Roy couldn’t believe what he was doing. This was insane— he must be really desperate to get into something like this. Still, he saw no way around it. The only way to efficiently check out the lead he’d discovered was to work undercover. As a stripper.
At least nobody he knew was the kind of person to go hanging out in the red-light districts. Heck, a lot of them were far from old enough to seriously do it.
Still, Roy took precautions. He tousled his ginger locks to contradict his otherwise-constant hairstyle, just for a little bit of anonymity. The club where he’d been hired in held to various themes on various nights; that night in particular was “good cop bad cop” night. It found him in a dark blue tight-fitting police outfit: top buttons undone, utility belt slung low on his waist, pants riding on his hips rather than round his waist, short sleeves cutting off to black leather gloves, and standard police cat atop his head for the full effect.
It was his third night there, but it wasn’t hard to get a hang of how things worked. There was a set schedule that every worker adhered to. Sometimes you were a waiter or waitress, other times a bartender, and on occasion, depending how good you were, you were on stage. He had yet to go up there, but all he had to do was watch to understand all the tricks and tactics. Tonight was his first shift up there.
So Roy found himself approaching the pole. He worked a smooth flashy strut up there, put a hand on the center pole, and gave it a preliminary spin before giving the work a go.