"I was sitting in my office, nursing my third glass of bourbon. The time was 3 a.m. Faint strains of jazz were drifting in through the open window, like a radio station that's almost out of range. It was a slow night, like it usually is. I cater to the crowd that's too guilty to get any shut-eye, or too afraid to be seen in the harsh light of day. But don't worry about me, Ma. I can take care of myself. I carry a gun. I also wear silk pajamas. I'm an All Night Private Eye."
"It was right about then that she sauntered into my office, like she was slow-dancing to a tune only she could hear. She was wearing an overcoat over her peekaboo nightie. She was the kind of dame who displays the goods in the window on Main Street, but then busts you for looking. She had legs long enough to reach the ground and then some, and a pair of cans the size of ripe durians, but not as spiky. She talked about the weather and the phase of the moon while she waited for the courage to spill her guts. I offered her a glass of mother's milk from my fifth of sauce."
"She said I had nice pajamas. I told her to tell me something I didn't know and asked her why she was really here, as the late hour and the hooch were making me sleepy. She said her husband had gone out to buy a newspaper and she was getting worried about him. I told her lots of mooks buy papers, so why the worried wife routine? She said because he went out six years ago and still hadn't returned. That sounded like a pretty good reason to me."
Back in the 1940s, men wore hats all the time. It was virtually unheard of to see a man on the street without a hat. It wouldn't surprise me if men slept in their hats. I don't know why I know that; it's just one example of the thousands of useless facts cluttering up my brain.
Drawn in Photoshop on the graphic tablet.
Here's the original sketch of Mick. I think the only thing I changed in the final drawing was the size of his hat.