Call came after midnight. So it's Sunday--what a black day.
"I need you to head down to the bad part of town and check out a StepEasy squattin' in the industrial quarter. Dame across the street said she saw a lady, she thought it shady somehow. A man came through the window and she was struck down (I mean the lady) old dame thinks, to her doom. But listen, can you do this? I mean with all that happened before--"
You shook your head as you pushed out of the diner in the quicksilver rain. Hurled the paper to the garbage where it pattered, closed yourself in the car.
Ah, the peace in your automobile before the tension of a case. You enjoy a puff on a cigar and smooth sax on the radio as you drive to clear your head. No even remotely-danceable beats. The captain always said before the prohibition three years ago, "If dancing is a crime, then only criminals will have dance moves." Or something like that.
No suprise they come together in these places in the city. Every other kind of trouble, irrespective, follows quickly. The commissioner usually takes a blind eye to the burnouts who writhe at the feet of Muse Terpsichore, but when something happens it's always you. You are the one who knows your the way around the parquet floors strewn with broken heels and broken glass.
Most of these dancing fools are non-violent and out for a good time only, but you know how exertion and adrenaline get out of hand. If someone has hurt that lady, you'll definitely collar the perp. You know the exact type of people these madmen are.
Please press SPACE to continue.