Post WWII Los Angeles. In the dead of night you enter Fulton’s, a clip joint hidden in the murk of downtown. Take your seat and stash your heat; your drink is on its way. Smoke curls along the crown molding and lingers in the air. What little light there is tingles through the vapors as a femme fatale appears between the shadows. She’ll be by soon. Get cozy, you’re in for the night – it’s either that or put up a fight. In a few hours your boys will join you. For now, a deck of cards from inside your coat is tossed on the table and your fedora set aside. As broads sit and sip, gents go for the grift. Are you in?