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AARDVARK, PLATYPUS, AND TWINKLETOES: ATTORNEYS AT LAW, SCENES 2-5

 

CAT AND MOUSE

 

Julia gave it a good thirty seconds after the diaper service truck rolled by before she exited the parking lot.  She was driving what in the Upper Midwest is known as a “beater.”  Rusted out, covered in snow and the sludge spooled up from driving on plowed roadways, the car was anonymous.  In the Minnesota winter, a new car freshly washed stood out like a sore thumb.  Like any private investigator, Julia prized anonymity.  Religiously, she went out and bought a new “beater” every other year.  The floor board on the passenger's side was missing in the current edition, but then, resting one's feet on the exhaust manifold did tend to ward off the cold.

 

She pulled up behind the truck at a stop sign, and made the turn onto the main highway in its wake.  She speeded up, and without a sideways glance left the truck behind.  She had started running the route at six, and had calculated where to park stop by stop.  Her first destination was the parking lot of a fast food restaurant on the corner, and eight doors away, from the driver's first stop of the day.  If there was a vehicle trailing the Lullaby Diaper Service truck, she would spot it instantly.

 

There wasn't.

 

She moved on to the second stop, with similarly disappointing results.

 

Now several minutes ahead of the truck, at her third stop she had the luxury of time, and used it to study the vehicles parked within two blocks of the scheduled stop in either direction.  She was looking for a car bleeding exhaust from a running engine, and saw none.  She was looking for a driver sitting behind the wheel, freezing his or her butt off, and saw none.

 

Julia did not think to check the side streets that the delivery truck would pass.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Do we really have to sit here and freeze our butts off,” Cindy complained.

 

“We do,” Tippi answered.  “At this hour, a parked car with the engine running can be seen from a mile away.  We freeze our butts off, but we keep our eyes open, and we note every car that comes down that street.”  Tippi nodded at the road that the delivery service vehicle would take.

 

“Here comes one now.  Jee … zus, what a wreck!  I swear, Tip, that wasn't a car; it was motorized rust pretending to be a car!  Jee … zus!”

 

“A gray, four door sedan,” Tippi noted, “mid-sized.  Maybe a Mercury or a Ford … a “beater” to be sure.”

 

Several minutes later, the diaper service truck put in its scheduled appearance.  Cindy and Tippi endured the cold for an additional ten minutes, without seeing another car passing in either direction.  Then Cindy fired up the engine, and they moved on to find a spot where they could survey the traffic at the driver's seventh stop.

 

.  .  .  .

 

When she pulled away from the sixth stop, Julia shook her head in frustration.  She had spotted no one, and she was too good at her job not to admit the truth: if she had spotted no one, it was because there was no one to be spotted.

 

So, what am I up against?  Is this just a bunch of teenagers looking for a break from toilet papering trees?  Some kind of bizarre initiation ceremony?  Somebody's answer to “I dare you?”  In which case, the diapers will probably end up in a landfill.

 

Julia turned the corner, switched lanes, and raced past the truck.

 

Could it be some weirdo with a diaper fetish?  If last week's haul was enough to satisfy his needs, then the trail's already gone cold and I'm just wasting my time and the client's money …  Not good, Twinkletoes, not good at all.

 

Making the right turn, Julia cruised slowly down the street, once again checking for exhaust from a running engine, or a driver slouched down in his seat, trying to stay out of view.  She saw nothing.

 

With an illegal U turn several blocks farther on, Julia reversed course, thinking that she might catch something that she had missed the first time through.  Coming up empty, she pulled into the curb a half dozen houses west of the address where the driver would make his next stop.  Turning off the ignition, she adjusted the rear view mirror to give herself a better view of the road, and then leaned back against the head rest.  She was ready to take a break, however brief.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Cindy cried; “look what just rolled by!”

 

“Houston, we have liftoff,” Tippi laughed triumphantly.  “It's the same rust bucket that we saw earlier!”

 

“The tail?”

 

“The tail,” Tippi confirmed.  “Okay, here's what we're gonna do.  Go up a couple of blocks, and make a right.”  Tippi nodded at the windshield.  “We know the guy's route, so we lay in wait in a parking lot along the way to his next stop.  If the rust bucket follows, we follow the rust bucket.  I wanna get a look at the driver, just in case he gets cute and changes cars tomorrow.”

 

“Hey, I've got an idea.  We know where the diapers are going to be left at the door, so call Melanie and tell her to get her butt in gear.  Once the tail bugs out, we give her the 'all clear', and she moves in and grabs the diapers.  Aren't car phones great?”

 

“And it will drive whoever owns the diaper service nuts!  And this bozo will lose his job!  What a bunch of morons!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Deep in thought, on the spur of the moment Julia decided to let the diaper service truck go, and dive into Mickey D's.  Her thermos was empty, and she needed caffeine, as in coffee very, very black.  She was also reasonably certain that her arteries were up to the challenge posed by an Egg McMuffin.  She would catch up with the truck later.

 

Julia was third in line, and it continued to grow behind her.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Huh?”  Cindy rapidly scanned the parking lot, but there was no sign of the truck.  The driver was still on his appointed rounds, not stopping for a quick coffee break.

 

“Maybe we're following the wrong car,” Tippi mused.  The rust bucket had been the last vehicle to make the light, but it had turned into a parking lot on the opposite corner.  They could see the driver getting out and walking away, but at this distance they couldn't decide whether the shadowy figure was male or female, young or old.  The bulky winter coat and longshoreman's cap effectively disguised their quarry.

 

“There's no way this is the wrong car!  I'm pulling in,” Cindy said as the light turned green.  “Get the plate number, and then let's join the maddening crowd.  I need something to drink, and maybe we can spot the bozo inside.”

 

Clearing the intersection, Cindy turned in and drove slowly down the aisle.  She passed the beater, one of several in the lot, and parked in the first empty space.  Four cars separated the two vehicles. 

 

Keeping a wary eye on the slush beneath their feet, the two girls entered the restaurant, Tippi having first memorized the license plate number.  There was a line waiting to order, and their target was bringing up the rear.  Grinning mischievously, Cindy and Tippi decided to join the queue.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Julia stepped up to the counter, placed her order, and fished her wallet out of a coat pocket.  She paid, gathered her change, and stepped a few feet to her left to wait for her food and drink to materialize.  She idly noted that the two young women who took her spot at the counter were placing an order identical to her own.  They were well dressed and well made up; indeed, she thought, far too well dressed and too well made up for a fast food joint in this part of the Cities.  Watching money exchange hands, Julia could tell from the expression on the face of the young man behind the counter that he shared her thought.

 

When the unlikely pair turned toward her, Julia studied them more carefully.  They looked like college kids, which was hardly unusual in a metropolitan area home to a dozen public and private colleges and universities.  But most of the institutions were in upscale neighborhoods, where these two would have been right at home, and the closest was more than five miles away on busy, slush filled city streets.

 

When the girls moved to stand beside her, Julia debated politely asking the tall and exquisitely beautiful blonde in her stylish Patagonia parka what had brought the two of them to this part of town.  If they were looking to score drugs, they were definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time.  But her food arrived, and instead she made a spur of the moment decision to ask for it to be bagged as a to go order.  There was just something about these two that felt way, way wrong, and so she took her time at the condiments stand, collecting sugar and cream for her coffee, and packets of salt, pepper and ketchup for her muffin.  A few napkins later, she headed for the door, but just as she reached it she turned aside and took a seat at a window table-- a seat facing the counter she had just left in her wake.  She was curious to discover whether the pair would react to her movements, or simply ignore her.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Cindy and Tippi took their time at the counter, pretending to scan the overhead menu, before finally opting for coffee and Egg McMuffins.  In turn, each of them casually glanced to their left, confirming that they were indeed tailing a middle-aged woman whose heavy but well worn coat was a good match for the rust bucket that she was driving.  After collecting her change and stashing it away in the pocket of her parka, Tippi decided to be bold and go stand beside her.  She wanted to get close enough to determine whether the woman was wearing perfume; the scent that a woman favored spoke volumes about her education, income, and social standing.

 

To her intense disappointment, Tippi could detect nothing, not even one of the heavily perfumed soaps that so many women favored in the shower.  She concluded that they were dealing with someone who worked at the diaper service, possibly in the front office but more likely in the laundry room.  She wondered if the clothing underneath the woman's winter coat reeked of dirty diapers.

 

Cindy and Tippi were both taken completely by surprise when the lady suddenly asked for her order to be bagged.  As she walked away, they looked at one another, both unsure of how to proceed.  It would look odd if they suddenly changed their order as well, but they would probably lose her if they didn't.  What to do, especially since the woman was taking her damned, sweet time loading up on cream and sugar-- and who the hell put ketchup on an Egg McMuffin?

 

Their order suddenly appeared on the counter, and quickly thinking it through, Tippi decided to have their food bagged as well.  They could take their time sorting through the salt and pepper … the woman was finally heading for the door.

 

And then, at the last moment, she turned aside and walked to a window table.  Sitting down, leaving her bag on the table untouched, looking straight at them, she removed the lid from her coffee cup and took a sip.  Tippi thought that not bothering with the sugar and cream that she had harvested mere moments before was an especially nice touch.

 

“She's a pro,” Tippi whispered as she grabbed packets of salt and pepper, “and she's made us.”

 

“You think,” Cindy retorted.  “Memo to the boss: the next time we come to this part of town, we need to dress down.  We stand out like a sore thumb; hell, even the kid at the counter knows that we don't belong here.”

 

“Suggestions?”

 

“Cut our losses.  Get in the car and wait for someone to drive in.  If we time it right, she'll be boxed in when we back out and take off.  Once we're sure she's off our tail, we catch up with the truck at the twelfth stop, just as planned.”

 

“And if she follows us out the door?”

 

“We keep our cool.  We stay put, turn on the radio, and listen to some tunes while we eat and drink our fill at a leisurely pace.  If she dilly dallies, we lead her to that upscale mall on the west side … make it look like we were just stopping for a snack before heading to a place where we fit in.  If she takes off, we let her go.  Either way, she'll be able to run our plates, which will get her exactly nowhere because the car is registered to your home address in New Ulm.”

 

“And now that we have her plates … tah dah … Amanda's mother works at the DMV.  A name and address are just a phone call away!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Julia didn't know what the two girls were hiding, but one thing she knew for certain: they were hiding something.  College kids didn't make a habit of putting their heads down and whispering in conspiratorial tones in the aisle of a fast food joint.  That's why

restaurants had booths.

 

The sideways glance that the tall blonde cast her way as they walked out the door was not the sort of thing that a detective with Julia's many years of experience was likely to miss.  Snapping the lid back on her coffee cup and grabbing her bag of food, Julia charged out the door, delaying just long enough to give the girls a decent head start.  She wanted to get a look at their car and, if possible, write down the license plate number.  Julia kept a scratch pad and pen in her coat pocket for precisely this purpose.

 

She watched the girls climb into a late model Ford Pinto, a nondescript two door coupe with enough slush caking the rear end to make it invisible in a lot filled with similar vehicles.  Julia had actually expected them to be driving a sportier and more expensive number, but the coupe made sense if they were in fact college students.  It was the sort of car that hard working parents on a budget would buy for a daughter's eighteenth birthday, christening her journeys from adolescence to adulthood, and from high school to university.

 

Julia wrote down the license plate number, and debated opening the trunk to retrieve her trusty Olympus, but then it dawned on her that the driver had not fired up the ignition.  She watched the tall blonde in the passenger's seat unwrap her Egg McMuffin and take a bite.  She faintly heard music coming out of the speakers mounted in the rear; it sounded like Donna Summer was belting out Dim All the Lights.

 

Not for the first time, Julia asked herself whether the paranoia that went with her job was getting to her.  To all appearances, these two were just a couple of college girls who had stopped for a quick bite in a part of town well outside their usual haunts.  And yet she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong here.

 

Getting into her own car, Julia dialed Herb on her car phone.  She asked her husband to track down the registration, and pull the driver's license on the owner.  Starting the engine, she backed out and drove slowly down the aisle, taking one, last look at the Pinto.  She figured that she could catch up with the diaper service van at its tenth scheduled stop.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Let her go?”

 

“Let her go,” Tippi agreed.  After a moment's thought, she picked up the receiver on her car phone and started dialing.

 

“Mel, it's Tip.  You out and about?”

 

“Heading south on 35 … just cleared downtown.”

 

“Great!  Head west on 62 highway, and head north on France.  Make a right on 54th and park anywhere.  Be on the lookout for a gray rust bucket with a woman driver.  She's following the diaper truck, and she's spotted us, so we're gonna hole up at a pizza joint a few blocks to the north and pick her up southbound.  We think she's a lady cop, so keep your head down and your engine off.  It's a good neighborhood; your Charger shouldn't look out of place.  You got all that?”

 

“Ten four, good buddy; I've got your six!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you and the Bandit both.  Stay off the phone, and I'll call you back if we see her coming.” 

.  .  .  .

 

Julia caught up with the delivery truck at its tenth stop, but she didn't have time to do more than a quick pass up and down the street.  No matter.  She raced ahead, determined at the eleventh stop to search out the Pinto or any other suspicious vehicle within a wider radius.  She checked each side street for three blocks in both directions, then crossed the main thoroughfare that the truck would use to reach the delivery address.  She was trying to gauge the distance at which the brightly colored truck could be seen, and she reckoned that six blocks was a safe bet.  When the Lullaby driver finally rounded the corner, he was driving away from her, but was still visible from almost seven blocks away.  She adjusted her search pattern accordingly, and made haste for his twelfth stop.  It was one of the houses that had been ripped off a week earlier.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Mel, get your head down!  She's making the turn now!”  In a well-to-do neighborhood, the rust bucket could be easily seen from blocks away.

 

“She's going by right now,” Melanie whispered excitedly.  She hadn't had this much fun since her high school sweetheart rolled his hot rod in a beery drag race on Prom night.

 

“Count to twenty, and then have a look,”  Tippi advised.  “This one's tricky, and could do a flip.”

 

“Wait one.”  Melanie peered cautiously over the steering wheel, but saw no one.  “Nothing at my twelve; you got my six?”

 

“Affirmative.  Your back door is shut tight.”  Tippi and Cindy both rolled their eyes; Melanie had a thing for the Snowman that just wouldn't quit.  Humoring her was the easy way out, although both wondered whether she knew what a back door shut tight really referenced.

 

“Got her,” Melanie yelled.  “Mama-bear just did a nine to three!”

 

“She's working the cross streets,” Tippi explained.  It was obvious that Cindy didn't have a clue what their Sister was talking about.  City girls rarely spoke Trucker.

 

“Give me the damned phone,” Cindy growled.  “Mel, you got a pad and pencil?”

 

“That's a big ten four, good buddy.”

 

More rolling of eyes.  “Here's her plate number.  When you get back to the house, have Amanda  pass it to her mom.  This wreck has got to be her car, so I want name and address.  If her mom asks, tell her that we were grazed by a beater that just kept going.  We need the info for the insurance claim.  You got that?”

 

“Ah … firmative.”

 

“Keep your eyes open; she may double back on you.”

 

“Copy that.”

 

A few minutes passed, with Melanie alternately filling the silence with reports of Mama Bear's latest nine to three or three to nine, all the while humming the first stanza of East Bound and Down.

 

“Mel … heads up!  She just crossed France a block to your north.  I'm guessing that she's gonna flip and sit on your six.  When the truck shows up, stay put until we give you the all clear.  You copy?”

 

“That's a big ten four … got me a Smokey knocking on my back door!”

 

Tippi shook her head in despair, and looked over at Cindy.  “What are the odds that she'll do a pass through, drive off, and then double back one more time?”

 

“It's how I'd play it,” Cindy agreed.  “She has to know that we struck out until the seventeenth stop, so I expect her to play games here and then head straight over.”

 

“And there goes the Lullaby man,” she added as the delivery truck rolled past them.

 

Tippi advised Mel that the truck was inbound, and again advised her to keep her head down.  Melanie acknowledged with another cheerful ten four.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Thankful that for once the plows had cleared the road all the way to the curb, Julia parked alongside an auto parts store on the corner of 54th and France.  From here she had a clear view, and she watched quietly as the Lullaby service truck made the turn and proceeded east to its destination.  The driver exchanged clean diapers for soiled, and drove off.  From here, his route would take him southwest, into the affluent southwestern suburbs.  Knowing that someone would be home at his next four stops, she was in no hurry to follow.  And so she sat quietly, and waited.

 

And nothing happened.  No car came down the street.  No one was walking on the icy, treacherous sidewalk.

 

She gave it a full ten minutes, and then decided to switch tactics.  She fired the ignition, gave the unhappy engine a minute to warm up, and then made the turn to drive south on France.  She passed a cemetery, crossed Minnehaha Creek, and then abruptly made a left on 57th.  Driving slowly and keeping one eye glued to her rear view mirror, she used a cross street to turn north, and approached 54th from the southeast.  Still another left turn put her two blocks to the east of the target address.  Cruising slowly, she eyeballed every car on the street, and confirmed that the load of diapers was still sitting on the front porch.  As she turned onto France and headed south in pursuit of the delivery van, Julia was rapidly coming to the conclusion that hers was a wild goose chase.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Mel, you got your ears on?”

 

 “Hear you five by five,” she replied.

 

“The coast is clear.  Grab the damned diapers off the porch, and make a beeline back to the house.  Once you have a name and address, call me back.”

 

“This is going to drive somebody nuts,” Cindy laughed.  “Especially when the mouse is chasing the cat!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

The rest of Julia's morning proved frustratingly uneventful.  Over lunch at yet another Mickey D's, she questioned the driver, but he had also seen nothing untoward as he traveled his route.

 

She got the bad news when she returned to her car.  It was Harriet, calling to let her know that the client on 54th Street had come home during the lunch hour, only to find that for the second week in a row there were no diapers waiting on the porch.  She had taken out her frustration on poor Francine, who was currently en route to the address in question, using her own car personally to make the delivery.

 

.  .  .  .

 

The phone call caught Tippi and Cindy shortly after lunch in the Southdale Mall food court.

 

“Her name is Julia Canon, and she lives on Minnehaha Parkway.  That's a very upscale part of the Cities; what the hell is she doing prowling around in an old beater?”

 

“Probably camouflage,” Tippi guessed.  She made us in a fast food joint because our clothing was way too good for the neighborhood.  But she blended in, which makes me think that she's a cop moonlighting to pick up some extra dough.  What did you bag?”

 

“More baby diapers,” Melanie sighed.  “Which we don't need.  Damn it, we've got to have more adult diapers; our GPA depends on it!”

 

“We'll get them tomorrow, when we raid that apartment complex down in Bloomington.  But right now, it's time to call it a day. Word is that PISS has put a bounty on a first year prof in East Asian Languages.  He's got office hours at two, and I want to be there to check him out.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Julia put the receiver back in its cradle and then savagely lashed out, driving the edge of her fist hard into the steering wheel.  She was frustrated, and she was angry.  It was one thing to go up against a worthy opponent, but someone was going the extra mile … someone was sadistically rubbing her nose in it.

 

Taking a deep breath, trying to calm down, Julia began mentally running her options.  Looking at her watch, which now showed ten past one, she decided that her best bet was to hopscotch it back to the office and start combing through the personnel files of current and former employees.  This would give her about two hours before Priscilla showed up with her well diapered young professor in tow.

 

The car phone rang just as she was pulling into Lullaby's parking lot.  It was her husband.

 

“The vehicle is registered to Miss Tippi Anne Bjornsen, age nineteen … a New Ulm address.”

 

“Thanks, Herb.  You okay with takeout tonight?”

 

“Pizza sounds good.  You paying?”

 

“My treat.”  Julia ended the call.

 

College kids for sure.  But why aren't they in class?

 

https://www.gohttps://www.google.com/maps/@44.9028058,-93.3263254,15z?entry=ttu

 

THE DIAPER FANTASIES OF TIPPI BJORNSEN

 

Well, at least the files are in good order.

 

Julia sighed heavily.  She had returned to Lullaby's office some ninety minutes earlier, and she had just closed the cover on her seventh file.  Harriet had given her an unused desk (no charge for the cobwebs) on the opposite side of the room, next to an imposing row of tall filing cabinets where former employees and customers, or at least the lives that they led on paper, went to die.

 

There were two things that Julia hated about her line of work.  The first was stakeouts, which were simply boring.  The second was looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack, in the form of a file that pointed a finger in the direction of an aggrieved client or employee.  Desk work was boring, but it was also demanding: name … last known address and telephone number … social security number … work history … education.  There were clues scattered everywhere, if you just knew how to look for them.  Very few people knew, for example, that the first three numbers on a Social Security card were an area code, with all cards issued in the state of Minnesota falling between 468 and 477.  A Minnesota social security number would go unnoticed in Honolulu, but a Hawaiian number in a minimum wage job in Minnesota screamed fake.  A cheap fake driver's license that would pass muster in San Diego would get you arrested immediately in Spearfish, South Dakota.  In the upper Midwest one had to lay out big bucks to buy convincing fakes-- and Lullaby's employees did not earn that kind of paycheck.

 

Where Julia struck gold in the files was the canceled checks.  The people who were sent in to sabotage a business were well paid for their efforts, and the paychecks earned from forty hours at minimum wage often took an abnormally long time to pass through the bank, when the mole bothered to cash them at all.  Over the years, Julia had busted no less than seven people who had simply failed to cover their tracks sufficiently well to defeat a determined investigator.

 

And so she went through the checks, which Spats Belmondo's various managers had neatly bundled and slipped into the files-- year after year of canceled checks.  And in seven files, she had found nothing suspicious.  Given that Harriet supervised one person in the office, three drivers, and four people in the laundry, this was not a big operation.  At most, it would take her only one more day to put everyone who had worked for Lullaby over the last decade under the microscope.  She would keep at it, but in her heart she knew that this would turn out to be another wild goose chase.

 

.  .  .  .

 

When Tippi got off the elevator and went around the corner, she stopped dead in her tracks.  She was expecting a crowd, and she wasn't disappointed; after all, Suzie Marshall's mob had put a bounty on the guy's head, so it stood to reason that the sororities would be here in force.  In fact, she caught a glimpse of one of her Sisters sitting on the floor on the other side of the prof's office door.

 

No, what caught her off guard was the cop sitting on a chair, and the three well dressed, middle aged guys in their tailored suits.  The cop she recognized at once: Priscilla Canon, buster of frat parties extraordinaire.  What was she doing here?  For that matter, what were the suits doing here?

 

Only one way to find out, she thought as she began to wind her way between the bodies that separated her from Kimberly Doyle, one of the Seniors in her house.

 

“What's going on,” she whispered as she slid down the wall to sit at Kimberly's side.

 

“Poachers.”  Kimberly nodded in the direction of the suits.  “The prof apparently speaks gazillions of languages, and the usual suspects are looking to pry him away from our clutches.  The sisterhood has turned out in force to make sure it doesn't happen, and the cop is here to keep order.”

 

“What's this got to do with PISS putting a bounty on the guy's scalp?”

 

“Nothing.  He's new, single, and engaged; by definition, that puts him top of the food chain.”

 

“I'll say!  But would he be any good to eat?  Have you seen him?”

 

“Yeah.  He's okay … I mean, no Robert Redford, but he's easy on the eyes.  But you can't miss the diapers; it's like he's wearing a bunch of bath towels under his pants.”

 

“WHAT!  Diapers?  Kim, what are you talking about?”

 

“Haven't you heard?  It's all over frat row.  He's some kind of war hero … Viet Nam, maybe … I don't know.  He's supposed to have been badly wounded, came home with medals up the ying-yang.  And he's volunteering over at the hospital, helping other vets … you know, the kind of guys who sleep on park benches.”

 

“Wow!  Does it look like anybody's scoring?”

 

“Don't think so.  A Sister goes in for five minutes, then comes out with a sheet of paper in her hand.  I'm guessing that it's a copy of his resume.  If you want to have a go, just step right up.  Most of us are here because of the poachers; the diapers are a real turn off.”

 

“Not for me,” Tippi muttered as she climbed to her feet and waded through bodies to end up in front of Officer Canon.  Maybe the prof could point her in the direction of another stash of adult diapers.

 

“Does he have time for one more,” she asked, knowing that his scheduled office hour had not yet run its course.

 

“You can go in next,” the police woman replied.

 

A couple of minutes later the door opened, and a Sister whom she vaguely recognized from some frat party or other exited, sheet of paper in hand.  The professor smiled, extended his hand in welcome, and invited her into his office.  To her surprise, Office Canon stood up just long enough to shut the door behind them.

 

When he walked around the desk to resume his seat, Tippi couldn't help but stare at his ass.  Kimberly was right; the diapers were so thick that she would have sworn he had a pillow stuffed inside his pants.  You couldn't miss them.

 

“And you are,” he asked politely.

 

“Tippi … Tippi Bjornsen.”

 

“It's nice to meet you, Tippi, and thank you for helping out … I'm grateful to everyone who's helping to keep the headhunters at bay.”

 

“Oh, you're welcome,” she replied with her most dazzling smile.  “We don't like poachers muscling in on our territory.”

 

“I presume that we're talking about scalp hunting.”

 

“Oh, yes.  You're the ultimate trophy … a new professor, unmarried but engaged, who's never been scalped.  You're the catch of the year.”

 

“Are students the only one who can scalp me?”

 

“No, not at all.  Faculty, staff, even the janitors, cooks and bottle washers-- every woman on campus is entitled to play.  But the sororities are the only group formally to crown a champion at the end of the Spring term.  It's one of the most coveted honors, especially for Seniors.” 

 

“I see.”  Ian paused, knitting his brow, deep in thought.  “But I'm afraid that you're doomed to disappointment,” he continued, “because I have been scalped, and more than once … two secretaries, an unmarried member of the faculty … I could go on, but I don't want to brag.”

 

“Did they take photographs,” Tippi fired back.

 

“No.”

 

“Then you haven't been scalped.  Proof is required.”

 

Ian laughed so hard that he began to cough.  Tippi waited patiently for him to regain control.

 

“And are you here to collect the bounty?”

 

“It would be fun,” she conceded with another dazzling smile, “but actually I came here looking for help.”

 

“Hmm.”  Not seeing the angle, Ian chose once again to adopt what he called his 'deep in thought' expression.  He had practiced in front of a mirror, searching for something convincingly enigmatic.

 

“It's … um … it's about your diapers.  “My granddad needs them, but my parents … he lives with them … they don't know what to buy.  I was hoping that you could give me some pointers that I can pass along to my mom.”

 

“Sure thing.”  Ian got up and rounded the desk to collect his diaper bag.  He opened it, and put a spare diaper and vinyl pants atop his desk.  Tippi stared at the diaper; it was huge, and incredibly thick.  The vinyl pants were transparent, just like the baby pants that she had pulled up over the diapers of the kids that she had babysat in her early and mid teens.  Just looking at the diaper and pants, knowing that she could buy the latter in  an equally transparent pastel shade of pink, imagining pinning the diaper on some gullible guy with a big brain and no social life … pulling up the pink baby pants … she could feel her panties getting damp, her juices starting to flow.

 

“It's really thick,” she proclaimed as she ran her fingers over the diaper, caressing it.  “Where did you find it?”

 

“One of the hospital wards supplies me-- free of charge, I might add.  I volunteer to help vets with mental health issues, and this is my compensation.  It's great because payment in kind isn't taxable … a win, win situation for both parties.”

 

“Do you really need something this thick?”

 

“At night, for sure.  During the day?  I could probably get by with something thinner, combined with using baby diapers as stuffers.  But the hospital only uses this one style.  If you're interested, I'd suggest that you call their housekeeping department.  You might also try the local diaper services; depending on where your parents live, they might also be able to help.”

 

You have no idea, Tippi thought, her panties getting more and more damp.  And you have no idea how much I'd like to pull down your pants and change you right here and now!  You would look so cute in pink baby pants!

 

It was at this moment, when she was knee deep in an intense and very satisfying fantasy, that the telephone rang.

 

Ian picked up the phone.  “Professor Grady,” he offered.

 

Tippi let her mind wander.  She was imagining the heavily diapered professor on his knees, licking her to a mind altering orgasm, then begging her to change his wet and dirty diapee …

 

Chastity belt?  Did I hear that right?  In addition to everything else, he's wearing a chastity belt?  Wow!

 

Tippi began to follow the conversation much more closely.

 

Spanking?  He lets her spank him?  Wow!

 

Sitting quietly, her panties going from damp to wet, Tippi couldn't help but notice how uncomfortable the prof looked whenever he glanced her way.

 

And he damned well should be uncomfortable!  Playing games with a bunch of kinky coeds is one thing, but turning them loose on your fiancee is way over the line!  I hope she spanks the shit out of him-- and I'd like to watch!

 

In due course, the conversation came to an end, and Ian hung up the phone.  “Well, that was fun,” he said defensively.  “Sarah … the lady on the other end of the phone?  She's my fiancee, and in our relationship she leads and I follow, but if you'll pardon the pun, we're still working out the kinks.”

 

“And she really spanks you?”

 

“She does.”

 

Wow!

 

“And are you really wearing a chastity belt?”  Tippi was squirming a bit in her seat, her panties now a bit too squishy for comfort.

 

“Not really,” he chuckled.  It's actually a canvas diaper cover that prevents my underwear, if you want to call it that, from ending up around my knees.  But it locks and I don't have the key, so in a manner of speaking ...”

 

Incredible!  If I had the key, you would be my diaper slave!  Forever!  And I want to spank you, and listen to you beg for mercy when you have a diaper rash and I've got the paddle in my hand …

 

“So, it's true then … I mean, what I'm hearing all over campus … you know, from girls who volunteer as candy stripers at the hospital?  That you're this great, big war hero who volunteers his time to help troubled vets, despite having problems of your own.  Is that why you call her Mommy … because she changes your diapers?”

 

“That's part of it,” Ian agreed; “a bit of pretending makes things less awkward, and a great deal less embarrassing.”

 

It wouldn't be pretending if you were my diaper slave ...

 

“But it's only part, not the whole.  I have a problem making decisions because I tend to overthink things, but Sarah is just the opposite.  I'm an academic who walks around with his head in the clouds, forever chasing his own tail, while she's a practical nurse who just gets on with it.  This is so much a part of who we are as a couple that calling her mommy seems natural to me.  And I'm pretty sure that at times she regards me as an overgrown toddler, hence the occasional spanking.”

 

I want to hear you call me Mommy.  I want to hear you cry and cry like a little baby when I spank your bottom.  God, if I only had the key ...

 

“Do you like it … I mean … when she spanks you?  I spanked my last boyfriend, and he really got off on it.”

 

“Nope.  When she spanks me, it hurts.  Again, she's a nurse, so she knows how to make it hurt … and it does.”

 

And did you cry and cry, like a little baby?  Does your mommy let her friends spank you?  I would, you know … everyone in the house gets paddled when they're initiated.  Would you like to be spanked by fifty hot chicks?  Live in the sorority as our little baby girl?

 

“I still don't understand.  I mean … like, you must have killed a lot of people out there, so why do you put up with it?  The candy stripers keep saying that everybody likes you, so why don't you go with someone who treats you better?”

 

“Now that,” Ian nodded, “is a very good question, and it goes to the heart of what makes a relationship succeed or fail.  People who don't care about you will tell you what you want to hear just to get you off their backs.”

 

You just described my last boyfriend ... 

 

Ian went on and on, dishing out the same crap she had heard from her high school counselor.

 

He'd look good with a pacifier in his mouth, and it would shut him up! 

 

“And now there's a bounty on your head, but you're wearing what amounts to a chastity belt and of course you don't have the key.  What a shame.”

 

Because if I ever lay my hands on that damned key, you're mine … all mine ...

 

Ian handed her a copy of his resume from the stack on the corner of his desk.  “You could always call her,” he suggested.

 

“Would it do any good?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“I didn't think so … because if you were my boyfriend, I wouldn't share you with anybody!”

 

Except for the spankings, of course, and drawing straws to see who gets to change your shitty diapers ...

 

Tippi put Ian's resume back on the stack, and got up to leave, but she paused with her hand on the doorknob.  “When I came here today,” she said over her shoulder, “I didn't understand how any woman could be so desperate that she would willingly sleep with a guy who's disabled … reduced to wearing diapers.  But now?  Now I think that this Sarah of yours might be the luckiest woman on Earth.”

 

LULLABY DIAPER SERVICE

 

Polishing off her eleventh file, Julia glanced up at the clock.  It was now a few minutes after four, and the diaper service was scheduled to close at five.  Where was Priscilla, and did she have the professor in tow?  If she was going to run late, why didn't she call?

 

.  .  .  .

 

Priscilla was listening to the lady headhunter's presentation, and heartily approved of the strategy that she was laying out for Sarah Haikonnen.  The university's senior administrators all had unallocated funds in their budgets, and dipping into the war chest to preempt raids on productive faculty was a routine practice.  An outside offer would give Ian's department chair the ammunition that he needed to raid the till, and multiple outside offers would give him still more leverage.

 

Sarah's body language told Priscilla that she liked what she was hearing, and the way she was leaning forward also gave Pris a bird's eye view of Sarah's cleavage.  She was, to put it mildly, very well endowed, and in her imagination Priscilla kept seeing little baby Ian cradled in the arms of this blonde, blue eyed Scandinavian giant, and drinking his fill.

 

How did he put it?  Breakfast, lunch and dinner, with mid morning and mid afternoon snacks and a bedtime treat?  Two tits six times a day?

 

And then there's Vickie, who would have given Helen of Troy a run for her money.  That's two more tits … and then there's Rita.

 

Priscilla didn't know whether to pity Ian, or to envy him.  If it was possible to live in Heaven and Hell simultaneously, she reckoned that his would soon be the most authoritative voice in the country, if not the world.  For sure, if he were to write a tell-all book, it would become an instant best seller.

 

But Priscilla was also watching Ian closely.  Walking in from the parking lot, she had heard him twice gasp in pain before staggering into the wall.  She had wrapped an arm around him, steadying him, and then taking his weight as they continued their journey to the post operative critical care unit on the third floor.  He was seated now, his discomfort still obvious, and Vickie had rushed off to get help.  At a minimum, it looked like he would need a wheelchair to get back to the car.

 

And his fiancee isn't even giving him the time of day.  What's wrong with this picture?

 

.  .  .  .

 

The telephone rang, but Julia ignored it.  After all, Lullaby Diaper Service was a business, and a business whose telephone sat silent hour after hour was on the fast track to bankruptcy.

 

“Julia, it's for you; a Doctor Robinson is calling from the hospital.”  Harriet was holding the phone out in her direction.

 

It took Julia a moment to recognize the name.  It had come up last night at the dinner table-- the professor, she now recalled, was Victoria Robinson's patient. 

 

Julia walked across the room, her sense of alarm growing with each step.  Priscilla, Vickie and the professor were supposed to be en route to Lullaby.  Unscheduled visits to a hospital typically meant bad news for somebody.

 

“This is Julia Canon.  Doctor, is my daughter all right?”

 

Listening to the voice on the other end of the line, Julia let out a relieved sigh.  “Give me a moment,” she replied when Vickie finished; “I'll ask them.”

 

“She says that they had to make a stop at the hospital,” Julia explained.  “Professor Grady had some kind of episode, and they've taken him to X ray for evaluation.  She doesn't know how long they'll be delayed, and wants to know whether we want to hang on or call it a day.”

 

“Ian,” Harriet yelled as she jumped to her feet.  “What's happened to Ian?”

 

Julia blinked in surprise.  Harriet's reaction was totally unexpected; clearly, there was more going on here than met the eye.  Returning to the phone, knowing that the doctor and the professor had a personal relationship, Julia instantly decided to be as diplomatic as possible.

 

“Harriet wants to know what happened, and how Professor Grady is doing.”  She kept her voice detached and impersonal.

 

Julia listened as Vickie recounted what had happened in some detail.  “Wait one,” she finally said.

 

“Professor Grady … Ian … had several attacks of something called 'foot drop' while walking from the parking ramp to his fiancee's office.  Doctor Robinson explained that this could be an indication that the bullet lodged in his spine has shifted.  They're doing X rays to try and see what's going on.  She says that this shouldn't take long, but with rush hour traffic and all, she doesn't think that they can get out here until after five.  She wants to know whether you want to wait, or go home.”

 

“We'll wait,” Harriet declared with real feeling.  “We'll wait.”  She looked over at Francine, who nodded in agreement.  “I didn't know that Ian is engaged,” she whimpered.  “He never said a word!”

 

Harriet was devastated, and it showed.  Her dinner date with Ian at uncle Rudy's restaurant had gone so well, the evening pure magic, that she had been fantasizing about a deeper relationship ever since.  Francie's objections notwithstanding, she had decided that Ian just might be “the one.”  And now he was engaged to somebody else … a doctor or nurse … somebody important.  But Harriet was a nobody … a mere high school graduate.

 

Francine wrapped her arms around Harriet, hugging her distraught friend close.  Harriet had a good heart, and she deserved a happy ending.

 

Embarrassed, Julia retreated to the opposite side of the room and the relative safety of the filing cabinets.

 

.  .  .  .

 

As soon as she returned to the house, Tippi convened another emergency meeting of the sorority's brain trust.  Since classes in mid and late afternoon were few and far between, and the sisters rarely visited the research library, she had no difficulty satisfying the quorum call.

 

Cindy once again banged her gavel to call the meeting to order.  She noted with relief that Janis Marsden was a no show.  Rumor had it that her latest quarry was a professor in the Economics Department.  In her absence, Blofeld would be free to wander at will.

 

“If there is no objection,” Cindy declared, “I yield the floor to Tippi, who will report on where our search for diapers currently stands.”  Cindy looked around the room.  “Hearing no objection,” she concluded, “the floor is Tippi's.”

 

“Thank you, Madame Chairwoman,” Tippi intoned as she stood up to deliver news both good and bad.  “I regret to announce that today's haul in the Great Diaper Caper of 1979 amounted to one measly bag of baby diapers that will be of no use to us unless our targets are about four feet tall, which seems unlikely.  We urgently need adult diapers, and to that end Cindy and I will lie in wait tomorrow afternoon at an adults only apartment complex in Bloomington.  We shall take possession of one bag of dirty diapers before the delivery truck arrives, and one bag of clean diapers after it departs.  This will be our last snatch because, as expected, the diaper service has hired a detective to shadow the truck, and she spotted us and took down the license plate of my car.  The number will lead her to my parent's house in New Ulm, so there's no damage done, but I don't want to tempt fate.  I yield the floor to Amanda, who has intel on the detective.”

 

Tippi sat down, and Amanda Cunningham stood up in her place.  “We are dealing with a private dick,” Amanda began, pausing only to clear her throat.  “She lives on Minnehaha Parkway, which is a very trendy neighborhood.  Using a reverse directory, my mom found three other vehicles at the same address … a second vehicle registered to Julia, a third to a Herbert Canon-- presumably her husband-- and a fourth registered to a Priscilla Canon … possibly a daughter.”

 

“Holy Batman,” Kimberly screamed as she jumped to her feet.  “It's the Batgirl!!  Priscilla Canon is Batgirl!!!  And Tip and I ran into her only an hour ago!”

 

“What?  Where?”  Melanie was on her feet, yelling at Kimberly while Cindy banged her gavel on the table in a fruitless effort to restore order.

 

“She was standing guard outside that prof's office … you know, the one PISS has put a bounty on .. the one we're all protecting against the poachers.  There were a bunch of them outside his office as well!”

 

“You mean the one in diapers?”  Melanie was deaf to the gavel pounding in her ears.

 

“That's the one,” Kimberly shouted; “and Tip went in to see him … she was in there for almost ten minutes … twice as long as anybody else!”

 

“Holy shit!!!  Tip, what's he like?  Are you going to scalp him?”  Joyce Wiggins, one of the Legacies on the Council, was speaking up for the first time.  Normally the voice of reason in these gatherings, she was giddy with excitement.

 

“I tried,” Tippi conceded, “in a roundabout way, but he referred me to his fiancee.  He said that he was willing if she was.  They're both kinky as hell.  She spanks him … she keeps his diapers under lock and key … what he calls his makeshift chastity belt ...”

 

A chorus of “holy shits” echoed around the room.

 

“She called him while we were chatting, and it didn't bother him at all that I was sitting there listening to every word!  I think he was showing off … and you should see his diapers!  He says that the hospital gives them to him in return for his help with troubled vets.  They're so thick that … that … his office is on the sixth floor, and I swear that if he jumped out the window and landed on his ass, he'd bounce three stories into the air!  He looks like he's got a huge pillow stuck inside his pants!  It's incredible, and he's so hot!  I was fantasizing the whole time about having him on his knees licking me out one minute and begging me to change his shitty diaper the next.  I almost came on the spot!”

 

A second chorus of “holy shits” rolled around the room.

 

“We need an “in” at the hospital,” Tippi concluded, “someone who can find out where housekeeping keeps their diapers, so that we can raid the place.  We sneak in, take what we need, sneak out, and all our problems will be solved!”

 

“A candy striper,” Joyce suggested.  “And guess what … Janis Marsden is a candy striper!”

 

“Hallelujah,” Cindy screamed.  “Our prayers have been answered!”

 

“Would anyone like to hear the rest of my report,” Amanda asked.  She was really miffed.

 

“We're sorry, Amanda.”  Cindy took a deep breath in an effort to calm down, and bid Amanda to continue.

 

“I let my fingers do the walking, and discovered that Julia Canon is not only a licensed private detective but also a lawyer.  She's a partner at Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes, which is right across the street from that big hospital less than a mile down the road from campus.  It sounds like it's the same one that the professor is getting his diapers from.”

 

“Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes?  That's ridiculous,” Kimberly sneered.  “Which one is she, anyway?”

 

“By the looks of the photo in their ad in the Yellow Pages, she's Twinkletoes.”

 

Melanie rushed out to the telephone stand in the front hallway, and returned a minute later with the phone book in hand.  Hastily turning the pages, she found the photo, and handed the book to Tippi.  “Is that her,” Melanie asked.

 

“That's her,” Tippi agreed.

 

“Tomorrow?  I think we should tail her everywhere she goes.  Talk about fun!”

 

“Uh, Mel … um … in case you've forgotten, we all have classes in the morning.  You know … classes?  That thing that we're all supposed to have come here to attend?”

 

“Oh, yeah.  You're right, Tip; sorry.  I just kinda forgot.”

 

“So, are we all in agreement?”  Cindy looked around the room.  “Tomorrow, Tip and I abscond with the diapers down in Bloomington, and we put Janis to work scouting out the lay of the land at the hospital.  Now, has anyone found a braniac ready, willing and eager for a blow job?”

 

“Walter Beamis,” Kimberly proudly announced.  “He's majoring in Civil Engineering, and he's got a four oh GPA.  Tops the Dean's list.  He looks like a toad, so he's gotta be desperate.  I'm going in for the kill tomorrow!”

 

“And they're off and running,” Melanie intoned in her best sportscaster's voice.  “Rounding the first turn, the toad is out front by half a length ...”

 

“But the diapered professor is charging fast on the outside,” Tippi added, “and the jockey has her whip in hand.  She's really laying it on … riding him hard ...”

 

The whole room erupted in laughter.

 

.  .  .  .

 

The phone rang, and Francine dashed to answer it.  “It's Doctor Robinon,” she mouthed.

 

Francie listened for a moment, thanked Vickie for the call, and hung up.  “They're on their way.  Traffic permitting, they should be here in half an hour or so.”

 

Julia dug out another file, and got back to work.

 

.  .  .  .

 

It was well after five when Ian finally arrived at Lullaby's office.  He introduced Vickie and Priscilla to Harriet and Francine, and in turn Priscilla introduced her mother to her companions.  Harriet put on her game face, and congratulated Ian on his upcoming marriage.  She mistakenly assumed, however, that Vickie was the bride to be-- an honest mistake given the sexual tension that was flowing so visibly between them.  Vickie gently corrected the misunderstanding, but only added to Harriet's confusion when she went on to describe the highly unusual living arrangements that would commence that very weekend, and continue after Ian's marriage to Sarah.  On the spur of the moment, and knowing that Harriet had been reared in a very traditional family, Ian invited her and Francie to attend the Saturday night gathering of the Circle that was now just a few days away..  He liked Harriet, and he definitely did not want to leave her with the impression that he had fallen in with a secret society of devil worshipers, or something worse yet.  He hoped that meeting Sarah, Rita and the others would put them both at ease.

 

Harry and Francie accepted the invitation on the spot.

 

Standing apart from the others, Julia looked very much like the cat that had swallowed the canary.  Priscilla and Ian had not shown up empty handed.  Quite the contrary.  Her daughter had handed over a miniaturized electronic tracking device that was state of the art, probably military grade.  It was, Priscilla assured her, just one of a bunch of high-tech gizmos that Ian kept stashed in one of his desk drawers.  Harriet assured her that it would be sewn into one of the diapers that would be delivered to Ian's doorstop the following afternoon.

 

Julia surreptitiously studied the young professor.  She had a deep working knowledge of surveillance technology, and there was no doubt in her mind that his little toy had not been purchased at the Radio Shacks of this world.  She decided to have her husband run Ian through the national registry, and take a much closer look at his background.

 

TO CATCH A DIAPER THIEF

 

“What d'ya think, Tip?”

 

Cindy had turned off the main road onto the residential street, which was lined with single family residences on their right, and a run of four multi-story apartment buildings on their left.  There were still more apartments and detached garages inside the sprawling complex, everything centered on a large clubhouse with adjoining pool and tennis courts.  The clubhouse, they knew from reading the listing in the Yellow Pages, even featured an indoor racket ball court.

 

“This close to the airport?  Looks like a stew zoo to me.”

 

“I meant the street.  There's not a single car parked on this entire block.”  Cindy was driving slowly, looking up the driveways leading into the parking lots behind the buildings.  If they spotted the beater that they had dubbed “the cannon mobile,” it was mission aborted.

 

“Pull into the next driveway, and let me out.  I'll walk back, like I'm coming from the clubhouse or something.  I'll scout out the premises, locate the diapers, and see if there's anybody hanging around.  At this hour of the day, everyone should be at work, so if I run into anyone, we are outta here.  I want you to turn around at the end of the block and park, but leave the engine running.  It'll look like you're waiting for someone.  When you see me come out, pull up.  If the coast is clear, we'll make the switch.”

 

“Sounds like a plan.  Let's do it!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Julia hated stakeouts, especially in the wintertime.  You froze your butt off, and you emptied an entire thermos of black coffee trying to stay warm and keep awake.  Then your bladder started to make its presence felt, reminding you that it was time to make a toilet run.  The longer you ignored it, the more you squirmed, and unlike the guys, a lady couldn't exactly stand up in the middle of a high school parking lot and take a leak.

 

Julia was miserable.  Maybe, she thought, I'm getting too old for this.  Maybe I should be wearing a diaper and a nice, cozy pair of baby pants like the professor.  Then I could just piss myself and be done with it.  Or maybe I need to take up a new line of work …

 

Julia hated stakeouts.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Tippi walked up the sidewalk with her head down and her gloved hands deep inside the pockets of her heavy winter coat.  A stylish woolen cap made her even more anonymous; to anyone watching, she would appear to be a resident returning to her apartment from the rental office or clubhouse.

 

Once inside the four story building, she discovered that there was no elevator waiting to send her aloft.  Grimacing, she began to trudge up the stairs, her plan being to start on the top floor and work her way down.

 

Her mood brightened when she exited the stairwell on the second floor.  At the end of the corridor, she could see the bag of used diapers propped against an apartment door.  Strolling casually, she went to the end of the corridor and peered down to the ground floor.  She could see the small lobby and the door leading out to the parking lot.  The lobby was empty, so she retreated and picked up the bag, trying to gauge its weight.

 

Tippi nodded to herself and smiled.  The bag of old rags that were sitting in the trunk of Cindy's car was identical to the bag outside the door, and about the same weight.  Making the switch would be easier than she thought.

 

She proceeded down the stairs and opened the door just enough to peek outside.  Tippi was looking not only for the old beater that had stalked them yesterday, but for anything that seemed out of place.  Seeing nothing suspicious in the lot, she trudged down the corridor and left the building.  Less than five minutes later, she was back up on the second floor, scoring what she guessed would be some two to three dozen very, very smelly adult diapers.  Whoever lived in that apartment, she surmised, was paying rent for a toilet that wasn't being used.

 

Tossing the soiled diapers into the trunk, Tippi climbed into the passenger seat and turned the heater on full blast.  It was a miserable day, but the first part of the Great Diaper Heist of 1979 had gone off without a hitch.  Now, it was just a matter of waiting for Lullaby's truck to show up.  They would find an empty slot in the parking lot of the adjoining building, and settle in to await its arrival.  With the radio on and thermoses of hot chocolate and coffee to keep them warm, it was time to kick back and relax.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Wheeling her cart through the vast warehouse, Janis Marsden was in awe.  It was one thing to realize that the hospital was running like a finely tuned watch, and another to pull back the curtain and actually look behind the scenes.  Trolling the aisles, gawking at bins filled with everything from q-tips to bed frames, she now understood why candy stripers never returned empty handed when their supervisors sent them to collect supplies from a storeroom.  From the basement to the top floor, the complex operation to which she devoted six hours of her life a week was a well oiled machine. 

 

At lunch in the cafeteria, she had initially refused to go along with Tippi's plan to locate the source of Professor Grady's diapers, and casually help herself to a handful or two.  Janis liked her job, and was seriously considering becoming a business major so that she could get a foot in the door of hospital administration.  She didn't want to risk being excommunicated before she even got started, but as Tippi pointed out, sororities were notorious for their rituals, and if caught she could always excuse her behavior as just another initiation treasure hunt.  No big deal.

 

In retrospect, Janis was glad that she had finally caved to Tippi's pleas.  Her supervisor had been only to happy to send her to the basement, shopping list in hand, so that the young candy striper could learn at first hand how the hospital really ran.

 

One of the items on her shopping list?

 

Adult diapers.

 

Armed with a detailed floor plan furnished by a friendly young man at the check-in counter, she had had no trouble finding the mother lode.

 

The bin was huge, the diapers neatly folded and stacked by unseen hands, just sitting there waiting for her to wander by.  Row after row of adult diapers called out to her, each stack at least a few dozen high.  She was staring at hundreds of the enormously thick diapers that Tippi had described … hundreds of them!

 

Janis Marsden was in diaper heaven.

 

She took what she needed to fill the order, then helped herself to an additional dozen.  Her plan was to stash them in her locker, and at the end of her shift make two trips out to her car.  Her backpack was large enough to hold two, and she would wear a third under her dress.  Four trips at the end of two successive shifts would see her prizes safely back to the house.

 

Before she returned to the ward with a cart piled high with fresh linens, Janis ventured off to raid one more bin-- the one containing the vinyl pants that patients in some wards wore over their diapers.  She stuffed several of the transparent baby pants into the pockets of her pinafore, taking care to get a variety of sizes.

 

Curious by nature, Janis decided to wear one of the baby pants over her diaper when she    

headed out to the car for the second time.  The thick cloth made it impossible for her to walk normally, her stride now reduced to a toddler like waddle.  Would anybody notice?  Back at the house, when she took off her coat, would anyone comment on the bulge in her pants?

 

A shiver ran down Janis's spine when she climbed into the car and started the engine.  She gave it a minute to warm up, and used the time to wiggle around in the seat, trying to get the diaper to hug her body more comfortably.

 

The child of hard working, conservative parents, Janis was quiet and obedient by nature.  She had never done anything this daring in her whole life, and she was enjoying every moment of her criminal escapade.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“And more or less right on time,” Cindy crowed as she sat up straight in her seat, “here comes de truck, here comes de truck!”

 

The two girls watched the Lullaby delivery van pull into the parking lot, and come to a stop opposite the entrance.  The driver got out, and walked around to open the sliding door on the right side of the vehicle; a few moments later, he disappeared into the building with a lone bag bulging with nice, clean adult diapers.

 

“Now's the moment of truth,” Tippi muttered more or less to herself;  “will he spot the switch, or not?”  She calculated that it should take him not more than ninety seconds to return to the van.  Silently, she began to count backwards.

 

She had just counted down to twenty when the door opened and the driver reemerged-- carrying the stash of oily rags that the girls had loaded into one of the identical bags that they had stolen on Monday morning.  Tippi had added a few tokens harvested from Blofeld's litter box to give the rags a more authentic odor.

 

“Looks like we passed the smell test,” Cindy laughed.  The driver had tossed his noxious cargo into the back of the truck before driving off, exiting the lot onto the same side street that they were using for their heist.

 

“Now we wait,” Tippi announced, crossing her arms to emphasize the point.  “We'll give the old lady and her beater ten minutes to make an appearance.  If she doesn't show, we'll make our move … same as before.”

 

“Works for me,” Cindy agreed.  “If Janis comes through with some of those super thick diapers that your professor wears, come the morning we'll be ready for business!”

 

“I want to lay my hands on one of those locking diaper covers the prof wears,” Tippi replied.  “Maybe Janis can track some down tomorrow.  Imagine … keeping a guy in diapers 24/7, taking away his toilet privileges, giving him no choice but to pee and poop himself because his diapers are locked inside a pair of escape proof pants.  You'd have a slave to do your bidding for as long as you wanted!” 

 

.  .  .  .

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

At first, Julia was fascinated by the tracking device, and the precision with which one could follow its movement.  When it was three miles away, it was barely audible, a single ...

 

CH............................E..................................EP...

 

hard to pick up over the sound of passing cars.  As the diaper delivery van drew closer, however, the signal became stronger and more focused, and when it turned into the parking lot immediately across the road, it sounded much like the sirens that delivered a continuous blast all over the Twin Cities at one in the afternoon on the first Wednesday of the month.

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …

 

Even the short distance that the driver had to traverse as he carried the bundle of fresh diapers from the truck to the building's second floor was enough to alter the signal …

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

And so it went, second by second, minute by minute, the mindless noise assaulting her brain, over and over and over again.

 

No end to it.

 

Julia dug into the glove box, desperate to find aspirin … a forgotten flask … anything to ward off the assault.

 

She found nothing.

 

Julia hated stakeouts.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Time's up,” Tippi declared; “fire her up.”

 

Cindy obligingly turned over the ignition, and backed up.  She exited the lot onto the side street the same way that she had entered, and drove slowly up the road.  As soon as she parked alongside the building, Tippi was out the door, dashing off to collect the prized diapers from their second floor perch.                  

 

She was back in less than five minutes.  With the diapers safely hidden away in the trunk, Cindy turned onto the main thoroughfare and headed north towards the interstate-- towards the interstate, and home.

 

The Great Diaper Heist of 1979, brilliantly planned and masterfully executed, was drawing to a close.

 

.  .  .  .

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

CHE …. EEP, CHE …. EEP, CHE … EEP …

 

CHE …. EEP, CHE …. EEP, CHE … EEP …

 

Julia didn't realize that she had been nodding off until the signal pattern changed.

 

They've taken the bait!

 

Startled into full wakefulness, she mentally reviewed what the professor had taught her about his little toy.  A shorter, stronger return meant that the target was approaching.  A longer, weaker return meant that it was moving away.  The signal was definitely fading!

 

Can't be south or east … the beep would have become stronger, not weaker, as the diapers went past me …

 

Julia pulled out of the parking lot, and headed north on the broad boulevard toward the beltway, some three miles distant.  There was another interstate less than a mile to her west, but she had decided to ignore it.  The two highways crossed at one of the busiest interchanges in the state, so the odds were overwhelming that thieves bound for Minneapolis to the north or one of the wealthy suburbs to the west would take one route or the other.  If she could catch up with them before they reached the interchange …

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

Closer!

 

Triumphantly pounding the steering wheel with her fist, and gambling that she could speed in the light, late afternoon traffic without risk of being pulled over, Julia worked to close the distance between herself and a group of vehicles a couple of hundred yards ahead.  Catching the few traffic lights on the green helped, and when she finally eased to a stop, it was to make the left turn onto the ramp that would drop her down to join the  rush hour traffic heading west on the beltway.  There were three cars ahead of her …

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …

 

It's one of these three vehicles … the thieves are in one of these three vehicles!!!

 

.  .  .  .

 

“So, who gets stuck washing the dirty diapers that are stinking up my trunk?”  Sitting at the light, Cindy was wrinkling her nose in disgust.

 

“I'll do the honors,” Tippi shrugged.  She sniffed her hands, and then suddenly thrust them under Cindy's nose.

 

“Oh, yuck,” Cindy screeched; “you smell like a diaper pail!  What'd you do, open the bag and rummage around in there just for the thrill of it?”

 

“Light's green,” Tippi answered nonchalantly.  “I don't mind changing a dirty diaper; I just don't want to wear one!”  Traffic on the beltway was moving, but slowly.

 

“Shitty traffic,” Cindy complained.

 

“It'll thin out once we get on the interstate … should be clear sailing all the way back to the house.”

 

“Are you really going to wash these shitty diapers yourself?”

 

“Sure.  I did a lot of diaper duty when I was younger.  But you know who's diapers I really want to change?  The professor's.  The guy's hot, and so, so submissive.  I'd give anything to be his girlfriend!”

 

Tippi held her fingers up to her nose, and inhaled deeply.  “I'd keep him locked up just the way he is now, but every time I changed him?  I'd tease him … keep him guessing whether this would be the day he got lucky … make him beg for it.  Like I said earlier, don't think about the poop and the smell, Cindy; think about the payoff!  Think about having a guy's cock under lock and key … think about the power that comes with owning his cock!  Imagine him on his knees in front of you, begging for the privilege of pleasuring you, all in the hope that in a moment of weakness you'll unlock him and let him cum!  You'd be a goddess!”

 

“Geez, Tip … you are one seriously screwed up little girl!  But I love it!  Why stop at scalping the profs?  If we lock their dicks up, none of the other houses will be able to use them to rack up points!”

 

Making the turn to head north toward the city, Cindy smiled broadly.  Tip was right: the traffic had thinned dramatically.

 

Smooth sailing, she thought; smooth sailing all the way home!

 

.  .  .  .

 

Julia was impatiently drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the light to change, when her car phone rang.  She groped for the handset, her eyes never looking away from the signal. 

 

“Hey, Mom!  Just calling to see how the stakeout is coming.  You staying awake?”

 

Julia ruefully shook her head.  Car phones were convenient, but why did someone always have to call when she was in the middle of a pursuit?  Couldn't they at least wait until she was entertaining her husband in the back seat at a drive-in?

 

Technology will be the death of us all ...

 

“Northbound on Nicollet, approaching the interstate,” she said in her most businesslike voice.  “They took the bait, Pris; I'm fourth car in line at a red light, and the tracking device is in one of the three cars ahead of me.  Have a listen.”

 

Eyes still glued to the red light, wondering if the damned thing was ever going to change, Julia waved the handset at the receiver.

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …

 

“Julia, you're too close!  Way too close!  Back off a quarter of a mile before they spot you in their mirrors!”

 

Julia was so surprised that she almost dropped the phone. 

 

“Ian?  What are you ...?”

 

A thousand thoughts cascaded through Julia's brain, and none of them were happy thoughts.

 

Where the hell are you, and what the hell are the two of you up to?  I swear to God, if you are playing Happy Couple with my daughter …

 

Still staring at the red light while simultaneously strangling the telephone, Julia somehow managed to get her emotions reasonably under control.   

 

“Never mind ...  It's a left turn, and I'll lose them on the interstate if I miss the light!”

 

There was a hint of panic in her voice, and she prayed that Pris and Ian would attribute it to her fear of missing the lousy red light. 

 

And to make matters worse, she really, really did need to pee.

 

Does anybody in one of those car chase scenes ever need a toilet break?  How the hell did Steve McQueen manage to stay dry bouncing around San Francisco that way?  Oh, hell, he was probably wearing a diaper …

 

“No, you won't.  If they're heading for the junction and you take the wrong highway, the signal will change dramatically.  Remember, with both vehicles on the move, it is far more sensitive than it was with you stationary in that parking lot.”

And just where did you field test this doohickey?  Behind the Iron Curtain?

 

“But the rate of separation … I'll lose the signal in a matter of seconds ...”

 

Priscilla … baby … what have you got yourself into?

 

“Doesn't matter.  Reverse course at the first off ramp, and give it the gas.  You'll reacquire it when you close in.  Worst comes to worst, you set up a search pattern using city streets.  Trust me about this, Julia … it's not my first rodeo.”

 

Oh, trust me, that's obvious!  Now, where, oh where, did that 'aw shucks' shtick of yours get to?  Riddle me that, Batman!

 

“Hold on!  Light's changed … got to go!!” 

 

Julia dropped the phone, willing the light to stay green as the vehicles ahead of her inched their way through the slush to start down the westbound ramp.  As it turned out, hers was the last car to make the turn, and she got a good look at the drivers in the three vehicles ahead of her.

 

You have got to be kidding me ...

 

Holding onto the steering wheel with one hand, her foot dancing back and forth between the accelerator and brake pedals, trying to keep her eyes on the road … Julia felt around for the phone.

 

“Pris … Honey, are you still there?”

 

“Still here, Mom.  Just giving my Secret Agent Man a hug and a kiss for a job well done.”

 

“Young lady, I will talk with you about Professor Grady later!”

 

Lord, give me strength!  Would someone care to explain how, in a span of less than seventy two hours, my hitherto calm, sensible daughter has gone and fallen madly in love with a crippled vet who's spent years wandering the world doing God only knows what for his country ... 

 

“Right now, I need you to call your father.  It's unbelievable.  I ran into two girls yesterday when traipsing around town in the wake of the Lullaby van.  Well, guess what!  They're driving a different car, but it's them!  They're the diaper thieves!  Call Dad, and tell him that I need a local address for the girl he ran through the DMV yesterday-- Tippi Anne Bjornsen of New Ulm!”

 

And what do they call your boyfriend at headquarters … Double Oh Diaper Man, Licensed to Kill?  Who should I call first … Rod Serling, or Mike Wallace?

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …

 

“No need to bother Dad.”

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …

 

Julia knew that her daughter was laughing her head off, and she could have sworn that she could hear Ian doing a play by play in the background.

 

“Ian … um … Professor Grady … is pretty sure that he knows the young lady in question.  She's a student, Mom-- and a sorority girl!  So, congratulations!  You've cracked the case, and now you get to inform Spats Belmondo that he's the victim of a typical sorority stunt pulled off by a bunch of enterprising juvenile delinquents!”

 

Oh, lucky me …

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …

 

“Julia, head for sorority row; we'll meet you there.”

 

Well, at least he hasn't forgotten how to issue orders.  Nice to meet you, Major …

 

CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP, CHEEP …     

 

“Pris can read them their rights, maybe place them under arrest.  I'm thinking that a night in the slammer would probably do this crew some good!”

 

“Book 'em, Danno!”

 

It was a great line, but unfortunately Ian had already hung up the phone.

 

Julia increasingly had to concentrate on her driving.  Heading north on the interstate, there was now only one car separating her from the target vehicle.  If it changed lanes, she would be fully visible, and the Bjornsen girl would no doubt recognize her beater if she bothered to look in the mirror.

 

Julia slowed down, willing another car to slide in front of her.

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP, CH..E..EP …

 

When the phone rang again, it was with a sense of genuine resignation that Julia picked up.  She had a pretty good idea who was calling, and what she was going to say.

 

“Mom, I just got off the phone with Chief Mischof.  I've got an address for you.  Ready?”

 

“Fire away.”

 

Priscilla did so, and promised to meet her there, but she went on casually to add that first she had to take Ian upstairs and change his diaper, which was certainly wet and possibly poopy.

 

Remembering her conversation in Rita's office just a few hours earlier, Julia was sorely tempted to ask her daughter if she would need a few extra minutes to feed him his ba bas as well, but she decided that this was a conversation best not conducted while driving fifty five miles an hour on the interstate.

 

But it is a conversation we are going to have, daughter of mine; oh yes, we are!

 

“Aargh,” Julia screamed as she repeatedly pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

 

Is she kinky?  Is she kinky, and we simply missed it?

 

CH …... EEP, CH …... EEP, CH …... EEP …

 

And where is this relationship headed?

 

CH …... EEP, CH …... EEP, CH …... EEP …

 

CH …... EEP, CH …... EEP, CH …... EEP …

 

CH …... EEP, CH …... EEP, CH …... EEP … 

 

Where...?

 

CH.....E.....EP ...  

 

 

 

 

 

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