The Silver Slipper nightclub hums with illicit energy, its marquee flickering through the fog like a siren's call. You push through the heavy velvet curtain, immediately hit by the cloying scent of gardenia perfume and bootleg gin. A jazz trio wails on stage, their music drowned out by the roar of drunk sailors and laughing socialites slumming it for the night. The showgirls glide between tables in sequined costumes that catch the light, their smiles sharp as razor blades.

You make your way to the bar, where a bartender with a waxed mustache polishes glasses with a dirty rag. 'Whiskey. Neat.' He slides you a glass filled with something that smells more like turpentine than bourbon. You nurse it anyway, eyes scanning the room. Three girls cluster near the stage—a redhead with a beauty mark, a blonde with a limp, and a brunette whose right sleeve bulges suspiciously around what might be a bandage.

A hand lands on your shoulder. 'Lookin' for company, handsome?' The voice is honey over gravel. You turn to face a platinum-haired showgirl in a feathered headdress. Up close, you notice the bruise blooming beneath her pancake makeup, the way her left ring finger bears a pale stripe where a ring recently sat. She catches you staring and tucks her hand behind her back. 'Buy a girl a drink and maybe she'll answer some questions.' Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.