Everybody came to Riggs. Some came for the drinks, of course. People swore that the house draft was sweeter than honey, and smoother than silk. Every time I asked him his secret, he'd simply laugh and say "An old family recipie." A few, mostly male, came for the waitresses, a truly choice collection of tall, blond beauties. Those with the courage tried a collection of stratagems, some original, most trite. None successful. Ome gentleman felt it necessary to force his attentions. The doctors say he's responding well to therapy, and has withdrawn the lawsuit. However, the reason Riggs was the hottest club in town was the music. Not only did he spotlight new performers, all hungry for a shot at the big time, but on special occasions, late at night, when the casual visitors had stumbled off to another night of wine-drenched sleep, Riggs would reach up behind the bar, take down his trumpet, and step on the stage. I was lucky to be present at one of these sessions. At first he started to play a mellow tune, like the breeze in a meadow, but just when the audience started to fade, he added a touch of thunder. The touch built to roar, and at it's peak, shook the rafters. And just when you thought it would never end...it stopped. He bowed to the audience, and said, "All good things end, my friends. Time to go home." He was still there, along with his girls, when I left. I wanted to talk to him, maybe get him to tell his story, but he never left. Although there didn't seem to be room, I assumed he must live somewhere in the building. I came back, many nights, hoping to hear him play, but most nights, I was forced to leave early, so I'd wake in time for work. Night after night, I sat at the bar, downing peanuts and ginger ale, hoping that here, at last, was a story I could sell. It all changed, one stormy Thursday. For once, the bar was nearly empty, as no bands were scheduled, and Riggs was running the club by himself. Even by himself, he was able to keep the drinks flowing. No matter where in the room they sat, all they had to do was call, and he'd hear them. I was almost afraid he'd be so busy, he wouldn't have time to chat, but my fears were laid to rest, as he soon caught up. "How are you doing, Mario?" he smiled, cheerfully, as he returned a tray of empty drinks to the rack by the kitchen. "Fair to middling," I replied, shrugging. "I finally started that new job, and it looks like it'll keep me in books for a while longer. You?" "Same as ever," he said, "People are always looking for a good time, and they like the time I give them. As long as I keep an eye out, I don't expect any tro-" Riggs stopped. Two new figures had come through the door. One looked pretty ordinary, in a plain parka drenched by the rain. The other fellow, though, looked scary. A big guy, bearded, with a long leather coat, and a black bandana covering his russet hair. At a guess, he was a biker, his engines drowned by the raging thunder outside. While the biker took his place at the nearest stool, his fellow traveler moved closer to me, sitting right by the antique register. Riggs ambled over to the tall stranger, who merely said "Beer", and slapped down a few wrinkled bills. At the impact of his sinewy hand, the bar shook. Without a word, Riggs drew a perfect pint, and placed it before the burly biker. "Um, excuse me." the other fellow murmured, still huddled in his sopping cloak. Riggs glanced, one last time, at his massive customer, and then walked over to my end of the bar. "What can I do for you?" he asked. A slender hand emerged from the coat, clutching a snub-nosed revolver. "Guess." he sneered. "A robbery, how droll." Riggs chuckled, showing far more courage than I felt. He just stood there, watching the gunman. The hand shook, and the barrel twitched. At this point, all I could think of was "Please, please don't point it in my direction." I closed my eyes, dreading the inevitable. And then there was a crack, like lightning had struck in the bar itself. "You can open your eyes now, Mario". I smelled a touch of ozone. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The biker had the gunman held aloft by his neck with one hand. The other held what looked like a short sledgehammer. "Put him down gently, brother." Riggs advised, "He won't wake up for a while." The tall biker grunted, and unceremoniously plopped his burden in a handy booth. "Are you ready to come home, and assume your proper role?" "No, brother, I am not. Our time has passed, and our weird has been rewritten. I will stay here, among my children. Give Graybeard my love." "I will, Rig." the biker, tucking the hammer back into his coat. Striding back to the door, he pushed it open. "And while you're at it..enough with the light show. You are scaring away my customers." Riggs shouted. A roar of laughter, joined with the thunder, was his only reply. And then he turned to me. "You saw nothing. There is more going on than you realize." The pieces clicked. "I have only one question..." Riggs's eyes narrowed. "If I can answer, I will." I smiled, "Aren't nine Mother's Day cards a real pain?" Riggs, or should I say Rig, watched me for a long minute, his eyes searching for something. And then he laughed. "You always were a smart one, my boy. Bragi would be proud." Outside, the thunder rolled. And I knew why. I'd found my story.