Chances Are Omnibus (Gender Swap Fiction)

by P. T. Dilloway

  I stick my head in the doorway. I don’t own a lot of stuff, but what I do have is either on the floor or vanished. The TV, VCR, and radio are gone from in front of the couch, which is turned over on the floor. I don’t hear anyone inside; whoever did the job has probably left by now. When someone comes to look for me—or Luther plants an anonymous tip—they’ll see the evidence of the crime.

  And where will I be when that happens? I can sit in here and wait. I could even call the police myself. Then what will I tell them? That Artie Luther shot me up with some weird drug and now I’m a young girl? No one will buy that. If I plead loud enough maybe I can get them to do a DNA test. Would that prove I’m who I say I am? Did the drug change my DNA too? That’s much too scientific for me to know.

  I need to go somewhere and think things over. Get some rest, maybe even a shower. First I need some clothes. I step over the pieces of broken glass from pictures of little Maddy on the floor. The bedroom isn’t much better than the living room. My entire wardrobe is laid out on the floor, along with the mattress, which has been slashed open. Whoever did this is a real pro; even I start to believe it was a random burglary.

  I mount the nightstand so I can see the top shelf of the closet. Damn, he got my spare pistol. That would have come in handy. Nothing I can do now but get some clothes and leave.

  There’s never been a woman in this apartment longer than a couple of hours, so there aren’t any women’s clothes around. I find a pair of sweatpants; I have to cinch them so that the string hangs down almost to my knees. I put on a gray T-shirt that looks more like a nightshirt on me. At least it covers me up.

  I hear a creak behind me. I turn around just in time to see a gloved fist. All I see after that is a man in a black ski mask before I pass out again.

  ***

  I don’t expect to wake up this time. Or if I do, I figure I’ll be back at the bottom of the harbor. When I open my eyes, I see it’s still my apartment. There are just two differences: it’s gotten a lot hotter and the stench of gasoline makes my eyes water.

  I roll over and see that whoever knocked me out has covered the living room in gasoline. There’s probably more of it throughout the rest of the apartment. He probably thought that knock to the head would keep me out long enough for the fire to do the job. When the fire department gets here they’ll just find a charred corpse. Forensics might be able to identify it as a woman’s body, but so what? They’ll just think it was a vagrant or a hooker or some random girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one will give it a second thought. The real me will be a pile of bones while my old pals at the precinct will think I’ve been cut up and fed to an incinerator.

  Except that even as a woman I’ve got a hard head. Hard enough that I wake up before he figured I would. He didn’t even bother to tie me up. Sloppy on his part. And he’d done so well up to that point.

  I push myself up; the fire motivates me not to waste any more time. I rush out the door. “Fire!” I scream. I have a pretty good set of lungs on me, enough that the old woman two doors down sticks her head out. “The building’s on fire!”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. You have to get out of here.”

  She studies me for a moment; she wonders if it’s some kind of scam. Then her nostrils twitch and she nods. “I’ll get my sweater.”

  “Forget your sweater. Just go!” I grab the old woman’s arm to yank her through the doorway. While she still complains, I run inside to find her phone. I dial 911 and tell the operator about the fire; I give her the address for my building.

  The old woman has made it to the stairs when I get there. Along the way I’ve banged on doors and shouted. Those who don’t answer their doors will hopefully do so once they get a whiff of the smoke. If not there’s not much I can do about it now.

  I let the old woman use me as a cane all the way down the steps. A herd of people passes us by; one gives me an elbow in the face as a reward for my good deed. I keep going; the old woman’s fingernails dig into my neck as we round a corner. I want to pick her up and carry her out, but I’m too small for that now. So we have to limp the rest of the way down the stairs.

  Firemen meet us on the ground floor. The one who takes the old lady is as big as I used to be. The one who grabs my arm is a bit shorter. “Thank you, sweetheart!” the old woman calls out.

  The fireman takes me down to an ambulance for a paramedic to check me out. There’s nothing wrong with me except a little smoke inhalation—and a nasty bruise around my left eye. “Boyfriend do that to you?” the paramedic asks.

  “No. He wasn’t a friend.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Stay here for a minute, honey,” the paramedic says. I know he’s going to find a cop. They’ll want to ask me a lot of hard questions, questions I don’t want to answer. So as soon as the paramedic is out of sight I gallop away on my galoshes.

  Chapter 9

  I spend the next three hours on a train. It was easy enough in this body to jump a turnstile. Then I found a seat on the half-empty car and closed my eyes. When I wake up we’re halfway across the city and the car is packed nose-to-asshole.

  From the way people try not to look at me—even in these tight confines—I brush some long hair forward to cover most of the bruise around my eye. Like the paramedic they probably think I took a punch from an abusive boyfriend. Most people don’t get involved in those situations if they can help it.

  I ride the train until it starts to empty out. As we go along, I try to work out a plan. Now that I’ve got clothes, I need to get some money. There’s an easy way a girl like me can make some quick money, but I don’t want to resort to prostitution yet. I can try some old-fashioned begging. The black eye should make me look especially pathetic at the moment.

  I get off at the next stop. There’s already some longhaired guy with a guitar at one corner of the station. I dig into the trash for an empty coffee cup. Once I sit down at an opposite corner from the folksinger, I put the cup between my legs. I brush the hair back from my eye so it’s fully visible again.

  When a man in a suit comes near—the first one who isn’t on his cell phone—I reach out for the hem of his coat. I hold up the cup to him. “Please, sir, help me. I need money to escape my boyfriend. He’s a maniac.” I manage to push out a few tears.

  The man reaches into his pocket. “Here you go, little girl,” he says. I look down to see a five-dollar bill in the cup. That’s a start.

  “Thank you so much, sir.”

  I beg for a couple of hours, until I’ve got about sixty bucks. That’s more than enough to get train fare back across town, a hot meal, and maybe a cheap pair of shoes. I never realized the people of this city could be so generous. With my loot shoved into my stolen jacket, I go to buy a ticket that will take me uptown.

  ***

  My next stop is a thrift store. It’s in an old department store; I’m faced with what seems like an acre of clothes. The majority of these clothes are for women. I stare at the racks that stretch as long as a football field. A pink football field.

  I hold up a shirt only to realize it’s a pink tube top. I wince and let it drop from my fingers, onto the floor. I scurry over to the men’s clothes, where I feel more at home. I start to browse through the jeans and wonder what size will fit me now. Maybe I should go to the boy’s section.

  “Buying something for your boyfriend?” a woman asks.

  I turn and see a girl a few years older than I look. Her hair is the same color, parted unfashionably in the middle too. We could probably pass for sisters. This thought turns my cheeks warm. The jeans I was looking at fall from my hands.

  She picks them up. She looks inside them and then shakes her head. “Your boyfriend must be a big guy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A size forty-two? That’s big and tall.”

  “Oh, right,” I say and try to laugh. “He is kind of big.”

  “He always have you do his clothes
shopping?”

  “Um, no. This is a surprise.”

  “Right.” Like everyone else, the woman looks at my black eye. Then she looks down at my outfit. Before I can protest, she takes my arm and steers me back towards the women’s clothes.

  “I don’t need any help. I’m fine.” I yank my arm away from her and then start to stumble towards the rear of the store. “Leave me alone.”

  The woman puts up her hands. “I’m sorry. You just look as if you could use a little help.”

  “Well I don’t. I’m fine. Just fine.” I turn my back on her. I’ve wandered into the shoe section. I grab a pair of men’s sneakers at random.

  The woman chuckles at this. “When was the last time you bought yourself clothes?”

  “A couple months ago,” I say, which is true. I bought some new underwear two months ago—boxer shorts. I see how big the shoes are that I’ve pulled out and grab another pair that are even bigger.

  “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen it before. Your parents bought all your clothes for you. They did just about everything for you, didn’t they?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Daddy was a real control freak, wasn’t he? Or maybe Mommy had some issue that she liked to dress you up like a boy.”

  “You’re sick, lady, you know that?”

  She only smiles at this insult. “Sorry. It’s part of what I do. I’m a psychologist. Or I’m studying to be. Haven’t finished my dissertation yet.”

  “Well go analyze someone else, would you?”

  She puts up her hands again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. Maybe your parents are very nice people. Maybe you’re just doped up or something. Escaped from the loony bin.”

  “What? I’m not a dope head. Or a nut.”

  “OK, have it your way. Can I at least help you find some clothes?”

  “You work here?”

  “No.” She reaches into her pocket and produces a business card. It’s a powder blue card with the title “Second Chances Boutique” at the top, followed by an address in the garment district, and then her name “Grace Meredith” in smaller print. “That’s my store. I come here sometimes to look for bargains. They don’t have much that’s any good, but sometimes I get lucky.”

  “Then you mark it up to resell?”

  “I know, but that’s capitalism for you.” She holds out the card until I take it. “We could go back to my shop—”

  “No! I’m fine right here,” I say. I know all too well what happens to girls in this city who go off with strangers. “I don’t need any help.”

  “Sure, you’re a big girl. But maybe I could make a couple of suggestions?”

  I think about it for a moment. As embarrassing as this is, I do need some help. And she’ll probably bother me until I give in. “Sure,” I say. “But I get final approval.”

  She finds a pair of sneakers that are dingy white with green trim. The insoles are worn, but the shoes fit perfectly. “How did you know?” I ask.

  “Magic,” she says with a laugh. Then she pats my back. “It’s what I do.”

  Grace leads me to the women’s section. I brace for her to pull out another pink tube top or something girly. She doesn’t. Instead, she holds up a black T-shirt. She examines it with a jeweler’s eye, as she studies it for flaws. “This looks good.” I’m surprised when she presses her nose to the fabric. “Smells fine too.”

  I take the shirt from her. It does smell all right, though an odor of sweat still lingers. At least it will fit better than what I’ve got on. “Thanks,” I say.

  She stops at a pair of pink sweatpants with the word ‘PINK’ helpfully written on the ass. Grace glances at me and then shakes her head. “That’s not really your style, is it?”

  “Um, no.”

  She nods and then keeps going. She pauses at another rack. I brace myself for what she’ll find next. What she shows me is perfect. It’s a white tracksuit with green piping that matches my sneakers. She gives it as close of an examination as the T-shirt before she hands it to me.

  “That looks about your style. I had something like this, only it was an official tracksuit of the ’84 Olympic team. That was the year I was born, so it seemed like a great coincidence.”

  “It’s very nice,” I say.

  “You should go try those on.”

  Grace points me to the little booths at the back of the store. She waits outside while I try on the clothes; I start with the T-shirt. Everything fits perfectly, as if it were made for me. I do a little turn in the mirror for myself. I don’t look too bad—for a girl. At least I don’t look like a refugee anymore.

  I step out of the changing room to show Grace. She gives me a thumbs-up. “You look great,” she says. “Now, we should probably get some other things—”

  “No, that’s fine,” I say too quickly. These clothes will cost forty bucks and I don’t want to use up all my money just yet. I still have other things I need to do. “But thank you so much for helping me.”

  “It was no problem,” Grace says. “If you are in the market for anything else, stop by my store. I’ll even give you a discount.” She winks at me before she walks away and leaves me to check out. I bring my old clothes with me in case I’ll need them later. I hope I’ll need them later, if someone can find a way to make me myself again. But first things first.

  It’s time to find my partner.

  Chapter 10

  When I get to Rosie’s, I stop to peer in the window. Jake isn’t in our usual booth over in the corner. That makes sense since it’s going on noon and by now he’s probably figured out my apartment burned to the ground. Does he think I’m dead or just missing? He might think I burned the place down myself after a heavy night of drinking.

  Rosie is at the counter; she chews on a piece of gum since she can’t smoke anymore. Her husband named the place for her, but ever since he died in a botched robbery ten years ago she’s run it herself. It was cheaper and easier to keep the name than to change it.

  I sit down on a stool and stare at her for a moment. I’ve been a customer of Rosie’s for twenty-five years, back when Rosie looked about the way I do now. I hope she’ll see something in me that’s familiar, to recognize me for who I am.

  Instead she spits the gum out and smiles a nearly toothless grin. “What’ll it be, darling?”

  “A cup of coffee, black, with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon with whole wheat toast.” That’s my usual when I come to Rosie’s. I hope she’ll pick up on this, but she doesn’t. She just calls the order back to the kitchen and then hobbles off to fetch the coffee pot.

  As she pours the coffee, I get more daring. “Have you seen Jake Madigan today?”

  She stops pouring to give me a dirty look, like I’m a snitch who wants to get something on her. “You a friend of his?”

  “My dad is. I just got into town. I was hoping to see him.”

  She gives me a hard stare, hard enough that it takes every ounce of courage in my body not to look away. “He stopped in for a cup of coffee. That was about it.”

  “What about Steve Fischer?”

  “He a friend of your dad’s too?”

  “I know he hangs out with Mr. Madigan a lot.”

  “Yeah, those two are like an old married couple. Never seen two people so made for each other. Too bad they got the same parts below the waist.”

  I’m glad she finishes pouring my coffee as she says this so I can use the cup to hide my grimace. I chug the coffee in one gulp before I signal for another. “You shouldn’t drink too much of this stuff. It’ll stunt your growth.”

  “I’m already grown.”

  “Yeah? How old are you? Sixteen?”

  “What? No! I’m twenty-one,” I say. If I’m going to make up an age for myself I might as well at least make myself old enough to drink legally.

  “Huh. Guess that young face will come in handy when you get to b
e as old as me, right?”

  “I guess so.” I reach into my pocket for a dollar bill. “Could I get some quarters? I need to make a phone call.”

  “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

  I take the quarters Rosie gives me over to the pay phone in the corner. It’s time to try the direct approach. I call Jake’s cell phone; I figure he’s probably not at his desk right now. The phone rings six times before he answers it. “Madigan here.”

  I try to deepen my voice to sound mysterious; the end result sounds like I’m gagging. “Detective Madigan, we need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “I know where Steve Fischer is.”

  “Who is this?”

  “That’s not important,” I say. The truth—such as it is—isn’t the kind of thing I can explain over the phone. It’ll be easier to get him here to explain. “Meet me at Rosie’s as soon as you can. I’ll be in your booth.”

  I hang up the phone before Jake can say anything. I’m sure he’ll show up; he won’t write me off yet. Not after being partners all this time.

  I take my plate and another cup of coffee over to the booth in the corner. Over the years my ass has worn a groove into the vinyl of the seat; that groove isn’t nearly so comfortable now. It feels like I’m sitting in a crater. I try to adjust myself to make it more comfortable, but it doesn’t help. The only thing that would help is for me to get my old body back. I’ll need Jake’s help to see about that.

  I’ve finished the eggs and bacon and am on a second plate when Jake opens the door. He looks around the place, no doubt to search for any of Luther’s goons. Then he turns and sees me in the booth. His face turns red around the edges and a vein shows on his forehead, always a good indication that he’s pissed off. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen that vein throb as he berated me when I worked over a suspect too hard.

  “You’re the one who called about Steve?” he asks but doesn’t sit down. “I could have you arrested for interfering with an official investigation.”