The Case of the Melissa Candida [WIP]

This is a story that I've been thinking about writing for a while now. It's my attempt at a detective story set in prohibition era America. So far, I have only written the first chapter. I will warn you that starts out a little slow and there isn't a whole lot of sex so far, but it is in there. Without further ado, allow me to cast level 1 wall of text.

The ceiling fan spun slowly and wobbled back and forth. Its oscillations were quiet, yet audible. Frank slowly opened his eyes. He watched the fan during his slow, thoughtless return to consciousness. His head felt heavy and throbbed with a familiar pain. He knew immediately that he'd made a mistake. He murmured an expletive to his past self as he groped for the bourbon bottle that he knew was on his bedside table. Sitting up in bed, he took a deep draw off of the bottle. It was much less full than he remembered. After taking a few deep breaths and wiping the excess spirit from his lips, Frank bolstered himself, stood up and stumbled toward the bathroom.

He splashed some cold water on his face and fought the strong urge to vomit. He'd just drank the last of his whiskey and this morning and he couldn't afford to waste it. Looking up from his wash basin, he observed himself in the mirror. The scruffy man who stared back at him looked like shit. He had dark circles under his unfocused, bloodshot eyes, thick salt and pepper stubble circling his rugged jaw line and strong chin and his hair was an overgrown mess. He ran his wet fingers through his hair, worked in some waxy pomade and did his best to tame his hair with his comb. He considered shaving, but decided that it simply wasn't worth it today and walked back into his bedroom to get dressed in his shabby brown suit. Completing his ensemble, Frank placed his crinkled fedora atop his head and his snub nose .38 in his chest holster. Frank took one last look at himself in the full length mirror on his way out the door. He was a private investigator with a drinking problem and today he looked the part.

* * *

Frank had sat alone in his messy office all morning. Work was slow and his last case involved finding out who was stealing an old cat lady's newspaper. As it turned out, nobody had been at all. She was senile and had run behind on her payments to the paper company, who had finally cut off her service. To make matters worse she was penniless and couldn't pay his bill either. Frank sat back in his torn leather chair, put his dull oxfords up on his desk and tilted his fedora down. His head still ached, he needed the rest and there wasn't any work to be done.

No sooner had Frank gotten comfortable than he heard the unmistakable clip clop of high heels in the empty hallway outs