The Razzle Dazzle district was not Buck’s idea of a good time. The whole strip pulsed like a drunken heartbeat—neon lights and illusory magic weaving together to paint the night in colors no sane sky would dare wear. Gambling huts squatted between grand casinos, their flashing signs grinning like sharks. Animated marquees winked and beckoned, promising fortunes and pleasures while quietly tightening their grip on your wallet—and if you weren’t careful, your soul.

  It was the kind of place you could lose everything in and still walk out with a smile so wide it made people wonder what you sold to get it.

  Buck led Hazelnut down the thronging sidewalk, weaving between tipsy showgirls with feathered fans and jittery panhandlers rattling paper cups. Street performers juggled flaming bottles, their reflections stretching across puddles that reeked faintly of cheap gin. A thousand little tragedies hidden in plain sight.

  They turned the corner and the street seemed to hush.

  The Glittering Starlight Lounge loomed ahead—a palace cut whole from a slab of quartz, every facet catching the district’s riotous lights and spitting them back in hard-edged shards. The name curved across the frontage in letters inlaid with genuine diamonds. Hard-won treasures from the earth dug up during the district’s construction. Casino, cocktail bar and songstage: all rolled into one glorious, bottomless money pit.

  An oxen bouncer in a deep plum suit stood by the entrance, his shoulders broad enough to block the moon. He dipped his head toward Hazelnut, voice a velveteen baritone. "Welcome, miss. Please, enjoy yourself." The noble bow almost sold the chivalry. Almost.

  When Buck stepped to follow, that meaty paw landed like a steel gate in his path. "And just where do you think you’re going, Buck?"

  Buck looked up, feigning delight. "Louie! Is that you? So hard to tell from way down here. How’s it going, big guy?"

  Louie’s nostrils flared. "You think you can just waltz in here after that last poker game? I thought we were friends?" The blast of hot air set his nose ring swinging like a pendulum.

  Buck fought the urge to cough. "Like I told you—flush beats a straight. I didn’t make the rules."

  "That money was for my goddaughter’s sweet sixteen gift. You must have cheated. You KNEW the next card was a king!" Louie’s eyes flushed red. For a second, Buck thought he might really gore him.

  Hands up in mock surrender, Buck said, "Honest, Louie. I had no idea. About the card or the present." He fished in his coat and pulled a few bills from the Don’s envelope. "Get her something nice. Sign the card ‘From Uncle Buck.’"

  Before the ox could react, Buck tucked the bills into Louie’s nose ring like a money clip, ducked under his chin, and slid into the lounge.

  Inside was heat and haze. Red velvet clung to every surface that would take it, and polished wood glowed like poured honey under the lights. Smoke curled lazily toward the chandeliers, carrying the tang of cigars and the sharp bite of cheap cigarettes. A roulette wheel clicked in rhythmic defiance of the slot machines’ tinny songs, each cheer from the tables sounding like a prayer answered—or a soul lost.

  Buck scanned for Hazelnut. She was halfway up the winding stairs to the upper level, tail flicking with purpose. He opened his mouth to call, but the band struck up and the house lights dimmed. The casino’s chatter dissolved into the kind of hush that made you check your pulse.

  The stage curtains quivered.

  A single calf appeared first—smooth, toned, lit like it was born to be photographed—slipping from behind the curtain, the slit of her gown promising more. The heel that followed was a shimmering spike of silver, catching the spotlight like it owed her money.

  Then came the voice.

  Low. Warm. Silk over gravel. The kind of voice that could slide into your ears and set up shop permanently. The first note she sang, like a hook to the ribs. Soft at first, daring you to lean closer, then curling up into a warm, smoky trill that made the cigarette haze seem like part of her act.

  Willow "Goldie" Songbird didn’t just walk onstage—she arrived, as if the room had been waiting all night for permission to breathe again. Her golden hair caught the light in a thousand tiny suns, cascading over bare shoulders dusted with faint glitter. The red dress she wore was cut like a sin—sharp where it had to be, soft everywhere else. Every patron surrendered completely in her presence. A kiss blown here, a wink tossed there, and she reeled them in. Handfuls of klopens littered the stage, keys and notes were slipped between tossed bouquets. One patron caught her smile and folded where he sat, chest to table. Buck had seen it all before and still it was a trap he walked into willingly. She was a living flame and the crowd was more than happy to burn.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  When the last, lingering note of her bluesy jazz number faded, she disappeared behind the curtain as though the stage had merely dreamed her up. The crowd roared for more. Buck, suddenly aware of his thirst, ordered a shot at the bar. He knocked it back, then another for courage, before angling toward the backstage door. Goldie knew every whisper in this place. If Brandon had been here, she’d know who he left with.

  On the balcony, Sparks sat with a martini, smirking into his glass when he spotted the rat. Buck noticed him in the same beat, their gazes locking across the lounge like a pistol duel. Neither looked away.

  Buck shifted his path, ready to head upstairs to pry out of the tabbi whatever Hazelnut wouldn’t tell him earlier in the cab. Sparks’ eyes narrowed in reply. Then, without breaking eye contact, leaned toward a passing waiter and murmured something. The waiter nodded, turned away, and clapped twice.

  A blinding spotlight detonated over Buck.

  "Ladies and Gentlefolk!" the announcer’s voice boomed from the stage. "We’ve got ourselves a birthday guest! Let’s give him a big hand!"

  Before Buck could bark a protest, shadows moved—big ones. Two, three, four oversized staffers closed in like friendly but determined dockhands, grinning ear to ear.

  "Hey—wait a minute—!"

  They hoisted him onto their shoulders before he could finish. The crowd roared in delight. Like a prize catch, he was paraded down the winding stairs in a ridiculous victory lap while Sparks, still lounging at his table, raised a glass in a slow, mocking toast.

  "It’s not my birthday, you morons!" Buck twisted against the grip of one beefy arm. "Somebody put me d—"

  A cupcake the size of a fist was shoved into his mouth mid-protest. His muffled curses were drowned out by the entire lounge belting out Happy Birthday like they were at a championship game.

  He managed to get a leg free, rolled backward off their shoulders, and landed behind the parade mob—face smeared with icing and dignity leaking fast.

  Two large gloved hands emerged from behind the curtain and seized him. "Miss Goldie wants to see ya," grunted a voice like a granite quarry. Buck was marched past hanging lights, painted backdrops, and half-finished set pieces. The casino’s chaos faded behind the velvet curtain. Then the brute shoved him into a dressing room without ceremony.

  Goldie’s dressing room smelled like temptation gone stale. Rose perfume clashing with old cigarette smoke left a half sultry, half suffocating haze that stuck to your lungs. Racks of glimmering dresses lined the walls in various shades of shimmer and shine. At the center sat the calico tabbi herself, perched at her vanity as though she were royalty waiting to be adored. She powdered her nose, her tail swishing like a lazy metronome and eyed Buck via the reflection in the vanity mirror.

  "You know, it's funny," she purred, her voice like warm honey poured over a knife’s edge, "I could have sworn your birthday was three months ago."

  Buck wiped at his face, smearing chocolate onto his hands. "Yeah, well, no one told that damn matchstick."

  Her smirk thinned. "Really? You're still doing this? Whatever am I going to do with you?"

  She snapped her compact shut and rose from her seat in one fluid motion, smoothing out her dress as she turned to face him. No more mirror between them. Buck’s eyes tried not to linger. They failed. "Now, as lovely as it is to see you in my little corner of the city, why are you here, Buck?"

  "A case. What else?" He produced the poker chit from his coat, letting it catch the light.

  Goldie arched her brow. "Of course it's a case. You never make social calls." She walked towards him slowly, heels whispering against the floor. "You got a little something there," she said, gesturing to her face where some chocolate remained on him.

  "Where?"

  "Here, allow me."

  Her fingers slid under his chin, tilting his face up. The rosewater hit him first, then the soft scrape of her tongue stealing the last bit of chocolate from his fur. His knees almost forgot their job. "There. All clean." She didn’t step back—just plucked the chit from his hand like it had always belonged to her. She traced it across his neck. "So, what’s the case, hon? Chasing down some deadbeat who stiffed the house?"

  Buck cleared his throat to find his voice. "Uh, yea-I mean, no! No. I'm working a real case. High profile. The Cremation Killer."

  Goldie stopped mid-step. Her eyes sharpened, a storm gathering behind them. "Are you trying to end up as a headline? What would Sam say?"

  Buck winced like she’d slapped him. Sam would have called him a fool. John had said the same. Maybe they were right, but it wouldn’t change anything. He had a job to do. He forced his jaw to unclench. "That chit was found in one of the victim's apartments. What can you tell me about it?"

  Goldie hesitated. A flicker of conflict passed across her face before she turned back to her vanity. "Only that it's old," she finally answered. "We tossed this style months ago." She pulled a sleek, metallic chit from a drawer and held it up next to Buck’s—wooden and dulled by time. "Counterfeits started clogging the works. Cost us a fortune and more than a few sleepless nights. Where’d you dig this one up?"

  "Caverlock. In an apartment owned by the second-most recent victim now, Brandon Murray. Groundhog. Used to work at a pharmacy. Might've had a combover?"

  Something flickered behind her eyes—recognition, maybe regret. "Brandon…yeah, I remember him. A real sweetheart. After some bad throws of the dice he ended up taking a loan from the house."

  Buck's ears perked up at this news. "Did the lounge enforcers go after him? His sink looked to be in the middle of a remodel."

  "Oh no, no. Brandon was very good about payments. The loan was paid in full but that was the last time I remember seeing him."

  "Damn," Buck's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Another dead end."

  Goldie gave a mocking pout, stepping back into his space. "Is it, though?" She ran a fingertip along his jaw, licking off a stray bit of chocolate she’d missed. Lightning shot down his spine. "Sometimes the treasure isn’t the lead you find, but what you pick up along the way."

  "I suppose so," Buck managed to mumble, feeling his face flush red hot. "Thank you Goldie. I-"

  A thunderous crash from the stage cut him off. Buck drew his revolver and slammed the dressing room door open, dashing back through the main stage curtains. Behind him, Goldie gasped at the sight of the lounge in chaos.

  A large hare was thrashing about, smashing everything he could get his hands on. Customers screamed over the shattering of glass and wood. Several dived for cover, scrambling to get to the exit.

  Louie grabbed a hold of one of the hare's wrists, struggling to restrain him. "Okay, buddy. I think you’ve had enough," he growled. The hare was easily twice the oxen’s size. It roared and swung Louie through the air like a ragdoll. He slammed into the bar mirror, shattering it to pieces and falling behind the counter out of sight.

  Goldie stifled a scream behind her hands. "Get out through the back," Buck snapped. "Call the police. Tell them we're gonna need S.W.A.T.S." She nodded and ran backstage.

  Buck stepped out from behind the curtain with his weapon drawn. He shouted with all the command he could muster. "HEY!" The hare’s ears flicked in his direction, turning to look at the rat onstage. Buck aimed his revolver, lining up the iron sights with the monster before him. "You're crashing my birthday party."