For those who missed "Skirting the Law", the players are:
Charles Bigelow, hard-charging CEO of Tyrex Industries, who has a heart attack when… Terry Poindexter comes to work in a dress, much to the delight of… Gail Chestnut, his stunningly attractive executive secretary, and… Doyle Rogers, a senior executive with a secret, who is destined for a date with… Madam Fabulous.
The House of Fabulous
Nom de Plume
© 2004
"You have a dinner date already? It's only your first day as a woman! I'm beginning to believe my own advertisements," Madam Fabulous said into the speakerphone while she sifted through some paperwork on her Queen Anne desk.
"It's with one of our senior executives," Terry Poindexter explained. "We'll be discussing business, but he's taking me to the Carnelian Room."
"How elegant! That white and blue dress I picked out for you last night would be perfect."
"Are you sure it's fancy enough?"
"Of course. It looks lovely on you. You can dress it up with the matching pashmina Sissy got you."
"Do you mean the blue shawl?"
"Um hmm. You have nothing to worry about, my dear. It's winter, so go with the blue shoes and purse. Have a wonderful time, and please call me tomorrow and tell me all about it."
Terry hung up the phone and swiveled his plush leather chair around to glance at the diary on his credenza. He had no engagements that evening, as usual. With a girlish hand, he wrote "Dinner with Doyle" at the bottom of the page, and then he turned to his computer and began sifting through the day's email messages. He tried to take his mind off the fact that he was dressed as a woman, but every time he saw his polished fingers flying over the keyboard, his predicament was brought home. With a sigh of resignation, he kicked off his heels, tucked his stockinged feet under his skirt, and turned his attention to the legal problems of Tyrex Industries.
He spent most of the afternoon researching the ins and outs of hostile takeovers, and did some online digging into Great White, LLC, the company which had launched a tender offer that morning. What he saw wasn't good: fueled by buckets of cash from a New York investment bank, Great White was on a buying binge for undervalued companies, and they looked unstoppable. It was hard for Terry not to think about his personal situation as he scrolled through the SEC filings on his screen. Once Great White acquired a controlling interest in Tyrex Industries, they would be perfectly within their rights to replace all of the company's officers, and of course he would be the first to go when they discovered that he wore women's clothing to work. Unless he could find a way to stop this takeover, his career and his reputation were on the road to ruin.
He thought about returning to work the next day in his male persona, and abandoning his scheme to get Tyrex Industries to pay him off. But after a quick glance at the canons of legal ethics, he abandoned that idea as even more risky. As a company lawyer, he had fiduciary obligations to his employer, and if it were revealed that he tried to goad them into giving him a severance package under false pretenses, his license to practice law would be in jeopardy.
Utterly absorbed by his legal and personal misfortunes, Terry lost complete track of time, and he sat up with a start when Gail Chestnut, his gorgeous executive assistant, came into the office. "It's almost five o'clock," she said. "Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave?"
He debated about asking her for another blow job, but thought the better of it. "Not that I can think of," he said.
"Did you see the announcement about Mr. Bigelow?"
"No, I was too caught up with Lexis/Nexis."
"He's in intensive care at Saint Francis, but it looks like he's going to pull through. Doyle Rogers has been named interim CEO."
"That's nice."
"Well, have fun with Doyle tonight," she said with a wink. "I can't wait to hear all about it tomorrow. Or even better, call me when you get home, if you feel like a little girl talk." She spun on her heel and left before he could think of a response.
* * *
Terry left the office a few minutes later. He ignored the gapes and stares of employees who had heard about his transformation but had to see him to believe it. It wasn't until he stepped out onto Montgomery Street that it occurred to him that he was wearing a disguise. The people at Tyrex Industries might have regarded him as an oddity, but the strangers on the street regarded him as a woman. To his relief, there were no strange looks or double-takes, only an occasional leer from a man sizing him up as a potential score. He rode the Muni back to his neighborhood without incident, and it was almost six o'clock when he let himself into his apartment.
Two hours to get ready for his first date! Well, not really his first date – he'd had his share of one night stands and disastrous blind dates as a man, but never a serious relationship. Maybe his luck as a woman would be better, he thought ruefully as he peeled off his lingerie and stockings and drew a hot bath. After the stresses of the day, and the spectacular sex with Gail under his desk, the raging erections which had plagued him since his transformation the previous day were strangely absent, he noticed as he sank with relief into the hot suds. Even though it meant he would have to dry and style his hair, he dunked his head and held his breath for as long as he could, as if that might suspend time and forestall his date with another man.
Eventually, he dried himself off, wrapped a towel around his wet head like a turban, and dusted his body with fragrant powder from the House of Fabulous. Once again, he pampered himself with moisturizing crème before applying his makeup, which went on quicker and easier this time. A learned trait, he mused while running a blow dryer over his hair. Would styling his new shag hairdo come to him as easily? It did, although it took longer than he anticipated getting it just so. It was well past seven when he gaffed himself and returned to his closet to get dressed for the evening.
Let's see, what lingerie and stockings went with his dress and shoes? Terry selected a white bra and panties and the full white slip that Sissy told him to wear under his new dress. He opened a package of sheer nude pantyhose, savoring their caress as he smoothed them on. His exhausted penis came momentarily to life despite its restraints, and Terry tried to ignore it, carefully lowering his dress over his head and pulling it up to his shoulders. As he reached back to zip it up, the lacy hem of his slip peeked out from under his dress, and another spark of arousal was stifled by the unforgiving gaff. Terry's cheeks were blushing through his makeup as he stepped into his navy blue pumps and surveyed himself in the mirror. Holy shit, he said to himself. I'm a knockout.
A dazed Terry took his pashmina out of his dresser and experimented with how to wrap it around his back and shoulders. Somehow it added grace and femininity to his already stunning reflection, and by the time he finished himself off with some jewelry and cologne, Terry was actually shaking. Not with fear and dread over the prospect of going out on a date with a man, but with shock and awe over the enormity of his transformation.
It was almost eight o'clock by the time he picked up his blue purse and headed for the door.
* * *
Doyle Rogers sat anxiously at a table for two overlooking the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge. What was I thinking, he asked himself for the hundredth time, suggesting that Terry Poindexter meet me for dinner? Here of all places, at a restaurant widely acknowledged as the most romantic in San Francisco. The little table was covered with crystal and flowers, and Doyle fidgeted nervously with his thick linen napkin, wondering if it was too late for him to call Terry and make up some excuse.
Who was he trying to kid? The moment Doyle saw Terry Poindexter dressed as a woman in Charles Bigelow's office, he felt a rush of envy and excitement. For years, he had kept his secret hidden during his relentless climb up the corporate ladder. Now that he was on the brink of success, his long-repressed urges threatened to boil over.
Doyle Rogers had yearned to be a girl from the moment he became aware that there were two sexes. His earliest childhood memory was when he was three years old and his older sisters dressed him up as a princess for Halloween. During his adolescence, he dreamed of sneaking into their bedroom and trying on their clothes, but the risk of exposure was too great a deterrent. He threw his energies instead into amateur theater, winning roles in student productions and community playhouses that enabled him at least to wear makeup and don the occasional female costume. Strikingly handsome, he had become sought-after as a leading man in regional theatrical circles, but when it came time for college his uptight parents steered him away from Broadway or Hollywood and into a career in business and finance. There he had labored, mechanically climbing rung after rung while his secret lay deep beneath the surface.
Until this morning, when he saw Terry Poindexter dressed as a woman. If a dweeb like Terry had the courage to come out of the closet, why couldn't he? For Doyle, the prospect of transforming himself into a woman was not sexually arousing. Unlike Terry, he was a true transsexual, although he had married and divorced twice in vain attempts to achieve respectability. Now that the brass ring at Tyrex Industries was within his grasp, Doyle Rogers instinctively started reaching for his ultimate objective, even if achieving it would mean his downfall.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a striking woman in a blue and white dress coming towards his table. Doyle could only stare as the maitre'd pulled back the opposing chair and Terry sat down gracefully, taking off his shawl and spreading it across the back of his chair before he turned to face Doyle. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "It takes so much longer getting ready these days."
"You look…marvelous," Doyle stammered.
"Thanks," Terry said with the casual assurance of a woman who is used to being told that she is beautiful. "I still have a hard time believing it's really me when I look in the mirror."
A waiter interrupted them with menus and a wine list. After Doyle ordered a very expensive bottle of chardonnay, he began to pepper Terry with questions. "How long have you known that you wanted to become a woman?"
Terry weighed his words carefully. "It's hard to say." The less said about himself, the better. Doyle was his boss now, and if he even suspected that Terry's masquerade was a scam, he would be out on his ear.
"Have you been dressing up like this for a long time?"
Better be careful here. Once caught in a lie, everything could unravel. "Not really."
"I find that hard to believe."
How to turn the conversation to business? Terry saw his opportunity when the waiter returned with their wine. After Doyle went through the tasting ritual, Terry raised his glass and offered a toast. "To the new CEO of Tyrex Industries. Congratulations, Doyle."
When they sipped their glasses, the wine ricocheted off Terry's empty stomach and went straight to his head. Feeling slightly woozy, he grabbed a breadstick and began to nibble on it, trying to act ladylike while maintaining control of the conversation. "We're in a tough spot, Doyle. I did some research on Great White today."
Reluctantly, Doyle shifted gears. After all, he was supposed to be having dinner with his general counsel, at company expense, not indulging in secret fantasies. "Tell me what you learned."
"For starters, we can't just blow them off. The letter from Great White is what is known as a 'bear hug'. Because our stock is so low, thanks to the bumbling of Charles Bigelow, Great White's offer is reasonably attractive to our shareholders, and the board will have to give it serious consideration."
"The board has agreed to meet with representatives of Great White in two days to formally consider the offer."
"Do you know who's coming?"
"Yes. Their Chairman, Darwin DeVour, and the head of a New York investment bank."
"Probably Lance Raptor of Carnivore Capital."
"That's right." The waiter returned to take their orders. Although he hadn't had a square meal in almost two days, Terry resisted the temptation to order the biggest steak on the menu, reluctantly selecting a pasta dish. Doyle ordered sea bass, then asked him, "How did you know about Carnivore?"
"I pulled up the history of Great White's recent acquisitions on Lexis this afternoon. DeVour has been cutting a swath through corporate America funded by Carnivore. They're probably in San Francisco tonight plotting our demise."
"Right again. When the board asked me to confirm the meeting, I called DeVour's secretary in New York, and she gave me the number of his suite at the Mark Hopkins. When I called, Raptor answered the phone."
"They're the world's last authentic playboys."
"I beg your pardon?"
"According to an article I read on Lexis, DeVour and Raptor have a history of carousing together the night before they go in for the kill. No woman in San Francisco will be safe tomorrow night." As he said it, the germ of an idea began to grow in Terry's mind. It was crazy, but no more so than his current situation. Maybe the wine was starting to go to his head.
"Too bad we can't get close to them," Doyle said. "If we could find out what their strategy was, we might be able to outmaneuver them in front of the board."
You just read my mind, Terry said to himself. He surveyed Doyle's handsome face as he took another sip of wine. With his sculptured features, high cheekbones and fair skin, he might make a better-looking woman than Terry. Give Madam Fabulous a few hours with him, and….
The waiter presented their salads. Terry took a few dainty bites before he floated the thought across the table. "There might be a way, Doyle, but it would be highly unorthodox."
"We have nothing to lose at this point. Unless we do something dramatic, we're going to be hitting the bricks by the end of the week. I don't think that will be much fun in high heels. Come on, counselor," Doyle smiled. "If you have an idea in that pretty little head of yours, let's hear it."
"You spent some time in the theatre, didn't you?" Terry asked, already knowing the answer from Doyle's company bio.
"My first love," Doyle said. "Underneath this button-down façade beats the heart of a frustrated thespian."
"Have you ever played a woman's part?"
The question was so unexpected that Doyle laughed out loud, drawing stares from the nearby tables. "What makes you ask that?" he countered with forced nonchalance.
"Because my idea would entail an undercover operation on our part. Tell me, Doyle, have you ever heard of the House of Fabulous?"
Doyle could barely conceal his excitement. How many times had he seen those advertisements and dreamed! From park benches and passing busses, the House of Fabulous beckoned to "boys who should have been girls." Now he was being presented with the perfect cover! When he responded by saying, "I don't think so," the lie was so transparent that Terry began to wonder about Doyle's acting ability.
Their entrees arrived, and Terry weighed his next words while he twirled capellini pomodoro onto his fork. He was certain now that Gail Chestnut was right about Doyle Rogers. The man was obviously yearning to explore his feminine side, but afraid or ashamed to do so. Terry also felt sure that Madam Fabulous would have no trouble transforming Doyle into an attractive woman. All he needed to do was get him in the door. "The House of Fabulous made me the woman I am today," he said, staring at Doyle above his wine glass.
"Is it some kind of beauty salon?" Doyle asked with feigned ignorance. He had visited the House of Fabulous web site countless times, and a dog-eared copy of "Boys Who Should Have Been Girls" by Madam Fabulous was kept in a drawer in his nightstand.
Terry played along. "Sort of. Maybe it takes one to know one, but I can tell that you would make a spectacular woman." He drained his glass and drummed his manicured fingers on the tablecloth. "Wouldn't you like to try it, just once?"
"What makes you think I'd want to?"
"Because it's such a rush! Look at me, Doyle. It feels so good to dress up like this." Terry crossed his legs with a rustle of nylon, poking one of his high heels out from under the tablecloth. "Do you know what I like about it the most?"
"What?" Doyle whispered.
"Paying back Mother Nature for the trick she played on me. When I was a little kid, people used to tease me by saying, 'You should have been born a girl.' Maybe they were right. Now, when I get dressed up like this, nobody can tell that I'm really a guy."
After years of frustration and denial, the repressed feelings finally poured out of Doyle's tortured soul. "Do you really think I could pass for a woman?" he asked in a quaking voice.
"Take it from me. You'll be a Fabulous Girl."
* * *
They agreed to meet in Doyle's office the next morning to plot their strategy. After he got back to his apartment, Terry found Madam Fabulous's lavender card in his black purse and glanced at his slim wristwatch. It was after ten, but he took a chance and called the number on the card. He waited while it was routed to another extension. "House of Fabulous," the familiar voice answered.
"Madam, it's Terry. I'm sorry to call you so late."
"Nonsense, dear! I'm dying to hear about your dinner date. Tell me everything!"
"Oh, it was wonderful. Madam Fabulous, I have another emergency for you."
"What is it?"
"Can you perform another miracle tomorrow morning? Not for me, for somebody else."
"Bless your heart. Let me consult my palm pilot." A pause. "Tomorrow morning is booked solid, but the afternoon is wide open. Tell me about the project."
"He's a natural. About my height and weight, a lot better-looking, and a trained actor to boot."
"Oh my. You are becoming my favorite customer, Terry. Tell your friend to come at one o'clock, when the Mistresses get back from lunch. What's his name?"
"Doyle. I'll be with him. I need you to give me some of those curves that can stop traffic."
"We'll be waiting for you."
Terry hung up and started to get ready for bed. After hanging up his dress and peeling off his lingerie and stockings, he removed his makeup with cold cream and freed himself from the hated gaff. Dressed in his blue satin nightgown and panties, he crawled under the covers and was about to switch off the light on his nightstand when the telephone rang. It was Gail Chestnut.
"How was your big date?" she giggled.
"I do believe you're jealous," Terry bantered back in a girlish voice.
"You bet I am! Did you give him a goodnight kiss?"
"No! It was strictly business, Gail."
"Hmmm…sounds like Mr. Rogers' secretary was right about him. No straight guy could have resisted a girl as hot as you." Her voice was incredibly sultry, and Terry felt himself stirring. He looked under the covers to see a tent forming in his nightgown as his penis strained against his satin panties.
"Do you really think I'm hot?" he asked.
"I'm getting hot right now just thinking about you."
"That makes two of us."
"What did you wear tonight?"
"Just a dress."
"What's it like?"
Terry felt himself starting to lose control. He tugged the waistband of his panties down and freed himself as he cradled the phone on his shoulder. "It's white with little blue polka dots. It has sort of a gathered waist and a princess collar."
"Sounds cute. Do you have it on now?"
"No."
"What are you wearing?"
"A nightgown and panties."
"Yum! Pull your panties down."
"I already did."
"Naughty girl! Are you touching yourself?"
"Not yet," Terry moaned as his penis twitched in anticipation.
"Listen carefully. I want you to take the hem of your nightie and wrap it around yourself. Is it nice and silky?"
"Yes. Oh God."
"Make pretend it's me sliding up and down…up and down…up and down…oh God…oh God!"
At the sound of Gail coming, Terry gave way to a shattering orgasm, prolonged by her panting sighs on the other end of the line. When the waves of ecstasy finally subsided, he fell back in exhaustion, the phone still cradled on his shoulder.
"Well, that was a first," Gail sighed.
"Your first phone sex?"
"Our first simultaneous orgasms. Imagine what we can do when we're in the same bed."
Terry fell asleep to delicious dreams.
* * *
The next morning, Terry was up at five again to begin his preparations for another day as a woman. Shaving his legs, styling his hair and putting on his makeup was almost becoming a routine. Even though he hadn't jogged in two days, the increased metabolism brought on by the anxiety of masquerading as a woman, combined with his new diet, had taken five pounds off his already slim physique. His waist looked almost tiny between his false breasts and pantied ass, and when he tugged on a pair of control top pantyhose, it shrank even more.
Terry dressed himself in his one remaining outfit, the blue suit. Accessorized with a colorful red and white scarf, sheer navy stockings, and the blue heels and purse, he looked every inch the female lawyer. Whereas Terrence Poindexter had been a hopeless wimp, Terry Poindexter had looks, style, and a special confidence that came from knowing he had a secret identity.
He rode the Muni to the financial district and stopped at a corner bakery for a cup of coffee and a muffin before walking the rest of the way to Tyrex Industries. The receptionist was on duty when he got off the elevator, and she greeting him with an amused smile. "Good morning, Ms. Poindexter. You're looking lovely today."
"Why thank you, Jean. I like your dress," Terry said as he walked through the door. He felt her eyes boring into his back as he strolled down the corridor to Gail's desk. "Morning, Gail," he said. "Sleep well last night?"
She followed him into his office and closed the door behind them. They locked in a tight embrace, sharing a passionate kiss that neither wanted to end. When they finally broke off the clinch, their makeup and hair were a mess. Gail went to work on Terry, and he did the best he could with her, trying to ignore the protest from his panties while he wiped his lipstick off her beautiful face. "Down boy," he said to himself.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," Gail said. "Your place or mine tonight?"
He looked longingly at her beautiful body. "Afraid I'm going out tonight."
"Another date with Doyle?" she asked playfully.
"Well yes, but not in the way you think." He could see the hurt in her eyes, and he stopped her before she could leave. "Doyle and I are going to take a walk on the wild side." She listened as he explained.
* * *
At noon, Terry and Doyle left the office separately, a few minutes apart. Terry was waiting for him on the corner of Montgomery and Sacramento streets when Doyle pulled up to the curb in his Porsche. Doyle reached over to open the passenger door, and Terry sat down as gracefully as he could in his tight skirt.
Earlier that morning, Terry had come to Doyle's office to find him in a state of near panic. "Forget what I told you last night," he'd said. "I can't go through with this."
"Yes you can, and you will. The arrangements have already been made. You have an appointment with Madam Fabulous at one o'clock, and she does not tolerate tardiness." Secretly thrilled by Terry's domineering tone, Doyle had meekly agreed. The rest of the morning was spent meeting with the company's investment bankers and preparing for the emergency meeting of the board of directors, which was scheduled for nine o'clock the following day. Doyle's assistant was surprised when he told her to clear his schedule for the afternoon, but with all the craziness going on in the office, she took it in her stride.
Now, as he wove his Porsche through the lunch hour traffic, Doyle was obviously a nervous wreck. "What are they going to do to me first?" he asked.
"Well, let's see," Terry said. "Did you shave last night?"
"Yes." Before they left the restaurant, Terry had instructed Doyle to remove all of his body hair before he went to bed, a command which he had been only too happy to obey.
"Then you will probably go right into makeup. After you are properly gaffed, of course."
"Does that hurt?"
"Just one of the many joys of being a woman."
Doyle's mind was racing as they climbed up California Street towards Nob Hill. "How long do you think it will take?"
"Three or four hours, depending on how long it takes to fit you with a wig and fingernails. That should give us plenty of time to pick out our outfits for tonight."
"We must be out of our minds."
"No turning back now, Doyle. If I could do it, you can do it." They rode in silence the rest of the way. After Doyle found a parking space on Castro Street, Terry led them to the gingerbread Victorian townhouse with the lavender front door. He strode confidently up the steps, Doyle following a few steps behind him, and pressed the buzzer. The door opened immediately.
"Welcome back to the House of Fabulous. Look at you, Terry! Aren't you stunning? And this must be Doyle," Madam Fabulous gushed as she showed them into the foyer. She was dressed in a simple gray shift with her trademark strand of pearls, classic coif and immaculate makeup. "Terry was right," she said to Doyle. "You are going to be a delight to work with." She sat down on a lavender settee and patted the cushions on either side of her. "Sit down, girls." Terry sat down to one side of her, while Doyle hesitated. "Do as you're told," Madam Fabulous repeated with irritation, and Doyle immediately complied.
Sissy, the Mistress of Fashion, entered the foyer. Terry got up and gave her a hug. After they exchanged air kisses, they stood next to each other while Madam Fabulous turned her attention to Doyle. "Because you were referred by Terry, I will dispense with the usual preliminaries. Repeat after me: 'I dedicate myself to the discovery of my inner woman, and I pledge my allegiance to Madam Fabulous and her Mistresses in my quest to become a Fabulous Girl.'" Doyle hung his head and repeated the pledge in a halting voice. "Take him away to be gaffed," Madam Fabulous said to Sissy, who took Doyle by the hand and led him into an adjoining room.
When they were alone, Madam Fabulous held Terry's hands and smiled with genuine pleasure. "I can't tell you how proud I am of you. You look adorable. How does it feel?"
"It feels…nice," Terry said. "It's a lot of work, but it's all worth it when I see the look in people's eyes. I never thought of myself as attractive before."
"This is just the beginning, Terry. You are truly a Fabulous Girl."
"Madam, can I ask you a question?"
"Of course, dear."
"Who were you before you became Madam Fabulous?"
"It's rather a long story," Madam Fabulous replied. "Have you had lunch?"
"No."
"Neither have I. Your friend is in good hands. Let's have a ladies' lunch and share some of our secrets."
* * *
Darwin DeVour got up from the dining room table and strolled over to the windows in the elegantly furnished parlor. The view of San Francisco Bay from the Presidential Suite at the Mark Hopkins was spectacular, and DeVour took a few moments to savor the moment. His last takeover target had been a ball bearing manufacturer based in Youngstown, and although the acquisition had been extremely lucrative, he had left a little on the table to expedite his escape from Ohio. There would be no such incentive tomorrow.
Lance Raptor, still pouring over the computer printouts and financial statements strewn over the dining room table, took a telephone call. It was from a house phone in the lobby. "Sure, bring it up," he said before he joined DeVour by the windows. "That was a secretary from Tyrex. She's got a letter from the board concerning tomorrow's meeting."
"That's what I like about this town," DeVour said. "When we were in Youngstown, they sent goons to our hotel to break our legs. Here, we get a letter from a secretary. Of course, in San Francisco, she probably used to be a man." There was a knock on the door, and Raptor opened it to admit Gail Chestnut. On Terry's instructions, she had stopped by her apartment to change into a tight sweater, short leather skirt, fishnet stockings and calf-high boots.
Raptor was practically drooling as she opened her shoulder bag and pulled out an envelope. "This is a letter with instructions about when and where the board meeting will be tomorrow," she said. "I'm supposed to give it to Mr. DeVour. Is that you?"
"No, that's me, angel," DeVour said. "What's your name?"
"Gail. Gail Chestnut. Nice to meet you," she said as she pressed the envelope into his hands. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you guys tomorrow."
"Why not tonight?" DeVour said. "I'm going to own your company in a few days, and I like to get to know my new employees." The line was so outrageous that Gail had to stop herself from laughing out loud. Even Raptor seemed to be embarrassed by DeVour's crude approach.
"Tell you what," Gail said as she walked towards the door. "Come to the Top of the Mark at six o'clock." Before either of them could respond, she was out the door and down the hall. She waited until she was on the elevator before she took out her cell phone and punched in Terry's cell phone number.
He answered in his girl's voice. "Hello?"
"Message delivered."
"Great! I owe you big time."
"You may take that back after you see them."
"What do they look like?"
"DeVour is about a hundred pounds overweight, with a bad comb-over. The other guy is skinny, with beady eyes and a cheap rug. Take your pick."
"Take the rest of the day off. You've earned it," Terry said. He switched off his phone and put it back in his purse. "Sorry," he said to Madam Fabulous, who was seated across the table at a trendy restaurant featuring a fusion of Mexican and Asian cuisine.
"Not at all," she said as she studied the menu. "I recommend the Thai chicken enchiladas with lotus sauce."
"Why not? At least our farts will be fragrant," Terry said, and they laughed like two schoolgirls. After they ordered, he asked her the question he had posed earlier. "Who were you before you became Madam Fabulous?"
Madam Fabulous sat back in her chair with a faraway look in her eyes. "Have you ever heard of Finnochio's?" she asked.
"You mean the Disney puppet cartoon?"
"No," she smiled sadly. "For over sixty years, Finnochio's was the hottest thing in North Beach, with the possible exception of Carol Doda's 44D breasts at the Condor Club."
"Carol Doda?"
"You've never heard of her either?" Madam Fabulous shook her head. "It's so sad. In its heyday, Finnochio's was the toughest ticket in San Francisco. People used to line up around the block for over an hour to see the next show. Straight people, tourists, businessmen and their wives, even Hollywood celebrities."
"What kind of show was it?"
"The world's premier cabaret for female impersonators. Six days a week, there were four shows a night with a live orchestra, while tuxedoed waiters served drinks to the packed tables. Finnochio's was a complete variety show, with lavish production numbers, a chorus line, singers, dancers, strippers, comediennes, jugglers, even a puppeteer. All of them played by men."
Terry was perplexed. He was pretty sure that Madam Fabulous was really a woman, but why was she so wrapped up in the history of a drag show? And what did it have to do with the House of Fabulous?
As if reading his mind, Madam Fabulous said, "No, I wasn't an act in the show. The nerve of you to even think that! For over twenty years, my father was the emcee at Finnochio's. Every afternoon, he used to leave for work dressed as a man – that was one of the house rules – and return home the same way, although I was always in bed by then."
"Wasn't that kind of…weird?"
"Compared to what?" Madam Fabulous chuckled. "Half of my friends came from broken homes, and there were plenty of strange things happening in San Francisco in those days. Haight Ashbury, the Summer of Love, People's Park over in Berkeley…so my father put on a dress at work.
"And he was beautiful! I knew what he did, but until my sixteenth birthday I never saw him perform. I'll never forget that experience! In his sequined gown and platinum blonde wig, he was absolutely devastating. 'The First Lady of San Francisco,' Herb Caen used to call him. He even got some cameo parts in movies and hit TV shows."
"Your mother must have been very understanding."
"If anything, she was jealous that he looked better in a dress than she did. But she knew how lucky she was to have a gorgeous husband who didn't play around, loved his family, and was a good provider. Mr. and Mrs. Finnochio paid top dollar, including medical benefits and Christmas bonuses, and we had a very comfortable life."
"What happened to Finnochio's?"
"It went downhill after my father retired, and closed up for good eventually."
"And your father?"
"He died of Alzheimer's a few years later. My mother had already passed away, and they left me with a tidy inheritance. Bay Area real estate wasn't so expensive when my father was performing, and he invested every spare cent in Marin County."
"So you decided to invest it in the House of Fabulous?"
"Some of it. I got the idea at my father's funeral. Hundreds of people came up to me and told me how much they enjoyed seeing him perform, and dozens of old Finnochio employees were there too. You met three of them the other day."
Terry had a blank expression on his face until he realized what she meant. "The Mistresses?"
"Of course. The Mistress of Fashion was an ingénue in the chorus line, and the Mistress of Poise used to juggle coconuts while riding a unicycle in hot pants. The Mistress of Style was a makeup wizard, one of the few female employees at Finnochio's."
Their entrees arrived, and for the next two hours Madam Fabulous regaled Terry with tales of Finnochio's and the House of Fabulous. Eventually she looked at her watch and said, "We'd better get back and see how your friend is doing." They emerged from the restaurant into a glorious afternoon, sunny and crisp, and they took their time strolling back to the House of Fabulous. It was almost four o'clock by the time they returned.
When they entered the foyer, they came face to face with the most spectacular confection of face and form that Terry had ever laid eyes on. Ash blonde hair topped a visage of exquisite beauty, complemented by a body that could raise the dead. Large firm breasts and a pair of legs that didn't stop were wrapped in a skin-tight dress that showed considerably more than it concealed. Even Madam Fabulous was speechless. Feeling a bit frumpy in his conservative suit, Terry could only stand and stare at the person who used to be Doyle Rogers.
"How do I look?" the acting CEO of Tyrex Industries asked in a voice as soft and sweet as spun sugar.
Madam Fabulous was the first to speak. "Beyond fabulous!" she exclaimed. "Have you selected a name?"
"Well, I kind of like Ginger," he said with a shy smile.
"Ginger Rogers! How perfectly precious!"
Terry finally blurted out, "I want a body like that."
"Of course you do, dear!" Madam Fabulous said. "How thoughtless of me. We'll also want to do a few things to your hair and makeup, and find you something special to wear for tonight. You girls are going to take San Francisco by storm."
* * *
Ginger could barely contain himself as they drove back up Nob Hill. "I'm strictly a female female," he was singing as his dress rode up his thighs each time he shifted his Porsche through the gears. "I enjoy being a girl!"
Terry was relieved that he had been right about Ginger, and the finished product was beyond his wildest expectations. By comparison, he felt like a plain Jane, even after the House of Fabulous bent him into shape and poured him into a tight dress. Of immediate concern was how to get Ginger back down to earth for the business at hand.
The ringing of Ginger's car phone broke the spell. "Answer it like a man," Terry said sharply.
"Hello," Ginger said in Doyle's old voice.
At first the rasping on the speakerphone was hard to understand, but both of them quickly recognized the caller as Charles Bigelow. "Doyle, what's happening with the tender offer?"
"The board has agreed to meet with Great White tomorrow morning."
"That's bullshit! How can they do that?" Bigelow sounded like he was about to have another seizure.
"On advice of our counsel, the board has to go through the motions to maintain appearances."
"I want to see you immediately."
"But sir, aren't you still in Saint Francis?"
"I'm out of intensive care, and the doctors said I can have visitors. You're in your car, how soon can you get here?"
Ginger pushed the mute button. "We're fucked," he said.
"You don't have time to change, pay a visit to Bigelow in the hospital, and get gussied up again for what we have to do tonight, " Terry said. "You're just going to have to go as you are."
"Are you crazy?"
"Either that or blow him off. Go ahead. Show some balls."
Ginger pushed the mute button and said, "I really don't think it's a good idea for you to be discussing business in your condition."
"God damn it, I want you here now!" Bigelow wheezed. "Move it!"
The line went dead. "What do I do now?" Ginger asked morosely.
"You go as you are. Want some company?"
* * *
Charles Bigelow was propped up on two pillows, trying to read Barron's without getting it tangled up in the wires which attached him to an electrocardiogram. He looked up when he heard a commotion in the hall outside his room, just in time to see Ginger and Terry come in with a nurse right behind them. "I told you, close friends and family only," she was saying, obviously certain that neither of them could possibly fit into that category.
"Who the hell are you?" Bigelow asked.
"Don't you recognize us?" Ginger said in Doyle's old voice. Bigelow squinted over his newspaper, then let it fall to his lap as the shocked nurse looked on.
"Rogers?"
"Doesn't he look lovely?" Terry said.
"Poindexter? I thought I fired your ass!"
"Doyle's first official act as acting CEO was to take me back. Now I'm heading up our legal strategy in the takeover battle!"
Bigelow clutched at his chest and the electrocardiogram began to beep alarmingly. The nurse rushed to his side just as Bigelow went into cardiac arrest.
"Oh dear, it looks like he's having a relapse," Terry said.
The nurse pressed the intercom button beside Bigelow's bed and shouted "Code Red! Stat!" She was administering CPR when a doctor and an intern barged into the room. The doctor took one look at Ginger and Terry and told them to leave immediately.
The nurse was going to work with the defibrillator as they made their way out the door. "Who let those floozies in here?" they heard the doctor ask her.
"Well, it looks like we're dressed right for tonight," Terry said. "Wouldn't it be nice if Darwin DeVour has a heart condition?"
* * *
In fact, Darwin DeVour's heart was reasonably healthy, and he expected to give it a good workout that evening. He was seated with Lance Raptor at a table near the bar at the Top of the Mark, strategically positioned to give him a view of the door. It was a few minutes past six, and Raptor glanced nervously at his watch. "She's not coming," he said. "This place is dead. Let's head over to North Beach."
"Relax," DeVour was saying when two women walked into the room. "Hot damn! What a piece of ass."
Raptor looked up and stared as Ginger and Terry walked over to the bar. "Yowza. The brunette's not bad either. Look at those legs," he said as Terry slid onto a barstool and tugged at his short dress. They watched as the girls ordered kir royales.
"She's yours. I want the blonde," DeVour said. He got up from the table and made a beeline for Ginger. "Hello angel," he said. "Did you hurt yourself?"
Ginger looked up from his drink. "Hurt myself?"
"You know, when you fell out of heaven."
The years of acting experience paid off. "If I'm an angel, you must be the devil," Ginger said.
"So they say in the newspapers."
"You must be somebody important!"
Meanwhile, Terry was parrying lame pickup lines from Lance Raptor and trying not to stare at his bad toupee. "I love that accent of yours," he was saying. "Where are you staying in San Francisco?"
"We're in the Presidential Suite at this hotel," Raptor replied.
"The Presidential Suite! Ginger, they're staying in the Presidential Suite! I'd love to see that!" Terry gushed.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" DeVour asked. "Come on, girls." Raptor paid for their drinks, and they followed the men into the lobby and onto a waiting elevator. A few seconds letter, it stopped at the floor below and DeVour led the way to pair of double doors at the end of the short hallway.
"It really says 'The Presidential Suite,' Ginger said as he admired the brass plaque on the door. Once they were inside, the girls raced around the parlor, oohing and aahing over the size of the room, the luxurious furniture, and the spectacular view. "Now I feel like an angel," Ginger said. "This must be what it's like in heaven."
Terry kicked off his heels and plopped down onto a cream leather sofa, crossing his legs provocatively. "What do they drink in heaven?" he asked.
"Anything you want, little lady," DeVour replied. "Anything you want." Raptor went to the stocked bar and poured himself a Jack Daniels. "Bring me a Dewar's and some champagne for the girls," DeVour told him. "Unless you'd prefer something else," he said to Ginger, who was perched on the arm of the sofa next to Terry.
"Champagne sounds great," Ginger said. Raptor found a bottle in the refrigerator under the bar, and while he was opening it, Terry wandered into the dining room, where he spied a stack of binders on the dining room table. They were obviously intended for the Tyrex board meeting the next day. A pile of manila folders and a notebook computer occupied another corner of the table.
Terry returned to the parlor and sat down in a wing chair, allowing DeVour to sit next to Ginger on the sofa. He draped a fat arm around Ginger's back and pulled him down next to him while Raptor was filling his glass with champagne. Ginger cried out as he spilled champagne on his dress, and DeVour and Raptor made a show of mopping off Ginger's lap and legs with napkins. While everyone was preoccupied with Ginger's wet dress, Terry pulled a miniature digital camera out of his purse and shot a quick picture of Ginger and DeVour laughing while they embraced each other.
He had the camera back in his purse before Raptor came over to his chair. "I thought you might be lonely over here," Raptor said.
Terry got up and walked over to the coffee table in front of the couch. "Could I change my mind and have something stronger?" he asked.
"Sure. What'll it be?"
"Straight vodka," Terry said. When Raptor when back to the bar, Terry reached into his purse again and pulled out a case full of little white pills. Ginger pulled DeVour's face toward his, allowing Terry to drop one of the pills into DeVour's drink. After a swift glance to make sure that Raptor was still preoccupied at the bar, he dropped another pill into Raptor's glass. By the time Raptor was back with his vodka, Terry had seated himself in the wing chair again. He took a long pull on his vodka and settled back to watch the show.
It took several minutes before the Rohypnol worked its way through the men's systems. Because Raptor was skinnier, he started to go first. When it was obvious that he was feeling dizzy, Terry pulled him down on the wing chair and sat on his lap, pretending to come on to him in case DeVour happened to look their way. By the time Raptor was unconscious, DeVour knew that something was wrong, and he took a few labored steps towards the powder room before he keeled over and passed out on the plush carpet.
Terry and Ginger stepped over them and walked into the dining room, where they opened up two of the binders and began to pour over Great White's board presentation. While Terry scoured it for legal deficiencies, Ginger flipped through the financials behind the executive summary. "It's obvious that they intend some major divestitures," he said.
"Why do you say that?"
"They're going to have to sell off some major assets to reduce the debt they're taking on to finance their bid."
"Well, they don't identify anything that's going to be sold in the executive summary," Terry said.
"That must mean they don't want the board to know," Ginger said. He saw the files stacked up across the table and started looking through them. "Well, well," he said after a few minutes. "It's all here. Once Great White gets control of Tyrex Industries, they intend to sell off all the California assets and close the San Francisco headquarters."
"That's not going to sit very well with the board," Terry said. Most of them were third or fourth generation San Franciscans, and Tyrex Industries was deeply entrenched in civic affairs and local charities.
"I think the board has a right to know this, don't you? I'm off to the business center to make some copies," Ginger said.
Terry was busy with the notebook computer that lay open on the table. "Before you go, there's something else I want you to do first. Lift up your dress and pull down your panties."
* * *
Doyle Rogers entered the boardroom shortly before nine o'clock the following morning. Dressed in a gray flannel suit, the acting CEO of Tyrex Industries bore no resemblance to Ginger Rogers. His wig and fingernails were stashed in a bag in Terry's office, along with the dress and other feminine paraphernalia from the House of Fabulous. He was greeted with grim hellos by the members of the board, who were still reeling from the news of Charles Bigelow's latest setback and the impending hostile takeover by Great White, LLC.
"What's the latest on Charles," the Vice Chairman of the Board asked Rogers.
"He's back in intensive care after a second heart attack last night. Obviously he tried to come back too fast, so they've got him under heavy sedation. It looks like he's going to make it, but there's no way the doctors will let him meet with anyone regarding business, or let him get anywhere near a phone, for quite some time."
"Understandable. We certainly appreciate the way you've stepped up to the plate."
"Thank you. While we're waiting for the people from Great White, I would like to request some guidance from the board concerning a matter which is not on our agenda."
"Go ahead," the Vice Chairman said.
"One of our employees, an attorney named Terrence Poindexter, is threatening to sue the company for wrongful termination."
"Did you say an attorney?" one of the directors asked.
"That's right. Evidently Mr. Bigelow fired him for wearing women's clothing. Under a new California law, that was a clear-cut violation of his civil rights."
"We had a similar situation at my company," one of the outside directors said. "A female employee was fired because she was a lesbian. She took us to the cleaners."
"How could Bigelow do that to a lawyer, in this town no less?" the Vice Chairman asked. "If he gets in front of a jury, it could cost us millions."
"I think you should work out a settlement," another director chimed in. "Maybe if the company offers to contribute to an outreach program for gays, he'll settle for less."
"Settle it," the Vice Chairman pronounced. "Pay him whatever you have to. Just make it go away."
"Thank you, I'll take care of it right after the meeting," Doyle said.
"I wonder where the Great White people are?" the Vice Chairman said with a trace of annoyance. Just then Darwin DeVour walked into the board room, followed by two assistants carrying heavy bags full of presentation materials. The Chief Executive Officer of Great White, LLC looked absolutely dreadful.
After DeVour and Raptor failed to show up for a breakfast meeting two hours earlier, their underlings had eventually gained entry to the Presidential Suite. There they had found both men passed out on the carpet, DeVour looking like a beached whale, and Raptor with his hairpiece slanting off his head like the half-open top on a Mustang convertible. After many cups of coffee and two cold showers, the frantic assistants had finally gotten DeVour shaved and dressed. Raptor, still too drugged to function, had been abandoned in the suite. After hurriedly gathering up the board materials and notebook computer, DeVour and his entourage had piled into a stretch limousine for the mad dash to Tyrex headquarters.
Darwin DeVour's survival instincts didn't fail him. "Good morning," he said with surprising smoothness while his flunkies passed around the binders and set up the notebook computer for a power point presentation. Although he had a splitting headache in his left temple, he appeared calm and collected. "I am pleased to have this opportunity to discuss our proposal to maximize shareholder value for Tyrex Industries. Great White has a history of increasing the efficiency and performance of the companies we invest in, while remaining sensitive to their corporate cultures."
"Then why are you proposing to close our San Francisco office?" asked one of the directors, who had been flipping through her binder. She tore out a page and handed it to him. When he saw it, his face blanched, and his left temple began to throb while the other directors opened their binders. They found the following document inserted in the middle of their executive summaries:
MEMORANDUM
To: Darwin DeVour
From: Lance Raptor
Re: Tyrex Industries/Disposal Strategy
The following action is to take place immediately following the tender offer:
1. Close San Francisco office. Savings: $10,000,000
2. Eliminate all Bay Area charities and civic affairs. Savings: $5,000,000
The memorandum went on to list the California assets of Tyrex Industries which were destined for the chopping block. Doyle Rogers, who had inserted it into the binders the night before, watched the directors fume as they read it through.
Darwin DeVour did not get to the top of the business world by being slow on his feet. "I don't know how this got in here," he said. "This is nothing more than a list of proposed alternatives, prepared by one of our investment bankers. I was so outraged by it that I told him not to attend this meeting." Then, to one of his startled assistants, he said, "Please begin the slide presentation." The notebook computer had been rigged to a slide projector on one side of the long conference table, and the directors swiveled in their chairs to face the screen.
The first slide depicted a scene of domestic tranquility, featuring Darwin DeVour with an attractive woman, two small children, and a golden retriever. "Great White prides itself in supporting family values and traditional virtues," DeVour intoned while the directors studied the screen. "Next slide, please," he said.
When the slide went up, it was greeted with gasps from around the table. DeVour turned around to see a picture of himself and Ginger in the Presidential Suite. He appeared to be lifting the hem of her short dress while she sat next to him on a sofa. The pain in his temple intensified. "Next slide," he said in a strained voice to the bewildered assistant working the computer. More gasps from around the table as the girl who had just been seen embracing Darwin DeVour stood facing the board of directors, her dress and panties pulled away to reveal a well-hung penis and balls.
"Why are you showing us pictures of yourself with a transvestite?" one of the directors asked as they stared at the screen. The room started to spin, and the throb in DeVour's temple became a shooting star. While the stunned board of directors of Tyrex Industries looked on, his legs gave way and he tumbled onto the floor.
For the third consecutive day, Doyle Rogers witnessed the collapse of a business chieftain. "This one looks like a stroke," he said as he reached for the phone to call 911. "Maybe he'll get the room next to Mr. Bigelow."
* * *
Three months later, a very tan Terrence Poindexter sang "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems" as he pulled his jeep into the gravel driveway of his beachside villa in Maui. Gail Chestnut, equally tanned and wearing only a Forty-Niners jersey that barely covered her ass, was waiting for him on their upstairs balcony overlooking the blue Pacific. A carafe of guava nectar and a steaming pot of Kona coffee sat next to a plate of mangos on a glass-topped table.
He sat down across from her and plopped a newspaper on the table. "Where were you, baby?" Gail asked with a yawn.
" I woke up early, and I've been feeling a little stir-crazy, so I drove into Lahaina to pick up a two-day-old Chronicle. The clerk at the store still can't figure out whether I'm a guy or a girl," he added with a laugh.
She unfastened the rubber band in his hair, which was bleached almost blonde from the sun, and watched as it fell down around his shoulders. "It's only important that I know. Are you homesick?" she asked as she reached for the entertainment section.
"God no, I was just wondering whatever happened to Tyrex." He flipped through the business section and ran his eye over the share prices while Gail perused the headlines. "Great White stock is in the toilet," Terrence said as he poured them each a cup of coffee, "but Tyrex is up five bucks. I wonder if Doyle's still at the helm."
"I seriously doubt it," Gail said. Before he could ask her why, she handed him the article she'd just finished:
NORTH BEACH LANDMARK REOPENS
San Francisco – Lines snaked down Broadway once again as Finnochio's, where beautiful women are not what they seem, reopened to delirious audiences at its old location in North Beach. Backed by the House of Fabulous with a grant from Tyrex Industries, the venerable cabaret featured some old favorites, including a juggling unicyclist and original members of the chorus line, but the night belonged to a blonde bombshell named Ginger Rogers. In her show-stopping debut, she brought down the house with a spectacular rendition of "I Enjoy Being a Girl".
By the author of Skylord, coming soon from PublishAmerica
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