Jimmy "That's Mr. Blues to You" Jones had just kicked off the second set with a Detroit-tinged version of his song, "Dreamy Eyed Girl" when the trouble started. I shoulda known it was coming; there'd been signs all night long.

You're a dreamy eyed girl, baby, don't do nothing fast
You're a dreamy eyed girl, baby, don't do nothing fast
When you bend the mattress springs, ya know how to make it last

For one thing, Jayhawk, the club's resident ghost, had been jumpy all night.

The regulars were used to the ghost bussing tables, the dirty glasses and empty bottles floating slowly through the air, just above their heads. And the first-time visitors? There was a sign on the front door saying, "This Club is Haunted. If You're Afraid of Ghosts, Go Away!" so they'd been warned.

You're a dreamy eyed girl, baby, looks like you asleep all the time
You're a dreamy eyed girl, baby, looks like you asleep all the time
When you close those peepers tight, hope it's me you got in mind

If the first-time visitors were scared ‘cause most places that claimed to be haunted didn't have such visible manifestations, or real ones even, well that was their problem. My problem was I was the owner of this club -- The Lonesome Blues Pub -- and tonight the place was packed, my second bartender had called in sick, I had a jumpy ghost, and trouble was brewing in the air.

Mr. Blues sneezed during a guitar solo. Just what I needed, a band with a cold, to pass it to everybody, staff and patrons alike. He quickly wiped his nose on his pocket handkerchief, then stepped back up to the mike.

You're a dreamy eyed girl, baby, drive men crazy on the street
You're a dreamy eyed girl, baby, drive men crazy on the street
But nobody will love you like me, no man you meet

Normally, bartending alone wasn't a problem. Jayhawk would pour shots when it got busy, and shots made up about half our business. But tonight he didn't have the control to handle the bottles, he was even dropping empty glasses -- some on people's heads. I heard a yelp and a "Watch it!" followed by the crash of another glass. We'd go through a case of crystal tonight if Jayhawk kept up at this rate.

"Mustang! What the hell's wrong with your ghost tonight?"

I sighed and turned to the old man. He was one of the felt-hat, gold-toothed regulars. He had the look and manner of one of the itinerant Bluesmen, but to my knowledge, he'd never picked up an instrument. "Junior, you know damn well he isn't MY ghost. And you been hangin' 'round here long enough to know that when Jayhawk's jumpy, trouble's steppin' in the door. So, drink up and get out, or order down and stick around."

"Hit me," the old man said, nodding at his snifter with the tip of his battered felt hat.

I knew Junior wasn't goin' anywhere -- he'd stayed through many a night when the spectres overshadowed the show on the bandstand.

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