FYI - I don't own anything by ZZ Top, either. Wish I did, though.

It didn't even cross Ray's mind that Gambini wouldn't be there. Or Helen. Details like that always alluded him. If an idea starting forming in his mind, then he went with it, rather it was a complete plan or not.

Most of the time, it was not.

It was early evening, the hazy summer sun just setting by the time the taxi dropped him off at the place. He didn't even notice the smirk on the cabbie's face as he handed him the fare. His mind was on what he was about to do.

There were more cars in the parking lot than Ray would have thought at this early hour. Granted, when they were there a few nights ago, it was like Grand Central Station.

The stench of cigarette smoke and booze smacked him in the face when he opened the door, the beat of the music almost deafening.

He had to stand there a moment just inside, allowing his eyes time to adjust, the flashing lights from the stage not helping matters any.

They'd worked fast. There was no sign of the destruction inflicted upon the place. Everything was back where it was supposed to be.

Life goes on.

"Hi, hon. Wanna beer?" a syrupy voice asking in what Ray was pretty sure was a fake Southern accent. His eyes had adjusted enough to see a girl who looked just this side of legal in what obviously passed for a waitress uniform around here, her blonde hair teased out in every direction, make-up thick on her face.

Ray had to fight to keep his eyes on her face and not let them stray lower. "Uh . . . that's OK. I'm here to see R-, I mean Mr. Gambini."

She cocked her head in what she thought was a coy manner, Ray was sure. "Really? You sure don't look like the type Rocco usually sees behind closed doors?" She said Rocco's name as if he were God.

Ray wasn't sure what the correct answer was in this situation. So, he did what he did best - he winged it. "Dr. Ray Stantz." He stuck out his hand, which the waitress shook, albeit a little bewilderingly. "We were here a few nights ago to deal with the entities plaguing the place."

The girl gave him a blank look.

Oops. Big word. "The ghosts?" he said hopefully.

That rung a bell. "Oooooo, you're one of the Ghostbusters, aren't you?" Her voice was awed, and she even forgot the accent. "I was off that night, but I hate that I missed it. Hey, Joe!" she yelled over his shoulder towards the bar. "One of the Ghostbuster guys is here to see Rocco!"

Joe was about 6'6" with arms as big around as oxygen tanks. One arm even had some sort of pirate skull and crossbones on it. The other had the obligatory half-naked woman in a provocative pose. And, he did not look happy.

Lucky for Ray his occupation opened doors that normally were closed to most folks. Even if it was just for the curiosity factor.

And, for the first time, he wondered how wise it was to visit Mr. Gambini. Especially without telling anyone where he went.

Not wanting to piss off Mr. Joe the Bartender even more, Ray added, "I'm just here to deliver the bill. In person. It's a . . . ah . . . service we offer."

Joe still looked ill as someone who had just swallowed two pounds of pickled herring. But, he did reply. "Mr. Gambini's not in. But, he'll be back."

Ray knew his city. He may not have lived most of his adolescence in New York, but he was born in the Bronx. And, he'd become quite familiar with every nook and cranny – appealing or otherwise – since starting this business with Egon and Peter.

As a result, he knew the Gambinis. They'd run the seedy underbelly of New York for as long as he could remember.

Ray wisely didn't ask what Mr. Gambini was up to. He smiled. "That's fine. I'll wait."

Joe just shrugged as Ray seated himself at the bar and ordered a beer. Reluctantly, Joe complied.

The music stopped behind him to a few shrill whistles and catcalls from the men in the audience. The girl onstage disappeared behind the curtain.

Ray was just glad it was quiet for the time being.

And the waitress that greeted him suddenly reappeared at his shoulder. "So, what's it like? Chasing ghosts and stuff?" she practically purred. The accent was back. And, she had leaned in closer to him, more so he could get a glimpse of her cleavage then anything, he assumed.

Ray sighed. He hated this part. Peter ate it up, but for some reason, he never mastered the art of understanding women, let alone playing these sorts of games with them.

"It's . . . different," he admitted, taking a sip of his beer and trying not to stare.

Apparently, the waitress offered more than just her waitressing abilities.

"Lola, stop bothering the man. Get to work," Joe ordered in a even tone.

Lola. Fitting name.

Lola pouted for a moment. But, aside from being a bartender, Joe obviously had some clout at this place. Because she climbed off the stool next to Ray, much to his relief.

"Maybe next time, hon," she said before tottering off.

Just how does she stand on those heels all night? Ray wondered, watching her mince off in the obligatory mirror behind the bar.

When Joe moved closer to where he was sitting, he finally got a chance to ask. "So, is H –Roxie working tonight?"

Joe sized him up for a moment, then continued wiping the bar with a dirty rag. "She's in."

Very chatty, this Joe.

"Well . . . can I speak to her?" Ray felt stupid asking, but hell, how do you ask to see a stripper you think you might have known years ago?

He motioned over Ray's shoulder just as the hoots and hollers from the men around the stage started up again. The opening chords of "Legs" by ZZ Top blared at top volume from the speakers.

Helen knew she would never again hear ZZ Top without thinking of this humiliation.

How anyone did this for a living – and liked it! - was beyond her.

Lucky for her, she was a fast learner. Her few weeks as a waitress for that scumbag Rocco allowed her to pick up a few moves. Some looked easier than they actually were, but she found as long as she shook her booty enough and showed plenty of flesh, no one really cared how advanced her moves were.

And, if she kept her mind blank – totally, absolutely blank – then she could get through another routine. Ignore the blatant stares from the men around the stage. Thankfully, she couldn't see much else with the lighting in her face. At first, she'd even tried to look them in the eyes, but what she saw made her cringe. The sweaty fingers waiting with the crumpled wads of money that Rocco kept most of. Even the few who dared to touch her, despite the best efforts of the men around the stage. Not even how totally nasty this damn pole has to be with all the women practically humping it to pay the rent. It will be over in a few minutes. She could flounce off stage in nothing but a damn thong and cover up.

Besides, only a few more days, and Rocco's ass was hers . . .

Nope, can't think about Rocco either. Tried that at first. Focus her anger on him. It was all his fault she was here, the dirty, lying bastard. However, by taking that tactic, when one of the aroused patrons at the foot of the stage touched her, she dropped kicked him about four rows back, breaking his jaw.

No charges were filed. Rocco was impressed.

Nope, had to keep her mind totally blank.

Survival was the name of the game. And, she planned to come out the winner and close this sordid page in her life as soon as possible.

At least it gave her something to look forward to.

Ray was by no means a prude.

But, the moment he realized it was Helen onstage, he almost couldn't watch.

Almost.

There was no sign of the Helen he vaguely remembered with the blank expression who left nothing to the imagination. At all.

His mouth was hanging open, and he had to remember to shut it. Wouldn't want to look like a guppy. Or that he'd never seen a naked woman.

Ray was never one to judge others, but seeing Helen with those men slobbering over themselves to get a better view of her made him wonder how she went from the bubbly girl attending the University of Montana on a track scholarship almost 15 years ago to . . . this.

Not that he blamed those guys for looking.

Maybe it was because he held tightly to those memories of ponytails and innocence. Or maybe it was because he'd never run across a stripper he actually knew. Perhaps it was that stubborn honest streak he had running through him.

Whatever it was, he turned away, his face warm with embarrassment.

Although, Joe the bartender smirking at him wasn't exactly satisfying either.

Wishing for something a little stronger, he finished his lukewarm beer and tried not to look at the stage prominently displayed in the mirror right in front of him as the song wound down.

One thing was for sure . . .he's never hear that song again and not think of this moment in this sad, grimy bar with a girl that he knew for a fact had a bright future at one time onstage behind him.