Day Job
        I think I called a prostitute last night, but
I can't be sure.  There were panties in the bed this
morning, and balled up nylons on the passenger pillow
next to a spent fifth of Wild Turkey and an empty pill
bottle. The room was full of little feminizations;
mascara clotted cotton balls in the wastebasket,
toilet seat down, a back issue Vogue on the coffee
table, and the cloying scent of Channel number five
hanging heavy in the torpid air.  Homey.
       I was cleaning up when the phone rang.  It was the
chief.
       "Some dumb bastard fucked around with the wrong trick
and got himself drawn and quartered.  A bus boy found
the body in the dumpster behind Dinno's.  You better
get down here."
       He sounded harassed, so I refrained from any smart
talk.  A moments pleasure wasn't worth two months
traffic duty.
       Breakfast was half a cigarette.  I would have
preferred a jelly doughnut and a six pack of Heineken,
but I'm watching my girlish.
       I arrived at the scene five minutes later and was
greeted by an apoplectic chief and his motley crew of
ass kissing lackeys.
       "What the fuck took you so long?  I'm sitting here
with my thumb up my ass...and Jesus!  You smell like a
fucking prostitute.  Did you have to get your nine
o'clock fix before work?  And speaking of prostitutes,
It seems our perp may in fact belong that notorious
sorority.  The vic was a known client.  Usually call
girls, but when you're jonesing for a little bump and
grind at three in the morning you gotta do what you
gotta do.  The boys found a broken heel behind the
dumpster, and a fragment of acrylic fingernail."
       "Do we have and ID on the vic yet?"
       "Yeah.  Tom Stravinsky. His wallet was in tact,
nothing missing.  Three hundred dollars in cash and
two major credit cards, clearly theft was not the
motive."
       My heart did a little flip in my chest.
       "Did you say Tom Stravinsky?  I know Tom.  We were
roommates together in college.  His dad's a big time
lawyer out of New York.  Jesus!  Small fucking world."
       The truth was I hadn't seen Tom since our freshman
year.  He was a weird, quiet type of guy, kept to
himself mostly.  We had never been very close, but it
was never the less strange to be investigating his
murder.
       "That's a damn shame.  It's not going to affect your
work is it?"
       Thanks chief
       "No, I'll be ok.  Where's the body?"
       The chief pointed to a beat up old dumpster about
twenty feet away.  It was cordoned off with caution
tape and swarming with forensics dusting and
documenting.
       I pushed passed the chief, grabbed a pair of rubber
gloves from a scared looking CSI and ducked the
barrier.
       Tom wasn't looking his best.  He was a dull gray
color, like smoke and ivory, with blind bulging eyes
and one lurid gash running along his neck just above
the clavicle.
       For a second I felt like hitting him.  Tom, you dumb
son a bitch, what the fuck were you doing picking up
tricks on the bad side of Detroit at three o'clock in
morning? Couldn't little Tom have waited just a few
more hours until the executive ho houses opened their
illustrious doors?
       I grabbed a wayward coroner and got the low down.
Tom had died around three thirty that morning from
exanguination.  The murder weapon was probably a knife
of some kind, but the jagged edges of the wound
suggested an unusually dull blade.
       I made my way back through the throng of
investigators to the chief.  He was chain smoking and
staring disconsolately at the proceedings.
       "Any suspects?"
       "Well, Mikey "Mad Cash" Callahan runs this block, so
it'll be one of his.  He's pretty small, only has ten
or twelve hos working at any one time, but he's a
territorial mother, no other pimp would dare encroach
on his turf, and a freelance hustler would either fry
or work her way onto the pay roll."
       "Is Mikey still living over on fortieth street?"
       The chief nodded.
       "I think I'll pay him a little visit, see what I can
find out."
       Traffic was bad, which gave me plenty of time to mull
things over.  I shouldn't be working this case.  It
was to close to me.  My mother had been a prostitute.
A member of the New Orleans elite servicing senators
to keep the southern political machine running
smoothly.  And, I knew the vic, I had lived with the
guy for a year.  I  knew his goddamn parents.
       Mikey's place was a glorified tenement.  A one story
cinder block structure sandwiched between a liquor
store and a bail bonds office.  When I kicked down the
door Mickey was laying on his bed watching a porno and
doing a couple of lines. He didn't look pleased to see
me.
       "The fuck you want?" he said, sitting up and
scattering cocaine all over his bathrobe.
       "Well, i'll tell you what I don't want.  I don't
wanna arrest you for pandering and possession with
intent to sell.  By the way, you've still got a little
under your nose."
       "Alright, alright, I'll tell you what you want.  But
why the fuck couldn't you just knock?"
       I stepped over the shattered door and took a seat on
the end of the bed.
       "A guys dead.  A friend of mine.  Some femme fatal
cut him up good on your block, you know anything about
that?"
       "Shit man, I don't know nothing about no dead John.
My girl's is like house cats, might scratch ya if you
rub em the wrong way, but wouldn't never do no serious
harm."
       "If I find out that ain't gospel I'll burn you down.
You won't see the outside of a cell for the rest of
your born life, and you know what they do to little
motherfuckers in the federal pen, dontcha?"
       "Shit man, I swear on my mother, no ho of mine been
cuttin' up any Johns.  That kinda shit's bad for
business."
       "We'll see.  Who was working the block last night
around three o'clock?"
       "Lola, Nicole and Paris.  It was a slow night."
       I got the girl's addresses from Mikey and went home
to get some lunch.  My apartment was a mess, and the
sickening smell of perfume still hung heavy in the
air.  I grabbed the panties and the nylons off the bed
and tossed them in the garbage.
       The fridge was empty except for beer and vodka.  It
looked like I was going to be eating out.  I kept all
my cash and valuables in a shoe box under the bed.
I've never really trusted banks.  I knelt down and
fished out the beat up cardboard.  A ten would cover a
meat loaf sandwich.  As soon as I lifted it I knew
something was wrong.  I tore off the lid.  Nothing.
All my money, and everything I gave a damn about in
the world was gone.
       Needless to say I got a little pissed.  Threw some
shit around, broke a lamp.  It took me a full five
minutes to calm down enough to asses the damage.
       I had saved about ninety thousand dollars over the
last five years, my booze, babes and retirement fund,
all gone, along with the mementos my mother had left
me.  A photograph of her and my father on cape cod,
her wedding ring, an antique letter opener that a John
had given her, and a postcard she had sent me from
Tallahassee before she passed away.
       My mouth was dry, my appetite extinguished.  I needed
a drink.  A long, powerful drink.  I went to the
fridge and got out the vodka.  The room was full of
menacing vibes.  The sweet smell of Channel had
curdled.  I unscrewed the cap and poured it down, sank
in it.  Disappeared.
       I awoke on my bed.  It was a moment before I could
recollect what had happened. I had been had, and the
only plausible suspect was the owner of the mysterious
panties.  No one else had been in or out of my
apartment in weeks.  I got up and fished them out of
the trash can.  I would take them to the station later
and see if forensics could get a DNA sample, but now
it was time for business.
       When I called at the girl's apartment half an hour
later it was already nine o'clock.  Another girl
answered to door and told me that the others had just
left.  I hopped back in the car and cruised down to
Mikey's block.
       The first girl was easy to spot.  She had on a tiny
black-vinyl mini skirt and leopard print halter top
that accentuated  her amazonian curves.  At nearly six
feet she look fully capable of gutting a mincy little
white boy who got too friendly too fast.  I rolled
down the window and whistled.  She turned her great
almond eyes towards me, holding me in her inscrutable
gaze for a moment before sauntering over.
       "Hey baby, looking for a good time?"
       I flashed her my badge and beckoned to the back seat.
       "Let's take a ride."
       Her nostrils flared, and her great eye's glinted
maliciously, but she got in without a struggle.
       "Were you working the block last night around three
o'clock?"
       "Maybe I was."
       "Maybe I'll take you down to the station and book you
for solicitation, how bout that?"
       She was silent for a moment.  Then she sighed and
spoke.
       "Alright.  I was working last night, what of it?"
       "Did you see anything unusual?  Like maybe a John
with his head half off."
       She giggled scornfully.
       "Hell no man.  Didn't see shit but dicks and dollars,
that's it."
       "What about your friends, Nicole and Paris, did they
seem a little shaken up?"
       She fixed me with a disdainful stare.
       "I make four hundred a night.  That's money in my
pocket.  I might have to jump through a few hoops to
do it, but that's the price of admission.  I'm used to
being used, doesn't bother me no more.  So why would
I, or any of my friends, fuck that up by flying off
the handle and offing some John tried to put his thing
where it don't belong?"
       "Maybe he made a bad play,you felt threatened.  Maybe
you just got tired of taking shit."
       "I been taking shit my whole life, like I said, it
don't bother me no more, and I sure as hell don't feel
threatened."
       She leaned over and pulled a little chrome thirty
eight out of her boot.
       I dropped her off at the corner and aimed my El
Camino towards the station.
       The chief was furious, as usual.
       "No progress, no leads, nothing.  Forensics turned up
zilch on the nail fragment, its the kind of cheep
plastic press on that you can get anywhere.  The heel
was a little better.  Apparently its from some kind of
old thirties stiletto you can't even buy anymore.  But
that doesn't really get us any closer to solving this
thing.  How did your meeting with Mickey go?  Any
luck?"
       "He's just as clueless as we are.  I picked up one of
his girls, but I'm pretty sure she's clean."
       The chief sighed.
       "That's a damn shame.  I was really banking on on of
Mikey's girl's.  I don't really see another play."
       "You know, there's a vintage shoe shop right near my
apartment, maybe they know something about the
stiletto heel?  I've gotta go drop something off with
forensics anyway.  I'll pick it up and see what I can
find."
       I rolled into forensics a few minutes later and
tossed the mystery panties into the outstretched hands
of a novice CSI.
       "I want DNA and I want it ASAP."
       The willowy youth uttered a quavering gasp and then
scampered off to do my bidding.  I slid my key card,
and let myself into the evidence room.  I found the
box I was looking for, removed the heel and pocketed
it.
       Twenty minutes later I was standing at the counter of
Kick Backs, while the ancient proprietor scrutinized
my stiletto with a magnifying glass.  After a few
minutes he shook his head and looked up.
       "It's been a while since I've seen one of these.  Am
I right in assuming that this heel belonged to a
scarlet woman?"
       I was astonished.  Unless it was a clear plastic
pump, I couldn't tell if a shoe belonged to Heidi
Fleiss or Condoleezza Rice.
       "That's what we think."
       "You see, this heel belongs to a very special shoe.
A shoe designed by a former working girl to aid the
aching feet of her fellow trades-women."
       He pressed the heel down on the counter and it flexed
like a stiff spring.
       "You see?  The heel is made of vulcanized rubber, and
it acts like a suspension system for the body.  When
it was released all the girls wanted a pare, but then
the depression hit, and then WWII and the rationing of
rubber, so only the most distinguished courtesans
managed to procure them.  These girls were generally
madams, or at the very least favored stock of a
reputable brothel.  No streetwalker would have had the
means to purchase such a luxury.  Where did you find
it?"
       My mouth was dry.  I needed a drink.  I managed a
thank you, grabbed the heel and staggered out to my
car.  My mother, my own sweet mother had owned a pare
of those shoes which were now collecting dust in the
back of my closet, or so I thought.  This was all too
strange for me to swallow.  To bitter.  I really
needed a drink.
       When I got home I opened the fridge and got a beer.
My head was throbbing and my mind refused to focus.  I
sank the beer and took out another.  I sank that one.
Then I opened the closet.  The shoes were gone.  My
money was gone my mother's things were gone and worst
of all the sick realization began to dawn that those
mysterious panties, those panties of my discontent,
had belonged not only to a thief, but to a murderer.
       I woke up on my bed.  I was naked and I was cold.  I
felt dirty and betrayed.  I knew full well that there
was no sincerity in the love of a prostitute, but I
had always felt that the physical bond still
constituted some kind of basic moral contract.  A kind
of if we fuck, then you don't fuck me over situation.
Clearly I was in the minority.
       I got up, and realized I was starving.  I hadn't
eaten anything but smoke in almost a week.
       I got dressed, strapped on my gun, and headed out the
door.  I would have to stop by the bank for funds (I
kept a safety deposit box with twenty odd thousand
dollars cash in case of emergencies) then I would go
get that meat loaf sub I had been craving.
       Traffic on the main drag was terrible, so I opted for
a less scenic, but hopefully quicker route that also
happened to take me past Mikey's block.  It was mid
afternoon, hardly a prostitutes peak hours, but I kept
an eye open anyway.  I came to a stop at the corner,
and noticed a girl, maybe a working girl, leaning
against the light post.  She was tawny and curvaceous.
 Just my type, and wearing a tiny little jean skirt
that showed off her legs.  As I watched, she fished a
pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and dropped it.
I heard her swear and then she bent to pick it up.  No
panties.  And she was wearing flats.  What kind of
self-respecting ho wears flats?  Only one with with a
broken heel.
       "Hey!  Hey you.  I wanna talk to you."
       I flashed my badge and honked my horn.  She looked
up.  Eyes full of fear.  Then she turned and took off.
 By the time the light had changed she was gone.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfucjfkkj
Motherfucker!
       I drove the rest of the way to the bank in a furry.
On top of losing my best lead yet, I was utterly
confused.  What kind of girl takes your life savings,
your family heirlooms, and your mother's heels but
leaves behind her underwear?  I just couldn't figure
it.
       I parked in front of the bank and fished my deposit
key out of the glove compartment.  I hated to tap my
savings but food was pretty much a necessity and my
next pay check was a month away.  Inside, the
receptionist greeted me by name, which was a little
odd seeing as I hadn't been to the bank in almost a
year, and then showed me to the vault.  She pulled out
my drawer, set it on the table and left.  I slid my
tiny key into the lock, slid open the drawer and
nearly had a heart attack.
       Staring back at me from within were impossible
things.  The broken heels, my ninety thousand dollars,
my mother's things; photo, ring, letter and letter
opener, now covered in blood, and a platinum blonde
wig.  I slammed the drawer shut.  My mouth was dry.  I
needed a drink.  My cell phone buzzed.  The voice on
the other end was high pitched, young, almost mocking.
       "Detective, this is Peterson from the crime lab.  I
have the DNA results from those panties you brought
me.  But, I'm not sure your gonna like it sir."
       "Fucking tell me."
       "Well...sir...all the DNA belongs to you."
       I hung up the phone.  I was sweating uncontrollably.
What the hell was going on.  I pulled the pill bottle
from my inside coat pocket.  What was I even taking?
Thorazine.  Jesus, that's a heavy duty anti-psychotic.
 What in God's name was I doing with a scrip for
Thorazine?  Was I seeing a psychiatrist?  The name
Chang seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't be sure.
 I stumbled out of the vault, waved off the
receptionist and bee lined it for the car.  I really
needed a drink.  There was a bottle of  Grey Goose in
the trunk.  I unscrewed the cap and sank it down.
       I awoke in my bed.  The phone was ringing.  It was
the chief.
       "Some shrink got knifed last night in his apartment.
Neighbor's heard a commotion and called us.  I phoned
you earlier but you weren't picking up, so, why don't
you make up for lost time and get your ass down here,
now."
       Click.
       I sat up.  My head was pounding, but for the first
time the Grey Goose hadn't flown away with my
memories.  Everything was crystal. I had finished my
drink at the bank, gone back inside, taken out the
wig, the letter opener and the heels and returned to
my apartment.  I had fixed the heels, put on some
nylons, squeezed into one of my mother's old dresses,
done my make up and donned my platinum wig.  Then,
letter opener in hand I had gotten back into the car
and driven to Dr. Chang's.  I knew the combination.  I
was his patient.  I opened the door and climbed the
stairs.  I entered his room.  I stabbed him.  He had
to go.  He knew about me, about my condition.  I had
gotten back into the car.  driven to my apartment,
changed my clothes, removed my makeup, waited, driven
to the bank, returned the things i had taken, gotten
back in the car, gone home, gone to sleep.  And now, I
was awake, and i was myself again.
       I could see exactly how it had all played out. Not
just the isolated episodes, but the whole psychosis.
I had started drinking heavily when my mother passed,
started blacking out for long periods and waking up in
strange places.  I began to see an analyst, Dr.Chang,
but we hadn't made any head way, and I had stopped
going, except that I hadn't stopped going.  Only my
one self had stopped.  The self that drank.  Not the
self that wandered the streets drunk, in drag,
prostituting itself.  That self had continued to go,
and no doubt the astute Dr.Chang had quickly realized
all was not well.  The scrip for Thorazine alone
attested to that.  But things had been manageable,
totally whacked, but manageable until poor, dumb Tom
Stravinsky had to go and get a boner her couldn't beat
down at three o'clock in the morning.  Of course I
couldn't let him live.  He would have blown my cover
completely.  A respectable detective dressing up in
women's clothing and turning tricks?  That kind of
thing was the stuff of Tabloid legend.  I had to
silence him.  Then my old guilty conscience must have
gotten the best of me.  I must have made some tearful
confession to Dr. Chang, begged him not to tell,
convinced him I wasn't dangerous.  But of course he
would tell.  He couldn't be trusted.  I had to silence
him.
       It was all too much.  Reality was slipping away.  My
mouth was dry. The weasels were closing in.