“It was Lucy Johnson. AKA:Diamond Lucy, a dancer down at a skin joint near the pier. Pretty girl. Turned all the heads. Now after a couple days at the bottom of the bay all she was turning was people’s stomachs. My name is Spark Steele, and I’m a P.I.”

A grizzled, anthropomorphic bulldog private investigator, wearing a fedora and trench coat, stands in a dimly lit alleyway, the rain reflecting the neon signs of a nearby jazz club in his weary eyes. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of cheap whiskey. Rendered in a gritty, cinematic ...