When good Americans die, they go to Paris,' the ghost said, after taking a drag on a small cigarette.

These are Americans who are just as American as I am.

I leaned back in my chair, stretching luxuriantly, delibrately letting my jacket fall open. Predictably, his eyes moved down my body-some things outlast even the change. I grinned and he looked away, a rueful smile twitching at his lips. I finished breakfast in peace.

I'm tired, I'm hungry and I have a head in a bag," I warned him. "Do not fuck with me.

Prevarication, how divine! I always did get along better with sinners.

When good Americans die, they go to Paris,' the ghost said, after taking a drag on a small cigarette.
But you’re not dead. I suppose the question must be, are you good?