Excerpt:

The minuet was dead and jazz had killed it.  My Rolls Royce idled at the curb, driver at the ready for a quick get-away, but the wail of the sax and the croon of an unseen dame called like siren song.  Who was I to resist?

I flicked the remains of my cigarette towards the gutter and headed down the stairs to the Shady Lady, keeping both eyes open and my mouth shut.  Not for the thrill of the forbidden, because the entire upper echelon of New York society frequented Eva "Shotsie" Malone's speakeasy.  But even the cops on her payroll were obliged to raid the premises occasionally and the c-notes in my pocket weighed more heavily upon me than a guilty conscience.

Especially considering that a guilty conscience tended to weigh on me not at all.