I came to see a man about a drink and found a woman with a gun.  She had legs that went all the way up, and a skirt that didn’t go all the way down.  I was looking down the business end of her revolver, but it was her cherry lips and almond eyes that I couldn’t stop staring at.
    “I was told you would be here, Mr. Copola,” she said, her tongue flicking behind her teeth like a snake.
    Her voice was sultry, accented with too many cigarettes and not enough dry gin.  I pulled up a bar stool and offered her a seat next to mine.  She slid onto the stool, crossing her legs, the toes of a stiletto lightly brushing across my leg.  She put barrel of the revolver to my chest and leaned in close.
    “I have needs, Mr. Copola, and I am told you are the man to satisfy them.”
    “I’m just passing through, doll.  I know better than to hang my hat for too long on Bourbon Street.” 
    I got the barkeep’s attention, and ordered a round.  Two shots of whatever he had on the top shelf.  I figured I could give the dame a shot before she gave me one.  It had been a pretty good trip up to this point.  I collected some debts, repaid some favors, and no one had tried to kill me, yet.  If there was one thing I learned about New Orleans, it was that you never got out clean. 
    “You can keep your hat on, Mr. Copola,” she said as she ran the muzzle down my side.  It was not just her eyes on me anymore.  Now she had her left hand giving me the feel goods, checking me for weapons of my own.
    “Easy doll.  Why don’t you have a drink first,” I told her, downing my shot.  I motioned for the barkeep to leave the bottle.  It looked like it was going to be a long night, and I hadn’t had enough to drink.
    She raised the glass to her lips, and knocked back the fiery liquid in a slow pull.  She slid the lipstick stained glass next to mine, and I filled it to the rim.  I was still too sober to remember if I had met her before.  The dames of my life came and went like the passing of the seasons.  Which reminds me, I have to look up Summer when I get back to San Francisco. 
    I looked back at the dame with the gun to my side.  Her curly auburn hair was  tousled playfully around her shoulders, framing a once sharp face with high cheek bones.  She didn’t wear much make up, apart from the candy red lip stick and mascara that accentuated her hazel eyes.  The only thing that gave her age away was the fine lines that were starting to show.  I liked that about her instantly.  She had a life time of experience she wasn’t trying to hide.  I always had a weakness for experienced women.
    “Most of the women of my life only want to kill me after they’ve known me for a while.  What did you have in mind?”
    “I told you before, I am looking for a man who can satisfy my needs, Mr. Copola.”
    “The name’s Cabbot.  You can call me Cappie, doll face.”
    “And you can call me Madam Aria.  Now, Cappie, some associates of mine have told me that you have certain, gifts.  I need you to put those gifts to work for me,” she cut to the chase. 
    I could tell she was used to getting exactly what she wanted from the men in her life.  There was little doubt in my mind that she would be getting exactly what she wanted out of me. 
    “I’ve never been one to turn down a dame in need, especially one with a bad attitude and a gun.  Tell me, Madam Aria, how can a gentleman, such as myself, be of service to you?”
    She slid the gun into a garter belt on her thigh, taking her time pulling her skirt back down.  A woman like this had a laundry list of issues, but modesty wasn’t one of them.
    “I have been losing business, and no one I have contacted has been able to help.  My clients are hesitant to return, and some of my employees have stopped coming to work.  I need a man with your unique, abilities, to take care of the problem.”
    The liquor was finally kicking in.  I took two more quick shots for good measure, stood up, and held out my arm for the Madam.  She rose from her stool and accepted my arm in her hands.  Her touch was light, commanding, and more intoxicating than the 150 proof coursing through my veins.
    “My establishment is just a few blocks from here.  Walk with me, Cappie.”
    We strolled down Bourbon street, serenaded by the sounds of wailing trumpets, crooning saxophones, and broken hearted men singing the blues.  The air was thick and wet, clinging to me like a broad that can’t accept that the fling is over.
    We turned off Bourbon and escaped the crowds of drunk gals who like to tease, and drunker guys who would have better luck in Vegas.  A dive called the Cat’s Meow was filled with folks who could not hold their liquor and waitresses who weren’t getting enough tips.  Madam Aria guided me up St. Peter’s Street to Royal Street.  The sounds of all that jazz were fading in the distance. 
    Madam Aria took me down Pirate’s Alley, to the back door of a large French Colonial.  I’ve seen a dozen joints just like this, and I noticed that the Madam had not understated the situation.  The windows and balconies were empty of the scantily clad seductresses, selling whatever sins tickled your fancy.  The lights were out, and the curtains were left open.  No reputable house of ill repute should be so quiet on a hot summer night.
    “I see that I don’t have to point out the seriousness of the situation, Cappie.  I sent my last girl home an hour ago.  We hadn’t had a john all day, not even a regular,” the Madam said as she opened the back door of the bordello.  She flicked on some lights, and the inside of the joint was just as sad and quiet as the outside. 
    Gaudy velvet furniture in greens and purples lined the walls.  Well worn and darkly stained tables with antique lamps sat in the corners.  Tapestries and plush curtains hung from brass fixtures mounted on walls covered with floral motif paper.  The hardwood floors creaked in protest beneath our feet as we walked to the foyer. 
    Still, the thing I noticed most of all, was the chill in the air.  Old joints like this didn’t have air conditioning.  No respectable bordello would sully the sticky, sweat and French perfume scented air with artificial conditioning.  But, there was a chill to the air all the same.  Madam Aria draped a woolen shawl over her exposed shoulders and pressed herself to me.
    “It’s cold in here, and the liquor doesn’t keep me warm anymore…”
    “I think I know just the cure.”

    What the hell?  Damnit, she took all the blankets again.  Maybe I can get her to warm me back up.  Wait.  Where did she go?  And what is touching my feet?  Good God it’s cold.  There’s something in front of me.  I can feel it.  Don’t open my eyes, it will go away.  Don’t open my eyes.  Maybe just a peek…
    “AGH!  Holy shit!”
    I knew I had powers.  I had them since I was young, but levitation wasn’t one of them.  The crash to the floor brought me back to my senses, unfortunately.  There was a visage of a disembodied head and a set of hands floating just above me, reaching for me.  The apparition gave off a blueish light that radiated a cold that made the alcohol thinned blood in my veins slow.  I wasn’t about to wait to introduce myself.
    I ran out of the bedroom, and realized I was in more trouble that I thought.  The house was dark, and I had absolutely no idea where I was going.  Despite this, I couldn’t convince my legs to slow down.
     Three wrong turns, two face first run ins with walls, five harsh trips to the floor, four smashed tables that had gotten in my way, three broken toes, and more cuts, scrapes, and bruises than I care to think about, and there it is, the front door!
    I burst out of the french double doors like a drunk running out on his bar tab, realizing as I hit the sidewalk that I was completely naked.  Some late night passersby snickered at me like a stripper who shouldn’t be stripping at bachelorette parties.
    “It was COLD in there!”
    The snickering continued unabated.
    “Bravo, Cappie, bravo,” Madam Aria started to applaud.  “Your courage in the face of danger is truly a thing to behold.”
    “Give me that!” I snatched the woolen shawl from her shoulders and took a seat on the porch next to her.  “What the hell was that?”
    “My problem.  The one that you said you would take care of for me,” Madam Aria peered over her shoulder into the darkened house.  She shuddered and turned her attention back to me.  “Now, you see the seriousness of the situation.”
    “You better start from the beginning, doll.  I need to know what’s going on if I am going to help you fill more than just your own bed in this joint.”
    Madam Aria rolled her eyes in disgust.  “Three weeks ago, one of my girls was killed in her room.  Her name was Jessablell, and she was one of my top earners.  Sweet girl, it was a terrible shame.  That thing that you so courageously faced down is her spirit, or ghost, whatever you want to call it.”
    Madam Aria stood up and started to pace the porch as she continued her story.  “Jessabell was a sweet girl.  She had run away from the orphanage down the street at St. Peter’s Church.  One of my regulars caught her trying to pick pocket him as he left here one night.  I took her in, gave her a room, in exchange for taking care of the chores around the house.  When she was old enough, she took a job as one of my full time girls here.”
    “So, why is she hanging around here, messing up your business?  And who killed her?”
    Madam Aria stopped in her pacing, facing down the alley in the direction of St. Peter’s Cathedral.  The spire of the cathedral could be seen, a dark parapet silhouetted in the moonlight.  “Father Bourdaine.”
    “A priest?  You mean to tell me that a priest offed a bordello girl?”  The whole affair was starting to smell like yesterday’s fish of the day.  I had to find out what the side orders were.  “Why do you think it was the priest?”
    Madam Aria clammed up like an oyster you just couldn’t shuck.  She had a secret, I could feel it in the air around her.  It was something I needed to know.  I gave her a little nudge, using a small bit of comforting empathy to make her spill the beans.
    “Father Bourdaine was a regular of Jessabell’s,” she managed to exhale.
    I looked above me, sure I was going to find a ceiling fan, because something sure as hell would have just hit it.  A runaway orphan, a perverted unrequited love, an illicit sexual affair, a jilted lover, a murder, and one pissed off ghost.  Only in New Orleans. 
    “You are no stranger to establishments like mine, Cappie.  You know that what happens here, stays here.  I have a long list of influential and highly regarded people who accept my hospitality.  Politicians, lawyers, police, and clergy are among them.  The police did nothing to officially investigate the murder.  They knew if they started pointing fingers at the church, the church would start pointing fingers back,”  Madam Aria let down her guard.
    That is why she needed me.  A guy like me blows through town, and it really doesn’t matter how many new enemies I make on my way out.  She needed a guy without a dog in the fight. 
    A breeze was blowing in from the north, and clouds were rolling in, dark as the heart of a man who would kill a call girl, just as the first, hazy pink rays of sunrise cast their glow like the neon lights of the French Quarter. 
    “I need something of Jessabell’s.  Something intimate to her.  Something she would have had with her, at the end.”
    Madam Aria told me about a Raggedy Anne doll that she kept in her room, one that she had since she was a small child in the orphanage.  It was perfect for my needs, except for one problem.  The doll was still inside of her old room, and she was still in her old room.  I felt like a lobster, about to jump into the pot.  “Where was, is Jessabell’s room again?”
    Madam Aria looked up at the third floor window facing the alley.  I followed her gaze, and noticed the frost on the inside of the glass.  My hand strayed to where the inside pocket of my jacket, and my flask would have been, if I had been wearing my clothes.  Damn.  I had to get those too.  Well, what the hell.  I have powers for a reason.  Time to put em to some use.
    “No matter what happens, doll, don’t come in after me.”
    Madam Aria rolled her eyes and strode into the bordello.  I’ve never been one to let a dame face danger, but it was her house, and Jessabell had been her girl.
    “Remember to get my clothes!”

    I finished putting my clothes on, took a long hard pull on my flask, and settled into a chair on the porch.  I held the ragged old Raggedy Anne doll in my hands, and focused all of my will on it.  Images of memories flashed in my mind like a dime store news reel playing out.

  Jessabell, getting dressed after a client left her room.  Tall, slender, fair and freckled, like a fairy without her wings.  Sweet girl.  A knock at the door.  She is tired.  She doesn’t want another client right now.  The knocking gets louder, it sounds like the bells of a church ringing for mass.  She opens the door.  A pudgy, pig faced man pushes into the room.  He yells at her.  She yells back.  He hits her, pushes her onto the bed.  She struggles.  He tears her blouse off.  She tries to scream.  The pig faced man covers her mouth with his meaty hands.  She bites him.  He backhands her across the face.  He grabs her slender neck with his hands.  He squeezes, lust and rage burning in his eyes.  She is blacking out.  The flashes of memory fade to black as her consciousness had.  The visions are over.

    I could tell by the darkening expression on Madam Aria’s face that my empathy was broadcasting at full power.  That had always been an issue with my powers.  I could sense people’s emotions just as acutely as they felt them themselves.  I could sense danger on the wind, I really could feel it coming in the air of the night.  I could touch an object and see flashes of it’s past or future. 
    Yet, the one thing I could not control was the emotions I broadcast, and how they affected the people around me.  Birth rates had a tendency to increase in the neighborhoods I lived in.  What can I say? I never needed Viagra.  Alcoholics Anonymous meetings always had a large turn out near where I lived.  I never understood that.  Not once have I ever thought of quitting drinking.  Hell, people were just in a better mood wherever I went.  For the most part, wine, women, and song have kept me a laid back cat.  But when I get angry, and I mean like a nest of hornets being poked by a fat kid with a stick, things tend to go bad for everyone.
    Fights were breaking out all over the streets.  Across the alley, a stark raving mad woman was flinging everything but the house cat out of the window at what used to be her boyfriend or husband.  Sirens were wailing all around, and I was pretty sure that the police were using their batons to chop legs like lumberjacks chopped wood.  An image of the nun’s of St. Peter’s slapping each other around like daytime television show guests was enough to tickle a laugh out of me, and most of the anger subsided.  I had work to do.
    “I am going to St. Peter’s, to meet with the good Father Bourdaine.  Stay here.  Do you still stay in the house with her?  Doesn’t matter.  Stay somewhere.  I’ll be back soon.”
    Madam Aria raised an eyebrow at me, not quite sure how to express her gratitude I’m sure.  I was going to give her a passionate kiss, like Cary Grant kissing one of those foxy broads from his movies, but she looked like she had something stuck in her throat.  I gave her my best ‘here’s looking at you kid’ nod, and made my way to St. Peter’s.
    The streets were clearing up, paddy wagons taking most of the early risers to jail.  At least they would be getting a good breakfast.  Breakfast, oh could I use a steaming hot cup of joe and a donut.  The children of St. Peter’s orphanage were filing into cathedral.  Morning mass.  Father Bourdaine will be giving his morning sermon.  I could sit through it and wait for him to finish, or…

    “This is the best cup of mud I have had in a long time, Margot.”
    “Of course it is, child!  I made it myself,” Margot was the dayshift waitress at the Cat’s Meow.  She was heavy set, black as the berries on this mornings pancakes, and called everyone ‘child.’  “Can I get you some more donuts, child?”
    “Oh yeah, lay em on me, momma.”
    “Now how come I never seen you in here before?  Cute thing like you, I would have remembered,” Margot had one hand on her hip, the other pouring cups of pipping hot coffee to the brims without looking.
    “I’m juft paffing frough, momma.”
    Margot smacked me on the the top of my head with a ‘tsk.’  “Child, where are your manners?  Didn’t your momma teach you better than to talk with your mouth full?”
    “Sorry.”
    Margot lifted one eyebrow impossibly high and wagged an accusing finger at me.  “You don’t seem like the tourist type, child.  What’s got you passing through my way?”
    “Business.  I had some things I had to take care of, old acquaintances I had to look in on.  I just have one more thing before I am on my way.”
    I could feel the suspicion radiating off of her.  She was a flagrant and flamboyant gossip, and once she got a whiff of something juicy coming from me, she was on me like cheap aftershave.  Margot leaned over the counter while staring me in the eyes, refilled my coffee, and hollered back to the cook for a stack of blackberry pancakes, on the house, of course.  “Tell me, child.  You know something momma wants to know.”
    “What do you know about Father Bourdaine?”
    Margot’s attitude changed faster than a fry cook could flip an egg.  Under a thick layer of disgust, lay a hidden fear.  Margot feared Father Bourdaine.  Feared what?
    “Child, I don’t know what you come here for, but I can tell you this; stay away from that man.  He the devil.  Oh sure, he preaches the Word, but he don’t follow it, uh uh.”
    “Margot, I need you to tell me everything you know about him.  I think he killed a girl, and got away with it.”

    I sat in one of the pews of St. Peter’s Cathedral, trying to calm myself down.  I knew I had let my temper get the best of me when I saw that bum biting the dog back in the alley.  I don’t think he hurt the dog, it didn’t look like the bum had any teeth, but to be on the safe side, I took a couple long pulls from my flask when the alter boys weren’t looking, and let the liquid calm course through me.
    Sister Mary Josephine told me she would get the father for me.  Maybe I was still al little pissed off when I talked to her, but I got the distinct impression she was an unholy chore on a good day.  She had a face that would boil holy water.
    “How can I help you, my son?” Father Bourdaine was a pudgy man with pinkish jowls and an upturned nose.  He had a pig face.  No wonder he became a priest, the vows of celibacy were no sacrifice for him. 
    “Thank you for seeing me, Father, I was hoping I could speak to you in private.  If you don’t mind.”  A little push with some emotive influence just to make sure.  You don’t want others to hear this.
    “Uh, yes, of course.  Follow me, we can speak in my office.”
    Father Bourdaine led me through the rectory and into his private offices.  The scent of wood polish, leather oil, and votive candles hung thick in the air.  A large elaborate stained glass window colored the room in a rainbow of muted hues. 
    I had to think back, remember the visions I received from Jessabell’s doll.  I needed something of the father’s, something he had with him in Jessabell’s room.  He was wearing plain clothes, nondescript.  There was nothing like that in the room.  I don’t remember him wearing a crucifix.  Sick as he was, he must have remembered to take that off when he satisfied his flesh.
    That’s it!  The rosary.  He had rosary beads in his pocket.  Where are they?  “The truth is, I am here on behalf of someone close to me.  Someone who needs my help.”  Where are they?
    “Well, tell me, my son, who is this person?  What do you need to do to help them?”  Father Bourdaine was nervous.  Skittish.  Like a mouse who knows there are cats about.  I could feel the emotional storm, raging within him, just like the storm that was fast approaching the city.  He wanted me to leave, but he wanted to know how serious a threat I posed to him more.  Only the guilty suspect everyone.
    “Well, father, that is why I am here.  My friend is a private person.  She doesn’t want the whole of the French Quarter knowing her business.”  Damnit, where is the rosary?  “I came here to get some guidance from you.  You know, some divine advice?”
    Father Bourdaine raised his hand before his face and rested his arms on the desk between us.  There, just above his cuffs, the rosary!  Oh hell, I didn’t hear what he just said.  Never mind.  It doesn’t matter. 
    “I’m sorry to interrupt, father, but I couldn’t help but notice your rosary there on your wrist.”
    The father looked at the rosary, and smiled.  “Ah, yes.  If you like, I can have one of the sisters get one for you.”
    “Well, father, it would mean so much more to my friend if the rosary came from you.  You could spare that one, right?”  You are feeling very generous, father.  Its just a rosary, you can get another one.
    Father Bourdaine shifted in his seat, staring at the rosary on his wrist.  He slid the beads from his arm and laid them on the desk.  “By all means, my son.  Take it, if it will help.  I can get another one.”
    “Thank you, father.  You’re right, this will help.”  I took the beads and made my way out of the cathedral.  I needed somewhere private to concentrate on the rosary.  The alley where the bum had been biting the dog was now empty.  Perfect. 
    Clenching the beads in my hands, I focus all of my will.
   
    Father Bourdaine is drunk.  He is staggering down Pirate’s Alley, toward the bordello.  A man is walking out of the front door, still putting his belt back on.  Father Bourdaine stops him, demands to know which girl he has just been with.  It was Jessabell.  Father Bourdaine is furious.  She belongs to him.  He pounds on her door.  She doesn’t want to let him in.  He pushes his way in.  They argue.  He hits her.  Pushes her onto the bed.  She beds another man, but not him?  His rage and lust builds.  He tears her blouse off.  She says she hates him.  He strangles her.  Her body goes limp.  He does not kill her.  He has his way with her, and then he leaves.  He returns to the residence at St. Peter’s. 

    He didn’t kill her.  He didn’t kill her?  What the hell?
    “Get it together, Cappie.  Well, if not the priest, then who?  I’ve got to talk to Madam Aria.”  Great, now I am talking to myself.  Again.  This is why I quit the life.  Why I stopped.  Too much pressure, too much stress.  Not enough booze and broads. 
    The walk back to Madam Aria’s bordello is short, but uncomfortable.  The wind had picked up to near gale force, and the rain was coming down sideways.  To make matters worse, the only place to get out of the rain was inside Madam Aria’s.  Great. 
    “Anyone in here beside Jessabell?”
    “Oh, for Pete’s sake, get you head out of the door and come in, you big wuss.  You know, for a man who puts on such a show of bravado, you are, without a doubt, the biggest chicken out of all the gifted clients I’ve had in here.”
    “Wait, what?  You’ve had other men with powers in here? When? Who? No, wait, I don’t want to know.  They probably had chiseled bodies and amazing endurance.” 
    I didn’t need to use my powers to read the expression on her face.  That half cocked head to the side tilt that people do as  they remember something wonderful that makes them grin like a frat boy who found the drunkest girl at the party. 
    “I knew it!  What kind of powers did they have?  Abnormal growth?  Elasticity?”  She wasn’t giving anything away.  “Could they hold their breath indefinitely?”
    “Oh, grow up, Cabbot!  You are supposed to be helping me deal with Jessabell,”  Madam Aria suddenly realized that she hadn’t been paying attention to where Jessabell was.
    “Yes, tell me, how were you supposed to be helping dear Jessabell?”  Father Bourdaine stood in the doorway, lighting flashing behind him.  “Were you one of the men who thought they could take her from me?”  Bourdaine drew a pistol from his pocket, and aimed it at me. 
    You are a coward.  You WILL NOT pull that trigger.  You are afraid. 
    “She belonged to me,” Bourdaine started to whimper.  “She left me, she ran away from me and the church.  I gave her everything.  And how does she repay me?  By becoming a whore, and bedding every man in New Orleans!”  Bourdaine’s fear was being replaced with rage, rage fueled by insanity.  “She belonged to ME!” 
    “Time to go,” I pushed Madam Aria into the hall as Bourdain fired, showering us with splintered wood.  “Go!”
    “Where?”
    “Anywhere but here!”
    We ran up the stairs, with Bourdaine right behind us.  He only stopped to reload.  I followed Madam Aria to the third floor, and heard the ‘snap’ of a bullet as it hissed past my ear. 
    “Keep going!”
    Madam Aria burst into one of the rooms, and I could see the frost on all of the surfaces inside.  A pale blue glow emanated from somewhere inside.
    “NO! Not that one!”  I tried to pull her back into the hallway, and then I felt it.  It was as if someone hit my back with a hammer, and it knocked the wind out of me.  Madam Aria pulled me into the room and slammed the door shut, twisting the lock just as Bourdain reached the handle.
    “Uh, damnit.  He shot me.”
    “Aren’t you gifted types supposed to be impervious to that?”
    “I’m NOT bullet proof, lady!  Maybe some of your other super-lovers were, but I’m not!”
    “Well, can’t you do anything?” Madam Aria shrieked as Bourdaine blew a hole through the door, missing the lock.
    “You’re damn right I can.”  Focus. Focus.  I closed my eyes and willed all of my power on one emotion.  Focus.  Make her feel it.
    Another shot rang out above the thunder, and the lock was blasted away.  The door slowly started to creek open, then stopped.
    There was a gurgling sound in the hallway, a thud, and then silence.  Thunder rolled outside, shaking the house to its foundations.  Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in a blinding light.
    “What did you do?” Madam Aria was breathing heavily, her breasts heaving against the back of my neck.  I couldn’t help it.  I turned my head around and said, “I bibbngt bdo abnythbng.”
    “Get your face out of there!” Madam Aria shoved my face from her breasts like a hockey player checking an opponent. 
    “Hey, easy dame, I’m shot, remember?  A little comfort was all I was looking for.”
    “That still doesn’t answer my question.  What happened to Bourdaine?”
    “I did!” Sister Mary Josephine pushed the door open and stood in the threshold, wielding a knife dripping with blood.  The body of Father Bourdaine lay at her feet.
    “I have watched for years as this depraved house sullied our neighborhood.  I watched as the harlots of this house sold sins of the flesh and corrupted the good people of our city,” the sister spat through clenched teeth.  She stepped into the room, raising the knife.  Lightning flashed, and the fresh blood could be seen on the blade.
    “I watched as that little whore, Jessabell, seduced Father Bourdaine, and damned his soul to hell.  He just couldn’t let it go!”
    “You killed her,” Madam Aria whispered.
    “Yes.  She corrupted Father Bourdaine.  She corrupted St. Peter’s.  She was an abomination in the eyes of our Lord.  And now, I am going to finish my work, by destroying you, Madam Aria.  This house of sin will burn to the ground this night!”
    Sister Mary Josephine raised the knife above her head and charged.  I tried to push myself to my feet, to protect Madam Aria.  If I was going to die, protecting a dame was the way I always wanted it to be. 
    Josephine stopped dead in her tracks, just a few feet away.  She stood, prone and frozen in terror and disbelief.  I could feel the shock and horror radiating from her, and even in the cold of the room, it chilled me to the bone.
    Josephine back peddled awkwardly, the knife dropping from her limp hand.  She stumbled and fell back into the dressing table in the corner.  Thunder shook the house as lighting flashed, filling the room with a fierce, blinding light.  Josephine clawed at the wall, and caught hold of the sill on the window.  She stood up and shrieked.
    “It can’t be!  I killed you!  It can’t be!”
The apparition of Jessabell hovered near the ceiling of the room, the ghastly blueish glow becoming as blinding as the lighting outside.  With an inhuman wail, the apparition flew across the room, striking Sister Mary Josephine, knocking her through the frosted glass pane. 
    The lightning flared once more, and then they were both gone.

    “The sister’s body was never found.  We looked all over for it.  Madam Aria fixed the place back up, the girls went back to work, and the bordello reopened for business.  Last I heard, the room where Jessabell was murdered is still cold to this day.”

    “Oh, you are so full of it Cappie!”
    “Yeah, a haunted bordello!”
    “Couldn’t you have come up with something better?”
    “You tell your daughter that one too?”
   
    The crowd of the bar hooted and hollered at the end of the story, as they always do.  But one woman kept a straight face, and sauntered up to the bar, taking a chair at the end.  She had legs that went all the way up, and a skirt that didn’t go all the way down.