The jet-black-hair man with tattoo sleeves is here with a seductive, breasty friend. Four middle-aged men who have the wherewithal to afford what they want are at the door, they balk at paying the cover, pivot, and walk on. Good riddance cheapskates. The club owner chases them down, placates then with a twofer deal and seats them at the bar, next to sleeves and the stunner. I glare at them. The trio launches into a Miles Davis song after apologizing that the horn player is a no-show. Apologies not needed. The jazz club fills to a comfortable level, when it happens. A vaporous vision-ghost appears in the doorway. We are blessed with a visit from a jazz faerie. She enters all tall and willowy with a halo of light around her sweet face. I know and she knows I know that she doesn’t need to enter through the door. I stuff her five-dollar cover in a side pocket wondering if it may contain magic. She floats into the club and I don’t see her again until she leaves.