Girls' Night Out by Diane Echelbarger Dedicated to Jamie Melody Randell, one of a long line of people who risked her sanity to keep the FK lists running. This piece is unabashedly silly, and has a decidedly sappy ending. But I think we could all use some of that right now. Enjoy. :) Standard disclaimers apply. Non-standard disclaimer: Blame my almost-neighbor Beth for this one. She made me drive out to Spring Green, plied me with food and Moliere, then insisted I had to write up this idea. So any praise should go to her , any blame to me , OK? :-) Late spring, Toronto Grace put on her coat when her shift ended at 5pm and headed to the office to collect her paycheck. OK, so it was only a notice-of-deposit, not an actual paycheck, but she still thought of it that way. Halfway there, she passed Dr. Lambert in the hallwa y, getting a cup of the swill that passed for coffee out of the community pot. "Hey, Nat!" she called cheerfully. "Dropping by to get your check?" She'd noticed, when the schedule was posted, that Natalie had tonight off. The coroner shook her head and turned to face her friend. "Just finishing up." Grace thought she looked and sounded exhausted-- pale, with dark circles under her eyes and a defeated droop to her shoulders. "You mean you've been on duty since *last night*?" she protested. "Girl, you've been working way too many double shifts lately ." "Couldn't be helped." Natalie shrugged the problem off. "Chang called in sick; there was no one else to cover." "The corpses would've waited," Grace insisted, but she knew she'd never convince Natalie. This was an argument they'd had many times before. Nat always held that work came first. "But the criminals wouldn't," the doctor replied, like always. She sighed and rubber her eyes. "Look, I'm almost done with the write-up. I'll go home when it's finished." "You do that," Grace insisted, knowing too well how easily her friend could get side-tracked into 'just one more test.' Natalie smiled tiredly at her and disappeared with her coffee back into the lab. Grace was heading for the outside world when Nick's partner entered the building. "Hey, Grace," Tracy called, "You ordered some popcorn from my nephew, didn't you?" She clutched a large box awkwardly to one side and held a Buckstar's cup in the other hand. "Yup," the technician agreed. "You delivering?" "Uh-huh." The blonde pushed the box onto a counter and started to burrow inside. "What'd you order?" "Two of the microwave kind." Grace extracted her wallet and traded cash for two plastic tubs. As Tracy ticked her off the list, Grace noted another name on it. "You can deliver Natalie's while you're at it," she suggested to the detective. "She's got tonight off," Tracy objected. "Pulled a double shift again," the tech explained with a significant look. "Again?" Tracy scowled. "She's going to burn out if she doesn't ease off." "That's what I keep telling her, but she doesn't listen." Grace glanced at a copy of the local free entertainment weekly that someone had left on the counter, and was struck with an idea. "Detective Vetter, you're Dr. Lambert's friend, right?" "Well, yeah." "Me, too. And as her friends, we want to help her unwind, right?" Grace pushed the paper toward her and tapped one ad significantly. Tracy's eyes widened, and a mischievous grin, twin to the one Grace was wearing, curved up the blonde's mouth. "Yeah....." She giggled. Nat had honestly meant to leave after writing up the Lamm report. But then Det. Starokin had called, asking about that DNA test, and one thing had led to another.... It was almost seven when Grace and Tracy swept through the doors and bracketed her, one either side of her desk chair. "You're working too much," the detective told her. "You told me you'd leave over an hour ago," the tech chimed in. "I was going to," Nat protested, "but first--" "It's always 'but first'," Grace cut her off, and Tracy unaccountably giggled. "Not tonight, girl. You--" she pointed sternly at Nat-- "are taking the night off." She grabbed the coroner's left arm in bot h of hers. "That's right," Tracy agreed, and grabbed Nat's right arm. "You need to relax, and Grace and I are here to see you do. Right?" She spoke over Nat's head, to the tech. "Right," Grace agreed. "But--" "No buts," Tracy cut Nat off, and giggled again. "Not yet." Grace snickered, and between them they levered Nat to her feet. "I've just got to finish--" the coroner protested half-heartedly, but Grace overrode her. "No, you don't. Ain't nobody here won't still be here tomorrow, girlfriend. *You*" she added decisively, "need a night out." "And we're gonna give you one," Tracy chimed in, on cue, and pulled the desk chair out from under Natalie's knees. "Let's go." Nat protested a few more times, mostly for form's sake. Actually, she was flattered that her friends cared enough about her to go to such lengths. And it *had* been a long time since she'd had a night out.... After dinner at a nice restaurant-- they let Nat pick; she chose Italian-- the trio piled into Tracy's car and the detective drove across town, ignoring both Nat's requests to be dropped off at home and her queries about where they were going. When she pulled into the parking lot, Nat looked puzzled. "I thought this theatre closed down a while ago?" "It did," Grace agreed, her tone innocent. "Tonight's the grand re-opening. I saw it in the paper." "Oh." Nat considered that a moment. "What's showing?" Grace hesitated, and Tracy leapt into the breach. "It's a showcase for performance artists," she explained, straight-faced. "The best talent in Toronto will be on-stage tonight." "Really?" Nat sounded intrigued. "Absolutely," Grace agreed, and buried her face in a kleenex, apparently wracked by a veritable paroxysm of sneezing. "Sounds interesting." Natalie opened her car door. "Let's get inside before all the good seats are gone." "Oh, yes." Grace nodded. "We do want good seats." "Definitely," Tracy agreed, and ducked her head so Nat wouldn't see her grin. The club's last incarnation had been a dinner theatre, and small two- and four-seat tables were still scattered around the floor. They were bare except for flickering red hurricane candles and a beer and wine list. The stage was backed by black velvet c urtains and projected into the room, with narrow extensions to both sides. A spiral staircase stood at the end of the left-hand runway and a pair of brass poles occupied the end of the right-hand one. Tracy bought tickets for the three of them, and Grace selected a table that stood almost under the stage, slightly to the left of center. Nat tried to talk them into one a little farther back, so they would have a better overall view, but her two compani ons overrode her. "Believe me, Nat," Tracy insisted with a very odd smile, "for some of these artists, you *want* a close-up view." Grace agreed emphatically, and settled into her chair. Their waiter, who was dressed, oddly enough, in black satin shorts, a red cummerbund and bow tie, and nothing else, introduced himself as Tony and asked for their drink orders. "White wine," Nat said. "Oh, c'mon girl!" Grace protested. "Live a little! I'm gonna have a Long Island Ice Tea. And run us a tab," she added. Tony nodded. "Grace's right, Nat," Tracy added promptly. "Try something different; it's not like you're driving. MaiTai for me," she told the waiter. "You *are* driving," Nat pointed out. "No, I'm not," Tracy corrected her. "I called my brother. He'll collect the car from the parking lot and we'll take a taxi home." She leaned forward, a mischievous smile quirking up the corners of her mouth. "C'mon, Nat. Isn't there something you've always wanted to try, but never had the nerve to order before?" "Well---" Nat hesitated, then, at the encouraging nods from her friends, gave in. "I'll have a--" she cleared her throat, and finished quickly-- "sex on the beach." Tracy and Grace exchanged triumphant glances as Tony solemnly recorded her order and de parted. As they waited for their drinks to arrive, Nat glanced around the rapidly-filling theatre. she thought idly, That was, in her admittedly limited experienc e, rather odd. Theatres usually drew a fair number of couples, even if they specialized in feminist pieces. Before she could comment on it, the house lights blinked twice, and the milling crowd quickly found their seats. Tony distributed their drinks and continued on his way, tray crowded with glasses. Nat picked up her drink-- which was an interesting shade of orange-red-- and sipped it cautiously. It was surprisingly good, but very potent. She decided to make it last as long as possible. The house lights dimmed for the final time, and a man in a white brocade smoking jacket, black pants, and a blood-red ascot stepped from behind the curtain, microphone in hand. With a mild shock, Natalie recognized one of the Raven's former bartenders. "Good evening, ladies and-- ladies," he said, his middle-European accent making the words somehow suggestive. "We have for you tonight a truly outstanding selection of the best 'talent' in Toronto. I'm certain you are all eager for the show to begin, so I won't keep you in suspense any longer." He backed toward stage left and intoned, one arm flung dramatically outward, "Miki's is proud to present-- Gorgeous George!" The audience screamed, the curtains parted-- and Nat stared in shock. The man who stood thus revealed had undoubtedly been a bodybuilder. His skin-tight WWF t-shirt outlined every bulging pec and bicep. The knit pants he wore clung to calf, thigh... and more northerly territory... in a way that left very little to the ima gination. He grinned at his audience and strutted forward, flexing his muscles and twisting his torso this way and that. The crowd responded with whistles, shouts of encouragement, and the occasional "Show us what you got, honey!" She was, Dr. Lambert realized belatedly, sitting front and center at a male strip joint. She turned left to protest to Tracy, but the younger woman's attention was riveted on the stage. As Nat watched in disbelief, the detective put two fingers in her mouth and executed a piercing, high-volume whistle, which caused George to turn her way an d execute a bump-and-grind that was *definitely* aimed at her. Nat blushed; Tracy just grinned and took a swallow of her MaiTai. The doctor turned to her right, where Grace sat-- but found no help there. Grace was tossing back her drink with reckless abandon-- the glass was already half gone-- and leaning back in her chair, watching the stripper with frank appreciation. Wishing she could just quietly slip away, Nat did the next best thing. She downed a slug of her drink. George, meanwhile, had reached the left-front corner of the stage, and was engaged in removing that tight t-shirt one centimeter at a time, to the enthusiastic encouragement of the audience. Once it was off, he whirled it three times over his head and le t it fly into the crowd. Every woman in that part of the room seemed to be fighting over the trophy, Nat noticed as she raised her glass again. Meanwhile, George swaggered the length of the stage, pausing every now and then to strike Mr.-Universe-type poses. When he reached the far end of the right runway, the stripper slowly slid the pants off, with many suggestive movements, revealing one of t he briefest, tightest, *purplest* sets of jockey shorts Nat had ever seen. It wasn't a g-string-- quite-- but it was darn close, and the color was just short of flourescent. The audience screamed approval as George went into a sort of pseudo-gymnastics routine, holding the pants stretched tight between both hands while executing a series of bumps, grinds, and body-flexings. By the time he exited the stage, Nat wondered if she'd *ever* stop blushing. The emcee returned, amid thunderous applause, whistles, and shouted approval-- Nat's tablemates among the rest-- and announced the next number. It was a chorus line, with half-a-dozen well-synchronized men in briefs and bow ties ala Chippendale moving to "Loverboy." At the same time, the waiters fanned out through the crowd taking orders for refills. Before Natalie could protest, Grace had orde red "The same all around." It was only then that Nat realized her glass was three-quarters empty. She didn't remember drinking that much.... The next round arrived as the dance number ended. The emcee-- Miki? No, Miklos, that was what Nick had called him-- raised his microphone. "And now," he announced with a flourish, "Harley and Davidson!" The curtains didn't part. They were pulled aside by two lean-but-muscular men. The one on the right sported a thick blond flat-top, the one on the left had a black ducktail. Both were dressed in tight black leather and mirrored sunglasses. As the wom en in the audience whistled their approval, the two pseudo-bikers strutted forward, playing tough-guy to the hilt. Half-way to the front of the stage, the blond's elbow caught ducktail in the ribs. Ducktail turned and pushed flat-top's shoulder, and the two leather-clad toughs faced each other, lips snarling, hands balled into fists. The crowd abruptly silenced, and Nat wondered if her professional skills would be needed. Then ducktail grabbed flattop's sleeve and the jacket split in half, pulling free to reveal a tank top with the Harley-Davidson logo. The audience, realizing the "fight" was part of the act, relaxed and took sides. Nat noted with amusement that Tracy was cheering for the brunette. She cheered for the blond, strictly for fairness' sake, as she gulped her drink. Within minutes, the men's breakaway costumes were lying in pieces on the floor, and all that was left between them and a public indecency citation were two black leather jockstraps, appropriately studded. They circled each other, still keeping up the fight pretense, but now posturing visibly for the audience as they moved through a series of stylized judo moves. The the blond flipped his opponent over his shoulder-- and off the stage. Ducktail did a truly spectacular mid-air roll and landed on his feet, knees flexed and fists clenched at hip level-- on top of Natalie's table. The trio snatched their drinks before they toppled, and found themselves with a truly close-up view of the dancer's-- kneecaps. The blond did a forward flip, landed on the neigboring table, and called tauntingly to his partner. Nat couldn't hear what he said through the crowd's cheering, but ducktail's reply was to lock both hands behind his neck and throw his left hip sharply ou tward. Nat moved back hastily to give him room, and glanced over at the blond. He copied his partner's pose and shot his left hip forward, then his right. Ducktail responded with a three-move routine. Flattop countered with four. Nat, who was beginning to feel the day's tension unwind, slewed her chair around so she could see both dancers and polished off her drink. she thought, absently placing the empty glass on the floor next to her chair. The anything-you-can-do bit lasted a good five minutes, and ended when the chorus line entered-- this time in blue briefs, police caps, and billy clubs. At this signal, both dancers leapt back onto the stage and backed out on opposite ends, still mock-t hreatening each other. The crowd loved it. The chorus line started another number-- "Every Breath You Take." Nat set her second, still-full drink on the table and leaned forward, squinting against the glare of the stage lights. She could swear she'd seen the second cop from the end before, in a * real* uniform.... Number followed number, stripper/dancers alternating with the chorus. Grace and Tracy kept ordering refills. About the time her third sex-on-the-beach arrived, Nat stopped worrying that someone would see her there and joined in the fun, calling encourag ement to "Zulu", a tall, lean black stripper who was posturing on stage in a fringed-leather g-string, using a long, feather-decorated spear as a prop. The chorus line came back, dressed in black-fur briefs, ears-- and tails, and started moving to the tune of Elton John's "Honky Cat." The final act of the night was "The Great Randini," a stage magician whose tricks invariably caused a piece of his costume to disappear or fall apart. By the time he was reduced to a red-satin g-string and a top hat, the crowd was roaring with laughter a nd approval. As a final trick Randini bumped-and-ground his way to the edge of the stage, rolled his obviously-empty topper down one bare, well-muscled arm, brim outward-- and mysteriously called into existence a double handful of MardiGras-style bead n ecklaces, which he tossed to the applauding women. Nat couldn't figure out *where* he'd hidden them-- the man certainly didn't have any sleeves left-- but she leapt for the prizes as eagerly as the others, and managed to snag a bright orange string a se cond before Grace. Grace, who was on her fourth Long Island Iced Tea, stuck out her tongue at her friend, then grinned as Natalie draped the flourescent beads over her severely businesslike taupe suit. Randini bowed himself off the stage to thunderous applause, and the house lights came up. Nat, feeling decidedly tipsy, glanced around the club. Roughly a quarter of the women were clutching a string of beads, or some other trophy from the night's entertainment. A few looked visibly drunk, but most just seemed relaxed, laughing and chatting with their companions as they finished their drinks and prepared to depart. With a smile, the coroner turned back to her friends. "This was a great idea," she announced, and polished off her drink. "Thanks, guys." "Any time, honey." Grace grinned and fingered the silk scarf around her neck, a souvenir of "The Arabian Knight," who had performed a variation of the classic seven-veils number. Tracy agreed, twirling the paper umbrella from her MaiTai before adding it to a row of similar tokens in front of her. She hadn't tried for the beads or anything else thrown to the crowd, but she seemed content with the parasols, and Nat wasn't in a mood to argue with her. Or with anybody, really. She was more relaxed than she'd been in ages, and wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. The three women gathered their possessions together-- Tracy tucked all four umbrellas, tidily furled, in the breast pocket of her jacket-- and made their way through the thinning crowds to the door. It took ten minutes in the cool night air to snag an empty taxi, and when they were crowded into the back seat, Grace gave the man an address downtown that Natalie didn't recognize. "Hey, wait a minute," the coroner protested, not too fervently. "It's getting late! Shouldn't we be heading home?" "One more stop," Grace replied. "You'll like it," Tracy added, retrieving a purple parasol and twirling it between her fingers. "Oh, what the hell!" Natalie leaned back into the corner and relaxed. Wherever they were going, it had to be more interesting than sitting at home alone. Might as well make a night of it. They thought she was drunk, Tracy could tell. But she wasn't. She'd slipped away during the first chorus number, and given the waiter $20 to insure that all her MaiTais after the first would be the 'virgin' variety. Too many years of watching her mothe r get drunk every night had left their mark. But she'd discovered long ago that she could have just as much fun *pretending* to be drunk as actually getting drunk. More, in fact, because she never had to worry about hangovers. As the cab pulled up to the bistro, she wondered if this was really such a good idea. It had *seemed* like one when she'd spotted the ad, and Grace had agreed, but now she wasn't so sure.... She was sitting on the curb-ward side of the cab, and so was the first out. A quick glance around showed no sign of a certain conspicuous teal-blue car, and she began to worry that they wouldn't have a chance to put the plan into effect. Tracy paid off the cabbie-- and gave him the purple parasol-- and they pushed through the doors into the cafe. And there he was. Nick Knight was sitting in a corner table nursing a barely-touched glass of red wine and looking gloomy, as had become usual lately. Good, so her plea for him to meet her here for "help on a case" had worked. That had been the shakies t part of the plan. The rest should be easy. Grace spotted him a second later, and promptly steered Natalie in that direction. Tracy, not wanting to let on that this was a set-up just yet, peeled off and made her way to the piano bar on the other side of a divider topped with potted palms. She watched covertly as Grace "noticed" Nick sitting there and maneuvered Nat into the se at next to him. Natalie was, Tracy saw with some surprise, a little wobbly on her high-heels. Dragging her attention back to her own part of the plot, Tracy pulled a $20 out of her pocket and dropped it in the piano player's tip bowl. "Play 'As Time Goes By,' willya?" she asked with a grin. "Sure, lady!" The pianist did a few idle runs, then launched into the classic. _Casablanca_ had always been one of Tracy's favorite movies, and the song just seemed to fit those two, somehow. Although why Nick, who was obviously as crazy about Nat as she was about him, hadn't done something about it years ago was beyond Tracy's com prehension. She pulled another umbrella-- the yellow one-- out of her pocket and opened and closed it idly. The waitress came by, and Tracy ordered mineral water with a lime twist. She stuck the umbrella through the twist, just because. Grace arrived at the piano bar as the pianist finished the song, and suspended a ten over the tip jar. "You know 'Tell Her About It,' by Billy Joel?" she asked. The man nodded, and the bill dropped inside. Grace ordered coffee. They kept the songs coming-- love songs, relationship songs, anything to give the couple in the corner a nudge in the right direction. It seemed to be working. They were sitting there, talking quietly, heads together. But then Nick squeezed Natalie's hand and rose, making his way around the planter. "Tracy?" He frowned faintly. "I thought you wanted to talk to me about a case?" "Uh, hi, Nick!" Tracy gave him her best I'm-a-dumb-blond-you-expect-me-to-be-sensible? smile and wiggled her fingers in a silly wave. "Um... not really. I mean, it worked out without you. Really. So I just decided not to bother you with it." "Oh?" Her partner looked skeptical, glancing suspiciously between the two women. Grace pretended not to notice. Tracy, determined to distract him, pulled a third umbrella out of her pocket and offered it to him. "Here!" she chirped. "I brought you something!" Nick gave her a very peculiar look, and took the parasol by its long, pointed wooden stick as if he thought it would bite him. "Thanks," he said, with a notable lack of sincerity. But he went back to the table to sit with Nat, so she forgave him and requested "Wind Beneath My Wings." She was running out of love songs, her feet hurt, and she found herself wishing Nick would for God's sake *take* *the* *hint* and take Nat home with him. Or something. Natalie was most definitely tipsy. Maybe she wasn't drunk, but she was in no fit state to see herself home, of that Nick was certain. When he returned to the table, tucking the green umbrella idly in his shirt pocket, she was leaning both elbows on the table, chin cupped in her hands and hair streaming about her face. She smiled blearily up at him. "Hi, stranger." "Hello." He sat next to her and tried to get her eyes to focus on his. "Nat, I think you should go home, don't you?" "I tried," she assured him solemnly, and yawned. "They wouldn't let me. They made me come here." She straightened, and picked up her drink in one hand while the other toyed with a string of garishly orange, cheap plastic beads around her neck. "I'll take you home, Nat." Nick coaxed, his most persuasive smile at full blast. He placed one hand on her arm, shaking it slightly to get her attention. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" "Huh?" She blinked owlishly at him. "What?" "Do you want me to take you home?" He repeated, enunciating carefully. Natalie gave him a broad, pleased smile. "Yeah!" She nodded, then yawned again. "Take me home, Nick. I'm tired." "Let's go, then." He helped her to her feet and slipped an arm around her shoulder when she wobbled. Together, they headed for the elevator to the parking garage where he'd left the Caddie. Grace and Tracy watched them go with delighted grins. By the time they got to Nat's apartment, she was asleep. Nick retrieved the keys from her purse before carefully lifting her and carrying her upstairs. He put her down on the couch, slipped off her shoes, then fetched a quilt from her bedroom and tucked it around her. His hand was on the doorknob when he remembered something from his brief stint as Schanke's roommate, last year. A quick search produced a bottle of aspirin from the bathroom, and there was orange juice in the fridge. He poured a big glass and placed it , along with the bottle, on the coffee table where she would find it when she woke up. As he straightened, he felt a sharp stab from his breast pocket. It was the cocktail umbrella Tracy had given him. Nick considered it for a moment, then grinned. He opened the gaudy green thing and stuck it in the orange juice, balancing it over one edge with care. Then he turned the lights out, kissed Nat on the forehead, locked the door behind him and went home.