Bogart Vol — 01 No 01

"I’m looking for something that doesn't want to be found," she whispered, her voice like sandpaper on silk.

The confrontation was swift. In a flurry of punches and wisecracks, Bogart cleared the room. He didn't need a gun; he had the "magic names" of his ancestors and a survival instinct that wouldn't quit. Bogart Vol 01 No 01

The rain in Casablanca didn't wash away the sins; it just made them shiny. In the dimly lit corner of Rick’s Café, sat with a glass of lukewarm bourbon and a heavy heart. He was a man out of time, a private investigator who preferred punching his way through a problem rather than talking it out. "I’m looking for something that doesn't want to

He turned away from the plane and walked back into the shadows of the city. He had a drink to catch up on, and a new story to write in the next volume of his life. He didn't need a gun; he had the

"You're late, Bogart," Roy growled, flicking a cigarette into the dark water.