The legend is that there was a beautiful woman who would always play the piano there. For hours on end she would play, never seeming to have to will, nor the notion, to stop. It was a cold night in Chicago. Sam Jacobs, aged twenty-seven, had sat coddling a drink like he had many nights before. "I should head home," he thought, taking in another long drag of his cigarette. It was barely even touched, aside from the two drags he had already taken. "After this cigarette," he thought. "I've seen you in here night after night." He definitely was hearing it, and having it in his thoughts.