ull effect. On the record, the nation is dry, but the glory days are at hand for an unassuming café on a quaint St. Louis side street. Beneath its tile floors is a subterranean saloon -- the Lackadaisy Speakeasy, where the spirits are still high and available on tap.

Or at least they were until calamity rocked the establishment's foundations.

Now, some jazz band riffraff and a beleaguered veteran are all that remain to pick up the pieces of the past . . . along with some decent bootleg booze. If the Lackadaisy is to survive this and the advances of its ferocious rivals, a little bit of creative chaos might be in order.