The Haunt isn't the joint's real name, it's just something the regulars call it. Nobody really knows the name, well outside of the bartender and she ain't talking. Of course, nobody's asking neither. It's one of those joints you either know because you're a regular or you don't because you've never heard of it. It's tucked away down a dark alley in the seedier section of downtown. You go down the alley, find the right stairs down, and there you are. If you know where it is, you can get it. Nobody stumbles in, nobody. My pal Vinny took me there once after a job. Poor Vinny, his momma hasn't been the same since his last job went bad.

You don't go to The Haunt for the décor, on account as there ain't none; no jukebox, no pool table, nothing. There's a zinc bar with some stools, some tables and chairs, and a stage where someone comes in to play music once in a while. First thing you notice about the place, besides the lack of everything, is the darkness. There ain't but three lights in the joint, two at ends of the bar so's the bartender can see and one pointed at the stage when someone's playing. All the regulars, and I'm one these days, like it that way. You see, half of us have very shady lives and the other half, well, let's just say there are some stories what ain't worth telling.

The bartender is somewhere between 80 and dead. Hell, the oldest old timers tell you, under their breath so she don't hear of course, that she came first and they built the bar around her. She's been there for over 60 years anyone knows of. You know you're a regular when she makes your drink right before you walk in the door. Don’t let the age thing fool ya, she's tougher than any wise guy and can cuss like a sailor if you come there to cry in your beer. Last guy that tried something stupid was escorted out by his ears and thrown in the alley. The rest of us was smart, we kept our heads down and didn't hear nothing. He learned his lesson, I'm guessing, as he's never been dumb enough to come back.

It was a Friday night; I was done for the day and was ready just to get out of the world. That's why we all came there. If you wanted to talk, there were people who would. Thankfully, they never heard nothing anyway. I came in at my normal time, after having my can of beans for dinner. Sure enough, at the end of the bar was a brand new vodka and tonic, a twist of lime in it with two ice cubes. Over in the back, at the stage, a quartet was warming up. Didn't look like Louie and the gang, so I thought I would pull up a table and listen in. I can't play music and I could likely do just as well with Louie's stuff as he did. These guys were all tight, dressed right, working guys if you know what I mean. It was a standard foursome, drums, bass, keyboard, and sax. They at least knew how to tune their stuff to sound decent, so I thought, "What the hell," and settled in to give them a listen.

When they was ready, the sax player gave a nod to the bartender and the spotlight for the stage flared to life. They started the last bars and as they set to launch, the throaty wail of "Cry Me a River" started to fill the bar from behind us. I think everyone turned as one to look for the voice and saw reflected sequins glide hip over hip toward the stage and the voice grew louder and stronger. As she glided by me, I caught a full nose of her perfume, musky with a hint of roses, sophisticated, high dollar to be sure. Then I felt the gloved hand run up my back and knock my lid forward. As she reached the stage and mounted it, she turned and grinned at me briefly then she looked out over the bar.

Calling her a dish didn't do her justice; she was the whole menu and then some. She was wrapped in a gold sequined dress that hugged each curve tighter than a lover. She shook out her shoulder length hair as she watched us. She wanted to see how many people were paying attention. She looked tall on stage; probably the heels I heard clicking by, and was made up like a pin up model with the thick ruby red lips and the ice water blue eyes accented by makeup. The package was finished off by a set of pipes I hadn't heard the likes of in years. When she started "I Put A Spell On You" as her second number, she didn't growl it like others before her have done. It was huskier, breathier, and slower. When she started that number, she locked those baby blues on my like a Dobie on a fresh T-Bone. She hooked me in but good. She prowled the stage like she'd been singing there every night forever and all the while; she had me in her sights; like she decided to sing only to me or something. I figured it was part of the act. She went through the standards, alternating between breathy and growling, all the while showing a range that was rare in all but the best, Ella, Billie, and the rest of the girls.

During the final number, "I've Got A Crush On You," she moved off the stage and sauntered over to me, then she put her foot on my leg and stared straight down at me. The dame could really work a crowd over as every eye had been on her solid by then. When she finished, she dropped my lid over my eyes and walked back to the stage to take her bows. When we finished applauding, she told the boys to take 20, looked at me and held out a gloved hand. I had my cue. I got up, took the lady's hand and escorted her back to my table. On the way, she nodded to the bartender, so I knew she was getting a drink. I pulled her seat and then pushed her in while I went to the bar. I remembered all of the etiquette lessons the penguins shoved at us. When I returned, she had just pulled a Lucky Strike out of her clutch, so I grabbed my lighter and did the honors. While I don't smoke, I learned, early on, the value of carrying a torch. She took a big drag, then a sip of her martini. She waited for me to take a belt of mine then turned on me and grinned, saying in a voice which would have made Mae West proud, "So where ya taking me after we close this joint?"