man so... so attractive as Jeremy. Yes, all right, he was attractive. There, I had said it to myself. Mindlessly, I allowed myself to endure an even longer kiss.
“We’d... we’d better get back to the house,” I managed softly, my eyes downcast. “We have to leave early tomorrow.”
“Uh... I guess you’re right.” He sounded reluctant. So was I, but I was afraid of where this was all leading. There was a sensation starting between my legs and in my nipples which would be hard to suppress if we continued.
He walked me back to the house, holding me closely to him. I found I had no objection. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted... something more. So it was with a feeling of disappointment that I left him at my bedroom door with only one more small kiss. I wanted him to come to bed with me, but I didn’t want him to. As I think about that, it makes no sense now, but at the time, it seemed like the only reasonable thing to do.
In bed that night, I slept poorly, and when I did sleep, I could see only Jeremy. More than once, I awoke to find my hand between my legs, as if trying to stifle the feeling of emptiness... loneliness... that was there.
We acted as if everything was normal as we flew back to Atlanta the next morning, but I knew that each of us was feeling that our relationship was changing faster than either of us could have imagined. We didn’t kiss–in fact we barely touched. Our conversation was innocuous and soon, we were at work again.
Back in Newark, I told him at the gate, “Thanks for everything, Jeremy. I had a great time.” I must have sounded like a sixteen-year-old girl in braces being dropped off at the front door after her first date with some boy.
“Me, too,” he replied with that lopsided boyish grin that made me want to throw myself in his arms.
I resisted though. There had been a moment at his parents’ home, but the moment was gone. I turned to go, when he called out, “Hey, when do you fly out again?”
“Not for three days,” I said, turning back to him so quickly I nearly stumbled. “Well, I fly out to St Louis this afternoon, but I’ll be back by five.”
“I don’t fly for a few days either,” he told me. “How about dinner tonight? I get back from Cleveland an hour before you. I can pick you up about seven.”
A date? A real date? With Jeremy? Oh, God!
He looked at me anxiously. “Well, what do you say?” He sounded so unsure of himself.
“Uh, okay, sure.” I couldn’t think of any way to say no. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to say no anymore. In fact, I wasn’t sure what I would have done if he hadn’t asked me out.
The grin was back. “Great! Where do you live?”
I gave him my address and warned him it was best to take a cab. I wasn’t sure if it was even possible to get to Deety Arms in anything but a cab. Part of the magic, I suspected.
We parted then as Doc Vincent caught up to Jeremy. “Did you pork her?” I heard Doc ask loudly enough to cause me to blush.
“Shut up Doc,” was all he said.
When I got back to my apartment, I was practically paralyzed. I had never gone out on a date with a guy before. I didn’t have the foggiest notion what I should wear. Granted, I had become more cognizant of proper women’s attire over the last few weeks, but going out to dinner in Manhattan could mean anything from a slinky cocktail dress to jeans. I hadn’t thought to ask him what I should wear. I settled on a beige skirt that was on the short side without being obscene, a cream-colored silk blouse, two-inch brown heels and all the appropriate accessories. By some miracle, I made all the decisions and got dressed just before Horace buzzed to tell me I had a guest.
I met him in the lobby, trying to ignore the stares from Horace and three or four others who were there. I knew the onlookers were part of the motley collection of gods and goddesses that made Deety Arms their home. Obviously, I was the evening’s entertainment. ‘Well, let them look,’ I thought. Nothing was going to ruin my evening with Jeremy.
He was dressed in a brown sport coat with a tan open-collar shirt, so we matched pretty well. On an impulse, I got up on my toes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. It just seemed like the natural thing to do. I had expected my old male persona to make an appearance that evening, telling me that what I was doing was at the least insane and at the worst perverted. But Robert O’Brien seemed well hidden throughout the evening. Maybe the fact that I had vowed to stay out of bed with my new beau had been enough to satisfy him.
There were a dozen restaurants of every ethnic description near Deety Arms, but Jeremy was intrigued by the Southwest Grill. By now, I had done a little research and I was convinced that Trick the bartender was probably the Trickster of American Indian legends. But it didn’t matter. I imagined that most or all of the restaurants in the neighborhood were owned and operated by the various gods. And the food was good at the Southwest Grill, so why not?
It was like old home week as we entered. We had to wait for a few minutes, so I got to drink one of Trick’s excellent margaritas. He served them himself with a friendly “Hi Holly!” to me as if I had always been a woman. And Vera was there at the bar. Of course, she didn’t recognize me, and even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. She was into men, and the man she was leaning against at the bar looked like he couldn’t wait to get into her.
Dinner was excellent, and the conversation congenial. We talked mostly about our work and our fellow employees. Then the subject turned to our backgrounds. I kept mine as sketchy as I could, which was fine. I had already come to realize that most men would rather hear themselves talk than listen to others. That doesn’t mean Jeremy wasn’t a good listener, but he was a better talker. His stories of growing up in the South and his wonderful family were very entertaining.
After dinner and a good bottle of wine, I was as relaxed as I had been since my transformation. And I had made an important decision. I knew that I was female for the rest of my life. It was obvious that I would have to accept it. And I had even gradually come to the conclusion that I couldn’t remain celibate. It wasn’t a natural condition. My problem was just that I didn’t have the background as a girl to accept the inevitable demands of sex. Little girls usually hear from their friends that sex involves a boy actually putting something inside their bodies. Their emotions take them from repugnance to curiosity and finally to acceptance, if sometimes reluctant acceptance.
The idea of sex with a man had certainly been repugnant to me at first. The idea of being the penetrated rather than the penetrator was almost too much to handle. Slowly but surely though, I had become curious about it. Other women seemed to accept and even enjoy it. I was more than a little surprised to find that women discussed sex with as much gusto as men. If they liked it, would I?
Then along came Jeremy. In my previous identity, I had known Jeremy to be trustworthy. Although I had liked him, I had always considered him a bit of a Boy Scout. Now though, I realized that those very qualities I found naíve before were desirable now. In short, I had decided that if I had to go to bed with a man, I wanted it to be a man like Jeremy. No, that wasn’t right. I wanted it to be Jeremy. ‘Sorry Robert, but it’s time for you to leave,’ I realized.
“I really enjoyed our evening,” he told me in the lobby of Deety Arms. Horace had tactfully found something else to do, leaving us alone. I was pretty sure we were being observed, but I didn’t care anymore. Let ’em watch! With any luck, I’d give them one hell of a show.
“So did I,” I said, taking his hand. We stared at each other for what seemed like hours without speaking, but I know it wasn’t more than a few seconds. “Would you... like to come up?” I asked.
His eyes widened. It was as if he had suddenly found out that the experts were wrong and there really was a Santa Claus. “Why, sure,” he managed.
The elevator ride to my floor seemed to go on for hours. I was about to do something which a few weeks ago I would have found unthinkable. I could barely stay on my feet, and as I leaned into Jeremy for support, I only hoped he wouldn’t notice the way my body was trembling, and the heaving of my breasts as I fought for breath. A small corner of my mind which Robert O’Brien still occupied was screaming out in terror, but there was so little of him left that I could scarcely hear him, and by the time the elevator stopped, his voice was silent.
I was Holly Webster–now and forever. In that moment, I couldn’t imagine being anyone else. And now, I was about to be initiated into another mystery of womanhood, one that was both frightening and exhilarating at the same moment.
I handed my door key to Jeremy, unwilling to remove my hands from around him for fear that the gods would cause him to disappear just to see my reaction. The gods? Were they watching? Let them watch: I didn’t care. They could broadcast what was about to happen on HBO for all I cared.
I didn’t bother to turn on the lights as I led Jeremy into my bedroom. Wordlessly, we undressed each other. Jeremy was already hard and ready, and I could tell from the rising warmth between my legs that I was nearly there as well. I had expected the feminine response to be less insistent than the demanding hardness I had experienced as a man, but I was wrong. Between my legs there was an aching insistence–a need to be filled. Yet as much as I wanted him in me, I was grateful as he took the time to put his hand between my legs and stroke me as we fell onto the bed.
I remembered the old song with the line a woman sings about wanting a lover with a slow hand. I now knew for certain what she was singing about. I felt like singing myself. It was pure heaven. I had never felt anything like it before in either of my lives. I was so... so...
Oh my God! Oh my God!
Luk shuddered as a wave of pure pleasure washed over his office. The building itself was awash with the sensations. He managed a look at Mr. L who stood eyes closed as if facing into a strong wind from the prow of a ship, absorbing the energies that coursed over him.
“It’s happening, Mr. Luck,” he managed to say in a strained voice.
Luk could only silently agree. He wondered for a moment if the new woman producing these waves of pleasure had any idea how fortunate she was... to be truly human.
It was nearly morning. The first light was visible in the east, and on the street, I could hear the city beginning to stir. I didn’t want to get up though. I never wanted to get up. I wanted to stay here in Jeremy’s arms, protected from the world, and make love to him ten thousand times the four we had already accomplished. It was like nothing I had ever imagined. Who would want to be a man when the experience of a woman in love was so much more satisfying? Why had I fought this? I should have leaped for joy when I was transformed and sought the first man I could find.
No, that wasn’t true. It was all so wonderful because it was Jeremy.
“Holly...”
I turned in his arms until I was eye to eye with him. I smiled. “Yes?”
“Marry me?”
I gasped. Marry him? Become a man’s wife? Share his life? Bear and raise his children? Was I ready for that? I had just for the first time experienced what it meant to make love as a woman. Now, I was being asked to be a wife. I had only sought the experience because my body was starting to crave it, and Jeremy seemed the right choice. But marriage?
“What’s wrong?” he asked with concern. “I thought...”
“Oh, Jeremy,” I started, “I... I... Do you mean it?”
“Of course I mean it,” he smiled.
“I really hadn’t thought about getting married,” I told him honestly.
“Neither had I,” he admitted. “It just seems like a good idea.”
He deserved better than me. He deserved a real woman–not a magical fake like me. “But we just... just met. Maybe we should think about it then,” I suggested softly.
“Think about it?”
I nodded. “Just for a little while. A few days at the most.”
“Holly, my father proposed to my mother on their first date. I guess it’s a family tradition. We Miller men just seem to know when it’s right.”
“But I want you to really be sure,” I tried to explain.
“What about you?” he asked softly.
I couldn’t look him in the eye. “I... I guess I need to be sure, too.”
He was upset, I could see, but I wanted him to want me after the glow of our sex had faded. If he still wanted me then, well, we’d have to see. Part of me wanted to accept his offer and run out and get married immediately, but part of me wasn’t sure. It had taken me several weeks to screw up enough courage to have sex. Marriage would require even more courage–maybe more than I had.
“I fly out again Thursday,” he told me. That was my deadline, I knew. I had to give him an answer by Thursday. He looked like a dog who had been hit by a car. I couldn’t let him leave like this. I owed him an explanation. But what could I tell him? That I was his old friend Robert O’Brien all dressed up in a brand new package? That I no longer chased skirts because I now wore one? That the only reason I looked at women’s legs now was to determine what color pantyhose they wore? That the only reason I looked at a woman’s breasts was to see if mine looked better than hers?
I put my arms around him, feeling our bodies come together. “Jeremy, I... I love you. I really do. It’s just that I want to be sure. If I say yes, it’ll be the only time I ever say yes to any man. I want you to feel the same way.”
“I feel that way now,” he argued.
What followed was anticlimactic. We showered–separately–and we dressed, and with a final but meaningful kiss, he was gone. I burst into unwanted and terribly feminine tears the minute he left. I wanted him–oh, how I wanted him! I had never wanted anyone the way I wanted him.
So what was really stopping me?
I had to talk to someone. I needed a shrink. However, no shrink would believe me if I told them what had happened to me. Maybe I still didn’t believe it myself. My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Maybe it was Jeremy! I threw the door open and...
“Oh.”
Mr. Logan favored me with a thin smile. “I’ve had more gracious greetings.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “But look, haven’t you done enough to me?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Oh come on!” I shouted, storming through the apartment as he followed. “What do you think? First, you turn me into a woman. Then, you make me work as a flight attendant instead of a pilot. Then... Then...”
“Then I make you fall in love?” he said quietly.
I nodded sullenly.
He motioned me to the couch, then sat next to me when I slumped into the seat. “Holly, I didn’t make you fall in love. I merely gave you the ability to fall in love. It was an ability Robert O’Brien seemed to lack.”
“But you made me fall in love with a man!” I yelled.
“Holly, you are a woman,” he said, gently holding my shoulders. “You will be one for the rest of your life. We are finished with you now.”
I looked up at him and brushed away a tear. “Finished with me?”
He nodded. “You are–how shall I say this?–no longer of any entertainment value to us. You are just one more human woman living out her mundane life. Where is the entertainment in that? For much less effort, we can watch Ally McBeal and get the same satisfaction. We have made you into a woman, right down to your DNA. You have learned how to act like, talk like, and think like a woman. What further use would we have for you?”
“But,” I began, my lip quivering, “what about Jeremy?”
He shook his head. “He is of no further interest to us. You may marry him and you may not. Why should we care? Your decision is nothing more than the emotional act of another woman. It is of no interest to us. Until you took Jeremy to this apartment, you were still at least partially a man trapped in a woman’s body. That is no longer the case. I’m afraid you’re just no fun anymore.”
“Then... you think I’m a real woman?” I asked hopefully.
“Of course I do–we all do. We made you a woman physically. The rest you accomplished by yourself. Now, you are a woman in body and soul.”
“Then it wouldn’t make any difference to Jeremy?”
“Of course not!”
“I have to call him!” I exclaimed, jumping up from the couch.
“Then if you will excuse me,” Mr. Logan replied, “I must be going.”
I actually gave him a heartfelt smile. “Thank you, Mr. Logan.”
Before he closed the door behind him, he returned my smile. “No, thank you, my dear. You were most entertaining–in your day.”
I dived for the phone. I surprised myself by realizing I had committed Jeremy’s phone number to memory. I had looked it up earlier in the company roster. The phone rang and rang, until the bland voice mail message finally came on. He wasn’t there. “Jeremy, it’s Holly. I really need to talk to you. Call me!”
He hadn’t had time to get home yet, I realized. I only hoped he would call me as soon as he got in. My hope turned out to be forlorn though. He didn’t call me. I tried to tell myself that he had just stopped off on the way home to run an errand or something. But as day turned to evening and still no call, I knew something was wrong. I tried again to call him, but got the recording again. I didn’t bother to leave another message.
Well, I had given him an out. I had told him we should both think over his proposal. Apparently, he had already done so. I was a good one-night stand, but maybe not good wife material after all. It wouldn’t have worked anyway, I tried to tell myself. He was at the heart of the matter a Southern gentleman, and I was... well, I wasn’t even a real woman. I mean, I was, but not a woman good enough for Jeremy.
At least the gods seemed to be finished with me, just as Mr. Logan had promised. Oh, Horace still spoke to me as I came and went, but he seemed to take little interest in my activities. I noticed no residents carefully looking me over in the lobby, no young children with adult eyes as I walked aimlessly in the park, and heard no strange snickers from the ledge outside my window. I almost missed their attention. At least it would have given me someone to be angry with besides myself.
I actually looked forward to going back to work. My ‘weekend’ was finally over. Maybe I could lose myself in the job. It was worth a try anyhow. My first flight took me to Chicago, which was fine, but once back in Newark, I went out on an Atlanta-bound flight. The whole way down, all I could think of was Jeremy. To make matters worse, Doc Vincent was the pilot.
In Atlanta, the passengers deplaned quickly, and I found myself alone in the cabin, thinking about Jeremy. So deep in thought was I that I didn’t notice that Doc was still on board. I turned from where I had been mooning in the galley and ran right into him.
“Sorry, Doc,” I muttered, trying to move away.
Doc gave me one of his patented smiles. “Don’t be.” Then he put his arms around me.
I became suddenly frightened. “Doc, let go.”
He gave me a boyish grin. “Why? We could both have some fun. I just got word–our return flight to Newark has been delayed. There are heavy thunderstorms up there, so nobody will board here for at least a couple of hours. We’re going to have to move this bird to another gate, so nobody’s waiting for us out there. I can make sure we’re not disturbed.”
“Doc,” I said, trying to twist out of his grip, “I’m not interested. Now let go!” I was becoming frightened. After all, he was much larger and stronger than I now was.
He tried to hug me just that much closer. The stupid pig! I might have been a Lothario myself at one time, but I had never forced myself on a girl. Doc was downright dangerous, and I didn’t feel a bit sorry for him when I did what I did next. For the first time since my transformation, I was happy our uniforms included a short skirt. It gave me enough room to lift my knee and plant it directly in the bastard’s crotch. Doc bellowed with pain and rage, and I thought for a fraction of a second that I had miscalculated, but suddenly, he released me.
I stumbled past Doc and out the hatch. There was no one right at the gate, but all I really had to do was step out onto the concourse. I heard Doc behind me, swearing to himself. I rounded the corner and ran into someone...
“Holly!”
I looked up. I had just run into Jeremy. He was standing there in his uniform, unexpectedly holding me in his arms.
“God damn you,” Doc muttered suddenly behind me, grabbing my arm.
I barely saw what happened next. I don’t think Doc even realized Jeremy was there. All he saw was an uncooperative bitch who had just sent his nuts halfway up his body. It was his mistake, because Jeremy saw him. I heard a crack and wheeled around in time to see Doc’s jaw dropping away from Jeremy’s fist. It was a punch any prizefighter would have been proud of, and before he knew it, Doc was on the floor, taking a row of seats in the gate area with him.
“Hold it right there!” another voice called out, and when I looked back at Jeremy, there was an airport cop standing behind him, holding Jeremy’s arms to his side. Jeremy wasn’t resisting. He was just glaring at Doc lying there on the floor groaning.
“Are you all right?” someone asked from behind me.
I turned. It was just an elderly woman passenger, holding my arm. I replied, “Yes, I’m fine.” She smiled and moved on. It wasn’t until a moment later that I realized she didn’t have the eyes of an old woman. ‘Maybe I was still interesting after all,’ I thought grimly.
I had been distracted for a moment, and in that moment, Jeremy was being led away. I forgot all about Doc lying there and rushed off down the concourse following the guard and calling out Jeremy’s name.
It took some time to straighten everything out. There’s actually a mini-jail at large airports, and the cop took Jeremy there. Since I wasn’t a relative, there wasn’t much I could do, but it turned out to not be a problem. About an hour later, Jeremy walked out of the holding area to the profound apologies of the cop. When I looked at him, puzzled, he smiled and explained, “My father is on the Airport Authority Board.”
“Then everything is okay?” We were just standing there, facing each other, not sure of what to do next.
“Sure,” he assured me. “Only, Bill Farnsworth doesn’t like being interrupted to find out that one of his pilots just decked another one. I had to resign from Atlantic...”
“Oh no!” I cried. What could I do next to ruin his life? I felt like crawling under the nearest rock.
“Don’t worry,” he laughed. “I was going to resign anyway. I start with Delta next week. That’s why I’ve been down here for the last couple of days.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’ve been down here? Then you haven’t been home?”
He shook his head. “I left for Atlanta from your place.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
He looked a little sheepish. “I guess I forgot. I came down here for the final interview.”
Before I had just been relieved. Now, I was actually getting a little mad. It was just like a man to leave and not tell me where he was going and... Wait a minute. Just like a man? Wow had I changed. “Then you haven’t checked your phone messages,” I surmised, realizing it for the first time.
“Sure,” he told me. “That’s how I knew I was supposed to fly out, and... Oh, wait a minute. You got my number out of the company roster, right?”
“Of course.”
He smiled knowingly. “Flight Ops has my cell number. I always forget to check my home number.”
“So you haven’t checked your home voice mail,” I realized.
“I forgot,” he explained with a shrug. “Did you leave me a message?”
“I just asked you to call me,” I replied softly, looking down at my feet like a shy schoolgirl.
“Sorry, was it anything important?”
“I just wanted to say ‘yes,’ that is unless you have any second thoughts.”
“I do have second thoughts,” he told me, and I felt my heart drop through the floor. Then, he went on, “My second thoughts are that I want to marry you just as much as I did in my first thoughts.”
I looked up in happy surprise to see him grinning. We were in each other’s arms in a heartbeat.
So that’s how it happened. I moved into Manhattan as a male airline pilot nearing middle age, and now, I was leaving Manhattan as a young woman about to be married. I was on my way to become a Southern belle. Well, not really. I was going to keep on working, at least until Jeremy and I decided what to do about starting a family. It turned out Delta was hiring experienced flight attendants too, so we’d be working together out of Delta’s Atlanta hub. I’d have to get used to wearing a more conservative uniform and I was sure to be teased about my past work for Hooters in the Sky, but that was okay with me.
I was leaving all the furniture in my apartment behind. It wasn’t really mine anyway, and I had a hunch Mr. Logan would be using it again sometime soon. At the going away party some of the other flight attendants had held for me, Doc Vincent showed up long enough to apologize. His jaw was still swollen from where Jeremy had hit him a couple of days before, but since he hadn’t thrown a punch back at Jeremy, he still had his job. But for how long was anybody’s guess. A couple of other flight attendants were said to be filing complaints against him.
“I really do wish you well,” Doc said sincerely when he had a moment to speak privately to me. “I guess I deserved it.”
‘Yes, that and a lot more,’ I thought to myself, but I didn’t say it. I just smiled. Obviously, Doc didn’t mean a word of it. He wanted something.
“Say,” he said, finally letting the cat out of the bag, “I just happened to think. If you’re moving to Atlanta, has anybody spoken for your apartment yet?”
It was the moment I had been waiting for. I gave him my friendliest smile. “Doc, I just might be able to help you there.”
Mr. L and Luk watched with approval as the attractive young woman gave Horace a warm hug and kissed him on the cheek. The old god blushed shyly and gave her a brotherly hug. “Best of luck, Holly,” he called after her.
To look at her, Mr. L thought, one would never imagine she had once been a man. She carried herself with poise and confidence, and the bright smile on her face was the smile of a woman content with her life–a woman deeply in love. Not all his little projects turned out so well. The city was filled with whores and strippers who had once been residents of Deety Arms. On the whole, women like Holly were preferable, for their rarity if nothing else.
She stopped in front of him. “Well, this is it,” she announced happily.
“All the best to you, Holly,” Mr. L told her sincerely. “You’ll do well, I’m sure.” He pulled a small box out of his coat pocket. “Consider this a little wedding gift.”
She looked at the box a little suspiciously. He couldn’t blame her, he supposed. But the tricks were over. She’d like what was in the box. “May I open it now?”
“Please do.”
He marvelled at how dexterous her fingers had become, in spite of the long enamelled nails. She moved her fingers as if she had been a woman all her life. Upon seeing what was in the box, a small gasp escaped her full red lips. “It’s a pilot’s log book and license!” she squealed with glee.
Mr. L smiled. “I’m pleased that you like it. It seemed a shame to make you take flight lessons all over again. This way, you can fly Jeremy’s plane legally.”
Impulsively, she gave him a quick hug and a little kiss. It wasn’t as warm as the one she had given Horace, but considering what he had put her through, Mr. L was quite pleased. “It’s the least I could do,” he told her, “for referring a new tenant to us.”
She grinned widely and walked toward the door. Mr. L could see Jeremy waiting by the cab in front. Then, at the last moment she turned. “Oh, I almost forgot Mr. Logan. The new tenant I referred to you is a little... prejudiced. He doesn’t care much for blacks. You might keep that in mind.”
“Indeed I will,” he assured her with a parting wave. “Indeed I will.”
The End
Deity Arms: I Call My Sugar Candy
by The Professor (c. 2001)
For Jack Chrysler, meeting a girl like Vickie was like a dream. Would it stay that way though, or would it prove to be a nightmare?
Luk had been making great progress in learning English. He had even been picking up some of the local slang, so when Mr. L told him to be part of the furniture, he assumed that meant he was to be very quiet while observing his mysterious boss as he carried out a negotiation. Not so. He would have sighed, but in his current shape as a floor lamp, it was impossible for him to do so. In fact, how he could see and hear was a mystery to him. As a minor deity, the spell Mr. L had used on him was far too complex for him to comprehend.
“So do we have a deal?”
The man who spoke was what Luk believed the local idiom referred to as a “mover and shaker.” Tall, handsome, and expensively dressed, the man reeked of power and success. At his right, a beautiful woman with dark red hair sat, sharing his aura. No, that wasn’t quite right. She seemed to have an aura of her own–perhaps even greater than the man’s. Her short green skirt rode high on her crossed legs, turned just so to give Mr. L a full and impressive view.
It was just as well Luk found himself part of the furniture. Otherwise, he might have snickered at the pair. They thought they were in control of the meeting. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He was sure they would never learn that until Mr. L was ready for them to know.
Mr. L leaned forward in his large leather desk chair. His hands were folded on the desk in front of him as he peered at the pair. There was a twinkle in his steel-blue eyes that hid the gaze of a predator.
“Now let me see if I understand,” he began calmly, a thin smile on his lips. “You believe that I have certain arcane powers which will allow me to carry out your plan, and you wish to pay me fifty thousand dollars when I do. Is that correct?”
The man nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”
“I must say Mr. Sherman, your plan is most inventive,” Mr. L said smoothly. “However, to carry it out would demand great magical power...”
“Which I have been assured you possess,” Mr. Sherman interrupted with a wicked smile of his own.
“I’m not sure...”
“Seventy-five thousand then,” Mr. Sherman said confidently.
“Shall we say a hundred thousand?” Mr. L replied calmly.
“A hundred and you’ll deliver?” Mr. Sherman asked.
“I’ll most certainly deliver,” Mr. L assured him, rising to take the man’s well-manicured hand. “Please call on my assistant, Mr. Luck at nine tomorrow morning. All will be arranged.”
“But Chrysler’s plane will be in at three tomorrow afternoon,” Mr. Sherman protested, releasing Mr. L’s hand. “That doesn’t give us much time. We’ll need to start today.”
“On the contrary,” Mr. L said calmly. “There will be plenty of time. You must trust me on this, Mr. Sherman.”
Luk could tell Mr. Sherman wasn’t used to trusting anyone for any reason. But the dapper man had no choice. He had been told that Mr. Logan was the one man in the city who could do what he wanted done. He would have to trust him, no matter what his instincts told him. He looked at his female companion who gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. Then to his companion as he took her arm possessively, “Let’s go.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Sherman,” Mr. L called out cheerfully. “And to you too, Mrs. Chrysler.”
The pair nearly stopped walking toward the door. Neither had remembered mentioning the name of the woman. But perhaps there had been a slip...
The heavy oak door closed behind the couple. Mr. L waved his hand, not bothering to watch as the floor lamp which had been casting light on the rug moments before plumped out into the figure of Luk. Luk felt his dark hair, still warm from being a lampshade.
“Well, Mr. Luck, a most profitable encounter, don’t you think?” Mr. L said. “I must thank our associate for referring Mr. Sherman to us.”
“But,” Luk asked respectfully, “are you going to do what he wants?”
“Oh yes.” Mr. L smiled a smile Luk hoped never to see directed at him. “I plan to do exactly what he wants. And more.”
“Mr. Chrysler?”
It was Alice, the receptionist. Usually she would have called Brenda Travis, my admin assistant, but Brenda was already in New York, meeting with my staff there while I handled the corporate move from back in Cleveland. I had just talked to Brenda, and she was having a ball getting things arranged. She was going to really take to New York: I could tell.
“Yes, Alice.”
“There’s a reporter on the line from the Plain-Dealer. He’s most insistent.”
I sighed. Brenda would normally take care of this. I didn’t really want to talk to another reporter–particularly one from the local paper. Everybody from the Mayor’s office to the Chamber of Commerce was pissed off because Chrysler Publications was moving to the Big Apple. It seemed I was to be castigated in print one more time before the move. “Put him through,” I said reluctantly.
“Jack Chrysler?” a voice came through my speakerphone with no preamble.
“That’s right.” It was really John David Chrysler III and Jack to my friends. A reporter from Cleveland’s biggest newspaper was certainly not my friend, but I wasn’t in a mood to split hairs.
“Matt Rogan–Cleveland Plain-Dealer. So how is the move going?”
“On schedule and on budget,” I told him as laconically as I could. I wanted this interview to be over already and it had just begun. I wasn’t a very popular person over at the Plain-Dealer these days. I was just moving my business out of Cleveland. Jeez, you would have thought I was moving the Cleveland Browns–the original Browns, that is.
“Why do you feel the need to move your publishing empire to New York?”
‘Empire? I’d hardly call it an empire,’ I thought. It consisted of four magazines, only two of which were still making a profit. Of those, only First Class Male did very well, and it had been losing circulation steadily for the last three years. All of them were owned by the Chrysler Family Trust–an organization founded by my father which had left me in charge after his death.
“Matt, I’ve been through this with another one of your reporters already.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “But indulge me, okay? I’m writing a little different angle on this.”
“A different angle?” I pressed, my defenses suddenly alerted. “I thought you were primarily an editorialist.”
Silence for a moment–then, “Well, I am.”
“So you plan to write an editorial about our move to New York,” I concluded. “Something tells me it won’t be very favorable.”
“Jack, a lot of people think you’re just doing this to please your wife.”
“My wife?” I practically yelled indignantly as my hackles rose. “What does my wife have to do with this?”
I could almost hear the droplets of sweat at the other end. This wasn’t going like the editorialist had hoped. “Well Jack, it’s pretty common knowledge that your wife hasn’t been very happy here in Cleveland.”
I cursed silently, admitting to myself that it was true. I had met Vickie at a publisher’s show in New York. She had been there helping to promote a coffee table book featuring top models from around the world. She was one of the top fashion models in New York–read that the world. Vickie was absolutely stunning. I fell in love immediately. She had a natural poise and grace that was alien to a Midwestern boy like me. Before I knew it, we were engaged, then married.
I had just inherited Chrysler Publications–or at least enough of the stock to exercise control of the company–from my father. He had died at his desk–as he would have wanted it–only three years before. My father was a legend in Midwestern business circles. He had built Chrysler Publications from the ground up. And as dynamic as his reputation had been in his business life, his personal life had been no less memorable. He was known to have had a number of mistresses before my mother’s death, and after her death, he had often been seen with a stunning young actress or model on his arm.
Since inheriting the business, I had been struggling. I had never really wanted the business and had certainly never thought I would inherit it at the tender age of thirty-five, but my father’s unexpected death had left me the sole heir. Nearly two hundred people were employed by Chrysler, and I had made up my mind to do well for them if nothing else.
And yes, there are businessmen who care about their employees–quite a few of them actually in my experience. I was proud to be one of them. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a very good one. Once at the helm, sales of all our magazines began to slip almost at once. I was actually in New York at that publisher’s show to try to dig up a buyer for some or all of our titles.
But then I had met Vickie, and I forgot all about my mission. I had a new mission now–to bed and wed a world-class model. Unfortunately, I succeeded.
I suppose in a way, I was trying to imitate my father. If he had been able to woo beautiful young models, why couldn’t I do the same? I suppose in retrospect, my feelings for Vickie were influenced by the memory of my father.
Oh, it started out well enough. The honeymoon in Rome was everything I could have hoped for. The problems started when we got back to Cleveland. For a girl like Vickie, born and raised in the shadow of the Empire State Building, Cleveland was a drag. Personally, I had always liked the town–its friendliness seemed to more than make up for its lack of sophistication. But Vickie was the proverbial fish out of water.
I was spending more time trying to salvage my marriage than I did running my company, and it was starting to show. By a strange coincidence, it was Vickie who saved the day. She knew Del Sherman from her days in New York. Managing Editor for a top men’s magazine, she was sure she could talk him into taking a similar position at First Class Male. It seemed to be the answer to my prayers. I could then run the other three magazines, boosting them in circulation, while Del did for us what he had done for other publications.
The strategy worked at first. First Class Male rose dramatically in circulation, and I was even able to bring our other titles up some. The problem was that the increase was temporary. Then came the opportunity to move to New York...
“Any comment on your wife’s role, Jack?”
“The decision to move to New York was mine,” I told him, then adding, “And mine alone.”
“Del Sherman had nothing to do with it?” he asked innocently.
“Of course Del was part of the decision,” I growled. “First Class Male is the main reason for the move. I feel in New York, that publication will be better able to keep our finger on the pulse of emerging trends and...”
“What about your employees?”
My train of thought interrupted. I asked, “Employees?”
“Yeah, Jack. Those folks who work for you. How many of them are moving to New York with you?”
Uh-oh. Now I knew where he was going. “Matt, most of our employees were offered the chance to move.”
“Sure,” he countered, “but only about twenty of them are actually doing so, and all of them are associated with First Class Male from what I hear.”
The correct number was twenty-two, but I kept quiet.
“Not very many considering the way you said three years ago that you wanted to take care of your employees,” Matt commented.
“Oh come on now,” I retorted. “It isn’t my fault so many of them wanted to stay here. And we even hired an outplacement firm to help them find new jobs.” I was proud of that move. It had been my idea. The firm had found jobs for nearly half of our people, and most of the rest found opportunities on their own. Thank god the local economy had been growing.
“Sure,” Matt said sarcastically. “You offered the same money they were making here in spite of the difference in cost of living in New York.”
“Profits aren’t sufficient to increase wages,” I replied, hating myself for using an argument Del had advanced over my objections. “Once we’re established, I’ve promised a bonus program that should more than make up for it.” I hoped.
“Have it your way, Jack,” Matt laughed, to my consternation. “I hope you get what’s coming to you in New York.”
There was a click at the other end. I didn’t even have the pleasure of hanging up on the bastard. He was bound to pillory us in the next day’s edition. The hell of it was, I was afraid he might be right.
The move to New York had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I wasn’t so sure. Oh, Del was still enthusiastic about it, but I wasn’t sure the additional costs would ever translate into revenue for the company. But I also knew that Vickie was anxious to move to New York. That damned reporter had been more right than I was willing to admit about that.
But right decision or wrong decision, the choice had been made. I was due to fly out to New York that very day to see the temporary location Del had picked for the company offices. So far, only First Class Male was gearing up in New York, but the other magazines would be headquartered there within a few months. Del had convinced me that it was imperative that we get First Class Male moved as quickly as possible.
“You’ll like the offices,” Del had told me just an hour before. “They’re in an older building–near the Village. It’s a brownstone that’s been converted to apartments and offices. You and Vickie can live right there in the building.”
“How about you, Del?” I had asked my good friend and associate. “Did you get a place there too?”
“I wish I could,” he had laughed. “But they don’t get vacancies very often. There was no room at the inn for me, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I’ll have you up for drinks as soon as we get settled in,” I had promised.
I was going to make good on that promise sooner than he thought I mused as my chartered jet took off from the airport. I had brought along a nice magnum of champagne to christen the place as soon as I arrived. Of course, I didn’t have to wait to start celebrating. There was a bar on the plane, and although there was no flight attendant, I was quite able to make my own drink.
I didn’t usually drink alone, but I was happy and relieved to get out of Cleveland. It wasn’t that I disliked the city. Actually, I liked it very much. The problem was that ever since I had announced the move, the city didn’t like me. At least, once in New York, if that reporter wanted to call me, it would cost him the price of a long distance call.
As for being alone, I was certainly that. There were no other passengers on the flight, and the crew had apparently come on board and taken off while I was napping. I hadn’t even seen them. They didn’t even respond when I tapped on the door of the cockpit to find out what the slight shudder had been while we were climbing out. The only response I had gotten was a distorted comment from the pilot over the intercom. He assured me everything was all right. Mollified, I sat back down to enjoy my drink.
It was nearly dark on a brisk early spring evening as we touched down at Westchester Airport. I had napped during the relatively short flight, so I was now ready to celebrate. With a wide smile on my face, I lifted the magnum up over my head so Del and Vickie could see me from the side of the waiting limo.
“You came prepared pal,” Del commented, taking the bottle while I hugged Vickie. God, it was good to be back in her arms again. I buried my face in her long, red hair.
“Always, Del,” I laughed.
“Well, we’ll get this one on ice as soon we get to your new offices,” Del told me. “There’s another one all ready for us in the car.”
“The offices?” I said stupidly. “I thought we’d be going to the Ritz-Carleton this evening.”
Del gave me a wide grin. “Why do that when your new office and apartment are all ready?”
“Ready?”
Del nodded. “Of course. Why did you hire me if you didn’t want things done? The building manager, Mr. Logan, put a rush on everything. He had people working through the night to get it done. Of course, we didn’t have to remodel since the offices are just temporary.”
“The apartment too?” I asked. “What about our furniture?”
“Well,” Del admitted, “the apartment isn’t actually ready yet, but Mr. Logan arranged for you to use another apartment in the building for a while. He’s quite a miracle worker.”
“Sounds like it,” I agreed. “I’d like to meet him.”
“Oh, you will,” Del assured me with an unexpected twinkle in his eyes.
A uniformed driver carried my luggage to the car. He was a homely little man–short and rather nondescript. It was hard to imagine a little fellow like him even being able to see over the steering wheel of the black behemoth that waited to carry us into the city.
I helped Vickie into the limo. Damn, she looked good! I was so relieved that we had settled our problems with the move to New York. She was wearing a dark blue dress–cocktail length and made from a shimmering material. Every inch of her body was sheer perfection from her lush red hair to the tips of her dainty toes. I loved her more every time I saw her.
“Our first night together in New York,” I whispered in her ear. We were alone in the back. Del had chosen to ride up front with the driver. I think he was just trying to give us some time alone.
“And it will be wonderful, darling,” she giggled. “I’ve already got the champagne on ice at the apartment. Of course, it’s not as big or nice as our real apartment will be, but we can make do.”
“I’m sure we can,” I assured her, covering her dark red lips with my own. Damn! I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it to the apartment. I wanted her right that minute.
“Here we are, sir,” the driver announced, opening the door for us. He had a strange little accent–one that sounded almost Russian. ‘Probably from the Balkans,’ I thought. With all the trouble there, there had been a large number of refugees even in Cleveland. New York had to be full of them.
When I got out of the car and found myself staring up at a large building squarely in the middle of the block, its brownstone façade weathered by both age and pollution. It was six stories high and had obviously been built in a more opulent age. The windows and corners of the building displayed ornate detail. Above the polished heavy oak front doors, two gargoyles perched on a ledge. Between them, carved into the stone, were two words: Deety Arms. But part of the stone on one of the words had either worn or been chipped away, for the second ‘e’ looked more like an ‘i’ at first glance.
“It’s magnificent!” I remarked. I fell in love with the building that very moment. I have always loved classic buildings more than the steel and concrete monstrosities that rise up from our cities. With their mirrored glass and imposing scales, they seem designed more for the machines that inhabit them than the people who must work there. This building had character.
“Come on,” Del insisted as he grabbed my arm. “You’ve got to see the offices.”
I marvelled at what Del had been able to accomplish in such a short time. Our temporary offices were nicer than our permanent offices back in Cleveland. Technically, I suppose the offices weren’t in Deety Arms. They resided in a building next to the brownstone, but it was similar in character.
“There’s even a hallway from the lobby of your building to this one,” Del pointed out as he indicated the softly lit, carpeted path I would walk to work each day. “You won’t even have to get your feet wet.”
He led Vickie and me through a double door of glass and brass into an office lobby replete with walnut wainscoting and tasteful furnishings in a deep burgundy shade. Gold letters displayed our logo, a stylized Chrysler Publications inside a drawn book.
I could scarcely believe it. Del had done all of this in just a few days. I had known he had contacts in New York, but I had never dreamed they were so efficient and resourceful.
“Of course, we just have a skeleton staff,” he told me apologetically.
“That’s all we’ll need for a few weeks,” I reminded him. The official business plan was that First Class Male, which had just published its latest issue, would be the first to move to New York. The other titles would continue to be published in Cleveland for the next few months until sufficient New York staff had been hired. First Class Male’s senior staff consisted mostly of people Del had recruited, and they had been more open to the move.
“I suppose you’re right,” Del said as he popped open a magnum of champagne. Producing crystal glasses from behind the reception desk, he smoothly poured glasses for Vickie and me, handing them to us before pouring his own.
“I propose a toast,” he said, holding out his glass. “To success!”
“To success!” Vickie replied quickly, hoisting her own glass to meet Del’s. I practically had to squeeze my own glass in to participate in the toast. I was very pleased, though. Vickie was obviously happy to be back in New York. This would be the spark that would rekindle the fires in our marriage.
“What a joyous occasion!”
The comment had come from the entranceway. It was deep and cultured, lacking any trace of the harsh New York accent I would have expected. I turned to look at the speaker. The man was tall and slender, his face a series of contrasts. His skin and build were those of a young man in the very prime of life, but his hair was completely white, cut closer than current styles would dictate. And his eyes... the steel-blue eyes seemed older than dirt, as if this man had seen it all. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, obviously tailored specifically for his narrow frame, and his shirt, tie and shoes had obviously been selected with impeccable taste. I suspected the clothing on his back cost more than most people made in a month.
“Jack, allow me to introduce our landlord, Mr. Logan.”
Mr. Logan extended a slender hand. His grip was warm and confident. I met his welcoming stare with one that I hoped was equally strong. But I couldn’t match his look somehow. It was as if he was examining me–perhaps all the way down to my very soul.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Chrysler,” he said. “I’ve followed your company for some time now.”
That pleased me. Our firm wasn’t all that large as publishing companies went, and to have a man of such obvious tastes familiar with us warmed me greatly. “Do you read any of our publications, Mr. Logan?”
He favored me with a small smile. “Yes, I have. I particularly like that little architectural magazine you publish–The Classical Touch. Last quarter’s article on medieval European influences on Nineteenth Century New York buildings was marvellous.”
“I can see why you enjoyed it,” I commented, warming to him at once. Art and architecture had always been my own first loves. “This building shows some of those very touches.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?”
I didn’t bother to mention that I had actually written the article, although not under my own name. I found myself liking this polished man. He was obviously a man of sophisticated interests. Yet there was an air of mystery about him, as if seeing him was only seeing the very tip of an iceberg.
“Would you like a glass of champagne?” Del called out.
“Yes, that would be very nice,” Mr. Logan replied, although he continued to look at me. His eyes never left me even when Del handed him his glass.
Del had ushered Vickie into his office, presumably to show it off to her, leaving me with Mr. Logan.
“Mr. Chrysler,” Mr. Logan began after a sip of champagne, “I’m rather curious about you. Your firm publishes such fine magazines as The Classical Touch. Yet you also publish that rather titillating... magazine known as First Class Male.”
I smiled. It wasn’t the first time I had been asked that question. “I realize many people may feel First Class Male is in less than appropriate taste...”
He dismissed that line of conversation with a wave of his hand. “I assure you, taste has nothing to do with my question.”
“Then I suppose the best way to say it is that First Class Male pays the bills so I can afford to publish quality magazines like The Classical Touch.”
If I had expected an argument, I would have been disappointed. Instead of the sanctimonious retort I had expected from him, Mr. Logan merely nodded with a smile. “I see. That sounds reasonable,” he commented. “Yet it doesn’t seem to belong in your group. I wonder if concerns about its publication are hurting the circulation of your other magazines.”
“I’ve wondered that myself,” I admitted frankly. “That’s why I’ve made an effort to keep it toned down a bit from other men’s magazines. I try to maintain a higher standard than even Playboy.”
And it hadn’t been easy, I might have added. Del had been pressuring me practically since his arrival to give First Class Male a harder edge–more explicit pictures and titillating articles. I had let him make a few changes I actually felt uncomfortable with. I had to admit, both circulation and advertising had picked up as a suspected result, but I didn’t want the magazine to become trashy.
“That’s a laudable objective,” Mr. Logan allowed with a thin smile. With that, he set his glass down, careful to place it on a coaster so as not to leave a ring. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to. I hope you enjoy your stay here, Mr. Chrysler.”
“I’m sure I will.”
‘I was impressed with Mr. Logan,’ I thought as I watched him leave. He carried himself with the poise and dignity of a man who is in charge and knows it–and doesn’t have to flaunt it. And as I was to learn later, I didn’t know the half of it.
“Well, I’d better let you get settled,” Del said with a friendly slap on my arm.
I looked over at Vickie. Getting settled wasn’t exactly the first thing I had decided to do. I had missed Vickie, and here in New York, she seemed even more radiant than I had remembered. I hoped our new temporary apartment had a large, comfortable bed.
Vickie and I embraced like teenaged lovers once the elevator doors closed. “I’ve missed you,” I told her in a husky voice.
“Oh darling, I’ve missed you too,” she replied.
I lifted my hand under her short skirt, only to have her gently pull it back. “Maybe we should wait until we’re in the apartment,” she admonished me gently.
I could scarcely wait. I could feel the erection in my trousers growing to the point that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk out of the elevator. I toyed with stopping the car and doing it right then and there. “I love you,” I said, unaware of how enslaved I was.
“Oh! We’re here,” she said as the elevator bell rang on the fifth floor. “Now, don’t be alarmed, darling. This apartment is just temporary. It’s very small.”
I grinned. “Does it have a bed?”
“You’ll see.”
She led me into the apartment, turning on only a small dim light. I strained to look around, but it was as if my vision was beginning to blur. “I feel suddenly very tired,” I mumbled. What was wrong with me? A few moments before I felt fine. In fact, I felt better than fine: I felt fantastic. Now, I could barely keep my eyes open.
“You’ve had a long day,” Vickie said in low soothing tones. “Why don’t you just lie down on the bed and I’ll get ready.”
“Ready? Oh... yes, ready. Yeah, I’ll just... lie... down.”
She had led me into the bedroom where I saw the faint outline of a bed bathed in the weak light coming from a single courtyard window. It didn’t look like a very big bed, but it looked soft and inviting. I didn’t so much as lie down as throw myself on the bed. I heard water running from the next room. She was getting ready for me... Ready for what? Oh, yeah... that...
As I slept, I thought I was dreaming, for I heard voices and could make out people walking around the room.
“Is he breathing?” a familiar woman’s voice asked.
“Oh yes,” another familiar voice–this one male–responded.
“How long will it take?”
Mr. Logan’s voice replied, “It will start any moment now.”
“Yes, I see. My God, that’s amazing!”
As if on cue, I felt something tickling my neck. Then, I dozed off again.
I awoke to a feeling of disorientation. As a businessman, I had travelled often, so the feeling of waking up in a strange room in a forgotten city was not uncommon. While that too, involved disorientation, this was different. Everything was different. The sounds, the smells, the very feel of my body seemed more different than I had ever experienced before. I felt an overwhelming urge to pee, but the sensation seemed to be coming from within my body rather than in my penis.
Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
I had awakened lying on my back, and as I shifted to get out of bed, I felt flesh pooling beneath my ass and something flopping at my chest. Something else was tickling my shoulders and back. There was something short and silky, barely covering my body. In that sudden moment of self-awareness, I nearly dropped back onto the pillow in a catatonic state. Sitting there on the side of the bed, I knew what had happened to me. What man wouldn’t have known?
I was a woman.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force myself back to sleep and out of this impossible nightmare. I had gone to bed male, my wife with me...
‘Where was Vickie?’ I suddenly wondered, a wave of embarrassment washing over me. She couldn’t see me like this! It wasn’t right. I looked around. She was nowhere to be seen. Actually, there was no place for her to be. The bed, with its pink and white feminine sheets, was a single.
I put my head in my hands and groaned as I nearly poked myself in the eye with an unexpectedly long fingernail. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t.
I think I might have sat there for the rest of the day, just trying pointlessly to make it all go away, but my bladder had other ideas. I knew if I didn’t get up and go to the bathroom I was going to make an embarrassing mess on the bed. Being a woman was bad enough. Being an incontinent woman was more than I could bear. I was already finding out that a woman, unlike a man, needs relief more urgently. With a sigh of resignation, I stood up.
Standing up was not altogether an unpleasant sensation. This new body was lighter and most probably younger. It moved with a grace that even my unfamiliarity with it could not totally destroy. I found it to be more cat-like–ready to spring upon an instantaneous command. I softly padded into the bathroom, feeling the sensation of a silky baby-doll rustling against my new flesh. I could also feel my face flush as I experienced for the first time the gentle sway of hips and breasts. In a terrifying way, it was exciting, and I hated myself for thinking of it in that way.
In moments, I had peeled off my panties and accomplished my first female act, and I felt an odd little flush of pride as a result. It hadn’t been as difficult as I thought it would be. While the muscles were different from my male ones, the barely-conscious command I sent to my body was very similar to its male equivalent. I was rewarded by a fine spray of urine that instantly relieved my discomfort. It seemed less directed than a male stream would have been, and I began to realize completely for the first time why women had to squat to pee. I also knew women wiped–I did it tentatively, only hoping I had done it correctly.
I then discovered the full-length mirror that every woman finds so necessary. It was attached to the inside of the bathroom door. Part of me didn’t even want to look, but I would have to face the new me sometime. I had been correct in my initial assessment. I was quite a bit younger than I had been–maybe early twenties if even that.
I was first drawn to my hair. Unlike my darker shade, I was now a blonde–a pure blonde. The hair that cascaded off my shoulders and down my back was the natural color of spun gold. There was virtually no trace of darker shades: nor was it unnaturally light. It was an almost uniform gold, which almost sparkled in the morning light. I supposed I would now be the butt of blonde jokes, but that somehow seemed to be the least of my worries.
The hair framed a face that spoke of both innocence and desire. The eyes were a deep, sparkling blue, and the nose was pert and blended smoothly with the almost patrician lines of my cheekbones. My skin was flawless, but it was particularly smooth and feminine on my face, accented as it was by two lips that were so full and perfectly formed that they seemed to need no enhancements–such as lipstick. Oh dear God, would I have to wear lipstick now?
As for my body... well, perfection is an arguable state, but my body was nearly perfect. The breasts were full and thrust proudly forward without being outlandish. My waist was narrow and my hips a perfect complement to it. My legs were long and smooth. I was an absolute knockout. It was a body any woman would kill for. But it was enough to make me want to kill myself.
“This isn’t possible,” I mumbled in a voice that was breathy and sweet. And it wasn’t possible–not at all. I suppose my first thought had been that I had been shipped off to some sex-change clinic where I had been altered into this new form. But no surgeon’s knife had done this to me. My new body was smaller and perfectly formed by the forces of nature–not medical science.
But how? And why?
Those questions would have to wait. Someone or something had done this to me on purpose. I needed to face them fully clothed, no matter how repugnant it seemed to have to wear women’s clothing.
After looking around what was obviously a very feminine apartment, I wasn’t surprised to find a closet loaded with women’s clothing. I managed to wrestle on a reasonable outfit in a few minutes. As expected, the bra gave me a little trouble, but I managed. In some ways, the panties were more an indication of what I had become. The breasts had already become apparent to me, their presence emphasized by practically every movement of my body. The panties, on the other hand, emphasized something I had lost rather than gained. When I pulled them up, they nestled themselves at the edge of my new slit, reminding me I was no longer a man in any way.
As for outer attire, a polo shirt, jeans, sneakers and socks were not too different from their male counterparts. The only difficulty was slipping them on. I was used to the more casual fit men enjoyed–loose without being baggy. There was always plenty of room to move around in men’s clothes. Not so with my chosen outfit, however. The polo shirt pushed outward from the pressure of my breasts, and I thought I was going to have to get the jeans on over my ass and hips with a shoehorn. And why did the sneakers have to be trimmed in white and pink? Pink?
I had no idea what to do with so much hair. Finally, I just gathered it into a large, loose ponytail and tied it off with a rubber band-like item I had found in the bathroom.
If I had thought to disguise my femininity in any way, I would have been greatly disappointed. The image in the mirror was of a sweet young blonde, feminine and vulnerable in every way. Thank God I had decided not to attempt makeup or jewelry. If I had looked any sexier, I would have probably been assaulted in the elevator.
Having managed to dress myself with a minimum of problems, I turned to the next issue: who was responsible for this? It seemed that my dear wife had something to do with it. I recognized her voice in the night, talking with a man who sounded distinctly like Mr. Logan. Vickie was gone–God only knew where. That left Mr. Logan.
I hoped I looked angry. The angelic face I now had was scarcely intimidating, but it was the only face I had. I used it to frown the second I got off the elevator. An elderly man, looking like an overweight Cesar Romero stood in a doorman’s uniform in the lobby. He smiled at me as I approached.
“Good morning, Miss Dixon. Did you sleep well?”
“Where is Mr. Logan?” I demanded, trying to get my new pussycat voice to mimic a growl. Then I stopped. “What did you call me?”
“Why, your name, Miss Dixon,” he explained. He was trying to keep a straight face, but I could tell he was well aware that I was a newly-minted Miss Dixon.
“Where is he?” I demanded, ignoring his amusement.
The doorman hurriedly moved to open an oak door. “Right this way, Miss Dixon.”
I’ll Miss Dixon him, I thought to myself. Just wait until I get all of this straightened out.
I pushed by the oh-so-helpful doorman and barged into Mr. Logan’s office. He was sifting through a rather large stack of papers with his eyes focussed on them. “Please be seated, Miss Dixon. I’ll be with you in a moment,” he murmured.
“A moment my ass!” I yelled. “What the...”
Suddenly, I was unable to speak. Not even a squeak came out of my mouth. And just as suddenly, I felt a firm push from the very air in front of me, causing me to fall back into a soft chair. At least I presume the chair was soft. It’s possible that what was soft was my new feminine ass. I was unable to get up or even move about. Finally, I just leaned back in the chair and scowled as Mr. Logan read his papers and ignored me.
I’m sure it was just a few minutes, and I realized it was being done in part to show me who was in charge, but it felt as if I sat there glued to the chair for an hour. At last, Mr. Logan looked up at me. There was a nonchalance to his expression which infuriated me even more. “Now, Miss Dixon, what can I do for you?”
“You can change me back, damn you!” I tried to make it sound like a forceful demand, but it came out as a shrill request. I realized for the first time since my change how difficult it might be to be taken seriously with my weaker woman’s voice.
“Sorry, Miss Dixon,” Mr. Logan replied calmly. “I don’t think that would be a good idea at this time.”
“Why did you do this to me?” I also wanted to know how he did it, but why was more important at the moment.
“Let’s just say it was in my financial best interests to do so,” he explained blandly.
“Financial...” I suddenly remembered Vickie’s voice from the previous night. “My wife... paid you to... to...”
“Change you?” he finished for me. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose that is the case. More specifically, it was your associate, Mr. Sherman.”
“Del?” I gasped. “Del paid you to do this? Why?”
Mr. Logan leaned back in his chair and sighed, “Really, Miss Dixon, you should be more observant. You seem to lack the survival instincts required of a businessman. Mr. Sherman has been having an affair with your wife since the day he signed on with you. Before he signed on actually.”
I tried to say something, but words wouldn’t come out. There was no magic to my silence this time: I was just stunned. Del and Vickie? Why hadn’t I noticed? The answer came to me unbidden. I hadn’t noticed because I didn’t want to notice. I wanted to believe that Vickie loved me for who I was and that Del was a loyal employee. I should have realized. How could I have been so blind? So Vickie and Del had conspired against me.
“You can’t just change me into... into this,” I said motioning to my new body. “I’ll be missed. Vickie won’t have control of Chrysler Publications for a long time.”
“Actually, she will have effective control almost at once,” Mr. Logan pointed out. “You may be missing, but your whereabouts are not unknown.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your plane was seen crashing into Lake Erie right after takeoff. It will take a few days before they give up searching for your body in the wreckage. Then, it will be a few days more before you are declared dead and the will read, but these are only minor roadblocks,” he explained with a smile.
“But I was seen here–in New York,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” Mr. Logan agreed. “But who will remember you? Mr. Sherman and your wife? The pilot? The driver who brought you here?”
I saw his point. No one outside their potential control had seen me. Even the pilot hadn’t seen me. As for the driver, he had undoubtedly been paid off. I had called no one and seen no one else who would remember me. And somehow, Mr. Logan had managed to fake a plane crash as well–probably with the same unbelievable powers he had used to change me into a woman. How could I possibly fight such powers? There might be a way, but for the moment, I was trapped.
“So what happens now?” I asked quietly, resigned–at least in part–to my defeat.
“Now, Miss Dixon, you live your life,” he replied blandly.
“But... but I don’t even know who I am,” I protested in a choking voice.
“You are Candy Sue Dixon,” he told me, as if he was reading from an unseen script. “You are twenty-one years old and are from Buffalo. You graduated from high school there and left at once for New York. Your mother is dead and your father’s whereabouts unknown. You came to New York to get into modelling but found you don’t have the right build for it.” He nodded at my chest.
“What... what’s wrong with my build?” I blurted out before realizing just how much it made me sound like the very girl I had become.
“Your breasts are too large,” he explained. “Most models are not as well endowed as you are. Your former wife is a perfect example of this. In any case, modelling closed to you, you tried acting with equally poor results. No talent for it, I’m afraid.”
This was sounding worse by the minute. Alone in the big city, a young uneducated girl seeks her fortune but fails at every turn. It was the stuff stories were made of–tragic stories.
“What do I have talent for?” I asked, very afraid of the answer.
“Well,” Mr. Logan sighed theatrically, “you are very attractive...”
“No!”
“...and rent in this building is rather expensive,” he went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Did you say something, Miss Dixon?”
“I said no!” I replied as forcefully as my new voice would allow. “I know what you’re thinking. I won’t be a prostitute.”
Mr. Logan smiled sadly. “Oh Miss Dixon, I’m sorry you think so little of me. I wasn’t suggesting that at all.”
I felt my heart slow down just a little. I had been sure he had intended me to earn my keep in a brothel of his choosing. “Then what are you suggesting?” I asked slowly, still sure I wasn’t going to like the answer.
“It just so happens that there is a new tenant in the building,” he explained. “It’s a publishing company, I believe...”
I groaned out loud. “What? Work for Del? Work for the man who did this to me? Are you serious?”
“As serious as death,” Mr. Logan replied, a threatening tone in his voice. “I would suggest that you consider your options. You have an appointment with Mr. Sherman for ten this morning. If you are interested in the job, I suggest you be there–dressed appropriately for an interview.”
“And if I’m not interested?”
“Then you may choose to make other living arrangements. I’m sure Mr. Sherman can be convinced to advance the first month’s rent for you if you are hired. Without a job, however, I’m afraid you’ll be required to move at once.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I would,” he said calmly. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, Miss Dixon, I have work to do. And presumably, you have an interview to prepare for.”
I didn’t move. I felt if I did, I would be somehow giving up any chance of returning to my real life. After all, with each passing minute, the sham death of Jack Chrysler would become more and more of a reality. Rescuers would find the plane in the bitterly cold waters of Lake Erie. More than likely, the hull of the plane would be broken, and it would be assumed that Jack Chrysler had either swum out or his battered body had merely floated out. In any case, it would never be found. I would be presumed dead–case closed. And Vickie and Del would live happily ever after.
And me? Well, maybe Candy Dixon could find a nice job as a waitress somewhere. With her looks and lack of education, she’d be a natural for a stint at Hooters. Shit.
“Mr. Logan...”
“Miss Dixon, I told you I am very busy,” he said stiffly. “I can assure you that as miserable as you think your life is now, I can make it worse if you continue to bother me. Now, good day.”
Fear rose in me all at once. I jumped unsteadily to my feet. I wanted to try once more to convince him to change me back, but I realized I would be risking what little I had left. Tears forming in my eyes, I fled the office.
I slammed the door to my apartment and burst immediately into tears. How could Del have betrayed my trust? How could Vickie have returned my love for her in this way? How was it possible for Mr. Logan to change me like this? Who–or what–was he anyway? What was I going to do?
The questions were almost overwhelming. I just wanted to crawl back into bed and cry myself to sleep. Maybe if I did, I’d awaken and find out all of this had just been some terrible nightmare. I could just sigh with relief and look at Vickie sleeping contentedly beside me.
But no, I knew that wasn’t the case. This didn’t feel like a dream: it was all real. Del and Vickie had stolen everything my family had built up, and I was stuck in the body of a voluptuous, uneducated woman. To make matters worse, Del was going to rub my cute little nose in shit by offering me some menial job at my old company. I wouldn’t do it!
But as I slumped into a chair, slowly getting control of my tears, I began to realize I really had no choice. Unless I listened to Del’s proposal and took the job, Mr. Logan would have me thrown out on the street. I knew enough about renter’s rights to realize he couldn’t legally do that to me without proper notice, but given his powers, I had no doubt the threat was not an idle one. Besides, what else was I trained to do? Who would believe that I had attended the finest private secondary school in Ohio or that I had graduated with honors from college? No one–that’s who. I had no choice.
With a sigh of resignation, I pulled my busty body up out of the chair and stumbled into the bathroom to look at myself once again in the mirror. The full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door showed a very attractive girl who looked as if she had been run over by a truck. My eyes were red and puffy. My hair was dishevelled and looked as if it had last been combed when Reagan was President. As for my clothing choice... well, the less said the better. If I was going to go to that interview–and something told me I’d better do just that–I had a lot of work to do. After another traumatic trip to the toilet to void myself again, I began in earnest to get ready for my job interview. I almost changed my mind again when I saw the contents of my closet. Apparently, Candy Dixon didn’t have a skirt bigger than a postage stamp or a pair of shoes with a heel low enough to get up on without a stepladder. Oh, it wasn’t really that bad, but it seemed like it. I almost lost my resolve and fled from the building.
Maybe starving in the streets would be better than working for Del. What kind of a job did he have in mind for me anyway? I shuddered to think of it. Maybe I’d be his ‘personal’ secretary, servicing him under the desk after a hard day. No, that wasn’t likely. Vickie would be a jealous lover and wouldn’t want me getting into Del’s pants no matter how humiliating it might be for me. No, I’d just be one of the many attractive young women in the office. It was sort of expected of a men’s magazine to have attractive women displayed in the office.
‘So okay,’ I thought, ‘I can do that. I can file and look pretty until I can get some things sorted out.’ Even stuck like this, maybe I’d go to night school and get an education. Maybe there was still a chance I could convince Mr. Logan to change me back. There were always alternatives–there had to be–but first I had to eat and keep a roof over my head. A job at First Class Male might be demeaning and humiliating, but what choice did I have? As Candy, I had only a limited education and no apparent work history. Life as a young woman alone in the big city offered few viable options for me.
With a sigh, I pulled a dress out of the closet. It was short like all the rest, but its color–a medium blue–was one of the tamest in the closet. I knew enough from observing women to put together a reasonable outfit. With the practice I was sure to get, I knew I could do better, but the accessories I was able to gather looked reasonable together.
Fortunately, I had a lot of time because I turned out to be not as savvy as I thought I was. The blue dress worked okay, but the lower heeled shoes I had chosen at first were not right with it. Even my formerly male eyes could tell that they were the wrong shade of blue. The right ones had about a three-inch heel on them. I didn’t want to wear ones that high, but they were the only shoes that really matched and I didn’t want to start over. I was a little wobbly in heels, so I walked around for a few minutes to get used to them. I was surprised to find walking in them wasn’t that difficult. Maybe it has something to do with the shape of a woman’s body, but with a little practice, I was able to develop a natural rhythm that made walking in heels reasonably easy.
I had decided on not wearing pantyhose. My legs were smooth and tanned and Vickie had told me not long ago that many women were forgoing them. Frankly, I was sure I’d look better with them on, but I didn’t want to take the chance on running a few pair without having a little time to practice putting them on. I could practice later, but there was no time to do it now.
I ran a brush through my hair. Fortunately, it sprang into place fairly easily. Slipping on a gold necklace and bracelet wasn’t a problem either. So at last, I had all the easy stuff done. Now came the hard part–makeup.
I looked in horror at the dozens of bottles and tubes laid out on the dressing table before me. It looked more like the contents of a mad scientist’s lab than a collection of beauty products. I’d have to go lightly at first and experiment when I got back from the interview. Hesitantly, I applied a little lipstick as I had seen Vickie do hundreds of times before. It had an unpleasant, waxy feel to it and a taste I didn’t care for. I was thankful I had applied it lightly.
Next, I tried a little eye shadow, gently brushing on some bluish tint I thought would go with the dress. It didn’t. With a sigh, I removed it with cold crá¨me and tried another more gray shade. When I had finished, I wasn’t entirely happy with the results, but at least I had avoided looking clownish. Although I was sure I had not done a very good job, I decided to quit while I was ahead. Eyeliner, rouge, and mascara were well beyond my ability to master. I’d experiment with them later.
I thought about trying to insert earrings in the holes I had discovered in my ears but decided against it. It was nearly ten and I had visions of getting one in and having trouble with the other one. I felt Del would have enough to chuckle about without giving him more.
When the elevator doors opened for me in the lobby, I felt like pushing the button for my floor and staying on board. I swear every male eye in the lobby was on me. The staff, I suspected, knew I had once been male. Their looks were more penetrating and their smiles a bit stifled, as if they shared a private joke. Other men in the lobby looked at me with undisguised lust. I must have looked like a fine bit of female flesh. I guess I had never realized before how obvious men were with their looks at women. ‘Had I been equally bad about that?’ I wondered.
I tried to walk without wiggling my ass too much, but it was difficult in such high heels. Besides, I was trying to walk as fast as I could to get to Del’s office before some sex-hungry man grabbed me and carried me off. In my fear and embarrassment, I managed to keep just a small emotional fire of hatred burning for Del, Vickie, and Mr. Logan. Damn them all to hell anyway.
I could already feel my face flushing as I timidly entered the new offices of Chrysler Publications. How different this was from my triumphal entry the night before. I had been so stupid. I should have suspected something was wrong. After all, Del and Vickie had both been in New York. And they had known each other before I knew either of them. And then there were the problems Vickie and I had already experienced in our relationship–problems that had driven me to make the move to New York. How could I have been so blind? But how could I have anticipated what they had done to me? I still found it hard to believe it was possible.
“Hi.”
It was a woman’s voice. Looking around, I recognized her immediately. It was Lucy Travis, the woman I had let Del hire as office manager. She was a good-looking thirtyish blonde. If anything, her skirt was shorter than mine. She looked a little on the bimbo side, but looks could be deceiving. She held an MBA from the University of Michigan and was certainly no slouch. But come to think of it, she was one of Del’s key hires. I wondered if she knew who I really was.
If she did, she didn’t let on. “You must be Candy Dixon. I’m Lucy Travis, the office manager here. Mr. Sherman told me you’d be coming in this morning. Normally, I’d interview you first, but he said he wanted to do it himself.”
That wasn’t a surprise. Del obviously wanted to gloat. I knew this interview was going to be one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life–either life. But Lucy seemed a little baffled by the process. I knew instinctively that Lucy would have little influence over my situation. To my relief, she obviously had no idea who I was–or rather, who I had been.
“Here’s an application,” she said, handing me an employment application and a pen. “He said when you’re finished filling it out, just knock on his door.” She pointed at a closed door I already knew to be Del’s. “Good luck, Candy.”
Well, once again there was certainly no indication that she knew who I really was. I supposed Del and Vickie would have kept what they had done quiet. At least I wouldn’t have to suffer the ridicule of everyone in the office–unlike Mr. Logan’s staff who seemed to all know who I had been before that morning.
With a sigh, I began to fill out the application. I opened my purse so I could get the information to fill out some of the blanks. Name. Okay–Candy Sue Dixon. Why Candy? Why couldn’t they at least given me a more neutral name. Candy smacked of femininity and–no pun intended–sweetness. Age. Twenty-one. Well, at least I was legal. I looked more like jailbait. Address. I put down the number of the apartment I had awakened in and the address of the building. Then I was stuck.
Education? Mr. Logan said I had a high school education, but that was all I knew. Work experience? I had no idea. Trying to be a model or an actress didn’t mean I had any experience at those jobs. In fact, from what Mr. Logan had told me, I suspected I had no experience as either. I knew what happened to most girls like Candy Dixon. Their dreams of glamour usually became the mundane reality of lower level jobs–such as waitresses, store clerks and receptionists. And that’s if they were lucky. The unlucky ones might find themselves in far worse straits–prostitution came to mind. I shuddered.
As I stared at the unanswered questions on the application, I began to realize even more, that as degrading as it would be to work as Del’s receptionist, I had no choice. If I didn’t get this job, I would be forced to find work elsewhere, for no one would believe my story. But without a work history or an education, who would hire me? Sure, the economy was good, but my prospects were limited. Mr. Logan had intimated that by taking this job, I’d have a place to live at least.
I stood reluctantly, smoothing my dress, and clutching the application in my small, feminine hand, knocked hesitantly on Del’s door.
“Come in!”
I opened the door and tried to make a dignified entrance. I’m sure I failed. Yes, I needed the job, but seeing Del as he sat as his desk, a leer on his face, caused me to snap. “Damn it Del, change me back!” I blurted.
The leer turned to a merciless frown. He rose from his chair. Del and I had been about the same height and build, but now he was much taller and muscular than I. “Shut up!”
Suddenly intimidated, I froze.
“Sit!”
I sat, my knees together like a schoolgirl about to be chastised by the principal.
“Let’s get something straight right now,” he growled. “You are Candy Sue Dixon and no one else. You need me but I don’t need you. If it were up to me, you’d be out on the street in a heartbeat. Hiring you was Vickie’s idea. Logan put it in her head. They want to embarrass you. I just wanted you out of the way. If it had been entirely up to me, I would have handled you more directly.”
I had a bad feeling about what he meant by “directly.”
As quickly as it had begun, the frown went away and the leer returned. I squirmed in my seat, trying to get my short skirt to cover more of my legs. I almost preferred the frown to the leer.
“But since this is the way Vickie wants it, I suppose it could be entertaining,” he mused. “God knows Logan made you into a looker. I never would have believed magic was possible.”
That was something we could agree on, but I remained silent.
When he was sure I had learned my place, he explained, “You are going to be our receptionist. In a way, it will be instructive for you. You’ll have a chance to see how this company should have been run from the beginning. If it had been, Chrysler Publications wouldn’t be in the toilet today. I’m going to create an entirely new image for this magazine, and you’re going to be part of it.”
I nearly cringed. This was going to be worse than I had imagined.
“You start tomorrow, but I’d better see a vast change in your appearance. Your dress is too dull. I expect to see you wearing a shorter, tighter skirt and something up top that shows your cleavage. And do something about that hair and makeup. I want to see some curls in that hair. You look like a librarian. And lose that little girl makeup. Go over to Bloomingdale’s and get somebody in the makeup department to get you a new look.” He pulled three hundred dollar bills out of his wallet and slid them across the desk to me. “And get your hair done while you’re at it. Do it all curly. Now I don’t care what Vickie wants. If you don’t look the image of First Class Male, you’ll be out of here. And the way things are, you need this job, don’t you?”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
“Then get out of here,” he finished. “You start work at nine in the morning.”
I had no choice, I realized forlornly. I could feel the embarrassed flush on my cheeks, and my lower lip was quivering. I knew I was ready to burst into tears. I rose and fled for the door.
“And higher heels!” Del called after me. “I want to see your ass wiggle when you walk!”
Safely back in my apartment, the dam burst. I threw myself on the bed like some heartbroken teen and bawled my eyes out. The funny thing is, it actually felt sort of good to cry. It was as if the pain and frustration of the morning had liquefied and was flowing down my cheeks. Maybe this was why women cried more readily than men. As my tears abated, I felt strangely better.
Lying there, I managed to gather my resolve. I would do what Del had told me to do, and I wouldn’t let him or Vickie or Mr. Logan see how much it bothered me. That was the only way I would be able to keep my sanity and a roof over my head at the same time. I wasn’t looking forward to what I had to do, but somehow I’d manage. I might be stuck as young woman, but I wasn’t going to let it destroy me. I’d have to try hard and do a lot of things I really didn’t want to do, but there it was.
I dried my eyes and even fixed my makeup as best I could. I thought about changing clothes. There were jeans in the closet and some casual sweaters in one of the drawers, but I decided to stay in a dress. ‘The next day, I’d be dressed even sexier, so I’d better get used to being stared at,’ I thought. I was going to jump into the deep end of the pool. Del and Mr. Logan had seen me at my worst. By the time I had to actually face Vickie, I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me in misery. Del had given me money to have my hair and makeup done, so what the hell.
But I regretted my decision to remain in a dress when I got on the subway. Walking only a block or two, my feet began to hurt in the heels. Besides, the area around my building was a little rough. As a man, I wouldn’t have worried, but as a woman, I was becoming a little frightened, even in the light of midday. I had three hundred and fifty dollars in my purse–fifty that had been there before and the three hundred Del had given me. But I had no idea how much my little shopping excursion was going to cost. So I was reluctant to take a cab. The subway seemed the best answer–until I got on it.
It was not rush hour, so the train wasn’t too crowded. But that didn’t stop guys from rubbing against me as they passed me while I was looking for a seat. I finally found one, but it was next to a man wearing a cheap suit and smelling of even cheaper cologne. “Don’t I know you?” he asked. I could smell the liquor on his breath, presumably from a liquid lunch. I tried to move down as he leaned into me, but the man sitting on the other side of me looked even worse.
“I don’t think so,” I managed, turning away. I felt his arm behind my shoulders.
“Maybe we should get to know each other.”
“And maybe we shouldn’t,” I huffed, standing and catching a strap that was higher than I anticipated. It made my breasts stick out a little more. God, was that a mistake! Now once again, a couple of men on the car found it necessary to move about the car, pressing against me as they passed me. I even felt one pinch my butt.
I bit the inside of my lip and tried to ignore what was happening as the train proceeded slowly to Midtown Manhattan. Was this what it was like for women in New York? Were they constantly ogled, jostled, and propositioned? It was like being a mouse in a world full of cats. I resolved to save enough money from my trip to take a cab back–no matter what the cost.
I had been in Bloomingdale’s before. I don’t think it’s possible to spend much time in New York and not go there at least once. From the subway, it’s particularly convenient since there’s a station below the building. But I had never seen Bloomie’s through the eyes of a woman before. I suddenly realized that most of the huge store is dedicated to serving women. There are clothing departments of every imaginable sort–sportswear, intimates, designer, petite, formal, and on and on.
I checked in at the beauty salon first, since I thought I might have to make a later appointment. To my surprise, they were able to take me at once. As they led me to a chair, I felt like a prisoner about to be electrocuted.
“A wash and set today?” the beautician asked me.
Huh?
“Uh... yeah I guess.” Whatever a set was. The wash I had figured out.
We then went into a discussion about what was to be done with my hair. Del had said curly. I’m sure the beautician was a little taken aback by how little I seemed to know about women’s hairstyles, but she caught the “curly” bit. I just sat back and let it all happen.
It took longer than I thought it would. I guess I was used to getting a haircut as a man. ‘That’s right, Bill, just take a little off the top and trim it up. How about those Browns last Sunday, huh?’ Well, those days were over it seemed. The final result was impressive though. When she showed me the mirror, I thought I looked a little like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally–I mean the party scene where she had long, curly hair. I hadn’t realized I really had all that much hair now. I suppose when it’s fluffed out and curled, it has more body.
Next, I tackled the makeup department. Or maybe I should say it tackled me. My previous forays into the makeup department of a store had been just to pass through. I had never even bought stuff like that for my wife. Vickie was very particular about her makeup and perfumes, so I stayed out of that world–until now.
The women in the makeup department were very helpful. I assumed they were on commission the way they hovered around me, and with the price of their wares, I guessed they made a pretty good living from their jobs. I had expected them to be stunned at my ignorance of makeup, but I quickly realized that many women sought help with finding the right look.
“You look so young,” one of the girls told me as she studied my face. “I think we need to give you a more mature look.”
That was actually fine with me. My driver’s license might say I was twenty-one, but the face I had been given looked as if it had just escaped from the nearest high school. In my short time shopping on the streets of New York, I had found I appeared too young and innocent to be taken seriously.
I had to admit I looked a little older when she finished with me. I had known so little about makeup that I had applied too little, making me look even younger. It seemed odd to be happy with more makeup on, but at least it helped me to look like an adult.
Of course, there were drawbacks. I managed to conserve enough money to take a cab back to Deety Arms, and I was thankful I had. Now that I didn’t look like jailbait, I got even more lewd stares and even a proposition from some seedy foreign guy just between the door of Bloomie’s and the cab.
‘I had better enjoy the cab ride,’ I thought to myself. I might have been from out of town, but I knew that secretaries and receptionists usually rode the subway or walked everywhere in Manhattan. A cab ride was an infrequent luxury, beyond the budget of most girls in jobs like mine. I thanked God that at least I didn’t have to commute to work like most girls. The only time I would have to leave the building would be to shop, and I didn’t plan to do that anymore than I had to. And I could have my groceries delivered. I would be as cloistered as a nun.
“Not bad,” Del said, inspecting me the next morning.
I felt a little relieved. After I had gotten back to my apartment the day before, I had tried some different looks while my hair and makeup were professionally in place. No, I wasn’t getting into the spirit of being a girl: I just wanted to find a look that was slutty enough for Del yet tasteful enough that I could live with it. I knew Del wasn’t going to cut me any slack. He and Vickie wanted to humiliate me, and I was in no position to fight them–at least not yet. I’d have to keep Del happy or things could get even worse.
Believe me, it wasn’t easy to find the right look. I had ended up going to work in a tight knit top with a neckline that showed a lot of cleavage. It was a very feminine pink in color and went well with the white leather miniskirt I had chosen. I had practiced for over half an hour the night before sitting in that skirt. Otherwise, I would have been giving free beaver shots all over the place.
I wore white hose with a garter belt. It wasn’t that I wanted to wear a garter belt, but the outfit seemed to call for white stockings and I had not been supplied with any in pantyhose. ‘Besides,’ I reasoned, ‘by putting my panties over the garter belt, I could go to the bathroom easier.’ I longed for the old days of standing and a simple flick of the zipper. Going to the bathroom as a woman was a major operation, it seemed. If I ever got my male body back again, I made a promise to myself that I would never mutter about how long women take in the restroom.
I was also wearing a pair of three and a half inch sandals that added the wiggle to my ass that Del had demanded. Top all that off with the right hair, makeup and accessories and I had just the look Del wanted. When I saw the look in his eyes, I knew I had succeeded.
“What’s not bad?” a woman’s voice called from Del’s office. I turned and saw Vickie walking slowly toward me.
This was the first time I had seen Vickie since my transformation. I wanted to call her a back-stabbing whore and had to fight back the urge to... slap her? Scratch her eyes out? I couldn’t, though. God only knew what they’d do to me if I did. Besides, Vickie was now taller than me. Like most top models, she was tall to begin with–about five-ten. As a man, I had been about three inches taller than she, but as a woman, I was much shorter–no more than five-four.
There was a wicked little smile on Vickie’s face. “Well, Candy, how do you like your new life?” she purred. When I failed to answer her, she just smiled and continued her inspection. “I think this role suits you much better, dear. You never were much of a man.”
I felt my face flush and involuntarily pressed my long fingernails into the palms of my hands. No, I suppose in a way I hadn’t been much of a man. I had allowed this bitch to manipulate me at every turn. Now my masculinity had been sacrificed on the altar of stupidity.
Vickie wasn’t finished teasing me. She came up to my ear, so close that her breath actually caused my earring to move. “I can hardly wait until you have your first fuck,” she breathed in my ear. “I’ll bet you’ll be a sweet little lay.”
I felt tears of frustration building up inside me, but with every ounce of strength I could muster, I willed myself not to cry. There was no way I was going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me bawl. At last she pulled back, a little chuckle escaping her lips. “Well, play nice with her, Del,” she laughed as she headed out of the offices.
‘At least I had better breasts than she did.’ It was a strange thought to have. I realized that at the time, but there it was. Why was I suddenly proud of those two lumps of flesh, so large and unwieldy that they had to be strapped in? Why had I found it important to compare my chest to Vickie’s smaller one? I didn’t have much chance to think about it though. Del gave me an annoyingly playful slap on my rump and said, “Well, get to work, Doll.”
And work I did. I had never realized how much work a secretary/receptionist did before. It wasn’t that the work was mentally challenging, but it was like having dozens of bosses all at once, each believing that what they had asked you to do was the most important thing in the world. After two hours of being hit from all sides, I was almost at my wit’s end. And I was squirming around in my seat. I had to pee but the phone kept ringing constantly and there was no one to relieve me so I could relieve myself.
“Hi!”
It was a familiar voice. I hadn’t heard anyone come in because my head was buried in a file drawer as I carried on a conversation with a phone cradled uncomfortably against my ear. I looked up into the face of Brenda Travis. I caught myself at the last minute from saying, “Hi, Brenda!” After all, she had been my administrative assistant for almost three years, but in this identity I had never met her.
“I’m Brenda Travis,” she said, holding out a well-manicured hand. Brenda looked great. She was only an inch or two taller than me now, but there the similarities ended. An athletic brunette, Brenda carried herself with grace and confidence. She was attractive, although not in Vickie’s class–or mine for that matter. Still, her friendly manner and winning smile had guys lined up to date her. I was sure she’d take New York by the balls.
“Candy Dixon,” I replied, taking her hand. It was the first time I had shaken hands with a woman as a woman. Brenda’s handshake was firm but feminine. I tried to match it as best I could.
“Yeah, Del said he had hired a new receptionist,” she commented. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”
“Well, I’m a little new at some of it,” I admitted.
“Well, for starters, try the headset,” she suggested, reaching into one of my desk drawers and producing a telephone headset I had overlooked. She plugged it in and handed it to me. “Has anybody checked you out on the phones yet?”
I shook my head.
“Men!” Brenda muttered with a theatrical sigh. “They’d never think to train you. Where is Lucy?”
“Uh... Ms. Travis had to attend a meeting at City Hall,” I explained. I didn’t bother to tell her that Del had demanded I report directly to him and not to Lucy.
“Well, then I guess it’s up to me,” Brenda sighed. So for the next twenty minutes, Brenda gave me a rundown on the phone system that would make my life far easier. She also explained how to handle some of my other chores as well.
I was seeing Brenda in a new light. As my administrative assistant, she had always been friendly and efficient, but the friendship was always a little guarded. After all, she reported to me, and although I tried to treat all my subordinates well, I was still the boss. Now though, I was a peer. I suppose she was really my superior in some ways, but she didn’t act like it. I had always liked Brenda, but now I had reason to like her even more.
“Want to go to lunch?” she asked when we had my workstation squared away at last.
I thought about leaving the building as a woman. The thought frightened me. I had planned to just go back to my apartment and eat whatever was there. That way, I wouldn’t be seen by anyone new. “Well, I...”
“Oh don’t tell me you’re on some sort of diet,” she laughed, misreading my hesitation. “Believe me, I wish I had your figure. There’s a pretty decent place just down the street called the Southwest Grill. We can have a salad if you don’t want anything heavier.”
I discovered suddenly that I really didn’t want to be alone. If that meant I had to walk down the street swinging my very feminine ass to stay with my newfound friend, I’d do it. “Okay.”
Brenda was right: the Southwest Grill was pretty good. I followed Brenda’s lead with a small taco salad and a Diet Pepsi. As we waited for our food, we indulged in the usual getting to know you conversation. I tried to leave my background as generic as possible: young woman in the big city, no boyfriend, just moved into my apartment so not many friends, and that sort of thing. When I thought I had given her enough information, I asked, “What about you?”
“Well, I grew up in Cleveland,” she began, telling me what I already knew. I tried to pretend as if it was the first time I had heard it, but over the time she had been my administrative assistant, I had learned quite a bit about her personal life–or so I thought. Suddenly, she threw me a curve.
“What?” I asked, not sure I had heard her last statement correctly.
She looked at me blankly for a moment. “Repeat what? You mean about Randy?”
“Yeah.”
There was a sad look in her eyes, and I could see them glistening on the edge of tears. “Well, there’s not much to tell. I thought we had a good thing going for the last year, but he just couldn’t see himself coming to New York with me. So we broke up–end of story.”
“And you really wanted to come to New York,” I prompted. I was sure her answer would be yes. She had seemed very pleased when I had told her about the move.
“Not really,” she admitted, a tear finally breaking free. She wiped it away self-consciously. “I just didn’t want to let Mr. Chrysler down. He had been good to me, and I knew he’d need my help in New York–particularly with... No, I shouldn’t talk about that.”
I put my small hand on hers. “Please tell me,” I coaxed. I had to know. I had thought she wanted New York. Now, I was finding out that it wasn’t the case. She had come to New York as much for me as for the job. I hadn’t known–or even suspected.
“You... you know Mr. Chrysler is dead?” she began softly.
I nodded more sympathetically than she could have ever known. Although many of the staff at First Class Male were New Yorkers newly hired by Del, there was still a feeling of melancholy over the death of the man they had never met. I didn’t flatter myself by thinking it was because I was loved by all: I knew they were feeling insecure about the future of the company. Del had even called a meeting for all staffers for late that afternoon to discuss the situation. I wondered if anyone associated with the company besides Del and my loving wife knew their roles in my ‘demise.’
“Well, Chrysler Publications hasn’t been doing very well financially,” she confided. “That was why Mr. Chrysler agreed with Mr. Sherman’s proposal to move our headquarters to New York. A lot of us on staff didn’t think it was really a good idea, but his wife and Mr. Sherman were obviously all for it. They argued this was where the powerful advertisers and trendsetters were, and if they were going to be able to compete against Playboy and Penthouse and all the rest, this was where they’d have to be.”
“That makes sense,” I commented. It had made sense to me or I wouldn’t have agreed to the move, but she didn’t know that, of course.
She nodded. “Yes, it makes sense–for First Class Male–but not for the other magazines. They’re smaller in circulation, and the costs of running them out of New York will cause them to fold. Of course it doesn’t help that Mr. Sherman has been siphoning funds out of them to build his own empire.”
“What?”
“Oh yes,” she assured me. “I have that on pretty good authority from someone in bookkeeping. It’s not that hard to do. I just learned this a few days ago and was waiting for Mr. Chrysler to come to New York so I could tell him about it. To be honest with you Candy, I don’t think Mr. Chrysler ever really enjoyed the publishing business. It was his father’s business. His father knew how to pander to the public. His son was more sensitive. He seemed to be more interested in magazines like The Classical Touch instead of First Class Male. I think if he’d been left to his own devices, he might have been an artist or something.”
I was amazed at how little I really knew about Brenda–and how much she knew about me. Or perhaps I should say the real me. In college, I had taken a few art courses and really enjoyed them. I didn’t get time to take as many as I would have liked though. My father insisted that I major in business, and he was not a man to be denied.
“So I felt I had to accept his offer and come to New York,” she explained. “He would have been lost here without my help. I owed him that. Now, I guess I’m sort of stuck here.”
‘And now her sacrifice had been for naught,’ I realized. As far as she knew, Jack Chrysler was dead. I was certain Del would know she was loyal to her former boss and not to him. Her days of working for Chrysler Publications were numbered.
I think Brenda realized that, too. When we got back to the office from lunch, she left me to take care of some of her own business, but I could see as we walked back to the office together that she dreaded returning. Oh, she didn’t dread being fired outright. No, Del wouldn’t do that to her. He would just make her life miserable until she had no choice but to quit.
I managed to get through my first afternoon on the job with a minimum of problems. I can’t say that everything was starting to feel normal, but at least things weren’t so frightening. I was even getting used to Del’s little innuendoes and snide remarks. I realized quickly that he was just trying to embarrass me. At first I thought he might try to get me to perform sexual favors for him–something I wasn’t prepared to do even if it meant starving in the streets. But later I realized that Vickie would never allow him to do that. If he had done anything sexually to me, she would hear about it, and as my only heir, Del needed her support to remain in control of the company.
The afternoon meeting almost made me gag. Del told the staff what a great blow my death had been–both to the company and to him personally. He even pretended to choke down a tear or two when he talked about what a wonderful person I was. Well, I don’t know if I was wonderful, but I was certainly gullible.
Late in the meeting though, when questions were allowed, I became suddenly interested in something one of the ad execs asked. “Mr. Sherman,” he began, “how will Mr. Chrysler’s death affect the move of the other titles to New York?”
“They won’t be moving: they’ll be sold off,” Del explained to my shock and dismay. But on the other hand, I was actually pleased that more of my employees wouldn’t be forced to move. My conversation with Brenda was enough to convince me that many of them wouldn’t want to move anyhow. But what would become of them? To make a profit, the other magazines would need a lot of hands on management. I was afraid that while they were up for sale, they would be allowed to drift until they were of little value.
“How soon will they be sold?” someone else asked. I suddenly realized it was Brenda.
Del for the first time looked a little uncomfortable. “As soon as the issues surrounding Jack’s death are taken care of.”
“What issues are those?” Brenda pressed. Good for her. She might not be doing anything to help her keep her job, but she was certainly asking the type of question that put Del on the spot. I was coming to realize that Brenda didn’t like Del any more than I did. I only hoped she wouldn’t have to pay the price for that, but knowing Del, he would find something suitably distasteful for her to swallow before he forced her out of the business.
“Until Jack’s body has been recovered and he has been declared legally dead, we are somewhat limited in what we can do,” Del explained tersely. As the murmuring began, he hastened to add, “Don’t worry though. That’s just a formality. We expect to be able to move on within a week or so–two weeks at the most.”
The meeting broke up shortly after that. Del’s answers had actually given me a ray of hope. I had assumed Mr. Logan would have had a magical Jack Chrysler body ready for the authorities. If he could change me as he had, he must certainly have the power to change a corpse to resemble my real self. The fact was that he hadn’t left the door open for a miraculous return of Jack Chrysler. I had an idea about that and quickly packed up my belongings and hurried to Mr. Logan’s office. Perhaps I had something to bargain with now.
As I made my way to Mr. Logan’s office, I vowed I would not make the mistake I had made with him the preceding day. I had demanded he change me back, yet I had been working from an inferior position. Mr. Logan held all the cards. Now, I had to convince him that it was in his best interests as well as mine to change me back.
The door to his office was open, and there was no one at the receptionist’s desk once more. Respectfully, I knocked on the open door before entering.
“Ah, Ms. Dixon,” he said, looking up from his paperwork with a smile that gave no evidence of our precious day’s altercation. “And how was your first day at your new job?” I was relieved to hear no note of sarcasm in his question.
“It was all right,” I replied as blandly as possible. “It was certainly different.”
He nodded almost sympathetically as he motioned me to a seat in front of his desk. “Yes, I imagine it was. Now, what can I do for you today?”
“I’d... I’d like to discuss my future,” I began. I didn’t want to ask at once that I be changed back. That would come later.
“Your future is what you make it, Ms. Dixon,” he replied with a cryptic smile.
“I was just thinking,” I ventured, “that apparently my... Jack Chrysler’s body hasn’t been recovered.”
“That is my understanding, yes.”
It was time to jump in with both feet. “Then it might be possible for him to survive. Perhaps he swam to shore and is still alive but hasn’t been able to contact the authorities. If that were the case, he might be in a position to reward those who helped him.” There. The bribe was on the table.
He leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers like a steeple and resting his chin on them as if in deep thought. His next words surprised me. “Ms. Dixon, why is it so important that you be returned to your old life?”
I was so surprised at the question that I couldn’t come up with an immediate answer, so he continued.
“Were you happy with your old life? Specifically, were you happy with your job and your marriage? It seems your company was failing–probably because your heart wasn’t really into running the firm. And certainly the events of the last few days should be sufficient to convince you that your marriage had already failed.”
“But there’s my education and training,” I pointed out.
He nodded. “That’s true, but how have you used them? You were educated and trained for a life for which you show little interest or aptitude. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that, but you really should have figured it out for yourself.”
“And this is the life I should have?” I returned, motioning at my new body. “I should be a little walking advertisement for sex? I should wiggle around in short skirts wobbling on high heels? I should be a receptionist for the rest of my life?”
“If that’s how you see yourself, then yes.”
“So there’s nothing I can offer you to get you to change me back,” I surmised with a quaver in my voice.
He shook his head. “Nothing at all.”
There was nothing more to say. I rose from my chair dejected. My last hope at being transformed back to my old life had been dashed. I turned to go.
“Ms. Dixon, I will give you one bit of advice,” he called after me.
I turned back to him. “What?”
“Do not repeat your previous mistakes.”
I nodded and turned away. Actually, I had no idea what he was trying to tell me. How could I repeat any of my previous mistakes stuck in this body and this life? I could hardly make the mistakes I had made before if I lacked the opportunities to make them. I had been transformed into a tiny cog in a large machine. It seemed the worst mistake I would be allowed to make now would be the wrong color nail polish or which purse matched my outfit.
I went back to my apartment and had another good cry. I seemed to be doing a lot of that since my transformation. And why not? I had been transformed into a helpless little sex kitten who answered phones and took orders like a good girl. Crying when things didn’t go my way was just part of the overall package. Vickie must have been very pleased. I had been turned into all the things she found most laughable about her own sex. And Del had to be pleased as well. After all, he had my legs and tits to stare at every day.
So that was it. I was going to be Candy Sue Dixon for the rest of my life. All I had to look forward to was a world of pantyhose and PMS. In a week or two, Del and Vickie would have official control of my assets and Jack Chrysler would be officially dead–if not necessarily buried. There seemed nothing to do but live the life I had been given. After all, isn’t that what most people have to do?
After that, one day seemed to turn into another. I rose in the morning, spent at least five times the time getting ready for work that I had as a man, went to my job, worked all day, and came home tired. At least I had determined that I wasn’t going to let Del or Vickie get to me. I was polite to them and professional and did my best to stand up under their insults and innuendoes.
Del, to his slight credit, returned the favor. He finally began to treat me as I was sure he had always treated secretaries and receptionists–he ignored them except when he needed something done. The way I could feel him looking at me told me that if he had his way, he would have made any number of sexual demands, but as long as Vickie was the heir-apparent to Chrysler Publications, he would toe the line.
And then there was Vickie. She went out of her way to treat me like dirt. She made a snide comment every time she saw me. I began to realize that in spite of the fact that as her husband, I had always treated her well, she had always seen me as a means to an end. And because she had to bide her time to get rid of me, I had been a constant source of irritation to her. But she had to play the dutiful wife so as not to arouse my suspicions. The result was that she had come to despise me. Hence her desire to see me suffer as she felt she had been made to suffer.
There was another factor that added to her irritation. A week had gone by and still there had been no resolution in the ‘death’ of Jack Chrysler. Now, my old law firm, Reynolds and McGuire was sending someone to ensure that ongoing operations were continuing within the requirements of the estate.
I thanked God for Duncan Reynolds. The old man had been one of my father’s trusted confidants as well as his attorney. He had insisted that my father–then I–set up our estates properly. The contingency of a disappearance on the part of either my father or I had been covered by him. If I were to disappear, the executor of the estate–Duncan’s own son Peter–would exert limited control over the company until I had been declared legally dead. Now, Peter was on his way to New York, and both Del and Vickie seemed nervous.
It chaffed to be just a receptionist in a company that had once been mine. I was never in the know as I had been before. When Del told me to make sure I dressed sharply because we were having important visitors, I had assumed he meant Peter Reynolds. But I found as I reported for work the following day that Peter wasn’t due until the next day. When the important visitors showed up, I felt bile rising in my throat.
Three men entered my reception area together that day, but only one was of consequence. Tony Capella was a known crime figure in New York–drugs and prostitution formed the cornerstone of his empire, and his picture had been in the New York Post on a number of occasions. He was a good-looking guy (and yes, I had started to notice things like that) who moved with the swagger and confidence which showed he was sure nothing dared stand in his way. In case anything or anyone was stupid enough to try, one or both of the two apes who flanked him would spring into action.
Seeing the trio enter the office would have been frightening enough if I had still been a man, but as a woman, they were downright terrifying. Tony stepped up to my desk and made no secret of the fact that he had approached me merely to look down my top at my breasts. “Hi, honey. Tell Sherman his two o’clock appointment is here.”
He didn’t have to ask me twice. I jumped to my feet, happy at least that my breasts were no longer the target of that animal stare. Of course, I knew he and his associates were having an equally enjoyable time looking at my long legs and enticing behind as I rushed into Del’s office.
“Mr. Sherman,” I said with a practiced respect that I had been required to show, “your two o’clock appointment is here.”
The color actually drained from Del’s face. It gave me no little satisfaction to know that whatever the purpose of the meeting, Del was every bit as frightened as I was. Only Vickie who sat confidently in front of his desk was able to mask any fear she might have of Tony Capella. I began to suspect there was more going on than I had been made aware of.
Only Tony Capella walked into Del’s office, closing the door behind him. The two apes made do sitting in the reception area, watching me like a snake watches a mouse it plans to have for dinner. To my relief, the meeting didn’t last long. In about ten minutes, the door to Del’s office opened and the two apes rose to their feet. Tony shot me an evil glance and left, flanked by the apes.
“Imposing, aren’t they?”
I jumped upon hearing Mr. Logan’s voice from behind me. Where had he come from? I suppose he might have been meeting with someone else in the office and I had just not seen him come in. Then again, anyone who could change my sex would probably have a number of others powers as well–including the power to appear wherever he wanted to be.
“Mr. Logan, what’s going on?” I asked, turning to face him. “Why were they here?”
He smiled. “You’ll find out soon enough Candy. Don’t be impatient.”
And suddenly, he was gone. I don’t mean he disappeared in a puff of smoke or anything as dramatic as that. It’s just that one moment I was aware of his presence and the next moment I was not. I think for the first time, I was aware that there was a larger game being played than I was aware of. I had thought that I was the losing king in a game of chess, betrayed by my own queen. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Perhaps I was a mere pawn. ‘But then pawns are expendable,’ I remembered suddenly. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
Peter Reynolds finally arrived the next day. I had seen Peter before. His father had introduced him to me years ago when I was just starting to work for my father’s company. Peter had been a boy of twelve or thirteen at the time and I had been about twenty-four with a newly-minted MBA in hand. Then, I saw him again at the reading of my father’s will. He had been a third year law student then. I knew he had gone into his father’s firm, but this was the first time I had seen him as a full-fledged lawyer. In the past, I had always dealt exclusively with his father.
“I’m here to see Mr. Sherman,” he said to me with a friendly smile. To his credit, he looked at my eyes–not my breasts–when he said it. He was a good-looking guy, and yes, I noticed. I had been a woman for two weeks, and no matter how hard I fought it, I was beginning to become attracted to men. So far, I had not given in to my temptations, but I knew it was only a matter of time...
Peter had that confident look that all good-looking, athletic young men share, but there was no arrogance in his look. His blue eyes looked around the offices as if he were a child catching his very first glimpse of Disneyland. He pushed a windblown shock of brown hair away from his forehead and straightened his tie as if by habit.
“Just a moment, Mr. Reynolds,” I finally managed shakily after staring shamelessly at him for longer than I should have. “He’s expecting you.”
Once I had gone through all the formalities, I returned to my desk and found my heart was beating faster than normal. I mentally kicked myself for getting so worked up over Peter. It was one thing to notice men on the streets of New York, or to watch TV and wonder idly what it might be like to be kissed–or even more–by one of the hunks on the screen. Yes, and it was one thing to join in with the other girls in the office, discussing everything from stem to stern about some of the guys in the office or someone’s boyfriend. But it was quite another thing to be unexpectedly attracted to someone that I had known as a man–even if I had scarcely known him.
I resolved to be more aloof when Peter left the office. I would give him a cheerful but professionally artificial smile as he left, wishing him a good day as I went about my administrative tasks. There would be no more awed stares at him. There would be no more nervous little girl stammering when we spoke. I would be the iron maiden. I would...
“Excuse me.”
“Oh!” I nearly jumped out of my seat. I hadn’t heard him leave Del’s office.
“Y... yes?” Down, girl! Down!
“I was wondering... Candy, is it?”
“How did you...?” I began, then I remembered my nameplate on the reception desk and with a nod at it smiled sheepishly.
“I hope you don’t think I’m being too pushy, but I was wondering if you would have dinner with me tonight?”
“Dinner?” Gee, I could be a brilliant conversationalist when I tried.
He nodded. “Yes. You see, I don’t know many people here in New York, and I noticed you don’t wear a wedding ring... so I thought if you weren’t busy, maybe...”
“Sure.”
“Huh?”
“Oh,” I said, flustered. “I mean yes, I’d like to have dinner with you tonight.” Now why had I said that? Worse yet–why was I excited about the prospect of having dinner with him? “Meet in the lobby at seven?”
“I could pick you up,” he offered.
“I live here in the building,” I explained shyly.
He smiled. “Great. I’m staying here too. Mr. Logan was good enough to find a place for me. Until seven then.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby,” I agreed. Good. At least that way, things would be at arm’s length. He wouldn’t get in my apartment. That seemed somehow too... intimate.
As he left, I wondered what part of my brain had stopped working when I agreed to go out with him. Was it just that I remembered him from my old life and wanted somehow to recapture–if just for the evening–a part of my past? Or were the female hormones flowing through my body beginning to take their toll? Maybe it was a little bit of both. Besides, for the two weeks that I had been a woman, I had tried to avoid any social situations.
My social life had been limited to a few friendly chats with the other girls and guys at work. So far, I had rebuffed all of the men and politely declined offers from the girls to go out for drinks after work. I knew those innocent little sessions would end up as evenings spent trolling for guys. I’m sure they all thought I had a secret lover. After all, I was young and attractive, and it didn’t seem natural to any of them that I would be sitting home alone every evening just staring at the television.
Yet that was exactly what I had done since my transformation. Forced to dress and act as a sexy young woman all day long, I sought refuge each evening in my little apartment. I had bought myself a couple of pairs of loose-fitting jeans and some sweatshirts to escape from the feminine frippery I wore during the day. I’d don the unisex garb, fix a small dinner, and veg in front of the tube all evening.
At first, that had seemed to be a suitable refuge from the life I had been thrust into. True, I was still a woman under the baggy sweatshirt, and the bra I still wore to keep the rough material of the sweatshirt from rubbing my nipples was a reminder of my new sex, as were the jeans molding themselves to the swell of my hips and the curve of my ass. But in spite of all that, at least I wasn’t wearing heels and nylons and a skirt so short that I felt almost naked.
But as time went on, hiding in my apartment had become a less desirable solution. It gave me too much time to think–or rather brood–about my situation. I had no life outside the one that had been defined for me by Del and Vickie through Mr. Logan’s magic. I was a recluse imprisoned by my new sex. That would have to change or Del and Vickie would win.
Two weeks as a woman was enough to convince me that I was going to be one for the rest of my life. While Mr. Logan took less sadistic delight of my plight than Del and Vickie, I knew in my heart that he had no intention of ever changing me back. Besides, Peter’s arrival on the scene was an indication that the final chapter in the life of Jack Chrysler was about to be played out.
It was not even a chapter, really–more like an epilogue, I supposed. I was certain Peter had come to review the will with Vickie and Del and discuss the future of Chrysler Publications. There was nothing I could do but sit helplessly and watch my family business be delivered into the hands of my enemies.
But none of that really explained why I had so willingly agreed to go out to dinner with Peter. Yes, he was a familiar face–someone I had known in my true life–but we had never been close. Yet I had jumped at the chance to have dinner with him as if we were old friends. No–that wasn’t true. It was time for me to be honest with myself: I was going out with Peter because he was a nice-looking guy and I had found myself almost instantly attracted to him.
It wasn’t my own doing: I was sure of that. When Mr. Logan had changed me into Candy Dixon, he had done more than just change my body, I suddenly realized. With little effort on my part, I had been feminine and demure for the last two weeks. I had reacted to the world around me in more passive ways than Jack Chrysler would have reacted. I had tried to deny feminine feelings and urges, even avoiding playing with my new sex–for the most part. But the fact of the matter was I now found men sexually attractive, and Peter Reynolds was a near-perfect representative of his sex. How could I not be attracted to him?
But I wasn’t ready to completely give into my feminine side. Yes, I would have dinner with him. We’d chat and get to know each other. I would permit him to put a gentlemanly arm around me during the course of the evening, and a gentle, almost sisterly kiss in the lobby at the end of the evening would be his reward. There was no sense in rushing into this boy-girl stuff too fast. I wasn’t ready to accept all the ramifications of being a healthy young female just yet.
Of course, given how I had to dress for dinner, I would probably have to beat him off with a pipe wrench I realized as I waited for him in the lobby. Candy’s evening wardrobe seemed to be every bit as revealing–if not more so–than her work attire. Every girl has a little black dress: Candy had three of them. I picked the least revealing of the three, but I had to compromise in the process. The dress that showed the least breast flesh and at least had shoulder straps was also the tightest one that had the shortest hemline. I would have to be extra, extra careful every time I sat down or I’d be showing a lot more than I wanted to reveal. At least the shoes I found to wear with the dress were as comfortable as any pair of strappy sandals with a three-inch heel could be.
My evenings home alone had not been entirely wasted in front of the boob tube. Boredom had driven me to read some of the women’s magazines scattered around the apartment, and an article I had read on evening makeup was now paying off. I knew I had given myself a little more sophisticated look for the evening than the one Del seemed to favor for me in the office.
I even found a subtle pleasure in the looks I was getting from passersby in the lobby. Even that strange little man who worked for Mr. Logan–Mr. Luck was his name–seemed to do a double take when he saw me standing there, absently tapping a heeled little foot as I waited for Peter.
“My God, you look stunning!” Peter said when he got off the elevator and saw me standing there.
I blushed, resisting the urge to tell him as he stood there in an expensive, well-tailored dark suit that he didn’t look too shabby himself. “I hope I’m not overdressed.”
He shook his head, his eyes still on me. “Not at all. I got us a reservation at a place not far from here called Sonny’s.”
I nodded my approval. I had read a review of the place on one of my earlier trips to New York before my transformation. Come to think of it, I had seen it in an airline magazine–which was probably where Peter had heard about it. It was run by a Mr. Rashad who specialized in Mediterranean food.
We took a cab to the restaurant and were both a little embarrassed to find out it was less than two blocks from Deety Arms. It gave us something to laugh at though, and Peter tipped the driver more than the amount of the fare.
Needless to say, I felt self-conscious as I walked into Sonny’s on Peter’s arm. Oh, I knew I looked normal enough, and two weeks at work had given me all the skills I needed to walk in a close-fitting skirt while wearing heels. It was just that as a receptionist, I had tried to be more of a fixture than a person, and sitting behind my desk, very little of me was exposed to the world. As I entered the restaurant though, I was very aware that I was the center of attention. And not all of the attention was positive. While men were looking at me with obvious approval, I could see a number of women who had reasoned me to be a young bimbo on the arm of a successful man. Their scowls though, were as much envy as disapproval.
Strangely, I felt the self-consciousness ebb as we were led to our table. I found it somehow exhilarating to be so admired by many, and somehow amusing to be envied by the rest. I managed to keep my head high, enjoying the swirl of my long hair on my nearly-bare shoulders. I would have still paid a fortune to return to my old body and my old life, but there was something to be said for being the center of such attention.
We even attracted the interest of the mysterious Mr. Rashad himself. The article I had read said only that he had arrived in New York from Egypt an undetermined number of years ago and that he guarded his privacy carefully. I couldn’t help but think when I saw him that he was very much like Mr. Logan in the way he moved confidently and even a little regally.
He bowed. “Sir. Lovely lady. Welcome to my humble establishment.” He snapped his fingers and a beautiful young woman who looked as if she was one of Cleopatra’s handmaidens shyly approached the table and bowed. “This is Jasmine. She will see to all of your needs this evening.” He looked at her, his dark eyes seeming to burrow into her very soul. “If she displeases you in any way, be certain to let me know.”
Under Mr. Rashad’s supervision, she efficiently arranged our napkins and took Peter’s order for an aperitif for each of us. She then scurried away while a busboy provided us with lemon water and a basket of flat bread.
“Wow!” Peter commented. “We don’t have anything like this in Cleveland. I almost feel like a pharaoh or something.”
I knew what he meant, but I sensed something more to Mr. Rashad and the lovely Jasmine. She seemed uncomfortable with herself, and I began to wonder if my comparison of Mr. Rashad and Mr. Logan might have been closer to the mark than I had realized. In my short time as a woman, I had had the opportunity to observe the neighborhood around Deety Arms. The area was populated by a strange collection of ethnic restaurants, clubs (including the kind with nude dancing), eclectic shops, and other strange enterprises. I had enough experience travelling about New York through the years to know that the city–and particularly this part of the city–was home for the uncommon, but the establishments around Deety Arms seemed more uncommon than most.
In any case, the meal was nothing short of magnificent. Barricaded as I had been in my apartment living off frozen dinners and leftovers from my deli lunches, the meal was an embarrassment of riches. Still, I ate sparingly, realizing that while as a man I could have polished off the succulent lamb without a second thought, my new body was not capable of eating as much. And although I drank less wine than normal as well, my smaller body felt the effects of the alcohol much more acutely.
We talked freely throughout our meal, and I began to realize that Peter and I had more in common than I might have realized. We had both followed our fathers into their professions when we would have preferred to do something else. He told me of his interest in writing.
“So you wanted to be a novelist?” I asked him as we waited for our coffee after dinner.
“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “I think I would have preferred to be a journalist. I don’t have the imagination to be a good novelist, although John Grisham seems to have managed as both a lawyer and an author.”
I favored his smile with a little chuckle.
“How about you, Candy?” he asked. “What would you do if you got the chance?”
“Art, I think,” I answered quickly, surprising even myself.
“Do you paint?”
“I’ve really never tried,” I admitted. I could have added that my father would not have approved, but that was another life. “I can draw a little though–mostly pencil sketches. I haven’t done it in... well, let’s just say it’s been a long time. Besides, I can appreciate it better than I can draw it.”
That led to a discussion of artists and styles as Jasmine placed our cups in front of us and artistically poured from a small pot. The aroma of the coffee was incredible–a perfect ending to an unbelievable meal.
“This has been fun,” I told Peter as I sipped at the hot liquid. It was as much an admission as an observation. Actually, the evening had been more entertaining than I had dared hope.
“Well, I’ve got one more night in New York,” Peter told me. “Shall we do this again tomorrow evening?”
I found myself torn between happiness that Peter would still be in New York the next night and sadness that he would be gone the day after. “I’d like that,” I said sincerely. “I thought you’d just be here to go over the will and then go back to Cleveland.”
“I wish it were that simple,” he sighed.
My curiosity was piqued. “Why isn’t it?”
“Well, my father is executor of the will...”
I nodded with interest. I already knew that, of course.
“And as executor, he has determined that until all efforts have been exhausted to make sure he’s really dead, the disposition of the estate should be delayed.”
I was shocked. “Del... Mr. Sherman... said something about that a few days ago, but I assumed that it was cleared up. I mean, surely your father doesn’t think I... that Mr. Chrysler is still alive.”
Peter shook his head. “I really can’t explain Candy. It’s very confidential. All I can tell you is that any reading of the will has been delayed.”
‘Confidential? What was confidential about the situation?’ I wondered. “So what happens to the company in the meantime?”
Peter misunderstood my question. He smiled, “Don’t worry: your job is safe. The company will continue to operate. It’s a corporation with its own life and resources.”
I knew that, of course. Corporations are legal entities with their own existence under the law. The point at issue though, was that like many closely-held corporations, finances were often intermingled between the owners and the company. As an individual and a stockholder, I as Jack Chrysler, had loaned significant resources to the company to facilitate the move to New York. But it had taken significant corporate capital as well. In short, the company was cash poor, and the longer the estate remained in limbo, the more difficult it would be to generate operating capital.
Peter knew that too. I could tell he was holding back the details from me. And why shouldn’t he? He was not at liberty to tell me all of those things. I was just his attractive date for the evening–not a legal associate. Just for a moment, I missed not being on the inside of deals. Besides, I really couldn’t imagine why disposition of my estate was being held up.
We walked back to Deety Arms after dinner. Normally, walking through New York neighborhoods at night is a questionable idea at best, but our route was well-lit. Besides, I had a sneaky hunch that the only people who weren’t safe on the streets of this particular neighborhood were those who cross people like Mr. Logan and Mr. Rashad. The entire neighborhood had a magical quality if you had been attuned to it as I had by virtue of my transformation.
Peter didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. For one thing, he was too busy paying attention to me. I could tell he really liked me. Was it love at first sight? Well, such things happen. When I first saw Vickie, I knew I had to make her mine. Of course, when I considered what that led to, maybe love at first sight was a dangerous concept best to be avoided.
And I must admit I had taken an instant liking to Peter. Although he didn’t realize it, we had many things in common. Additionally, I found him warm, sensitive, and honest–hardly aspects I would have expected in a hard-driving young attorney. I also felt safe when I was with him. The fact that I was now an attractive young girl had made me cautious–even suspicious–of my surroundings, but when I was there with Peter, I felt safe and secure even on the streets at night.
He saw me to my door, and I toyed briefly with the idea of asking him in. God knows I wanted to. My body practically tingled when he touched me. But I was afraid of where that would lead us. I wasn’t ready to surrender this body to anyone–even someone I liked as much as Peter. Oh, it would have been safe in a practical sense. As Candy, I religiously took birth control pills. Not knowing exactly what Mr. Logan, Del and Vickie had planned for me, it seemed like good insurance to take them. And I had even been thoughtfully provided with condoms. I found them while going through my nightstand drawer one evening. And the idea of sex with a man–or at least the right man–didn’t seem so terrible to me anymore. I had a woman’s body and it seemed to dictate my sexual choices. I just wasn’t ready to hop in bed with a man–not yet at least.
Peter was a gentleman. After the obligatory “I had a wonderful time” statements, he took me very gently in his arms and gave me a warm kiss, bordering on passionate. As I put my arms around his neck and returned the kiss, I felt the tingling becoming even more intense. After a few moments, we reluctantly broke off.
He smiled at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.”
I don’t think I was able to breathe again until I had closed the door behind me.
I had expected the tingling to subside when I got inside my apartment. If I had been male, that’s what would have happened. The stiffness in my groin would have gradually lessened until I was back to normal again. As a woman though, I had nothing to get stiff–or at least not so overwhelmingly stiff. Instead, I found my arousal was more subtle but no less demanding. And it didn’t seem to subside as quickly as it would have if I had been male.
I had no way of knowing if my sexual urges were entirely average as either a male or a female, but I did know that for the first time since I had been transformed into a woman, I had an itch that I couldn’t scratch.
Or could I?
Since my transformation, I had scrupulously avoided seriously playing with myself. ‘To do so,’ I had reasoned, ‘would be giving in to what I had become.’ Sure, I had touched myself and felt some arousal, but nothing I couldn’t stop before it got out of hand. While I held only scant hope that I could ever regain my masculinity, it had somehow seemed that masturbation was as ultimate a form of surrender as making love to a man would have been. When I wiped myself, it was quickly and efficiently. When I showered, I never allowed the washcloth to linger on my breasts or between my legs. And my new sexual attributes had rewarded me by remaining dormant. Now though, they were making their presence known in a most uncomfortable way.
I don’t think I made a conscious decision to do what I did that evening. Instead, I had mechanically gotten out of my dress, fully intending to put on pajamas and go to bed. But the feel of my silky dress sliding along my body and the electric sensation of my nylons as I pulled them from my legs only intensified the sexual tingling in my body.
I looked at myself in the mirror as if for the first time. There I was–my white skin and golden hair in sharp contrast to the black lace bra and matching French-cut black panties I wore. The sources of my discomfort were to a great extent hidden by those lacy items. As if in a dream, I removed the bra, fantasizing for a moment that it was Peter stripping it from my body. I was shocked to note that my nipples were firm and extended, like tiny parodies of my missing male equipment.
Hesitantly, I brought my hands up, touching the erect nipples gently. They responded by tingling even more, accompanied by an even stronger sensation between my legs. I gasped, almost unable to breathe. My hands jerked to my sides at once, as if they had been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to do. They were so close to the sides of my panties, I pulled them off without another thought.
Now I was fully naked before the mirror, my sex covered only by a small patch of hair a slightly darker gold than the hair on my head. I backed away from the mirror, as if unable to fully comprehend the image. It was almost as if I was seeing myself for the first time, and in a way I suppose I was. This was not Jack Chrysler, warped into an image not his own. This was Candy Dixon, becoming aware for the first time of exactly who she was.
I fell back on the bed, my right hand automatically falling between my legs as my left hand rested on my breasts. I probed gently at myself, feeling a quickening of my pulse as my finger penetrated my sex. The tingling became even more intense, as if that was possible. I felt a heat rising in my body, as if a fire had been stoked within me. All the sensations rose and rose until I didn’t think they could become more intense. It was like a growing storm, rising within me. I would feel a pleasant sensation and follow it with still more confident rubbing until the sensations grew so pleasant that I was sure they couldn’t build up anymore. But they did, crashing over me like waves of warmth and pleasure–sensations unlike anything I had ever felt before...
The lamp on Mr. L’s desk glowed faintly. Luk looked at his boss in the near-darkness. He knew even this small amount of light was simply a concession to him, as Mr. L often spent his evening hours in total darkness. Mr. L required no light to work by, and often spent the hours between sunset and sunrise sitting at his darkened desk talking to his financial outposts on the other side of the world.
Luk marvelled at his boss. While so many other gods had practically faded from existence as they were forgotten by the modern world, Mr. L had prospered, building a financial empire the extent of which humans would never know. And yet much of his effort seemed directed to playing the manager of an aging apartment hotel in a somewhat seedy part of New York.
He had rarely seen Mr. L as energized as his current project had made him, and yet it seemed somehow out of character. Del Sherman and Victoria Chrysler were hardly the sort of people Mr. L would normally consort with. And now Tony Capella had been added to the equation.
Before he could think on it further, the desk lamp suddenly flared up, glowing brightly to illuminate the entire room. Then, in gentle waves, the glow subsided, never quite returning to the low level from which it had begun.
Mr. L watched the lamp for a moment before smiling at Luk. “It would appear,” he said mysteriously, “that our Ms. Dixon has reached a decision. Now we can proceed to the next part of the plan.”
Luk nodded at his boss, but he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.
I woke up slowly the next morning, the radio alarm playing gentle music in my ear. My jumbled mind wondered for a moment why I was naked and what my hand was doing poised at my crotch. Then with a smile, I remembered what had happened. The smile faded quickly though. I had to face another day at the office, and I knew Vickie would be joining Del for a meeting with Peter. That meant I would be the subject of ridicule one again, for Vickie would have to take out her anger on someone.
I could tolerate my new life, I thought as I showered, if I only had Del to contend with. For the most part, he treated me just as he treated every other woman in the office–with detached condescension. I suspected that if Vickie weren’t looking over his shoulder, he might have come on to me, but Vickie was his meal ticket. Or at least she would be when the will was read, because I had left everything to the bitch.
But Vickie was my tormentor. She seemed to delight in how uncomfortable I was in my new and unwelcome life. I think from her perspective it was her way of making up for the years she had been forced to play the dutiful wife. I imagined she had planned to wrest my business from me from the beginning. That was why she had brought Del into the picture practically from the start. But it had taken Mr. Logan to make it all happen.
Mr. Logan was the wildcard in the whole game. Just who was he? I had never believed in magicians and sorcerers, but I suppose he could have been one. I suspected he was more than that though. I had noticed when I first arrived that the second ‘e’ in Deety Arms chiselled in stone on the front of the building had been chipped away. The word looked almost like ‘Deity’ now. And add to that the odd collection of employees around the building and the equally strange businesses that lined the streets nearby and I began to imagine the area was populated by actual deities.
‘But if that were so,’ I asked myself as I dried my hair, ‘what were they doing in a somewhat seedy New York neighborhood?’ Then answering my own question as best I could, I decided that perhaps the world was full of displaced gods and goddesses. Maybe they were once worshipped by our ancestors, but we had outgrown them and/or replaced them with more sophisticated deities. Now they were like stateless persons, doomed to roam the Earth without a purpose. New York was full of enclaves of the stateless–people who had fled everything from political oppression to lack of economic opportunities back home. They would flee to America, often settling in New York where they formed their own communities. There were neighborhoods where Italian or Polish were more widely spoken than English. Why couldn’t the gods do the same thing?
I realized with a shudder as I applied my makeup that this enclave of the gods–if that is what it was–was more dangerous than the ethnic enclaves most New Yorkers knew to avoid. A person might not be robbed and killed in the area around Deety Arms, but he or she might find himself transformed in any number of ways. I suspected a good number of the nearby residents were like me, and possibly Jasmine from the restaurant. We were victims of the capricious nature of strange, forgotten gods.
So assuming I was right, I understood Del’s motives. He was motivated by greed. So was Vickie, but I was sure I was now female to satisfy her urges for revenge. What was Mr. Logan getting out of the deal. Money? Maybe, but he didn’t impress me as a person–or maybe I should say being–who needed or was motivated by anything Del or Vickie could provide in the way of money.
‘Well,’ I thought, ‘I’d have to worry about it later.’ It was time for work.
It was a busy day, made worse by the fact that Del was on edge for most of it. In addition to the everyday crises of the publishing industry, Tony Capella called Del three times, and each time Del seemed to become even more nervous. Vickie came by to have lunch with Del, and even she was too uptight to favor me with a few pointed barbs about my new sex and my new station in life. After lunch, she and Del holed up in his office until it was time for Peter to arrive.
“It looks as if they’re circling the wagons,” Brenda observed with a nod at Del’s closed door.
“What do you mean?”
Brenda looked at me for a moment as if debating how much to tell me. “There are a lot of rumors floating around here.”
That was nothing new. There were always rumors floating around every large office. “What kind of rumors?”
“Rumors that there’s something funny going on,” Brenda elaborated. “This whole will thing should have been a slam dunk for the grieving widow.”
“But I understand that Peter’s... I mean Mr. Reynolds’ father wants to make absolutely certain Mr. Chrysler is dead. You know, they haven’t recovered the body.”
Brenda sighed, “Candy honey, I know you’re a blonde but don’t act like the stereotype. You don’t really think that Mr. Chrysler’s attorney thinks for a minute that he could have survived that crash do you?”
“But what other reason could there be?” I had to admit to myself that it did seem a little odd. I had just chalked it up to conservatism on the part of Peter’s father, but the more I thought about it, he had to know there was virtually no chance of Jack Chrysler’s survival. And my will had no unusual codicils which would hang up the distribution of the estate. By the terms of my will, Vickie got everything.
“I don’t know,” Brenda admitted. “But be careful. Wounded animals strike without warning and there are a pair of them right behind that door.”
Peter arrived moments later. He had on his serious lawyer face, but he did give me a small smile as he whispered, “See you tonight,” as he stepped toward the opening door of Del’s office.
The meeting was short. Fifteen minutes later, Peter was out of the office. He closed the door behind him. When he saw my questioning expression, he just whispered, “Later,” and left. Vickie left moments afterwards, taking only the time to shoot me a withering glance. The door to Del’s office stayed closed for the rest of the afternoon, but I could see from the switchboard that Del was on the phone most of the time.
To be truthful, my mind really wasn’t on Vickie and Del’s woes. I was too busy thinking about Peter. I could hardly wait to see him that evening. In the first place, I enjoyed his company and wanted to spend more time with him. But I suppose I was curious about the meeting with Del and Vickie as well. I understood the concept of lawyer-client privilege, but I knew he’d tell me what he could.
I got back to my apartment at the end of the day in a festive mood. ‘Let’s see,’ I thought, ‘I had worn the most conservative cocktail dress I had in my closet the night before and still got stares. Maybe the evening called for something a little more daring.’ Yes, I know. I was as giddy as a schoolgirl and didn’t even realize it. I knew as I stepped into a little black number that showed everything I had that I shouldn’t be so happy just to be going out to dinner with Peter. I mean, he was just an old friend, right? Well, maybe not an old friend, but an old acquaintance.
So why was I taking so much time to make sure everything–clothes, makeup, hair, accessories–was just right?
No sense in looking a gift horse in the mouth, I told myself as I grabbed my tiny black purse and headed for the elevator. I hadn’t had that many happy moments since my transformation. I might as well take happiness wherever I could find it. I was still in that happy mood when I saw Peter, looking resplendent in his suit. In fact, I was so happy to see him I impulsively gave him a kiss on the cheek when he walked over to take my arm.
The kiss surprised him, but it was a pleasant surprise from the way he looked at me. I got a little pleasant surprise of my own when I realized I liked the way he looked at me.
We ended up at the Southwest Grill. We were shown to a somewhat secluded table in the dimly-lit dining room. I had asked for the table for two reasons: first, it was secluded and we could talk, and second because the sexy little cocktail dress I wore left my shoulders exposed to the air conditioning vents in the more occupied part of the room. There was a price to pay for looking so sexy.
“I wish I didn’t have to leave tomorrow,” Peter sighed when our wine had been served. “I’m going to miss you.”
I think my heart melted into a tiny red puddle when he said that. “Oh Peter, I’ll miss you too.” And I would miss him. I had never realized before being with Peter, how much my sexual outlook had changed. I had practically counted the hours and minutes until we could be together that evening, and when the evening was over, I wasn’t sure if or when I would ever see him again.
As if reading my mind, he told me, “As soon as this will thing gets straightened out, I hope I’ll be coming back here and working with the company for a while. I’m fascinated with the whole publishing business.”
“Well, your father’s firm has represented Chrysler Publications for a long time,” I pointed out. “I’m sure you’ll be needed here.”
“Maybe,” he muttered.
“Maybe?”
“There’s a lot I can’t tell you...” he began.
I nodded to show I understood. It was lawyer/client privilege. Peter could get in a lot of trouble if he confided in me.
“Let’s just say that I don’t think Mr. Sherman and Mrs. Chrysler are very happy with the firm of Reynolds and McGuire right now,” he said.
“I assumed Vic... Mrs. Chrysler still hasn’t inherited the business,” I observed.
Peter nodded. “You assume correctly. It’s causing... some problems.” I knew exactly what he was saying. Chrysler Publications was running low on cash. It would have happened under the best of conditions, but I was pretty sure Del and Vickie had been siphoning cash out of the organization as well. And the move to New York had eaten up a lot of cash. Until the crisis of ownership was settled, banks would be unwilling to loan the company the working capital it needed. Never the strongest company, I was sure Chrysler Publications was on the verge of financial collapse.
That was all we said to each other about the business. By unspoken agreement, we concentrated on each other. By the time the main course was served, I thought I might actually be falling in love with Peter. By the time we finished our dessert, I was sure of it.
As a man, I had not dated a great deal–or at least not seriously. Vickie was really the first woman I ever fell for and the first one I had pursued vigorously. Oh, I certainly wasn’t a virgin. I had been the son of a wealthy, well-known man, and more than a few girls were attracted to that. But it had always seemed a little tawdry to me, even though I admit I enjoyed the relationships. I had truly wanted Vickie, but it was different from what I was feeling for Peter. With Vickie, sex had seemed a necessity–for me at least. But as insistent as the physical attraction had been, it was never like what I was experiencing with Peter.
I can honestly say that I was nearly able to forget I had ever been a man. When Peter walked me out of the restaurant, I found myself becoming aroused by his gentle touch. There was a pressure building up inside me that wanted him to touch me more. And he did when we were alone walking back to Deety Arms. His arm was around me as I leaned into him, enjoying the smooth, silky feel of my dress pressed into my side by his warm presence.
I didn’t have to invite him into my apartment with words. He had seen me to my door as the gentleman he was, but when he tried to kiss me, I gently led him over the threshold instead and into my apartment. He knew why I had asked him in. There in the entranceway of my small apartment, he embraced me, and I hooked my arms around his neck as he kissed me, fearful that if I didn’t hold him, I would melt into a pool of hot flesh at his feet.
Not speaking, we walked together to my bedroom, never taking our eyes off each other. As we undressed one another, it was as if I were a kettle loaded with steam set to explode, for I was afraid I would climax before he ever slid a hand between my legs. I needn’t have worried though. The pressure just continued to build, forcing me higher and higher as we fell together in each other’s arms on the smooth beige sheets.
Perhaps I should have had one last wave of masculine disgust at what was being done to me, but I couldn’t muster it to save my life. What he was doing, the touching and stroking, were the most fabulous sensations I had ever felt in my life. I tried to speak, to tell him I wanted him inside me, but words refused to come. Instead, I was making breathless sounds that could scarcely have passed for words. No matter though, for I suddenly felt a sensation I had never expected to feel in my life. Something warm and alive was breaching my sex, slowly making its way into me. A welcome friction warmed my body still more as I involuntarily raised my legs, feeling the sensation move deeper and deeper into my body until...
It was an explosion. No, it wasn’t the overwhelming one I had enjoyed as a male, but it was equally as satisfying. In fact, it was more satisfying, because as I cried out in joy, I could feel it continuing rather than ebbing quickly as it would have if I were still male. And the incredible thing about it was that before we were done and Peter was spent, I had ridden the crest of the wave a second time.
We lay there together. Neither of us had spoken an intelligible word since the restaurant. What could have possibly been said? I love you? I suppose, and I did love Peter, I realized, as strange and unnatural as that might have sounded to me even a few days before.
I snuggled up against Peter’s sleeping form, my body still under the influence of my last orgasm. How could things change so quickly for me? I had already spent several weeks as a woman, and while I was aware that my sexual orientation had been changing, when had it become a sexual appetite? I couldn’t discount Mr. Logan’s interference. It was possible, I realized, that he had done something to me to heighten my feminine urges, but I suspected it hadn’t been necessary.
But I do know that if Mr. Logan had suddenly appeared in a cloud of sulfurous smoke–or however he moved about magically–and offered to change me back into my old self, I would have turned him down. What would I have had as Jack Chrysler? Ownership of Chrysler Publications? What was that worth? The company was failing because I had never really wanted to run a business. The difference was that now I realized that fact, whereas before my transformation, I was determined to be as good a businessman as my father had been. My marriage? Well, Vickie had made it pretty clear that our relationship was a sham. And frankly, women no longer appealed to me sexually. Sure, if I were suddenly made male again, my orientation would probably swing back, but for now my mind and body agreed that men were where the action was. My masculinity? Please. I had certainly enjoyed being a man, but that was before I had found out what it really meant to be a woman.
I smiled as I gazed up at the dark ceiling. Poor Vickie. She would continue to taunt and tease me, never knowing that it was all for naught. How could she possibly understand? She had never been a man. My love of being a woman would blossom as surely as my love for Peter had.
Peter.
A small frown crossed my face. We had made love, but did he really love me? After all, he was attractive, intelligent, and wealthy. What could he possibly see in me? Sure, I was attractive. Mr. Logan had seen to that. But I was an uneducated girl without family. I was hardly a match for one of the most eligible young men in the Midwest.
I looked over at Peter as he lay there peacefully beside me. What had led me to want to make love to him? I had to have known that we were from such different worlds that our love could never be. I had no education, no family, and no prospects. I didn’t really exist in a way. I remembered no girlhood. I had been created out of whole cloth with no past and no promise of a future. I had only the present in which I was an object of ridicule for my former wife and her true lover.
I felt a tear trickle down my face as Peter began to stir. He was so handsome and in a way so innocent lying there. But even if it turned out that we could have no future together, I didn’t regret for an instant making love to him. I would have done so in a heartbeat if he had asked me again that morning, but I knew he was due to catch a plane that would take him back to Cleveland and out of my life–but hopefully not forever.
If I had expected a soft, loving look from him that morning, I would have been disappointed. There was something almost like guilt in his eyes, as if he had awakened hung over in the bed of a whore after a night of drinking with old college friends. But his words were kind. “How are you this morning?”
I managed a little smile. “Fine.”
He reached up and snagged the glistening tear from my eye. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lied, turning away.
I closed my eyes as I felt his hands on my bare shoulders. “Candy, I love you.”
My heart leaped and broke at the same moment. “Peter, we’ve only known each other a few days. How...”
“How can I know I love you?” he finished for me. “I don’t know. I just know I feel as if I’ve known you forever. I think you love me too.”
I opened my eyes and looked into his. I could see his love from deep inside his eyes, and I was sure he could see mine as well.
“I can catch a later flight...” he began.
It still didn’t give us much time, but as we fell back into bed together, we made the most of it.
In spite of our last-minute tryst, I was only ten minutes late to work. I didn’t even think Del would notice, but I was wrong. “Where have you been?” he practically yelled at me. “Get in here!”
The glow from the morning’s lovemaking faded quickly in the reality of my job. Peter was on his way to Newark to catch a flight back to Cleveland. I would have to face the world alone.
Del wasn’t alone in his office. Brenda Travis was there, as well as two of our more attractive office girls. And Vickie was there as well, an evil little smile on her face, as if she knew what I had been up to.
“All right, now that we’re all finally here,” Del began with a vicious glance at me, “let’s get started. We’ve just made a deal that will ensure that we have all the operating capital we need until the Chrysler Estate is sorted out.”
He didn’t have to tell us who was providing the capital. We had all seen Tony Capella in the office. Unable to steal from my estate, they were going to use mob money to keep the company afloat. Part of me was actually pleased that their plans to take what was rightfully mine had been foiled–at least for the moment. Part of me though, was disturbed that what my father had built could now easily fall into the hands of organized crime.
“It means some changes in our format though,” Del continued. Again, I wasn’ t surprised. First Class Male was far too tame for a crime empire that included drugs and prostitution. I didn’t like where this was going one little bit. But I had no choice but to sit there and listen to Del’s rationalizations.
“We don’t have much time to get a new issue ready,” Del explained. “Our new investors want us to change formats as quickly as possible. We want to start out with a photo spread called ‘The Girls of First Class Male.’ We want the four of you to be part of that article.”
“You want us to pose for the magazine?” Brenda asked incredulously. “Do we look like a bunch of eighteen-year-old bimbos with stars in our eyes? No way am I going to pose nude.”
The other girls nodded. I was nodding myself. But I could tell by the look on Del’s face that he wasn’t finished just yet. “This isn’t a request girls. Mr. Capella has already decided what he wants in the next issue, and Mr. Capella is used to getting his way. Saying no to Mr. Capella can be dangerous–maybe even fatal.”
We were all suddenly silent. Each of us knew who Tony Capella was, and each of us had felt the cold chill run down our backs when he had looked at us as if we were just some of his whores.
“Look,” Del went on, practically pleading with us. “How bad can it be? Everybody in the office will understand. None of you girls are married, so there won’t be any problems there. In a couple of months, everybody will have forgotten all about this. You’ll see.”
Brenda as the oldest and most senior employee seemed to have become our leader. I could see the wheels turning inside her head. Although every instinct she had told her to flip them the bird and storm out of the room, doing so would have been crossing Tony Capella. That was risky to say the least. Slowly, I could see the defiance draining from her face. “What do we have to do?”
Del relaxed just a little. He knew he had won. He pushed some papers at us. “Just sign here. It’s the standard modelling contract. Then tomorrow, report to this address.” He gave us each a card with the address of a photo studio not far away in the Village. “You don’t have to be there until ten, so you can even sleep in. It’ll just be a one-day shoot. Don’t worry about anything. The studio will take care of everything. Just to smooth things over, there’ll be a little extra in your pay checks next week.”
Like sheep, we signed the agreements. But what choice did we have? Refusal would have gotten us fired and on the shit list of one of the most ruthless gangsters in New York. He might have decided to kidnap us, load us up with dope, and ship us all off to become whores in some third world nation. As my shaking hand signed the contract, I realized once again how weak and powerless I had become. My life was not really my own. The joy of the last two evenings with Peter faded quickly in the reality of my new life. Vickie must have realized what I was thinking, because of all the people in the room, she was the only one with a smile on her face.
I nearly backed out anyhow. I got up the next morning, half-determined to make a run for it. I had saved up a few dollars from my salary. ‘Maybe I could buy a bus ticket back to Cleveland,’ I thought. Maybe I could find Peter and explain why I left New York. If he really loved me, he’d protect me. We could even get married...
Who was I kidding? By now, he was back at his desk in Cleveland. He was probably already regretting that he had told me he loved me. He was probably laughing to himself about the little tryst in New York. In a week, he would have forgotten my name. Even if he had meant what he said, his father would never approve. I could still remember when his father took me out to lunch in college to tell me that the girl I was starting to become serious about had been arrested two years earlier for prostitution and what a disgrace it would be to my family if I kept seeing her. Of course, I had heeded his advice. He would have similar advice for Peter about me–especially after my nude picture appeared in the magazine.
I was stuck as a receptionist cum nude model in the big city. And now, I was about to have my naked picture circulated across the entire nation. I wished I were dead.
I thought about pleading with Mr. Logan. Maybe he could do something to help me–for a price. But I supposed whatever he would demand of me would be just as bad as posing nude.
How strange that I should find it disgusting to display my body. As President of Chrysler Publications, I had published issue after issue of First Class Male loaded with nude pictures. But at least those girls hadn’t been reluctant, had they? In retrospect, perhaps they had been, but a girl has to eat. How many girls had appeared in my magazine who had displayed their bodies believing that it was the first step on the way to a promising career as a model or an actress? How many of them did it because they didn’t have the skills to do anything else? How many of them were ashamed after they saw themselves between the covers, posing seductively at the glass eye of the camera, as if lusting for it?
The photo studio was well appointed and in a trendy part of the Village. I actually felt a little relief when I saw it. I had half-expected a sleazy outfit in a bad part of town, complete with a leering photographer sporting bloodshot eyes and a foul-smelling cigar. Instead, I was greeted by an attractive receptionist who took my name, pulled out a file with my name on it, and handed it to me. She then ushered me back into the studio where I was relieved to see Brenda waiting.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she confided to me when we were alone. “Paula and Jan haven’t shown up yet.”
“They will,” I assured her. I had watched them the day before as they signed their contracts. They were frightened–too frightened not to show up. And sure enough: both girls arrived together a few minutes later.
“What do you think they’ll have us do?” Paula, an attractive blonde asked nervously.
“Probably just strip down out of some sexy outfit they give us and look provocative,” Brenda speculated. She was trying to appear calm for the benefit of the rest of us, but I had known Brenda in my former life well enough to know she was as nervous as we were. I think half the reason she had agreed to show up was to keep the rest of us out of hot water since we would have followed her lead.
“I don’t even like to strip in front of my boyfriend,” Jan, a redhead, admitted with a sigh.
The time for speculation was over though. The door opened and a slender man with longish hair entered. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt and was trying to affect an artistic air. I pegged him as the photographer at once. “Ladies!” he called out to us with an inflection which labelled him a Brit. “Welcome. I’m Stuart McBride and you’ll be working with me this morning.”
As if on cue, two women hustled into the studio. Both appeared to be attractive, middle-aged women. The first was pushing a rack of clothing. My heart fell when I saw that the clothing consisted of the sort of frillies that Victoria’s Secret would find too daring to sell. The second woman carried what I recognized as a large makeup case which she set up on a small table behind the cameras.
“Doris will be in charge of your wardrobe and Lada will be doing your makeup,” Stuart explained. “We’ve already chosen outfits for you, so I’ll leave you to it. Then we can get started.” With that, he bustled back into the outer office.
What went on for the next hour was one of the strangest experiences of my new life. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it was just strange. Each of us was told to strip down and was issued an outfit to wear. To my way of thinking, each outfit was more revealing than wearing nothing at all. To make matters worse, the studio was a little cool, causing my nipples to stand rather provocatively at attention through the diaphanous baby-doll I had been issued. I don’t think any of us felt particularly sexy as we stood there. At least I suspected the other girls had worn something like this before. For me, it was a first-time experience.
Next, we were shuffled off to Lada who worked on our makeup and hair. Her unusual name and guttural accent spoke of a Russian heritage. She fussed and teased at each of us, with touches designed to make us look slutty. She had so much mascara and eye shadow on me that I felt like a raccoon. And my hair had been given a rather wild, windblown treatment. My nails–both finger and toe–were painted a bright pink to match the lipstick that had been applied to my face. When I looked in the mirror, I could scarcely believe I was the same person who had entered the studio in a conservative (for Candy) business dress earlier that morning.
“Okay, girls!” Stuart called, bursting back into the room. “It’s show time!”
I’m sure I had the same surprised, embarrassed look that the other girls had when Stuart entered the room. We had all resigned ourselves to our fate, but at least there had been nothing but other women looking at us before. But Stuart was different–he was a man. We needn’t have worried though, for Stuart was all business. I don’t think he was gay. I just think he had seen so many scantily-clad women before that the view no longer excited him: it was all strictly business.
That wasn’t the case with the next men to enter the room. The first man I didn’t recognize. He was model handsome, blond, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans that did nothing to hide his gym-perfect physique. He was one of those disturbing guys who’s good-looking and knows it. Now I knew how extras must feel on a movie set when the star walks on.
With him was one of Tony Capella’s men. The torpedo had a smirk on his face and a look in his eyes that told me he could eat the other three girls for lunch and enjoy me for dessert. I think he could have killed us or fucked us with equal pleasure. I had no doubts that his job was to make sure that we went through with the photo shoot. And I also had no doubt that he planned to enjoy his work.
‘But why was that really necessary?’ I wondered. We had all shown up. There was no reason for us to back out now unless... Oh God, no!
“Girls,” Stuart began, “let me introduce you to Steve Stallion.”
The blond grinned, displaying a mouthful of perfect teeth.
“You may have heard of Steve–he’s currently the number one box office star in adult movies. Steve will be joining you on the shoot today.”
As a man, I was never a great fan of adult movies. Sure, I had seen a few–mostly when I was in college. And I knew what it took for a man to be big box office in adult films, so it was no surprise to me when Steve began to disrobe, stopping when clad only in a pair of silky briefs which showed an alarming bulge in front.
First Class Male had always been tasteful as men’s magazines went. Sure, there were displays of naked women, but it was too high-class to show women lusting after enlarged penises. So this was what Del had meant by a change in the format of the magazine. It was going to become a smut magazine where everything goes. I also had a hunch that Steve Stallion’s movies were probably another Tony Capella enterprise as well. We were all to be part of a porno empire run by organized crime.
“Okay girls,” Stuart called, “let’s get started!”
I now realized the importance of the large hood. If he hadn’t been in the path between me and the door, I think I would have run from the room rather than submit to what was about to happen. The looks on the other girls’ faces told the same story.
The next five hours were the longest of my life, new or old. Nothing–not even my initial transformation and the gloating of Vickie and Del–was as humiliating as that photo shoot. While Tony Capella’s man stood by to make sure we cooperated, we were forced into every seductive pose imaginable. We undressed each other as Steve watched and the camera whirred. We pretended to play with ourselves and each other as Stuart told us what to do. We had to handle Steve’s formidable penis, appearing to take him in our mouths.
I wonder how many men, panting excitedly as they looked at smut pictures, realized how little stimulation a woman gets from those poses. If I had been the only woman there, I would probably have assumed that I was just not a real woman for not getting excited. But the other girls were as disgusted with the process as I was.
“Damn it, Candy, take hold of his dick!” Stuart would yell as the camera clicked and whirred. “It isn’t electric: it won’t shock you!”
Yes, it did shock me, but not electrically. I had had my own dick for thirty some-odd years, but I had never touched another man’s penis. Well, I suppose that wasn’t entirely true. After all, I had made love with Peter. But that was the difference, really. That was love. I had managed to suppress whatever male thoughts still ran through my brain to enjoy sex with Peter. I felt true attraction to him, and my body had responded as a woman’s body should. Holding Steve’s penis was nothing like that, though. It might as well have been road kill in my hands since it was just so much dead meat to me. Still, I did my best to overcome my repulsion and look as if Steve’s member was the most important and interesting thing in my life. It was after all, the only way I was going to get through the shoot. Stuart would just make me repeat the act until I got it right.
“I need a drink,” Brenda muttered when we were dressed once again and out on the street. Paula and Jan were good friends, and when Jan broke down in tears once we were on the street, Paula politely refused offers of help from Brenda and me and helped her friend into a cab and took her home.
I shook my head. “I’d love to get one with you,” I told her, “but I think I just want to get home and take a bath. I don’t feel very clean right now.”
Brenda nodded. “I know what you mean. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I walked away from her, I didn’t realize the terrible danger I had put her in. But I would find out before the night was over.
I was taking the promised bath when the phone rang. Reluctantly, I picked it up. I was assaulted by hysterical babbling and nearly hung up when I suddenly realized the voice was Brenda’s.
“Brenda, calm down! Where are you?”
“I... I’m downstairs–in the... the office. Candy, I think I’ve been... been raped!”
I told her to stay where she was and leaped from the tub, throwing on a pair of jeans and a T-top. Big mistake. By the time I reached the lobby, I looked like a participant in a wet T-shirt contest. The door to the office was unlocked, and I hurried in, dashing back to Brenda’s office. Looking back on it, it was a foolhardy thing to do. If the rapist was still there, I was in danger as well. Okay, so I had a momentary lapse and thought like the man I used to be. What can I say?
Brenda was sitting in her chair, sobbing. There was no light in the office except the reflection from the neon signs across the square. I turned on her desk light and saw that her dress had been ripped. There was a large bruise on the side of her face.
“What happened?” I asked her as I put a comforting arm on her shoulder.
“Mario... he followed me...”
“Who’s Mario?” I asked, gently but firmly, although I already had a suspicion who she was talking about. And I was right.
“He... he was the man watching us... at the studio,” she said, barely above a whisper. “The one who works for Mr. Capella. He... followed me here. I came back after I had... that... that drink.” She giggled, but it was a giggle of hysteria. “I... I had a couple... more than a couple of drinks. I was disgusted with myself...”
I knew how she felt. While I had used a warm bath to wash away the filth I felt clinging to me after the photo shoot, Brenda had sought to wash the experience from her mind with alcohol.
“He... Mario... the guy at the shoot... he followed me to the bar... tried to pick me up.” She gave out a heavy sigh. “I... told him to... fuck off. I... I left the bar... coming here to... to resign and get my things. The... the son of a bitch followed me... I never saw him following...”
She looked me in the eyes for the first time. “Oh Candy, they’re filth... all of them. Del, Tony Capella, Mario, and that bitch–Vickie! Oh God, I wish Jack Chrysler were still alive. He wouldn’t have let any of this happen!”
She broke down into sobs. I wanted to cry with her, but I had to be strong for her. I wanted to tell her who I really was, but even if she believed me, what would that have accomplished? Jack Chrysler had been with her that day–in a way–and yet I had been as helpless as she was. If that Mario creep had taken a shine to me instead of Brenda, it would be me sitting in that chair sobbing now. I gave an involuntary shudder at the thought.
But as I was comforting her, I noticed something strange. While she was bruised and her clothes were torn, her skirt was still in place. Gently, I pushed it back. She was wearing pantyhose over her panties, and there was no evidence that she had been... violated.
“Brenda,” I said slowly, “do you remember what happened when Mario... surprised you?”
Brenda looked puzzled for a moment, then began, “I... I was here... at my desk. Then I heard a noise.” As if trying to act out what had happened, she got up and pushed past me. “When I got here... to the door... he rushed in and grabbed me. He... he told me how I had turned him on today when we were... we were...”
“I know what you mean,” I told her, afraid that would bog down remembering the disgusting performance we had been required to give. “What happened then?”
“He grabbed me...” she said slowly, as if trying to remember. “I heard my dress tear. I tried to get away, but he... he hit me...” Her voice trailed off. Then, “...and that’s all I remember.”
Before I could ask her another question, I heard a scream–or rather a high-pitched cry. It was coming from the hallway outside our offices. “Wait here,” I ordered, and stood up as she slumped back deeper into her chair.
Cautiously, I ran to the reception area and looked out into the hall. A young woman, dark but rather pretty in a plain sort of way was holding a baby. “It’s all right, bambina,” she cooed to the tiny infant. “Don’t cry, Maria.”
As the woman left the building, another figure came into view. It was Mr. Logan, smiling at the woman as she headed to the exit. He turned and looked at me, the smile never wavering.
I don’t know how I knew, but I suddenly realized what had happened to Mario and why Brenda hadn’t been raped. I had only to look down at my own body to get the answer. “It was you...” I gasped.
He walked over to me with a fluid grace that made me wonder if his feet were actually touching the ground. “I don’t allow sexual assaults in my building,” he said firmly. “It’s bad for business. Mr. Capella is hiring the wrong sort of help these days. I really must do something about him someday...”
“You changed that thug into... into...”
He held up a hand. “Before you continue, shouldn’t we take care of your friend?”
“You called, Mr. L?” a woman’s voice said suddenly from behind me. I jumped and turned, surprised to see Lada, the makeup woman from the photo shoot standing there. Where had she come from?
“Yes, my dear. Please see that Ms. Travis gets home all right.”
Lada nodded.
“And make sure she has no memories of this incident,” he added. As Lada hurried to do his bidding, Mr. Logan suavely motioned me to his office.
As I walked with him, I alternated between anger and curiosity. I was angry that by helping Vickie and Del in their efforts to steal my company from me, he had allowed this terrible day to happen. But I was curious as well. Why had he interfered with Capella’s thug? I didn’t for an instant believe his “bad for business” comment. I was beginning to believe Mr. Logan had an agenda all his own–one that was significantly different from the one Del and Vickie had.
“Please be seated.”
I chose a comfortable chair in front of his desk and thought about the last time I had sat there. It was immediately after my transformation and I had been pissed. Strangely, I realized I was no longer unhappy being a woman. Oh, if I could have erased that terrible photo shoot from my life, I would have done so, but I wasn’t unhappy with the fact that I was a woman. What had changed? I’d have to reflect on that later.
“Coffee?”
“Don’t trouble...” I had started to reply, but a steaming cup materialized on the desk in front of me. Realizing I probably needed something just to calm myself down, I nodded in thanks and took a sip. It was slightly sweet with no cream–just the way I liked it–and it was without a doubt the finest cup of coffee I had ever enjoyed. “You seem to know a lot about me,” I observed. “Even how I like my coffee.”
Mr. Logan favored me with a small smile, drinking from his own cup which not only steamed but seemed to give off a faint red glow. “I know more than you could ever imagine.”
“You changed me into this,” I began, “and yet you helped Brenda–saved her from being raped.”
“And you find those two actions incongruent?”
“They do seem far apart,” I agreed as I crossed my legs.
“Then let me explain just a little to you,” he said. “I found what that... creature was about to do to your friend to be repugnant. But in a way, he knew no better. He was a product of his environment. I was curious to see what effect a change in environment might have on him. Perhaps growing up as a girl will teach him something that he didn’t learn in his previous life. The young woman who will raise her cannot have children of her own. She will love Maria as her own daughter. Consider it karma, if you will, although some of my Indian friends would probably disagree with that definition.”
“And is that why you changed me?” I asked. “Were you merely curious to see how I would react?”
“Curiosity always plays a part, Ms. Dixon,” he admitted. “Perhaps that is the common thread between the two actions.”
“What besides curiosity?”
He looked at his wrist. “Will you look at the time? I shouldn’t be keeping you up. You need your sleep, and tomorrow is a busy day...”
It was more than a suggestion, and the next thing I knew, I was back in my apartment, uncertain as to how I had gotten there. I had hoped for a thorough explanation of my transformation, but that had not happened. I supposed I should at least be happy that he hadn’t gruffly brushed me off as before. He had been most gentlemanly about it. Of course, I suppose I had been quite ladylike as well.
‘He was a complex... being,’ I realized. When first transformed, I had seen him as some sort of evil sorcerer who was nothing more than a part of Del and Vickie’s scheme to rob me of what was mine. Now, I wasn’t so sure. His rescue of Brenda indicated that he seemed to operate within his own moral code. How that code would allow him to change me into a woman without my permission was beyond me.
Or was it?
As I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, I thought about what he had said about Mario. ‘He was a product of his environment. Weren’t we all?’ But what had my environment been? I had been raised as the heir apparent to a publishing empire. That didn’t seem so bad. It certainly didn’t seem to require the drastic transformation I had received. It wasn’t as if I was a rapist or anything. So why had I been changed?
Okay, obviously Del and Vickie had paid Mr. Logan to do it. But anyone who had the ability to change a person into someone else would hardly need whatever Del and Vickie had agreed to pay him, would he? And obviously transformation wasn’t his only power. I had seen an example of that when the cup of coffee materialized out of thin air.
Somehow though, I had begun to feel that whatever the reason was, I would know more shortly. Del and Vickie were on the edge of ruin, saved only by the influx of cash from organized crime. Yet Mr. Logan seemed to be doing nothing further to help them. Peter had intimated that there were problems with the will, but what? My will had been very clear. ‘Something was about to happen,’ I thought as I drifted off to sleep. I was sure of it–woman’s intuition after all...
As I dressed for work the next morning, I thought about something Mr. Logan had said to me the night before. He had told me that today was going to be a busy day. ‘It could be he was just making a mundane remark,’ I thought as I slipped on a revealing green dress of the sort that Del and Vickie required me to wear. But I really thought he meant it as a serious remark. I think if I hadn’t remembered the remark, I might not have even gone in. The photo shoot had been too much to take, and I had seriously considered resigning. I’d rather be thrown out on the street than to even go through anything as demeaning as that photo shoot had been.
‘So what was going to happen?’ I wondered as I sat down at my desk. I didn’t have to speculate long. Tony Capella stormed into the office and he obviously wasn’t very happy. I had to smile to myself as I noticed he was one bodyguard short. He stomped past me as if I wasn’t there, although that was really nothing new. With guys like Tony, girls like me were only good for one thing–and that wasn’t polite conversation.
I could hear him in Dell’s office, yelling loudly. If his guard hadn’t been posted in the reception area, I think I would have chanced it and gone over to listen at the door.
“What’s all that about?” Brenda asked with a nod at Del’s door. She had entered the offices right behind Tony Capella. I looked up at Brenda. There was no sign of the broken woman who had been sobbing in the office the night before. “I’m not sure,” I told her carefully. I had a hunch though that Tony wanted to know what had happened to his bodyguard and was threatening everyone who might have had anything to do with his disappearance.
Brenda shrugged. “Well, whatever it is, Del will be in a piss poor mood today.”
Before Brenda headed back to her office, I asked her, “Brenda, are you really okay?”
She looked puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I be okay? Oh! You mean the shoot yesterday. Well, I guess there are worse things than showing my tits in public. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m okay,” I lied. ‘She didn’t remember anything about the night before,’ I realized. Whatever that Lada had done had erased her memory of the entire incident. Then I remembered that Mr. Logan had told her to do it. I was happy for Brenda. No woman should have to remember anything as traumatic as a sexual assault.
Brenda was gone for only a couple of minutes when the door to Del’s office burst open and Tony bulled his way out of the office, his guard following wordlessly. Del had followed him to the door of his office, and before he closed the door again, I could see that his face was a pasty white. Tony had not come to the office with good news–that was for certain.
I managed a little secret smile. As far as I was concerned, it couldn’t happen to a better guy. Del had thought he had hitched himself to Vickie’s star. Chrysler Publications might be faltering, but she stood to inherit an estate of nearly twenty million dollars outside the publishing company. He had thought he’d have all of that with Vickie and a magazine to play with as well. Instead, the estate was tied up for reasons I could only guess at and Chrysler Publications was in a deep cash flow crisis, turning to dangerous sources of money just to keep operating. And people like Tony Capella expected a quick return on their money, one way or another.
My smug joy was short-lived though. Scarcely ten minutes later, Vickie came bustling through the door, a sheaf of photos in her hand.
“Oh, Candy,” she called, “come into Del’s office. You simply must see the proofs from yesterday’s shoot.”
Dutifully, I followed her, resigned to being humiliated as she showed Del countless shots of me naked holding a model’s cock as I feigned a sexually hungry expression. Soon, those pictures would be published, and my reputation would be forever soiled. As I followed her, I thought about Peter. Odds were good he would see the shots when they were published. After all, his father’s firm was our legal counsel. What would he think? If word ever got out that he had been seeing me...
“Look, Del!” Vickie said brightly, ignoring Del’s pained expression as he sat dejectedly at his desk. “We have some shots of our little Candy here.” A devilish smile crossed her lips. “What do you think her attorney friend would think of this shot?”
She held a particularly disgusting picture up as I blanched. “What’s the matter, darling? Did you think nobody knew you were dating that prick of an attorney? When we get the estate settled and...”
“Vickie, get her out of here.”
We both looked at Del in surprise. When it came to running the show, Vickie had always been clearly in charge. For Del to stop her from her moment of vengeance was a major breach of protocol. But one look at Del was enough to unsettle Vickie and give me satisfaction.
Del rose from his chair. “We’ve got problems. We need to talk–alone.”
“But I spoke with Jack’s attorney on Friday,” Vickie replied. “Duncan assured me that the will could be read this week and...”
“This isn’t about the will,” Del interrupted. “One of Capella’s men is missing.”
“So?”
“So it happened after the photo shoot–a photo shoot you talked him into.”
I suppose I wasn’t really surprised at that. Vickie would never tire of humiliating me whenever she got the chance. She had probably explained to the crime lord that a shoot of girls from the First Class Male office in particularly nasty poses would be a good way to promote Capella’s pornographic film enterprises.
Vickie shrugged. “So what does that have to do with us?”
“He called in to say he was going to hit on one of the girls from the shoot,” Del explained.
“And what?” Vickie exploded. “He thinks one of the girls from the shoot did him in? Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”
I tried to look as innocent as possible.
“Maybe,” Del agreed, “but if he doesn’t turn up, he’s going to come back here looking for answers. Candy, do you know anything about this?”
“Uh... no,” I lied. I hoped I sounded convincing. Since Brenda’s memory of the assault had been erased, I was the only one of the girls who knew what had happened to the thug. I hoped I could be equally convincing when Tony Capella was asking the questions.
“Then get out of here,” Del ordered.
I didn’t tarry for an instant, afraid Vickie might hold me back and ask more questions. Safely back at my desk, I breathed a sigh of relief, even though I knew the relief might be short-lived. It sounded as if whatever had held up transfer of my estate to Vickie had been resolved, but it might not be fast enough to suit their criminal creditors. Del and Vickie were still in trouble, and as pleased as that made me on one hand, I realized that any and all of us in the office were in potential danger. If Tony Capella wanted to play hardball, everyone in the office was a potential target.
I thought of calling Peter to see if there was anything he could do, but I was afraid my short relationship with Peter had come to an end. He hadn’t called since returning to Cleveland. I had to consider the possibility that he saw me as just a one-night stand. After all, he was a rising young attorney, and I was just another receptionist. But even if he really had feelings for me, when those pictures of me were published, he’d have to stay away for the sake of his own reputation. I understood that very well.
The atmosphere in the office was tense all morning. Del and Vickie snapped at people, held small meetings behind closed doors, and basically left the staff to whisper among themselves. Rumors were everywhere. ‘The company was bankrupt,’ one rumor declared. ‘No, but it was being sold,’ another decreed. Then the story of Capella’s missing guard got out somehow. A rumor rose around that, that Capella was going to kill a staff member every day until the missing man was found. I was afraid that there might be some truth to that one.
Brenda and I had become even closer since the photo shoot. Perhaps misery really does enjoy company. Or perhaps after such a degrading experience, we needed each other’s company just to remind ourselves that we weren’t really bad people. Paula and Jan seemed to have formed a similar bond. Brenda was at my desk discussing the rumor of the hour when the fateful call came through.
“Chrysler Publications,” I answered with a crispness I had developed over the weeks of answering the phone.
“Candy? Is that you?”
The connection wasn’t the best in the world, but I could still tell whose voice it was. “Peter!” Calm down, girl, I told myself. He was the company’s lawyer after all. He wasn’t calling me to ask me to go out with him. In fact, he hadn’t called me since his return to Cleveland. He was just calling about business, so no sense in getting my hopes up.
“Look, I’m on my way to New York now. I need to set up a meeting with Mrs. Chrysler. Is she there?”
Damn! I hated being right. “I’ll get her for you,” I said in my best professional voice.
“Wait! I need you there, too.”
“Me?”
“I’m shooting for three o’clock. We’re just getting ready to board the plane now. I’ll see you at three.”
“Peter!” I called, but he had already hung up.
“Trouble?” Brenda asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I told her what had just happened.
“I wonder why he wants you there.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. And I really didn’t have a clue.
Brenda looked at me carefully. “So how long have you been in love with him?”
“With who?” I asked, flushing involuntarily.
Brenda smiled and came around my desk to give me a sisterly hug. “Don’t try to fool me,” she said. “I could tell it the minute you mentioned his name. And of course, there’s the rumor mill around here. Half the staff is convinced you went to bed with him. But I told them...”
Then she looked into my eyes and frowned just a little. “Honey, you didn’t... You did! You did go to bed with him!”
“I... I...”
“Oh, Candy, you really fell hard for this guy, didn’t you?” she asked, but the smile was back.
“I... I... guess I did,” I replied.
It’s funny, but with everything that had gone on the last couple of days, I hadn’t really had time to analyze my feelings about Peter. I was obviously attracted to him in a way I could have never imagined a few short weeks earlier. When I had invited him into my bed, I was convinced that I loved him, but when he left, I tried to tell myself it wasn’t really love–it was just my new hormones racing out of control. But I told myself that so I wouldn’t be hurt when he forgot me.
I was beginning to understand that love meant something different for a woman than it did for a man. When as Jack I had first met Vickie, I saw her as something I had to have. I think she sensed that. I think she decided I wanted her as an object, and she was willing to give herself to me on those terms until she could put her own plans in action. And I suppose in a way, I was responsible for what she had become–cruel and vindictive.
Why?
Well, because as much as I had lavished her with gifts and affection, I had never really made her a part of my life. She had been a possession, just like my cars and my beach house in Hawaii. Had I truly treated her as my partner in life, she might have dumped Del and truly loved me...
No, I thought with a sigh, now alone at my desk as Brenda went back to work. No, Vickie was who she was. She would never have been my loving partner in life, no matter how hard I tried. The fault had been mine. I had bought her as I would have bought an impressive car. I had been looking for something, but it wasn’t love.
And I had paid the price. Here I was, without my wealth and my fame–without even my gender.
Yet I felt somewhat fortunate. Looking back on my life as Jack Chrysler, I saw a life that was strangely two-dimensional for all its glamour. I had been doing a job I didn’t really want, and prevented from doing the things I did want to do. I had known the cost of everything and the value of nothing. I was ruining countless lives with my thoughtless move to New York, and justifying it as the right thing to do for all the wrong reasons. I had ‘enjoyed’ a loveless existence, and if I could be completely honest with myself, I was probably bringing Chrysler Publications down with my ineptitude.
At least as Candy Dixon, I was alive. So what if I had been forced to be a receptionist and eventually bare my body to the world just to get by? So what if I was penniless? I was young, attractive, and well-liked by my co-workers. And I had known love. Granted, it was a crazy, mixed up version of love in which my partner may have been there just for the sex, but I had loved Peter that evening with an intensity–and a pleasure–that Jack Chrysler couldn’t even imagine. Even if Peter just walked past my desk saying “Good afternoon, Ms. Dixon,” I would always be grateful for the evening we had shared together.
With a sudden smile, I realized that if Mr. Logan were to walk through the door right now and offer to change me back, I would have to tell him I wasn’t interested. This was who I was–now and forever–with or without Peter.
My resolve nearly vanished when I saw Peter though. He looked so handsome in his dark suit and white shirt as I could see him approaching our glass doors. And there was a man with him as well–an older version of Peter. It was a man I hadn’t seen since before my transformation. Duncan Reynolds had been my favorite of all my father’s advisors. A proper attorney if ever there was one, he marched in lock step with his son to the door.
“Candy!” Peter said with a big grin as he held the door for his father.
“Good afternoon, Peter,” I replied, so uncertain I probably sounded a little formal. My heart was melting at the warm tone of his voice, and only the presence of his father prevented me from rushing over to hug him. Well, there was another thing that prevented it was well. Peter was giving me a warning shake of his head behind his father’s back. I was curious but said nothing.
“How do you do, Ms. Dixon?” Duncan said, knowing my name to my surprise. He even extended a well-manicured hand to me. It felt odd to be talking to an old confidant as if for the first time, but I managed to say “How do you do?” without adding “Mr. Reynolds” since I remembered at the last second that he hadn’t given me his name.
“This is my father, Duncan Reynolds,” Peter explained. “It’s great to see you again, Candy.” That last was said with a warmth I felt all the way to my little painted toes.
“Please call me Duncan,” his father told me, surprising me once again. “Are we ready to meet?”
They were a few minutes early, but I knew that Vickie and Del were already in the conference room waiting. They had been in a good mood as soon as they had been told of the meeting. Vickie had even told me that it looked like the problems with the will had been taken care of, so they were sure they stood to gain control of the business during the meeting. She couldn’t disguise her glee when she told me.
“Please join us, Candy,” Peter asked, taking my arm as we neared the conference room.
“I don’t know...” I started. After all, I had no desire to watch my inheritance be turned over to my wife, even if it did mean I’d be in the same room with Peter.
“It’s quite necessary,” Duncan told me.
“Necessary?”
“You’ll see, my dear,” he said with an impish smile.
So I preceded them into the room. Vickie and Del looked up at me in surprise, but it was Vickie who yelled, “Get out of here, Candy. This is none of your business.”
“Actually, it is,” Duncan said as he sat opposite Vickie. He was enjoying this, I thought. He never had liked Vickie, and the feeling was mutual. The confused look on Vickie’s face warranted another smile from the distinguished attorney. “If everyone will be seated, I’ll explain.”
When we had all taken our seats, Duncan leaned back and began, “I became Jack Chrysler’s–that is Jack Chrysler Junior–attorney when he formed Chrysler Publishing. My father had done work for him and his father, so our relationship is a long one. Jack the Third, as I used to call him, was my client as well, although I had hoped to turn much of the work at Chrysler Publications over to my son who seems to have a fascination with the publishing business.”
Peter smiled graciously.
“Look, let’s dispense with the history lesson,” Vickie broke in rudely.
“I would do so gladly,” Duncan said, feigning sympathy, “but I’m afraid it’s necessary to understand what has happened.”
Alarm bells had to be going off inside Vickie’s head. She and Del had obviously expected their problems to be solved by the meeting, but now, she wasn’t so sure. She at least decided to remain quiet until she saw what she was up against.
“I’m afraid Jack Junior had a bit of a roving eye,” Duncan continued. “Even after his son was born, he continued to indulge in... shall we say extracurricular activities. There were a few affairs which unfortunately required my attention. But it wasn’t until Jack Junior was in the last year of his life that he told me that one of these liaisons had produced a child.”
There was a collective gasp around the table–none louder than my own. It meant that I had a brother or sister out there somewhere–or so I thought.
“The mother of the child was apparently married, so she was in a rather poor position to demand anything of Jack Junior. It would mean admitting her indiscretions to her husband. By their mutual agreement, Jack Junior would have nothing to do with the child, and the mother’s husband would be told that the child was his own. Jack Junior was more than happy to comply–until the end.
“He knew he had a heart condition, but he had kept it secret from everyone. He was afraid it would affect the price of Chrysler Publications’ stock. But in a special way, he decided it was time to provide for the child he had never seen.”
“Jack never mentioned that provision of his father’s will,” Vickie said through gritted teeth.
“That’s because it wasn’t in the will–it is in the Chrysler Family Trust,” Duncan explained.
Oh yes, the trust, I realized at once. Like many wealthy families, passing an inheritance from one generation to the next could be very expensive. As a result, assets were often placed in a trust for the benefit of the heirs. That way, considerable taxation could be avoided. While I had always thought of my father’s estate as passing down to me, technically, it resided in the trust. I actually had only about a hundred thousand dollars in my own name. The rest was in the trust.
But I had added Vickie as my beneficiary, I remembered. That meant the proceeds of the trust would fall to her control. She would be named trustee in place of me and would have control of everything. But Duncan said something about the trust...
“Poor Jack the Third never had much of a head for business, I’m afraid,” Duncan went on. “I tried on several occasions to explain it to him. Of course, I suppose I can’t blame him. Trusts are difficult enough to understand even if they’re simple. The one Jack Junior created was anything but simple. I wasn’t allowed by the provision of the trust to even discuss the specifics of the matter unless certain unexpected factors came into play. And the only way the whole thing would come into play is if something untimely happened to Jack the Third and the love child was found. No one ever expected the illegitimate child his father had sired to show up, but stranger things have happened.”
With that, he looked right at me.
I like to think my sexual transformation had no adverse affect on my intelligence, but it took me a moment to understand what had just happened.
“Oh shit, no!” Vickie screamed.
I think it was Vickie’s outburst that drove Duncan’s point home to me. “I... I’ m the illegitimate child?” It was so far out of left field that I thought as I said it that that wasn’t what Duncan had meant at all, but the paternal smile on his face and the enthusiastic nod of his head told me otherwise.
I thought about my transformation. Mr. Logan had provided me with no knowledge of my supposed background. And given Vickie’s glee at my situation, I had just assumed that my shadowed past was part of the plan. After all, I had no education to speak of and no work history to depend upon. The lack of family or connections coupled with those factors meant I worked for Vickie and Del or I starved.
“But... how?” I managed to ask.
“An anonymous tip, actually,” Duncan explained. “Someone called us and said he used to know a woman who may have had a child by Jack Junior. We didn’t expect to uncover anything, but we were obligated to check it anyhow. Imagine our surprise when we found it was apparently true.”
“You son of a bitch!” Vickie screamed, bolting at me, only to be held back by Peter.
It dawned on me in that moment as I watched Vickie rage and Del sink into his seat, his face ashen, that I realized Mr. Logan was behind this. Who else could have made the anonymous call? “Excuse me a minute. I... I have to go to the restroom,” I said lamely, rushing from the room before anyone could stop me. It would take several minutes to get Vickie calmed down anyway.
I rushed out into the hall and barged into Mr. Logan’s office. He and his assistant, that strange little Mr. Luck, were watching something on his computer screen. I realized in an instant that what they were watching was Duncan and Peter trying to calm Vickie down with only modest results.
“Ah, Ms. Dixon, shouldn’t you get back in your meeting?” Mr. Logan asked, obviously not at all surprised that I had come to see him.
“You planned this!” I yelled. “You planned all of it!”
“From the very beginning,” he admitted calmly.
I stood there in front of his desk, my hands on my hips. “But why? Why go to all of this trouble?”
“Oh, it was no trouble at all, my dear,” he laughed. “And it was quite amusing when you think about it.”
Actually, I had been thinking about it, and to be honest, he was right. Vickie and Del had thought they were in control of the situation, but they were being manipulated as completely as I had been. For a being like Mr. Logan, it must have been terribly amusing.
“Mr. Sherman and your wife approached me upon the recommendation of a mutual associate–an individual who Mr. Sherman had dealt with before during his previous time in New York. Of course, he had no way of knowing that the associate is one of... us.”
I would have loved to have known who “us” was, but I knew Mr. Logan would never divulge that.
“It seems that Mr. Sherman had a problem. He had been brought in by his girlfriend–your wife–to run First Class Male, but given his expensive tastes as well as your wife’s there simply wasn’t enough money available to support their desires. You know, as Jack Chrysler, you really should have realized that your wife was not willing to be modestly rich as you were. She wanted to be fabulously rich. She was convinced that you were just being miserly. Like many pampered wives, she didn’t realize that wealth is often tied up in businesses and property and can’t always be converted to expensive toys and such.
“Del had promised her the world if he just had control of the publishing business. He wanted to divest the company of its other magazines and concentrate on turning First Class Male into a more risqué publication which he felt would be more profitable. There was just one problem...”
“Me,” I volunteered.
Mr. Logan nodded in agreement. “You would never have gone along with his plan. You saw First Class Male as a more ‘gentlemanly’ publication. And also, you valued the other publications as much as First Class Male.”
I took a look at the monitor. “I’d better get back in there...”
“Oh, no hurry,” Mr. Logan said laconically. “Our little meeting is happening in a little kernel of time. The ratio to real time is approximately sixty to one.” He directed my attention to the monitor. Duncan and Peter were still trying to calm Vickie down, but the scene hadn’t changed much from the last time I had viewed the monitor. And all of them appeared to be frozen in space, although if I looked closely, I could see them moving ever so slightly. “If we were to meet an hour–which is unlikely–only a minute would pass to the rest of the world.”
His powers seemed endless–almost like a god. “Who–or what–are you?” I blurted out.
“That would take a bit of time to explain, and it really isn’t important, is it? Besides, there is another question on the table. You asked me why I did all of this.”
I nodded. Given a choice of knowing exactly who Mr. Logan was, was not nearly as important to me as knowing why he had changed me into a young woman, denying me my inheritance only to give it back later. “So why did you do it? And how?”
“I think I’ll tell you how first,” he said. “It will probably surprise you to know that Candy Dixon was, in fact, your father’s daughter. Yes, you had a sister–a half-sister actually. The mother was paid a suitable amount of money to remain silent and moved to New York to get on with her life as the single mother of a baby daughter. Unfortunately, both mother and daughter were killed in a traffic accident when the child was only a year old. Your father was never told of this accident.”
“How did you learn all of this?” I asked.
He shrugged. “That isn’t really important. And if there had been no Candy Dixon at all, the resources of our... organization are sufficient that we could have created an identity from scratch. However, since there really was a Candy Dixon, our task was easier. Of course, there will be questions from your attorneys. You’ll need to have a knowledge of your life as a girl. Don’ t worry though, I have it right here.”
“Here” proved to be a tiny spark of light which he held in his fingertips. It silently, slowly, floated from his fingers to my forehead where it pushed through with only a warm tickle. When it was done, I could remember a life I had never lived. I knew I had been Jack Chrysler and remembered my real life with vivid detail. But I could remember another life as well. I could remember a different mother. I could remember being a little girl. I could remember my first date, my first kiss, losing my virginity, everything.
“Don’t try to look up any of the old friends you now remember,” he warned me. “You’ll find they don’t really remember you. The only additional changes we’ve made to reality are that all record of the death of Candy Dixon and her mother has been removed. It is now recorded that Candy’s mother died two years ago of natural causes, leaving you without family. However, the lawyers won’t dig too deeply.”
“But Vickie might,” I pointed out. “She’s not going to take this lying down.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Vickie if I were you,” Mr. Logan assured me. “She will not be of any concern to you.”
“So that’s how you did it,” I said with a smile. “But was that provision actually in my father’s trust agreement? It doesn’t seem completely valid to me.”
“It probably isn’t,” Mr. Logan agreed. “Although it was actually there. It seems your father lost track of his daughter and her mother. As he sensed his death approaching, he had enough concern for her to provide for her at least on paper.”
“But he never looked for her,” I surmised.
“That is correct. It’s not as uncommon as you might think. Many individuals, sensing impending death, seek to right old wrongs. But I can assure you, if it hadn’t worked out this way, we would have found another way.”
“Which brings us to why you did it,” I prompted. “Why did you seem to go along with them? And why did you change me into a woman?”
“Are you unhappy as a woman?”
I hadn’t really expected the question, although I suppose I should have. I think I was just a little reluctant to admit to anyone how I had come to love my new life. It had been an attitude I had adopted reluctantly at first, but in spite of Del and Vickie and the humiliating photo shoot, I felt more free and alive as a woman than I had ever felt as a man. And Peter had made me feel more alive than I had ever dreamed was possible. My only regret had been seeing Del and Vickie steal what was rightfully mine. Now even that problem had been rectified.
“No, I’m not unhappy,” I admitted. “Just the opposite, really.”
He gave me the warmest smile I had ever seen from him. “This is the person you were meant to be, Candy. I sensed that long before I changed you. And I knew if I didn’t seem to be in league with Del and Vickie, they would eventually decide you must be killed. And while few can do what I did to you, many would be willing to kill you. Just be thankful their desire to humiliate you was as strong as their desire to steal from you. Otherwise, you’d be dead by now, and they would be in full control of your company.”
I shuddered at that thought.
“And I was not happy with the direction you and Del were taking the company,” Mr. Logan went on. “Are you familiar with El and Associates?”
I thought for a moment. “Yes,” I said finally. “They’re an investment company that owns this building. I assume it’s your company?”
“Right on all counts,” he replied. “But as I thought, you were never really involved in running the business as you should have been.”
I turned a bit red at that, I’m afraid.
“If you had been suitably involved, you’d know that El and Associates owns nearly three percent of Chrysler Publications stock. The mutual associate I spoke of was our attorney. He recommended this building to Del Sherman. Mr. Sherman was quite aware that we were stockholders. Part of the sweetener in addition to my fee for transforming you was that his plan would enhance the value of our stock.”
“So you’ve been watching me for some time,” I surmised softly.
“Years,” he agreed. “Candy, as Jack Chrysler, you were a good man, but in running a business, that isn’t enough. It’s one thing to be concerned about the welfare of your employees, but you have to have the strength of will to run your business well. In the long run, that is what is best for your employees. Good intentions are not enough.”
“The road to Hell is paved with them,” I observed with a wry smile.
“Actually, it’s paved in human excrement,” he replied, and I had a sneaky hunch he was serious. “Be that as it may, I think your experiences as Candy have taught you something you would have never learned as Jack.”
I nodded silently in agreement.
“So now the question is where will you go from here?”
It was a question I hadn’t really considered. I was still too shocked from the realization that Chrysler Publications was now mine again–or would be shortly. The problem was what to do with it. Unfortunately, Mr. Logan was correct. I had to admit there was more to being a good businessman than having good intentions. If I took over the helm of the company once more, I’d not have any better luck at it than I had as Jack Chrysler. In fact, I had even less chance of success. As Jack Chrysler, I had at least looked the part. Now, as an attractive young woman with no formal business training, I’d garner even less respect. I might have the credentials to own the company, but I lacked the ability to run it.
“I don’t know,” I finally answered. “Any suggestions?”
“No,” Mr. Logan chuckled, “but I believe you’ll think of something.”
With that, I returned to the meeting. As far as everyone was concerned, I had only been gone long enough to go to the restroom. Vickie had calmed down a little, but when I walked in the room, she threw me a killing look. Del was probably equally upset, but he was too stunned to pose much of a problem. Duncan and Peter were trying hard to appear professional and not allow their glee to show.
Peter rose and faced me when I entered the room. “Are you all right?”
“Sure,” I said glibly. “I was just taken by surprise.”
“Don’t think this is over,” Vickie growled. “I’ll see you in court.”
I actually smiled at her–the sweetest smile I could manage. “I don’t think so,” I told her. I don’t think Vickie realized the depth of her defeat. Sure, she could get a lawyer. She could probably find one to work for her on contingency. But what could she do? Even though she knew I wasn’t really Jack Junior’s illegitimate daughter, what could she say? That she and Del had had me changed into Candy Dixon? That I was really Jack the Third? At the least, she’d be laughed out of court.
“Ms. Dixon,” Duncan interjected, “I think my son and I should continue our discussions in private.”
“Of course,” I said. “We can use Mr. Sherman’s office. He won’t be needing it any longer.”
I thoroughly enjoyed the stricken look on Del’s face.
Mr. L was waiting patiently as Vickie and Del barged into his office right on time. Before they could start to bluster, he rose to his feet. Although not extremely tall, he was taller than each of his visitors, and his bearing was one of a being who saw no threat from the pair. “It’s time we discussed your future,” he began, and the tone in his voice was sufficient to convey the message that that was the only subject which would be discussed.
Knowing they were beaten, they seemed to deflate in front of the god.
“What future?” Vickie muttered. “You seem to have taken any future we might have had away from us.”
“You did that with your own decisions,” Mr. L said sharply. “You, Mrs. Chrysler, had a loving husband and a secure future, while you, Mr. Sherman, had been entrusted with the management of a potentially lucrative business. You both abused your trust and have only yourselves to blame.”
Vickie turned to Del. “You still have the hundred grand in your account. We need to get out of New York before Tony Capella finds out about this. And I’ll still inherit whatever was in Jack’s name.”
“I just called on the account,” Del moaned. “It’s been closed.”
“Closed? How?”
Mr. L smiled. “If you’ll recall, one hundred thousand dollars was due as my fee for getting rid of Jack Chrysler. Given your financial prospects, I withdrew the money from your offshore account. You really should be more careful with your account codes. By the way...” He pushed a check across the desk to Del. “...there was a little excess in the account. Here is a check from my firm to cover the difference.”
Del snatched at the check, peered at it, then fell back in his chair with an hysterical laugh. “This check is for two thousand dollars.”
“Hopefully, it will be enough to help you with a fresh start,” Mr. L said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m really quite busy...”
“At least I’ll get whatever Jack owned,” Vickie pointed out.
“I doubt that,” Mr. L replied. “You see, they’re starting to bring wreckage from the plane crash up out of Lake Erie. Some suspicious tampering with the engines will be evident in a few days. Whatever you do finally inherit will probably be eaten up in legal fees when the two of you become suspects in Mr. Chrysler’s death.”
“You bastard!” Vickie screamed. “You planned all of this!”
If it was meant as an accusation, it fell flat, for Mr. L replied blandly, “Yes.”
Vickie frowned. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Mr. L repeated with a nod. “Did you ever stop and think that an individual with my powers would hardly be interested in a paltry hundred thousand dollar fee? Of course you didn’t. Your greed clouded your judgment. You would be interested in such a fee and would gladly wreck someone’s life for such an insignificant sum. You merely assumed everyone else thought that way too.”
“Then why did you do it?” Vickie demanded. “What are you, some sort of do-gooder or something?”
Mr. L laughed, “I’ve been called many things, but a do-gooder? My dear Mrs. Chrysler, I can assure you I am anything but a do-gooder.”
“Then why...?” she repeated, confused.
Mr. L’s eyes seemed to light with internal fire. “Because you entertain me! You have no idea who we are, do you? I thought not. Let me just say that I and my kind have lived for longer than you can imagine. In that time, we have learned that wealth and power are mere transitory illusions. We seek to be stimulated. Love, hate, revenge, greed, and all the other emotional motivations of humans are our only true entertainment. They are the building blocks we require to continue our own mental stability. And I must say, the two of you have been most entertaining. We can hardly wait to see how entertaining you will be when Tony Capella finds out what has happened.”
“But he’ll kill us!” Del wailed.
“Shut up!” Vickie demanded. Then, turning to Mr. L, she asked, “All right. But if he kills us, we won’t be entertaining any more, will we?”
“That’s true.”
“So what can we do to get away from Mr. Capella?”
“An excellent question!” Mr. L remarked, rising once more from his chair. “And I think I have just the answer...”
Things moved quickly after that fateful meeting. Of course, I had to prove I was really John Chrysler Junior’s daughter, but that proved simple enough. Provisions had been made by my father for DNA testing, and naturally I passed with flying colors. Mr. Logan had thought of everything it seems. Since I wasn’t supposed to know my father, I wasn’t asked anything about my life growing up as a girl. So the memories Mr. Logan gave me were not necessary.
In a way though, I was glad to have those false memories. It made being Candy Dixon much easier, and whatever traces of my male existence were still with me faded further and further into the background. Although I remembered my old life, it seemed almost unreal to me.
Of course, being with Peter again helped. His love for me was real, I was delighted to learn. I didn’t even need to worry that he loved me for my money since his family was wealthy as well. Duncan returned to Cleveland leaving an enthusiastic Peter to help me with the business... and other things.
The one thing that hung over me like a cloud was the packet of photos from my shoot. Naturally, the first thing I did–with Brenda’s help–was reverse Del’s plans to turn First Class Male into a porn magazine. The next issue would be as tasteful as every previous one. The photos never turned up. Well, in a way I suppose they did. My heart had stopped when Peter picked up the photos from the floor in Del’s–now my–office. But for some strange reason, the prints were completely blank, showing only the crisp white of quality photographic paper.
I wasn’t ready to leave it at that though. A few days later while Peter was occupied on legal matters, I took a cab over to Stuart McBride’s photo studio. I was only a little surprised to find out it was gone, replaced by a trendy little women’s shop. I waved the cab off and looked around the shop, but there was no sign of Stuart nor any trace of a photo studio. I did manage to buy two very cute dresses, though.
I suppose I’ll never be certain if the studio was just another of Mr. Logan’s little sets, or if Stuart was now only a memory, forced into a new life as I had been. Whatever the reason, all that remained of that photo shoot seemed to be the memories of the participants.
Oh, and speaking of memories, Steve Stallion, our co-star on the shoot had been a real horse’s ass. I noticed in the paper the other day that he had mysteriously disappeared. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but I happened to notice in the same paper that a horse named Stevie By L had won the third race at Belmont. It was a race for fillies, so if I’m right, Stallion isn’t a stallion any more.
Then there were Doris and Lada, respectively the wardrobe lady (if what we were given to wear could be called wardrobe) and makeup expert. There must be a million women named Doris in the world, but Lada was an unusual name. Doris I figure was just what she seemed to be, but Lada was obviously working for Mr. Logan. I never saw her again, but I did get curious about her. I looked up the name Lada, and I was right–the name is Slavic. It comes from the name of an old Slavic goddess of beauty. Maybe that’s why she got into makeup.
Or maybe–just maybe–she really is Lada, the goddess of beauty. That would explain a lot about the strange collection of mystical beings around Deety Arms. I thought about how the word ‘Deety’ on the stone in front of the building looked more like ‘Deity.’ What if some of the old gods–the ones we’ve all but forgotten–really existed? What if they all got together and... No, it was too bizarre to be possible.
Of course, Vickie and Del remember the shoot–wherever they are. By the time a very pissed Tony Capella came looking for them, they were nowhere to be found. So Tony had turned on me–or tried to. It turns out the one thing the mob fears more than anything else is a roomful of lawyers. Tony learned the hard way that Chrysler Publications had no legal requirement to repay the substantial sums of money he had advanced to Vickie and Del personally. Peter and the two local attorneys he brought in to handle the affair were wonderful. The last thing Tony Capella wanted was to end up in a courtroom. He and his pals slunk back into whatever dark hole they had crawled out of. I never saw him again.
And speaking once again of Peter, I don’t know what I would have done without him. We shared an office by day and a bed by night, and life had never been better. As the heir–albeit illegitimate by birth–to the Chrysler Publications fortune, no one would think twice if the potential heir to one of the most prestigious law firms in Cleveland were to ask for my hand in marriage. The wedding was set for two months from now, after I would have a chance to relocate my staff in Cleveland.
Of course, not everyone was returning to Cleveland. First Class Male would be published in New York, but not under the Chrysler banner. El and Associates had made a generous offer for the title–generous enough that I would have sufficient funds to rebuild my other magazine titles into strong publications. I could only imagine what Mr. Logan and his associates would do with the magazine, but I had a sneaky hunch that not all the women in the photo articles the magazine would publish in the future would have started out in life as females.
Happily, Brenda was coming back to Cleveland with us–but not as my assistant. Brenda would be in charge of operations as President of Chrysler Publications. I would content myself with being a contributing editor while I worked on a degree in art appreciation. People like Brenda–with some advice from Peter–were much better equipped to run the company than I was. I wouldn’t be any better as a businesswoman than I had been as a businessman. Of course, I’d still be Chairman of the Board, but I didn’t plan to interfere with operations. Brenda could handle that just fine.
And so the day to leave New York had finally come. I had entered the city as a failing businessman, but I was leaving in triumph. As I waited for my limo in the lobby of Deety Arms under the admiring stares of countless men, I had to smile to myself. It was only a short time ago that I had slunk through the halls of the buildings, embarrassed by my sex. Times had changed. Of course, there’s nothing like an expensive designer dress to give a girl a little confidence.
“Leaving us, Ms. Dixon?”
I turned and smiled at Mr. Logan. “I’m afraid so.”
“We’ll miss you,” he said, returning the smile. “I can’t remember when we’ve had so much fun around here. Most of our guests provide us with more mundane entertainment.”
As if to prove a point, he nodded at the two Hispanic women who were just entering the building after a full night’s work. Whores, strippers, or maybe both from the provocative way they were dressed, the two women shot us both an ugly glance as they hustled along toward the elevator on their impossibly high heels.
“Do they live here?” I asked when they had passed.
“Oh yes,” he replied brightly. “In fact, they moved in about the time Mrs. Chrysler and Mr. Sherman disappeared.”
It only took a moment for me to realize what he was saying. If I had had any doubts, the gleam in his eyes would have ended them. So Vickie and Del had escaped Tony Capella, but they hadn’t escaped justice. Well, Vickie had always had a small model’s bust. I wondered how she liked having a full rack now. For that matter, I wondered how Del liked having one.
I didn’t have much time to speculate though, for the limo pulled up smoothly in front of the entrance. Without being asked, the ever-present Mr. Luck scooped up my bags and hustled them to the car.
“Good luck to you, Ms. Dixon,” Mr. Logan said as he offered his hand.
“Thank you,” I returned, taking it gladly. How strange that I felt such warm feelings for that strange man who had changed my life so completely. Or maybe not so strange when I considered how much better my life had become. “Will we see you at the wedding?”
The smile became even wider. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The End
Deity Arms: Taking a Chance on Love
by The Professor (c. 2003)
Jack Murphy was willing to give up almost anything to bring down Tony Capella, but he never imagined what that really meant.
“Jeez! What was that?”
Big Iggy gave a sigh. He was used to his smaller partner jumping at the slightest sound. He too, had heard something from deeper within the recesses of the alley. It wasn’t a threatening sound though. It was probably just a rat scrounging through the garbage. Or maybe it was a wino, sleeping it off someplace quiet where the punks roaming the streets wouldn’t see him and roll him for the pitiful few dollars he had crammed in a dirty pocket.
“Wadda ’ya think?” Big Iggy asked drolly. “You think it’s the cops watching us?”
“Well you never know,” Little Iggy said defensively. “It never hurts to be careful,” he added petulantly.
Big Iggy shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know why you got in this business if you’re gonna jump every time you hear a noise.”
“I didn’t get in this business,” Little Iggy mumbled. “This isn’t my business at all. I don’t know why the boss always picks us to hide the bodies. It’s kinda spooky, y’know?” He looked fearfully at the dumpster where the two of them had just hefted the remains of a man, wrapped in garbage bags, his limbs tied to his side. “I got into the protection business.”
Big Iggy shrugged. “Look, it’s a lot easier making a meat delivery than it is shaking down some poor bastard who opened his shop in the wrong neighborhood. Besides, protection ain’t what it used to be. Remember Tommy?”
That was the wrong thing to say, Big Iggy thought upon reflection. Little Iggy turned so pale he could see the change even in the darkness of the alley. Tommy Ravella had set out to bring in some new business from this very neighborhood a week earlier. Although generally acknowledged among Tony Capella’s associates as the toughest hood in Lower Manhattan, Tommy had simply disappeared, and no one had been able to find out what had happened to him.
So it was that Boss Capella had pulled back the protection staff and assigned them to other duties until the whereabouts of Tommy Ravella could be determined. It wasn’t good when a representative of the protection division disappeared like that. It was bad for business.
‘At least,’ Big Iggy thought to himself, ‘the boss had decided to use him and his partner for low-risk errands. Disposing of a body wasn’t so bad–as long as the boss didn’t ask them to kill the guy.’ Big Iggy hadn’t killed a guy in, oh, at least ten years, and he had nearly botched that. If he hadn’t been the boss’s cousin, he would have probably been killed himself instead of just demoted to protection.
“There it is again!” Little Iggy cried out.
“Will you be quiet?” his partner snapped–although this time he felt the hairs on the back of his own neck rising as well. There was something downright spooky about the strange little apartment hotel housed in the building next to the alley. Even the boss gave it a wide berth. And that guy who ran the place... Big Iggy hoped his frightened partner hadn’t seen him shudder at the thought of the strange manager of Deety Arms.
But maybe Little Iggy was right. Maybe there was something there in the alley with them. He doubted if it was a cop, but even an innocent citizen could stumble into the wrong situation. It never hurt to be careful. Drawing his gun, he sidled along the wall, eyes searching the darkness for any menacing form. Then something jumped out of a pile of boxes near the side entrance to the building. The shape was dark but too small to be a man. Big Iggy sighed in relief. “Will you look? Now you’ve got me jumping. It’s just a fucking rat!”
“Yeah,” Little Iggy agreed, chastised. “Sorry, pal.”
Big Iggy re-holstered his weapon and looked back at the dumpster. Everything was in order. “Let’s get out of here.”
As their footsteps receded, a sigh of relief issued from the pile of boxes. “Damn you, Grimcost! He nearly got me.”
From another pile of boxes further down the alley, another raspy voice replied, “But Garmon, he spotted me. He was looking right at me.” The boxes fell aside and an inhuman creature folded and refolded its wings as if to emphasize the point.
“He couldn’t see you though,” Garmon growled, returning the gesture from his own pile. “Humans can’t see half of what’s in front of them. When you jumped though, he couldn’t help but see you. I thought I was going to have to kill them both. Mr. L wouldn’t have liked that.”
Grimcost walked contritely toward the other gargoyle. “Why didn’t Mr. L do something? They killed that man. They killed a policeman.”
Garmon shrugged. “I don’t know. He has something in mind. When I asked him he just told me these men didn’t kill the officer: one of Tony Capella’s top guns did. It’s Capella he wants this time.”
“Then why not just go to his office and take care of him?” Grimcost asked, his embarrassment replaced by curiosity.
Grimcost grinned–or as close as he could get to a grin with his beak. “Mr. L says that’s too easy for him. I think he’s got something more interesting in mind.”
Viewing the body of a murdered man is never easy. It’s even harder when it’s the body of a friend. Marcello Fontana–Mark to his friends–had been a good friend of mine since the days at Police Academy. We had both grown up in Brooklyn, although we hadn’t known each other there. We both got married right after the Academy and we both got divorces in the same month resulting in a monumental binge that was still the talk of the department. Then I lost touch with him. That had been two years ago. Now I knew why.
“According to Downtown, he was working under cover,” Matt Conway, my young partner told me as I watched the attendants wheel Mark’s body away. At least the spring drizzle had washed the blood off his face but could do nothing to disguise the bruises underneath. Mark hadn’t died easily.
“For what department?” I asked, reaching in my coat pocket for a cigarette. There weren’t any there, of course. I had given them up a year ago on an impulse during one of those damned ‘smoke outs.’ I just couldn’t seem to kick the craving, but I’d be damned if I let the cancer sticks get the best of me. Nobody and nothing got the best of me.
“Organized Crime Task Force,” Matt replied. “They were trying to nab Capella.”
My stomach got tight at that name. Capella was the bastard who had cost me my marriage and nearly cost me my life. “Capella’s hard to nab.”
Matt nodded. “You got that right, boss. Word is Fontana worked his way into Capella’s mob but never could work his way up high enough to get the goods on him. Somebody finally slipped up and he was made. Looks like they wanted to send us a message judging from the condition of the body.”
Matt sounded impassive, but I knew he was upset, too. He didn’t know Mark, but nothing upsets a cop like the murder of another cop. If you’re lucky, you might go through your whole career on the force and never see it happen. But if you’re in Homicide like Matt and I, it happens. You just have to tell yourself you’ll find the perp and squeeze him for all it’s worth. The problem was that Tony Capella didn’t squeeze easily.
“Anybody see anything?” I asked as Mark’s body was loaded into an ambulance.
“Nope,” Matt replied. “It’s pretty dark back in that alley. The only door back there leads to that apartment hotel over there. According to the manager, nobody had used the door since this morning.”
I looked at my watch. It was nearly midnight. The anonymous phone call about the body had come in about ten and our guys weren’t on the scene for about thirty minutes. “Isn’t it kind of late for the manager to still be on duty? I mean this Deety Arms isn’t exactly the St. Regis.”
Matt gave me a funny look as if he wasn’t sure of how to tell me something. I had seen the look from him before. He was new to Homicide. Barely thirty, he was a sharp kid. Someday, he’d probably be running the department. I had learned in the few months I had been working with him to trust his instincts.
“Come on Matt. Out with it. What’s the problem?”
Matt shrugged. “I don’t know Jack. It’s hard to explain. There’s just something weird about that whole place, and this manager is the kind of weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Well, start with his name,” Matt began. “It’s L.”
“El?” I asked. “He’s Latino? El what?”
“That’s it,” Matt told me. “It’s just the letter L. Or at least that’s what his staff calls him. Now I know there are one-letter last names. I used to work a neighborhood with a lot of Vietnamese in it. O–just plain O–is a pretty common Vietnamese name. But I’ve never heard of somebody named L.”
“This is New York kid,” I grinned in spite of myself. “People call themselves all kinds of crazy things, and here in the Village, it’s the worst of the worst for stuff like that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Matt sighed. Deep down, the kid was probably tired of hearing me talk about the strange side of the city. It was as if I was reminding him that he had grown up on the Upper East Side where the money is and where families shield themselves from the seamy side of New York. “But this L guy isn’t like all the fruitcakes.”
“Maybe I ought to go talk to him,” I mused. Matt didn’t argue with me. I think he wanted me to see this L guy for myself. I had a pretty good idea what he’d be like.
Of course, I was completely wrong.
As if for the first time, I took stock of the building before I entered. The apartment hotel was the largest building on the square, rising to six stories. Like many buildings in the city, the brownstone façade was weathered to nearly a dull gray by years of accumulated pollution. However, the polished heavy oak front doors showed no signs of wear. The doors were flanked by two gargoyles perched on a ledge. I looked away from the gargoyles quickly. There was something unsettling about them–almost as if they were watching me. Between them, carved into the stone, were two words: Deety Arms, but part of the stone on one of the words had either worn or been chipped away, for the second ‘e’ looked more like an ‘i’ at first glance.
An involuntary and completely unexpected shudder ran up and down my back. I had heard of this place: every cop who worked this part of the city had heard of Deety Arms. It was an urban legend. In fact, strange stories were told about nearly every business on the cosy square where the building stood. I had never believed any of them–until now. There was just something about the place that made you question reality itself–as if the building just should be there at all.
Bracing myself for something out of an Anne Rice novel, I opened one of the heavy oak doors, expecting to hear it creak on its hinges. Instead, the door opened smoothly and silently, revealing a completely unexpected sight.
Instead of a tired old lobby with Gothic overtones and deep shadows, I was met by a brightly lit scene of near opulence. The polished oak wainscoting and plush green carpet in the lobby shouted old wealth. Even the hunter-green wallpaper above the wainscoting reeked of money with its raised, silk-like patterns. A mountain of a man stood silently by a small desk. He was dressed in a doorman’s uniform of impeccable cut, resembling a Marine in full dress rather than the ill-fitting, dumping little men who served that same function in most of the city’s apartment hotels.
But the man who met me in the lobby was incongruous in such surroundings. He was a funny little man wearing an ill-fitting suit, although the problem of fit appeared more with the man than with the suit. He was a chubby little fellow, and frankly I doubted if a thousand dollar suit would have made him look any better
“I’m...”
“Good evening, Lieutenant Murphy,” the little man interrupted in a reedy voice. “I’m Mr. Luk.”
“Luck?”
“No, Luk.”
Oh. And how did he know my name?
“Mr. Logan asked me to show you to his office. If you’ll step this way...”
I followed him down a long hallway. The path displayed a series of doors, each made of wood below and frosted glass above, like the old run-down office buildings around the city. But this place wasn’t run down. Everything looked new and polished. It was like stepping back into a simpler time, like the thirties or forties.
I had expected to walk into an old Universal horror movie. Instead, I had walked into a film noir mystery by mistake. I almost expected Humphrey Bogart to suddenly step out of one of those doors, hat pulled down over his eyes and a cigarette drooping from his thin lips. Was Mr. L really Sidney Greenstreet? Wait. Mr. Luk had called him Mr. Logan. Matt must have misunderstood.
I was ushered into a large, tastefully decorated office. It was clear that whoever had designed the lobby had taken a hand in designing this Logan’s office. Mr. Logan might not be Sidney Greenstreet, but I had the feeling the legendary character actor would have found himself at home in that office.
Behind a large well-polished oak desk sat a well-dressed man, ramrod straight as he appeared engrossed in a document. He was tall and slender, and although his skin was that of a young man, his hair was white and cut quite short. As I entered the room, he rose, favoring me with piercing blue eyes. His suit, unlike Mr. Luk’s, fit him to perfection. He looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of GQ.
“Lieutenant Murphy,” he greeted me, offering me his hand. Did everybody in this place know my name? I took his hand and found his handshake firm and confident. I liked that in a man. “Please, be seated.”
I hesitated. My coat was wet from the intermittent drizzle, and Mr. Logan’s guest chairs were covered in fine leather. Intercepting my thought, Mr. Logan ordered, “Mr. Luk, please take the lieutenant’s coat and have it pressed. Also, please bring us some coffee–something mild as it is quite late.”
My concerns about Mr. Logan and his establishment seemed to evaporate under the power of the solicitous treatment. I eased myself into one of the guest chairs, suddenly realizing how long I had been on my feet. The chair seemed to mold itself around me, soothing tired bones and muscles. ‘I had to get me one of those chairs,’ I thought.
“Now to business,” Mr. Logan said, seating himself in a large leather executive chair. He leaned forward across his desk, his face strangely shadowed in the light of his desk lamp–the only light in the room.
“Mr. Logan,” I began, glad to be back in charge of the investigation once again, “do you know anything about the body we found next to your establishment this evening?”
I thought for a moment I saw amusement in the light reflecting off his pale blue eyes. “I was given to understand that the victim was a policeman, working undercover to infiltrate Tony Capella’s organization.”
‘Damn!’ I thought. What kind of investigation had Matt been running before I showed up? The object of questioning potential witnesses was to find out what they knew–not to tell them what you knew. Matt must have done most of the talking.
“Uh...” I began, trying to restart my questioning but without success. I was saved by the return of the strange Mr. Luk who laid my freshly-pressed coat over the other guest chair. I couldn’t imagine how he had done it so fast. There had to be a dry cleaner in the building, but I wondered why it was still open in the middle of the night. He then handed me a cup of steaming coffee from a small silver tray. After placing a similar cup in front of Mr. Logan, he gave an honest-to-God bow and left the room.
I took a sip of the coffee. It was lightly sweetened with a splash of cream–just the way I liked it. As for the blend, it was rich and mellow–perhaps the finest cup of coffee I had ever had. But I hadn’t come for the coffee. “Mr. Logan...”
“Lieutenant, let me save you some time,” he broke in. “No one in this building was a witness to the murder. Your friend was killed elsewhere and his body left here by Capella’s men as an insult to me and my associates.”
This was all coming in too fast. “But how do you know who did it?”
“Because the body was delivered by Ignatio Morello and his associate, a Mr. Gennaro...”
“Big Iggy and Little Iggy,” I muttered.
“Exactly. But as you know, they aren’t–I believe the expression is ‘hit men.’ The actual murderer was Rudy Costanzo.”
“Tony Capella’s right hand man?”
“The same.”
I took another thoughtful sip of my coffee. “Mr. Logan, how could you possibly know all of this unless...?”
Mr. Logan smiled. “Unless I was involved in his activities?”
I nodded. The Mafia had many fellow travellers, and in spite of his polished manner, there was much to suggest that he might be one of them. He seemed to know a lot more about Tony Capella than he should. Also, he had insinuated that Mark’s body had been dumped practically on his doorstep as a personal affront.
“Let’s just say I’ve seen him and his men in action,” he replied, pausing to take a sip of his own coffee. “You see, in addition to drugs and prostitution, Mr. Capella is heavily involved in the protection racket as well. A number of nearby businesses have been victims of his shakedowns.”
I nodded. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. He was evading my questions, answering them but not telling me anything important. I suspected he knew far more than he was letting on. “So are you paying him off?”
There was that damned smile again. “No Lieutenant. No one here on the square is paying him off. We’ve all resisted. This of course, has come to Mr. Capella’s attention.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t had a visit from Tommy Ravella,” I told him. “Capella usually uses him to ‘negotiate’ with folks like you.” I didn’t add that the last guy I knew who Tommy Ravella had ‘negotiated’ with spent two weeks in the hospital as a result.
Mr. Logan startled me by bursting into outright laughter. “I’m afraid Mr. Ravella proved himself to be a very poor negotiator.”
I frowned, confused. “Tommy was here?”
“Oh yes.”
“And?”
The enigmatic smile was back. “Let’s just say that Mr. Ravella has been reassigned and is currently negotiating business deals of a more fundamental nature.”
I was sure that that was a very clever remark but it went right over my head. One thing that didn’t go over my head, though, was the sudden realization that Mr. Logan was more than he seemed. At first glance, I would have thought Tommy Ravella would have chewed up and spit out a dozen Mr. Logans, but somehow this dapper man had bested him.
“I have a proposition for you, Lieutenant,” Mr. Logan said suddenly.
I wasn’t sure what Mr. Logan’s game was, but curiosity got the best of me and I decided to play along. “What kind of a proposition?”
“What would it be worth to you to... I believe the expression is ‘take down’ Tony Capella?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “The Department isn’t in the habit of negotiating payments. If you have information we can use, I suggest you share it with us. It’s possible that some sort of reward could be...”
He ignored my comment and interrupted, “Would it be worth your life?”
I hadn’t expected the question, but it started me thinking. Tony Capella had done a lot to hurt me through the years. Mark Fontana wasn’t the first friend I had lost as a result of Capella’s activities. He had cost me my marriage and very nearly cost me my life. Even my career had been influenced by him. I had become so obsessed with taking him down that the Department had reassigned me from organized crime to homicide, relegating me to investigating dead bodies in dumpsters rather than fighting the mob.
‘Would I give up my life to get that slime ball? Yeah,’ I realized, ‘I would. It would be worth it to die if I could watch Tony go first.’ My answer was short. “Yes.”
Mr. Logan’s eyes narrowed. “Would it be worth your soul?”
I can’t explain my reaction. Call it superstition or call it premonition, but something in the way Logan asked the question caused me to realize the question was not entirely hypothetical.
Now with a name like Murphy, he could probably have made an educated guess that I had been raised Catholic. He would have been right: I was. Although I attended Mass very irregularly and hadn’t been to confession in a long, long time, I still believed, and to be more specific, I was pretty sure I had a soul–whatever it might be.
I can’t say I believed this Mr. Logan to be the devil or one of his minions, but there was something about him that made me uneasy. His confidence and poise set him apart from anyone else I had ever met. He acted almost as if he was in complete control of everything around him. I had a weird hunch that the answer he now requested–no, demanded–of me would be important in ways I couldn’t even imagine.
“No,” I said softly.
“Why not?”
While his tone once more demanded a response, I sensed I had given him the answer he was seeking. His eyes seemed not as narrow and his countenance not as intense, though.
“I suppose because if I surrendered my life, I’d do so in a good cause,” I replied. “But if I surrendered my soul, I might be like him, since he obviously surrendered his soul the day he committed his first crime.”
Mr. Logan’s face melted into a confident smile. “Then I may be able to help you, Lieutenant. Do you believe that I can help you take down Tony Capella?”
I surprised myself by admitting, “Yes, I do.” I had no concrete reason to believe that, but something about the mysterious Mr. Logan gave me the idea that there wasn’t much he couldn’t do. Call it gut instinct. Cops are known for it.
He leaned forward again. “Then this is what you must do. You need to notify your superiors that you need some time off, starting tomorrow.”
I nodded. That wouldn’t be a problem. Given the strain of police work, it wasn’t uncommon for an officer to announce that he or she needed a few days off to handle ‘personal affairs’–a euphemism for getting one’s head back on straight. “How long?”
“Perhaps indefinite would be appropriate.”
“I’ll tell them two weeks,” I countered. I didn’t know what Mr. Logan had in mind, but I couldn’t imagine it taking longer than that.
“Very well.”
“So what’s next?” I asked.
“Meet me here at noon tomorrow,” he told me. “I’ll need you to stay here in one of our apartments.”
“For how long?” I asked again.
He shrugged. “Indefinite.”
There was that word again. “What should I bring?”
“Whatever you like,” he replied agreeably. “Anything else you need will be provided for you.”
“Can you tell me what you have in mind?”
“I will–at noon tomorrow,” he said, rising to indicate that our meeting was over. I nodded in response and left.
To anyone who might wonder at why I, an experienced and supposedly hardened veteran of the New York Police Department, would so quickly agree to Mr. Logan’s plan, I can only respond that to understand, one would have to have been in his presence to comprehend the power he exuded. Couple that presence with the understanding that taking down Tony Capella was the most important thing in my life and throw in plain old human curiosity and perhaps you can understand why I agreed to participate in his plan with no knowledge of the details.
The devil is in the details someone once said. I was about to find out exactly what that meant, not that I’ve ever concluded whether Mr. Logan is the devil, an angel, or something in between. I can say though, that if I had had any idea just what he had in mind that night, I would have never set foot in Deety Arms again.
I even had misgivings as I headed for home that night. My misgivings were strong enough that I placed a late night call to one of our researchers I knew on the night shift. When she answered, I began, “Claire, I need some help. What can you get me on a place called Deety Arms as well as something about its manager, a Mr. Logan?”
Claire and I had been friends for a long time. She sometimes made me pay for my information–usually with lunches or a platonic date. Other times, she protested she was too busy but would get the information anyhow because I really, really needed it. Never in the ten years I had known Claire had she ever given me the answer she gave me that night.
“Jack, whatever you’ve got, leave it alone.”
“Look Claire, I can’t take you to lunch this week, but maybe...”
“You’re not listening Jack,” she shot back. “I mean leave it alone. Deety Arms is sort of off-limits. The first time–and the last time, I might add–that I tried to look into that place, not only did I find nothing but the higher-ups told me to never look into it again.”
“Well, how much nothing did you find?” I asked warily.
Claire was silent for a minute, as if debating with herself the advisability of answering even that. Finally, she told me, “When you look up the place in any database in the city, you find out it doesn’t exist. According to the records, the location is a city park. At least that’s what I found. I talked to someone else who looked it up and found that location to be a deserted warehouse. If I were to look it up for you right now, I have a hunch the computer would tell me it’s the location of a vacant lot or a branch of Citibank or maybe even Disneyland, but it wouldn’t tell me anything about Deety Arms.”
I had seen the place for myself so I knew it existed, but I wasn’t entirely surprised with Claire’s answer. “What about the buildings around it?”
“Same thing,” she replied. “Everything around that little square just doesn’t seem to exist. And yeah, I’ve been there. There are a couple of good restaurants and clubs on that square. They don’t seem to exist either though.”
“You think they’re on somebody’s pad?”
“Maybe,” she allowed. She didn’t sound too confident about that though. Sure, it was possible the businesses in that area had paid off some city official. Businesses that don’t exist don’t pay property taxes or sales taxes or get city inspections or worry about any of a thousand regulations that should apply to them. It had happened before, but usually just one business and most of the time the cause had been an honest clerical error. For an entire neighborhood to be off the books was too strange for words.
“Who came down on you for looking?” I asked her.
“Let’s just say it came from the Mansion.”
For a city employee, there is only one mansion. Since 1942, Gracie Mansion has been the home address of New York City’s mayors.
“So I suppose you’ve got nothing on this Mr. Logan either,” I surmised.
“Only rumors,” she replied. “I’ve heard he’s got more power than Con Ed.”
“Tell me the details.”
“That’s the problem, Jack. There aren’t any details–or at least none people at our level are privy to.” She was silent for a moment, then continued, “I can tell you this though. There’s something weird about that whole neighborhood. You know that place across the square from Deety Arms–the Southwest Grill?”
“I’ve seen it,” I replied. I had never eaten there though. Mexican food always gave me gas.
“I was coming out of there the other night with a couple of friends. One of them mentioned I was with the department, so suddenly this whore on the corner takes an interest in me...”
“Lezzie or male?”
“Neither. Jack, she’s dolled up like a streetwalker in a movie–real cute.”
I knew what she was getting at. In spite of Hollywood’s stereotypes, most whores look as if they’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. I hadn’t seen too many of them who looked like the starlets the movie folks seem to cast in those roles.
“Anyhow,” she went on, “she comes up to me and says that since I’m a cop she needs my help. She said she was a guy.”
“She was a drag queen?”
“Naw. She’s all girl: I could tell. She starts to tell me something about how somebody changed her into a girl. I thought about calling Belleview and turning her over to the shrinks but then some guy comes up next to us and she stops in mid-sentence and starts putting the moves on him like I wasn’t even there.”
“Sounds schizo,” I commented.
“Like I said, it’s a weird part of town. Sorry I can’t help you on this one, Jack.”
I promised I’d take her to lunch real soon anyhow and we hung up.
Nobody down at the precinct was surprised when I asked for time off. It happens all the time. I told Matt personally. He was at his desk, having worked all night so he looked like shit. Like most junior partners on the force, I usually stuck him with the paperwork. Rank hath its privileges.
“You got the watch for a few days,” I told him.
He looked up from his cold cup of coffee and nodded. “I heard. Problems?”
I shrugged. “Just some personal shit I need to take care of. The Captain is going to have Carl Morello tag along with you for a few days.”
I could see the wheels turning in Matt’s head. Carl was junior to him, so that meant Matt would get a little relief from the paperwork even though he’d have to handle more of the fieldwork since Carl was a little inexperienced. On the whole though, any good cop will trade paperwork for fieldwork and Matt was a damned good cop.
“Need a lift–the airport or anything?”
It was Matt’s way of figuring if I was leaving town or not. Like I said, he was a damned good cop. “No thanks. I got it covered,” I replied, grinning to myself when I realized I hadn’t given him the information he was fishing for.
We parted ways and I spent the rest of the morning putting together enough stuff so I could live out of suitcase for a week. I didn’t plan to stay at Deety Arms for a week though. I figured I’d hear Logan out and if his plan looked good, I’d spend a couple of days on it. Nabbing Tony Capella was certainly worth two days. And if nothing came of it, at least I’d have a couple of days’ break from the routine.
Deety Arms looked different in the daylight. The eerie Addams Family mystique was gone, and the building looked just like any of a few thousand brownstones gracing the city. Across the street on the square half a dozen restaurants, including the Southwest Grill were doing a brisk early lunch trade, and peppered in among them, a dozen little shops looked as normal as could be. I looked around the Southwest Grill, thinking about Claire’s prostitute, but nobody fitting her description was there. I guess it was a little early in the day for whores to be out of the sack.
Mr. Logan’s dumpy little assistant, Mr. Luk greeted me at the door, as if he had been waiting for me all morning. Who knows? Maybe he had. He wordlessly motioned me to the elevator.
“I thought I was supposed to see Mr. Logan.”
“Yes sir,” Mr. Luk agreed smoothly. “He wants you to see your room first. Then he’ll call on you once you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.” I figured if things got ugly, I could handle Mr. Luk without breaking a sweat. He looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy, all soft and out of shape.
“Mr. Logan is occupied right now,” a voice came from behind me. I turned quickly and was confronted with Mt. McKinley dressed in a doorman’s uniform. It was the same lunk I spotted last night. He looked even bigger when he was standing right over you. “Do you need some help?” the mountain asked Mr. Luk.
“I was just about to escort Mr. Murphy to his apartment,” Luk explained. “I’m sure Mr. Murphy doesn’t need your help, Horace.”
It took me about a nanosecond to figure out that I might be tough but this Horace guy looked to be a whole lot tougher. Discretion is the better part of valor and all that crap...
“Yeah Horace,” I managed. “I think Mr. Luk here can show me to my apartment without any help.”
In the blink of an eye, Horace the Massive Mountain became Horace the docile servant. “Of course, Mr. Murphy. Please enjoy your stay with us.”
I nodded and returned his smile, but I was beginning to wonder just what I had gotten myself into. I was about to find out.
Mr. Luk showed me to a nice apartment on the fifth floor. It was bright and roomy, and unlike the other parts of the building I had seen with their Gothic gentility, the place looked almost feminine with pastel walls and light oak furnishings trimmed in feminine colors.
“I assume Mrs. Logan does all the interior decorating?” I mused.
Mr. Luk smiled faintly. “There is no Mrs. Logan.”
“Should I call him Logan or just ‘L’ now that I’m on the team?”
The smile disappeared. “Mr. Logan doesn’t like to be called by his... by that name.”
“But my partner heard some of the staff call him that,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” he agreed, “but not to his face.” With that, he started to leave.
“Wait a minute! When is Mr. Logan going to see me?”
The smile was back as he began to close the door. “I should say very shortly, sir.”
As I heard his footsteps receding down the hall, I tried to open the door. Somehow I wasn’t surprised to find it locked.
‘So what was Logan’s game?’ I asked myself. I sensed he hated Tony Capella as much as I did, so he had to be sincere when he said he wanted my help in bringing Tony down. But in spite of that, there was something he wasn’t telling me. Whatever it was, I’d just have to wait until he saw me.
With nothing better to do, I decided to look around my new temporary digs. As I said, the place had a woman’s touch, but it wasn’t overly frilly, thank God. I threw my overnight bag on the pastel bedspread and took a tour of the apartment.
It didn’t take me long to realize that whoever had leased the apartment before my arrival was planning on coming back. The place was not just furnished–it had a neat but lived-in look, complete with fresh flowers on the kitchen table and pictures of what must have been friends and family members, as well as the personal mementos that made a place home.
Giving in to the voyeur in me, I took a peek in the closet. Yep, I was right: a girl lived in the apartment, and judging from the brightly-colored dresses and blouses, a fairly young one at that. I wondered why she wasn’t home, but figured Mr. Logan must have made a deal with her while she was on vacation or a long business trip.
The detective I was born to be examined one of the dresses. It was short and sexy but not exactly Fifth Avenue. Same with the shoes–like all women’s closets, there were dozens of pairs on the floor and even more neatly stored in boxes on a shelf. Judging from the size of the dress and the shoes, my mystery hostess was about average or maybe a little smaller in stature with a nice figure.
As I replaced the dress, I realized I was tired. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, and I didn’t know what Logan had in mind for me for the rest of the day. I supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything to take a little nap. I would just put my overnight bag in the corner and...
But where was my bag? I had left it on the bed. I looked on the other side to see if it had fallen off. I even looked under the bed, but it was gone. But how? No one had come into the apartment, and I had checked every room except the bathroom. Could someone else be in the apartment with me?
I pulled my gun from the holster in the small of my back and carefully inched toward the bathroom. I stepped in, but it only took a moment to figure out that no one was home.
I did notice one curious thing though. Cosmetics and other feminine paraphernalia were spread over the bathroom counter. There was even a hairdryer lying there as if the resident had just left for the day and would be coming back any time. Why the hell had Logan set me up in an occupied apartment? Had that Luk character shown me to the wrong room?
Well, I’d straighten that out with the mysterious Mr. Logan if he ever showed up. At least I had satisfied myself that there was no one with me in the apartment. Perhaps I had only imagined that I had brought the bag in. I must have left it in my car. Yes, that had to be it. I’d have to get it later. Right now, I was tired... very tired.
I lay down on the bed, suddenly too exhausted to remain on my feet another minute. A little sleep was all I needed. Just a little sleep...
“How do I look?” Grimcost asked, a pair of boxers draped over the stubby horns as his grinning face with its sharp stone teeth peeked through the window.
Garmon plopped down on the ledge beside him, folding his wings as silently as if he were flesh and blood instead of granite. “Be quiet, you moron! He just fell asleep.”
Grimcost sighed and pulled off the boxers, replacing them in the tattered overnight bag he had taken from the bed a few minutes earlier. “Don’t worry. I watched him crash on the bed. The changes have already started. See for yourself.”
Garmon looked in at the sleeping form lying on the bed. Murphy was changing all right, his skin rippling as if he was being viewed through flawed glass. His coat and trousers were flickering in and out of existence, replaced at momentary intervals by flashes of something silky and red. “It’s going to take a lot of Mr. L’s power to make him look like much,” he sighed. “Look at that–a bullet wound on the side and three ribs that broke and never healed right. And that jaw of his has been broken at least once–maybe twice.”
“So what’s Mr. L’s plan anyhow?” Grimcost wanted to know.
“You think he confides in me?” Garmon asked. “Whatever it is, it had better be a good one. I think this guy is going to be hard to handle when he wakes up.”
Usually, I woke up from naps alert and ready to go. As a cop, it was a habit I’d had to develop over the years. For some reason, though I woke up from my unscheduled nap feeling very groggy and out of sorts. I just lay there on the bed, wondering why I felt as if there was something sitting on my chest. Without opening my eyes, I lifted a hand to rub my forehead. It didn’t feel right–both my forehead and my hand felt odd.
I opened my eyes, sensing that nothing looked quite right. Colors were a little different, and I couldn’t see the tip of my nose in my line of vision. There was a funny smell too: it was the smell of perfume close to my nose, and there was an odd, waxy sensation on my lips when I ran my tongue over them.
I pulled myself up, and that’s when the fun really began. Every part of my torso seemed to be moving in directions they shouldn’t have been able to travel. Something drooped from my chest, while my waist swivelled and flesh pooled in my ass. Something was covering my body and it didn’t feel right, shifting almost like the whisper of wind on a mostly still day.
It took me only a few seconds to realize that something impossible had taken place, and that while I might still be Jack Murphy in my mind, the body I now wore would never have been recognized by that name.
I was a woman.
It’s amazing how those four words even now sound so incredible. My mind sought to deny it, but my body knew differently. I stood uneasily, feeling for the very first time the strange sway of a woman’s body. My legs felt as if they were too far apart, but then I realized that it was mostly because the familiar equipment between my legs was missing. I was wearing a skirt, I noticed, feeling it wrapped tightly just above my knees–knees that were encased in nylon.
I looked down. I had never seen a woman’s breasts from that angle before. They looked absolutely huge nestled inside a fairly low-cut red dress. I could see almost down to the nipples, and the man who still resided inside my head could barely tear my gaze away from them. Their flesh was smooth and soft, unlike the rugged, hairy chest I had remembered.
I tentatively raised a hand to touch the top of one of the breasts, noting at once that my fingernails were now coated in bright polish as red as my dress. The fingers were long and dainty, and my arm smooth and bare.
I plopped back down on the bed, nearly fainting. I was breathing quickly and shallowly, nearly ready to hyperventilate. “No...” I managed to breathe softly, too shocked by everything else to notice the high, musical voice I now had.
I became slowly aware of other sensations–hair tickling the back of my neck, a bracelet on my wrist, a thin necklace with a pendant dangling at my neck, and of course, something attached to the bottoms of my ears. I managed to get control of myself slowly, my breathing returning to normal and the sharp beat of my heart calming inside my altered chest. I stood again, this time not so shakily. With trepidation, I made my way to a full-length mirror I hadn’t noticed before.
I was about as different from Jack Murphy as anyone I had ever seen. I had lost about a foot in height, probably topping out at only a couple of inches over five feet. My hair had changed from a reddish brown to a pure black, long and very wavy instead of straight as I had enjoyed before. My skin was no longer light and freckled–a tribute to my Irish ancestors. Instead, it was a distinct shade of olive, giving me a Mediterranean look. On the positive side, I wasn’t pushing forty anymore: I looked to be very young–early twenties I guessed.
As far as the overall appearance went, packed inside the short, striking red cocktail dress and wearing dark, smoky stockings, I was something of a knockout. I was just a short distance away from being voluptuous, with pronounced breasts and hips accentuated by a slim, tight waist. My legs weren’t exactly long, but they were well-proportioned and would look incredible in heels.
Yes, I thought my legs would look great in heels, but that was the man in my head looking at the image in the mirror as if it wasn’t his body. I certainly didn’t want to be the one wearing heels!
“You’re really very attractive,” a voice came from behind me and out of sight. I recognized it at once.
“Logan!”
I had meant for the word to be a challenge, but it came out as more of a hysterical shriek. I turned to face him, expecting him to be smirking. While there was just the hint of a smile on his face, it appeared to be more one of approval than of derision. He was inspecting me as if I were a work of art he had just sculpted. I had a funny feeling that was exactly what I was.
“What the hell have you done to me?” I demanded to know. At least I had managed to modulate my voice. I had been able to modulate the tone from shrill to something more acceptable. Unfortunately, my tone now bordered on being sexy.
“I have given you the ability to ensnare Tony Capella,” he said simply.
“How?” I asked, trying very, very hard to keep my voice calm. “By being his girlfriend?”
Mr. Logan surprised me by actually chuckling. “Is that what you think? You think I would have gone to all of this trouble just to put you in bed with Tony Capella?”
Well yes, that’s exactly what I thought. “Didn’t you?” I hated the little girl sound of my meek question. I started to fold my arms but found the breasts in the way. Sheepishly, I folded them below my new chest.
“In a word, no,” he replied as he looked me over. “However, I’m afraid I can’t go into details with you at this time. Suffice it to say that what has been done to you will start Tony on his road to ruin. You must trust me.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, sitting back down on the bed. “The last time I trusted you, I lost my balls.”
Mr. Logan winced. “Try not to use such language, my dear. It doesn’t fit your new identity.”
“Identity? Just who am I supposed to be?”
He nodded to the bed beside me. To my surprise, there was a small black purse at my side. I grabbed it, nearly damaging an unexpectedly longer nail and pulled a matching wallet out of it. The driver’s license was a normal New York one and the picture was a typically poor shot–but even the DMV couldn’t take away the fact that the face was cute and exactly like the one I now had.
“Gina Maria Russo...” I read. Brown eyes, black hair, five three (hmm, I was an inch taller than I thought) age... “Twenty-one? I’m only twenty-one?”
Mr. Logan smiled. “Consider this compensation for the loss of your... anatomy.”
“Loss of... Oh yeah.” I looked at him, my eyes narrowed. “But you’re going to change me back when all of this is over.” It wasn’t a question.
“That would be a little difficult,” he admitted. “You see, Jack Murphy is going to be dead by morning.”
“What?”
“Smoking in bed,” he continued as if I hadn’t said a word. “It seems that Jack Murphy chose an unfortunate time to pick up smoking again. The body will be charred beyond recognition. Fortunately, the sprinklers will save the building from further damage...”
“You bastard!” I shouted. “You can’t just take my life away.”
The expression on Mr. Logan’s face became one that nearly frightened me into climbing under the bed. “I can and I have,” he replied in a cold voice. “Jack Murphy is dead: there’ll be no changing that. You are Gina Maria Russo for the rest of your life.”
I had been hit by bullets that had stung less. The breasts, the feminine face, the long black hair–it was all mine... forever. And the pus... No, not that. I couldn’t bring myself to call it by its common name, nor by its formal name for that matter. But it was mine now too. And not just that: I had, I realized, all the internal hardware that went with it. Dear God, what had I done to deserve such a fate?
“You told me you would give up your life to bring Tony Capella down,” he reminded me.
‘Yes,’ I thought, still staring down at my body, ‘but I didn’t mean it this way.’
“I can’t be a girl,” I murmured.
“Why not?”
“I... I don’t know how to... to do anything a girl does.”
“But you had a wife once,” he pointed out, causing me to wince. “If you apply yourself, I think you’ll find you know enough from observing her to get by.”
I didn’t want to admit it, but it was true. I had watched my ex get dressed, put on makeup, and do all the little things women are taught to do–except the tampon thing. Oh God, no! I could–would–get periods now. How the hell did a woman manage to put in a tampon?
“What if I won’t cooperate?” I asked, but my defiance was already wavering. When I thought about it, I really didn’t have much of a choice. Mr. Logan had changed me in ways I would have deemed impossible before my nap. I got the feeling that cooperation was going to be mandatory.
“Then you will be of no further use to me,” Mr. Logan told me bluntly. “You aren’t a prisoner. You can leave at any time.”
And do what? I was pretty certain Mr. Logan hadn’t bothered to give me a college degree or maybe not even a high school diploma when he created all that new identification for me. On my own, I would be a young woman without friends or family and nothing in the way of credentials to open the door to a career. Telling anyone what had happened to me was probably out of the question too. Whatever powers Mr. Logan had would certainly be enough to make sure no one believed my incredible story.
On the other hand, what he had said about bringing Tony Capella down had been the truth. ‘He really must have a plan or he wouldn’t have gone to all of the trouble to change me,’ I thought. If I did as he said, I might have a chance at seeing Tony out of action. And maybe by doing so, Mr. Logan would have a change of heart and turn me back into a man. Even if Jack Murphy was dead, Logan could surely create a male identity for me as easily as he had created a female one.
“What would I have to do if I agree to help you?” I asked. My voice had lost its terseness, becoming sweet and feminine in the process. I hated it, but I knew I would have to get used to it. If Logan had his way, it would be mine for the rest of my life.
He showed no surprise at my acquiescence. I began to suspect that I wasn’t his first victim. I wondered for just a moment how many of the sweet young things with skirts up to here who paraded up and down the streets of New York had been introduced to womanhood by Mr. Logan.
“You will have to live the life I have created for you,” he told me, explaining nothing. “When the time is right, you will know what to do.”
“It doesn’t sound like much of a plan,” I muttered, but I knew I had no choice.
“I want you to freshen up. It’s nearly four...”
Had I been asleep that long?
“...and you need to be at work in an hour and a half.”
“I work evenings?” I asked suspiciously. I knew a lot of girls who worked evenings. Quite a number of them worked in a profession I had no desire to be a part of.
“You are the hostess at Pasquale’s Forum,” he explained to my immense relief. “Spend a few minutes getting ready. I’ve taken the liberty of already placing you in an appropriate outfit for this evening, but you need to freshen up a bit.”
I walked over to the mirror and looked at myself. “What’s wrong with the way I look right now?”
Mr. Logan sighed, “Perhaps this won’t be as simple as I thought.”
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” I grumbled as a comb ran through my long curly hair finding tangles with each stroke.
“Don’t flinch!” The comb felt as if it was about to tear out my hair by the roots.
The woman inflicting pain on my new tender scalp was someone Mr. Logan sent to help me. She was an attractive woman who had introduced herself as Doris Malone, the proprietor of The Cultured Curl, a beauty shop down on the square. She was of course, one of Mr. Logan’s cohort: of that I had little doubt. She seemed to find my predicament amusing–a man being forced to be a woman.
“Ouch!”
“Honey, I’ve got to get these tangles out. It looks as if you were sleeping with your hair loose.”
Which, of course, I had been doing–not that it was my idea.
“When we get finished here in a minute, we’ll fix your makeup.”
Oh joy.
“There!”
At least the pain in my scalp was gone, even if it did signal the start of a new fiendish torture. I took a moment to look in the mirror. I had to admit my hair did look better. The curls seemed to be fuller and framed my face better. “Uh... you said something about not sleeping with my hair loose. What am I supposed to do with it?”
She gave me a mischievous smile. “Well, you should put it up in curlers...”
“Hey! Forget it.”
“...but most women prefer to just tie it back so that it stays untangled,” she went on. “Use these.” She indicated some elastic bands on the bathroom counter.
I nodded. That sounded simple enough.
“Now for the makeup...”
Oh shit.
Doris didn’t stop until she had worked on my nails, touching up the polish; washed off my face and completely redone my makeup as she explained how she was doing it; and then proceeded to ‘accessorize’ my outfit with new bracelets, rings, a necklace, and the final indignity–small gold hoop earrings. She muttered something about Logan not understanding how to put together a proper women’s outfit. “When you get right down to it, he’s just a typical man,” she muttered as she put the finishing touches on my eyes. “He should spend some time as a woman. It would do him good.”
‘Better him than me,’ I thought.
“Not bad,” she pronounced when she was finally finished.
Not bad? I thought. I would have gotten an instant hard on–that is, if I had still had anything to get a hard on with. I was downright beautiful once she had finished with me. That isn’t to say I was a dog before she started. No, this face and body would have been pretty good covered in soot and wearing a gunnysack. But for the first time in my life, I think I realized what the right treatment did for a girl’s looks.
Sure, my ex always looked better once she had dolled herself up, but my ex had never had so much to work with. Wanda had been cute all right, but I made my ex at her best look like a boy.
“Not bad at all,” a voice agreed. I turned to see Logan standing there. Funny: I hadn’t heard him come in.
“Perhaps you should have made her complexion a little lighter,” Doris suggested. “And her breasts could be a little larger...”
Now wait a minute: what the hell was wrong with my breasts?
Logan shook his head. “No, she is precisely as she needs to be. Any other changes would be counterproductive.”
“So what happens now?” I asked with a sigh of resignation.
“A cab is waiting at the curb to take you to work.”
I realized with a shudder that it was nearly time to me to face the world in a skirt and heels. It wasn’t a very pleasant prospect.
“I’ll walk you down,” he told me. I think he sensed my insecurity. I was actually glad for the company.
I made it to the cab with a minimum of embarrassment. Whatever Mr. Logan had done to me had apparently included an instinctive ability to walk in high heels. It was either that or maybe walking in them wasn’t really as difficult as most men thought. Only the huge doorman was in the lobby to see me. He even raised two fingers in a respectful salute to me and managed not to smirk–although something told me he wanted to. I thought he had grown by nearly a foot, but I realized suddenly that it was I who had grown shorter by that amount. I began to understand that I was going to be spending a lot of time in conversations looking up.
‘I’d be looking up,’ I thought, ‘but men I was conversing with would be looking further down.’ Despite Doris’s comment, I felt as if I had a more than substantial set of breasts. How the hell did women put up with their swaying and their weight? Besides, as large as mine were, I knew from my time with Vice that next to any stripper and most prostitutes, my breasts were very modest. But in the dress I was wearing, they were also very evident. I wasn’t going to like this being a girl shit one little bit.
I made a mental note of the route to the restaurant as the cab whisked me there. It wasn’t far from Deety Arms–just five or six blocks. At least I wouldn’t have much of a commute. I resolved to walk back when I got off work. It would help to keep me in shape.
“What do I owe you?” I asked, opening the purse I had been given.
“The fare has been taken care of,” the cabbie told me in a deep, resonant voice. I hadn’t taken notice of the driver before. I just assumed he would be like most New York cab drivers–someone who just got off the boat from someplace far away and Third World. Instead, he was unusually well-groomed and looked more like a chauffeur than a cabbie. He never turned his head in my direction and for some reason his face didn’t seem to reflect in the rear-view mirror.
“Yeah, well thanks,” I muttered, wondering as I managed to get out of the cab in a reasonably ladylike fashion if the driver was another one of Logan’s ‘associates.’ I was pretty certain he was.
Pasquale’s Forum was your typical New York Italian neighborhood restaurant. It was a storefront location nestled between an Italian market and a used book emporium. The awning was a traditional green and white stripe and the neon sign over it looked as if it had first been installed when Eisenhower was president.
I pushed open the heavy glass door, noting as I did that as Jack Murphy I probably wouldn’t have found the door nearly as heavy. Inside, the pleasant odors of garlic and oregano rose up to greet me. The restaurant was appropriately decorated: white tablecloths were complemented by red and white checkered napkins and the obligatory Chianti bottle topped with a small candle graced each table.
“You must be Gina,” a voice called from the entrance to the kitchen. The speaker was a short man–that is to say only about three inches taller than my new form. He was mostly bald but the fringe of dark hair over his ears and the dark, bushy mustache indicated he wasn’t all that old–probably in his forties. I had been in my early forties before Logan changed me, so I nearly made the mistake of greeting him as I would have had I been Jack Murphy. As I was now, I looked young enough to be his daughter.
“I’m Arturo Romano, the owner. Welcome to Pasquale’s,” he said cheerfully, extending his hand. Although he had no discernable accent, his accuracy in pronouncing the name of the restaurant told me he was probably a second-generation Italian who spoke the language fairly well. “Mr. Logan told me to expect you.”
“He did?” I said suspiciously. I guess I had thought that Logan had probably magically made things to appear as if I had worked at Pasquale’s for some time. “What else did he tell you?”
He shrugged. “Just that he had found a perfect hostess for our place. Teresa, our last hostess, met one of the customers and married him.” His eyes narrowed in mock scrutiny. “You don’t plan on doing anything like that, do you Gina?”
“Uh... no.”
His gave me a wide smile and I wondered for a second if he really knew who I was and was making fun of my predicament. I realized though, that he was guileless and had merely been teasing me. I would have to get used to that, I supposed. Jack Murphy wasn’t the sort of person others wanted to tease, but Gina looked a lot less threatening.
“Let me introduce you to everyone,” he said, grabbing my hand and leading me back to the kitchen.
“Everyone” included Arturo’s son, George, who worked with his father in the kitchen, and a waiter and two waitresses. The waitresses were both attractive young women. Their names were given so quickly, I just caught their first names–Jennie and Lucy. Jennie was a little taller than I with blonde hair and a winning smile. Lucy was about my height with nondescript brown hair, but she had a body that would turn a guy’s head in a hurry. Both were friendly and welcomed me as if I were a long-lost friend. I was always surprised how quickly women could take to each other. I preferred the male method of being just a little reserved for the first few years after being introduced to someone. But those days were over, I sighed to myself.
The waiter was another matter. He rose formally when I was introduced. His name was Julio, and it only took a minute to figure out that he thought of himself as God’s gift to women. I had heard women speak of being mentally undressed before, but this was my first experience with it. I found I didn’t like it any more than natural women did. I wondered how long it would be before the creep made a move on me.
There were also a couple of busboys, but they didn’t seem to speak any English. The policeman who still dwelled in my mind suspected they were illegal immigrants. Lots of the busboys in the city were. All I caught were their first names. The shorter one was Pablo and the taller one was Jose–or at least those were the names that were probably on their fake Social Security cards. They kept pretty much to themselves, so I didn’t expect to get to know them very well.
It only took a few minutes for Arturo to explain my duties to me. Besides, I was a quick learner since I had waited tables to put myself through college. As hostess, I was expected to seat people, answer the phone, and when I wasn’t doing that, help the waiters and busboys with the customers.
In a strange way, the job was almost a vacation. Being a cop required me to see the seamy underbelly of the city most of the time. As a hostess, I was able to observe normal citizens out having a good time. And because Pasquale’s was a neighborhood restaurant, we enjoyed a clientele of mostly regulars. Arturo would drag me over to a patron’s table and introduce me as if I was some visiting relative meeting family friends.
I have to admit I was embarrassed the first couple of times he did it. After all, I had only been a young woman for a few hours. I was more than a little embarrassed to be identified as one, especially when I noticed the men casting an appreciative glance at my chest or my legs. ‘Still, there was nothing threatening about them,’ I realized. I had done the same thing to pretty girls for most of my life.
And that of course, was what I was–a pretty girl.
I was reminded of my new sex continually throughout the evening, but no reminder was more unpleasant than the aching in my feet. For some reason–probably part of the magic Logan had used on me–I had no trouble walking in heels, but that didn’t make them any more comfortable. Even short breaks on the tall stool behind the hostess’s stand weren’t sufficient to reduce the pain. How did women stand these things?
“Are you okay, Gina?” Lucy asked me as the crowd had begun to die off.
“Just my feet,” I groaned.
She looked down. “Those are nice shoes. I have a pair just like them. But I can’t imagine wearing them all evening. Didn’t you bring some flats?”
“Flats?”
She sighed. “Listen Gina, Pasquale’s isn’t the Ritz. Arturo never made Teresa wear heels. If you want to troll for guys later, bring the heels–but wear the flats here.” To prove her point, she directed my glance at the casual shoes she was wearing.
I didn’t say anything but nodded my thanks. I wasn’t about to tell her how my stomach turned when she talked about trolling for guys. The last thing in the world I wanted was to catch the attention of some guy. I had already had to avoid Julio’s not-so-subtle advances a couple of times that evening. I made a mental note to dig a pair of flats out of my new closet and never wear the heels again.
By the time we closed and cleaned up, it was nearly one. I was exhausted, but against my better judgment, I accepted an invitation from Jennie and Lucy to go get a drink. God knows I had earned one. We walked together to a little bar about halfway back to Deety Arms. By the time I slipped into a booth with them, my feet had gone beyond normal pain and reached excruciating pain.
“Nice shoes,” Jennie grinned as I managed to kick them off under the table.
“Yeah, right,” I groaned. “I’m glad you like them, but you’ll never see them again.”
Jennie nodded while Lucy ordered us a round of margaritas. “Wise move, girl.”
I felt strangely at home sitting there with the two girls. It reminded me of many an evening as a cop, drinking with other cops as we discussed the events of the day. Of course there were plenty of differences too. We were drinking margaritas instead of the beer or whiskey my male body preferred, and I realized suddenly that none of us smoked. Strangely enough, I hadn’t really missed smoking either. Even though as Jack I had kicked the habit, I still found myself craving a cigarette every now and then. It was as if my new body simply didn’t think of smoking. Besides, the restaurant was non-smoking, so I hadn’t been reminded.
Of course being the new girl, Jennie and Lucy wanted to know all about me. It was strange, but as the questions were asked, answers just seemed to flow out of me. I wasn’t exactly making it up: rather, I seemed to be drawing the facts from some hidden reservoir in my mind. I was from Syosset out on Long Island. My parents–foster parents, actually–were divorced and I hadn’t seen them much since I moved into the city. My tone made it obvious I didn’t have a close relationship with either one of them. I went to school during the day at CCNY (I groaned mentally wondering if I’d have to commute to 138th every day for classes), majoring in sociology.
“What about boyfriends?” Lucy asked with a very evil grin.
Nothing came out of the reservoir on that one, so I just stammered, “Uh... well, I’ve been kind of busy.”
“You should never be too busy for that!” Jennie laughed.
“Yeah,” Lucy agreed. “Maybe my Peter can get a friend for you.”
“Uh... no, really...”
To my dismay, I found that a young woman without a boyfriend was subject to as much ribbing as a young man without a girlfriend. I hurriedly decided to ask some questions of my own to deflect the discussion.
“Does Arturo’s wife ever work at the restaurant?” I had noticed a wedding ring on his finger.
Jennie and Lucy got suddenly quiet.
“Did I say something wrong?” I asked, concerned.
“She never comes to the restaurant,” Lucy told me at last. “She still does the books but she does them from home. She used to act as hostess, but she gave that up when Mario died.”
“Mario?”
“Their older son,” Jennie explained.
The girls took turns explaining to me that unlike George, Mario wanted no part of the restaurant business. Headstrong and willing to bend the law, he dropped out of a community college to work for none other than Tony Capella. Mostly, he was a runner, making deliveries for Tony and other low-level stuff.
“The day they let him carry a gun, he came into the restaurant to show everybody,” Lucy remembered. “He was so proud. He thought he was hot shit–a real Mafia capo, you know?”
“Yeah, but his mother wasn’t impressed,” Jennie added. “She told him to get out and never bring a gun into Pasquale’s again.”
“Did he?” I asked, fascinated in spite of myself. It was a story I had heard before–only with other families. Kids like Mario never figured out they were just being used–that is until something happened to them. Mario turned out to be no different.
“He never had the chance. He was killed that night,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “The story we heard was that he was supposed to make a collection from a low-level dealer. The dealer came up short and Mario threatened him with the gun. The dealer’s sidekick had a gun of his own and Mario didn’t see it.”
“You would have thought Capella was his uncle the way he consoled Arturo,” Jennie commented sourly as she nodded to the waiter to bring another round. “He even paid for the funeral. He told Arturo he took care of his boys. But Angelina–that’s Arturo’s wife–she just couldn’t buy it. She couldn’t stand to see Tony Capella again so she stayed out of Pasquale’s.”
‘So Tony was one of the regulars at Pasquale’s,’ I thought as I sipped on my drink. That explained why Logan lined me up as hostess there. Eventually, I’d meet the bastard as Gina. But then what? Logan had assured me my job wasn’t to wind up in bed with Capella. Had he been lying? I hoped not, because there was no way I was going to slip between the sheets with any guy–especially not Tony Capella.
I was still mulling that over when I waved goodnight to Jennie and Lucy. They had asked me to share a cab with them, but Deety Arms was only three or four blocks away. Against their protests, I decided to walk.
In retrospect, I have to admit I wasn’t thinking well. As Jack Murphy, even the dark streets of a New York night held little concern for me. A large, fit man, Jack had little to worry about, for the denizens of the night prefer weaker prey. It only took me a block to realize I now fitted that profile.
The street was well lit but nearly deserted. I was walking slowly as my feet hurt inside the tight heels. I was almost lulled by the loud clicking noise they made on the pavement, but when I stopped for a moment to rest my feet, I heard heavy footsteps behind me.
My heart quickened as I realized the terrible mistake I had made. I was alone–an attractive young woman unprotected on the street. From the corner of my eye, I looked into the shadows beyond the last streetlight I had passed. I saw the silhouette of a man standing there, biding his time. He was in no hurry to catch up with me. He must have seen me limping in my heels and realized I had no way to escape him. Ahead was a patch of street where the streetlight was nearly out. It would be darker there–easy to pull me into an alley or some other secluded spot.
All evening, I had been aware of my new size and my changed sex. The brush of my skirt or the tickling of hair on the back of my neck were subtle reminders of who I had become. The trips to the restroom had made my situation even more obvious. But the two drinks (or was it three?) I had enjoyed with Jessie and Lucy had had more than a little effect on me. They had dulled my self-awareness and allowed me to get lost in the thoughts of what possible plan Logan had for me.
Now I was about to pay for my carelessness.
There was nothing I could do but to continue to walk and hope another person would suddenly appear–a witness who would make my assailant think twice. The footsteps behind me began again, faster than before, ready to reach me in the near darkness ahead.
Suddenly, from a side street, lights appeared, nearly blinding me. The lights swung past me settling on the dark figure behind me. As I looked back, I was surprised to see the figure stayed dark, as if his body was absorbing the light. Whatever was happening, it was painful for him. He screamed, the pitch of his voice rising until it was no longer human. As I watched in horrid fascination, his form began to shrink as he dropped to all fours. In a few seconds, his now-diminutive body was elongated, sporting a long tail. What had once been human scuttled away into the waiting darkness until only a shrill wail remained as a reminder of what had once been human.
“You really shouldn’t be walking on the streets at night, Ms. Russo,” a voice came from inside the cab that had been the source of the lights. I recognized the voice as the same cabbie I had met earlier.
“What did you do to him?”
“Only what he deserved,” said the faceless driver calmly from inside the cab.
Of that I had little doubt. How many other young... young and stupid women had fallen prey to him? I’d never know, I realized as I climbed into the cab, but I was fairly certain that I had just seen one form of vermin changed into another one that night.
He dropped me off after a short drive with the admonition to always wait for him in the future.
“But I can’t afford a cab every night,” I protested as I got out.
“It’s been taken care of,” he assured me, waving me off as I had already opened my purse to pay him.
Mr. Logan again, I realized as the cab drove off. At least he was looking out for me. Would he still be protecting me so closely when I finally met Tony Capella in my new form? I hoped so. If I wasn’t able to take care of myself around one measly mugger/rapist, I’d have no chance at all against Tony’s men.
I wondered as I approached the entrance to the building just who–or perhaps what–the cab driver was. As Claire had warned me, there were a lot of weird things about the neighborhood I found myself living in. I didn’t know if Logan and his ilk were witches, gods, demons or all three plus something else, and I doubted if they would ever tell me even if I asked nicely.
“Excuse me...”
I had been so lost in thought I hadn’t noticed the woman standing on the curb. She was attractive in a slutty sort of way. She wore the usual whore’s uniform of ridiculously short skirt and even more ridiculously high heels. Her top was a little skimpy for the cool of the evening but she didn’t seem to notice. Her blonde hair had come straight out of a bottle and looked very incongruent when paired with her dark, almost Hispanic features. Her makeup was heavy but stopped short of clownish–just barely.
“Yes?” I replied cautiously.
“Do you... do you live here?” she asked meekly, folding her arms over her prominent breasts as if to hide them from me.
I nodded in response.
“And you know him... Mr. Logan?”
“Yes...”
She rushed over to me, her ass wiggling seductively as she was forced to take short steps in her obscene heels. Grabbing my arms, she begged, “Please, you must talk to him... tell him I have learned my lesson. I can’t stand to be this... this whore anymore. Ask him to change me back into a man.”
This, I realized, was the whore Claire had met a few nights before. Like Claire, I might have just assumed she was wigged out on drugs or missing something in the mental department, but since I knew firsthand what she was saying could be true, I asked her, “Who were you?”
“My name was Tommy–Tommy Ravella. I was a businessman until that Logan did this to me.”
Yeah, I thought to myself, a businessman. Tommy Ravella was one of Capella’s goons. I had heard he had gone missing a few days ago. It looked as if our Mr. Logan had found a new business for Tommy–or rather an old business.
“Please will you...” Her voice trailed off as two men strolled into sight. It was as if someone had flipped a switch inside her head. Her face lost its anguished look and a sexy smile formed on her red lips. “Hello, boys,” she purred. “Lonely?”
They stopped: apparently they were lonely indeed.
“How much for both of you?” one of the men asked. They had the look of two businessmen from out of town just a little drunk and looking for action. They weren’t bad-looking guys and probably had wives back home. I found myself more than a little disgusted that they would think I was a whore, too.
“Look, I’m not a part of this,” I told them. As I walked away, I heard the whore say, “What’s the matter honey? You don’t think I can handle both of you?”
Mr. Logan was smiling from inside the foyer. Obviously my prostitute acquaintance was one of his projects. Apparently he made sure that whenever a man came along, she went into her act. I thought for a moment about Tommy Ravella and how he had a reputation of beating up a few whores. Somehow, the punishment seemed fitting. I even returned Logan’s smile.
“So you approve of her new role?” he asked as I strolled in.
I thought for a moment before nodding. “I don’t know about approving,” I said at last, “but I appreciate the irony.”
“It is delicious,” he agreed. Changing the subject, he asked, “So how was your first day on the job?”
“Interesting,” I allowed, “but I still don’t understand why you did this to me. I know Capella is a customer of Pasquale’s, but if you don’t expect me to be his latest tart, just why do this to me?”
As he walked me to the elevator, he asked, “Ms. Russo, have you ever been fishing?”
“Yeah, a long time ago. My uncle had a place out on Long Island when I was a kid. We used to go every now and then.”
“The most important thing about fishing is patience,” he explained. “First, you find the right spot to fish, then you drop your line in the water and wait.”
“So you’re telling me to be patient and wait?”
He gently guided me into the elevator and lit the button for my floor without actually touching the panel. “Exactly, Ms. Russo,” he smiled as the doors closed before I could say anything else.
‘There was just one thing he hadn’t said in his little analogy on fishing,’ I thought as the elevator rose to my floor. ‘Before you drop your line in the water, you have to bait your hook.’ I still wasn’t sure quite how, but I was convinced that somehow I was the bait.
After a few days, I got over feeling like a worm on a hook. It wasn’t because the threat was any less real, but rather because I had been immersed into the life of a young woman named Gina Russo with no other options. I couldn’t exactly go back to the police station and resume my old life. That would have been a little hard to explain.
Besides, Logan had told me in no uncertain terms that I was Gina Maria Russo for the rest of my life. That meant as uncomfortable as I might be with the life of a young woman, it was the only life available to me.
I suspected Logan had made a few alterations to my mind as well–or at least to my memories. I seemed to have less anxiety about such things as applying makeup and squatting to pee than I would have anticipated. Or maybe he didn’t have that much to do with it. Maybe humans are just a lot more adaptable than we think. In any case, it didn’t take long for me to feel if not comfortable, at least adequate in my new body. The only thing that really bothered me was the feeling of being half-naked when I was wearing a skirt.
Thankfully, I discovered that my wardrobe included a lot of jeans and sneakers and that slinky dresses and heels could be reserved for working hours only. Come to think of it, I didn’t even need to wear the heels to work. That made me–and my feet–a whole lot happier. Of course, most of the tops that went with the jeans left no doubt that I was all girl. They might feel like T-shirts on my body, but they certainly gave me a sexier look than I would have chosen for myself. I had no real choice though. Spring was advancing and the sweatshirts in my wardrobe would have been too warm in the classroom.
That’s right–the classroom. I discovered that I really was enrolled at CCNY for classes three days a week. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I’d have to catch the subway and head north through some very rough parts of town to the campus where I had classes. At least the classes were all during the day so I didn’t have to worry about adjusting my work schedule or travelling on the subways at night.
The classes were actually interesting. As a criminology major back in my first college days, I had taken a few sociology classes, so they were nothing new to me. But somehow, my perspective seemed to have changed. Maybe it was all those female hormones, or maybe it was seeing how many times the criminal justice system failed to provide the right answers, but whatever the reason, I found myself wondering if more couldn’t be done to bring balance to our society.
Don’t get me wrong: I hadn’t turned into a bleeding heart. As far as I was concerned, vermin like the guy who tried to follow me from the bar deserved to be changed into rats or worse. The prisons weren’t full enough for my money.
But the other side of the coin was that there were a lot of folks out there in the city that deserved a hand just so they’d have a fighting chance. I was learning more about them in my classes and even meeting a few of them. It just seemed as if there were never enough resources to help them all.
Work was getting easier, too. There had been no sign of Tony Capella yet, but there were plenty of customers who showed up regularly at Pasquale’s and I was starting to recognize them and remember their names. Invariably, the regulars were pleasant folks who treated the staff like old friends and made the job more enjoyable. I might add that wearing flats and lower heels had helped make the job more fun, too.
Arturo was a great boss, always friendly and willing to pitch in when things got too busy, and Jennie and Lucy were becoming good friends. George and the kitchen crew worked hard and were respectful of all the girls as well, so the only real problem was Julio.
Oh, it was nothing overt: Julio was too smart for that. Instead, he resorted to innuendos and brushing up against me even when he had plenty of room to get by me. I was starting to realize how tough women have it when it came to brushing off unwanted advances. Since I had to work with Julio every day, I couldn’t just tell him to get the fuck out of my sight and stay there. I had to learn how to diplomatically deflect his clumsy advances and ignore the innuendos. As dense as he was, it wasn’t easy but I managed.
After about a week in my new life, I was faced with a sudden reminder of my old one. It was a rainy Wednesday evening, still early when he walked in. His light brown hair was matted down from the rain. He never did like to use an umbrella, I remembered. He at least had sense enough to wear a raincoat but had left it open so that there were rain spots on his tie.
I almost screwed up. Looking up at him from the hostess’s station, I nearly called out, “Hey, Matt!” Fortunately, I remembered that as Gina, I had never met my former partner.
“Do I need a reservation?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, hoping he didn’t notice the pause before I answered him. “Just one?”
“Yeah,” he replied with a grin, “unless you want to join me...”
I felt myself blushing. For some reason, I wasn’t offended by the remark as I would have been if it had come from someone else. I guess it was because I knew Matt even if he didn’t know the new me. I remembered he had always been respectful of women and had a great sense of humor. I knew instinctively there had been nothing threatening in his remark. Instead of taking offense, I just smiled at him and found myself gratified when he smiled back.
I showed him to a table fairly close to the front. It’s an old restaurateur’s trick: you seat the first customers up front so that potential patrons looking in the window think it’s a popular place. It also, coincidentally, gave me a view of his table.
I should explain that I surprised myself by finding Matt attractive. A week as a woman hadn’t completely changed my sexual outlook, but I had caught myself looking at guys with curiosity, if not actual interest. If I was going to be female for the rest of my life, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be with a man. After all, I had the equipment for it now.
I found out later that my sudden curiosity about men wasn’t too unnatural for my new sex. Women are more attracted to the whole package while men zero in on a face, breasts, legs, or some other obvious part of a woman’s anatomy. If I had been quizzed on my sudden interest in Matt that evening, I wouldn’t have had a clue, but I realized later that while he was indeed, an attractive man, it was his demeanor that made me see him in an entirely new light.
As I’ve said before, Matt was going places. He was bright, insightful, and looked the part of a proper police detective, but his friendly, easy-going manner could be disarming. As Jack, I had watched him meet people who were completely hostile to the police and have them eating out of his hand in five minutes. Of all the partners I had worked with on the force, Matt was the best blend of competence and personality I had even seen.
“He’s cute,” Lucy whispered to me after she had taken Matt his meal–the house special cannoli.
“Who?” I asked innocently.
Lucy sighed, “The guy you put up by the window where you could watch him. The guy whose water glass you’ve filled about a dozen times. The guy...”
“Okay!” I hissed. “Not so loud.”
Lucy just giggled and went back to the kitchen.
“How was everything?” I asked Matt professionally when he was getting ready to leave. I found myself more than a little disappointed that my old friend was about to walk out of my life. I hoped it didn’t show.
He grinned. “The food was only excelled by the service.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “What’s your name?”
I flushed in spite of myself. “Gina...”
“That’s a pretty name,” he told me. “Gina, I’m Matt. Would you like to have a drink with me when you get off work?”
He was trying to pick me up? Oh God! What was worse, I was actually considering his offer. “I don’t get off until one...”
“That’s okay,” he replied. “I’ve got some work to do. I can meet you back here just before one. How would that be?”
I hope I didn’t look too stupid when I nodded. He grinned again. “Great! I’ll see you then.”
I spent the rest of the evening being a stupid klutz while Jennie and Lucy teased me unmercifully. I couldn’t believe I had actually agreed to have a drink with Matt. The next to last thing I wanted to do at that point in my life was to see if I could get into men. The very last thing I wanted to do was to test my heterosexuality with my old partner. What in hell had I been thinking?
I’m sure Jennie and Lucy thought I was just being spacey because I had just garnered a date with a handsome guy. They would have been wrong, though. I was preoccupied because I simply didn’t know how to act or what to say or do with Matt. I wished with all my heart that I had said no to him instead of yes.
He showed up about half an hour early. Maybe that was for the best since I was becoming more nervous as our agreed-upon time came closer. Arturo smiled at me when Matt walked in. He understood at once why Matt had returned. “Why don’t you go on?” he urged. “We can close down without you tonight.”
“But the customers...” I protested in a vain attempt to delay matters.
Arturo simply smiled wider. “Look around. There are only two tables still occupied, and they’re just finishing their drinks. I think we can do without you for closing just one night.”
Now I knew how young women in the Middle Ages must have felt when their male relatives foisted them off on young men from another castle. I wasn’t ready for this. Maybe someday I would be–in ten or twenty years–but not now. Besides, maybe Mr. Logan had lied to me: maybe he would be willing to change me into a man again. Why test this odd attraction I seemed to be developing for men right now?
“Are you ready, Gina?”
I could only nod my head.
We walked down the street to a bar near the one I now regularly unwound with Jennie and Lucy. I was relieved that he didn’t pick our bar. The last thing in the world I needed was to run into them while I was with Matt. On the way to the bar, we had talked about innocuous things–the weather, prospects for the Yankees and the Mets that year, the usual stuff. I think I actually impressed him with my knowledge of baseball, and I had to redirect the conversation a little before the inevitable invitation to attend a game with him was offered.
Matt ordered a gin and tonic while I stuck to white wine. I had been developing a taste for it since my transformation. Hard stuff seemed to go to my head in my smaller body and beer just filled me up. I was discovering that tastes I had taken to be affectations such as a woman drinking white wine were instead practical reactions to feminine physiology.
“Are you from New York?” he asked when our drinks were served.
I gave him my story about growing up on Long Island. I had told it so many times now that I was starting to believe it. “How about you?” I asked, realizing that while Matt had been my partner for just short of a year, I really didn’t know much about him.
“Yeah, I grew up here in the city,” he replied. I did know he had grown up in a well-to-do part of town, so that came as no surprise. His follow-up did though. “My father is an investment banker.”
“Conway as in Conway, Baker and Jacobs?” I asked. He gave me an embarrassed nod in return. Donald Conway was probably the second richest Donald in the city–right behind Donald Trump. “Why didn’t you go into the family business?” I asked, genuinely curious as to why the son of one of the wealthiest men in the city would choose to be a cop.
Matt’s answer was guarded. “Let’s just say my father and I don’t always get along.”
Lots of fathers and sons didn’t get along well. My dad and I hadn’t been very close in his later years. But what could make him blow off an opportunity like that?
“Wait a minute,” Matt suddenly asked from across the table. He had his cop face on now. “How did you know I didn’t work with my father?”
Oh-oh. I suddenly remembered Matt hadn’t told me he was a cop. Like most cops, he had learned the hard way that admitting to being a police officer too early in the game was a turn-off for some girls. As Gina, I was supposed to have no idea what he did for a living.
“I don’t know,” I answered carefully. “I guess you just don’t act like an investment banker.” That seemed to please him, so I went on, “Most guys who are into high finance seem to think they’re better than the rest of us poor mortals.”
“You’ve got that right,” he agreed. So, daddy was a prick.
“So what do you do for a living?” I asked innocently.
He shrugged. “I’m a cop–a detective actually.” He looked me directly in the eyes, and I knew he was waiting to see just how I would take that revelation. It was time to make him feel good.
“Neat!” I said with a smile. He returned it pleasantly surprised.
“You know, a lot of girls wouldn’t think so.”
‘I’m not a lot of girls,’ I thought to myself, but I couldn’t tell him that. “Where would people be without the police?” I asked rhetorically. It was a question many of us on the force asked of each other frequently.
Matt nodded happily, as if a barrier between us had fallen. I resolved to be careful. Pretty soon, he’d be asking me to marry him.
“So what brought you into Pasquale’s tonight?” I knew he didn’t live anywhere around the Village, so he had to be working on a case. I was right as it turned out, but not a case I would have ever imagined.
From his coat pocket, Matt pulled a dog-eared photo and showed it to me. “Ever see this guy?”
I hoped my expression didn’t betray me: it was a picture of me–the old me. I shook my head. “No, should I know him?”
“I guess not,” he replied, carefully placing the picture back in his pocket. “He was my partner.”
New York is a big place. Middle-aged cops who die while smoking in bed don’t make big headlines. I had taken Mr. Logan’s word for my staged demise, but the tone of Matt’s voice brought confirmation to Logan’s actions. “Was?”
He nodded. “Yeah. He died a few days ago–the coroner said it was an accident. He was supposedly smoking in bed.”
“But you don’t believe that, do you?” It wasn’t really a question. I could tell from Matt’s voice again what he was thinking. I guess I had been his partner long enough to judge his moods.
“Something just doesn’t add up,” he told me, shaking his head. “Sure, Jack used to be a smoker, but he had given it up. I suppose he could have started again, but I wouldn’t have known. He never did smoke around me because he knew I hated it. He was always looking around for ashtrays before he lit up. And on top of everything else, he told me once that even when he smoked, he didn’t smoke in his apartment. He didn’t like having everything he owned smell of tobacco smoke.”
That’s right: I didn’t. Maybe Mr. Logan wasn’t as thorough as he should have been. The idea of my–Jack’s–return to smoking just in time for it to cause a fatal accident was very clumsy of Mr. Logan. He’d be lousy staging the elusive perfect crime.
“So you think someone killed him?” I asked, wondering just how much Matt had figured out.
“It’s possible,” he answered. “Something was going on. We were investigating a murder and one of Jack’s old enemies was the likely suspect. I could tell Jack really wanted that guy. He had been tracking him for years. In fact, he was so obsessed with the guy, I think it cost Jack his marriage. So Jack–that was my partner’s name–talked with some weird guy who runs an apartment hotel not far from here in one of those old brownstones. The next thing I know, Jack’s taken some personal leave–nobody knows why. Then the next day, he’s dead.”
“So you think he discovered something that got him killed?” I asked, fascinated to be discussing my potential ‘murder’ so calmly.
“If he did, it had to be something he discovered around Deety Arms. That must be why he took the time off. You know anything about that place?”
“I live there,” I said trying to be nonchalant.
He looked at me funny. “You live in that bat belfry?”
“Actually, it’s a nice place,” I argued. “It’s a lot different on the inside.”
I could see the wheels turning in Matt’s head. “Look, do you think you could let me in there?”
“That’s a funny way to ask to go back to a girl’s apartment!” I laughed nervously.
Matt had the good graces to blush. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t want to... that is, I meant I’d like to see if that Logan character is hiding something from me.”
I was actually starting to enjoy this. I hated to see Matt wasting his time trying to solve a murder that never happened, but it was strangely entertaining to watch him try. “Well... I suppose you could take me to lunch tomorrow,” I suggested. “That would give you an excuse to come up and get me.”
What the hell was I thinking? I had just asked Matt out on a date! I was taking this whole thing too far. But on the other hand, if he had the chance to look around Deety Arms, he might decide for himself that there was nothing to his suspicions. That was reason enough to invite him over.
Matt grinned. “I think I can manage that.”
We agreed on a time and finished our drinks. Then Matt walked me home. It was funny, but the threatening shadows I had seen on my first attempt at walking home at night in the body of a girl weren’t there anymore. No wonder women sought the company of men when they walked the city streets at night. With Matt along, I felt safe. He looked fit enough to handle himself, so whoever might be lurking in the shadows would seek easier prey.
Matt dropped me off at the front door. I had been wondering for the last block how I would manage to put him off if he tried to kiss me. I needn’t have worried. To my relief, he didn’t try. He just gently took my hand and said goodnight. I think he was too preoccupied looking around the building as if he expected some clue in the mysterious death of Jack Murphy to jump out in front of him. If only he knew...
I woke up the next morning a little earlier than usual. No, it wasn’t anticipation over my lunch date with Matt: it was an odd cramping in my abdomen. I wondered if I was coming down with something. Meeting the public as a hostess meant I was exposed to half the germs in the city it seemed. But when I got out of bed, I discovered an unexpected problem–blood in my panties and on the sheet. I knew at once what was happening and cursed Logan for giving me my new sex. It seemed I was now on the receiving end of a problem I had once thought little of–my period.
For the three years I had been married, I often chuckled at my wife’s discomfiture from her periods. I wasn’t laughing now. My ex had compared it to a mild case of the flu, and I was beginning to understand exactly what she meant. And to think, I was going to have to go through this experience for a good portion of my new life.
I nearly called Matt to cancel, feeling worse as I got up and showered. ‘Well at least I’d have a good excuse if Matt tried anything with me,’ I thought as I hesitantly installed my very first Tampax. “Not now dear, I’m having my period.” Gross...
As the morning wore on, the pain got duller. Midol helped. My ex-wife had sworn by it, and when I found a bottle of them in my medicine cabinet, I felt like I had hit the jackpot in Atlantic City. A light breakfast and two tablets of every woman’s miracle drug and I felt almost human again.
Matt was right on time. He sounded so cheerful and just a little hopeful when he called up that I began having doubts about setting up this lunch date. Come to think of it, he had probably gone home horny the night before and had second thoughts about whether or not he should have tried at least for first base. I know that’s how I would have felt if I had been in his shoes. I resolved to keep him at arm’s length.
“Nice place,” he commented when I let him in to my apartment. I could also see him wondering about how I could afford such a nice place as a working student. Fortunately, one of Logan’s canned answers came out.
“It’s not really mine,” I told him. “I’m just apartment sitting for a friend of my parents.”
That was a common practice in New York, so he just nodded, the suspicion fading. Fortunately he didn’t ask any questions about the real residents. I wasn’t sure if I had been given those answers or not.
“You’re right,” he said with a little disappointment as I busied myself getting ready to go.
“About what?”
“This place,” he replied. “It’s pretty normal on the inside. I was expecting something like...”
“Frankenstein’s castle?”
He nodded sheepishly.
“That’s in the basement,” I said casually, “right next to the room where Dracula keeps his coffin.”
“Okay,” he laughed. “Let’s go to lunch.”
I felt pretty smug about throwing him off the trail. He’d still keep looking for foul play in the death of Jack Murphy, but Deety Arms and its denizens would be off the suspect list. He had written the building and its staff off as being a little odd but hardly nefarious. If I had been in his face, I could have thrown Agent Mulder off this trail. Mr. Logan owed me one for this.
Lunch was pleasant. The day was warm so we were able to eat outside on the patio at the Southwest Grill. I even treated myself to a margarita although Matt stuck with a Coke, leading me to believe he was probably on duty. While many cops ignored the rules about drinking on duty, I knew Matt was a stickler for that regulation.
“You look nice today,” he commented pleasantly as we waited for our food.
“Thanks,” I replied, genuinely pleased. I had debated about what to wear and had decided on a short skirt and sandals but no hose. I told myself with my unfamiliarity with periods, I would need to wear something I could get in and out of quickly if there was a problem. I had no idea if my period would be a big deal or not. My ex used to worry about spotting her clothing if the flow was too great. Just to be on the safe side, I had an extra pair of panties in my purse. Damn Logan for doing this to me!
“Are you on duty today?” I asked him.
“Yeah. Does it show?”
“Well, the suit is something of a giveaway,” I smiled.
“It’s kind of a light day,” he told me. “They’ve got me working homicide out of the local precinct, but the case load is pretty light right now. Not too many murders happen around here for some reason.”
I wondered if Mr. Logan had anything to do with that, but I didn’t say anything.
“I’m supposed to interview a suspect in a murder that happened right around here a few days ago, but the guy I want to question won’t be back in the country for a couple of weeks.”
“What?” He had to be talking about Tony Capella.
Matt confirmed that. “There’s this Mafia guy named Tony Capella. He killed a police officer–or at least his men did. The problem is that the Organized Crime Task Force is after him on other charges, so he left the country. He’s somewhere in Sicily until his lawyers can smooth things over.”
Out of the country? Did Logan know that? If so, why had he changed me into Gina if it was going to be weeks–maybe months–before he would wander into Pasquale’s? I had to talk to Logan–quick.
Matt dropped me off in the lobby after lunch. I had been able to put aside my questions and enjoy Matt’s company, but now I was a little preoccupied, glancing down the hall to see if there was any sign of activity around Logan’s office. It was then with my mind on other matters that I felt an arm slip around my waist.
“You got anything planned for the weekend?”
“Uh... no,” I managed.
Matt grinned. “I’ve got two tickets to a Mets game on Saturday afternoon. What do you say we go?”
“I have to work Saturday evening,” I answered quickly.
“I’ll have you back in plenty of time,” he promised. “What do you say?”
I told myself a little later it was only because I really enjoyed baseball and was a lifelong Mets fan. “Okay.”
“Great! I’ll pick you up at eleven and we’ll get there early and eat lunch.”
I could only nod.
That was when he kissed me.
It wasn’t a heavy-duty passionate kiss. It was just a quick buss on the lips, but for some reason it felt like more. Then he was gone, leaving me standing there in the lobby wondering why I hadn’t been completely turned off to feel a man’s lips on mine.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Russo.”
I turned to see Mr. Logan with just a trace of a smirk on his face. Had he seen Matt kiss me? Worse yet–had he noted my reaction? I decided to take the upper hand.
“You’re just the person I wanted to talk to.”
“Oh?” He looked even more amused.
“Shouldn’t we talk in private?” I asked.
“Very well.” He waved his hand and suddenly we were standing in fog so thick we might as well have been a thousand miles from Deety Arms. Who knows? Maybe we were.
“I want to know what’s going on,” I began, ignoring the fog that had been an obvious attempt to throw me off. “When you changed me, you said it was to get Tony Capella. Now I find out he’s in Italy. What’s going on?”
To my surprise, Logan answered the question without prevarication. “Gina, do you think you could have convinced Mr. Capella and his people that you were a normal young woman right after you were transformed?”
“No, of course not... Oh! I see...”
“Yes, I think you do,” he observed. “The success of our operation depends very much upon convincing him that you are exactly what you appear to be. Anything less would invite his suspicion at a critical moment.”
“You sound as if you know exactly how this is going to come down,” I commented.
He shook his head. “No my dear, not exactly. Jack Murphy would have said that I’m playing the odds. That’s exactly what I’m doing. If we are to succeed, you must be very, very convincing–and you must remain ignorant of certain elements of the plan. Otherwise, when Mr. Capella receives justice, little will change. I ask only that you trust me. Can you do that?”
Strangely, I did trust him. I realized that whatever his plan was, he had levelled with me as much as he dared. I couldn’t understand why, but he seemed to have no reason to lie to me.
He had given me something to think about as I went back to my apartment to study before going to work. I realized perhaps for the first time how much I had fallen into the role of Gina Russo. At first, I had simply gone through the motions, working and going to school because somehow my part in all of this required me to do so.
Now though, I was beginning to be Gina Russo rather than just playing the part. Oh, I still had to pretend that I had family out on Long Island (maybe I really did, but I hadn’t had any contact with them). And I had to relate stories of a girlhood that never was, but I was starting to think of myself as Gina now. Makeup was second nature. Wearing a bra was normal. Heels were no problem. And men... well let’s just say Matt wasn’t the first and only attractive man I had noticed.
It still seemed a little gay to be attracted to men though. I guess that would be true of nearly anyone in my position. Still, the absence of male equipment between my legs was changing that attitude. Besides, the thought of something filling the cavity I now had seemed intriguing–especially after I had gotten over the revulsion I had first felt at the thought of putting anything in there.
Oh yes, I had finally gotten myself off. Two days before my period had started, I found myself faced with a strong urge to fill myself. My fingers had been the first instruments of experimentation. Naturally, I knew what to do in general, but I soon learned that I probably hadn’t been as effective as a man since I had little idea of where all the good spots were. It didn’t take me long to improve my technique.
I graduated to bigger and better things when I found a vibrator hidden at the bottom of my underwear drawer. It seemed as if Mr. Logan and his staff had thought of everything. The sensations from that device proved even more incredible than my fingers. I began to feel secure in the thought that as long as I didn’t run out of batteries, I’d never have to worry about being with a man if I didn’t want to.
Now though, I found myself wondering what it might be like to be with a man. No, that’s not quite right. I didn’t just wonder what it would be like to have sex with any man: I had begun to wonder what it would be like to have sex with Matt.
My speculation was purely hypothetical, mind you. My sexual urges were now tempered with the realization that having sex could entail serious consequences. Even with protection, pregnancy was a possibility since no method short of surgery was foolproof. I was beginning to understand why women were more reticent when it came to sex than men. As a man, I always knew there was a possibility of getting my partner pregnant, but as a woman, that possibility held more alarming consequences.
My pragmatic nature aside though, I was beginning to wonder what it might be like to have sex with a man. The vibrator teased at the experience, but I had to think that having a real one inside had to be more gratifying or all women would have told men to get lost long ago. And if I was going to get around to having sex with a man, having sex with Matt sounded like a good place to start.
Of course, I didn’t mean right away. I was thinking more in terms of the future–like maybe months or even years away. In the mean time, there was always Mr. Vibrator.
Still, even considering it was a huge change in my way of thinking. I had been a man just a few weeks before–the kind of man who makes wisecracks about gays and could never understand what one man could see sexually in another man.
As weeks turned into months, and summer was nearly at an end, I felt my resolve ebbing away. I continued to date Matt and it was turning into a comfortable relationship. We often talked about his work once he realized I would be a sympathetic ear. Many women in my experience as Jack Murphy found the idea of police work disturbing at best. Most police officers start to think of the world as ‘them’ and ‘us’ with ‘us’ being the police and ‘them’ being everybody else. The fact that I was interested in his job made me a popular person with Matt.
Of course for me, Matt’s stories of his job were like letters from home. He didn’t realize that, but I found it interesting to hear his perspective on people and cases that were very familiar to me. Strangely enough though, I didn’t find myself pining for my old job. As long as I could remember, I had wanted to be a cop, but now that I wasn’t one, I began to feel as if my life on the force was an incomplete life, wrapped up too much in a job that often resulted in frustrating failures.
Matt had a healthier attitude about police work than I had exhibited. For example, it wasn’t too long after our first date that he decided to let Jack Murphy’s death remain as initially determined–an accident.
“But you were so sure it wasn’t an accident,” I pointed out over one of our after-work dates. I guess I was a little miffed at how he had given up on an investigation relating to a friend so easily.
He shrugged. “Yeah, I was. But I haven’t been able to come up with any evidence to the contrary. It was just a feeling anyhow. A lot of police work is based on instincts. This time, I was apparently wrong.”
It was interesting how those instincts of his had been partially right–Jack Murphy hadn’t died accidentally. In fact, he hadn’t died at all. But even if I told Matt the truth (which I had absolutely no intention of doing) he’d never believe it. He was right to let it go. What amazed me was how rational he could be about it.
I found myself becoming more and more interested in Matt. At first, it was at least in my mind a clandestine renewal of an old friendship. I had always liked Matt, and in my new identity, I found no reason to change that opinion. But as the weeks flew by, I found myself looking at Matt through new eyes–the eyes of a woman who has found a man she wanted to be with. I wanted to be with him at meals, and ball games, walking down the street and in... In bed?
The thought wasn’t as horrifying as it would have been a short time before. As a man, I had often seen a beautiful girl walking down the street and wondered what it might be like to make love to her. That was I suppose, the same reaction any heterosexual man might have. So why should it be any different for a woman to wonder? Just wondering wasn’t a crime.
I was still thinking about it the next evening at work. I caught myself looking over every man who walked in the door, wondering what he might be like in the sack. Oh, I wasn’t overt about it: it was just an idle fantasy. That one over there... older but kind of attractive in a distinguished sort of way. The one in the corner by the kitchen... young but not nearly cute enough to be with the girl he was wining and dining. Then there was that guy over by the window...
Oh shit!
Lucy had seated him while I was busy in the kitchen. I hadn’t noticed him when I got back since I had three other tables to get seated. And if I must be honest with myself, my little game of wondering about each of the male patrons had made me a little less aware of the whole dining room.
He was sitting by himself, looking as if he would happily kill someone if he could just light up a cigarette. Maybe that was why I hadn’t noticed him. Rudy Costanzo was a chain smoker and one of Tony’s roughest hoods. Although he was too good to get caught, the authorities thought he had personally killed at least ten men and probably double or even triple that number if the truth were known. One of the men he had most certainly killed according to Mr. Logan was my friend Mark Fontana. He was one of Capella’s inner guards and was almost always at his side. Unless he was just slumming for the evening, his presence meant Tony Capella wasn’t far behind.
It was funny. I had been waiting for weeks for this moment, but now I wasn’t so sure of myself. A play was about to begin–a play in which I had a key role, but I had no idea of any of my lines. I’d just have to act naturally and see what happened.
At least I didn’t have to wait long. Arturo rushed to the door, mumbling to me, “I’ll take care of this customer.”
No sooner had he spoken than the door opened. Two men in dark suits entered wordlessly, looking around the dining room. One of them headed immediately for the kitchen while the other one made a beeline for the restrooms. I hoped no one was in the ladies’ room because I knew he was going to check that place, too.
The next one to enter was no surprise. Tony Capella could always be depended upon to make an imperial entrance. Flanked by two more of his men, he seemed almost oblivious to their presence. “Arturo!” he called in a warm voice, taking my boss’s hand in both of his. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Arturo replied a little uncomfortably but respectfully. “Fine, Mr. Capella.”
“And your family?”
I saw Arturo wince, but I was pretty sure Tony didn’t. “They are fine as well.”
“Good, good,” Tony replied.
I expected him to lead his boys over to a large table where all but Costanzo would join him. It was Constanzo’s job to watch the door. But instead, he stopped and stared. It took me a moment to realize he was staring at me.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” he breathed.
I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea what Mr. Logan had planned other than using me as bait–but what sort of bait? The look in Tony’s eyes was not an expression of lust (thank God) but rather one of shock. His deep brown eyes were wide as if he had seen a ghost.
“And you are...” he asked after an uncomfortable silence.
“Gina... Gina Russo,” I managed, aware of how defenseless I was in this relatively small female body. If Tony were to say the word, I’d be deposited on his bed before anyone could even think about stopping him.
“You’re very pretty, Gina,” he said softly. Strangely, I didn’t feel sexually threatened by his observation. It was as if he genuinely felt the need to compliment me. I could only flush in response.
That said, he nodded at me, taking one more glance before starting off for his table. He took a detour for just a moment, stopping to whisper something to Costanzo who suddenly looked at me and nodded. Whatever was said between them had obviously been about me. I tried to look unconcerned, but in fact my heart was beating wildly.
“What’s going on, Arturo?” I asked him when Capella’s table was settled and taken care of.
“I’m not sure,” he said to me in a low tone. “Is your boyfriend coming by later?”
I was a little shocked. I didn’t realize Arturo had even noticed that Matt had in fact, become my boyfriend.
“Yeah. When we close.”
“Tell him to be careful,” Arturo urged.
I planned to take Arturo’s advice. Something was up but I didn’t know what. Capella and his apes kept stealing glances at me whenever they thought I wasn’t looking their way. I felt as if I was on display, but display for what? As I had already noted, the looks were not lustful. Instead, they were curious. Whatever the motive, I didn’t like those looks. Just what had Mr. Logan set into motion anyhow?
The sensation of vulnerability I had come to recognize was even stronger than the night I had nearly been attacked on a dark street. I felt an overwhelming need to be... protected from whatever was about to happen.
But who could I turn to? Mr. Logan? I hardly thought so. Whatever was about to happen was his doing. The fisherman feels no regard for the worm on his hook. My parents? I knew only that they were divorced and had raised me on Long Island. I wasn’t sure if they were still there–or if they even really existed for that matter. Arturo or my co-workers? They were as frightened of Capella and his men as I was.
That left only Matt.
But what did I expect of him? Did I expect him to come rushing into the restaurant and demand to know why they were staring at me? Matt might be armed, but Capella’s pack of wise guys had him out-manned and outgunned. The more I thought about it, the more I became certain that I didn’t want Matt to intrude right now. It might be dangerous for him.
To my relief, Tony Capella and his gang finished their meal and left well before I expected Matt. They each gave me one more long look, as if they were sizing me up for something, before departing. Tony even looked over his shoulder to look at me one more time. To my surprise, his expression was actually a little wistful.
I had been waiting for weeks for the game to get started–to give meaning to the transformation Mr. Logan had forced upon me. And yet now that the game was in play, I found myself relieved that Capella had left and looked forward to having Matt’s strong arms around me.
“What’s wrong?” Matt asked when he finally arrived.
“Nothing,” I lied, angry with myself that my moods had become so transparent to him. “Let’s get out of here.”
It was a warm summer evening, and Matt walked me back to Deety Arms. Thankfully, we didn’t walk down the dark street that had nearly been my undoing right after my transformation. Instead, we walked a few blocks out of the way where bright lights announced small cafes and playhouses. It felt good to see people on the streets enjoying themselves. Just for the moment, I could forget that scum like Tony Capella even existed.
But even though we stopped off for a couple of drinks and took our time getting back to Deety Arms, the evening had ended all too soon, and shortly, I’d be alone. I couldn’t bear the thought of going up to my apartment by myself. Even though my rational mind told me that no one could get into the building without Mr. Logan knowing about it, my emotional thoughts conjured up images of Rudy Costanzo or one of Capella’s other men waiting for me in my closet.
“Matt, come on up with me,” I pleaded.
I had caught him by surprise. “Don’t you have classes tomorrow?”
I did, but that didn’t matter now. “Please...”
“Sure.”
I had just invited a man up to my apartment. Oh sure, he had been there once before, but that was just to look around in the middle of the day. This was different. It was night–time all sane people were in bed. Was that where we were going to be? I didn’t intend to go to bed with him that night, but it was possible that I might. I realized that the minute I asked him up.
We were silent as we rode the elevator together. Both of us knew what was likely to happen. I had been a man long enough to know just what was going through Matt’s mind. What if he moved too quickly? What if he had misinterpreted my invitation? I didn’t blame him for being confused. I was still confused myself. But Tony Capella’s arrival on the scene had stirred within me a need to be protected–to know that Matt would be there when I needed him. If he was to be my protector, shouldn’t I agree to be his lover?
I didn’t bother to turn on the lights when we got in my apartment. “Hold me,” I murmured to him.
His arms felt good around me, warm and protective. I felt myself sigh in relief.
“Gina, what’s wrong?” he asked softly.
What could I tell him? “Nothing’s wrong,” I lied. Or maybe it wasn’t a lie. For the moment, nothing was wrong. I was safe. I looked up at his face, peering at his eyes shining in the reflected light from a window. I stretched up as he looked down, allowing our lips to meet. It was funny. We hadn’t kissed like that before. I had given him little pecks here and there, but nothing like this. My own arms went around his neck as he lowered his head to kiss me deeper.
I ached for him. I knew from what Mr. Logan had told me that I was destined to be a woman for the rest of my life, and I knew that this was yet one more example of what it meant to be a woman. I needed to be held, to be protected, to be filled by a man–this man... now.
Neither of us said a word as I gently took his hand and led him into my bedroom. Likewise, we undressed silently, pausing only long enough to caress each other’s newly-naked flesh. I had expected to be somewhat repulsed when moving my hands along his rough, hairy chest, but to my surprise, it felt good to my fingers. I moved into his embrace once more, feeling the hardness between his legs as it teased my inner thighs.
It was then that I nearly panicked with the realization that the hardness would soon be inside me. Was this the way all women felt for their first time? Possibly, but I doubt if other women felt how unreal it was to be penetrated by something I had until recently possessed myself.
I wish I could think of what thoughts finally ran through my head as he caressed me and as he entered me. I’m sure my mind made some involuntary comparison of how it felt as a woman to be impaled on an object I had never expected to experience from this perspective. But all I could remember as I lay there listening to him softly snore beside me was how complete I now felt. Sure, it was a little messy. I could feel the residue of his climax within me and was glad I had dutifully been taking birth control pills just in case. I suspect I had been magically urged to do so since I had no other earthly reason before that evening to assume I’d be in bed with a man any time soon.
All thoughts of Tony Capella and his gang of thugs had fled from my mind. I no longer cared what happened to him or his men: I cared only about Matt and me. I wasn’t a cop anymore. Capella was none of my business. I was a hostess at Pasquale’s and a college student... and a woman.
“I love you,” I whispered to him.
The snoring stopped. “I love you, too.”
I felt my face flush. I hadn’t realized he was sleeping that lightly. I had confessed something to him in the belief he was still asleep. Well, no matter. I wasn’t going to take it back. “Do you love me enough to make love to me again?” I asked.
His answer was to roll me over and start all over again.
Matt was already up and in the shower when I got up. I headed off to the kitchen and made him a simple breakfast as if this was a routine we had followed for years. I even had fantasies about him climbing out of the shower and ravishing me over my kitchen table, so I was just a little disappointed when he showed up in the same suit he had been wearing the night before.
I think he realized what I had been thinking. “I have to go to work,” he told me reluctantly.
“Yeah. I figured.”
He sat down and looked across the table at me. “Are you okay?”
“Never better.” It was true as long as he was there. But how would I feel when he left?
I was about to find out.
I might be a young woman now, but I still had the instincts of a street cop, so I knew I was being tailed. Oh, my shadow was discrete. If I had been the young coed I appeared to be, I would have never noticed him. He hung back nearly a block behind me as I walked and got on the same subway car as I did but all the way at the other end. He wore khaki slacks and a white polo shirt, blending in with the crowd. Sure, he wore dark glasses on the subway, but so did a lot of other people.
I surprised myself by not panicking. I knew instinctively that he was just keeping an eye on me. He would have been working his way closer to me if he had anything else on his mind. When I got to my class, he was nowhere to be seen, but when I got out of class, there he was following me at a discrete distance once more.
I knew he was working for Capella. The timing was too perfect to be coincidental. Besides, who else had taken an interest in me lately–other than Matt of course? So the mob boss had taken the bait. I just hoped Mr. Logan knew what he was doing. I would have felt a whole lot better if I had known just what sort of bait I was.
When I got to work that evening, Arturo called me into his small office. To my surprise, we weren’t alone. A medical technician was waiting for me there. “You need to give him a blood sample,” Arturo said with a nod at the technician...
I frowned. “What for?”
Arturo looked uncomfortable. He quickly hustled me back out of the office where the technician wouldn’t be able to hear us. “It’s for insurance.”
“You don’t provide insurance,” I pointed out to him. “Now what gives?”
Arturo pulled me back out of the office for a moment and told me in a low voice, “Look, Gina, I agreed to help Mr. Lo... our friend out by hiring you. He told me that you were to be...”
“Bait?” I whispered to him.
He nodded. “Mr. Capella has made a request. I cannot refuse him. I’ve been told to do so would be bad for business.” He looked into my eyes and saw that I knew exactly what “bad for business” meant coming from Capella.
I thought for a moment. Why would he want me to have a blood test? I thought again that maybe it had something to do with sex–that maybe he wanted to make sure I was healthy before putting the moves on me. Maybe that was why I had the tail–maybe he wanted to find out if I was sleeping with anybody else. Had there been a tail on me when Matt took me up to my apartment? I wasn’t sure but I didn’t think so.
After the med tech left, things settled down to normal. It was a busy evening, so I didn’t have time to think about Capella’s plans, and before I knew it, it was closing time and Matt was there to pick me up.
“What do you want to do tonight?” he asked. I could tell from the hopeful note in his voice what he wanted to do. I felt much more secure than I had the night before, so I didn’t need him in my bed just to feel safe. But I had discovered that safety wasn’t the only reason–or even the best reason–to have sex as a woman.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said slowly, toying with him a little. It was amazing how much power a woman could exert over a man just by teasing him a little. “I was thinking of doing something a little different tonight.”
“Oh?” He sounded a little disappointed. “Different” sounded like “no sex.”
“Yeah,” I grinned. “I thought maybe tonight I’d be on top.”
It didn’t take many nights back at my apartment for me to realize that trying different positions was more fun as a woman than it had been as a man. Every new way we tried it seemed to stimulate my body in new and exciting ways. I hadn’t realized before how many different arousal points a woman really had. I began to think if every man could spend just a few weeks as a woman, he’d find that sending a woman over the edge was a guarantee of great sex every time.
I was so enthralled with my new sexual relationship that I nearly forgot about Tony Capella. It wasn’t until about a week after my blood test that I got an unexpected reminder of my nemesis shortly after Arturo had opened for evening business.
The reminder was wearing an Armani suit and a tie that probably cost more than most cops made in a week. His name was Leo Duggan. He was an attorney, and his small but powerful law firm had only one client–Tony Capella.
He might have been just there to enjoy a plate of Arturo’s tortellini but I doubted it. I had never believed in coincidence. Still, I decided to play dumb, flashing him my canned hostess smile. “Table for one, sir?”
“Actually, I’m here to see you, Ms. Russo,” he said formally. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Well, I’m working now...”
“I’m sure your boss will agree to giving you a few minutes,” he replied smugly.
Of course, he was right. Arturo recognized the mob lawyer and motioned with his head that I should take him back to his office. “All right.”
Duggan sat behind Arturo’s desk as if it were his own, pausing only long enough to make certain there was nothing in the chair which might blemish his expensive suit. I was completely baffled at the attorney’s purpose, but I didn’t have to wait long. “Ms. Russo, are you familiar with Antonio Capella?”
“Yeah,” I replied, already tired of this shyster’s smug manner. “He’s a big crime boss.”
“He’s a businessman,” Duggan corrected me, the disapproval I had been seeking with my insult apparent in his eyes. “Mr. Capella has a completely clean legal record.”
‘Yes he did,’ I thought, ‘mostly because of this bozo’s legal chicanery.’ “Businessman then,” I shrugged.
He nodded with begrudging approval. “Yes... well it seems that when Mr. Capella dined here a few days ago, he noticed something familiar about you. He would like to discuss that matter with you.”
I was still in the dark about what was going on. Whatever Mr. Logan had done to turn me into attractive bait had worked, but I had no idea why. “Ask him to come by the restaurant then,” I suggested. “He knows where it is.”
“He would rather discuss this in a more personal setting,” the attorney informed me. “He has asked me to escort you to his home at once.”
“Now wait a minute!” I jumped out of my chair. This was sounding an awful lot like some sort of come-on. I didn’t want to give Capella a chance to corner me alone. “I’ve got a job here. I can’t just leave because some mob boss...”
“Businessman.”
“Whatever. Just because he wants me alone with him.”
“I’ll be with you all the time,” he assured me. “If you think this is about sex (he made the word sound distasteful), I can assure you it is not. Now, please come with me. Mr. Capella does not like to be kept waiting.”
Arturo, of course, didn’t argue. I was given the evening off to the questioning stares of Jennie, Lucy and Julio. Actually, Julio looked a little alarmed as if he had suddenly realized I might have powerful friends.
A black Mercedes was waiting for us at kerbside, guarded by another of Capella’s henchmen while the driver waited at the ready, the engine purring smoothly. Duggan opened the rear door for me and I slid into the car, wishing for not the first time that evening that I would have chosen something a little less revealing for my audience with the crime boss.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Duggan assured me. I just hoped he was right.
Tony Capella lived well: I’ll give him that. Like many of the crime lords before him, he preferred the relative quiet and solitude of Long Island to the grit of the city. His home was really more of an estate, sprawling over several acres of what had once been farmland until it was urbanized in the early part of the last century. Odds were good it had once been the summer home of some prominent New York family, with its view of the ocean and its expansive grounds surrounded by a high brick wall. Whoever said crime doesn’t pay had never seen Tony Capella’s house.
I began to realize as the automatic iron gates closed behind the limo that I was now completely at my enemy’s mercy. Every undercover cop we had managed to get onto the grounds had ended up like Mark Fontana–dead in some alley. If Capella realized even for an instant who I really was...
But that was impossible, of course. Even if I were to admit that I had once been Jack Murphy, he wouldn’t believe it. Nobody would. I was Gina Russo and no one–or at least no normal human–could prove otherwise. And it was Gina Russo who Tony Capella wanted to see.
But why?
I supposed I was going to find out in a few minutes.
Duggan and I were ushered into a library the size of my entire apartment. Everything in the room reeked of serious money. Like I said, crime does pay if you’re good at it. “Can I get you something to drink, Ms. Russo?” Duggan asked, assuming the role of host until Tony showed up. As he expertly opened a hidden bar, it was obvious he had been here many times before.
“No, nothing,” I replied looking around. I was looking directly toward the huge oak double doors of the room when they opened and Tony Capella stepped in. I don’t know exactly what I expected, but I didn’t expect the warm smile on his face.
“Good work, Leo,” Tony said, turning from his attorney back to face me.
“Do you want me to stay Tony?” Duggan asked. Tony shook his head, his eyes still on me, and Duggan took the hint with a slight nod to me as he left.
“You don’t know how pleased I am that you accepted my invitation,” he said to me when Duggan had shut the doors behind him. There was a softness–a warmth to his voice. In all the years that I had run up against Tony Capella, I had never heard him speak that way before.
“I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?” I asked.
His expression became a little pained. “Please, don’t believe everything you’ve heard about me. When I tell you why I asked you to come here, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
We were face to face. Even in my heels, I was several inches shorter than he was, but somehow I knew he posed no threat to me. “And why did you ask me here?”
He turned for a moment, facing me again with a picture of a woman in his large hand. “This woman was my wife,” he explained.
I remembered that Capella had been married at one time. It was actually several years before I crossed swords with him, so I didn’t know much about his marriage except for what was in the files. I knew she had been killed in a car explosion meant for him. A gang of Columbians determined to break in on Capella’s hold on the drug market had staged the hit. Of more interest to me when I had read the file was the fact that Tony had gone after them with a vengeance theretofore unknown in the city, wiping them out to the last man in the most grisly ways possible. The Columbians’ own families fled New York only to meet a tragic death when their chartered plane exploded over the Gulf of Mexico. No one thought for a minute that it was an accident.
No picture of his wife had been in the file though. That was ancient history to our later investigations, so I was seeing a picture of his wife for the first time, and the sight was almost enough to make me gasp. Take away the eighties hairstyle and clothing and dress his wife in modern fashions and she would have been practically my twin.
“That’s right,” he said softly as I took the picture from his outstretched hand. “She was your mother–your real mother. And I am your father.”
In that moment, I knew how Luke Skywalker must have felt.
Duggan joined us again and the three of us discussed what must have happened over a much-needed glass of wine. Tony’s wife had been pregnant, and although she died as she was being rushed to the hospital, her baby–me, or at least the person I had become–had apparently survived. Her doctor had supposedly lost the baby on the operating table, but Tony’s people had discovered that the doctor had lost a son to drugs–drugs most likely supplied by Tony’s syndicate.
“Did the doctor admit that?” I asked, shuddering a little as I imagined some poor physician getting the crap beaten out of him to extract a confession.
“The doctor in question died five years ago,” Duggan told me, alleviating my fears that an innocent man had died confessing to something which hadn’t really happened.
“But the dates match up,” Tony added. “The night my wife–your mother–died, you were placed in a foster home. Supposedly, you were the child of a single mother who died in a traffic accident leaving no other family. Only the records don’t back that up. There was no young woman killed in a traffic accident that night who left a daughter. The doctor decided to deprive me of my child since he blamed me for the death of his only son.”
“And were you responsible for the death of his son?” I asked pointedly.
Capella just shrugged. “I won’t lie to you. You know what I do for a living. But think of it this way Gina. I don’t hold people down and make them take drugs. That’s a decision people make for themselves. I’m just a businessman giving the customer what he wants to buy. If his son died from drugs I sold him, it was his decision to take them–not mine.”
It wasn’t the first time I had heard the argument. Every dealer I had ever seen taken down sang the same song. For that matter, I suppose the cigarette companies could be accused of the same thing. What Capella wasn’t saying was how his dealers preyed on human weaknesses to hook their customers on drugs. They’d practically give them away until they got their pigeons hooked. Then the price would go up. Can’t afford them? Then they’d introduce them to people who could help them ‘earn’ the money–pimps, fences, and other vermin.
Of course I couldn’t say any of this. Mr. Logan’s plan was starting to unfold. I had agreed to go undercover to bring Tony Capella down, but I had never realized I would have to do it as a woman–a woman who as it turned out was the bastard’s daughter.
“So what happens now?” I asked quietly.
“That’s up to you,” Tony told me.
No, it wasn’t–not really. If I had been born and raised as Gina Russo, I might have some choices. But I had been created by Mr. Logan to make the choice that would achieve our mutual goal of bringing Tony Capella down. Whatever ‘choices’ I was about to be given, the only real choice would be what could I do to stay close to him. As he spoke, the choice became obvious.
“I’ve had you checked out,” he told me. “I know your foster parents broke up and that you don’t have anything to do with them. I don’t blame you after what that bastard of a foster father tried to do to you.”
I just nodded. Of course, I had no idea what he was talking about, but I could make some guesses. They were the sort of guesses that would most certainly estrange any girl from her parents–foster or not.
“You can go on doing what you’ve been doing–working and going to school all on your own. Or you can move in here with me. I know I haven’t been a father to you, but I didn’t even know until recently that you existed. I’d be very pleased if you gave me an opportunity to show you how good a father I can be.”
It was a heartfelt speech. I was seeing a side of Tony Capella that I never knew existed. How could a man who had ruined so many lives be so caring to someone he had never really met before? Even though he thought I was his daughter, it seemed out of character for him. Of course, I was viewing him through the lens of his police record. I thought back to some of my college readings on the Mafia and realized it wasn’t so out of character after all. Many crime bosses had been very loyal and loving around their families while maintaining a ruthless façade in their criminal lives.
“Do I have to give you an answer right now?” I asked. I didn’t want to appear too eager. That might look suspicious.
“Of course not,” he said smoothly. “I want you to make the right decision–one you feel comfortable with. Why don’t I give you a call on Friday? If you decide to move in here, some of the boys can give you a hand moving on the weekend.”
“I suppose that would be all right,” I replied pensively. “But I have a lease...”
“I know where you live,” he told me with just a note of disgust. “If you decide to live here, tell that Logan guy I’ll pay for the rest of your lease. That should make him happy.”
‘Oh that would probably make him absolutely ecstatic,’ I chuckled to myself.
“Then I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he concluded, rising from his chair. Duggan and I both rose together. “Before you go though, would you mind if I... hugged you?”
I hadn’t expected that, so I had no ready reason to refuse him. I nodded stupidly. His hug was gentle with no hint of sexuality. I remembered hugging my real father and realized this felt no different. Timidly, I hugged him back, not knowing what else to do.
Mr. Logan was waiting for me in the lobby of Deety Arms. I had no doubt that he had known precisely the time Duggan would drop me off and drive away.
“You did very well tonight,” he said as he greeted me with a smug smile.
“And just how do you know that?” I asked, folding my arms over my breasts.
“Oh surely you know I have my ways.”
“That being the case, why don’t you just take care of Capella yourself? Why pass me off as his long-lost daughter when you could just change him into a rat or blow him up in his house? You don’t need me.”
The mischievous look in his eyes said otherwise. “When the plan has run full course, I know you’ll understand.”
“But you won’t tell me now,” I finished for him.
He shook his head. “No, Ms. Russo. That might spoil things.” Then he changed the subject. “So how are your classes going?”
“Fine,” I replied abruptly. If he wasn’t going to give me any information, I didn’t see why I should give any to him. Actually, I was enjoying my classes. I couldn’t imagine why he had decided I should be a sociology major, but I was finding it an interesting field. As a criminal justice major in my old life, I had studied the subject somewhat, but never in the depth I now was learning.
“Well, goodnight Mr. Logan.”
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he asked innocently.
Had I? Oh God Yes! “Matt! I’m due to get off work in an hour and he was going to pick me up at Pasquale’s.”
“No problem,” Mr. Logan told me with a nod. I turned and saw my usual cab was waiting for me with the strange faceless driver. “Alastor will see that you get there.”
So that was his name. “Thank you,” I said, turning for the door. Matt was often early, enjoying a cappuccino while I finished up. I wanted to make sure I got there before he did.
‘And what would he think about all this?’ I wondered as I stepped into the cab. I knew from both my previous life and this one that Matt hated Tony Capella almost as much as I did. And we weren’t alone. Every good cop on the force thought Capella was ruthless even by mob standards. For example, while he was telling the truth about the murder of his wife by the Columbians, he hadn’t mentioned that he had provoked the war by taking out half a dozen of their top dealers in Lower Manhattan.
Even if Matt was okay with the revelation that I was the daughter of a mob boss, how would it affect his career? Matt was going places in the department, but not with a Mafia princess on his arm. What sort of a wife... would... I...
‘Oh my God. Had I really been thinking about marrying Matt?’ I guess I had, but I never admitted it to myself before. I didn’t have a lot of experience being a woman, but I had come to appreciate Matt in ways I could never have imagined before. He was thoughtful, strong, caring, and come to think of it, pretty damned good in bed. In short, he was a great catch.
It’s funny, but I didn’t remember him dating much when I was on the force with him. Oh, there was an occasional thing here and there, but nothing lasting and nothing he ever talked much about. But as I’ve said before, a lot of women have trouble dating cops. They tend to bring their work home with them, and some of them like Matt and Jack Murphy never seemed to be able to set their badges aside. That had been what had cost me my own marriage.
I understood all of that though. It didn’t take away from my sudden desire to be Mrs. Matt Conway. Not that it would do me any good though. As soon as he found out who I was, he’d lose any interest he might have had in a big hurry.
“Your destination, Ms. Russo.”
The eerie voice of the creature Mr. Logan had named Alastor brought me out of my reverie. “Thank you,” I mumbled, giving him his usual fare. My heart sank as I looked in the window of Pasquale’s and saw Matt sitting alone at a table. Well, there was no putting things off any longer.
“Gina!” He rose to greet me, and I could see the worried look on his face dissipate, replaced by relief. He hugged me and to my surprise kissed me hard right there in front of the few lingering patrons and the staff. I even heard Lucy giggle. My heart nearly broke when I realized this could be the last time Matt held me.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Arturo said Capella’s lawyer took you away. What did he want? Did you see something that would implicate Capella?”
I sat down, an ironic smile on my lips. “I guess you could call it that, Matt.” I started to tell him the whole story. I was proud of myself for not breaking down even once. I told him about the death of Capella’s wife and then hit him with the punch line. “It turns out Capella’s daughter didn’t die with her mother. She was secretly given over to foster care and subsequently adopted...”
Matt looked at me expectantly. Did he already understand what I was about to tell him? No, he looked confused. There was only one thing to do–tell him straight up. “Matt, I’m Tony Capella’s daughter.”
His look of confusion was replaced by one of disbelief. “No, that can’t be right. Your parents...”
“They’re my foster parents,” I reminded him. Instinctively, I grabbed his hand. “Oh Matt, can’t you see? I didn’t know. They have proof though–DNA and everything.”
Matt settled down a little, and to my relief, he didn’t pull away. “So what does Capella–your father–want?”
“He wants me to come live with him,” I told him. “I guess he wants to be a real father. I can’t really blame him, I suppose.”
“Gina,” Matt said slowly, “do you know what kind of a man he is?”
“Of course I know,” I reminded him. I couldn’t tell him that the decision to move in with him was already made the minute Mr. Logan changed me into Gina Russo. I had no way of letting him know that my agreeing to be his daughter might be the only way to ever stop the bastard from hurting God knows how many people. “But he’s my father,” I added softly, my eyes downcast.
Neither of us said anything for what seemed to be hours, but I know it was no more than a minute or two. Our hands were still touching, but I could feel the tenseness in Matt’s hand. He broke the silence first.
“Gina, I love you.”
I must have gasped because he looked at me at once as if something was wrong with me. “I don’t care who you are,” he went on.
I felt my heart beating faster. He had said what I wanted to hear, although I don’t think even I was aware of that until after he had said it.
“Matt, I...” I began and then stopped. I realized I had been about to tell him the hell with Tony Capella. I’d never see him or talk to him again if that would make things work between us. But I couldn’t do that, could I? I had been changed into a girl for no other reason than to accomplish my mission against Capella.
“Don’t say anything,” he warned me. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Matt, take me home.”
He did, and that night we made love with a passion borne of desperation. We didn’t talk any more about my future, but we both knew I had made up my mind and that Matt had made up his. I would be moving in with my ‘father’ and Matt would still love me. But we both knew that his love might not be enough. Capella had to know about Matt. How long would it be before he made it nearly impossible for me to be with him? And what about Matt? The minute it was known that he was having a relationship with the daughter of a Mafia chieftain, his days on the force would probably be over. And what about his family? I knew by now that Matt’s parents were well-known members of New York’s high society. What pressure would they put on Matt when they learned about me?
Matt got dressed and left early the next morning. We had kissed and even briefly considered making love again, but the thought of what we each might be facing that new day made that only a fleeting dream.
I didn’t waste any time. I called Capella that morning and told him I’d be willing to give things a try. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” he replied over the phone. He sounded genuinely pleased.
So now I was sweetheart. The next thing I knew, I’d be princess. I’d be his little girl, surrounded by hoods and other scum while trying to pretend to be his loving daughter. And to what end? Was I expected to gather information? If so, Mr. Logan had told me nothing of how to inform him or what he would do about it if I did.
Once dressed and ready for the day, I caught up with Mr. Logan in the lobby talking to that strange little Mr. Luk. He dismissed the little man and turned his attention to me. “Good morning, Ms. Russo. Or should I say Ms. Capella?”
“Don’t joke about it,” I admonished him. “I’ve agreed to move in with him and try to be his loving daughter. Don’t you think it’s time to tell me the rest of the plan?”
“The rest of the plan?”
“What do you expect me to do?” I pressed. “Am I supposed to gather information? Who do I give it to? The phones are probably watched.”
He gave me a paternalistic smile. “Ms. Russo, don’t do anything like that. It would endanger your position in Mr. Capella’s household. I expect you to be exactly what he thinks you are. You realize, don’t you, that for all practical purposes, he is now your genetic parent. Try to get to know him and treat him as the father he wants to be.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Ms. Russo. Ah! It looks as if your escort has arrived.”
Tony didn’t waste any time. Leo Duggan marched through the door, flanked by two of Tony’s men. It was a standard mob tactic–send in the negotiator with the sugar but make sure the mark knew that the tough guys had come along in case he didn’t have a sweet tooth.
“Mr. Logan,” Duggan began, making it clear he had met my mysterious landlord before.
“Yes, Mr. Duggan?” he replied smoothly as if the attorney were an old associate.
“My client has asked me to make arrangements for Ms. Russo here to move out of your building. He is prepared to meet the conditions of the lease, including payment in full and surrender of any deposits.”
“That is most generous,” Mr. Logan agreed. “I will hate to lose Ms. Russo.”
The lawyer and his guards relaxed noticeably. ‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘they’ve had dealings with Mr. Logan before.’ His quick agreement to their terms was a welcome surprise.
And so began my move to Capella’s estate. Duggan took me there himself while the two hoods began to supervise the packing of my possessions. A moving truck had pulled up almost at once and four burly men marched up to my apartment to move everything. I noticed they had illegally parked the truck with no apparent concern about getting a parking ticket.
“Welcome home sweetheart,” Capella said hugging me as if we had been separated for months. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to move in.”
I managed to return the hug without getting sick.
“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said, motioning me into his study.
It turned out what he wanted to talk about included my job, my education, and, of course, my social life. “We’ve got to make some changes now that everyone will know I’m your father,” he told me once I was situated in a comfortable leather chair.
“What kind of changes?” I asked suspiciously.
“Well for one, your job,” he began as he lit a cigar which if my male memory served me correctly went for no less than $50 apiece at a tobacconist up on the East Side. “Money isn’t going to be a problem for you, so I don’t want you working for Arturo anymore.”
I just nodded. I had been expecting that to happen. And actually, he was right. I wasn’t some working class girl from Long Island trying to make ends meet and get an education at the same time. Tony was worth more millions than I could ever imagine. Besides, as much as I had gotten to like everyone at Pasquale’s–except Julio of course–I had only taken the job to get in front of Capella. Now that that had been done, I had no reason to continue working there.
“As far as college is concerned, I think it’s good a girl like you wants to get an education,” he went on. I was relieved to hear that. I was actually getting something out of my classes–something that would help me for the rest of my life. I had already made up my mind that since I had to make a new life for myself, I’d go into social work once Capella was put away.
“But I think CCNY is the wrong place for you.”
“Oh?” This time he had caught me by surprise.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “You got money now, kid. You can go to Vassar, Wellesley, Mount Holyoke, Smith...”
“Wait a minute,” I cut in. “Those are all girls’ schools.”
“Not anymore,” he countered. “Guys go there too, from what I’ve heard.”
He was right about that, but the schools he had reeled off were still schools with predominately female student bodies. I was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that my new father wanted to keep me away from boys. For the most part, that was okay, but there was one boy–man rather–whom I had gotten rather attached to.
“I’ll let you know which one sounds best,” I assured him. I was there to get enough on him to send him off to prison. By the time the next term began at any of those schools, I expected my mission to be done.
He nodded, satisfied, a cloud of expensive smoke rising above him. “I knew we’d get along just fine,” he said proudly. “Just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Ditch the cop.”
I was afraid of that. He had to have checked me out completely. He had to know all about Matt. As much as I had come to care for Matt, I knew this would happen. I suppose I tried to tell myself it was really best for Matt as well. Now he could say that when he was seeing me, he had no idea I was the daughter of a Mafia boss.
Still, I really wanted to tell Tony to shove the whole Mafia princess crap and run back to Matt. But I knew that wasn’t really an option. Also, I had to keep my mouth shut or Tony would take more drastic action to get Matt out of the picture.
“Did you hear me, Gina?”
“I heard you,” I replied softly.
“Well?”
“I won’t see him anymore,” I promised.
Capella grinned and rose from his chair, crushing out his cigar with a good $40 worth of tobacco still unburned. “With the boys I’d say shake on it, but I’d rather have a hug from you.”
I gave him the hug. At least when he was holding me he couldn’t see the tears in the corner of my eyes. Giving up Matt was going to be the hardest thing I had ever done–even harder than learning to be a girl. I guess I had really become a woman in nearly every way imaginable, but until Tony was behind bars, I was still something of a cop and the cop side had to stay in charge.
The next few weeks started out to be the toughest of my life–new or old. As the daughter of a powerful crime lord, I had a guard and a driver everywhere I went. The only privacy I enjoyed was when I was alone in bed or going to the bathroom. Even in a public bathroom, my guard would stand outside the ladies’ room scowling at every woman who had the temerity to enter or leave while I was there. If I had enjoyed the same guard every day, I might have been able to get to know him, bat my big brown eyes at him, and get him to back off and give me some space. But the guard was constantly changing, and none of them seemed to be too happy about getting to know me. To them, I was just something valuable that their boss wanted guarded, so guard they did.
There was at least one funny incident though. I decided one evening to go to Pasquale’s on my own and have dinner. Julio spotted me walking in with a shadow who would have made the Terminator quake, and immediately turned pale and ran for the kitchen. Laughing, Jennie and Lucy told me that Julio had been afraid that I would take his moves on me personally and bring in someone to rough him up. For the rest of the evening, my guard sat at a table along the wall facing mine while Jennie and Lucy got Julio so worried that I really had brought him in to break the poor waiter’s legs that he begged Arturo for the night off and fled through the kitchen exit.
School was probably the most embarrassing time of all though. My guard would park outside the classroom intimidating each student who entered with a fierce glare. The word got around pretty quick as to who I was. After that, I usually just tried to sit in the back of the room where it was difficult for the rubbernecks to stare at me.
But classes soon got to be my favorite time as well. After about a week in my gilded cage, I walked into a nearly-deserted classroom fifteen minutes before class and discovered to my joy Matt sitting in the back row. He looked like just another student in jeans and a polo shirt. I was so happy to see him I nearly ran to the seat next to him.
“How have you been?” he asked, taking my hand.
I looked nervously toward the door, relieved to see no sign of my guard. He must have been where I left him, discretely down the hall a few yards. I had told him to stop intimidating my fellow students and it looked as if he had obeyed. “I’m fine,” I sighed. “But I’m even better now that you’re here.”
“I got worried when I didn’t hear from you.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry. I had no way of reaching you. Capel... ‘daddy’ took my cell phone and gave me a new one. Now he can track every number I call, so I couldn’t very well ring you since he’s forbidden me to see you. As for landlines, forget it. He knows how easy those are to tap. All the regular phones in the house are keyed to a code that I don’t have. He’s nothing if not security conscious.”
Matt grimaced, “I figured as much. Being cautious has probably been what’s kept him out of the slammer all these years. It’s kind of like a twenty-first century version of Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but don’t expect me to take poison.”
We both grinned.
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” Matt told me. “Look, I’ve got a plan...”
Matt’s plan was simple enough. We would use part of our time together to devise a way to meet a few days later under the noses of my guards. The places we always chose were public enough to suit my guards but locations that were difficult for them to remain too close to me.
After that, it wasn’t impossible to meet. Matt and I just had to be careful about how we did it. Our time together was often short and in unusual places. I started spending a lot of time at the gym–a ladies-only gym where I could sneak out and spend time with Matt. I’d cut a few classes and fake a few after-class study sessions to be with him. We even managed to have dinner one evening in a secluded booth where Matt couldn’t be seen by my guard at the front door.
Unfortunately, we lacked the opportunity to be intimate. I could hardly have imagined a few short months earlier that I would be enjoying sex with a man. It still seemed unreal. But now my body longed to be loved by Matt and there was nothing we could do about it.
As the weeks went by, I began to feel more and more as if Mr. Logan’s plan had run aground. I knew very little about my ersatz father–even less than I would have known by reading his police folder. Capella had worked hard to appear to be a loving father and good provider, treating me to everything from Broadway plays to four-day trips to the Caribbean. He even bought me a cat (not knowing that I had always hated cats). It was a rare breed apparently, with white fur and the inscrutable look that cats seem to get as if they think they’re smarter than humans. I named him Luke. After learning that Darth Vader was supposed to be my father now, it seemed appropriate.
Yes, I was living the life of a young jetsetter but learning nothing since he sheltered me from everything about Capella business. He always kept his study locked when he wasn’t in it, and his business conversations always came to a screeching halt whenever I was within earshot.
Even his men were told to be on their best behavior. There was no discussion of business around me, no rough stuff, and even no swearing. Everyone was polite and accommodating to me, and I had only to ask for something and it was mine–with the exception of my freedom, of course.
There was one exception to the ‘make nice’ rule, and the exception’s name was Rudy Costanzo. If there was one person in Tony’s gang that I would like to bag (other than Tony, of course), it was Rudy. Rumor had it he liked to kill, and the looks he gave me convinced me that given the choice, he would have enjoyed making me his very next victim. I was interfering with the way he thought the business should be run. Of course, I had no say in the business or supposedly even any knowledge of it, but it was obvious he thought my very presence was taking his boss’s eye off the ball.
To be completely fair, I suppose he was right. Capella was working so hard to prove himself to be the loving father that he was leaving a lot of the details to others. To my surprise, those others often did not seem to include Rudy. I think in Tony’s eyes, Rudy might be a good killer but he wasn’t much of a manager. Rudy might be a great point-click-shoot guy, but he couldn’t really see the big picture.
Leo Duggan spent a lot of time at the house, and I suspected that he was pretty much in charge of all the legal arms of the business. My ‘father’ then divided the rest of the empire into drugs, gambling, and prostitution based upon the men I saw coming and going. But while I might suspect what was happening, I had absolutely no proof.
I was actually starting to develop a grudging respect for Tony–not affection, mind you, but respect. He was disciplined and demanded that of others. His organization reflected his demands, so it was possible for him to delegate with the confidence that his orders would be carried out. Things would have been much simpler for me if he had been more ‘hands on.’ Then I might have observed something incriminating. Unfortunately, it appeared that as long as I was around, he would be on his best behavior, trying hard to convince me that he deserved my love, as well as my respect and obedience.
Matt of course, pleaded with me to move out. “You’re no better than a prisoner,” he argued on one of our moments alone at school. “You can’t go where you want to go or see who you want to see. Those guards aren’t just protecting you, you know. They’re watching you and reporting back to Capella.”
“I know, Matt,” I agreed, nearly in tears. “I can’t explain it to you so don’t ask me to move out. It’s... it’s complicated.”
“There’s nothing complicated about it,” he huffed. “I love you and I’m pretty sure you love me.”
Yes, he was right: I did love him. But had I ever told him so? No, I guess I hadn’t, but he was right to assume it. Our time in bed together was certainly proof of that. Still, it was something I needed to tell him. “I love you too, Matt.”
His expression brightened. “So you see? There it is. We love each other and shouldn’t allow anyone to get in our way–not your father or mine...” His voice trailed off but it was too late.
“What about your father?” I asked. I had never met Matt’s family but remembered that Donald Conway was very, very wealthy. Matt seemed reluctant to reply. I suppose he really didn’t have to reply. The answer was obvious. His father moved in the highest circles of city society and politics. If it became common knowledge that his son was seeing the daughter of a notorious crime figure, it could be very damaging to him both socially and professionally.
“Look Gina,” Matt began, “I told you I don’t get along very well with my father. I reminded him that our family got wealthy smuggling liquor into the United States during the Prohibition. Lots of families made their initial fortunes illegally.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but they have the benefit of being removed by a generation or two from the ancestors who made the initial fortune. My father is still living and still making a fortune from criminal activities, even if no one seems to be able to prove it.”
Matt took me gently in his arms. “I don’t care who your father is, Gina, and I don’t care what my father thinks or what anyone else thinks for that matter. Just move out and marry me.”
“M... Marry you?” I looked into his eyes. Was he serious? He wanted to marry me–even knowing who I was?
“Marry me,” he repeated, softer as he looked into my eyes.
‘My mission had been a failure,’ I told myself. There was no way I was going to be able to bring Tony Capella to justice. What had Mr. Logan thought–that he would take me into the family business? Men like Tony Capella were of the Old School. They didn’t believe women were good for much more than spreading their legs and raising babies. If Mr. Logan had really wanted me to get into Tony’s affairs, why hadn’t he made me the crime lord’s son?
Besides, being of the Old School, it was very possible he would try to arrange a marriage for me. I’d be held away from anything resembling a normal social life until I was finally married off to the son of someone Capella needed as an ally, as if I were a medieval princess to be married off to an allied prince.
It was time for me to get free of my obsession with bringing Tony Capella down. It had cost me my marriage and any chance of a normal family life when I was Jack Murphy. It had finally even cost me my gender and my identity. I was ready to give Matt my answer: I was ready to marry him.
But before I could say anything, a noise in the hall caused me to look up. I don’t know where the noise actually came from, but it allowed me to see something which would delay my answer–at least for now. There, standing in the doorway of the classroom was Rudy Costanzo, and the smug smile on his face was all the proof I needed that he had been there long enough to see me in Matt’s arms.
I looked at Matt. “Let’s get out of here.”
He nodded in agreement, but it was already too late. I looked back at Rudy to see him pointing a gun at us. My regular guard was just outside backing him up.
“You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “You and your cop boyfriend are going to see the boss. I don’t think he’s going to be very happy when he sees how you’ve disobeyed him.”
I suspected he was right about that.
“So have you been feeding information to your cop boyfriend?” Rudy taunted.
Neither of us spoke, so Rudy continued, “You know, I don’t believe that shit you laid on Tony about being his daughter. I think you and the cops rigged the whole deal up just to get close to Tony.”
“I didn’t tell him I was his daughter: he told me,” I reminded him.
“Oh you were clever about it,” Rudy laughed. “But you knew all you had to do was let him get a look at you. You look a hell of a lot like his wife: I’ll give you that. I’m sure that’s why they chose you. Then they put you someplace where Tony’s bound to see you, like Pasquale’s.”
“How about the DNA tests, Rudy?” I asked him, uncomfortable with how close to the mark he was coming.
“Probably faked too,” he shrugged. “But you’re just wasting time. Come on: it’s time for you to see Tony.”
We were led from the classroom as inconspicuously as possible. Neither Matt nor I could make a move for fear of endangering the other. Rudy and my guard stayed close to us but a little behind so that they could reach their guns before we could stop them. I had no doubt that Rudy would kill us if he had the opportunity–or at least he would kill Matt which was almost as bad. As for my guard, I knew Rudy would never have taken the chance of cornering us if the guard wasn’t completely on his side.
But what would Tony think when Rudy brought us in? Could I convince him to let Matt go free? I wasn’t sure. He wanted my love and respect, but having a cop so close to me might be more than he could risk.
For that matter, how safe was I? Had Rudy found out something which would cause Tony to realize I wasn’t really his daughter or was he just speculating? That didn’t seem likely though. Mr. Logan’s magic must have made me as much Capella’s daughter as if I had been born that way. DNA doesn’t lie, in spite of what OJ’s lawyer said. Surely Rudy couldn’t finger me without incurring Capella’s wrath. He had a theory but he didn’t have any proof.
I felt even more insecure as Rudy and the guard marched us into dear old dad’s house. The guards around the house looked like they would all like to be someplace else when they saw us. Rudy had to think he had a strong hand to take us in like that and he had to have convinced a lot of Tony’s people, but I couldn’t help but think he had overreached.
“Rudy, what the hell is going on?” Tony demanded when we were allowed into his presence in the study. He was sitting at his desk, obviously not pleased with the interruption.
Rudy nodded at Matt. “This guy’s a cop. I know him. He used to work with that Murphy bastard.”
Bastard was I?
“So?”
Tony’s voice was cold, but Rudy stood up under it. “So he’s one of the cops who’s been trying to nail you for years. I figure he got cutie here to feed the cops information about our operation.”
“First of all, you’re not paid to think,” Capella reminded him as he came around his desk to stand in front of Rudy. He was a good four inches taller than his underling and the effect was intimidating. “I know who this guy is. He’s the cop that was seeing Gina. I told her to ditch him. It looks like I’ve got to tell her again.
“Second, how do you get off insulting my daughter? You’ve gone too far this time, Rudy.”
“She ain’t your daughter, Tony,” Rudy insisted. “Think about it. She shows up out of nowhere living in that Logan guy’s building. Then she gets a job where she’s sure to be seen by you.”
Capella didn’t look quite so sure of himself, and that had me suddenly worried. “But the DNA...”
“Cops could have faked that,” Rudy told him, following the same line he had with me. I was a little relieved. It sounded as if Rudy didn’t have anything concrete about me. “Think about it, boss. Some doctor twenty some-odd years ago decides to get back at you by removing an unborn baby from your wife’s corpse. Your wife’s body was in pretty bad shape when they pulled her out after the explosion. Do you think a baby could have survived that?”
Looking at Tony, I became suddenly uncomfortable again. I was starting to get the bad feeling I had underestimated Rudy’s power of persuasion. Or maybe I should say I had been underestimating his ability to sniff out a setup. The look on Capella’s face was an ugly one, but whether it was directed at me for being a fraud or at Rudy for daring to question my identity, I wasn’t sure. There was no doubt Rudy thought his boss had bought his reasoning though.
“Don’t worry, boss,” Rudy said drawing his gun. “I’ll take care of both of them.”
“No!” Tony yelled.
I don’t think Rudy planned to waste us right there on Tony’s expensive Oriental carpet, but Tony must have thought so. He lunged suddenly at Rudy. It was obvious Rudy had guessed wrong. Tony hadn’t bought Rudy’s story and now saw his daughter in mortal danger. Unfortunately for Tony, Rudy reacted instinctively to his attack. His gun went off so close to my ear I felt pressure along the side of my head and wondered if it was I who had been shot.
The room was suddenly quiet as the echo of the shot reverberated off the oak panelling. As the doors flew open, Tony Capella gasped loudly, trying to get air to stay in a lung that must have been reduced to bloody fragments. He slumped to the ground in a growing pool of his own blood.
I had visions of Capella’s men suddenly blasting away at Rudy and my guard, but Tony’s two guards held back as if unsure of what had just happened or what to do about it. They had all worked with Rudy for as long as they had worked for Tony, and now Rudy was the senior guy in the room. Things weren’t exactly looking good for Matt and me.
“You bitch!” Rudy yelled at me. “This is your fault.” The gun was suddenly in my face while Matt was restrained by the other guards. “Now tell me the truth, bitch. Who are you?”
“I can answer that,” a voice called from the doorway. We all turned to see who had just joined the party, but confusion was written on everyone’s face, for in the doorway was Luke. The cat was sitting calmly as if nothing had happened, licking a paw with obvious disdain for the human inhabitants of the room.
“What the...” Rudy began.
No one moved as the cat sauntered into the room, suddenly rising on his back legs and growing larger. The white fur on his body began to darken, reweaving itself into a gray business suit of impeccable tailoring. A little of the white fur on his head became hair as the cat’s face reshaped itself into...
“Logan!” I cried out. He smiled at me in response.
Rudy and the other goons seemed to be nailed to the floor. They could look around and even move a little, but their arms were helplessly at their sides and the weapons had dropped from their hands. Matt was able to pull away from the two who had been holding him.
Mr. Logan walked calmly over to Tony Capella’s body and looked down at it in disgust. “It’s fitting that you should die as you did,” he said to the body, and coming from him, I’m not too sure that whatever was left of Tony Capella hadn’t heard him.
“You planned all of this, didn’t you?” I asked.
“What’s going on here?” Matt demanded, but Mr. Logan and I weren’t really paying any attention to him.
“I planned most of it,” Mr. Logan allowed. “Some of it you managed on your own.”
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?” Matt interrupted. With a casual wave of his hand, Mr. Logan gestured at Matt causing him to slump unconscious to the floor.
“Matt!” I practically screamed. I tried to rush to him but Mr. Logan gently took my arm. “Don’t bother Gina. He’ll be fine. He’s just having a little nap. When he awakens, he’ll remember none of this.”
“But how am I going to explain this, Logan?” I demanded, hands on my ample hips. “He’ll remember being brought in here, won’t he? He’s a police officer and a detective at that. He’ll be suspicious.”
Mr. Logan just gave me another of his patented smiles. I jumped as Rudy’s gun discharged without Rudy pulling the trigger. The bullet lodged itself in the far wall. “There!” he said confidently, pointing to Matt. I looked in fascination as a tiny line of blood drew itself over about an inch of Matt’s forehead.
“When he awakens,” Mr. Logan explained, “he will remember that two shots were fired. The first killed Tony Capella while the second grazed your boyfriend’s head. There will even be a tiny fragment of his skin on the bullet they dig from the wall.”
“And what about Rudy and the boys?” I asked, pointing at the semi-statues scattered about the room.
“I haven’t really decided,” Mr. Logan admitted. “Perhaps I’ll store them back in my basement until I can find something amusing to do with them.”
As gruesome as that sounded, maybe it was better than being changed into rats as I had seen done before, or into a whore like Tommy Ravella. Some of Tony’s men might eventually be revived and given decent lives, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be in Rudy’s shoes for anything. God only knew what he would wake up as or when.
“Can... can they see and hear us?” I asked.
“Oh yes. They have all of their senses, but until I allow it, they will neither move nor age. Perhaps a few years in storage will give them a chance to consider what they might do with their lives if I ever decide to free them.”
‘Or it would drive them mad,’ I thought. ‘They would be nothing more than living mannequins, each reflecting on the world from the darkness of a musty basement.’ I shuddered.
“So what happens now?” I asked.
“That’s entirely up to you,” Mr. Logan told me. “Just remember what you once told me–that you would be willing to give up your life to bring Mr. Capella down but...”
“But I wouldn’t give up my soul,” I finished for him.
He nodded, beaming at me as if I were a prize pupil. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I think I should be on my way.”
Before I could respond, he and all the frozen hoods had disappeared. There was no whoosh of air or pop as they were removed from the room: they simply vanished in the blink of an eye as if they had never been there to begin with.
The pool of blood pouring from Tony had widened, darkening more of the rug. His eyes were frozen open with a look of permanent surprise on them. I found my emotions jumbled. This was what I had hoped and dreamed for all those years. I should have felt victorious. I had participated in a ruse that had brought him down. Yet somehow, the victory was hollow. Tony had died saving my life–the life of a person he thought was his own flesh and blood. I don’t know why, but I knelt down and put a hand on his shoulder. Then I bent over and kissed his still-warm cheek. “Thanks, dad,” I whispered to him, hoping that his demons like mine, had been exorcised at last.
The funeral for Tony Capella was held three days later. Matt, with a small bandage over the cut he believed was the result of a bullet graze, was at my side. Mr. Logan’s transformation and everything that followed had been purged from his mind. He wasn’t the only cop there. At least a dozen policemen–local, state, and federal–watched the crowd looking for Rudy and the other missing goons who they assumed were involved in a plot to kill Tony. Of course, they’d never find them, or when they did find them, they wouldn’t be able to recognize them. I had a feeling Mr. Logan would play with them one by one. I now knew him to be a patient man–if he was a man.
The reading of the will came the very next day. Tony’s entire empire was in danger of collapse with Tony dead and many of his lieutenants missing. I had expected Tony to have set me up, but the actual behest was something of a shock for me. It seemed that Leo Duggan had been a busy boy, carefully crafting Tony’s estate so that everything managed to come to me–tax free, of course.
“Everything?” I asked stupidly.
Leo nodded. I could see he wasn’t real happy about it. Tony had been his meal ticket, after all.
“What about all the illegal businesses?” I asked him. He looked at me with embarrassment, especially since Matt was sitting with me. No lawyer wants to admit to anyone that his client is a criminal–especially in front of a cop.
“Come on, Leo,” I prompted. “There are just the three of us in the room.”
“Off the record?” Leo asked, directing his question to Tony. When Matt nodded, he continued, “You now control a drug distribution system and a chain of brothels, plus a few smaller enterprises.”
“Smaller enterprises?”
Leo shrugged. “Small-time stuff–numbers, bookies, even a chop shop in Jersey.”
“Shut them down,” I told him.
Leo looked as if he suddenly had water in his ears. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me Leo. Shut everything down.”
“I... I can’t do that,” he protested. “If I tried, someone else would just try to take control. It would start a gang war to see which boss could fill the gaps.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Okay,” I said after a moment’s thought. I had to admit he was right. If you shut down Macy’s, everybody will just trudge over to Sak’s. Drug and prostitution businesses only work because ‘honest’ people patronize them. “First, take all the brothels and put them in the name of the girls working in them.”
“That would take a lot of work,” Leo objected.
I brushed off his complaint at once. “So bill me.” Leo’s eyes lit up at that. “I assume Tony–my father–left a large enough estate to handle the fees.” It was really my attempt at sarcasm. Leo had already told me that Capella’s laundered, or honest operations, were sufficient to provide me with millions in income every year.
“All right Gina. But what about the drug operations?”
I wanted no part of the drug operation. Unlike the brothels where the girls would be given the option of selling out and getting a stake on a fresh life, I wasn’t about to set up dozens of drug lords all over the city. Besides, maybe a little turf war from the other dealers would work out for the best. Dealers at war get sloppy, and maybe the police would be able to round up a few of them. It wouldn’t stop the drug business, but it might slow it down. Dealers at war are too busy watching their butts to be out on the street attracting brand-new customers. “Shut them down Leo,” I replied through gritted teeth. “Shut them down today.”
Leo looked startled. “Okay Gina. You know, it’s funny, but just for a moment, you reminded me of Tony.”
Genetically, I was part of Tony, and I suppose the acorn really doesn’t fall far from the tree. But unlike Tony Capella, I hadn’t been raised to a life of crime. I had an education–both as Jack Murphy and as Gina. I planned to use that education now. Jack’s education had taught me to understand what made criminals tick. Gina’s education had taught me what some of the root causes of crime really were. I suspected when Mr. Logan had set me up as a sociology major, he knew exactly what he was doing.
I didn’t see Mr. Logan again for a couple of months. I had been too busy to check in with him at Deety Arms. Besides, I wanted to wait until I had plenty to tell him before I dropped in on him.
“Gina, you look delightful!” he said, rising from his chair to take both of my hands in his. His hands were warm and felt human, but I had done enough research on my own to be certain that he and his associates were not human at all. Whoever or whatever he was, tough, I owed him more than I could ever say.
I thanked him as he motioned me to a comfortable chair. “And how is Matt?” he asked, coming right to the point.
“Just fine,” I laughed. “But I think he’s a little nervous about our upcoming wedding.”
“Yes, and thank you for the invitation,” he said, pouring me a cup of steaming coffee from a carafe that I was sure hadn’t been there moments before. “I’ll be sure to attend.”
“Mr. Logan,” I began, getting down to business, “as you know, the Capella Foundation is doing quite well...”
“Yes, I’ve seen the notices in the paper,” he nodded. “Your dinner with the Mayor was big news.”
It was more than just big news to me, but I didn’t tell him that. Matt’s father had been in attendance at the dinner, and his concerns about Matt marrying a Mafia princess evaporated at once when he saw the Mayor fawning all over me. And well the Mayor should have. I had just written a check for ten million dollars to fund one of his favorite charities. When I announced that nearly all of the legal profits of the Capella empire would be channeled into social projects, I became the darling of New York’s society and the name Capella became suddenly respectable.
“I’m going to need some office space for the Foundation,” I told him. “I thought perhaps since you were so instrumental in making all of this happen, you might be able to provide me with the space I need.” My coy little smile as I raised my coffee to my lips gave no doubt that I expected a more-than-reasonable rent.
“I believe I can accommodate you,” he replied, taking a sheet of paper and writing something on it. Although he wrote only long enough to sign his name, when he handed the sheet to me, it was a full page of details on an office space which would take care of our needs for several years.
“I don’t see a rental amount,” I said, looking up from the page.
“Consider the rental cost our contribution to your foundation,” he smiled.
This was going to be the beginning of a wonderful relationship. And to think, not many weeks before, I would have cheerfully killed him (assuming that was even possible) for what he had done to me. Now, I had to fight the urge to kiss him for it.
Our meeting was interrupted by a sudden bustling behind me near the bookshelves.
“Oh Ignacia, please wait until Ms. Capella and I have completed our business before dusting in here,” Mr. Logan said suddenly. I turned to see whom he was talking to and saw two Hispanic maids stop their dusting. Both looked enough alike to be sisters, although one was a good four inches taller than the other. They were a little on the hefty side with their long black hair tied into tight knots on their heads. While neither was unattractive, neither would have been mistaken for the maid J Lo played. They wore traditional black maid outfits such as I hadn’t seen in a long time.
The larger of the two maids pointed at herself. “Yo?”
“You and Ignacia Pequeno as well,” Mr. Logan said calmly, nodding at the smaller of the two women.
“They’re both named Ignacia?” I asked him as the two maids gathered their cleaning supplies and prepared to leave.
“Yes,” Mr. Logan replied. “They are very close and have worked together for years.” He turned again to the maids. “And by the way, I found the body of the spider you swept under the rug. If you do it again, I’ll have to speak to your boyfriends. Is that clear?”
Both women nodded, clearly upset. I wondered what their boyfriends had to do with their work. I thought about asking, but Mr. Logan’s business was his own, and only a fool would press him knowing his powers.
As they left the room, Mr. Logan shook his head. “It’s difficult to break employees of bad habits. Good help is so hard to make.”
The End