Chapter 5: Out on the Town
Freddy glanced up at the red neon sign and raised his eyebrows. "So what the fuck are we doin' here?"
"What does it look like, man?" said Holdaway, and shoved him through the door.
Freddy was momentarily blinded by flashing coloured lights, and his ears were assaulted by loud, pounding music. "When you said you wanted to get me outta the house…" His voice trailed off as he got a proper look at his surroundings. He had meant to tell the other man that he wasn't in the mood for any games, but was distracted by the svelte silhouettes writhing onstage.
Customers sat broodingly alone or in laughing groups, every pair of eyes flicking towards the scantily-clad dancers. Shadowy figures moved among the tables, balancing trays loaded with drinks and wafting trails of perfume behind them. Holdaway nudged him towards a dark corner, and along the way waitresses and patrons alike greeted his friend cheerfully by name.
"Christ, Jim," whispered Freddy as they took their seats. "Does your wife know about this place?"
The older man gave him a stern glare. "Shit no. And you let anything slip you'll wish I never brought you here."
Freddy placed his hands on the smudged tabletop. "And why did you bring me here?"
Holdaway tucked a couple of dollars into the pocket of a waitress as she gave them two beers. He took a long drink, downing half the bottle, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Man, you've just been released from hospital, and you haven't been with a woman for over two fuckin' months." His gaze turned hard and serious. "We're gonna get you laid, Freddy."
Freddy nearly spat out his mouthful of beer. "And the fact that I don't remember those two months –"
"Doesn't count for shit."
Trapped between amusement and exasperation, Freddy could only roll his eyes. He appreciated his friend's concern, even in such a private matter as this, but he wasn't in the mood for Holdaway's meddling. He had far bigger things to deal with at the moment – his upcoming psychiatric evaluation, for one, which was worrying the hell out of him. He was finding it difficult to concentrate too, with fragments of vivid and disturbing memories flashing through his mind without warning. Add to that the severe headaches he suffered from time to time, and his life was a major fucking mess. The last thing he needed right now was Holdaway trying to set him up with a second-rate stripper in a seedy club.
His friend was scanning the dancers with an expert eye, and Freddy glanced around the room, wondering how he could get himself out of this awkward situation. "I'm not in the mood for this, man," he said under his breath.
"Shut the fuck up," Holdaway replied, not even looking at him. "It's better than sitting around in your shit apartment."
"God, I hate that fucking place," said Freddy under his breath. Still, he had to admit that it was better than the hospital, especially now that he had been deemed non-suicidal, was off the meds, and wasn't being watched anymore. Nobody telling him he couldn't smoke or drink, or injecting him with shit or checking his temperature or recording his fucking bowel movements. No more fucking beeping for him. The therapy sessions were frustrating, but Freddy was willing to work his ass of if it meant he never had to go back there again.
There was something he'd been meaning to ask. "Jim," he said quietly as his friend stared at a dancer who was doing some sort of performance with a cane. "What is it you and the guys ain't telling me?" His friend said nothing. "I know there's something goin' on," he persisted. "If it has anything to do with me, I wanna know."
"Not now, Freddy. Right now we got other, nicer things to think about." Holdaway suddenly gave a huge smile, and waved his bottle in the direction of the stage. "Over there, Newendyke. That there is Sandy. She's a fine piece of Swedish ass – or Finnish, or some shit like that. Sexy as hell. Damn."
Freddy glanced at the girl, who had sandy-blonde hair. "Jim, I don't think –"
"Hey! Darla!"
A tall Eurasian woman floated over to their table. Freddy hadn't seen her before; she must've been lurking in the corner waiting for an opportunity like this. "What'll it be, Jim?" she purred, bangles ringing as she adjusted her elaborate hairdo. "Something for your young friend, perhaps?" Her almond-shaped eyes raked over Freddy in an evaluating way that he did not like at all.
Holdaway was showing every one of his teeth in an enormous grin. "Darla, this is Freddy. He was in a coma for two months, and needs some female company."
"The poor dear." Freddy tried not to flinch as she ran a lacquered nail over his shoulder. "Is there a particular girl he'd like to meet?"
Heat rose to Freddy's cheeks as Holdaway and Darla made the arrangements. Fuck, he didn't even know what he was doing there. He should just get up, pay for his drink, and walk right out that front door. The whole situation was too fucking ridiculous. His appointment with the psychiatrist was in two days, and he still hadn't figured out how to deal with all the shit in his life right now. The last thing he needed was Holdaway's games.
"Come right this way, honey." Darla had a grip on his upper arm like a vice, and Freddy had to struggle not to use one of the escape techniques he had learned in police academy. He glanced at his friend for help.
"Take your time, Freddy," said Holdaway, completely ignoring his discomfort. "And enjoy yourself!"
Freddy glared at the older man, but found himself being steered forcibly towards a small door to the side of the stage. Darla led him up a flight of stairs and down a narrow hall with a bare bulb, and practically pushed him into one of the rooms. "Wait right here," she said before slamming the door in his face.
The room was small, dark, and utterly miserable. The carpet was stained, and Freddy did not even want to think about the bed. He stumbled over to the window and pulled aside the ratty curtains which smelled of cigarettes. He could see the club's neon sign flashing nearby, and its scarlet reflection in the puddles on the street below. No cars were passing; it was late. Freddy briefly considered escaping out of the window, but gave up on that stupid notion. He may as well humour Holdaway. Maybe then the motherfucker would leave him alone. And it really had been some time since –
The door opened, and the girl slipped in. Up close, she looked shorter than when she had been dancing onstage in her six-inch heels, surprisingly small and fragile. Her sandy-blonde hair was red in the light of the neon sign.
"Are you Freddy? Jim's friend?"
He nodded, noting her accent.
"Are you really a detective?"
Freddy nodded again. He couldn't help but smile at the question, and the girl smiled back. It made her look very young. "I'm Sandy." She removed her shoes and walked barefoot over to the bed. She glanced at him to make sure that he was watching, then slid the lacy strap from her right shoulder.
"Wait." Freddy held up his hand. The girl looked at him in confusion, but for a moment he did not know what to say. It felt wrong, all of it. The flickering neon light, the shabby furniture, the faint pounding of the music below, but most of all the complete stranger standing before him. "What – what's your name?"
The girl frowned. "I already told you, I'm San–"
"No, not your stage name," Freddy interrupted. "Your real name."
She looked down at her hands, rubbing the sheer fabric of her skirt between her fingers. "My name?" she whispered. "My name is Ursula."
"You're German?"
"Swiss. I was born near Zurich." Her face relaxed into a smile. "You're sweet. Nobody has ever asked me my name before, Freddy." She walked up to him and boldly placed her hands on his shoulders. This time he did not interrupt her.
A/N: Oh, Freddy. A bit flustered around the ladies? It doesn't help that he's a complete dork. I mean, he's got comic book posters, action figures, and model painting kits in his apartment. Maybe Ursula would find this level of dorkiness kind of adorable. And is it just me, or does it seem like a visit to a strip joint is a requirement for cheesy cop movies?