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I flicked off the safety of my .38 and in a single motion rose, aimed at the middle of the goon's chest, and squeezed off three quick rounds. All three slugs found their mark - more or less where I'd intended - and the impact sent the intruder tumbling backward like a drunken acrobat. The poor sap was dead before his shoes stopped twitching on the hallway tile. My name's West - Elias West - and I'm a Private Investigator. All you really need to know about my current case is this clumsy fool isn't the first guy I've killed this week. And it's only Wednesday. It's 1949, and Elias West is an L.A. Private Detective working out of a humble, one-room office just off Wilshire, years before Wilshire became synonymous with snobbish wealth. He's been around the block a few times and he's single, traits which usually go hand in hand in this town. Elias is honest (when he has to be) and resourceful (as necessity dictates). Being a gumshoe brings him in contact with a lot of folks, and he scratches out a living off good guy money while bearing bad guy scars. West admits his life isn't all peaches and cream, but he's carved out a comfortable Southern California routine of sporadic work and plenty of good Scotch while waiting for opportunity to knock. But on a fateful April day a beautiful dame knocked instead.

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