The electric fan pushed hot air around my office like a boxer working the heavy bag - all motion, no relief. July in the city was always brutal but tonight felt different. Maybe it was the envelope sitting on my desk, brown and unmarked except for a single fingerprint in what looked like blood. Inside, just a brass key and a matchbook from the Paradise Lounge.
"Trouble, Jack?" Sam Blackthorne stood in my doorway, her silhouette a dangerous curve against the frosted glass. She moved into the light, red dress hugging her like a jealous lover.
"When isn't there?" I lit a Lucky Strike, watching the smoke drift up toward the ceiling. "Got this love note about an hour ago. No message, just a key and this." I tossed her the matchbook. Sam turned it over in her manicured hands. "Paradise Lounge. Mickey Flynn's joint down on Canal Street. Real dive."
"You know it?"
"I know everything worth knowing in this town, sugar." She perched on the edge of my desk, perfume mixing with tobacco smoke. "Flynn's been running numbers through there for the Calabrese family. Word is, something big went down last week. Nobody's talking, but three of Flynn's boys haven't been seen since Tuesday." I picked up the key, holding it to the light. "Safety deposit box. First National, by the look of it."
"Convenient that someone dropped it in your lap, Jack. Almost like they want you to stick your nose where it doesn't belong."
I stood, grabbing my .38 from the desk drawer and sliding it into my shoulder holster. The weight felt good, familiar. Like an old friend warning me to watch my back. "Only one way to find out what game they're playing." I shrugged into my jacket despite the heat. "Feel like taking a walk down to Paradise, Sam?" She smiled, all red lipstick and secrets. "Thought you'd never ask, handsome." The Paradise Lounge squatted between a pawnshop and an all-night diner, its neon sign flickering like a dying firefly. Inside, cigarette smoke hung thick as fog, and a piano player murdered "As Time Goes By" in the corner. The regulars looked up as we entered - hard men with empty eyes, working girls with tired smiles. They sized us up, then went back to their drinks.
Mickey Flynn stood behind the bar, a bull of a man with knuckles like walnuts and a face that had seen too many fights. His eyes narrowed when he spotted us." Well, if it ain't Jack Marlowe." Flynn's voice was gravel and whiskey. "Kinda far from your usual stomping grounds, ain't you?"
I placed the matchbook on the bar. "Got an invitation I couldn't refuse. Want to tell me about your missing boys, Mickey?"
His face went still, dangerous. "Don't know what you're talking about, Marlowe. But here's some free advice - walk out now, while you still can." Sam's hand brushed my arm, a warning. Three men had detached themselves from the shadows, moving to cut off our exit. I smiled, cold as December steel. "Now Mickey, is that any way to treat paying customers?"
The night was young, the heat was rising, and somewhere in this mess was a truth worth killing for. Just another evening in paradise.
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