The Father, The Sons-of-Bitches, and the Unholy Ghost.

I turned up my collar and tightened the belt of my tattered coat. It was well past midnight and a cool fog had drifted in from the harbor.

The muffled sound of voices signaled the passage of three young thugs at the end of the street. They were moving fast, and keeping their chatter down. I don’t think they felt any safer than I did. Not in this district.

The solitary streetlamp was no match for the gloom. Its amber light flickered now and again, threatening to go out altogether.

Something small and hard thumped to the ground near a pile of trash--and then scurried away, down the alley.

I heard her footsteps approaching before I saw her. She materialized out of the gloom wearing a dark, full-length cape with a hood that concealed most of her face, except for her bright red lips. She towered over me.

She produced a polished cigarette case from out of nowhere, extracted a thin cigarette that, when placed between her lips, obediently flared into life. And when she inhaled, I felt myself being pulled toward her, along with so much litter and debris.

The wind stilled. “You’ve come alone?” She asked.

“Yes.” I said, truthfully.

She exhaled, and an opposite but equally strong force tried to push me away, but I stood my ground.

“You brought the item?”

She knew I had. “Of course.”

She leaned over me and whispered, “May I see it?” When she did, I had a vision of a pack of hungry wolves, covered in blood, fighting over a kill.

Before I could produce the object, a police cruiser came around the corner at the end of the block. A direct strike from an asteroid would have been more likely in this neighborhood, but there they were, slowly cruising up the street. I looked around nervously, there was no place for me to pretend to be going.

I expected my ‘eccentric art collector’ to slink back into the shadows, but she instead seemed pleased at the prospect of meeting these derelict lawmen. As if she knew them. I was mortified. A quick search of my bulging pocket would reveal a priceless, gem studded, golden chalice: A genuine religious artifact.

The woman in the cape showed no sign of concern as the car pulled to a stop in the street a few feet away. Two surly middle-aged cops looked us over. The closest one, on the passenger side, looked like he needed a shave and a drink. His bloodshot eyes were riveted to the woman’s supple form.

They offered no greeting, made no move to get out of the car and requested no identification. No mention was made of my clerical collar either. “What the fuck are you two doing here?”

“Why officer,” she purred, “that’s no way to speak to a man of the cloth.”

The two cops exchanged a look, but remained ominously silent.

Before they could choose a course of action, the woman threw back her hood, revealing a marvelous mane of platinum-blonde hair, with streaks of black tresses. Steam rose out of a nearby manhole cover as she strolled seductively toward the patrol car. If the devil created a woman, this is what she would look like; an irresistible flame that turned men into moths. She stopped a few feet from the car, took another slow, suggestive drag on her cigarette, while the two cops watched with undisguised lust.

She bent over at the waist, exposing most of her perfect breasts as she rested her arms on the car’s window frame. Nobody moved. With her enchanting face just inches from the nearest cop’s day-old stubble, she exhaled.

Try as I might, I'll never forget what happened next.

They appeared to burn from the inside out. Their tortured curses became gurgling screams as their bodies flared and spit like burning sap. It was over in a matter of seconds.

The car engine died, silence settled over the street.

She stood to her full height and inhaled deeply. Without turning around she said, “Mmmm. There’s nothing quite like the smell of pork on a cool, summer’s eve.” Her platinum-white hair glowed with an inner luminescence before she pulled the hood back up over her head.

I had retreated until I found myself with my back against a warehouse wall. Her sinuous approach did not arouse my libido, quite the opposite. I cannot overstate my renewed dedication to celibacy at this point.

With eyes averted, I held the sacred goblet up in one trembling hand. “Here. Take it. It’s yours.”

But she raised my chin with one of her long, bony fingers and studied my face. “I’m impressed,” she said. When she blew smoke in my face, I was relieved to find myself un-braised; un-smoked; scarcely even warmed.

“To think,” she said, “how easily a meek, faithful, servant like you, can be induced to betray his faith, his vows, his devotion to God so completely. I don’t think the word ‘gratifying’ will do. I think the word that really fits is, ‘hopeful."

"I despise that kind of language.” She stepped back, “Goblet unaccepted.”

“But, what about our deal?” I whined. “What about Sister Eliza…”

She struck the goblet from my hand and it clattered to the ground, rolling across the sidewalk and into the gutter. Despite my faith, or lack of it, I was unable to move a muscle to stop it.

“That…” she said, “felt really, really, GOOD.”

I suspected that this was the real payoff behind our meeting: A chance to defile a relic.

Her satisfaction must have been great, because she offered an annealing tip. “Suffering is not my thing, you know, I deal in souls. You’re appealing to the wrong patron.”

She gestured at the smoldering police car and I knew that she had just collected their souls. “Two for one,” she said with a beatific smile. “I like that. Perhaps we can do business in the future, Father. Give my regards to the Monsignor.”

She turned on her heal and was gone, leaving me to fish around in the gutter for the sacred chalice.