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couldn’t wait to see his photos tomorrow.
    Ralph wanted to talk a bit more. “Let’s go to Burt’s Bar for a nightcap,” he said. “It’s on the way home.”
    That was the beauty of Burt’s Bar, and one of the keys to its popularity. It was on the way to everyone’s home. Right on the edge of downtown, a few blocks from three major highways, I-55, I-44, and I-64. The other key was Burt himself. He was the perfect old-fashioned bartender. His martinis had zing. His beer was cold and his glasses were chilled. Burt was a vigorous seventy. He always wore a starched white shirt, striped tie, and clean white apron. His mahogany bar top was polished. There were no ashesin the glass ashtrays on the shiny black-and-chrome tables. The bottles and glasses gleamed on the back bar. He ruled over this clean and pleasant place. No one, but no one, was allowed to say a four-letter word or harass a woman in Burt’s Bar. Burt’s wife Dolores did the cooking in the spotless stainless steel kitchen.
    I thought Burt’s Bar was a fine example of a city saloon. My readers agreed. Six years ago, when I ran a contest to find the Best St. Louis Saloon, they voted it Number One. Burt was so proud when he won. He gave the first prize—an engraved beer mug—its own shelf over the bar. He framed my column and hung it over the ice machine.
    For years, Burt’s was a neighborhood bar. Then he was discovered by the city’s movers and shakers. Now you could spot them after midnight, hanging around the watering hole and trying to figure out why X was with Y and what it meant in their ugly little jungle. Burt gave me the credit for his late-life success, but I never thought I’d done much. If I hadn’t written about Burt’s, someone else would have. It’s no great feat for a journalist to find a saloon.
    It was crowded at Burt’s, but we found a table. Instead of Sally, the waitress, Burt himself came over to take our drinks order—a high honor on a busy night. “Francesca,” he said, a big smile lighting up his face. “You haven’t been in here for months. I thought you forgot about me.”
    “Never, Burt. You’re looking good these days.”
    “Awww, I’m just a hardheaded old Dutchman,” said Burt, blushing like a boy. “We never change.”
    “I hope not,” I said.
    Burt quickly got down to business. “What can I get you?” We ordered our drinks. Burt brought them and disappeared back behind the bar. He had too many customers to chat with me for long.
    Ralph talked for a while about the female impersonators. I asked him what would happen to the contest’s losers and dropouts. “Some are headed for trouble, like the Shady Lady. Rumor has it she’s doing too many drugs. Sue Warrior will probably get her act together if she bounces her boy friend. I hear Maria Callous has a steady sweetie and may settle down for a while.”
    But I could tell his mind was elsewhere. He was restless and worried, and that made him wheeze. He took a hit on his inhaler. He wanted to tell me something, and eventually he’d get around to it. Finally he did.
    “I had to cash in a lot of favors to get you into that pageant,” he said. “You can write anything you want about us. We’re different, but we have feelings. We get hurt. Please don’t make us look like freaks.”
    I patted his hand. I was a freak, too. It just didn’t show as much.
    “I’ll be careful, Ralph,” I said.
    I left some money on the table, and waved toBurt as I walked out the door. It was near closing, and he was busy cleaning up behind the bar. I didn’t stop to say good-bye. I didn’t know it was the last time I’d see Burt alive.

T he next day, I woke up early and energetic. The morning matched my mood—sunny. I dressed for work and decided to fix myself breakfast instead of eating a bagel in the car. I rummaged in the fridge, found a poppy-seed bagel that wasn’t too stale, and toasted it. Then I fried an egg. Perfect. It was sunnyside-up, the yolk slightly