Chapter 55a. Interlude III

"Bail's been posted, so you're free to go, Ms. Chemiste," the pudgy crewcutted jailer said, handing her a Trader Joe's twin-handled paper sack containing her clothes and personal items. "Report to the courthouse next Tuesday at 9 AM for arraignment, and -"

"I'll handle my client's legal advice, thank you," said a thin stooped man with thinning sandy hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. Victoria turned to see him -

And saw Him.

Six feet away from Thurston J. Sharpe, Attorney at Law, seated on a hard wooden bench against the far wall, was the soulful man who had been on Victoria's mind constantly since her recent incarceration. He was sitting calmly, working on a fingernail with a clipper and file, as if he were relaxing on the pation of his upper Eastside condo on a Saturday afternoon.

"Jake!" she cried, rushing past Sharpe with open arms. He barely had time to stand before she tackled him again with her embrace, her hungry kiss pulling the breath from his lungs before any other words could be spoken. She felt his hands press against her shoulders, gently separating them.

"Victoria," he whispered in a deep register, "let's get you out of here." He grabbed the Trader Joe's bag from the pudgy cop and pulled her by the hand into the unisex rest room nearby. Inside, he turned the lock and whirled to face her.

She already had pulled off the top of her prison blues and knelt in front of him, her hands tugging at his belt, her mouth landing open and wet on the rising bulge just below. Her teeth gripped the zipper of his pants and slid it slowly downward as his hands ran desperately through her long dark curls. He pressed himself against her and she freed his belt from its buckle, unbuttoning and unlatching as needed to cause his slacks to drop to the floor. She slid both hands along his hard shaft encased in the black stretching cotton of his bikini briefs.

"Victoria," he moaned, picking her up effortlesly, his strong hands gripping her just under the armpits. Her small, pert breasts rested against his forearms, her excited nipples small and brown and glistening with sweat. Their wet mouths merged, tongues dancing hard against and around each other. Her fingers kneaded the muscles of his lower back, then slipped under the black cotton and stroked the firm smoothness of his derriere.

"Hey, let's get going in there!" a shout came from outside over the sudden pounding on the room's metal door.

"We're coming," Jake called out between hungry kisses. "Very soon."

Victoria giggled. His quick wit and bravado only made her want him more. But she could imagine how this would look on the other side of that heavy metal door.

She pulled away from him and pulled her blouse from her bag of belongings. As she slipped it on, Jake stepped forward to her again. "Allow me," he said, his eyes locked on hers. He began buttoning her blouse, starting at the bottom, the gap slowly closing over her breasts as he worked his way upward. He stopped after buttoning the one directly between the two points of light nippling out through the thin white fabric. "No need to overdo things," he kidded.

She smiled and slid her hands to the strip of fabric serving as a tie-belt to her prison pants and untied the bow. His fingers slid under the waistband and pulled the loose cotton over her shapely hips. The pants fell in a heap at her feet. The soft down of her formerly waxed pubis tickled his thigh. "Going commando in prison?" he asked in surprise, his fingertips caressing the untanned curves now visible behind her. She nodded, pressing against him, rubbing against his hardness. His hands cupped her firm buttocks and he kissed her again. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she stepped out of the pants piled at her ankles.

Suddennly her legs were wrapped around his, her mound grinding into his groin. He staggered forward a step, sucking her tongue into his mouth, feeling it tickle the top of his mouth, the back of his teeth, the inside of his cheeks. One hand supported her lower back as the other explored the tender flesh below, fingers extending down to intimate orifices eagerly awaiting his touch. Jake's arms were long and he took full advantage of that, enjoying the warm wetness of her womb with his fingertips. Gently he slid one finger inside her, up to the first knuckle, then back out to the tip, and slowly, again, in, out, in.

She let out a muted cry of pleasure, arching her back and squeezing his finger as it entered her. She leaned her weight onto his hand, plunging his finger deeper, up to the second knuckle. He exhaled loudly in surprise and help her closer, raising and lowering her body so that her clitoris rubbed against his erection. She fumbled at his belt behind him, tugging, pulling. "Take these off!" she begged in his ear. "I want you, Jake. Here. Now."

He shook his head. "Not here. We don't need an audience. Let's get you home first." He kissed her pouting lips as he guided her legs to the floor.

Chapter 55

Jake rubbed the knuckles of his right hand, aching and scraped from his foolish decision of a moment ago. Punching the wall was a dumb idea, he thought. Now he had a sore hand and a hole in the sheetrock to patch.

He grimaced, sighed, and cursed himself. I must get better control of my temper! he told himself.

The source of his current irritation wsa, of course, Trent Pickering. What exactly he had against Victoria was difficult to fathom. But whatever it was, he was hell-bent on pinning these bogus murder charges on her - murders, Jake was convinced, that his own wacko uncle George was behind.

He checked his calendar. He had an appointment with a new client at one o'clock - five minutes from now. He rummaged in his desk, found a hammer and a six-penny finish nail, and tapped it into the wall above the new hole he'd just created. He grabbed his photo of the Niagara Falls off the desk; it had a hook in back of the frame, and covered the hole nicely, just as a knock came on his office door.

"Mr. Wallerstein?" His new client greeted him with a fearful look and spoke histatntly. "I'm Janice McCreary - I - I called you yesterday."

"Yes, of course," he replied, trying not to stare. "Please, come in."

There was a lot to stare at, good and bad, as she shuffled by him in her red three-inch spike heels and sat in the guest chair closest to his desk. Even with the heels she was only 5'5", and most of that was leg. She wsa slender, almost too thin, but busty - oddly out of proprtion to her tiny waist and almost flat derriere. She wore a black wide-brimmed hat atop platinum blinde curly hair that was just a shade darker than her Marilyn Monroe look-alike face. A white, billowy blouse was tucked into a black mini-skirt that didn't cover any of Victoria's Secrets when she sat down. Black fishnet stockings completed the cheesecake look.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," she said when Jake had seated himself at his desk. "I really need your help."

"No problem," Jake replied, thankful to have any clients at all. Ever since the mess with Uncle Al and Uncle George and the rest had started, he'd barely worked any billable hours.

"I hope you can help me. I trust the Wallerstein name. You are related to Dr. Allen Wallerstein, are you not?" That explains the look, Jake realized.

"He was my uncle."

"Oh my gosh. Was?" She covered her red-lipsticked mouth with a white-gloved hand.

Jakes eyes narrowed. "He was murderd a few weeks ago. I thought all of his clients knew."

"Oh, dear," Janice said, nearly in tears, just as breathlessly as Marilyn would have. "I hope that doesn't make this harder for you. What I need is - may be - related to your Uncle's death, I'm afraid."

Jake leaned forward, catching a whiff of her Chanel No. 5. "Ms. McCreary - "

"Janice. Please." Her gloved hand settled on his forearm.

He cleared his throat, gently pulled his arm back, tried to ignore the biological response his body was having to her presence. "Janice. If you know something about my uncle's death, I need to hear it."

"I'm not sure," she said, shaking her head and sitting nervously upright. "All I know is, I think I'm being followed. It started after my... surgery." She shifted in her chair, heaving her chest ever so subtly.

Oh. That surgery, Jake thought. Uncle Al's specialty. Good job, Al. 36D's. Real art work.

"What do you think they're after?" Jake asked, trying not to stare.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked exasperated, and glancing down at herself.

"You think they're stalking your breasts?" Jake asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Of course. These breasts are worth $40,000 apiece. Should anything happen to them, I - I - "

"Ms. McCreary - Janice," Jake corrected himself. "I'm not sure what a person would gain by stalking your breasts. Do you have any other ideas as to why someone might follow you?"

"It has to be that," she said. "You see there's... insurance involved."

"Insurance? I don't understand."

She grimaced, swallowed, then, finally, looked up to meet Jakes's eyes for the first time. "Mr. Wallerstein, I -"

"Jake, please."

"Thank you. Jake, I took out a policy on my body with Dr. Wallerstein. They're guaranteed for life... his life. And now that he's gone..."

"You've filed to collect with Lloyd's?"

She looked at him, startled. "How did you know it was Lloyd's that insured me?"

Jake shrugged. "Who else? Okay. So let me guess. Your policy states that if Allen dies, you hvae some period of time to wait before you can collect."

"I get free follow-up surgery anywhere in the world, if needed, for five years. After that, if there are any problems, I get cash. And it's been four and a half years."

"My guess," Jake nodded, "is you've got much less than six months to live. If Uncle George has anything to do with it." And he does, I'll bet, he thought grimly.

Chapter 54

Pickering stared into the two-way mirror, his body rigid, his jaw clenched. “Lower,” he said. The lights dimmed. He paused. “More,” they dimmed some more. “Okay.” He swiped his crinkled handkerchief over his brow and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “Bring her in.”

The door opened and Victoria, in chains, was led in by two hefty cops, one with a crewcut, the other with a thick, wavy head of hair.

“Shall we wait, sir?” the wavy-haired cop asked while seating Victoria, her chains rattling as they hit the table. “She is, after all, you know,” he leaned in toward Pickering and whispered, “coo-coo, coo-coo.” He rolled his eyes while swirling his fingers around his healthy doo.

“No,” Pickering snapped, turning from him. “And Buckley,” he added “get a goddamn haircut, helmet-head.”

Buckley nodded, his face reddening, as the two men left, Buckley’s crewcut partner snickering and nudging him in the ribs on the way out.

The door closed. Victoria looked hard into the mirror, then stared down at her hands, which were folded and resting on the table. "Where’s my lawyer?” she asked. “You said he’d --”

“Talk,” Pickering ordered.

“I’ve told you everything I know, Detective,” she said, not looking up.

“Everything?

“Everything."

“Well, I have reason to believe that you’re not telling me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, Chemiste.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sighed. “Just send me back to my cell now please.”

“I’m glad you like the accommodations because I plan to make sure you stay for a very long time.”

“Detective, I’m hungover and tired. And I really don’t have anything more to say.”

Pickering grabbed her by the wrists and came nose to nose with her. “Look, I’m done playing games, Chemiste.” He studied her newly acquired pallor, the dark circles around her eyes. He knew she’d crack soon; she’d have to.

“Done?” She didn’t flinch, or back away. “Already, Detective? If it’s the ‘good cop/bad cop’ game you’re talking about, we never did get to the good cop part.”

He let go of her wrists and walked toward the mirror. “Tell me about the bodies,” he blurted.

“I told you --”

“How did you do it?” A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“I didn’t.”

He seemed to not hear her. “Better yet, why?”

“Detective Pickering, I told you I --”

He swooped toward her and slammed his fist on the table. Her chains clattered as he did. “The DA tells me I need more,” he rasped, his eyes were ablaze, spit spewed from his mouth on each consonant, “and, damn it, you’re going to give it to me or I swear I’ll --”

A knock at the door interrupted him. It was quiet a moment, but for Pickering’s panting.
“Come in!” He roared, plucking his handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

Buckley opened the door. He stood flattening his hair with his palm a moment, then pointed to the opened package he held in his hand. “This just came in.”

“For me?” Pickering asked, annoyed, blotting his hairline with his now soggy handkerchief. “Damn it, Buckley, just put it in my office.”

“Not for you sir. For Ms. Chemiste.”

Pickering sneered at Victoria warily. “Expecting something?”

She shrugged.

Pickering said to Buckley, “I presume you’ve checked it thoroughly.”

“All the usual checks, of course, sir.” Buckley scoffed, “It’s just some girly stuff.”

Pickering snatched the box from him and pulled out what appeared to be a long, curly hair extension. “I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re gonna look good as a red-head,” Pickering said, studying the hair and furrowing his brow. “Chemiste, what the hell is this?”

“I have no idea.”

“There’s a note too, sir,” Buckley said.

Pickering pulled out the note and read it, “‘At your service, Mistress. As you requested. Will run the shop while you are detained. Signed, You’re Most Loyal Servant.’”
Pickering glared Victoria’s way a moment, then proceeded to examine the hair in his hand.

“I have no idea what that means,” she said, shaking her head. “And I never wear wigs.”

“Oh really now,” Pickering crooned. There was a few seconds of silence as no one moved. Then he bellowed, “Buckley, get me some gloves!” Everyone jumped, Victoria’s chains jangling. “And get Forensics in here NOW!”

“Forensics, sir?”

Pickering hovered over Victoria. “No idea huh?” Then he shouted to Buckley, “Yes! Are your brains being replaced by your hairline or what?!? FORENSICS!”

Buckley hurried out, slamming the door behind him.

Pickering spoke directly to the mirror, “Gentlemen, it looks like our lovely suspect has more sway than we thought. She’s got people on the outside doing her dirty work for her.” He held the flowing mane in front of Victoria, and eyed her response suspiciously.

She gasped as she got a closer look. For, dangling from the strawberry blonde tresses was a pink and moist hunk of scalp.

Chapter 53

Georgia added two bottles of 1999 Ravenswood Zinfandel to her cart, already brimming with fine cheeses, pates, caviar, deli salads, smoked salmon, hard-crusted breads, and the like. She pushed her cart into the checkout line staffed by the healthiest-looking specimen of the bunch, a carrot-topped, athletic woman in black rectangular-framed glasses nearly six feet tall.

"I can take someone over here," a pimply, skinny, greasy-hared teen boy called from the next aisle over.

"Why don't you go - you've been waiting," Georgia said sweetly to the elderly matron in front of her in line. The older woman did not protest; her cart nearly ran over Georgia's foot as she pushed it rapidly past.

Georgia added a roll of wintergreen Breathsavers and the latest People magazine to her cart as she waited. The best part of being a cross-dresser, she realized, was the freedom to impulse shop like a man after browsing like a woman.

She scanned the cover of the magazine. A headline caught her eye. Under an inset photo of the mayor ran the caption: "Can this man stop Manhattan's crime spree?" She turned to the article, a 2-pager tucked into the "news" section. Good work, she nodded. The reported noted both the overall increase in violent crimes and car thefts, and specifically noted the curious blip in stolen taxicabs and the high-profile murders of the Wallersteins. There was even a sidebar on the grisly organ-theft murders.

She reached the cashier and began unloading her cart. "Did you find eerything you needed?" the redhead asked. Georgia read her nametag - Brenda. "Yes, thank - actualy, no, there was on ething I couldn't find. Capers. Do you carry those?"

"Sure. Aisle five. What size jar do you need?" Brenda was picking up her paging phone, already punching in numbers.

"Just a small jar. Smallest you have. Oh, and some dijon mustard, please."

Brenda requested assistance from Chuck and began scanning the goods already in her cart. "Oh, I love Brie - oh, and Gorgonzola.. That'll go great with the Carr's Wheatmeal biscuits and the zin. You must be having a party?"

"A small one, yes," Georgia smiled. "Let's call it... an organ recital."

"Such a beautiful instrument," Brenda said. "Do you play?"

"In a manner of speaking," Georgia said. "You seem to appreciate some of the finer things in life, am I right?"

"I'm at chef's school," Brenda said, scanning the shrimp cocktail sauce. "I'm getting spoiled, but as a student, I can't afford my champagne tastes."

"Hmm. This would work out nicely. I'd love to have this party catered. Do you think...?"

Brenda's eyes lit up. "I'd love to! When is it?"

"Tonight at seven. Give me your phone number..."

The data were exchanged. The trap was set.

Chapter 52

The grey cement room was musty and damp. A buzzing fluorescent light flickered overhead, and the shadows appeared to twitch with angst. The low and shaky hum of 'Mellow Yellow' could be heard echoing along the cinderblock walls, as could the scratching claws of rats searching in vain for a dropped morsel.

Roger, bearded and emaciated was strapped to the table, his face pale and clammy, his once smooth blonde tresses now a tangled greasy mesh. “Stop humming, damn you!” he shrieked, his strident voice hitting the cement like a bat on bone.

“I like to hum as I work,” the shadowy figure murmured from the corner. “It helps me to concentrate.”

“That song… that awful song…”

“Oh, Rodney, dear –”

“It’s ROGER, damn you, Uncle George,” Roger said, his voice cracking on the curse. Then after a pause he said, “You were humming that song when you murdered poor granny.”

“That was a long time ago. I wasn’t quite myself then. And please, dear nephew, call me Georgia for the time being.” the shadowy figure turned, revealing himself. George had transformed halfway back to Georgia, wearing nothing but nylons, red pumps, a pink lace double D and a surgical mask, but no other clothes, and no wig or make-up. He pranced toward Roger, a scalpel in each hand.

“Please, Uncle George, I really don’t want to –”

“Now, Rodney, just a few alterations and you’ll be back to your old self.”

“I’m not Rodney! I’m his twin brother, Roger, remember? Rodney is dead.”

“Don’t EVER –” Georgia dropped one scalpel so he could grab Roger by the hair. He was wide-eyed and shaking, sweat glossing his temples, “– EVER say that." Then, looking toward the unstable fluorescent light, his eyes glazed over as he spoke swiftly and low, as if suddenly possessed. “While I lay comatose and on the brink of death, my loyal nephew Rodney summoned me from the grave, calling upon me to see our mission to its glorious conclusion. We are worthy; we are worthy. Together we shall be transformed and, from both sides of the cemetery lawn, we shall rule all of Manhattan. And it too shall be transformed, not like the first Manhattan, of liberty and open arms and immigrants who bred bad drivers; and nothing like the second, of taxi cabs and skyscrapers; but the third, the third Manhattan, where all the ugly shall be recycled, their redeeming features preserved and given to the beautiful, the worthy. We are worthy, we are worthy…”

Roger watched his uncle as his voice faded into the shadows. “I can’t believe it,” he finally said, “all those years. The whole family pitched in for your therapy, hoping you’d be cured. You are far from cured. Uncle George, you’re a loony tune.”

Georgia ripped off his surgical mask, revealing a cross-stitched-on Roman nose. “Well, nephew,” he said, holding up the scalpel, “we’ll just see who the crazy one is. Now then. Hold still. Those Dumbo ears have GOT to go.”

For the next half-hour, throughout the basement of the abandoned house that sat on an isolated dead-end street just outside of Poughkeepsie, Roger’s screams could be heard. They remained strong for a while, then turned groggy, then ceased.

Chapter 39a. Interlude II

Jake sat in the dark next to Victoria's bed in the low security medical care facility. He stared at her motionless body. Watched her breathing - in, then out. It was quiet. The kind of silence
that almost makes the ears ache from desertion. And he felt something, like a small rage boiling in his throat as he studied each scratch, every bruise and lump.

"Still," he thought, "she's beautiful."

The heat kicked on, a low humming noise filling the silence, and a breeze from the vent blew over her hospital gown, causing it to open just a crack. Light streaming in from the high window reflected on the pale flesh of her smooth stomach. Gently, he lifted the gown to cover her, and waited a moment, holding his breath, before slipping his hand underneath.

As he stroked her stomach, warm and soft, she stirred, and moaned. Leaning toward her, he whispered in her ear, "Victoria..." then stayed there to inhale the scent of lavender emanating from her hair. She shivered as he slid his hand down, and along her bare hip. "Victoria," he
said again. His lips barely touching her neck, he listened to his own tender kisses working their way up to her ear.

She stirred again, and spoke almost incoherently, "light, but I cannot see..."

"Shhh," he whispered, "It's okay, I'm here."

"There is warmth but I cannot feel..." she mumbled.

"Victoria."

She was barely audible. "Jake, I feel you... your hand, so warm."

Her eyes were still closed as he slid his fingers between her thighs. She arched her back and opened her mouth to take in air. As her head tipped back, he slid his tongue along her collarbone, up the nape of her neck.

"Jake," she whispered, as he kissed her jawline, "I feel you."

His cheek barely skimmed hers. He could hear her breath in his ear, and feel its heat. She moaned again as he ran his fingers along her smooth bikini line, through her soft and downy hair, between her legs. He felt her soften, grow warm and wet. He lifted his head to look at her, and watched her eyes open.

They gazed at each other a moment before he moved toward her, and pressed his lips to hers, strong and slow. Her hips moved as his touch began to awaken her fully, and she began kissing him back, opening her mouth and sliding her tongue around his. The heat turned off, the humming ceased and it was quiet again, but for their breathing.

Victoria reached her hand around to the back of Jake's neck. He climbed up next to her and her hands glided down his back, firmly pulling him closer. He felt himself melt. He felt her melt... they melted into each other as their sighs and whispers filled the new silence, kisses and movements in synch, startling the darkness.

Chapter 18A. Interlude 1

Victoria untied the loin cloth that draped Jake's hips. It dropped to the floor. Slowly, firmly, she edged her fingertips underneath the elastic of his navy thong and began stroking his flesh. He took hold of her head, combing his fingers through her hair. Their breathing began to quicken as
she started to pull the thong down... R-I-I-NG... "Hello, Jake here... Yeah, wassup?"...

Moments later, Jake slammed down the phone. "Damn wrong numbers," he growled. Now, where were we?" Victoria chuckled, her polished fingernails still entwined in the spaghetti strap encircling his waist, and planted a series of tiny kisses progressing from his navel southward. Opening her palm, she slid her well-oiled hands against the soft black curls escaping the tiny triangular patch of red silky material facing her. He could feel her hot breath tickling the individual hairs, her lips nuzzling the elastic along his groin, holding his excitement in a well-packaged bulge. A tiny drop of wetness escaped through the material near the top as his involuntary reaction to her touch stretched the thong's waistband away from his skin.

She slid her fingers under and inwards, finding his flesh hot and firm. He moaned and arched his back in anticipation; she exhaled audibly, held her face against him, her lips tasting the isolated spot of moisture. He ran his fingers through her silky black hair as his thong slid down his rigid
legs to the floor.

"If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again," came the tinny institutional voice over the buzzing receiver, sitting at an awkward angle in the phone's cradle. Startled, Victoria pulled away slightly, looked up into Jake's revering gaze. "Do you want to make a call?" she
asked coyly, holding her ear to his excited manhood. "Nooo," he groaned, kneeling next to her, planting a kiss on her open mouth. "But I do enjoy making this connection." Laughing, she pulled his naked, sweating body on top of her, not caring how much face paint they spilled on the burgundy carpet.

Chapter 4

"Why didn't you tell me you had a middle name?" Victoria asked. "What else are you keeping from me?" She narrowed her eyes and tossed the pink message slip at him. It floated dead leaf to the floor.

Jake paled as he studied her face. "For the love of Christ, Victoria, who told you?" There were only two people on this god forsaken planet where cabs are no more sacred than company pens, only two who knew of the sandwich meat on Jake Wallerstein's birth certificate: his crazy whore of a mother who could never speak it after losing her tongue in a freak boating accident, and...

Chapter 3

Victoria, Jake's secretary, stabbed the "Hold" button on her Centrex V150 and prayed to the gods of satellite communications that it would work for a change. Hearing only a monotonous, high-pitched hum in her headset, rather than the angry, raspy voice of the building's landlord, she punched the "Link" button just below it. "Wallerstein Brothers Investigations," she intoned waspishly, desperately trying to mask her flat midwestern accent with something resembling upstate New Jersey.

"Let me speak to Mr. Wallerstein," demanded a thick, East European growl. "Would that be Mr. Jake Wallerstein, or Mr. Abner Wallerstein?" Victoria said through her nose. She hoped he asked for Abner. Abner Wallerstein existed only in Jake's imagination and served only as a source of running amusement for the two of them at happy hour.

"Jacob Allen Wallerstein," the voice demanded, dripping with venom. Allen? Jake has a middle name?

Chapter 2

Our hero, Jake, receives a death threat in the mail. From his years of experience in handwriting analysis (a hobby he picked up in the 'Nam), he deduces that the perp is a dyslexic homophobe with a club foot. Just as he's finishing up his questioning of regular patrons of the local gay bar, "Riverside's Other Side", something screeches by him on the sidewalk. He leaps and rolls onto the street in the knick of time, then watches the yellow blur skid into a turn and proceed down an alley. No, it wasn't a UFO. It was one of HIS missing cabs.

Chapter 1

Jake Wallerstein thought he knew New York better than any cab driver on the upper West side. But when yellow taxis began disappearing in broad daylight on Riverside Drive, Jake's expertise was questioned: where were these cars going? Could it be that the UFO sightings were real? Was it terrorism? Or was there suddenly a rash influx of cheap foreign imported parking spaces?