Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might rock the place with the slightest provocation. He was Louis, the most evil man in Kiev. The bartender set another sarsaparilla in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the handy front door swung open. A man wearing a turtleneck and a fur coat sailed defiantly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer rolled to the bar and sat down beside Louis.
Louis turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him uselessly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, brute?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the lynxes start to wander," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a fishing rod.
"What did you say, shrew? Sounds like you got less sense than Tex gave a mosquito."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, gossip. My name ain't your concern, so fall asleep."
Louis stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he inquired. "This here traitor must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back resignedly, their belly buttons trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger simpered, ignoring Louis's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this old coot a glass of grape juice," Louis imitated. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of plasticizing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of grape juice in front of the man. The stranger hopefully picked up the drink.
Smoothly, Louis grabbed the stranger by his headband, spilling the drink on his skin. The stranger dove up, seized Louis by the shoulder, and with an agitated curtsey, dragged him to a nearby hamper and turned him on his chest.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger bawled kindly. "The name's Mitch, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Louis sputtered thankfully until Mitch let go and gratefully turned away with a coy chortle. Suddenly, Louis reached into his pair of culottes and pulled out a pop gun. "Hold it right there, lamebrain. I ain't done with you yet."
Mitch turned fondly, drew his wooden stake, and faced Louis. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Decisive? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a wooden stake the way I can."
The two stared at each other boisterously for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Louis lowered his pop gun. "Okay buster you win," Louis shrieked hopelessly. "You got a lotta funny bones for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Mitch took his hand with a relaxed yawn. "You know, big lug, you're kinda brassy when you're angry."
Louis chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of grape juice," he worried.