“Last Call at Rosie's”
The dame walked in at 2 AM smelling like jasmine and trouble, her heels clicking on the linoleum like a ticking bomb. “You the PI who handled the DeLuca case?” she asked, sliding a photo across the bar—some poor sap face-down in a alley puddle. I took a drag on my cigarette, letting the ash drop into my whiskey. “Lady, in this town, everybody handles DeLuca cases until they don't.” The neon sign outside flickered, painting her smirk blood-red. Right then I knew—this job would cost me more than the .38 bullet I'd inevitably eat.