My name is Eddie, and I'm a cop. I'm not your normal cop. I have no definite hours, and I never wear a uniform. I carry a gun, but I rarely use it. My job is listening. I listen to conversations over telephones, and in resutrants, and in moving cars. I can listen in on almost any conversation anywhere at any time. I'm assigned to the surveillance unit, and I'm very, very good at my job. So good, in fact, that I'm stuck as a Detective/Second Grade, and any chance I had at promotion vanished the moment the brass found out how good I am at what I do. They gave me a sepcial van filled with the latest in technological goodies. A warrant comes down from one of the high-visibility units like Robbery/Homicide, Narcotics or Major Cases, and I go to work. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week until the case breaks, I'm in the van, earphones clapped over my ears, listening to my mark until he says the one thing I can take into court and convict with.

I've been doing this for eleven years, and I've never lost a case in court. I put on my dress uniform, with my shining gold detective's shield, and all my breast bars, and I sit there and testify about my technique. No one can beat me. I'm the best.

Which is why I was so confused when I was informed that I was getting a partner. Last week I was sitting in the squadroom, drinking cold, stale coffee when the Captain walked by my desk and tossed a tear sheet at me. It was a communication from headquarters informing me that a Detective/ Third Grade Edwards, J., Shield #104166, formerly assigned to the Mayor's Staff, was being transferred, in grade, to the Surveillance Unit, reporting to me until further notice. I called an old friend of mine, a guy I went through the Academy with, who is now assigned down at HQ in personnel. He informed me that my new partner had a lot of clout with the PC (Police Commissioner,) and Mayor, and that after six years of satisfactory service at City Hall, had asked for and gotten this transfer/promotion as a reward. My friend also told me that my new partner had a great set of legs.

"Excuse me?" I asked, wondering if there was something about my friend that he hadn't told me, something I really didn't want to know.

"Detective Edwards, J. is Jamie Edwards, and she is a stone fucking fox, pal. Word has it that she was pumping her Sergeant for a while, but no one could ever confirm it. She rates at least three inches on my scale, pal."

Which meant that he'd cut three inches off of his cock to fuck her. And I'd seen him in the shower; he didn't have the inches to spare. Which meant that I was in for a shitty detail until I could figure a way to transfer her. It was my experience, and I'm not saying this is true for all female cops, but in my experience, the better looking they are, the worse cops they are.

The next week, she reported in. I was sitting in the turnout room, my feet on the chair in front of me, polishing off the third doughnut of the day when I heard the catcalls. The guys were welcoming her to the sixth district, and using their mouths as weapons. The remarks were crude, adolescent and totally juvinile. In other words, business as usual.

Jamie walked into the turnout room, and I halted, hand halfway to my mouth, powdered sugar falling on my shirt like fresh snow. She was fucking gorgeous. Tall for a woman, almost five ten. Long, curly red hair that came down to mid- back. She was wearing cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a flannel shirt. Under the flannel shirt I could see a leotard top straining to keep her tits in check. (Why is it that redheads are either flat as boards or stacked like a fucking brick shithouse? I've never seen an 'average' redhead!) Her face sported a light dusting of freckles, and a little voice inside my head calmly announced that she probably had the same light dusting of freckles on her tits. She was wearing an old-style shoulder holster, the Dirty Harry-style that was better for your back than the more modern style preferred by the hot-shot detectives in this squad. The butt of what appeared to be a short-barrelled.357 poked out the holster.

"Edwards," she said, offering her hand.

"Eddie," I answered. "Eddie McClintock. I'm your new partner," I offered. She nodded and took the seat next to me, turning it around to sit on it backwards. Something about that motion, the way she sat and the way she held herself, arms crossed across the back of the chair, just screamed out "Dyke!" I hoped to hell that she wasn't one. I didn't need a woman partner trying to prove how much of a man she was.

"So," she said. "What's our gig for today?"

Her voice was light and had a nice melody to it. I began to rethink my position on what it would be like to spend long, hot hours cramped up with this woman in the back of my van.

"We're watching a local wiseguy for the OCB (Organized Crime Buerau) boys. I stuck a wire in the resturant last night, because we got a tip that he is meeting to pay off the DiCarlo shooter." Buddy "Buddy Weasal" DiCarlo had gotten an acute case of lead poisioning two weeks ago, and since the local mob never used local talent (rule #1 to professional assassination) the wiseguy would pay him, and then the shooter would leave town, to move onto his next assignment. We were going to try and get the wiseguy and shooter at the same time, so no deals could be cut.

"Great," Jamie said. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it." I liked her style. We listened to the morning breifing, and then we attended a special OCB briefing. She kept her mouth closed, took a few notes and nodded to the few cops she knew from other assignments or Academy days. And then we were in the van, driving to the resturant.

"How come you never get made?" she asked as I took the highway downtown.

"Me, or the van?" I asked.

"The van, I guess. I hear you never get out of it." IF there was a rebuke in her voice, I couldn't hear it.

"Well, I get it painted after every bust, and the local DMV contact makes sure I get new plates at least once a week. All the plates come back in DMV to local delivery services and things like that. It's all preplanning. Remember the the Six P's?" She nodded. Prior Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance.

We got to the location and setup. I tested the bug fast, and got some background noise. It was omnidirectional, so I'd be able to pick up all the conversation. It was also tunable, so I'd be able to filter out all but what I needed.

I turned the bug off and shrugged out of my jacket, and took my gun out and placed it on the counter next to me. Both walls of the van were covered with electronics of all shapes and descriptions. It looked like the bridge of the Enterprise, and I was in my element.

We sat in silence for a while, and then Jamie's portable radio squwaked: "David Six Five, David Six, K."

Jamie raised the radio to her mouth. "David Six, K. Proceed Six Five."

"Subject approaching. Thirty seconds, max."

"Get on the scope," I said, pointing to a sniper's spotting scope that was pointing out of a portal lined with one-way glass. Jamie scooted over and bent over, peering through the scope at our target's table. In doing this, I had an impressive view of her jeans tightening across her wonderful ass. She had an incredible body, and I was enjoying every minute.

"Enjoying the view?" Jamie asked, reading my thoughts. I cleared my throat, mumbled an apology, and then turned to my electronics, tuning my antibug detector. The ABD will sense and detect a bug detector that might be used. If one is being used, I can shoot a laser beam from a unit on top of the van to defeat it, so I can use my bug without being detected. It was the latest, state-of-the-art toy, and the mob didn't know we had it. As a matter of fact, the PD didn't know we had it. I'd gotten it from an old Army buddy.

"Is the shooter there yet?" I asked.

"No," Jamie said after a moment. "He's all alone... wait. There's someone joining him."

"Does he have anything with him?" I asked. "A small black box, perhaps?"

"Yes," she said slowly, after a second. "What is it?"

"A bug detector," I answered, tuning in my countermeasures. Sure enough, there it was, cycling around three kilohertz. I focused the beam and fired it off. I got a return signal, and then activated my bug.

"...you did a nice job, Tony. I like the way you stitched a smile across his body with bullets. Very, very nice."

"Thank you, sir. But you should know that I always do what I promise."

"Yes, Tony, you do. How about some lunch?" And so it went, for the next two hours, as the two mafiaso talked about familes (real ones,) and then fake ones, talking about various people in the Orginazation they both knew.

Jamie was getting impatient. "Why don't they just get to it?" she asked.

I shrugged, concentrating on my headsets.

"It's fucking hot in here," Jamie complained, and then started to take off her holster and shit. The tight leotard was stretched to capacity trying to restrain her breasts, and I watched out of the corner of my eye as she bent over to grab her holster off the floor of the van. The low scooped neck of the leotard told me that she wasn't wearing a bra, and I got a good glimpse of her tits.

"Get a good look?" she asked, straightening up. I nodded, a small grin at the corner of my mouth. "It's ok," she said with a laugh. "I'd be more worried if you didn't look!" I chuckled at that, and found myself liking the fact that she knew she was good looking, and didn't mind that I found her that way, too.

Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later it all went down. The wiseguy handed an envelope over to the shooter, and thanked him for "Removing that DiCarlo problem," and shook his hand. I nodded to Jamie.

"David Six to all units...GO! GO! GO!" And then the resturant was swarming with plainclothes and uniform cops. I started the van and Jamie and I drove away, back to the squadroom to write our reports and book the tapes into evidence.

And for the next six months, that's how it went. Jamie and I spent a great deal of time together, sometimes days at a stretch. And as any cop can tell you, when you're on a stakeout, you get very, very close to your partner. You can't break cover to get out and go to the bathroom, so you have to make do. I'd been using an old mustard jar, dumping it out when I needed to. When Jamie first asked what to do about taking a piss, I showed her the jar and shrugged my shoulders.

She turned it over in her hands and smiled ruefully. "Well, we'll have to get one with a bigger mouth. I can't direct it as well as you can!" The very next day I brought in an old Mayo jar that had a huge, wide mouth. Jamie noticed it and patted me on the back. Six hours later, she had to take a piss.

"Don't look," she warned, and I laughed. There was no way I could avoid it, but I pretended not to notice as she wriggled her tight jeans down her legs and squatted over the jar. A second later I heard her steaming piss hit the glass jar, and I felt a lurch in my pants. I cast a quick glance over and caught Jamie looking right back at me, over her shoulder, a little grin on her face. My eyes, operating on automatic pilot, dropped, and I saw the back of her furry little snatch, little red hairs peeking back at me. I could see the dark line of her slot, and I wondered what it tasted like.

"Get a good look, Eddie. You're going to be seeing a lot of it!" I grinned and turned my attention back to the tape deck.

We went on and on like this for about eight more months. Jamie wore loose, revealing clothing during the summer months, mostly tanktops and shorts. I never, ever saw the girl wear a bra, and it really turned me on. After about three months of working together, we started talking about our private lives. She asked me if I had a girlfriend, and I snorted in derision.

"Who," I asked, "would want to go out with me? I'm a nerd, and... well, there's other reasons, too."

"Eddie," Jamie said softly, "there are a lot of women who would count themselves lucky to have you as a lover."

I snorted again. Jamie, with all her well-meaning, just didn't understand. First off, there were my looks. I stand about six two, and weight in at almost three hundred pounds, none of it muscle. I have a beer-and-twinkie gut, aggrevated by the fact that I sit on my fat ass all day listening to other people's conversations. I never get any exercise. She didn't know what it was like to be invisible, like I did.

I tried explaining it to her. "I walk into a bar, or a place like that, right? And the women who are there to scope look around the room, and when I come into their line of sight, it's like I'm...furniture, or something! They don't even see me! Their mental computer just disregards the input as garbage, and continues through the acceptence loop! I talk to them, buy them drinks...and then as soon as a better looking guy comes along, poof! They're gone."

Jamie listened and shrugged. "You're obviously looking for the wrong kind of woman, in the wrong kind of place. You need to meet some nice women. Women that will like you for you."

I gave her the acid test. "Ok, Jamie. Time to put your money where your smart-ass mouth is. I'm going to ask you a question, and you're going to answer. Don't try to lie, because I'll know immediately. Are you ready?"

"Yes, Eddie, I'd go out with you," she said softly.

"That wasn't it, smart-ass. You are saying that because you know me, and you want to be nice. Now, the real question is: Would you introduce me to any of your single girlfriends as a potential boyfriend?" There was the slightest of pauses, and then Jamie said, "Of course, Eddie. "

"Sorry, you fail, sweetie. I thank you for your kind wishes, but I can hear it in your voice. You say that now, but you don't really, truly mean it. And if you did...you'd only introduce me to the friends that you think couldn't do any better."

"Jesus!" Jamie spat. "You're such an asshole, Eddie! I meant what I said! I'd introduce you to any of my girlfriends as a potential lover! Let me tell you something, asshole. When my girlfriends and I get together and talk about men, we usually talk about men that we've never slept with, but know. And we always wonder what they'd be like in bed. You, I might add, have come up more than once or twice. "

That was new. "Oh, really? And what was your interpretation of what I'd be like between the sheets?"