Chances Are Omnibus (Gender Swap Fiction)

by P. T. Dilloway

  “What time?”

  “Midnight.” That figures. The Lennox robbery was set for midnight too.

  “Thanks.”

  “Now you’ll call for that ambulance?”

  “Would you if you were in my position?”

  “But—” I silence the rest of it when I slit his throat. I put the knife to his neck, close my eyes, and then pull the knife across as far as I can. When I open my eyes, Blades’s are still wide open; they stare back at me, to accuse me. I’ve never killed anyone in cold blood before, not like Jake on the Mackenzie case. Just like that creep, Blades needed to die. If I let him live, he could go back to Artie Luther.

  Now I have to dispose of the body. I wipe the knife clean to drop down the first storm drain I see. Then I cut off Blades’s clothes and empty his wallet of cash and credit cards. The clothes I toss into the restaurant’s dumpster. I’d throw Blades in there too, but he’s too heavy for me. Instead, I drag him behind the dumpster and sit him up to face whoever finds him.

  I look around to make sure no one’s seen me. Then I run.

  Chapter 35

  The blood money I take off Blades allows me to live comfortably on my own for the first time as a woman. The first thing I do is get to a train on its way upstate. That’s about the last place anyone will look for me—if they look for me. The limo driver is the only one who saw me without the wig and I doubt he’ll go to the police. He’d be more likely to snitch to someone on Lex’s crew about who killed their boy.

  There aren’t many people on the train, which makes it easier for me to avoid everyone. I curl up in the back of a car and hug myself to keep warm in the skimpy dress I stole. For once the tears don’t come.

  I’ve killed plenty of people in my thirty years as a cop. The first couple I felt bad about even though they were scum bags, one a bank robber and the other a pimp. For months after each one I replayed the incident in my head, even in my dreams. I didn’t sleep well back in those days.

  Jake sensed my distress and one night took me to Squiggy’s. While I was getting plastered, Jake said, “You’re a cop, Steve. Killing dirtbags comes with the badge. You can either accept that or sign up to be a crossing guard.”

  In manly fashion I sucked the emotions down deep, locked them away until they didn’t bother me anymore. The more people I killed in the line of duty, the easier it got. Now I can’t remember what those first two looked like, only what they did.

  This time is different. I’m not a cop anymore. I’m just a girl, little more than a kid. Until about twelve hours ago I was a salesgirl at a bohemian clothes store. Now I’ve tortured and murdered another human being, even if someone like Bobby Blades barely qualifies as one.

  In thirty years as a cop I’ve heard my share of stories that began with, “He [or she] had it coming.” If anyone tracks me down and takes me to a police station it’ll be my turn to say it. But I won’t end up any better off than those other saps. I’ll wind up in prison for the rest of my life with a bunch of other women who thought someone had it coming.

  Still I can’t cry because he did have it coming. Bobby Blades was scum. He helped Artie Luther break into Lennox Pharmaceuticals and kill the security guards there. He killed Dr. Nath in her own home. The rest of his rap sheet is about as long as this train. And that doesn’t include the kinky shit he had that other girl and I do and what he probably would have done to us later on.

  What makes it worse is that I know he’s just the first. There’s still the rest of Lex’s henchmen and then the big boy himself. Blades was the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Maybe I am just a stupid kid now, but they still have it coming.

  And I’ll give it to them.

  ***

  I ride the train upstate to the capital. By then it’s started to take on commuters to head into the city for their jobs. I’m one of the few who goes the opposite way. I have to push my way through a bunch of people in business suits to get off.

  I’ve been here a few times for legal hearings, mostly when some punk complains about excessive force to the state cops. The capital’s a nice place if you’ve got money and I happen to have a fat wad of cash in my purse thanks to Bobby Blades. Not just his cash, but also his credit cards. Those will probably be canceled once someone finds the body and alerts the company; until then they’re mine to use as I wish.

  I get a cab from the station and then head into town. I’m not dressed for the nicer restaurants, so I just hit a McDonald’s and nurse a coffee for a little while. I read the morning paper, but of course there’s nothing about Blades in it yet. The TV will probably carry the news about him by six o’clock. That would be enough time for the body to be found, identified, and for word to hit the wires.

  Blades wouldn’t usually draw much attention, but I’ve inadvertently helped his bid for immortality. The brutal way I killed him and then left him is sure to draw attention as a “gangland killing.” The media love those; it gives them a chance to write their own little episode of The Sopranos with all the colorful characters. If the limo driver does come forward or the other girl in the car remembers me, I can expect to have an artist’s rendering of my face plastered all over the papers and the TV by tomorrow.

  Even if they draw me with the blond wig, I’m sure Jake will recognize me. I might as well have left him a trail of breadcrumbs the way I left Grace’s store. He’s smart enough to pair my sudden disappearance with Blades’s murder. I can hear him say, “What the hell have you done?”

  What have I done? Scaring the shit out of the Worm was one thing. No jury in the country would put me in jail for what happened in that alley. The department wouldn’t bother to press charges.

  Murder is something else. High-profile murders get everyone into a tizzy. Woods and Jefferson will beg Captain Archer to get let in on the case so they can be the ones on the TV and in the papers. That was the kind of stuff that got people promoted, not that Jake and I ever gave a shit about that. Neither of us wanted to sit behind a desk and push papers around. Woods or Jefferson would be all too happy to track me down if it meant a cushy job for them.

  I finish with my coffee and then look up at the clock. It’s ten o’clock, time to do a little shopping.

  ***

  I’ve never worn designer clothes before. My old suits and other clothes used to come from the clearance racks at low-end department stores. As a woman my clothes had all come from the thrift store or Grace’s shop. The closest I’ve ever come to something fancy was my dress uniform.

  So it feels weird to stroll around the department store in an outfit that costs more than all the other clothes I’ve ever worn put together. The sunglasses perched on the top of my head cost a thousand bucks by themselves. My new purse—genuine Gucci, not like the imitations I’ve seen on the street—cost another grand. Then there’s the black leather jacket, slinky black dress, and the black heels that would have killed me yesterday, before Grace tutored me. All of it thanks to Bobby Blades’s platinum AmEx.

  The extreme makeover doesn’t end there. I also visit the makeup counter, where I let a salesgirl apply all kinds of stuff to my face and squirt me with a number of different fragrances, so that I probably smell like a greenhouse. She’s a lot more experienced with all of that stuff, so when she’s finished, I look as if I barely have makeup on. I buy everything she suggests and put it on Bobby’s gold MasterCard.

  And then comes the jewelry! I buy a diamond necklace, earrings even though my ears aren’t pierced, and bracelets for my wrists and ankles. I also buy a few men’s watches—honest to God Rolexes—that I claim are for my boyfriends. By the time I’ve finished there I’ve spent another five grand. I jingle like Santa’s sleigh as I leave the jewelry counter.

  The last stop is the salon. I might have started there first, but I wanted to look the part of the spoiled rich girl when I went in there. I give the receptionist a shake of my hair and say, “I want to dye it black, like my dress.”

  No one has any problem with that. I sit in the chair f
or two hours and let them wash my hair, cut it to shoulder length, wrap it up in tinfoil, and then go through it with a comb until it’s even smoother and shinier than Tess ever got it. The end result is that my hair is now the kind of black that looks dark blue in the right light, which reminds me of what Grace said the night before.

  When it’s all done, I’ve spent about ten thousand dollars and transformed myself from a grubby tomboy into a glamorous rich girl. On my way out I even start to feel rich; I swagger along on my heels down the aisles, heedless of anyone around me. I know where the money came from, but for the moment I don’t care. I look like a million bucks, almost literally.

  Maybe it’s that I’ve been a girl long enough or maybe because I’ve never had such financial freedom or maybe just that I need a distraction from the guilt over Blades’s murder, but I can’t stop there. I hit another five clothes stores and buy everything from silk lingerie to bikinis to a floor-length ball gown.

  When I’ve sated my appetite for clothes, I stop at the shoe stores. I never understood why Debbie owned so many shoes, but now I do. There are so many shapes and styles, from sandals to pumps. Despite that I couldn’t walk on heels a day ago, I scoop up five pairs of them. I try each one on and feel like a princess as I strut around in them. It’s hard to believe eight hours ago I had to figure out how to dispose of a dead body.

  My last stops are more practical. At a cell phone kiosk I get a phone, a prepaid one that doesn’t require a lot of credit or security information to activate it. I pay for the phone in cash, so that when the cops track Blades’s credit card purchases they won’t be able to get the phone’s number. At the bookstore I buy a couple of the latest fashion magazines so I can better look the part. My last stop is to get some luggage, sumptuous leather bags that fit all of my new purchases.

  With my new phone I call for a cab. I’ve got so many bags I’m grateful there’s a big strong man there to stuff them all in the trunk for me. He even opens the back door for me and tips his hat as if I’m a celebrity. I feel like a celebrity. For the first time since I became a woman—probably the first time ever—I don’t mind if people stare at me. Let them look at Princess Stacey and wish they could be her, if only for a little while.

  I smile to myself and then tell the driver to drop me at a hotel.

  ***

  The driver claims it’s the nicest hotel in town. It certainly seems like it from the lobby, which is all marble floors and mahogany furniture. It’s even nicer than Lennox Pharmaceutical’s lobby. I strut up to the counter; a bellhop trails behind with my purchases. I have my shades down so I don’t have to look the common desk clerk in the eyes. I’m lucky the clerk is a man; he looks ready to salivate as I stroll up to him.

  “I’d like your best room,” I say. The expensive clothes, jewelry, and hair give me far more authority in my voice than I’ve ever had in this body.

  “For how long?”

  “I’m not sure yet. What is there to do in this dreadful place?”

  The clerk goes on to list a bunch of stuff that I tune out. To play the part of the snobby rich girl, I take out my phone and then begin to hit buttons as if I’m texting one of my many rich friends. I look up about thirty seconds after the clerk’s finished his spiel. “Whatever. Put it on Daddy’s card,” I say and then hand over the AmEx card.

  “Can I see some ID, Miss—”

  “Sharon Blades,” I say. I don’t offer to shake hands. I pretend to rummage around in my purse for a driver’s license. “Oh dear. I must have left it in one of my other bags.”

  “That’s all right,” the clerk says. The hotel is the kind that still uses the old-fashioned keys. He hands a set to me. “This is for our presidential suite.”

  “That will have to do.” I do a quick turn and then start fake texting again while the bellhop follows me to the elevator. I let him push the button for me. He takes the room key from me as well to open the door so I don’t have to strain myself.

  The suite is twice as big as my old apartment and nearly as big as the whole downstairs of where Debbie and I used to live. From the doorway I can see a living room, a dining room with seating for eight, and a fully-stocked bar. I pout and say, “Is this it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the bellhop says.

  “I guess it’ll do,” I whine. “Take those to the bedroom.”

  While the bellhop scurries off to the bedroom, I look around the rest of the place. There’s a hot tub off the living room that could fit a half-dozen people. There’s an equally big tub in the bathroom, along with a separate shower and a toilet with a mahogany seat and a gilded handle. “Wow,” I whisper.

  The bedroom is no less spacious. The king-size bed could fit me about a dozen times over. I’d need about fifty more bags of clothes to fill up the closet. There’s even the standard mint on the pillow.

  “Thank you,” I tell the bellhop. I give him a hundred bucks for his trouble. It’s hard to wait until he’s gone to kick off my shoes and then leap onto the bed with a whoop. The mattress is so soft, it’s like quicksand. Since I didn’t get any sleep last night, I allow myself to drift away.

  ***

  After four hours of sleep, I eat a hot fudge sundae from room service in the hot tub, which turns out to be a messy combination. I don’t care. I’ve never lived in this kind of luxury and I doubt I ever will again. I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. That won’t be very long. Tonight I’ll have to sneak out of here in one of my other outfits, before the hotel gets wise to the bum credit card I gave them.

  Once I’ve finished the sticky remains of the sundae, I close my eyes again and let the hot tub’s jets massage my body. My mind begins to wander; I think of Maddy. What’s she doing? She’s probably still upset about me, unaware that her father is in a hot tub a hundred miles away. If only I could call her and invite her here. We could have so much fun, like a slumber party.

  But I can’t. I have to leave tonight and even if I didn’t, how could I explain all of this to Maddy? She’d never believe I won the lottery or anything like that. I’m supposed to be Stacey Chance, runaway street urchin.

  Then there’s Grace. By now Grace has probably called Maddy and told her I emptied the cash register. They’ll both hate me for my betrayal. Maybe they’ll even call the cops to report the theft.

  Then again, Grace might not say anything. She might figure after our awkward scene I decided to take an advance on my paycheck and hit the road out of embarrassment. Grace might just replace the money and tell Maddy and Jake I snuck off in the night. I already ran away once, why not a second time?

  The more I think about Grace, the more I wish she were here, in the tub with me. All that stuff I did with the floozy last night in Blades’s limo I’d happily do with Grace. In my mind I can see us in the hot tub; we kiss as we did at her dining room table, only this time we’d be naked, our bodies warm and covered in suds—

  I’ve never masturbated as a woman before. I don’t really know how to do it. I try to remember what Debbie had me do with my hand when she wanted to spice up our sex life a little. I remember I stuck my hand between her legs like Dr. Palmer did with the transducer for my vaginal exam. It’s a little awkward in the tub, but I manage to get my hand down in there. I feel around for a few moments until I find that perfect spot.

  With a moan I sink beneath the water.

  Chapter 36

  To get out of the hotel is easy enough. I wait until it’s dark and then dress in a different outfit: a longer black jacket, a white blouse, and black pants with a sensible pair of flats. There’s a different clerk at the desk this time.

  I stroll up to him and get the same look as from the previous clerk. “I’ll be visiting a friend for a couple of days,” I say. “Keep the room closed until then.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  With that I’m gone; the bellhop drops two of my suitcases into the back of a cab. I’ve stuffed everything into those bags, unconcerned about any wrinkles. I tell the cab to drop me back at the
train station. In the station I drop Blades’s credit cards into a trashcan. I figure by the morning they’ll be useless.

  I feel a lot better on this train ride, now that I’m swaddled in Prada, Gucci, and a bunch of other designer labels. All I have to worry about is some punk might decide a rich girl like me is an easy mark. If someone does, I won’t have anything to defend myself with; that will be something to rectify once I’m back in the city. It’s easy enough there for even a rich girl to get her hands on a gun or two.

  No one hassles me, although I can see one boy try to make eyes with me. I don’t give him the satisfaction of my attention. It’s amazing how some clothes and a new hairdo can change me so quickly. Just yesterday I would have shied away from someone who looked at me like that; I would have scrunched myself into a protective ball or simply fidgeted nervously in my seat until he looked somewhere else.

  The boy never works up the courage to talk to me. I flip through fashion magazines for most of the train ride and pretend to be interested in the articles on who wears what or what colors are popular at the moment. The conceited part of my brain I’ve created since this morning brags that I’m as pretty as any of the girls featured inside. I could pose for the cameras just as well; it’s not like you need any talent to stand around half-naked.

  I have to remind myself I’m not a rich girl or a would-be fashion model. I’m a fugitive. Maybe not officially, but I can’t take any chances. I’ve still got Artie Luther and his goons to take care of. This getup is just a disguise, a cover story to let me do the job. It’s hard though not to sink into a cover story as great as this one, such a perfect life with no worries. But it is just a cover story. In a couple of days I’ll be back to being plain little Stacey Chance, the kind of girl no one pays much attention to, except for a special woman like Grace.

  The thought of her reminds me of the hot tub. I’d like to do it again, but this is a commuter train, not a hotel suite. I turn my head to stare out the window, at the trees and power lines that rush past. Before long we’ll be in the city and the fairy tale will be over.