“Don’t let her in here,” says one of two guys in the doorway. New customers, a nice article onscreen this week has brought in a spate of this type. They look like what they drink: strong, carelessly made whiskey in short stout glasses for too much money. It’s a boon, Martin has to tell himself, the money they bring in even as their boasts and jokes muck up the vibe.

“Not your call,” Martin says to them. “You don’t get a vote. This is America.”

But the guy, with rummy bravado, blockades a little. His friend just shakes his head and continues to wear suspenders. The woman’s eyes bulge and swivel like a freaked horse.

“Move,” Martin says, “out—”

“You saw her. Shit, we all heard her. She’s a maniac.”

“Everyone in the whole world is a maniac. Get out of my way.”

“OK, but this woman is total bananapants. You don’t want mentally, what’s the word?”

“Disturbed,” Suspenders offers.

“People,” the first guy finishes.

Martin stands up straight. “This is not a talk we’re having. There was no call to conversation. Get out of the doorway of my goddamn bar.”

The two men keep staring but they step open like doors on their last legs. The barman herds her on through. The woman is so wet and muddy it’s like a buffalo roaming in. The bar gets surprised and then adjusts as she leans, wheezing, toward the liquor.

Stanford gives her a towel but he’s looking at Martin. “What happened?”

“Give her a hot toddy.”

He nods, turns to work.

“Now.” Martin barks it.

“The water,” Stanford says patiently. “If I do it now, it’s a warm toddy.”

Martin tosses the towel where it goes, and then points at the men frowning from the entrance. “And those two gentlemen are nixed and done. Bill them and show them the door.”

“What?” Suspenders says.

Martin is already removing their half-finisheds. “What I said.”

“You’re throwing us out for offering advice?”

“I have the conch. We’re not arguing or continuing to argue.”

“That’s like a First Amendment thing.”

“Don’t get fucking constitutional,” Stanford says, and the woman blows her nose on a paper napkin, but even as a shivery pile, there’s something about her that indicates privilege and money. Perhaps it is the lumpy purse, which she plops onto the bar sideways accidentally, and a thick roll of bills tumbles out like a gangster prop. The First Amendment fan puts his wallet on the bar and says to Suspenders, “I told you. I told you this place was too faggot fancy.”