The twenty-dollar bill disappears into the bartender's apron with the grace of a seasoned magician. He wipes down the counter with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving the smudged glass. 'Lola was clean,' he mutters, so low you almost miss it beneath the wail of the saxophone. 'Till she started running with the Silver Serpents.' His knuckles whiten around the rag. 'They own the docks, the clubs... even some badges in this town.'

The name clicks in your mind like a bullet casing hitting concrete. The Silver Serpents—Frisco's most notorious smuggling ring. The kind of outfit that makes bodies disappear beneath the waves before the ink dries on the police report. You thumb the edge of your glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. 'And Chase?' you ask. The bartender's jaw tightens. 'He was asking questions. The kind that get a man fitted for cement shoes.'

A burst of laughter erupts from the VIP booth. The man in the pinstripe suit is watching you now, his fingers steepled beneath his chin like a spider waiting in its web. The woman beside him—a blonde with a diamond choker biting into her throat—whispers something that makes his smile go sharp. The piano player's melody stumbles, just for a beat. The bartender slides another whiskey toward you, this one on the house. His whisper is barely audible: 'The Serpents move their goods through the old cannery on Pier 17. But you didn't hear that from me.' The ice in your glass has melted into ghosts.