Night Butterflies

It all started with a card game. He had aces over eights, they had nada, but before the night was out he was on the lam for murder. She was lying in an alley in a pool of blood, and he tripped over her in the dark. Hell of a way to make an introduction but then she wasn’t talking.
Not your ordinary crime, but for Tony Ford, Private Investigator, nothing is ordinary. He’s old school, a shoe-leather kind of PI. You ain’t dead until he can’t feel a pulse, and the case ain’t closed until he hears the crackle of cash in his pocket. No paperwork, no receipts, no secretary, just his instincts and his .45 calibre friend.
She isn’t from around here, and the deeper he digs the darker and more dangerous it gets. What follows is a long and difficult pursuit for the truth, with his reputation, and his life, on the line. Bullets fly, and bodies drop, with alarming regularity, but each step forward feels like two steps back. That can wear on a guy.
His only saving grace comes in the form of Sandy, a pert little redhead running a house of illicit pleasures downtown. He leans on her for advice and she leans on him for survival; between them, they unlock the clues that set on him right track.
The end of the trail isn’t what he’s expecting, but when it’s the only offer on the table, you have to make a choice. Sometimes a phone call is all it takes.