You drop a five-spot on the bar and slip into the crowd, your eyes locked on the cigarette girl's swaying hips. She moves like she's dancing to a private tune, her tray balanced expertly as she weaves between tables. The blue light catches the rhinestones on her garter when she pauses near the service door. A quick glance over her shoulder—right at you—then she's gone through the swinging door.

You follow, pushing into a narrow hallway lined with liquor crates and the sour smell of mop water. The cigarette girl stands by a flickering exit sign, her back against the peeling wallpaper. 'You're either real brave or real stupid, detective,' she says, lighting a smoke with steady hands. 'Lola's got friends in high places. The kind that don't like nosy flatfoots sniffing around.'

Her name's Ruby, she tells you after you flash a sawbuck. She pops the collar of her satin jacket, revealing a bruise blooming along her collarbone. 'Saw Lola leave with the pinstripe suit last Friday. She was crying, but not the kind you run from. The kind you swallow.' Ruby exhales a perfect smoke ring. 'Three nights later, some dockside rats found her shoes near Pier 12. Just the shoes.' She grinds out the cigarette. 'Now scram before they spot you talking to me.'

The service door bangs open—a bouncer with knuckles like walnuts glares at you both. Ruby's smile goes tight. 'Time's up, sugar.' She slides a matchbook into your pocket as she passes, her whisper barely audible over the distant jazz. 'Burn after reading.'