Outside it had been as dry as unbuttered toast, but in here the air conditioning stopped just short of a meat locker. Closed off from the casino, the bar seemed a little less cold; it had its share of Dodge City trappings-rough wood paneling, reproductions of ancient wanted posters for Billy the Kid and John Wesley Hardin, bartenders in string ties, waitresses in those same buckskin outfits.

At least the music piped in was not god-awful country western (with the exception of Patsy Cline, there is no other kind) and right now “One Way or Another” by Blondie was cranking. I smiled. I liked this New Wave music- reminded me of the ’60s stuff I grew up on back in Ohio.

The bar was underpopulated. It was mid-afternoon and, even in a world without clocks, that meant tumbleweed was blowing through the old watering hole. You could get free drinks out on the casino floor, so who needed a bar? And nobody was hungry right now, except me.

I settled into a rustic booth, which thankfully had padded seat and back; it was off to one side and nicely isolated. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries and Coke from the little redheaded waitress who smiled at me in a promising way.

It wasn’t that I was irresistible to young women. I wasn’t even irresistible to old women. But I was one of the youngest males at the Four Jacks. It was a Jerry Vale crowd, remember.

Still, this isn’t about me getting lucky with a barmaid. Just like it isn’t about me getting lucky at blackjack or even a poker machine. And at first it didn’t seem to be me getting lucky at all.

“ Quarry! Is that you?”

The voice was midrange male and husky and just a little bit slurry.

I looked up. I had just finished my food, already pushed the plate aside, and was sipping the last of my Coke through a straw like a high school kid. I’m sure my reaction seemed casual, just an upward glance, but in my brain, those submarine sirens, the aahhh-ooogah ones, were blaring.