A throbbing bass line pounded the walls of Flesh. The strip club was dim except for a few ornate chandeliers. Cheap seats in the center and VIP banquets on the perimeter, each patron’s face glowed red orange in the faux candlelight. Back stage was dressing rooms and assorted play areas. Flesh, a members-only private club, had only human staff and a select Android clientele. In a dark corner one of the select members, Liberty English, lounged on the velvet cushions, long legs splayed and a naked woman curled against him in each arm.

Cinnamon, one of English’s favorite dancers, was doing a sultry fan dance. He knew Cinnamon was a natural ginger with 81 freckles and an accommodating personality. Between the feathers Cinnamon tossed English a wicked wink. Bobbing to the music, the attorney smiled broadly. Tootsie the woman on his right kissed his neck while Lolly on his left walked her fingers down his thigh.

Tossing his sparkly banana hammock into the cheering crowd, Cinnamon gyrated provocatively leading up to his full split finale. English grimaced with delight as Tootsie nipped his ear. Suddenly, a shadow fell across his table. Luscious grey curves crammed into a skintight black leather mini dress, an Android blocked the stage. Legs akimbo and arms loose at her sides, the stranger rolled her shoulders and stared down at English’s night’s entertainment.

“Leave,” she said flatly.

Immediately the women looked at one another, stood up, and left the table. Primly, the Android sat down beside him. English laughed out loud.

“Well don’t you look good enough to eat. Thank you for accepting my invitation to meet here,” English said resting his hand on her knee possessively. “I’m glad we ran into each other at the art museum. I didn’t recognize you in that little docent outfit.”

“Well I believe in the importance of service, Mr. English. Art is so enriching, is it not? So enriching and so expensive,”

Looking around anxiously English’s guest wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. Cinnamon’s performance was over in a thunder of clapping. Violins pierced the applause as a classical version of “I Want to Paint It Black,” roared from the speakers. In stilettos and a g-string, Peaches slid down the pole that telescoped up from the floor.

“Please call me Libby. So Sugar at the exhibit you said you had a legal inquiry?”

She leaned back into the embrace of velvet. Whirling the dancer on the stage slithered up and down. The red orange light painted the dancer’s brown skin. English’s guest tilted her head transfixed.

“Yes, thank you for your willingness to see me in your off-hours, Mr. English, I mean Libby. I have an opportunity to buy a lovely new townhouse, and say 10,000 credits would help with odds and ends. See here,” she said tapping her IDentibracelet.

“Excellent investment. I encourage home ownership. Are you taking on extra work to cover expenses?” English said, without looking down at her bracelet and instead appraising her profile.

“Funny you should ask. Working as a secretary at EPD is rewarding but I’ve taking up storytelling to help with overhead. For example, I’m working on a mystery about a pigeon who plans to fly away with her little chick this Thursday. She’s going into hiding and leaving police protection so no one can find them. Then she will return to sing for the trial,” she said.

“Fascinating story, Ms. Greystone,” English said as sent 10,000 credits to his guest’s account with a wave of his fingers. “But why would she leave police protection?”

Peaches was covered in a shine of sweat and body glitter. The dancer’s ankles caressed the metal pole as her back arched in the flashing lights. Conspiratorially, the two Androids leaned towards each other. The crowd applauded as Peaches spun.

“Can you believe it in my story there’s a mole in the police department? That canary is afraid. Of course in my story she just gets paid off to not come to court. I wouldn’t want to have my name tied to any unpleasantness.”

“Of course, Ms. Greystone. I’m a lawyer not a gangster. We are not like the meatbags I represent. I’d never cotton to blood on my hands. I’m just looking for stories well told and I’m open to supporting a struggling writer.”

“Libby, call me Daphne,” Daphne said and leaned her head on his shoulder.