The Blue Parrot nightclub pulses with illicit energy, its stained-glass parrot sign casting kaleidoscopic shadows across the wet pavement. You lean against the brick alley wall across the street, watching bouncers frisk overdressed socialites while a jazz trumpet wails inside. The match flares in your cupped hands as you light another cigarette, the smoke curling around the fedora of Jimmy 'The Weasel' Fiorelli who materializes beside you like a bad penny.

'Heard you been askin' around about some square businessman,' Jimmy says, picking at his teeth with a switchblade. 'Bad for the digestion, that kinda curiosity.' You exhale slowly, letting the ash drop onto his Italian loafers. 'Tell your boss I got a tip—Chase was seen here Tuesday night arguing with one of his girls.' You flash a doctored photo of Chase near the club's back entrance, the timestamp crudely altered.

Jimmy's blade stills. 'That's a dangerous lie, detective.' The neon parrot turns his grin garish. 'But maybe it's the kinda lie that makes problems disappear.' He melts back into the alley just as two of O'Sullivan's uniforms round the corner, their nightsticks slapping against their palms. The club's back door creaks open—a silhouette in a sequined dress blows smoke your direction before vanishing inside. The pearl earring winks at you from your pocket like a dare.