The Blue Canary Jazz Club hums with the low thrum of a bassline and the smoky laughter of late-night revelers. You push through the beaded curtain, the clatter of glass beads lost beneath the wail of a trumpet. The air is thick with the scent of bourbon and Chanel No. 5, the dim light catching on sequined dresses and the sweat-slick brows of musicians lost in the rhythm. A cigarette girl glides past, her tray laden with Lucky Strikes and dreams.

You sidle up to the bar, catching the bartender's eye—a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running through his salt-and-pepper stubble. 'Whiskey. Neat.' He slides the glass across the mahogany without a word. The ice clinks as you take a sip, your gaze sweeping the room. The missing showgirl—Lola Dupré—was the headline act here until last week. Rumor has it she caught the eye of a wealthy patron. Or maybe a dangerous one.

The stage lights flicker as a new singer takes the mic, a redhead with lips like a fresh wound. Her voice curls around the room like smoke, singing about a love that left her hollow. You catch the bartender's sleeve as he passes. 'Lola Dupré. She still around?' He hesitates, then leans in, his breath reeking of peppermint and secrets. 'Ask the piano player. But don't say I sent you.'

The piano player is a wiry man with fingers that dance over the keys like spiders. His eyes flick to you as you approach, never missing a note. 'Lola?' he murmurs, the melody shifting to something melancholic. 'She got herself mixed up with the wrong crowd. The kind that owns this city after dark.' His gaze darts to the VIP booth in the shadows, where a man in a pinstripe suit sips champagne with a woman who isn't his wife. The ice in your glass cracks like a warning.