Inside, raucous laughter and the pungent aroma of dark rum assault my senses. The interior of the crowded club looks like a barbarous pirate ship with heavily beamed lattice windows and bulky seventeenth century furniture. The place is packed with patrons acting like jackals, raising hell at the Well of Souls. My eyes slowly adjust to the dim lighting.

"This is fab," Julia says, pushing her way past several wooden tables. Flickering light from candles and faux oil lanterns cast shadows on the wall, creating a mysterious ambiance. She makes a beeline for the elegant bar which is set close to the back wall. Pulling out her glasses, she carefully studies a treasure chest-shaped chalk board. The lower half of the mahogany bar is decorated with wainscot in an elegant marriage of style and form. Behind it, shelves are lined with unmarked bottles of amber liquid. Special lighting above the bar turns the liquor bottles an effervescent green.

The bar is an eye of calm in the storm. At the opposite end of the room, the mood at one of the tables becomes less jocular. I hear a commotion in the corner. "You bastard!" There's breaking glass, followed by the sound of an overturned barstool, as the gargantuan bouncer brushes by us.

Sweating profusely, I grab Julia's arm. "I'm convinced coming here is a mistake we'll live to regret."

"Stop acting like you've been shanghaied, Lizzy. You came here of your own accord, now try to enjoy yourself." My grandmother pushes a twenty towards the bartender. "Two Rum Runners."

"Braving the storm of the century isn't my idea of fun." I scrutinize the specials board. A skull and crossbones is mounted at the top. "These prices are exorbitant."

The bearded bartender returns with our drinks. He has a riot of curls and a hooked nose. "Here we are, ladies." With a flourish, he places two exotic drinks in front of us. "Two Rum Runners with three kinds of rum, fresh pineapple, banana liqueur and orange juice." I have to admit, the fresh orange slices are a rather nice Florida Keys touch.

Julia takes a sip and raises her eyebrows. "This is good."

"Ghost rum." The bartender confides. He smiles broadly, flashing a mischievous Cheshire Cat grin.

"Where do you get it?" I ask. He moves off as if he doesn't want to share this information and I shrug.

A minute later, he returns and examines Julia's invitation. He says, "You're one of the winning ticket holders." He takes Julia's money off the bar and slides her a bottle of rum.

"What's this?"

"It's my own family recipe. I'm trying to start my own distillery." Outside the wind is howling. The bottles lined up behind the bar tremor. My grandmother sticks the bottle of spirits into her bag. "What're you lovely ladies doing out on such a blarmy night?" I find the man's affable, macho, and irritating all at once.

Julia raises her glass and toasts the cutlass hung above the bar. "As Jack Sparrow says, we go where we want, when we want." I roll my eyes. These two scalawags are beyond ridiculous. I can't cope with this old Pirate role playing anymore.

The grinning bartender nods, "Aye lass, piracy is all about freedom. Doing what you want, when you want with no one to answer to in the world." He lowers a bushy eyebrow. "Of course, there's always a cost.

"What would that be, besides these cutthroat prices?" I really want the man to leave so I can talk to my grandmother in private.

His mouth falls open at my blasphemy. "What's your problem, lass? I've often found that it's the chubby girls who offend most easily."

This makes me mad. I ran all summer to lose fifty pounds. "That's the ugliest perm I've ever seen." I may have shot one across his bow, but now he's making it personal.

"Lizzie, don't be rude," Julia says.

Talk about goddamned irony.

He pats his puffy black hair. "This isn't a perm, lass. It's natural as well as my beard. As I was saying, the cost is to the pirates, themselves. A life of thievery, robbery, and looting takes a heavy toll. Most ended up being hung as murderers."

"I'm not going to waste more time trying to get into your head, because I'm sure it's empty." Hook Nose takes the hint and moves away to wait on another customer.

Sipping my Rum Runner, I silently appraise my grandmother. "Where's Jerry, tonight?"

"We had a fight," she admits. Her shoulders slump. "Now, we're on a break." My grandmother's lined face sags, making her look ten years older than her sixty two years. I know she's deeply in love with Jerry. Although Dresden's lead detective is twenty years her Junior, the age gap between them has never mattered. They're soul mates.

This explains her mysterious behavior. I cover her hand with mine. "Julia, you should've told me. Is this why you were hell bent on coming here?"

"I'm not going to sit home and cry." She takes a long, mournful sip of her triple rum drink. My grandmother usually drowns her sorrows in dark chocolate, but this time she's run away to Never-Never land. This breakup must be hitting her hard.

"Remember what you told me when Dylan and I had our first fight? Whatever's wrong, I'm sure you and Jerry will work it out."

"I hope so, Lizzie." A tear rolls down the corner of her eye.

Overheated, I pull off my bulky coat. I've already been mistaken for an aging cougar in it. The bell slips out of my pocket and one of the drunken patrons accidentally kicks it under the bar. Great, I'll never find the blasted thing in the dark.  Panicking, I dive into my purse for my phone flashlight app, then get on my knees in front of the bar. Seeing a tangle of legs and boots, I decide to wait. I don't feel like getting kicked in the face, or even worse, there might be some sort of sexual misunderstanding. When I stand, I see a figure at the end of the darkened bar staring at me. I scowl, letting him know I'm not trying to pick up men. I'm here to support my grandmother in her relationship crises.

Polishing a glass behind the bar, the bartender catches my eye and leans in to confide with me. His bushy beard nearly grazes my face. "Now that you've taken off your coat I can see you're a curvy lass, not chubby at all. I apologize about that jibe earlier. It's been a rough week." He hesitates then adds." I'm not a sociable person." He places a bowl of peanuts in front of me, and I gratefully scoop out a handful.

"Neither am I." The rum's mellowed me enough to slightly elevate my opinion of him.

"I couldn't help but overhear your problem. You're as fiery a red-head as they come. Maybe your grandmother needs a little space. Have you considered your own place? We need a new waitress. Renee retired and the apartment she rented's been vacant for a while."

I reappraise him as a possible frenemie. "Truth is, my boyfriend Dylan and I have been saving up to get our own place."

"It's a two bedroom apartment. Needs a little work, but it's a nice location in Fort Point neighborhood on the waterfront. Lots of natural light."

"I would love the Bay Area, but don't we don't have enough money saved for a deposit. I also need a new job."

"You and your boyfriend can come by and check it out. If you like the rental, you can apply for a lease. He turns and pulls a business card out of the cash register. "I have a letter of marque right here. While you're figuring out work, I'll waive the deposit in exchange for some help on the property."

"Really?" Now I feel bad quarreling with him.

"I'm glad to help." I read the name printed in old fashioned script on the card. He holds out his hand and I shake it. "Roland E. Thache, at your service. Friends call me Eddie." While I'm absorbing everything that's just happened, he moves to the other end of the bar to serve a new customer.

A piercing guitar solo starts and I feel a cosmic pull. Looking up, I find the stranger from the end of the bar standing next to me, a gleam in his brilliant blue eyes. Raven hair brushes the nape of his neck, while thick dark lashes frame cobalt eyes. My heart skips a beat.

"I think this may be yours." He leans forward and sets my errant bell on the bar.  I'm inundated with his masculine scent, a bewitching mix of earthy cologne and testosterone. Remembering the bell, I scoop it up.

"Thank you. It's an antique from my grandmother's attic. I use it as a prop at work."

He leans closer, it's not just his masculine scent that captivates me, it his deep fathomless eyes. "Really, what do you do?"

I carefully rest my drink on the bar. Oddly enough, I can't see his aura. Maybe it's the distracting colorful lights or the ghost rum. Overhead, twinkling lights shine through the midnight colored facade, pierced with minute holes to create a celestial nighttime sky. Boozy revelers get up and start dancing on the wide planked wooden floor as the band starts to play.

"I'm a tour guide with Chills n' Thrills, Inc. It's one of the oldest ghost tour companies in New England." I hesitate, then add, "What I really want to do is theater."

"I know the waterfront's history. I work for the Mayor's revitalization project."

"Maybe you could tell the mayor to stop tearing down all the waterfront buildings. Boston's Seaport District is the perfect place for the tour, but his revitalization projects are putting a stake in the heart of the Ghost Tour businesses. He's replacing abandoned factories and warehouses with high tech concrete monoliths."

"I agree. It's not necessary to demolish history. I've tried to dissuade the mayor on this course of action, but he thinks the Waterfront looks like some sort of prison colony."

The stranger signals for another round.

"On me," he says. "Hi, I'm Jack."

* Cocktail picture is from Bacardi Recipes

Tropical Rum Ghost Cocktail.

1 1/2 oz BACARDÍ Limón Flavored Rum
3/4 oz Finest Call® Piña Colada Mix
3 oz ginger beer
1-2 dashes Bittermens® Hellfire Bitters

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