Podmore, P.I.
The ceiling fan turned in lazy circles, barely circulating the hot air of a Chicago summer night. It cast long shadows from the streetlight that shone in the window, drawing wide black lines on stacks of papers, errant coffee cups, and the leggy broad who'd just walked into his office.
Dames. They were nothin' but trouble, and this one was the worst of them. Celeste Lestrange was miles of trouble, from the point of her bright red heels right up the seams of her stockings to the matching red hem of her skirt, around the curve of her hips and all the way to the cigarette holder gracing her gloved hand and faintly clinging to her equally red lips as she pulled it away and let out a delicate plume of smoke.
"I have a problem, Mr. Podmore," she said coolly, the tone smooth as the jazz coming up through the floor from the speakeasy hiding out under the PI's office. "I understand you're in the business of fixing them."
"Depends on the problem," he replied evenly. "If it's got anything to do with your murdering bitch of a sister, you're outta luck."
"I've been out of luck for a long time." She looked steadily at him, taking another long drag on her cigarette. Celeste Lestrange didn't back down. No, she was sauntering forward and sitting without invitation in the chair in front of his desk. She crossed her legs, successfully drawing his eyes just as she'd intended. "I've got information," she informed him. "I took it to Robards down at the PD, but he's not buying it...but I think you will."
Robards. Podmore knew the man from his own days on the force, and wasn't surprised that he wouldn't take whatever story it was that Celeste Lestrange was spouting. She was from one of the biggest crime families in the city, and whatever she was saying was bound to get somebody in deep water - probably the bottom of the river. A cop was a lot more likely to be wearing the cement shoes than any of her family was. However, Podmore also knew that if there was something that would bring a pretty little Mob princess down to the South Side, it had to be serious business.
"A'right." He lit a cigarette, resting his arm forward on the desk. "I'm listenin'."