"Yes, but later, when they speak of her, what do they say?" I asked. "Oh hell, I don't know. I just fill the glasses. Man, this is the kind of talk that makes a barkeep like me goofy. Mostly, I keep the customers on the other side of the counter, but she-she can't be stopped-comes over the top and just rips your spleen." "Fill the glasses. Mop the bar. You probably know, they're closing this place next month, and I'm out of work with no prospects because the urban renewal wrecking ball is knocking down not just this joint but the whole Avenue, and-and all I'm doing is worrying what's going to happen to Abby. But damn it, I can't help it. This place connects her to Whitey, and all the rest of us to her." "Ahhh . . . " He let out a deep sigh, and then leaned over the bar and used his big whisper. "Ah, but this woman did it all . . . and so they . . . they tell of the things she did for Whitey. They tell of her exploits, of her saving his life, and her avenging his death-of her thrusting that heavy auger. And they make up things-sensitive, personal things. Lavender baths, rose-petal pillows-things no one could possibly know. But we all listen and nod our approval. And now the wrecking ball is coming. And now they ask what will happen . . . " "Look, that's her, she comes now. Just look at her. My, oh my," he slowly shakes his head. "Ah, I'll tell you what they, they . . . they tell of her honor, grace, and beauty. See how she moves, how she takes that stool." He stood to his full height and hurried down the counter to pour her drinks. I sipped mine, listening, waiting . . . .