RANSVESTIA

"Visit the Carrousel in Paris," he said, a faint blush on his usually grey face. "And Hamburg. There's plenty of stories and photographs you can find. We'll dig up some new angles on Bowie, Cooper and the newer groups to put it all together. Check out this Romy Pohlman. Could be a good story there."

"I'm on a good story," I persisted. "Both of these wives..."

"Forget that," said Jeff sharply. "No one cares too much about alcoholics, anyway. It's become passe, no shock value." He tapped the photo of the transvestite. "If we handle this right, we'll sell news- papers." He looked very doubtful again.

"My vacation," I said angrily.

"Do both," snapped the old man. "We'll extend your vacation for a couple of weeks. Start on it right now. I don't think you'll have to do much background after the articles you did on the Women's Singles at Forest Hills."

And that's how it was that the following night I was sitting in a Parisian "boite" watching a bunch of fairies and assorted show types making out on a crowded dance floor. Ray Gerhard, assistant to our Paris office was doing a pretty good hustle with a young blonde model while I took in the atmosphere of the place and sipped on a fruit drink.

Rivulets of perspiration running down his face, Ray finally came over to me in the booth we'd grabbed on entering. He flopped down. "You gotta try it, Al," he croaked. "You just don't know what you're missing."

"It's hard to keep off the floor with the kinds of sounds being pumped out as "disco" music, but the sounds resembling a woman in orgasm have never turned me on-not in public, anyway. "I've got a job to do, Ray," I shouted into the wall of sound being launched at us from a nearby speaker.

Ray wrinkled his mouth in disgust. I didn't really blame him. The blonde was still ogling him, her green eyes flicking towards the

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