"I'm all alooooone," Fran sang in her nasally voice, watching blearily as the shapes in the bar doubled before her eyes. "There's noooobody heeeere, besiiiide me..."

She was seated in Frankie's Bar. The business was booming tonight, and where normally Fran would have jumped right back into the Meat Market, she was content to sit miserably at the bar, downing shot after shot of vodka. "I'm alllll alooooone..."

"Thank God," the bartender—Frankie—muttered as he set up some glasses behind the counter. "Then we'd have more horrible singing."

Empty glasses were littered around Fran, who was growing tipsier by the second. "Noooobody knows the trouble I've seen..."

"Like you've seen trouble," Frankie snapped, throwing his dishrag over his shoulder. He was a thin, rather respectable-looking man who seemed a bit out of place behind the bar. He looked more like an insurance adjustor, or an algebra teacher. "Come on, dear, what's so bad in your life? You're gorgeous, you're thin, but you obviously weren't blessed with a singing voice."

Fran, with her eyes slightly crossed, leaned forward. "Honey," she slurred, "are you making a—a—whassit called..." She snapped her fingers a few times. "You know, a pass at me?"

"Good Lord, no," Frankie said, shocked, as if somebody had just inquired as to the color of his boxers. "I was just making an observation." He leaned against the counter, staring at Fran through narrowed eyes. "So what's a beautiful girl like you doing getting trashed in my bar?"

"It's that stupid Mistah Sheffield," Fran grumbled, trying to push her hair back and almost falling off the stool in the process. "Stupid British guy..."

"Well, the British are pretty reserved," Frankie said reasonably.

"Not like Mistah Sheffield," Fran said, her voice earnest. "THREE YEARS I've worked for him!" She held up four fingers for emphasis. "THREE FREAKIN' YEARS! I raised his kids, and what thanks do I get?! Nothin'. Nothin' at all."

Frankie raised an eyebrow. "You've got a thing for this Sheffield?"

"You would too, if you saw this guy!" Fran exclaimed, throwing her hands up and knocking a few glasses over.

"Somehow I doubt that," Frankie replied.

"And I know he likes me," Fran wailed, "but he's a widower. Wife croaked years ago and he won't date nobody. Nobody. So I told him to make a choice, and he said he'd never love me... so I left." She looked around blearily. "And here I am."

"So you're out of a job, then?" Frankie asked, handing her a glass of water. He had already suspected that Fran had had far too much to drink, and had swapped the vodka for water a little earlier. Fran had not even noticed; she downed the glass, smacking her lips contentedly.

"Listen, Frankie, this is great stuff! What is it?!"

"Um—vodka," Frankie said, grinning. "A foreign kind."

"But yeah, I'm out of a job," Fran said. She sighed. "I have got no idea what to do now."

Frankie stared at her thoughtfully for a few moments, as if appraising her. "What'd you say your name was?"

"Fran," Fran told him. "Fran Fine. Woulda been Fran Sheffield if somebody hadn't been such a stupid gray-streaked pigeon!"

Choosing not to comment on the odd choice of words, Frankie went on. "Fran, you're a very beautiful woman. I know somebody who would be very interested in taking pictures of you."

"What, like nude modeling?" Fran asked, trying to sound appalled and failing. She actually looked rather interested. "Listen, mistah, I've got morals and dignity and... and..." She tried to come up with another word, but was far too drunk. "...and fruitcake!"

Frankie smiled. "This is perfectly legitimate. Come back here tomorrow about twenty minutes before I open, and I'll introduce you to your new employer." Eyeing Fran warily, he took a felt-tip marker and scribbled the instructions on Fran's arm so she would see it when she sobered up. "Can you get home all right? Want me to call a cab?"

"I'm FINE," Fran said loudly, getting off her stool and falling to the floor. "I'll see ya tomorrow, Bobby!"

"Frankie," Frankie called after her, watching the inebriated woman stumble into the dark street. He could hear her horrible singing even after the door shut behind her.

"Well," he muttered, "this'll be fun."