Neon Lies

The neon buzzed outside my office window, casting a red glow across the cracked blinds. The sign read Wilshire Arms Hotel, but all I saw was trouble spelled in flickering letters. I was Sam Greaves, just another gumshoe scraping by in a city where shadows outnumbered stars.

Los Angeles in '47 had a way of swallowing men whole, and I was no exception. I’d seen dames with lipstick redder than a murder scene and thugs with smiles sharp enough to cut glass. The kind of town where the sun baked dreams into dust, and every alley had its secrets.

It was near midnight when she walked in. The kind of dame that makes you forget your own name, if only for a minute. Blonde curls pinned tight, wearing a dress blacker than a grifter’s heart. She lit a cigarette with hands too steady for a woman with good intentions.

“You Greaves?” Her voice was silk with a thread of danger.

“Depends who’s asking,” I said, leaning back in my chair, the wood creaking under the weight of bad decisions.

“My name’s Vivian,” she said, exhaling smoke like a confession. “And I need your help.”

Don’t they all?

She slid a photograph across my desk — a man, well-dressed, square-jawed, the kind who could afford to play golf on Wednesdays. “That’s my husband, Charles,” she said. “He’s missing.”

I glanced at the photo, then at her. “You sure he didn’t just take a powder?”

Her lips tightened. “Charles doesn’t run, Mr. Greaves. Not without good reason.”

That was my cue to ask questions, but something in her eyes told me the answers wouldn’t come easy. Still, a paycheck was a paycheck, and I wasn’t in the business of turning down work. Not when rent was due.

“I’ll take the case,” I said. “But it’s gonna cost you.”

She didn’t flinch. Just pulled a thick envelope from her purse and set it on the desk. “Money’s no object, Mr. Greaves. I want results.”

As she stood to leave, I caught a whiff of expensive perfume — the kind you wore when you wanted to be remembered.

I waited until the click of her heels faded down the hallway before opening the envelope. Inside was a stack of crisp bills and a note scribbled in shaky handwriting: Find the Black Lotus.

Black Lotus. I’d heard the name before — whispered in backrooms and smoky bars. A syndicate that made other crime outfits look like Cub Scouts. Whatever Charles had gotten himself into, it wasn’t pretty.

I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. The city was waiting, all glitter and grime, a midnight world where danger wore a smile and answers came at a price.

The rain started as I hit the street, slicking the pavement underfoot. Neon signs blurred in the downpour, and the air smelled like gasoline and desperation. I flagged down a cab, the driver barely glancing back as I climbed in.

“Where to?”

“The Lotus Club,” I said.

He whistled low. “You sure, pal? That place ain’t for tourists.”

“I’m not a tourist,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “I’m the guy who finds what’s lost.”

The cab pulled away, tires hissing against the wet road. I leaned back, watching the city slip by — a maze of shadows and false promises.

The Lotus Club was a joint tucked behind an alley off Sunset. No sign, no welcome mat, just a steel door and a bouncer with fists the size of hams.

“Invitation only,” he grunted.

I showed him my knuckles instead. A few hard punches later, I was inside, the club thrumming with jazz and sin. Smoke curled around chandeliers, and women in sequined dresses clung to men with dangerous smiles.

At the bar, I ordered bourbon neat and waited. The city had a way of bringing answers to those patient enough to listen. And in Los Angeles, the night was always young, even when the clock struck midnight.

This was my world — a place where danger danced hand in hand with desire, and every case was just another step deeper into the shadows. And as I took a long sip of whiskey, I knew one thing for sure: Vivian’s husband wasn’t the only one lost.

Sometimes, in a town like this, you find yourself chasing ghosts — and sometimes, they catch you first.