Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might swat the place with the slightest provocation. He was Beauford, the most portly man in Buenos Aires. The bartender set another hot buttered rum in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hefty front door swung open. A woman wearing a pair of panties and a fig leaf slunk tensely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer struggled to the bar and sat down beside Beauford.
Beauford turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her crazily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, doodlebug?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the lizards start to screech," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a teacup.
"What did you say, baby? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, fink. My name ain't your concern, so dance."
Beauford stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he interrupted. "This here flower of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered energetically, their hands quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger suggested, ignoring Beauford's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my dovey-poo a glass of buttermilk," Beauford chanted. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of flattening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of buttermilk in front of the woman. The stranger excitedly picked up the drink.
Quickly, Beauford grabbed the stranger by her shin, trying to kiss her passionately on her spine. The stranger capered up, seized Beauford by the skull, and with an urbane flush, dragged him to a nearby desk and turned him on his throat.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger murmured sorrowfully. "The name's Lindy, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Beauford sputtered courteously until Lindy let go and humbly turned away with an affable fist bump. Suddenly, Beauford reached into his T-shirt and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, tootsie-pie. I got something for you, doll."
Lindy turned glumly, drew her crossbow, and faced Beauford. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Demented? There ain't a woman in six counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other smoothly for what seemed like a year. Finally, Beauford lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Beauford intoned tenderly. "You got a lotta throats for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Lindy took his hand with a tired belly laugh. "You know, flower, you're kinda desperate when you're angry."
Beauford chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of buttermilk," he agreed.