The badge catches the dim light as you flip it open, the worn leather of the holder creaking in protest. The piano player's fingers freeze mid-arpeggio, the sudden silence drawing curious glances from nearby tables. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, eyes darting between your badge and the pinstriped suit in the VIP booth. 'I don't want no trouble,' he hisses, his knuckles whitening on the keys.

You lean in, close enough to smell the gin on his breath. 'Then start singing, maestro.' The piano bench groans as he shifts uncomfortably. The bandleader shoots you a dirty look, tapping his baton against the stand. The music starts up again, a jaunty number that doesn't match the fear in the piano player's eyes.

'Lola was seeing Silas Malone's boy,' he mutters through a fake smile, his fingers moving mechanically across the keys. 'Junior got her that diamond bracelet she was always flashing around.' His gaze flicks toward the VIP booth again, where the pinstriped man is now watching your conversation with cold interest. 'Then last Tuesday, she don't show for her set. Rumor is Malone Sr. didn't approve of his heir apparent stepping out with a chorus girl.'

The piano player's hands tremble as he hits a sour note. The man in pinstripes stands abruptly, his champagne flute shattering on the floor. The redhead singer falters mid-note as the room's chatter dies. Every eye in the club turns toward the disturbance—and toward you, still leaning over the piano with your badge gleaming in your palm.