The place on Emerson, Mulligan's, had seen better days...make that years. Whatever golf theme the bar started out with had faded into memory, save for an ancient #3 wood hung over the barback. Now its only use was to get the attention of rowdy customers who had overindulged for the evening. Logan strolled in, oblivious to the grime and musky nicotine scent that clung to the paint on the walls. He liked Mulligan's because the food was cheap and filling and they didn't serve field greens or tofu or any of that other good-for-you shit every other fucking restaurant in Seattle passed off as food.<br/><br/>The two other men followed, Simons probably pulling out more of that hand sanitizer he was rubbing on in the car. Logan had spotted him in the rear view mirror, and for a long second he had thought the man was slicking his hands up with lube. His brain almost exploded at the prospect of the two men getting it on the back seat of his police issued vehicle, and he caught himself before he whined with disappointment when he realized the bottle was nothing more than Purell. Apparently his imagination had been on overdrive ever since lawyer-boy began starring in the constantly running fantasy in Logan's head. Well, co-starring with special guest star, Dr. Noah Grayson. It wasn't a Quinn Martin production, not by a long shot.<br/><br/>The detective made a beeline for the corner round booth, sliding in with Simons following. The Doc slid in on the opposite side and Logan bit down on a huge grin. Sandwiched between the two, Logan's fantasy reel kicked up a notch. He peeled the menus off the table and tossed them in front of his dining companions, Simons looking at it like it was about to bite him. The bar's lone waitress meandered over, snapping her gum and pulling an order pad out of the back pocket of her jeans. She recognized Logan and gave him a wink of a mascaraed eye, the miles and years not showing so much on her face under the dark lights. "How you doing, hun?" Her voice revealed her two pack a day habit. The trio ordered their drinks, the waitress nodding and writing. "Be right back." She dropped off the three glasses minutes later, then took their orders, Logan ordering the cardiac special, a hamburger with a fried egg on top, and ignoring the shudders from his dining companions.<br/><br/>In the dark corner opposite their booth, a spotlight flicked on, illuminating a small stage with a silver pole stuck in the middle that rose to the low ceiling. A bikini top and thong clad young woman climbed the steps to the stage on platform spiked heels, and with a flick of her dyed white-blond tresses, began to dance to the throbbing beat of Alice In Chains' "Man in the Box", which suddenly rumbled through the sound system of the bar, making the furniture thump slightly with the bass beat. The dancer made the most of the small raised platform, undulating around the stripper pole, a snake tattoo curling around her torso with the forked tongue disappearing into the backside of her thong. The show caught the attention of the few male patrons, who moseyed from the bar to the tables in front of the small stage, watching with mild interest.<br/><br/>Logan glanced over at the striptease for a few moments, grinned at the other two occupants of the booth then nonchalantly went back to his iced tea. It was clear the heterotainment didn't bother him in the least. Just because he was gay didn't mean he couldn't appreciate a piece of ass he had no intention of tapping. Now, if lawyer-boy or the Doc wanted to give him a show, then he might slip some bills into a jock. He pushed his glass away and glanced right and left. "So...anybody wanna take a guess as to who spiked Alfred's Metamucil with a shitload of valerian?"