L's Inner Circle

Tonya grudgingly recounts the time Robin, the weekend bartender, took her on a "Ghost of Mr. Lee" tour on the dingy second story, where an eccentric recluse lived and died. "I have an excuse to be dysfunctional every day of my life," she says.

The group sees Colin Perkins walking up the street, fresh from bartending at the swanky DC Coast on K Street. They wave him over.

"The only bar where I've ever had a beer next to a prisoner," he says, sitting, remembering when two bounty hunters brought a shackled captive in for a pint.

The memories flow from there. Tonya's funniest hooker memory is of four large women in G-strings pushing a stalled car down L Street, their pimp following behind in his glittering truck, high beams on, shouting orders. Christopher remembers when the Lord of the Dance troupe came in after a show and broke into a jig. Then there's the rowdy mix of alcohol, guns and testosterone during National Police Week, and the motherly burliness of Leather Weekend.

When the Secret Service was across the street, you could always tell when there was a shift change at the White House; black-suited men would emerge from black limos to belly up and decompress.

Stoney's is SRO for election nights and football games.

Everything closed down for Hurricane Isabel except Stoney's, where the die-hards rode out the storm, together. It was one of the few spots that stayed open into the night on 9/11, when Washington was motionless and deserted.

"It's like losing the heart of the neighborhood," Christopher says. "This is the only point of continuity. There's no other place that defines the area."

Inside, two gentlemen finish their meals at a table and whip out a credit card.

No cards, Steve says, walking by.

The guys, flummoxed, ask where the ATM is.

No ATM, Steve says. There's one down by the CVS.

"This is 2005," says one of the guys. "You guys don't take cards and don't have an ATM?"

Steve and Attila shake their heads.

The guy persists, resorting to tourist logic. " I'm a visitor. This is a sports bar."

Steve doesn't look up from his notepad. " I just work here."

Unreal Estate

Like every Washingtonian, Tony wishes he bought his place back when he could. The previous owners were prepared to sell it for $220,000 in 1978, but withdrew their offer and sold it 10 years later to the Service Employees International Union for $1.25 million. Too bad? Sure. Regrets? No. You gotta move on, Tony says.

After all, they should've closed years ago. Tony produces an old videotape of a news segment, with scratchy shots of Momma Thelma balancing super grilled-cheeses, intercut with shots of backhoes cutting up neighboring lots. "Stoney's," a reporter intones with bawdy gloom, "may soon fall victim to the wrecking ball -- all in the name of progress." That was 15 years ago.

In 2001 Tony bought Tunnicliff's, a "nicer-looking" bar in Capitol Hill, with Stoney's veteran Med "Mo" Lahlou. When Stoney's closes, Sandy will do the books there. Everyone else's plans are up in the air. (Tony, known to help an employee with the occasional rent check, and the one who helped Freddy get his green card, says he frets about their futures, too.)

"Everybody is upset," says Sue Stewart, who's waitressed at Stoney's for 10 years. "Once people start working here, they stay. We're treated well. We have a faithful clientele. People have asked if they should start a petition."

The faithful concur:

"It was an oasis in the midst of all the confusion," says former congressman Ron Klink, who once held court at Stoney's with fellow legislators. "It was a place to let your hair down and be regular guys and not act with the stuffiness of being a member of Congress."

"Things really started changing drastically, to the point where it was either fast food or fine dining," says John Haley, one of Stoney's first customers in '68. "And this was one of the places you could get in between that."

"I didn't like D.C. very much, toward the end," says Ed Armstrong, who moved to South Carolina a year and a half ago and whose beer mug is retired at Stoney's. "The traffic, the congestion. The weather's terrible. . . . Stoney's is the only thing I miss about D.C."

Tony doesn't want to be forced out and then see the place sit vacant for six months, a year. He'd rather stay until it's time for demolition, then relocate -- perhaps up 14th Street, or farther east.

"I'm not ready to retire," he says. "And I don't want to let this name go. Over the years, it's a steady place. It's been here, it's consistent, and we've always done a nice job for folks."

Closing Time

"If you're sick of the abuse, why do you keep coming back here ?" Tonya yells, mid-spat with a customer, well after 1 a.m. on what was a Saturday.

"Because the food is good!" insists Reed Thomas, who stopped in for sustenance between overnight jobs as a network news cameraman. ("Get fired up at Stoney's," the cover of a book of Stoney's matches says, and it's more like a promise than a suggestion.)

Despite the gregariousness of the Stoney's staff, they've never marked an anniversary with a party. Time passed covertly, and only in this new context do the years add up to something greater than a number.

But there is no rending or raging at Stoney's fate. Just an elegy in the curl of the cigarette smoke, the beer-slicked laugh, the shoulder-to-shoulderness, when you're not sure who's leaning and who's supporting.

Tonya takes a smoke break. "There's gonna be no place like this," she says. (What'll she do after? A quick exhalation, a guarded smile. "Get a real job.")

It's late, or early, almost 3:30 a.m. Should've closed a half-hour ago, but they're all enjoying themselves. Tonya dials up the lights. Two dozen pupils contract painfully. The patronage groans. Time to go out and face Sunday.

"Last call," Attila says, for the third time.