Never Trust a Dame!
The rain hammered the neon-lit streets, turning the city into a watercolor of shadows and regret. Mike Brannigan pushed open the door to Tom O’Leary’s, a joint where the whiskey was cheap and misery liked company. Smoke curled in the air, thick enough to write your name in, and the piano man played a tune that sounded like heartbreak with a hangover.
She was there, perched at the end of the bar—a red dress, a look that could melt steel, and eyes that spelled trouble in capital letters. Brannigan slid onto the stool beside her, his trench coat dripping a small lake onto the floor.
“You Mike Brannigan?” she asked, voice like velvet with a razor’s edge.
“That’s what it says on my license,” he replied, signalling the bartender for two. “You got a name, or should I just call you Trouble?”
She smiled, slow and dangerous. “Call me Lola. I hear you’re the kind of man who finds things. I’ve lost something, detective. Something important.”
Brannigan took a sip, watching
