Was there a feud? Some folks will tell you they were bitter enemies. Competitors. Both with an eye on the money, both trying to squeeze a living out of a couple of bars in a "bad" area of town, the two women while very different, were connected by one thing. In the days before the kids started calling Helen, "Mother," before anyone ever heard of Smokey, something happened. Both agreed it was the saddest thing to ever take place on the Levee, a street with enough drama for a network of soap operas. Through the years when they'd had a little too much to drink, they would quietly raise a glass to the summer of 1965 and the "End of an Era."

"Drive up banking," Helen sneered. "What's that I'd like to know?" She sat on her lawn chair outside the door of the Gee-I, fanning herself with a folded section of the Springfield Sun Times.

"It's the wave of the future." Ethel sat her bag down and looked with Helen toward the theater. Ethel had stopped, as usual, on her way to work the three-to-eleven shift at the bus station. She came by every afternoon but Tuesday, her day off.

A fan inside the tavern door blew warm air toward the street. Helen wiped her forehead. She was short and squarely built, with a mop of over-permed, gray hair. Sitting in the webbed lawn chair, her feet barely touched the sidewalk. She wore a faded house dress and nylon stockings rolled beneath her knees. Sometimes in the afternoon there was a breeze from the west. Today there was nothing. She'd go in later. Turn on the air conditioner and the six o'clock news.

"TV’s taken the place of movie shows," said Helen. "Maybe some day they won't even have theaters."

Her friend Ethel was a large woman in a frayed white uniform that was somewhat yellowed by Clorox. Though she was younger than Helen, wiry gray hair escaped from beneath a sideways hair net that gathered in the center of her forehead with a tiny brown knot. She wore scuffed white orthopedic shoes and dark nylons, over Ace bandages, which covered her varicose veins. She carried a large purse and shopping bag that held an umbrella (even on the driest days), a newspaper and Poli-grip.

Ethel had worked at the Post House Restaurant for years. She never missed work, never got promoted, and never complained—much anyway. She had strong shoulders and a thick round body. Her eyes were cornflower blue--child like, and it was in them that you could see her frailty.

"You can't stop progress," Ethel said to Helen that day. "The Orpheum's been there a long time. It's old."

"Ain't nothing' wrong with that building." Helen's voice rose. "Why, a month ago they had an elephant on that stage! It didn't even shake. It was built as a vaudeville theater. My husband and I went there on our first date. Now vaudeville is dead, folks stay home and watch T.V. and they won't get out of their cars even to do their banking."

"The end of an era," Ethel agreed. "Just like that party they threw, ‘The End of an Era.’"

"Goddamn crime, that's what it is." Helen rolled the newspaper and swatted at a lazy fly. "Besides the movie theater, look at the other businesses they put out of that building."

"Aw, the drug store got a better place down on Monroe," said Ethel. "And Jack Robinson's moved right across the street."

"They were fine right where they were. You don't know how many times I needed that drug store. And what about the bowling alley? Gone."

"We should get a bunch together and go to the last show," Ethel suggested.

"Include me out!" Helen's words were punctuated by the slap of the newspaper on the arm of her chair. "I refuse to believe that someone won't do something to stop them."

Ethel shrugged. "Anyway, we'll have seen a movie."

"What's playing? Another of those damn Disney’s?" Helen looked toward the theater, then back to Ethel. "I don't need no damn Pollyanna telling' me to find the good in this."

Ethel laid a hand on Helen's shoulder dramatically. "You got to accept progress . . ."

"God damn." Helen shouted. "There she goes!"

"Who?" Ethel looked one direction then the next.

"There." Helen leaned forward and pointed at a young blonde woman who had come out of the Tropical Isle across the street and was heading north toward Madison. "Across the way. It's that Lou. The one that dates the strippers."

"She dates women?"

"Brings 'em right in my bar."

"No!"

"She's tending bar at the Alibi, says she's going to buy the place from Rose and Jenny. Make it a bar for gays. Meantime, she brings her women to my place to buy them beer."

Local gamblers were Helen's regulars, along with an assortment of cab drivers and prostitutes. Helen didn't mind the strippers, but their companion upset her. "First time she come in, I slammed her beer down on the bar and threw her the change," said Helen. "She just drank the beer and come back the next night."

From across the street, Lou waved.

"Drat." Helen cursed. Then nodding and waving, in a much louder voice she called, "How you?"

"How you?" Ethel echoed Helen sweetly.

"You don't know her."

"Just trying to be friendly."

"I tell you what," Helen said, frowning. "This neighborhood is going to really go down hill with that theater gone."

"Oh, there goes Miss Opal," said Ethel, swinging into motion. Her boss was on her way to wake the three-to-eleven cashier who drank and frequently overslept. That meant Ethel and Scout were both late, and Miss Opal would be mad.

"See you later," Helen called as Ethel hurried away.

There was a special closing program on the last night at the Orpheum, with intermission entertainment on the pipe organ at nine and again at eleven-fifteen. A very forgettable Disney movie had run all week, but for the last night there was the premier showing of a Jimmy Stewart western.

From her bar stool, through the open tavern door, Helen watched movie patrons. It was early evening and the air was hot and muggy. A sudden downpour made the early theater traffic seem chaotic. Patrons caught without umbrellas rushed for cover under the lighted marquee. The Gee-I was empty.

At eight o'clock Charlie brought Helen's supper, cold fried chicken and potato salad left from lunch. He sat at the bar nursing a beer and reading the newspaper. Helen ate alone in the back booth, licking chicken grease from her fingers and listening to the last intermittent drops of rain.

At nine, when the first show let out, Helen listened to the hiss of tires on the wet street. A few people stopped at Jack Robinson's for twenty-cent hamburgers. The smell of fried onions floated on the heavy night air. Couples walked past the open door, glanced in, and kept going. Helen put a nickel in the jukebox and selected a slow song. Sometimes folks were lured in by a Ray Price ballad. This night, they weren't.

Ethel, finished with her shift at the bus station restaurant, came in shortly after eleven.

"That girl who works the register left work at nine, drunk," Ethel complained. "When they put her on the cash register, she started keeping gin and Squirt under the counter. Hell, I don't think she's even old enough to drink legally. She gets away with everything." Ethel slurped her beer, smacked her lips, leaned toward Helen and confided, "She's young, and she puts out."

"I thought you were going to the show tonight," Helen said.

"You know I can't get off work," Ethel explained. "Besides, I guess I forgot."

Helen sat a beer on the bar. "Trouble is, the whole town forgot. They had their 'End of an Era' party in June. They put everybody in town on the stage with an elephant thrown in for good measure. I guess they figure they said good-bye proper."

"Why, there's people there. All the parking places are taken, and those people sure ain't in here."

"You don't understand," Helen muttered, shaking her head. "This town has sold its soul for $350,000."

"What don't I understand?" Ethel demanded. "That's a right nice price for a soul."

"That theater cost over two million dollars to build back in the twenties."

"They didn't sell the organ," Ethel continued to argue. "It's going to be at the high school auditorium, where they can have concerts whenever they like. Though I don't care for organ music myself."

"Don't you know nothing about the acoustics? That theater was built for concerts. It has almost three thousand seats. It's the biggest auditorium between St. Louis and Chicago. This pissy little town will never make up the loss."

"You're just getting old," said Ethel.

"Yeah, maybe."

"Folks tend to cling to things when they get old," Ethel mused as she turned and looked out the open door. The conversation was over.

A police car, red lights flashing, headed south on Fifth Street. The women watched. The sound of the siren faded. Ethel stood up stiffly and walked to the jukebox. She fished a nickel out of her uniform pocket. The machine whirred to life. Ethel danced back to her bar stool to the first lines of "King of the Road."

"Do you have to be in such a good mood?" Helen sighed.

"You put me in a good mood." Ethel continued to hum along with the song.

"Music these days . . ."

"It's modern," Ethel laughed. "Modern music. Modern banking. Get with it before someone puts you in a home."

"Thank you, Shirley Temple." Helen rested her head in her hands, her elbows on the bar.

When the song ended Ethel finished her beer and left.

Near midnight, alone again, Helen was watching a television revival and turning over cards in a lost game of solitaire. The crowd from the last show at the Orpheum was nearly gone, and the street out front had quieted down.

Helen gazed at the salt and peppershakers that were lined up on the opulent shelves behind the bar and wondered if she would have to buy a new roll of toilet paper before the weekend. She'd cleaned the place up for closing, emptied the dented ashtrays, and wiped down the split vinyl seats in the booths. On the snowy black and white TV a female gospel singer was strumming "Amazing Grace" on an acoustic guitar and singing the slow alto melody. Helen hummed and snapped down three more cards.

A noise startled her.

"You alone in here?"

Two cards fluttered to the floor. Helen caught her breath. "Lands, you scared me to death."

Lou was dressed in a black t-shirt and wheat colored jeans. She wore black western boots and a wide leather belt. Her light blonde hair was combed back Elvis-fashion. She stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. "You all alone?" she asked again.

Helen nodded. "You?"

Lou jerked her thumb toward the open doorway and said, "I just came from the last show down the street. Couldn't find a friend interested enough to go with me."

Helen slid off her stool and waddled stiffly around the end of the bar. "Come in then. Take a load off."

Lou sauntered to the bar and threw two quarters down. "Give me a beer. Miller's, in a bottle."

Helen pulled a beer out of the metal cooler, knocked off the cap and on one of her rare occasions, slid the quarters back. "I'm buying' the first one," she said. "How was the show?"

Lou shrugged. "It was a goddamn shame. That's how it was and that's what it is."

Helen opened a second beer for herself--her favorite Little Schlitz. "You stayed for the organ music?"

"To the last sweet note."

Lou didn't bother with the glass. She tilted the beer bottle up and swallowed. "I got a friend who can play that thing," she said. "He works piano bars mostly. Plays soft music for boozed up rich folks at the Southern Air. He told me that organ was something to see. A three manual, eleven rank Barton, with piano and several different percussions. I mean, it can sound like about anything. It's on a platform that raises out of the floor near the orchestra pit."

"That so?" said Helen. "He plays the thing you say?"

"I said he could play it. They only pay ten dollars a night," said Lou. "Ain't worth it to him. He has to drive all the way from Lincoln. Give up an evening of tips at the piano bar. No, it'd cost him money. 'Course now, no one will be playing it."

Helen scooped up the cards from the floor, and then hoisted herself back on the barstool. "Someone should stop them. I know I sound like a broken record. I know folks stopped listening to me months ago. Everybody just goes on like normal. You know, I heard in Europe they're saving some of their rare old buildings. 'Course the Orpheum ain't really old. Nothing's old compared to Europe."

"This town is changing." Lou tapped a filtered cigarette on the scuffed bar. "Digging' that hole under the old court house for parking, opening fast food restaurants. What does a town need with two McDonalds I ask you? And now they're taking down that beautiful old theater."

Helen sighed. "What's gonna be left on this street?"

"Nothing' but bars." Lou's Zippo had a clear base that showed a picture of hunting dogs immersed in lighter fluid. She snapped it open and it lit on the third twirl of the wheel.

"And worse . . ." Helen moaned, reaching for her little Schlitz.

Lou exhaled smoke out of both nostrils like a dragon. "You mean folks like me?"

Helen didn't apologize—she simply stared at the handsome woman.

"Ain't my money as good as the next?"

Silence.

Lou drained her beer and slid off the stool. "I don't need this tonight. I'll be going'." She threw two quarters back on the bar and hesitated for a moment at the door, then plunged into the sultry night.

She was almost to the alley when Helen called, "Wait."

Lou stopped. Fifth Street was empty. There were only the streetlights and the shadows.

"Come back," Helen said.

Lou turned and looked at the old woman.

Helen, short and stout like an aging elf in a housedress, stood framed in the dimly lit doorway. She motioned with her arm and called out, "Come back."

Lou took a step toward her. Her voice had a soft southern drawl. "What you want?"

"Your lighter," said Helen, holding it up. "You forgot your lighter."

Soft yellow light fell through the open door onto the dark sidewalk. From several blocks away a church bell rang. Lou slowly retraced her steps.

Helen dropped the hunting dog lighter into Lou's outstretched hand. "I'm an old woman," she said. "Set in my ways."

"Times is changing," Lou said softly.

Helen nodded, walked back inside and let the door whoosh shut.

The theater sat still and empty through the heat of August. Weeds grew up and broken windows were covered with plywood. It was rumored that someone got into the lobby and carried off the last cases of Good n' Plenty, Milk Duds and Slo Poke suckers from the deserted concession stand. Several nights later there was a windstorm. The next morning every alley and doorway on Fifth Street was littered with candy wrappers.

Helen swept the sidewalk in front of the door of the Gee-I only after the mail man tracked wet Slo Poke wrappers in on his shoes. "When they dry off they'll just blow over to Sixth Street," Helen told Ethel. "If I can just keep 'em away from the door 'til then."

"The paper says they'll prosecute anyone caught in that theater to the full extent of the law," Ethel said.

"Looks like it." Helen swept candy wrappers toward the gutter.

"Wonder how many cases of stuff they got?" Ethel mused. "Better to feed the hungry than the crane."

Helen shook her head slowly. "Of all the things to steal. Sure lets you know what kind of values people have."

After the candy theft, a Pinkerton security guard was hired to watch the building. Business fell off some without the nightly theater crowd. Weekends were worst. Lou dropped by from time to time, always with one woman or another. Some of Lou's friends started coming in with her--young, pretty looking boys. Helen didn't like the bunch, but noticed that they spent more money than her regulars.

One afternoon, Lou introduced Helen to a man. "This here is my friend Bill."

Bill was a clean-cut, handsome man in his thirties. He had dark hair with flecks of gray and a mustache.

Helen said, "Hello."

"Remember, I told you about him?"

"Can't say as I do." Helen shook her head.

"The organ," said Lou. "I told you I knew someone who had played the organ at the theater."

Helen perked up and eagerly extended a hand. "Glad to meet you."

Bill shook her hand warmly. He looked like the television star, Guy Madison, when he smiled.

Helen set up the drinks. Lou had her usual bottle of beer. Bill drank scotch and water. No ice. When Helen put the drink in front of him she saw that his face was flushed. He'd already had a few.

Lou lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "He’s thinking of making a last trip to the Orpheum, today."

"No," said Helen.

Lou shook her head. "They're shutting the power off sometime soon. Then they'll bring in the cranes and wrecking balls."

"There'll be an auction," Bill said. "After that you won't know the place."

"Ya’ want to see it before that happens?" Lou asked.

"Are you drunk?" Helen grimaced, and added with emphasis, "We could get arrested. There are signs posted. It's private property . . ."

"Humph," said Bill. "Property of the bank."

"I thought you'd like to go," said Lou. "One last look at the old place."

Helen squinted. "What about the Pinkerton security guard?"

"Come on," Lou urged.

"We could be shot."

"I know what time he eats his lunch," said Bill. "Goes across the street and has two Jack Robinson hamburgers, an order of hash browns and three cups of coffee."

"How you know that?" Helen challenged him.

"Been watching him," Lou said. "Takes exactly one hour and five minutes."

"You want to go today?" Helen looked at her watch. "This afternoon?"

"Actually, now," Lou said. "He should be just placing his order."

Helen considered it. "I'm alone here. I'd have to close."

"That’s why I came along. I’ll watch the place for you," Lou shrugged, "Don’t look like you’re that busy . . . "

"I could call Charlie," Helen offered.

"We got to get over there now," Bill said. "Some workmen have been dismantling seats and pulling down drapes. Getting ready for the auction next week. We need to get in there while the power is still on."

"Go ahead," said Lou. "Count the money first if you want to. I won’t rob you."

Helen asked softly, "What if we're caught?"

"You'll get one phone call," Lou chuckled. "Call Charlie then."

Helen hesitated.

"Go on," Lou urged.

"Okay. Okay," said Helen. "Prices is typed up and taped to the register."

Lou stood near her as Helen and looked at the list. There had been several things crossed off and rewritten in pencil. Lou said, "I’ll manage. See you in an hour."

Helen could smell alcohol on Bill’s breath as they walked south on Fifth Street on the rough, cracked sidewalk. Helen asked, "How much have you had to drink anyway?"

They went through the alley behind the theater, stepping over broken bottles, used condoms and empty beer cans. Bill pulled a long thick screwdriver from his boot and looked over his shoulder. "Watch for me," he said to Helen. "If someone comes, act like you lost something there in the weeds." The door was secured with a large padlock. Bill wedged the screwdriver behind the hinge and pried.

The lock banged against the thick wooden door. Helen jumped. "You're making too much noise."

"I about got it." Bill wrenched the lock again. It broke off and landed in the weeds. He tried the knob. The door wouldn't budge. "Damn it! Another lock."

"Can't you get it?" Helen asked nervously.

"Another damn lock. I ain't Houdini," Bill shot back.

"Give me that!" Helen grabbed the screwdriver and wedged the flat end in the door jam. She gave the other end of the tool a firm tap. The door popped open.

Bill led the way into the auditorium through the door that had once been an exit. Light from the alley fell across the first rows of seats. A dry, musty smell wafted toward them. Bill pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket and flicked it to life. He made his way up the center aisle. Helen waited. A minute later the lights came up. Three rows of seats to the left were missing. Workers had left tarpons and tools scattered here and there. Somewhat faded and dulled, the scheme of the auditorium was of ivory with a background of magenta, turquoise and gold. They walked up an aisle between the rich terra cotta colored seats.

Helen blinked as they went through the luxuriously padded swinging doors to the lobby. Red carpet stretched out before them and seemed to go on forever. One of the doors down front had a sheet of plywood nailed over it. Other panels of glass were opaque with a dirty white frost--soap maybe, or wax, but the sunlight shone through. The concession stand was empty. Scrubbed clean. Some of the glass was broken. Helen looked at the ceilings and the seven-foot chandelier with shoulder-heavy nostalgia.

"Old place has a kind of whore-house elegance, doesn't it?" Bill observed.

Helen pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her upper lip. It was warm. She listened for any sounds of the security guard.

"Yes," Helen agreed, "beautiful."

Bill whispered, "I'm going down and crank up that organ. You can come down to the pit with me, or just look around on your own."

"Probably cooler down there." Helen patted her forehead. "How long will it take?"

Bill led the way. "Be careful. They've been working everywhere. No telling what's secured."

"You think the organ will work?" Helen asked.

"Don't know. I guess I'll find out." Bill sighed. "I want to try."

"Do you mind the company?" Helen asked. "I'd like to see it up close."

"Not at all." Bill walked toward a camouflaged door that was papered red and gold like the rest of the wall. He wiggled the latch and pulled it open, flipped on a light switch and said, "Good, the power is still on for the workmen. Follow me," over his shoulder. His voice echoed slightly as he stepped down the steep steps.

Helen gripped a wobbly wooden rail and followed him. The plaster along a narrow, poorly lit hallway was cracked in places. Pipes stretched overhead. The floor sloped. Helen had to hurry to keep up. They passed bare light bulbs from time to time. There were at least three areas where the bulbs were burnt out and the tunnel was dark. Bill took out a cigarette lighter.

"They would have never let these lights go out a few months ago," he said, holding a hand around the flame. They passed two doors marked 'Dressing Rooms.' At the end of the passage was a sign that simply read, 'Organ.' Bill flicked on a light. The organ, smaller somehow up close, was white and gold with louvered shutters across the back. Helen moved closer. It sat on a platform.

"Come, sit by me." Bill patted the seat beside him. "We'll go for a ride."

Helen slid onto the cool white bench. Bill flipped a switch and waited. There was a whooshing sound of air. He flipped another switch and the platform vibrated, and then started to rise.

"Oh, my!" Helen grabbed the bench and held on.

"Hydraulic lift," Bill said over the whirring sound. "There's a spot light in the back of the house. If it's working, we'll be in it when we hit the top. We're supposed to come up playing."

"I don't play." Helen felt goose bumps. She was cool. Excited.

"Nothing?"

"Well, Chop Sticks," Helen said, laughing.

Bill hit the first notes. "Come on," he urged her.

"Where do I start?" Helen looked at several rows of keys, confused. She was afraid to let go of the bench.

"Try there." Bill pointed to the second row.

Helen nervously placed two fingers on the keys and pressed down. They rose out of the orchestra pit into a soft light. Helen's gray hair and housedress suddenly had an elegant bluish cast. Her short legs dangled from the bench. She swung her feet to and fro with the lively music. A pin spot of light high up beyond the balconies pierced a slight haze. Helen turned toward the empty theater. Lou sat in the third row, center. She looked like a shadow. Helen shaded her eyes and lost her place on the song. She laughed and started over. When they pounded out the final notes, the theater fell silent. A hollow sound of clapping came from the auditorium.

Helen stood and turned to Bill. "I can't believe we just played Chop Sticks on a hundred-thousand-dollar instrument."

"And played it well."

Helen pulled a much-used hanky from her pocket, sniffed and blew her nose. "Seeing it up close makes this whole thing harder."

Bill patted her shoulder, and said, "Let me show you what this thing can do."

They had forgotten about the security guard. Bill played parts of 'Rhapsody in Blue.' The music seemed to go on forever. They were lost in forbidden luxury. When they remembered the time, there were only a few moments left.

"You two go ahead and get out of here," Bill said. "I'll put things back in place."

"Be careful," Helen said, frowning. "The old guy from Pinkerton takes his job seriously."

Bill nodded.

"I'll remember this place forever." Helen looked at the ornate scene for the last time. "I feel like it's a part of me." Her eyes stung with tears; she refused to let them see her cry.

"You better hurry," Bill urged as he softly touched her arm.

Around midnight Helen had just opened a little Schlitz. She was telling Ethel about the organ, about coming out of the pit into the spotlight and playing Chop Sticks in her house dress, when several well dressed men came into the bar. She busied herself making drinks. The door opened again and more men came in.

"Bill sent us," they said. "He's coming soon."

Helen threw Ethel a "See, I told you" look and kept pouring drinks and taking money. The men were tipping big, drinking the expensive stuff, and Helen was excited. When Bill finally stepped through the door, she had his Scotch neat ready. At closing time she let Ethel out and locked the door. Bill and his friends were still drinking. Around two o'clock one of her regulars knocked. Helen went to the door and said, "Private party." She made more money that night than she had all summer. It was the first of many private parties.

The crane came one overcast morning in October. The marquee, cracked and broken in places, with light bulbs missing, still supported the thirty-foot "Orpheum" sign that loomed against the gray autumn sky like an ominous tower. Everything of value had been sold, auctioned, given away or stolen in the months since the theater had closed. The sidewalk was roped off, and barricades were set up on Fifth Street.

Helen sat on her lawn chair in the afternoon. She pulled a yellow cardigan around her shoulders. Ethel stopped to talk as usual on her way to work. She said a few words to Helen then silently watched the crane work. People stood in groups on the street and listened to the crash and thunder of the ball, the rattle of falling bricks and the crack of splitting wood. The sidewalk shook several times. Late in the afternoon, a soft rain started to fall. Helen brought a black umbrella from behind the bar. She opened it, rested it on one shoulder, sat back in the lawn chair and continued to watch as the crane and a bulldozer raised dust in the drizzle.

By four-thirty Helen was alone. Curious on-lookers had opted for drier comfort. Helen smelled cigarette smoke. She turned. A Styrofoam cup of coffee was thrust toward her.

"This should warm you up," said Lou.

Helen reached for the steaming cup. "Thanks."

Lou squatted beside the lawn chair. "Don't take long to come down, does it?"

"Seems like it should of made a bigger pile of rubble," Helen said. "Somebody destroys a way of life, it ought to make a helluva pile."

"Seems like," Lou agreed. She put her cigarette to her lips and inhaled. The glow on the end of the cigarette brightened. "This old neighborhood seems naked already."

Helen sighed. "I'll never use that bank."

"Aw, hell. It's right down the street," Lou said. "Folks will forget. We probably will, too."

"I won't," Helen objected. "Using that bank would be like walking on a grave."

They were quiet for a minute. Rain patted down around them. In the distance, the sounds of the crane hummed. The sidewalk vibrated.

"Well, times is changing," Helen said sadly.

"Yes ma'am, they surely are."

Helen sipped the coffee, and then wrinkled her nose. "This got sugar?"

"Three spoons."

"This your coffee?"

Lou shrugged and said, "Looked like you needed it more than me."

"I should go in," said Helen. "They'll be quitting for the day soon. I got to get ready for the evening rush."

"Some day this town is going to regret losing that theater," Lou said. "It was a splendid place."

"Small consolation," said Helen. "Here, scoot under the umbrella. You're getting soaked."

"I'm all right," Lou said as she lowered herself to the sidewalk and stubbed out her cigarette on the rough concrete. "Sometimes endings can be beginnings too, you know?"

"Beginnings?" Helen cocked her head.

"I come to tell you I'm going to' see about buying the Tropical Isle." Lou nodded, indicating the bar on the opposite corner.

"What?" Helen sat up straight. "He ain't selling is he?"

"I guess he figures, like a lot of folks, that this street is in for a big change. I'm never going to' get ahead at the Alibi. I always wanted my own place."

"Competition?" Helen asked cautiously.

Lou ran her fingers through her damp blonde hair and smiled. "Friendly competition."

Helen chuckled, shaking her head. "Well come on in then, I'll make a fresh pot of coffee. We'll both warm up."

"Thanks," said Lou. "Don't mind if I do."

Helen stood, balanced the umbrella on her shoulder and folded the lawn chair. "Did I ever tell you Charlie and I went on our first date to the Orpheum?"

Lou stood up and brushed off her jeans. "No, I don't believe you mentioned it."

Helen led the way into the dark tavern.