The snow and hail were pounding like loud saxophone music in your ear when you have a hangover. A dame walked in. I knew the moment she stepped in she had a case for me, you could tell by the way she grabbed at her clutch she had something to hide. The dame had steely grey eyes that suggested she hunted down the army of foxes she was currently wearing herself, and red lips that stated she’d finished the job with her teeth. Now, last night had been one of bad coffee and dealing with nosy coppers, but I was never one to turn down a dame.

I asked her if she wanted a smoke and she brought out her cigarette holder: opera length. I already had my own lit, my trusty matches always at my side. Nothing like a good Viceroy to shake off a blizzard as cold as a dame’s heart, though I’d kill for a Chesterfield. I put my feet up on my desk that creaked like my old lady’s knees, nearly missing my seven-dollar golden nectar. I stashed the bottle under the desk. The neon sign announcing my hole-on-the-wall private eye flickered outside my window with the blinds half drawn like a bookie on the run. What can I do ya for? I asked the dame.

The dame was hesitant at first. I could tell from the way her eyes looked down at the ground that she was thinking about what she was going to say. I was wondering if you could help me…she started, trailing off like cigarette smoke. I most certainly can help you, I reply, taking a long drag from my snipe, smirking. My sister’s been missing all night, I don’t know what I’ll do, she tells me while shifting her weight on those long legs and revealing a black dress silkier than a grifter’s voice.  I asked her if she has a picture and she shakes her head. This case is starting to start off as well as my career with the coppers ended.

Do she at least have a name? I asked her. I’d finished my Viceroy and went to strike another match. The dame is there first with a silver chrome lighter. I think I might come to like this dame yet. Christine Anderson, she says, but she goes by Chrissy. Chrissy, eh? I mutter, and what might I call you? The dame’s blood-red lips turn up in a one corner smirk. Judith Slaughter. Slaughter, I mused, where had I heard that name before? I’ll pay you all upfront, she said, slamming down two stacks of cash taller than I’ve seen since Black Tuesday. I expect you’ll be discreet, she says. Without another word, she leaves my office. I don’t have much to go on, but with a body like that dame has, her sister shouldn’t be too hard to find.

I figured I’d stop by the local clip-joint. I grabbed my fedora and trench coat and headed out into the snowy sky and black streets that only a grey city could provide. All sorts of characters came through here. Toady was one such character, and he looked and acted like his namesake, croaking up details if it could help him get ahead. He runs with the local gangsters, even though he isn’t part of the gang. I approached the bar, and Toady’s there washing the same glass over and over like he’s failing to pleasure a woman.

The joint is as smoky as a hooker’s voice and just as hard to see through. Cats and tomatoes were dancing up a storm, not paying me any mind. I don’t bother paying for hooch, not when I have my own. I approached Toady and leaned against the bar. The usual, I said in a low voice. I saw Toady visibly cringe and give a whimper. I stopped my eyes from rolling around inside my head like billiard balls by taking out another snipe and lighting it. Can’t you ever try something new? he asks me, the cowardly greaseball. However, he lifts up his section of the bar so I can pass through to the back room.

It’s a little snug in this backroom, merely a storage for various types of hooch. It’s dimly lit, and a solitary chair is there, as if it’s begging me to ram Toady down into it and turn a lamp’s blinkers in his face. Toady always has the info, it was just prying it out of him. I’m looking for a dame, I said to him. Aren’t we all? He said with a smirk. Damn Toady, thinks he’s such a cool cat. Dame’s name is Chrissy Anderson. She ain’t no dame, she’s just a filly! He said with a jolt. I can feel the plot of this case thicken like a man’s shoes who’s about to sleep with the fishes.

So you know her, I said, but Toady’s trap slams shut as quick a trapdoor hiding bathtub gin. Are we gonna have to do another dance? I ask him. The man’s a genius, or has the memory of a goldfish. Probably both. I let my eyes drift conspicuously to the cudgel leaning against the shelves of hooch. Fine, fine, fine! Toady said, putting up his arms for the impact that wasn’t gonna happen. It didn’t take much for this toad to sing like a canary. Chrissy runs with the Slaughters, Toady began, his voice ragged as a scab going through an employee gauntlet. I knew that much, I say, making motions toward the cudgel. Just…stay away from the Slaughters! Toady exclaimed, his voice reaching filly levels of shrill. Now, Toady’s always been as nervous as a disloyal bookie, but now he shakes like an alcoholic who can’t afford hooch. S-slaughter is a notorious, says Toady after a brief moment of silence, he’s an up-and-comer with something to prove. I mused for a moment. Now I recognized the name the dame gave me earlier. I was approached by a dame by the name Judith Slaughter, she’s quite the looker. You know her? I asked the cowering twit. Toady nods his head fervently. Slaughter came to the clip-joint, not long ago, he says, with a dame by that name on his arm. Beat a young cat to an inch of his life for bumping into him on the dance floor. I’ll say no more gumshoe, I’ll say no more!

Toady may be afraid of my thick arm and the cudgel, but he feared the gangsters much more. I knew I wouldn’t get any more talk outta him. I coughed out a puff of smoke and showed myself out.