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significant to this case
why?"
    "I seem to remember you
talking ghosts and Close Encounters of
the Third Kind shit."
    Frank cupped his palm and with a forward
motion said, "More."
    "The story about the fire
blew me away. When all seemed lost, an elderly nun by the name of St. Anthony climbed the stairs to
a second story window, placed a statue of
Our Lady in the sill and prayed. At that very instant, the wind veered and the flames were blown back over
their path of destruction and died out."
Another thoughtful pause. "So I'm thinking nuns and the like command Godly power. Thought it relevant if
you're dealing with a dark
force."
    "Oh, I agree." Frank
stroked his chin between his thumb and index finger. "How receptive was our formidable Sister Francoise to
our assessment?"
    "Very. It seems she's
assisted several of the priests with exorcisms in The Big Easy with a ninety-five percent success
rate."
    "Impressive."
    "Said she'll phone you
tomorrow, plans to look through some files tonight concerning Lafayette Cemetery."
    Frank tossed a twenty on
the table and signaled the waiter. "I thought we'd head there next." When Rand frowned, he asked, "You had
other ideas?"
    He pulled an envelope from
his shirt pocket and read off the names. "I thought we'd hit Razzoo, Bourbon Street Blues and, I love the
name of this one, the Funky
Butt."
    Frank smiled. "Two
questions: Do you plan to remain standing after we hit all those joints, and where in hell did you
get that list?"
    " No on the first question," Rand said
emphatically, and on the second, a little
bird with long, black sleeves told me."
    "You're shitting me?"
    He shook his head. "Told
you she knew a lot about the history of New Orleans."
    "I made good progress today, and soon it'll
be dark. Let's go."
    "I want to hear about that
progress on the way." Rand rose from the table and headed for the door with Frank close on his
heels.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Frank indulged Rand by
hitting every bar on his list, saving the best for last. A mammoth painting of a naked woman smacked
them in the face upon entering their last
stop on Rampart Street. Off the beaten path, but renowned for its
world-class jazz and blues, the Funky Butt seemed the perfect place
to cap off their evening.
    Against the trumpets
blaring out When The Saints Come Marching
In , Rand ordered
a pitcher of beer, a basket of crawfish, and chicken strips
with honey-mustard on the side. His eyes
heavy, his words slurred, he leaned in. "Frank, when in Greece,
talk like the Grecians."
    "Stupid ass," Frank said
and shook his head. "It's when in Rome do as the Romans do."
    "Whatever. Anyway, we're in
"N'awlins, so why'd ya quit drinking three bars back?"
    "Rand, you're in
mother-fucking la-la land right now, and I am on a case in N'awlins in case you forgot."
    He waved him off. "Be fine once I eat."
    "Oh, yeah? Just to make sure, I'll flag down
a cab when we leave here."
    His question came out of
the blue. "You ever get it on in the back seat of a taxi, McGuire?"
    The waiter plopped down the
pitcher in front of Rand and hustled off again. "We agreed not to discuss what came down before you,
remember?"
    "What about what came down
before you ?" he
shouted above the din. Frank felt a muscle
in his jaw tic. "You want to eat those chicken strips or wear them back to the hotel?"
    "Speaking of chicken, here
it is. Thanks, man," Rand said to the waiter and dove in. "I'm starving, so you best help yourself before
I clean house." He passed the basket of
crawfish across the table.
    Still mulling over Rand's
comment about prior partners, Frank had a hard time dismissing images that not only summoned his
jealousy, but stiffened his cock. He'd
never seen a man more stunning than Rand, and everywhere they went, heads turned. Men, women, it didn't
matter; the kid's ebony hair and
jade-spoked eyes drew long, lust-filled stares.
    The three-piece band left
the stage, granting them a few precious minutes of relative silence. The place held about