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"Never Trust the Pretty Ones" by Jennifer Brock I came back to my motel room feeling dejected. I'd been trying to find a target for my next big scheme and hadn't yet. My last con up in New York had been nearly perfect, and so I didn't want to follow up a big score like that with some penny-ante job. But so far I wasn't finding any good prospects in Atlanta, and it was the third big city I'd tried. It was the damn economy! I still had around fifty thousand in cash left so I didn't need to hurry, but it was frustrating. If I was my old man, I'd be carrying a sixpack, but that kind of solution only brings more problems. I just wanted to get a good night's sleep and start the next day with a clear head. I didn't bother to turn on the light and just headed straight for the bathroom. I splashed some water on my face and then took care of things. When I came out, the light was on and I saw that there was a stranger sitting in my room. I tried to leave, but he was faster than me and he got to the door first. He fastened the security chain lock and turned to face me. He was a big guy in a loose-fitting suit. He probably had me beat by a hundred pounds and almost a foot. He had thick black hair just starting to go gray, and a bristly moustache. I tried to play it cool, and put on the Southern twang I'd been using since I'd got to town. "Hey, Mister! I think you've got the wrong room." His accent was from somewhere in Eastern Europe. "No, I'm in the right room. You are the one known as Elizabeth Preston, are you not?" I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I tried not to let it show. I chuckled, "Do I look like an Elizabeth? I ain't no chick!" He surprised me by rushing toward me and shoving me up against a wall. He put his arm across my throat and held me there, and then used his other hand to rip open my shirt, exposing my breasts. They were not quite a full A cup, but with their large round pink areolas and thick nipples, they were hard to pass off as merely flabby man-boobs. He gave them a squeeze. "So these aren't Elizabeth's tits?" I tried to keep up the bluff. "The doc says I got a hormone imbalance. Do I got to drop my pants to prove to you I'm a man?" "No need for that. I know exactly what you are." He then grabbed my goatee and tore it off. The spirit gum that had been holding it on stung like hell, so I couldn't help but shed a couple tears. "Male or female, it doesn't matter; you're a bitch, Mr. Turner. Can I call you Quinn?" I was sunk. It seemed that this guy knew everything. *** Maybe I should explain. My old man was a grifter, and he had me helping him out on cons even before I was out of diapers. Suckers were more likely to fall for a sob story from a guy with a kid than a guy just there by himself. Then one day when I was around three, something happened which changed everything. Some rubes mistakenly thought I was a girl, and my dad didn't correct them (The fewer details people get right if they bother to file a police report, the less chance there is of getting caught.) I think it was due in part to his letting my hair go a little too long between cuts, and in part to my wearing a t-shirt that had turned pink in the wash. But mostly it was probably because I'd told one of the grownups my name. "Quinn Lee Turner" seemed to be just as appropriate a name for a little girl as for a boy. And the real irony is that my father had named me after his two favorite tough-guy movie actors. Sometimes I wonder if I would have still ended up the same if he'd called me Anthony Marvin instead. We'd made a bigger score that day and he figured it was because a guy with a little girl in tow got more sympathy than a guy with a little boy. So he decided to do it again in the next town, and started dressing me in more girlish outfits. At first it was just girls' shirts and pants or shorts, but the more I accepted it the more he pushed. Eventually he had me in cute little dresses with my hair in pigtails once it had grown long enough. He taught me how to act like a little girl, crying my eyes out and sniffling cutely when he'd tell some sucker about how my mother had gotten sick and we just needed a few bucks for bus fare. Then we'd head back to whatever motel we were staying in and I'd turn back into just a long-haired boy in jeans and a t-shirt, and we'd laugh about how many people we'd fooled. The whole girl thing continued through my childhood. It got more intense the year I was ten and we spent a whole year working a long con in Tallahassee, and I was even enrolled in school as a girl. I had my first kiss that year, during a game of Spin the Bottle at a birthday party. Jimmy Adams said he thought I was cute. And I couldn't break character, so I had to act like it was something I'd enjoyed but was embarrassed about, like all the other girls did. I forced myself to giggle and blush. Eventually we moved on, running other cons in other towns. I was still usually playing a girl, but then I hit puberty and everything went downhill. I was just too tall to be believable as a little girl anymore, and I wasn't the right shape to be a girl my real age. We tried a few different things, but when I tried helping out as a boy we just didn't make as much money as we'd gotten used to. My dad said we just needed to find a new gimmick for me that would work as well as the old one. But to me it felt like he was disappointed that I wasn't doing my share anymore. When I was fifteen, I thought I'd found the solution - instead of trying to be a little girl, I'd turn myself into one my own age. There was a guy we knew who sometimes helped my father get pain killers when his old back injury was acting up again, and I secretly asked him if he had access to other kinds of pharmaceuticals. After I explained that I wasn't looking to get high but rather wanted to see if he could get me female hormones, we arranged a deal where I would do certain favors for him (that I don't care to describe here) in exchange for the drugs. It took months, but they did their job. Meanwhile, I spent all my free time studying fashion magazines, and watching teenage girls wherever I could find them. I shoplifted myself some clothes and makeup and practiced when my old man wasn't around. When I was ready, I went back to our motel room a couple hours ahead of him and surprised him when he got home. I was in a short denim miniskirt that showed off my smoothly shaven legs, and a tight green spaghetti tank that let my bra straps show. My hair was blown out and clipped back with a pair of barrettes. My eyes were accented with shadow, liner and mascara; my cheeks were dusted with blusher, and my lips were shiny and painted the same shade of pink as my finger and toenails. Gold hoops were stuck through the holes I'd made in my earlobes. I balanced expertly on my two-inch heels and did a twirl so he could take it all in. In my practiced girly voice, I told him that I'd found a way we could continue to run father/daughter cons. I thought he'd be all proud of me, but instead he just frowned and said that it wouldn't work. He told me to "take all that crap off," and I started kind of crying a little. I tried to turn away from him when I took my bra off, but he slapped me and made me look at him. When he saw my breasts, he lost it. He forced me to tell him what I'd done and then he beat me raw for doing who knows what kind of permanent damage to my body. The next day he went and kicked the shit out of Lou for giving me the hormones. Things just weren't the same between us after that. I left and struck out on my own when I was seventeen. I was determined to make the girl thing work for me - since I had boobs I figured I should use them. The trouble is, most of the cons I knew how to run needed two people. I put the word out in our community that I was looking for a partner, and found George. At the time he seemed so much older and wiser than me, but looking back I think he was only around thirty. Like most men, he was also bigger and taller than me, so naturally I fell into a pattern of letting him be in charge. We started out running some of the same "father/daughter" cons that I'd done with my dad, but he didn't like having to play older. So he shifted us to working a variation on the old "jealous husband" routine - I'd flirt with some middle-aged married guy at a bar and bring him back to our motel room. I'd get him worked up and tie him to the bed for some kinky fun, and then George would pop out from his hiding spot in the bathroom and snap a Polaroid of the scene, with my hand on the guy's erection. He'd go through the guy's wallet and get his address, and then threaten to send the photo to his wife if he didn't pay us. That bit worked most of the time, but sometimes the target didn't want to be tied up. At first, I'd just open the door for George to come out and he'd chase the guy off. But then George decided that in those cases, I should just go ahead and start giving the guy oral sex and then he'd come out and snap the picture. I was reluctant, but I was kind of afraid of him so I went along with the plan. It was also embarrassing when George would point out my Adam's apple in the picture, and tell the guy that not only would his wife find out he'd been cheating but that he'd had gay sex. And sometimes he'd even pull my panties down to make it clear to the target that he'd been sucked off by another guy. Unfortunately for me, it turned out that the guys in that situation ended up willing to pay more that the others, so George said that I should always blow them even when they were tied up, so that they'd feel more guilty and ashamed and we could get more money. It wasn't pleasant, but at that point I really had no grounds to refuse to do something I'd already done. Those days, I spent all my time in female clothes. George scolded me if he caught me acting male, like if I didn't sit down on the toilet. He took to putting his arm around me or holding my hand when we were out in public, and at first I thought that was just part of our cover story, but he started calling me "Baby Doll" and stealing kisses even when we were alone. More and more often, he'd check us into a motel room that only had one bed, and we'd have to cuddle. He thought the t-shirts I'd been sleeping in were too boyish, so he got me some lacy nightgowns. He said they looked very sexy on me, and inevitably he started making me give him the same kind of oral treatment I was giving our marks. It didn't seem worth it to complain. I guess he took that as encouragement. It wasn't long after he'd gotten me going down on him regularly that he surprised me with the gift of an enema bottle and a tube of lubricant, and told me it was time to take our relationship to the next level. Without realizing it, I'd become George's girlfriend. He wasn't a horrible boyfriend, but I really wasn't interested in having one. I let him do what he wanted to me, and like so many other girlfriends I pretended to enjoy it. He wasn't physically violent, and he always said he loved me whenever he had an orgasm, so I put up with it. Besides, I thought I needed him to make money. Then after a couple months of letting George fuck me, I had a moment of perfect clarity. I wasn't really a con artist anymore - all I'd been doing to make money was giving head to men. I was a whore. And therefore I didn't really need a partner; I could suck dicks for cash without needing any kind of elaborate scheme or setup. After I let George have his way with me one last time and he fell asleep, I packed up my things, took half of our money, and left. I hitched to the bus station and caught the first Greyhound heading south. I settled in Miami, working the streets and turning tricks with strange men. I kept on my toes and managed to stay one step ahead of the cops and the pimps. I met some other girls like me, and learned a few techniques for keeping things hidden, as well as ways to keep a john from noticing that you'd slipped a condom onto him. It was only dumb luck that I'd avoided catching anything before. Most of the girls were on one drug or another, but I resisted their offers to make things more bearable. They did introduce me to the amazing power of padded push-up bras, and I was suddenly able to show off cleavage, despite my breasts' small size. Even though my new friends didn't know I was switching back and forth, I took their advice and started getting electrolysis. Even when a client knew he was hiring a "special girl," no one likes to get whisker burn on his thighs. I have a fairly high pain threshold, so I was able to get my face clear and smooth with only a year or so of treatments. It gave me a little more confidence in my feminine appearance, but I still avoided trying to pass as a natural girl except at night in places with poor lighting. In a tight sports bra and a loose shirt, I could usually look okay in male clothes. Since I had to keep my arms and legs shaven for my other job, if I wore shorts or short sleeves I looked kind of gay. But I stood out even more if I wore long pants and long sleeves in Miami. I tried it anyway, if only so I could keep my skills up by running small cons on tourists - bar bets, that kind of thing. And then I met Ruth. She was older, but she'd kept her body in great shape, and her face was ageless thanks to her doctor. She was my first real girlfriend, and probably the first person who ever accepted me completely. Ruth believed my "glandular imbalance" story, and even took advantage of my condition to teach me the proper way to caress a woman's breast by demonstrating on me. It was one lesson that has really stuck with me. Ruth was amazing! The time I spent with her made the rest of my life in Miami bearable. I even nearly took her up on the offer to move in with her and stay. But I knew that I'd just end up as dependent on her has I had been on George and my old man. I needed to be in control of my own life. I told her most of the truth - that I was living part-time as a girl, and that I'd been saving up my money so I could get surgery to reduce my Adam's apple and I'd be able to pass convincingly without having to lurk in the shadows. I'd thought that would turn her off, but instead she introduced me to the best plastic surgeon in the state of Florida, and told me not to worry about the money; she'd take care of the costs. I was amazed. The doctor taught me that there were other differences between a male and a female face than just the lump on my neck. Ruth was willing to pay for it all, so he went ahead and gave me a full treatment. Ruth was also kind enough to nurse me through my recovery. When all the bandages had come off and the bruising was gone, I was a completely different person. Besides having a flawless new throat, the bones under my eyebrows were smoothed, my jaw was round instead of square with a smaller chin, my eyes opened a little wider, my nose was smaller and turned up slightly at the end, and I had new cheekbones. The surgeon had done more than merely make me look feminine; he'd made me pretty. And after Ruth took me to get my hair and makeup done professionally, I was absolutely beautiful. There was no longer any question of my ability to pass as a woman. As I'd guessed, Ruth really wasn't interested in continuing our relationship as a lesbian one. I thanked her for everything that she'd done for me, and left Florida to go start a new life for myself. I adored the attention I received now that I was a gorgeous woman, so I stayed female full-time for almost a year as I wandered around on the east coast. I was living out of my car much of the time and it was a major chore shaving my legs in restroom sinks, so I decided to get more electrolysis to have my body hair zapped off. I even had my genitals made baby-smooth, since it made it easier to use adhesives when I wanted to tuck things out of the way, leaving just a neat little triangle in the front. Getting men to give me their money was almost too easy. If I played some of the oldest cons in the book like begging for money to buy a bus ticket to go see my imaginary sick grandmother, guys would fall over backwards to try to be a pretty girl's hero. Sometimes I'd get reckless and do dangerous things like make a fifty dollar bar bet with a guy that he wouldn't follow me into the ladies' room and give me oral sex. I really should have gotten beaten up more often. I must lead a charmed life. I reconnected with the community, and helped out some old acquaintances work cons that needed extra people. Since I'd been doing the whole "girl thing" before, they weren't too surprised to see my perfectly feminine self. But I did look different enough that when my friend Obie told me my dad had been working out of Charlotte, I swore Obie to secrecy and went to go play a trick on him. I drove around for four nights checking the kinds of bar he liked before I found him. I was dressed to kill in my highest stilettos and a tight sexy dress that showed off plenty of my artificially enhanced cleavage and gave an enticing view of my silk-encased legs, and painted for war with smoky, sultry eyes and glossy red pouty lips. I did my slinkiest walk past where he was seated at the bar and perched myself on a stool a few spaces down from his. It didn't take long before he came over and bought me a drink. I let him flirt with me for a while, and just when he leaned in close and it seemed like he was about to steal a kiss, I grinned and asked, "So, Dad, do you still think no one would believe me as a girl?" When the realization hit him, he swore and laughed so loudly we both got thrown out of the place. We ended up going back to his motel, swapping stories until morning. We partnered up for a few jobs, but he preferred much lower class targets than I did, so we went our separate ways after a while. Every so often I'd help him out if he was running a complicated scheme and needed a pretty face to act as a distraction. But then he put together a team for a big job and it felt too dangerous for me, so I refused and he had to go with a different girl. Things went bad. I was on my own again for a while, and then I tried working with a new partner, a female one this time. We clicked fairly well, both personally and professionally. We landed quite a few big scores, but the last one we tried fell apart and we ended up going in different directions at the end. After that, I worked bigger deals, but by myself. When I needed help, I'd hire someone legitimate, like an accountant or a secretary, who didn't know that everything wasn't on the up and up. For the most part, I worked scams that were just over the edge of legality, selling things for more than they were worth, rather than committing outright fraud. What I was doing wasn't all that different from what the respectable businessmen down on Wall St. do. **** Okay, now where we we? That's right. The Russian gorilla had just told me he knew who I was. "Last December, you took Dmitri Glubonin's money. You really should research your targets better. His uncle is a very powerful man, and he sent me to see that you pay what is owed." I thought I had thoroughly checked Glubonin out. He was an executive in a new Russian energy company. He was young and ambitious and very easily swayed by a pretty face. As Elizabeth Preston, a well-dressed redhead with an Ivy League vocabulary, I "accidentally" bumped into him in his hotel lobby and hooked him with just a little flirting. Over dinner I told him I was a venture capitalist about to invest in a sure thing. I said I expected my quarter of a million to sextuple in size (when trying to lure a guy, it's always best to use words with "sex" in them) within a year, but I wouldn't tell him exactly what I was investing in. On our third date, I finally told him that I thought I could trust him, and told him about Solatic Research, the company I was putting my money into. I said that it was oriented around a new way of boosting the efficiency of solar cells that these university scientists had stumbled across and formed a company to develop. I rooted through my purse and handed him a business card for the CEO of Solatic, Lee Turner. He tried calling it right away, but it went to voicemail. I stopped him from trying again with a kiss, and said there were better things we could be talking about than business. I let him think he'd be getting lucky and we headed back toward his hotel, but then my phone rang and I looked to see who was calling. I told him it was my sister, and excused myself to talk to her. When I got back to him I apologized and said that my sister was having yet another crisis and she'd probably keep me on the phone for hours. I asked if we could pick up where we'd left off the following night, and kissed him deeply enough that he thought I was still interested. The next morning I called him back with a male voice from the phone whose number I'd given him. I told him that Elizabeth had vouched for him, and he sounded like the kind of investor I was looking for. I asked him to find the fax number for the hotel, and I'd have my lawyer send him a nondisclosure agreement. Once we got it back, I'd messenger him a prospectus. The company was an actual legitimate thing; I'd filed all the proper paperwork, and I'd hired a real lawyer. The only fake part was the technology; the con itself was mostly legal. Once he read the documents, he decided to invest, and my lawyer set up a meeting with him. He actually ended up giving me a full two million instead of the quarter I was trying to get. It was my biggest score ever. He called Elizabeth me to celebrate his decision, and I accepted a dinner invitation, but at the last minute I had to call and cancel, telling him that my sister needed me to go help her through her problem. I promised to get together with him the next time I was in town. What I really did was use some mud brown drugstore hair dye and then trim my hair into more of a mullet, attach my fake moustache and bushy eyebrows, and then change into male clothes before leaving the hotel where Elizabeth had been staying. I'd already moved most of my stuff out, so I only had one suitcase with me. I went to the parking garage where I'd left my generic white cargo van, and left town. Now what I should have done was just have Solatic pay me a huge salary and then go out of business. But I thought I'd get clever and tried to launder the money and make a profit at the same time by having the company theoretically buy me a piece of real estate. I figured I'd wait a few months and sell it and have it made. Unfortunately for me, the housing market collapsed, and by the time I put my property up for sale I could only get back a fraction of what I'd paid for it. In a way I got taken just like one of my own marks - I'd gotten greedy and thought I was betting on a certain winner. That had been a hard lesson to learn. I gave bluffing my way out of this one last try. "Look, you're making some kind of mistake. I don't know what you're talking about." The big guy slapped me across the face. "I don't make mistakes. I was intelligence officer before the Union fell, and I have no doubt you are the person I'm looking for. Now no more games. Just give me the money." I was toast. I tried honesty for a change. "I haven't got your two million. I got taken by an even bigger swindler. I don't have any deals in the works right now, but give me some time and I should be able to get it for you." He snorted derisively. "That's the wrong amount. You promised Mr. Glubonin twelve million." I took a deep breath so that he'd get another good look at my chest. It was about the only card I could play. "Maybe we could come to some kind of arrangement?" He reached out and grabbed my crotch and gave a squeeze. "Creatures like you do not interest me." He let go just before I was ready to pass out from the pain. "But don't let it be said that Sergei Volkov is an unreasonable man. You told Dmitri he'd have twelve million in a year. It's been six months already, so that gives you another six to come up with the money." I relaxed a little. I'd have to top my biggest score ever, but I might be able to swing it. I'd have to pull in a few favors and try to work on as many jobs as I could. "That does sound reasonable." His forehead wrinkled as he thought about something. "But this number twelve million is so awkward. Let's round it up to an even twenty, to compensate for the trouble you've put Mr. Glubonin and his uncle through." That much could be a problem. I couldn't help stammering, "That's not fair!" Volkov smiled, an act which made his face take on the toothy aspect of a predatory animal. "A cheater does not get to decide what is fair. And just to remind you who is in charge here, you now only have four months. Have twenty million ready for me by the first of October, or..." He drew his finger across my throat, so that I knew exactly what the stakes in this deal were. I tried to be as humble and polite as possible as I asked, "How will I find you when I get the money?" "Don't worry about that. I'll be watching, even when you think you can't see me. And don't even think of trying to run and hide from me. I will find you. Are we clear, Quinn?" I swallowed my fear. "Yes, sir. Twenty million. October first. Or else." He nodded, let go of me, and left the room. As soon as I was alone, I relaxed and tears poured out of me and I began shaking uncontrollably. *** The next morning I set my self-pity aside and set to work attempting the impossible. I needed a plan to pull in five million a month. I considered trying some kind of internet scam that would take like a thousand each from twenty thousand marks, but that kind of numbers would attract the interest of the feds. That started me thinking that maybe I could just turn myself in and get locked up in a nice, safe jail. But the kind of connections Volkov talked about were the kind that can get a jailbird shanked. Not to mention the fact that my looks would be certain to turn me into the most popular girl in the men's prison. So that option was out. I needed to do one or two really big jobs. My research still hadn't found me any potential targets, so I'd have to leave Atlanta and go looking somewhere else. Maybe someone else knew where the big fish were biting. I took my laptop to a coffeehouse and spent the day checking my buddy list to see if any of my acquaintances in the community were online. I'd been at the caf? long enough to annoy most of the wait staff and was about to give up for the day, but then my computer beeped. Joey Meatballs had logged into IM. I was in luck - he was one of the best sources of information out there. We exchanged hellos and then had some small talk and then I told him I was in a bit of a jam and wondered if he knew about anyone who was putting together a crew for a big score where I might fit. I said it needed to be a real motherlode of a job. He wanted to know what ballpark I was talking about, and I told him I needed seven figures at least, preferably eight. He said that was quite a tall order, and at first he said he didn't know of anything that big being planned. But then he sent, "Actually Pie, I just remembered something." (My nickname in the community was "QTPie.") He explained, "A few weeks ago Trixie was nosing around looking for a girl to help her run a game. She didn't say much, but that it was a big one so she needed someone good. You're sometimes a girl, so maybe you could check if she's still looking." I knew Trixie, but I hadn't talked to her in quite a while. I asked Joey where she was living these days, and he told me she was running a swami shop up in Boston under the name "Madame Zaria." Since I was already on the net, I ran a search on "Boston psychic Zaria" and got a phone number. I thanked Joey for his help and closed the chat. I pulled out my phone and called the number. A voice straight from a Dracula movie answered, "How can Madame Zaria help you? I sense a troubled soul." I chuckled. "Hi, Trix. It's Pie. All that's troubling me at present is cash flow. Meatballs said you were working on a big score and needed a girl to help. You still looking for one?" She broke character and switched to her normal voice. "Pie - now there's a name I haven't heard in a while. How long has it been, three years? Wow. How time does fly!" She paused long enough that I wasn't sure if she'd heard my question, but then she spoke again. "Actually, I have got a real whale ready to be reeled in, but I'm not sure you've got the right bait." I shifted to an innocent girlish tone and said, "Please give me a chance; I'm willing to do anything for this job!" Then I added in my most sultry feminine voice, "Whatever kind of girl you need, I can be her. I'm very flexible." I switched back to my standard female voice. "Seriously, Trix, a really dangerous man wants a whole lot of money from me, so I'm pretty desperate here." "You really mean that? You're desperate enough to do anything?" She sounded incredulous. "Okay, I'll tell you what. Come up here and I'll go over the details in person, and if you're still ready to do what it takes, we'll go forward." She was being a little too mysterious for my comfort, but I had to choice. I agreed to go meet her. I closed my phone, shut down my computer and went back to my motel. I needed to be male to check out, but I wanted to be female when I arrived up north, so I removed my fake moustache and eyebrows and then took a shower using floral-scented soap. I shampooed and conditioned my hair, but I only blotted it dry with a towel, so it still clung damply to my head. I tucked away my junk and taped it up and then finished off with a tight thong panty. I rubbed moisturizer all over the rest of my skin before getting dressed. I pulled on a loose pair of jeans held on by a belt with a large Confederate flag buckle. I strapped down my booblets with a tight wifebeater designed for making fat guys look thinner, and threw a chamois shirt over it, with the distinct outline of a can of chaw in the pocket. I tugged a pair of cowboy boots onto my feet, slammed a trucker cap on my head, and turned into a stereotype. I packed up everything I'd left in the room and went to the motel office to pay my bill, in cash. I usually stay in places too long to want to use a bogus credit card, and I really don't want to leave a trail with a legitimate one. So far I'd managed to avoid any messes with law enforcement, and I preferred to keep it that way. Before leaving Atlanta, I drove my van to a self-service car wash. I removed the magnetic decals that claimed I worked for "Jones Electrical" and then gave it a good wash, so a casual observer wouldn't notice anything had been there. Trix hadn't given me enough details to know what my cover story would be, so I wanted to be as generic as possible. It was about three o' clock when I hit the interstate. I pulled off at the first rest area in South Carolina and made the switch. I went to the back of the van where I had all the steamer trunks with my various wardrobes in them and decided to go for a comfortable casual look, since I'd be driving a while. I traded my undershirt and shirt for a padded bra and a green scoopneck t-shirt, and then swapped my boots and jeans for a pair of cork wedge sandals and a denim miniskirt. I took the clear acrylic retainers out of my pierced ears and put in some gold hoops, and then coordinated with a thin chain necklace and a bracelet wristwatch. I threw a pocketbook together with my phone, some money, my most girlish sunglasses, a few cosmetics and a license that identified me as Angela Vanderberg. I used the ladies' room and then put on my lipstick and mascara in front of the mirror. I'd taken off my hat and had let my hair dry as I drove, so I just needed to brush it out. I wouldn't be winning any beauty contests, but it looked reasonably feminine. I walked through a cloud of cologne and went back to the van. I flashed a flirty smile at a guy crossing the parking lot, just to check that I hadn't lost my touch. The way he rubbernecked and nearly walked into a trashcan proved that I still had it. I got back on the interstate and drove all night. I only stopped twice: once for a cheeseburger and a Diet Coke, and once at the best truck stop east of the Mississippi for breakfast and a tank of gas. Hettie the waitress was very chatty so I told her how I'd gotten a job in sales up North and had rented a van to move all my worldly goods. Even though I'm thirty-two, Angela Vanderberg is only twenty-four (I take very good care of my skin), so I let her mother hen me and give me all kinds of advice that a girl traveling on her own ought to know. It made her feel good, and I got a free travel mug of coffee out of it. I drove through the night, finally hitting Massachusetts in the morning of the next day. I didn't want to accidentally run across Trixie's mark before I knew what the game was, so I didn't go all the way to Boston. I stopped in Worcester, and found a Motel 6 that had a vacancy. I called Trix to let her know I'd arrived and made plans to meet her for dinner. I hung out the "Do not disturb" card, changed into my most comfortable nightgown (just in case the housekeeper ignored the sign), and crashed into bed. I'd been driving for over eighteen hours and I was beat. Just before noon, the phone in my room rang, loudly enough to wake me up. I realized that I should have told the desk clerk to hold my calls, but no one should have been calling me. Trix only had my cell number. The caller was probably looking for some guest that had previously stayed in the room. I picked up the receiver and said, "Whoever you're looking for isn't here anymore. Please don't call this number again." My blood turned to ice when I recognized the voice at the other end. It was Volkov. "Hello, Quinn. I hope you're not trying to run. " I swallowed hard. Admittedly, part of my reason for coming up to see Trix immediately was to get away from him. He must have followed me, but I hadn't noticed a tail on the drive. He was good. "No, I wouldn't think of trying. I'm just tracking down a lead on how to get your money." "Good. Next time you decide to take any sudden trips, call me first. I'd hate for there to be another misunderstanding." "Okay, but I don't have your number." "Yes, you do. Just press number seven on your mobile phone." He chuckled and hung up. I grabbed my cell and checked. Sure enough, speed dial seven now said "Volkov." When had he done that? Was it back in Atlanta, or had he snuck into my room while I was asleep? I'd never felt more vulnerable. Even though I was still exhausted, it took me a while for the fear- induced adrenaline rush to fade so I could get back to sleep. I woke up around six. Volkov's call had reinforced my motivation that I had to convince Trix to let me do the job. I needed my look to be perfect, so I spent an hour and a half getting ready. When I finished, I was a sophisticated, glamorous woman. I wore a silk cocktail dress that almost looked black, but when the light hit it right you could tell it was really a very dark green. It clung to curves that had been enhanced and amplified by state of the art lingerie. My legs were sheathed in sheer black hose and deep green crocodile Manolo Blahnik slingbacks were on my feet. I wished I'd had time to get my hair and nails professionally done, but instead I'd just coaxed my hair into a messy updo and filed my nails into ovals and painted them with deep red polish and an extra-glossy topcoat. My makeup was almost too much for the occasion. The right combination of foundation and powder gave me a flawless complexion, with just a hint of rouge on the cheeks. My lips were a blood red shade that matched my fingernails, and just as shiny. I had a perfectly thin line around my eyes in a deep black that matched the mascara that had thickened and extended my lashes. I'd blended six different colors of shadow to dramatically accent my eyes. I also drew attention to my brilliant emerald eyes by wearing real emeralds in the jewelry that dangled from my ears as well as the pendant that rested just above the cleavage my dress's low neckline revealed. When the taxi I'd called for showed up, I covered my shoulders with a black pashmina wrap and grabbed a clutch purse. I could tell the driver thought I was too high-class for this cheap motel, but I let him wonder whether I was a society dame cheating on her husband or just an expensive call girl. I got to the restaurant fifteen minutes later than we'd agreed to meet, but I wanted to be assured that she'd be there for my entrance. I checked my wrap and introduced myself to the hostess as "Ms. Quincy," and asked if my guest was already waiting. She told me that my companion had already arrived, and she was waiting in the bar. It was still ten minutes before my reservation, so I was welcome to join her until my table was ready. I totally owned the room as soon as I walked into the bar. All eyes were on the gorgeous woman whose every movement hinted at sexual paradise. I used my sexiest walk to cross over to where Trix was seated. I smiled when her expression showed that she finally recognized me. We air-kissed our hellos and she told me I looked amazing, which I did, and I told her she was looking fine herself, which she wasn't. She was around sixty, but in her swami job she usually tried to look eighty. The outfit she'd put together for our meeting seemed like she was trying to look fifty, and she wasn't quite pulling it off. Her hair was a brassy red that was either a bad dye job or a bad wig. She was wearing a black sheath dress with a jacket over it, that was probably supposed to be her version of a "LBD," but really just made her look lumpy and shapeless. Her shoes were so pointy they looked dated and must have hurt her feet needlessly. About the best thing that could be said about her makeup was that she colored inside the lines. Whoever convinced her that pasty coral was a good lipstick for her should be hanged! And don't even get me started on her jewelry. I ordered a chardonnay and we reminisced about old times for a while. She wasn't ready to get into the real conversation yet. Once we had moved to the dining room and were enjoying our meal, (I had a delicious veal saltimbocca, since I was paying she got a filet mignon, and we split a bottle of an excellent Chianti) she started to explain the situation. "We won't be breaking any laws, and it's pretty much the oldest con in the book: matrimony. This really big fish is looking for a wife, and I point him to you, and then you can start bleeding his bank account." She smiled, and I nodded for her to continue. She leaned in and spoke a little more quietly. "You're lucky I ended up in Boston. I wouldn't even be offering you this chance in a state where same-sex marriage wasn't legal. Or have you gotten surgery down there by now?" I tried to blush. "No, it's all still original equipment. I like being able to switch back and forth between genders depending on what opportunities present themselves." She thought for a moment. "How important is it to you that you're able to do that? It might be necessary for you to take steps that aren't quite as reversible." I got a little scared by that, but I was even more scared of Volkov. "I'm not sure what you mean, but if the payoff for this is big enough, I'm willing to take extreme measures." She took a sip of her wine. "Let me start at the beginning. About a month ago, this guy comes into my shop for a reading. He's wearing an expensive suit, but doesn't hold his head up with any confidence. He looks to be somewhere in his late middle ages, with thinning salt-and- pepper hair, and serious worry lines on his face. He's got a strong nose but a weak chin and is looking at me through wire-rimmed glasses. He asks if I'm the kind of fortune teller that can talk to ghosts. I point out the sign that says my services are for entertainment purposes only. I tell him that the law says I show that, but I truly do have the Gift as a spiritualist." Her story was drawing me in. I tried to interrupt and ask a question, but she cut me off and continued. "I asked him what ghost he wanted me to contact, and told him it would cost $100. He handed over his credit card and said he needed to get a message to his mother. I went over behind my counter and ran his card through my machine, which not only processed the charge but also did a quick computer search on him. My business is a lot easier with today's technology than in the old days of cold reading." I spoke up. "You sell yourself short. You're one of the best I've ever seen; even without any kind of high-tech assistance you can tell an amazing amount of stuff about a person." She appreciated my flattery, but got back to her scene. "His name is Hiram Chillington. He comes from money so old it came over on the Mayflower, literally. The family business is banking, and he's personally worth about a billion. I decided to try to turn him into a repeat customer. I had him sit at my table and arranged some crystals between us, and told him to pick which one gave him the strongest feeling of his mother. He touched each one and then selected an open geode that was such an obvious Freudian metaphor I was surprised he didn't notice." She gave me a moment to process that image and figure out what she meant. "The message he asked me to send was a short one. He wanted his mother to know that he was trying to do as she'd asked, but he might need some more time. I told him that she'd been watching, and didn't think he was trying hard enough. Naturally, I'd correctly guessed that he was a spineless Mama's Boy, so he believed that I was genuinely connected to her." I let Trix bask in her brilliance for a bit. "Sounds like you've got him right where you want him. So how does all this lead to my needing to take irreversible steps?" "We're getting there. I pretended sympathy and asked him what it was his mother needed him to do, and asked if there was anything I could do to help him get it done. He told me that his mother had recently passed from a prolonged fight with cancer. As she lay in her deathbed, she said she was worried that he'd be alone when she was gone. His two older brothers had families of their own, but he was still single. She made him promise that he'd get married before his fortieth birthday, which as it turns out is next September. I was surprised that he was that young; time has not been kind to him. I told him that every soul in the universe has a mate, and I'd use my Gift to try to sense the lines of fate guiding him toward the one he was destined to be with." "So that's where I come in? You're going to lead this guy to me, and I get him to fall for me, we get quickie married before September (which lines up nicely with my own deadline) and then I deplete his bank account before divorcing him and taking half his fortune? That sounds like something I could handle. I've never taken it that far, but I have charmed men out of their money before. I think I might even enjoy being a high society wife." Trix looked at me. "That's the idea, but there's a complication. I already started telling him about his future bride. I was working the con with Chloe, but she changed her mind and backed out of the deal." *** That was a name that took me back. I first met Chloe in Virginia Beach when we were both called in to work as shills on a job run by Sammy Winks, a guy I knew through my old man. It was a fixed poker game to fleece a couple of whales. She and I were there to keep the marks distracted enough that they didn't figure out what was going on. We were paired with a couple of guys playing our boyfriends, these fake Ivy League douchebag types whose names I don't remember. The targets thought they were there to there to take the young morons' money, when secretly it was the other way around. She was a naturally curvy natural blonde, so most of her expertise was at playing "dumb and pretty." At the time I was an unnatural strawberry blonde with curves courtesy of my foundation garments, so I'd had to work harder at being a seductress. We hadn't practiced anything, but we played off each other brilliantly. She played off my cues, and I played off hers, and we drew the players' attention by cattily flirting with each other's fake boyfriend. It escalated to the point where we teased about having a threesome with whoever won the game, and exchanged some wet kisses to keep them all turned on. The plan worked perfectly and we took the whales' money and talked our partners into giving us a bigger cut. Sammy didn't care, so he just went along with it. I told Chloe she'd been a pleasure to work with, and complimented her kissing. She caught that I was making a play, and said that she was regrettably not a lesbian. I said that wasn't a problem since I was a dude. Chloe was surprised, and Sammy just laughed when I tried to get him to vouch for me. The douchebags didn't believe it, so I bet them the rest of their money that I could prove it. I excused myself to the bathroom to release my adhesives, and then came out and lifted my skirt for them to see. The guy I'd been making out with earlier threw up, I collected my winnings, and Chloe's eyes widened. Sammy thought the whole thing was hilarious. I tucked things back in place, pulled my panties on, and then Chloe and I went back to her room. We struck up a partnership in both our private lives and our work that lasted for quite a while. It was a lot of fun. Mostly we worked romance angles, getting rich guys to give us stuff. Often we'd even pretend to be sisters, and they usually bought the ruse. Although there was this time we were on a ship and made so much noise in bed that the people in the next cabin looked at us funny for the rest of the cruise. It wasn't completely smooth between us; Chloe was jealous of my skills at luring men. She thought that with her sexy curves she should be the one drawing the boys' eyes, but I did better at capturing their brains with my subtle movements and driving their fantasies with my words. Since I didn't have her natural advantages, I'd had to work harder at using what I did have. She could get a guy's interest just by wearing the right outfit, so she'd never put any effort into improving her seduction technique. The metaphor I usually used was that she was a sexier woman in a photograph, but I was a sexier woman in a video. I tried to coach her to do better, but it bugged her to have a boyfriend that was better at being a woman than she was. It really bothered her that I could dress her and do her makeup more attractively than she could do on her own. She'd never needed to do much to look good and took pride in her ability to look naturally beautiful. But when I applied my skills and talents to her, I could make her look absolutely gorgeous. Those were the only lessons I gave her that she paid attention to. The other source of conflict between us was that she had a few problems with my methods. She thought that it was better to tease the mark without actually delivering sex, but I had no problem giving the guy a little something. She thought I was degrading myself by going down on a man, but as long as proper precautions were taken so I didn't catch any diseases, I saw no problem with it. My position was that the only person who can humiliate you is you, and it's impossible for someone else to tell you what you're worth. I'd put a lot of time and effort into improving my oral skills, so I saw absolutely no harm in using them to bring another human being physical pleasure. I also thought it made the targets less likely to seek revenge. But I could never bring her around to my point of view. All told we lasted about a year and a half. The last con we ran ended badly. We'd set our sights higher than usual, and the guys we'd picked to scam were seriously loaded. Instead of settling for the usual trinkets and gifts, we were trying to get our marks to buy shares of a bogus company we'd set up. I was still new at the investment racket, so my dummy documents didn't quite pass muster. And to make matters worse, the target turned out to have a friend who was a G-man. So federal agents crashed the meeting we'd set up in a rented office space, and we knew the jig was up. We didn't have a contingency plan for failure, so I had to improvise. We ducked and ran, sneaking through back rooms of neighboring spaces. It seemed like the safest option was to split up, and we took separate cars out of the place. I even stopped to switch disguises and genders first. It was the closest I'd ever come to getting caught; I freaked out and withdrew from circulation for a couple months. I think Chloe blamed me for the game going wrong, because I eventually heard that she was looking for me and wanted money. I wasn't about to take all the responsibility for what went wrong. I put the word out to let her know from my end it seemed like our partnership was through. *** She snapped me out of my reminiscing. "I'd given him a general description, so he's expecting to fall in love with a curvaceous blonde. Changing your hair is easy, but how would you feel about getting a boob job?" So that was the step she'd been hinting at. "Are you sure that would be necessary?" I gestured at myself. "I look pretty curvy in this dress, don't I, even if some of my curves do come from what I'm wearing under it? All the men in the room who keep stealing glances at me must think I'm sexy enough." She shook her head. "It's not just a question of being sexy. I think I may have even used the word 'voluptuous.' You are beautiful in that dress, but none of the men in here would describe your figure as busty. You've got what, maybe a B cup, and that's with padding?" I nodded, and she went on. "And unfortunately, I've already set up the scenario where he meets his dream girl, and padding won't cut it. He's supposed to be walking his dog on the beach, and he'll notice a buxom blonde in a yellow bikini. And he'll know she's the one when she loses her top. I think the promise of getting to see breasts is what's kept him coming back to me for more clues." "So I guess you're right. I'd pretty much have to get a boob job." I emptied my wine glass. "How much time do I have to get it done? Is there a particular date this meeting is supposed to happen? And what beach will I have to arrange to be on?" "Does that mean you're in?" She raised her glass in a toast. "To our success!" I touched my glass to hers and tried to smile. I was going to have to go back under the knife, and implants would definitely make it hard for me to keep my gender a part time thing. But at this point I really didn't have much of a choice. This deal would get me plenty of money; I could get the Russians off my back, and I could stay alive; plus maybe I'd be able to get them taken out sometime later on and everything could go back to the way it was. Trixie's smile was sincere. "There's no set time or date, but he spends every weekend at his family beachhouse out on the Cape. And a silver lining for you is that it's in Provincetown, so if he discovers too soon that you're a tranny and says you tried to trick him, you can point out that you met him in one of the gayest places on the planet so he should have known. His family is so straightlaced that he's the only one who ever uses the place, and he only likes it because the beach is dog-friendly." Over dessert (we split an absolutely scrumptious tiramisu), we hashed out the details of the plan. I'd need to set myself up a cover identity, for what I was going to tell him. I had to find an apartment in Boston and a job, and because we were trying to make things as legal as possible, I'd need to do everything in my real name. She volunteered to do some internet research and make a few phone calls, to find me a surgeon with a good reputation who could fit me in as soon as possible. My story would be that I was a transsexual who'd recently come into some money and I wanted a bikini-ready body to enjoy the summer. The next few days were a blur. My first stop was finding a salon that would squeeze me in to get my hair dyed, trimmed and styled. I treated myself to a mani/pedi while I was there. I then worked the classifieds, to find a decent place to live that didn't need references from my last landlord. I ended up finding a third-floor studio in a relatively safe neighborhood that wasn't too pricey. I then needed to go shopping to furnish the place. If everything went according to plan, I'd most likely be inviting my new boyfriend over at some point, so I needed the apartment to look like authentic. I went for a d?cor that was mostly neutral with just a few feminine touches here and there. One trip to Ikea satisfied most of my furniture needs. I was able to get most of the flatpacked boxes up the stairs on my own, but I'd bought a loveseat that gave me a little trouble. It wasn't heavy, but it was just a little too big to handle easily. One of my new neighbors noticed my difficulty and offered to carry one end for me. He was a well-built guy somewhere in his mid-twenties, with curly red hair and a ladykiller smile. His name was Chris Farrel, and he lived on the second floor. I introduced myself and said that I'd just moved from Philly and was eager to start a new chapter of my life in Boston. It was the backstory I'd settled on, since I had a valid Pennsylvania driver's license that labeled me as female, and had my real name. The chance of my soon to be boyfriend meeting my neighbors was low, but it never hurts to keep your story consistent. I thanked Chris for his help, and he welcomed me to the building. I promised to invite him over when I had everything unpacked. I went to a quality furniture store for a top-of-the-line queen size mattress set, and paid to have it delivered. When the time came, I wanted my bed to look inviting. I did select a comforter and pillows in a floral pattern, but it wasn't too garishly colored, so I don't think it was excessively girlish. Besides, some of the flowers seemed rather "Georgia O'Keefe" in shape and might subliminally suggest things to my future gentleman caller. I used one of my steamer trunks as a coffee table, to keep my room from looking too new. I wanted something that showed that I had a history. I left the other trunks in my van with all my male stuff, and found a storage facility where I could pay to keep it parked. A cargo van didn't fit with the image I was trying to project. I bought a used Mazda that better suited my style. My apartment came with a permit that let me park on the street in my neighborhood, but there were always more cars than spots. I spent some time getting to know the city's mass transit system. *** I'd been trying to avoid thinking about it, but Trix called and let me know she'd found a plastic surgeon that would be able to fit me onto his schedule. She'd made an appointment for me and gave me the address, but she wouldn't be coming with me; we thought it best to limit the people who saw us together, just in case. I spent a while before I went to the doctor getting psyched up for my surgery, although really it was more like brainwashing myself. I couldn't let the surgeon suspect that my heart really wasn't in it, so I did my best to suppress all my masculine feelings. I had to make myself become excited about the idea of getting implants. I thought about how if I was already able to wrap men around my little finger with merely B-cups through padding, what more would I be able to accomplish with braless D-cups? And there would be so many new fashion opportunities to explore, from strapless evening gowns to sheer lingerie. I made a promise to myself that when the whole thing was over and I was a rich divorc?e, I'd go lie on a topless beach somewhere on the Riviera and sneakily enjoy the view. I'd no longer be able to switch to being male sometimes, but I made more money when I was a woman anyway. My attempt at self-delusion worked; I was almost smiling when I walked into the medical building. Dr. Nolan Stone was a handsome, silver- haired man in a tailored suit. He brought me into his office to discuss what I wanted him to do. He let me know that he'd been told of my gender situation, and said that although he didn't do genital surgeries himself, he could refer me to someone who did. I assured him that I wasn't ready to take that step, but I was interested in getting my breasts done. I gave him the speech I'd rehearsed, and even managed to shed a couple tears. I explained how I'd recently inherited a few thousand, so I was able to budget the surgery. I said that I was just tired of having to wear a padded bra in order to feel confident in my gender. I told him how whenever I had to change in a locker room, I'd felt like all the real women were staring at me as though they could tell my secret. I said that I wanted a figure where when people are staring it's the good kind of attention. I wished to be able to turn heads if I were to walk down the beach; I didn't want another summer to go by before I could look good in a bikini. He said that surgery wasn't a decision to be made lightly, and I told him that I'd been thinking about this for a while, and it was only that I could finally afford it that I was in a hurry. I also pointed out that I'd already had my face done, so this wouldn't be my first time under the knife for femininity. He was a little surprised by that revelation, but he took a closer look at me and he could tell what had been done. He said the other doctor had done excellent work, and I had to tell him all about my surgeon in Miami. Since I seemed to understand all the risks, he agreed to go ahead. He brought in an assistant with a form for me to fill out, and she ran a credit check on me since I didn't have any insurance and would be footing the entire bill. Fortunately I had opened an account at a local bank and gotten money transferred in from my bank in the Caymans, so my finances checked out fine. Once they were sure I could pay, I was led into an examination room. I had to strip to my panties and stand still while the nurse took photos of me from in front, behind and on both sides. Then the doctor felt me up and then pinched my skin all over. No, I'm doing him a disservice. Of all the men who've touched my little breasts, Dr. Stone was the most respectful. He told me he was checking my skin's elasticity, to see how big we'd be able to go, and determining how much of my chest was muscle and how much was breast tissue. He then did something behind my back where he used some kind of tool to pinch at the skin. When he was done, he left the room to let me get dressed and then the nurse took a couple blood samples. I had to wait a little bit but then I was brought back into the doctor's office. He had a computer screen on his desk pointed toward me, and he had it show the pictures they'd just taken of me. He said he thought the biggest increase my skin could handle was to go up about three cup sizes to a very full C, almost a D. He clicked a button on his side, and the image on the screen changed so that I had the new breast size he was proposing. They were big! But they still seemed to fit my body; I didn't look like a cartoon or a freak. The person I saw was just a woman with a large bust that even seemed within the range of natural sizes. We discussed placement and material options, he handed me some sample implants to squeeze, to get a feel for their weight and consistency. After reviewing the risks and aesthetic differences, we both agreed that the best choice was to go with silicone gel implants inserted under the muscle. He showed me the difference in the simulated image, and I really liked the shape my new breasts would have under those conditions, as well as preferring the less squishy feel of silicone over saline. The doctor changed the view so I was looking at my new busty self in profile, and my chest seemed even more noticeable. Then he flipped it around to the back, and I saw my same old self. He said that if I really wanted a figure that would be impressive on the beach, I needed some curves on the bottom as well as the top. He said that I still had a thicker waist and narrower hips than a natural woman, and adding more on top would only emphasize my body's triangular shape more. He recommended a procedure he called microinjection contouring, or more commonly known as a "Brazilian butt lift," where he would remove fat cells from my stomach and waist and back with a smaller than usual liposuction needle, and then use them to reshape my buttocks. He clicked something on his computer and the picture on my screen changed again. My rear end was now round and sexy. The front view showed that he'd given me more of an hourglass figure instead of a triangle, but it was the profile view that was the most striking - I was curvy in all the right places. Dr. Stone cautioned me that my results my not look exactly like the simulation, but he'd used the measurements he'd taken of my body fat to determine how much he had to work with. I was surprised that I had that much; I pride myself on keeping in shape. He assured me that even a healthy person has some extra fat, and I in particular could do this since he'd be helping my fat go from a male distribution pattern to a female one. What sold me on getting the procedure was when he said that by law he was required to tell me that results were not permanent, and the transplanted cells didn't always take. Since I didn't really want to be stuck in a female shape forever, it suited me just fine. On the other hand, he warned me that since the breast size I'd asked for was such a large increase, it was unlikely I'd ever be able to go back to my natural cup size. There's only so much elasticity in human skin. If at some point after my surgery I were to find that I didn't like being so large, complete removal of the implants would leave me looking deflated. My only options at that point would be new smaller implants or major scarring. I really didn't want to hear that; it threw a monkey wrench into my whole plan for this new look to be temporary, but since the mark was expecting a bosomy blonde there was nothing I could do about it. I'd just have to revise my concept for what I'd do after this job was over. He gave me a form to sign agreeing to the procedures, and said he wouldn't accept it any earlier than 72 hours. He always gave his patients time to think about it to avoid making rash decisions. I asked if it would be possible to get both surgeries done at the same time. I didn't want to have to go through the whole post-surgical recovery period any longer than necessary, and be able to have a good chunk of bikini season left by the time my new body was ready to be shown off. He told me that another doctor would be leery of doing both procedures at the same time, having me resting on your back for two weeks after the breast enhancement and then resting on my stomach for two weeks after the buttock contouring. But Dr. Stone said that his practice followed the Rapid Recovery philosophy, a breast enhancement technique invented by a doctor in Texas. He figured that I would likely be able to resume most of my regular activities within a couple of days after the surgery; I'd just have to lay off very strenuous cardio exercise for a few weeks since elevated blood pressure or