A most remarkable tale about a most mystical cat, who prowls and howls along Bourbon Street.
He spent most nights lapping up whiskey left behind in lipsticked glasses and drifting in the groove laid down by musty musicians worn out by too many years of sad regret. He'd been living those same nights for then about nine years, since the New Year's Eve when he first appeared in the cold, wet rain, one of nine black cats birthed in the bottom of an empty Southern Comfort box. All the others of the nine ran away or died away, but this one cat lived on to be given the name Midnight Jazz by a drummer from Memphis known as Slow Hand Jones.
That sweltering night in in the summer of '67 was but one more night of skulking through the moving maze of ten thousand feet, hunting for scraps of tavern sandwiches and hoping for a cute, little meow-er to come his way. But then things changed for Midnight Jazz by what he came upon in the back room of Jellyroll's Old Blues Saloon.