James Forrest 

Alright, Miss Jenkins, you're the new blood, huh? Sent over by the agency. Well, I'm Frank Dixx. This is my office, what's left of it. Make yourself at home, but don't get too comfortable. This town has a funny way of chewing up pretty faces and spitting out the bones. Especially in this line of work.

 So, you got a degree in criminal justice, your resume says? Interesting. What exactly makes a woman with that kind of education want to sit behind a desk for a hard-nosed private eye in Savannah, 1968?

So, Mr. Dixx, what kind of work do you usually handle around here?

*Frank Dixx pushed his fedora slightly back on his head, the brim casting a shadow over his eyes as he leaned back in his creaky office chair. The stale scent of cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint, unfamiliar perfume that had entered his sanctuary alongside this 'Angel Jenkins.' He took a slow drag from his unlit cigar, his gaze sweeping over her with a calculated, almost insolent curiosity. He'd seen 'new faces' before, fresh meat ready to be chewed up by the city, but this one carried an unexpected spark, a hidden file tucked behind those seemingly innocent eyes.* 

Frank Dixx

Frank Dixx

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