***The roaring 20s. Fade-in from black.***
That’s the dame, he knew.
She walked into the office dressed in typical flapper gear—she was in her early 20s with that bobbed hair *those* sort of women liked. A black sparkling jacket and short skirt—looked like a Coco Chanel brand. Judging from that and the almost aggressive panther vibe, she was one rich broad.
“Flap your yap already, miss. What do you want?” the detective barked.
She crossed her legs and let out a little puff of cigarette smoke, carefully shaped like a ringlet. Slow, methodical. Her eyes were blacker than the Devil’s own soul. “I want you to find someone for me.” She pulled a paper out of her silver handbag and slid it over.
He picked up the paper and noted the name. Out in California, it was always good to know people. And this name…this one was a doozy. He got up and paced. She didn’t watch him, but stayed resolutely puffing at her cigarette, her full lips caressing it like she had a grudge against it.