The year was 1940, and the unforgiving sun beat down on the dusty streets of East Los Angeles, turning the asphalt into a shimmering mirage. Inside his cramped office, Moe "Snake-Eyes" Juarez mopped his brow with a sweat-stained handkerchief. The air hung heavy with the smell of stale cigarettes and desperation. Three years had passed since he'd traded the smoky haze of underground gambling dens for the uncertainty of private investigation, and...