<a class="username" data-user-id="27" data-username="@Synn" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/27/">@Synn</a><br/><br/>Thursday, July 9, 9:55 p.m.<br/>Armando's Restaurant and Gentlemen's Club<br/><br/>An exotic dancer. A fucking exotic dancer. Who knew?<br/><br/>Frank Malzone saw it and he still couldn't believe it.<br/><br/>Esme Carrington. His ex-girlfriend. Sure, Esme was lithe and limber and had a great body, but for whatever reason, Frank---a skilled bounty hunter and private investigator by trade---never dreamed that she would be dancing for men.<br/><br/>They used to call them belly dancers back in the day. Maybe they still did, somewhere. But the signs advertising Esme's performance only used "exotic dancer." Frank guessed that maybe certain people thought it sounded better. He still preferred belly dancer.<br/><br/>She wrapped up her final performance of the night as Frank watched from the back of the room, finishing his lasagna. He made sure that she couldn't identify him. It would certainly throw her off rhythm.<br/><br/>And as Frank watched her perform, he definitely did NOT want to throw her rhythm off.<br/><br/>The girl knew what she was doing. It had been four years since the break up, and Esme danced like she'd been doing it all her life. Where did she learn this stuff?<br/><br/>But Frank was there on official business.<br/><br/>His client, an underground element of the local police department, had intel that as part of a mob war, Esme was being targeted for possible abduction. Turned out that the man she had recently been seeing had pissed off the wrong people and to get back at him, Esme might be snatched.<br/><br/>So Frank was hired, freelance, to protect her. His history with Esme, it was thought, could be a plus. Frank warned his clients that it could also be a huge negative.<br/><br/>"She's not going to want to see me pop back into her life," he warned police detective Dennis Hobson.<br/><br/>"At least she won't run away from you right away," Hobson said, to which Frank snorted.<br/><br/>This marked the fourth time that Frank had watched Esme dance in less than a week. He wanted to see her routine, both on stage and off it. He wondered if she had a "day job."<br/><br/>So he surveilled her a little, and from what he could tell, the gig at Armando's was her only means of income. Which didn't necessarily make it true.<br/><br/>But enough stalling. Tonight was the night.<br/><br/>Frank noticed that Esme would always have a drink at the bar after dancing. But she would sit<i>behind </i>the bar, clearly to dissuade any men who got any ideas. Even with bouncers and all.<br/><br/>Frank cleared his throat loud enough for Esme to hear. He was wearing a black t-shirt, a black sports jacket and blue jeans. Loafers on his feet.<br/><br/>A bouncer eyed Frank warily from the front door. Frank nodded to the bouncer and gave the dude a thumbs up, indicating that he knew enough to behave.<br/><br/>"Esme?"<br/><br/>Frank took a seat at the bar, about 6-8 feet from where Esme sat, where she was sipping something amber out of a cocktail glass. She wasn't looking in his direction. Frank put his beer mug on the bar and asked the tender for another.<br/><br/>Esme finally made eye contact with him.<br/><br/>"Hi," he said with a smirk. "Fancy seeing you here."