Ethernauts

“Hot Legs. It’s a strip joint in the French Quarter. I’m not too proud to admit I’ve been there a few times. It’s got something of a rep for having good-looking girls with natural faces. Whisky’s good as well.

Outside it’s like most of the buildings in the street. High, art-deco lines, covered in cheap neon signs. The flickering light casts strange shadows on the walls, giving the place an unreal feeling. Souless, like the trade plied inside.

I make for the door and tip the guy holding it. No sense in getting on the wrong side of a man who looks like his hands could crush a cantaloupe. Then I pass on in to the smoky bar and the noise washes over me.

There’s three girls on stage, dressed like the nuns you wished you had back at school. I take a moment to drink in the sights and sounds before it’s back to business. At the bar is Veronica, the key to my next conversation.

Veronica used to be a dancer, and you can tell. She’s a good-looking dame, even after all these years, and the bodysculpt is barely showing. She musta been something to see.

I give her the nod and she sets me up with a whisky. I’m no regular, but she’s got a memory for faces. Good, makes my job easier.

“Old Sam in?” I ask. Old Sam’s the proprietor of this speakeasy. Word on the street says he used to work for the mob until the last Don got iced. When the Don’s son took over Old Sam got tucked away here as a retirement package. Too useful to kill, too small time to bother much. I can think of worse retirements.

“Yeah” she drawls, “ Waddaya want?” But she’s smiling as she asks so I keep it polite.

“I’ve got a few questions I need answers to. You know, the usual.”

She looks at me and rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling.

“He’s out back. Frankie!” A goon rumbles over from the stage. “Take him to see Old Sam would ya Frankie?”

Frankie growls and makes for a door behind the bar. I take a slug of whisky and follow…”