This story was inspired by "Arresting Officer" by Ann Douglas.  
I tried to reach her, but failed.  (She has apparently retired, 
and her e-mail address is no longer valid.)




                         COSTUMES

                            by

                        C. Lakewood




    "Happy Halloween, Sarge!" patrolman Patterson chuckled.  "The 
hookers are sure out in force tonight...or maybe we should call 
'em 'trick-or-treaters.'  Whatever, His Honor should be happy as 
a clam at the photo op this roundup'll give him."

    Sergeant "Harry" Callahan smiled and nodded as he watched the 
gaggle of scantily clad prostitutes being crowded onto the blue 
police bus.  He was looking forward to a leisurely trip back to 
the 27th precinct, alone with a one of the younger, cleaner 
specimens.  

    "Just about full," Patterson continued.  "Should be a few left 
over for us to take down to the station house in our cars, as 
usual.  Two or three of 'em ain't bad...and one is...well, take 
a look over there."

    The paunchy sergeant, normally quite blasé, was stunned.

    She was a redhead, easily 5'9" (even without the black vinyl, 
stiletto-heeled boots), and probably early 20s.  Her outfit was 
common among local hookers, but she herself was hardly typical 
-- clearly a thoroughbred among plow horses.  She wore too much 
makeup, of course, but this mask didn't prevent her from 
projecting a certain wholesomeness that must have made her 
very popular with her clientele.  Green eyes, turned-up nose, 
thin but very sensual lips...girl-next-door stuff.  Not even the 
garish plastic hoops hanging from her ears cheapened her much.  
Her figure was well above average, provocatively displayed in a 
tight, pink tube-top and a denim micro-skirt slit to the waist 
on one side.  (She was obviously wearing either a thong or no 
panties at all -- and the sergeant was looking forward to 
finding out which.  (He was, after all, senior officer on 
the scene, so he'd get first choice of girls.)

    "Bring her over here, Pat," he managed to croak.

    Patterson, wishing that HE had the sergeant's stripes on his 
sleeve, dutifully obeyed orders.  

    "Christmas in October," Callahan thought, as he watched her 
approach -- all jiggling tits and rippling thigh muscles.  
"Makes you proud to be a cop...."

    As she got nearer, he could see that her nipples were stiffly 
erect and threatening to burst through her tube-top.  He took a 
deep breath.

    When she stood in front of him, expressionless but rather 
stiff-necked, he cleared his throat self-consciously and asked, 
"Name?"

    "Daisy...Daisy Adair."

    He felt his old swagger returning.

    "Okay, Daisy...Daisy Adair.  You know you're in trouble.  You 
ever been busted before?"

    "No."

    (A little defiant, huh?  Well, I like that...at the beginning.  
Makes it sweeter when they break.) 

    "Well, it's not pleasant...unless you have a friend on the 
force who's willing to put in a good word for you."  His expression 
was a cross between an avuncular smile and a perverted leer.  "The 
bus is full, so you can ride to the station with me....  And we can 
discuss your situation...."  

    He grasped Daisy's arm and, without turning his head, said to 
Patterson, "Okay, Pat, I'll take it from here."  

    The patrolman coughed.  "Unh...Sarge?"

    Callahan glanced at him and then looked around to discover what 
the patrolman was staring at....

    (Holy crap!  It's the greaser bitch!)

    The normally florid sergeant actually blanched when he saw 
Lieutenant Ramona Sanchez striding across the blacktop parking 
lot toward him, as if she had a ramrod up her ass.  Their paths 
had crossed before, not often, but oftener than he liked -- and 
never to his advantage.

    She was attractive...in a way...if you liked the type, Callahan 
had to admit, grudgingly.  Glossy black hair, drawn back into a 
severe bun; smooth olive skin; dark eyes, at present hidden behind 
aviator-style, mirrored sunglasses; slender but muscular body, 
concealed by her crisp uniform -- physically, she was not bad at 
all....  But she could (and did) quote the manual, chapter and 
verse, at inconvenient times, she seemed to have no sense of humor, 
and (since she had totally ignored his attempts to come on to her), 
he strongly suspected that she was a dyke...or, at least, a 
feminist (which was pretty much the same thing).

    Lt. Sanchez stopped purposefully in front of the sergeant and, 
drawing herself up to her full 5'6" (well, 5'3" without heels), 
drawled, "Everything under control here, Sergeant Callahan?"

    "Oh, yes...unh...ma'am.  The bus is full, so we're about to 
transport the last of these hookers in squad cars...."

    "And I suppose you've decided to handle this one yourself.  
Have you searched her yet...for drugs or weapons?"

    "Not...quite...yet...."  

    "Then send the bus and the other cars on.  I want to observe 
you strip-searching this puta -- right here, before we go downtown.  
She looks extra-suspicious to me." 

    He waved to the other vehicles, shooing them off, but then 
hesitated, mentally seething.  ("That damn, castrating bitch 
Sanchez....  What the fuck is she up to now?" he wondered.) 

    "Well, go ahead, Sergeant.  But make sure you do a THOROUGH 
job of it."

    He repressed his urge to heave a sigh, because he didn't want 
to give her the satisfaction. 

    "Okay, Red, gimme the purse first."

    She handed over the cheap little bag.  The contents didn't 
occupy him long: $47 dollars in cash (he tried to work out mentally 
what that sum might probably represent), a comb, two lipsticks 
(pink and cranberry), breath mints, several sealed condom packets, 
and a cell phone.

    "Now the tube-top," he growled at the girl.  

    She hesitated, looking faintly disturbed and glancing about 
the deserted parking lot.  But what the hell did SHE have to be 
shy about?  In Callahan's universe, hookers did what they were 
told, when they were told...and smiled when they did it.

    "Stop fuckin' around, girlie....  The tube-top."

    Reluctantly, she pulled it off.  He forgot his annoyance 
then.  He had seen bigger boobs, but never more perfect ones.  
All natural, too -- he was a connoisseur.  Bouncy, precisely 
spherical, with beautiful, juicy-looking, pink nipples.  (He 
imagined Sanchez's tits were limp, stretch-marked saggers with 
dry, black nipples....)  If the rest of this hooker's body was 
anywhere near as good as her rack, he'd milk this search for 
all it was worth.  He wished he'd brought a camera, even a 
camera-phone.

    A chill wind whispered across the parking lot, raising 
gooseflesh on the half-naked redhead and making her nipples 
stand even taller.
      
    Callahan coughed, feeling his erection grow, and let the 
tube-top fall to the ground, virtually unnoticed.
  
    "Unh...boots," he muttered, clearly saving the best for last.  
        
    Gentleman that he was, he allowed Daisy to lean on him while 
she pulled off her boots.  Her bare toes curled when they came 
into contact with the cold asphalt, and she commenced a little 
involuntary dance.
 
    Nothing in the boots, he assured himself.  

    He paused, savoring the moment.  (Lt. Sanchez was forgotten.)  
NOW he'd find out what Daisy had under the skirt.

    He disdainfully snapped his fingers, and Daisy, apparently 
having decided that resistance was futile, dropped her skirt 
and kicked it over to him.

    It was a thong...transparent cream-colored mesh.

    In a grating voice, he ordered her to pick it up and hand it 
to him, "like a good little girl."  He was feeling like his old 
self again.  He found that the tiny skirt was also free of 
contraband.

    "Alright, sweetheart, pass me the panties."

    She was shaved completely.  He wasn't surprised, but he was 
enthralled.  Her labia dangled, moist and puffy.

    The panties were wispy...and damp.  Perfect.  He fingered 
them a moment, then tucked them into his pants pocket, not even 
bothering to try to conceal the move.    

    He grinned at Daisy and wiggled his fingers suggestively.  
"Phase 2," he said.  "Bend over."

    "Wait a minute, Sergeant, where are your gloves?" Lt. Sanchez 
asked.

    Reflexively, he almost answered that it wasn't cold enough 
for gloves.  Then, as he opened his mouth, he realized she was 
referring to latex exam gloves.  He sputtered for a moment, 
feeling foolish, his ego deflating.  "I...unh...didn't think 
I'd need any...I mean...not here...."

    "Well, search her cunt, anyway; the rest can wait."

    Callahan was pissed.  But he looked at Daisy, who was dutifully 
bent over, her hands on the ground, her ass in the air, and her 
drooling cunt on display between her straddled legs.

    The roller-coaster he was on headed upward again.

    He licked one finger and eased it into Daisy's slightly open 
cunt.  It was warm and creamy inside.  In went a second finger and, 
when he began diddling her clit with his thumb, her cunt muscles 
started to squeeze and flex.  He imagined his prick being where his 
fingers were, and just lived in the moment.  He probed deeper, then 
cork-screwed back and forth, in and out.  She was quivering, her 
breath nearly as ragged as his own, when....   

    "Okay, okay, Callahan.  You're a cop, not a Roto-Rooter man," 
Sanchez sneered.

    Red in the face, he backed off, his dripping fingers held out 
awkwardly. 
   
    "You're dismissed now, Sergeant.  I'll take her from here."  
Sanchez was positively smirking.

    "But the 2-7 is doing this sweep, and you're in the 3-5."

    "And I'm a lieutenant, Sergeant.  What's your point?"

    (He was near apoplexy.  This was by far the freshest, most 
desirable whore he'd ever hooked up with -- on duty or off -- 
and that fucking greaser bitch -- who wasn't even from the same 
precinct -- was taking her away from him.)   

    Not trusting himself to speak, he shrugged and got into his 
cruiser.

    "Never mind, Callahan.  I'll make sure she's processed 
properly." 

    Swallowing a snarl, he peeled out of the parking lot.

		******************************

    "Get dressed, whore," Sanchez rasped.

    After Daisy was clothed again (minus her panties), her hands 
were cuffed behind her back, and she was levered into Sanchez's 
cruiser.

    "You're not gonna give me any trouble, are you, whore?"

    "No," Daisy answered in a surly tone.

    "No...what?"

    "No, ma'am."  She sounded more docile this time.

    Sanchez nodded and smiled.

		******************************

    The ride to the 35th precinct station house was uneventful.  
Both the policewoman and the suspect seemed to be lost in their 
own thoughts.  When they turned into the police parking lot, 
Miss Daisy appeared to regain consciousness.  

    "This is it, huh?" she asked, breathlessly.  She sounded 
aroused.  

    "Yep.  It may not look like much, but I promise you that you'll 
never forget it."  

    "Yeah, yeah...."

    Sanchez parked in her reserved spot and then prodded Daisy 
into the station and up to the booking desk.  The desk sergeant 
looked up from his crossword puzzle and nodded.  

    "Seems quiet, Jonas," Sanchez sniffed.

    "Tomblike, Lieutenant.  The action's over at the 2-7.  I guess 
they're ass-deep in hookers.  Who's this?"

    "To be determined.  I'll need an interview room...preferably 
#3."

    "Help yourself; they're all empty.  Need any assistance?"  

    "No, I think I can handle this girl okay by myself."  She 
propelled Daisy through the gate and on toward the rear of the 
station.  

    "Oh, Lieutenant," Sgt. Jonas called.  "What's 'blank of 
Dimitrios' -- four letters?" 

    "Tsk, tsk.  It's the title of a classic movie...Peter Lorre, 
Sydney Greenstreet, Zachary Scott.  I'll take care of this business 
and then tell you all about it...even give you a plot summary if 
you like.  Hasta luego."

    Jonas watched them go.  He shook his head.  Lt. Sanchez was 
pretty much an okay officer when you got to know her...but she 
could be a real egg-head sometimes.  He sighed and picked up his 
pencil again.

		******************************  

    Gripping Daisy's upper arm, Sanchez guided her through a 
doorway, down two flights of stairs, and along a musty corridor.  
They stopped in front of a metal door marked simply, "3."

    "We'll be here awhile," Sanchez grinned and shoved Daisy into 
the bleak interrogation room.  

    Inside, she seated her prisoner and released Daisy's left wrist 
so that she could shackle her right to the steel table.  Sanchez 
locked the door, closed the shutters on the one-way mirror, clicked 
on the CCTV camera, and inserted a tape into the VCR.

    She turned to face Daisy with a crooked smile on her lips.  
"Now," she said.  She reached out.

    The redhead cringed.  "I don't like doing women."

    "Bullshit!  You'd do a flag pole if the price was right.  And 
you were prepared to do Callahan, who has no scruples at all.  His 
sort is the reason cops are called 'pigs.'  But, first things 
first.  I need to search you."

    "That sergeant already did it; you were there."

    "A half-assed job.  Now, take off your boots."

    One-handed, it was a tedious job, and she was sweating before 
she finished it.  Then Sanchez dropped Daisey's little skirt and 
pulled her tube-top down in its wake, rendering her impressively 
naked once again.   

    Sanchez reached out and tweaked Daisey's right nipple.

    "Dyke!" the redhead snarled.  

    "And you're a whore," Sanchez responded, complacently.  "So 
what?"  She continued to tease various parts of the prisoner's 
body.  Daisy couldn't defend herself very well one-handed.

    "I'll...I'll complain!  You got no right...."

    "Your unsubstantiated word against mine?  Puh-leese!  The 
door's locked, nobody can see us, and the tape...well, that'll 
be squirreled away before I release you...Red.  You were saying?"

    Daisy made some inarticulate, nonsense sounds.

    "You would have put out for Callahan to get a pass, and you'll 
put out for me," Sanchez continued.  "Unless, of course, you want 
me to find a balloon of crack up your ass...."

    "Oh, god!"  Daisy was trembling.

    "Then, if we understand each other, let's get on with that 
cavity search."  She snapped on latex gloves.  "For starters."

		******************************
 
    Much later, Sanchez rolled over.  She felt soiled, but good.  
She gazed at Daisy, whose slack body was still slick with spit 
and cunt juice and smudged with grime from the floor.  The stuffy 
room was quiet and didn't smell as bad it had at first; maybe 
she'd become more acclimated to its institutional stink...which 
WAS overlaid now with a somewhat sweeter smell.   

    She glanced at her watch, sighed, and nudged Daisy.  "Time 
to go."  She extracted the tape from the VCR and picked up the 
pieces of her discarded uniform.  "The washroom'll be deserted 
now, but we shouldn't fuck around.  We can stop by my locker on 
the way."  

		******************************

    After her shower and some maintenance, Sanchez felt clean and 
satisfied...and only a little fatigued.  She was also beginning 
to rev up again.  She turned to Daisy, who looked very different 
now: minimal makeup, no cheap jewelry, her hair in a discreet 
French roll....  And then there was the crisp U.S. Border Patrol 
uniform, badge, and pistol belt. 

    "Okay?" she asked.

    "Mmmm.  Better than okay," Sanchez purred.  "But shake a leg.  
I'll let you through the back door, clock out, and meet you in 
the parking lot.  We'll get some breakfast, and then...."

    "Then we'll get you into your wetback costume, bitch, and 
proceed to Act II."  Daisy grinned and giggled.  "This is 
shaping up into one hell of a Halloween, sweetheart.  God!  
I'm practically high now on adrenaline."

		******************************

    "Hi, Lieutenant," the desk sergeant said as Sanchez passed.  
"Unh...'Mark of Dimitrios'?"

    "'MASK of Dimitrios,' Sergeant," Sanchez called over her 
shoulder as she breezed out the door and into the pre-dawn of 
the city.  "Most of the characters in that movie -- like some 
people -- are not what they seem at first."

