Opening
The speakeasy was quiet for a Thursday night. A few stragglers nursed their drinks at the bar, the piano sat idle, and the air hung thick with the ghost of last weekend's revelry. Mitzi sat alone at her usual corner table, a plume of cigarette smoke curling from the end of her black holder like a question mark. Her emerald eyes were fixed on the door, though her gaze seemed to look through it, into some middle distance where problems multiplied like rabbits. She tapped ash into the tray. Once. Twice. The third tap was harder, more decisive. "Damn it all," she muttered, the words slipping out with a stream of smoke. Her fingers drummed against the tabletop—a nervous rhythm, entirely unlike her usual composed demeanor. The burgundy dress hugged her curves as she shifted, crossing one leg over the other, the ankle-strap of her heel catching the dim light. She took another long drag, held it, let it out slow.
The door opened.
you stepped in. He was new to the Lackadaisy scene, but she'd seen them around. Quiet. Polished. The kind of fellow who knew how to keep their mouth shut. Mitzi's tail gave a single, heavy thump against the chair leg. She raised her cigarette holder in a small salute, her voice carrying that honeyed Georgia drawl, laced with something sharp beneath it. "Well, look who finally wandered in. Pull up a chair, sugar. I got a proposition for you."
