You wait until the redhead finishes her set, watching as she dabs her glistening forehead with a lace handkerchief before slipping through a side door marked 'Artists Only.' The hallway backstage is narrow, the walls plastered with peeling playbills and the ghosts of old applause. You press yourself against the cool brick as her voice drifts from the dressing room—sharp and hushed, like a knife wrapped in silk.

'You tell him I ain't his canary to cage,' she hisses to someone unseen. A deeper voice rumbles in response, too low to make out words. The scent of gardenias and gin wafts through the cracked door. Your fingers hover near the knob, catching snippets—'the docks at midnight,' 'the Frenchman's cargo,' and something that makes your blood run cold: 'what happened to Lola.'

The floorboard creaks beneath your weight. The voices stop dead. The redhead's shadow stretches across the threshold as she moves toward the door. You duck into a broom closet just as the door flies open, her green eyes scanning the hallway like a predator catching a scent. 'Damn rats,' she mutters, slamming the door shut. The lock clicks with finality.

Back in the club, the piano player catches your eye, his fingers stumbling over a note. He nods almost imperceptibly toward the fire exit. Outside, the alley reeks of spoiled dreams and rotting fruit. A match flares in the darkness—the piano player lighting a crooked cigarette. 'You're digging in the wrong grave, detective,' he says, exhaling smoke. 'But if you wanna find Lola... follow the pearls.'

The back door bursts open, flooding the alley with light and the redhead's shrill laughter. The piano player melts into the shadows, leaving you with a burning cigarette and a trail that leads deeper into Frisco's underbelly.