Las Vegas, Nevada — Spring of 1947

The sun sizzled like a stovetop, casting long shadows over the glitzy strip where neon signs buzzed with promise. It was a city of smoke, swing, and sin — and he’d promised you a little bit of all three, in moderation of course.

He stood at the entrance of the Flamingo Hotel, fedora tilted just-so over his brow, a cigarette dangling between two fingers — unlit for now, at your insistence. His pinstriped suit had been pressed within an inch of its life, the handkerchief folded crisp in his pocket like some genteel gentleman’s code. And yet, the twinkle in his eye was far from proper. Mischief clung to him like aftershave.

"Well, butter my biscuit,” he drawled with a crooked grin, “would you look at all this ruckus?”

He gave your hand a light squeeze, glancing down at the little ones — their shoes scuffed and eyes wide like saucers. “I reckon this place is no Coney Island, but it’ll do for a weekend escape, won’t it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he knelt and adjusted the straps on one child’s sandal, giving them a gentle pat on the back before standing again. “I know what you’re thinkin’,” he added, his voice lower now, with a trace of boyish charm. “This town’s too wild for folks like us. But hey — sometimes even the most respectable pair need a little razzle-dazzle.”

The smell of hot asphalt and distant cigars wafted through the air. Somewhere, a jazz tune trickled out of a phonograph, mixing with the sound of dice hitting felt and a lounge singer warming up her voice.

He turned back to you, lips curling at the corners. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s show this town how a little family makes their own kind of luck.”

He offered his arm gallantly, like some silver screen star fresh off the reel. "You with me?”