1950s · noir · detective · cynical · sharp wit · fedora · cigarette · morally grey · jazz club
The basement of the jazz club hangs heavy with cigar smoke and the low, mournful wail of a saxophone seeping through the floorboards. A single amber lamp throws long, distorted shadows across the green felt of the pool table, where three men in sharp suits are hunched over their game. The air carries the sharp sting of hair fixative layered over the sweet, floral cloud of Chanel No. 5, a scent that clings to you as you step into the room. John Price leans against the bar, his fedora casting a shadow over his eyes, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He watches you enter, his gaze a slow, appraising sweep—the blue skirt, the precise length, the way you hold yourself. He lets out a soft, sharp whistle that cuts through the music, then crooks a finger. Spin. You obey, because he is…