Once upon a time, or so begin the fairy tales, there was a bluestocking spinster and a gin-sodden cowpoke. Sourly, suspiciously, the two sat eyeing one another across a smoke-hazed, liquor-stinking barroom. Each pondered the mad quirk of foolishness that had brought them to that seedy cantina on Calle de Noche Triste in Juarez, Mexico. . . .
Γ’β¬ΕHow Γ’β¬β’bout a little night of love, querida?Γ’β¬Β Γ’β¬ΕBeat it mister!Γ’β¬Β Her brown eyes flashed at him, and she looked away, muttering, Γ’β¬ΕIΓ’β¬β’m waiting for someone.Γ’β¬Β Γ’β¬ΕSo?Γ’β¬Β He winked lecherously. Γ’β¬ΕThis carcass doesnΓ’β¬β’t take long to pleasure, sweetheart. Five minutes in the back room oughta do it.Γ’β¬Β He could see he had rattled her, although she was striving to cover it. Her mouth curled contemptuously. Γ’β¬ΕIΓ’β¬β’ve bitten a few rotten coins, mister,Γ’β¬Β she hissed, Γ’β¬Εand donΓ’β¬β’t need to hook up with the likes of you."
So began the acquaintance of the indomitable Roxana Van Buren and the unconquerable Sam Brady.
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