Chapter 12: Opening Night
The Silver Dollar's neon sign flickered to life at 7:47 PM, thirteen minutes ahead of schedule.
George had insisted on testing it three times before the official opening. Each test revealed some minor issue—a loose wire, a dying bulb, a transformer that hummed slightly too loud. Each issue was fixed with the meticulous attention of a man who understood that first impressions lasted forever.
"Mary always said presentation was half the battle," he muttered, watching the sign illuminate for the final time. "People decide in the first thirty seconds whether they're coming back."
The sign was a compromise between nostalgia and functionality. The original Silver Dollar lettering remained, but the tubes had been replaced with modern LEDs, the transformer upgraded for reliability. Bright enough to catch highway traffic, warm enough to suggest welcome rather than desperation.
"It looks perfect," I told him.
"It looks like hope." George's voice caught slightly. "I'd forgotten what that felt like."
Inside, the staff was making final preparations. The two human servers—local women named Janet and Delia—were arranging tables with the efficiency of experience. Both were in their forties, both had worked service jobs for decades, both had been thrilled by the wages I'd offered.
"Twice what Lucky's paid," Janet had said during her interview. "What's the catch?"
"Unusual hours. Unusual clientele. Absolute discretion about what happens in the private rooms."
She'd looked at me for a long moment, reading something in my stillness that she chose not to name aloud.
"Vampires," she'd said. Not a question.
"Vampires. Among others."
"My cousin dated one. Didn't end well, but that was on her, not him." Janet had shrugged. "Long as they tip decent, I don't care what they drink."
She'd proven true to her word. Delia was similar—pragmatic, unflappable, the kind of woman who'd seen enough of life to stop being surprised by it.
Elena took her position by the front entrance at 7:55 PM. Her jacket concealed the stakes at her hips; her eyes concealed nothing. She assessed every arriving vehicle with the professional attention of someone expecting trouble.
"Nervous?" she asked as I joined her.
"Prepared. There's a difference."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
The first customers arrived at 8:12 PM—a group of construction workers who'd heard about the renovations through Rodriguez's crew. They claimed the bar's far end, ordered pitchers of beer, and seemed delighted by the half-price opening night specials.
More humans followed throughout the evening. Word had spread through Monroe's blue-collar networks: The Silver Dollar was back, under new management, cheaper than Lucky's and cleaner than anywhere else. By 9 PM, the main room was half-full. By 10 PM, it was approaching capacity.
George worked the bar with visible joy. He'd reclaimed his rhythm—the practiced movements of someone who'd spent five decades perfecting hospitality. The regulars from before the renovation had returned, occupying their traditional spots, greeting George like a brother they'd thought lost.
This is what he wanted. His legacy, continuing.
The first vampire arrived at 10:34 PM.
He was young—maybe fifty years undead—with the particular nervousness of someone testing unfamiliar territory. He'd parked away from the entrance, approached through shadow, hesitated at the door until Elena nodded him through.
"Heard you're vampire-friendly," he said when I intercepted him. "That true?"
"Completely. Bar service for bottled TruBlood, or private rooms for live feeding if you've brought your own donor." I gestured toward the discrete hallway. "Soundproofed, comfortable, no questions asked."
"What's the cost?"
"First visit is complimentary. Return visits are negotiated individually based on services required."
The vampire studied me with the wariness of someone who'd learned to expect traps. His position was precarious—clearly unaffiliated, probably struggling to feed cleanly in a town that didn't offer many discrete options.
"I'll take the TruBlood," he said finally. "For now."
"Table in the corner? Least visible from the entrance."
He accepted with something approaching gratitude. I seated him myself, brought the TruBlood personally, and left him to observe the human crowd in peace.
Two more vampires arrived over the next hour. Both were similar—loners, unaffiliated, drawn by rumors of a new establishment that didn't demand political affiliation or excessive tribute. I treated them identically: courteous, professional, respectful of their privacy.
The incident came at 11:47 PM.
A drunk human—construction worker, probably from Lucky's overflow—had wandered into the private room area. He'd found the second vampire feeding on a willing donor, a woman who'd accompanied him for exactly that purpose.
The human's scream was cut short by Elena's hand across his mouth. I arrived seconds later to find her dragging him toward the emergency exit, the vampire watching with fangs still extended, the donor looking annoyed rather than frightened.
"I can handle this," Elena said.
"Handle it quietly. No permanent damage."
She nodded and disappeared into the night with the struggling human. I turned to the vampire.
"My apologies for the interruption. Your privacy was compromised by a trespasser. Would you like a different room?"
The vampire retracted his fangs slowly, assessing me with new calculation. "That was... efficient."
"We take security seriously."
"I can see that." He glanced at his donor—she was already adjusting her clothing, unconcerned by the interruption. "Professional. Your operation is professional."
"That's the goal."
"Word spreads fast among our kind. You'll have more visitors than you expect."
"I'm prepared for that."
Elena returned twenty minutes later. Her jacket was slightly disheveled; her expression was satisfied.
"He'll wake up in his truck thinking he passed out," she reported. "No memory of what he saw. The glamour took three tries—he's resistant, some people are—but it held."
"Any complications?"
"He'll have a headache for a week. Nothing permanent."
"Good work."
The acknowledgment surprised her. Something flickered across her face—not quite warmth, but recognition.
"Opening nights are always messy," she said. "This one was cleaner than most."
At midnight, George rang the ship's bell behind the bar.
The sound cut through conversation, drawing every eye to the old man standing beneath his decades-old tradition. His face was wet—tears he wasn't bothering to hide.
"To new beginnings," he announced, his voice carrying across the room. "And to old memories. The Silver Dollar is back."
The humans cheered. The vampires raised their drinks in silence. Janet and Delia exchanged knowing glances behind the bar.
I lifted my own glass—bourbon I wouldn't drink, purchased from stock George had personally selected. The liquid caught the light, amber and warm, a toast to a future I was still learning to build.
Night one. First of many.
At 3 AM, the last humans departed. The vampires had left earlier—returning to havens before dawn became a concern. George retreated upstairs, exhausted but happier than I'd ever seen him. Janet and Delia counted their tips (generous—I'd supplemented from operating funds) and headed home.
Elena and I stood alone in the empty bar.
"Not bad," she said.
"Not bad," I agreed.
The cash register showed $2,847 in sales—more than double my projections. The three vampires had established a baseline for supernatural traffic. The incident had been contained without lasting consequences.
"You're building a kingdom," Elena said. It wasn't a question.
I didn't deny it.
"I'm building options. Kingdoms come later."
She smiled—the second time I'd seen her do it. "I like options."
We locked up together, each taking separate routes into the night. I drove toward the Sunset Motel, already planning tomorrow's improvements.
Three vampires. Three potential allies, three potential threats, three pieces of information flowing through networks I didn't control.
The foundation was set. The walls would follow.
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