Look down some dark midnight street, into the dark recesses of a smoky dive where the scarred barroom floor is carpeted by broken teeth and dreams, and you will find the Blue-Eyed Indian. He is the private detective who turns over the rock of city life, doing the kind of work not likely to boost the sale of fedora hats.

Listen to the husky saxophone's wail, lilting and dropping in sad echoes off hard buildings. The click of heels on the harsh noir sidewalk you hear through the black night is The Blue-Eyed Indian.