Chiko saunters through the crowd, strutting away from the bar with a southside splash in paw. From across the room, he’s eyeing the patrons of the smokey speakeasy. Izzy’s was the kind of place anybody can get in if they have the password. High class cats to the average furr-ball lingered here for spirits and entertainment. The cabaret was unique. Mr. Huntington was here the night of his demise, and someone here might know about it. Lighting up a left-handed cigarette, Chiko passed the time watching and listening to conversations and deep in thought.