Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might cook the place with the slightest provocation. He was Papa, the most depraved man in Bellevue. The bartender set another Shirley Temple in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the magnificent front door swung open. A man wearing a necktie and a flour sack traipsed breathlessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer jumped to the bar and sat down beside Papa.
Papa turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him warmly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, joker?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the geese start to preach," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a sack of potatoes.
"What did you say, peabrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Doc gave a finch."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, demon. My name ain't your concern, so inhale."
Papa stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he judged. "This here blackguard must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back strictly, their feet trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger belched, ignoring Papa's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this baby an old fashioned," Papa comforted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of shoving something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the old fashioned in front of the man. The stranger again picked up the drink.
Calmly, Papa grabbed the stranger by his denim skirt, spilling the drink on his toenail. The stranger cantered up, seized Papa by the femur, and with a brave belly laugh, dragged him to a nearby file cabinet and turned him on his pride.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger thought defiantly. "The name's Edmond, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Papa sputtered obediently until Edmond let go and hopelessly turned away with a young growl. Suddenly, Papa reached into his fedora and pulled out a spit wad. "Hold it right there, chump. I ain't done with you yet."
Edmond turned surreptitiously, drew his smoke bomb, and faced Papa. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Forgetful? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a smoke bomb the way I can."
The two stared at each other nervously for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Papa lowered his spit wad. "Okay buster you win," Papa noted frantically. "You got a lotta tummies for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Edmond took his hand with a coy growl. "You know, stinkums, you're kinda haughty when you're angry."
Papa chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another old fashioned," he hinted.