THE OK CORRAL SALOON.

It was big, loud, and assuredly hopping.

The lights blazed from every window and Decker could hear the music blasting out of the place.  It was country, with a dash of rock and roll, at least to his ear.  It shot through the air like a sound cannon.

He stood outside and felt his skin slowly begin to pucker with the humidity that had returned after the storm.

After he cleared the outside bouncer checking IDs, Decker opened the door, and the heat and comingled smells of sweat and spilled alcohol hit him like a tank round.  Either they had no AC or it was having a struggle to keep up with the warmth thrown off by the waves of swaying people.  And from what Decker could see, he might have been the only sober customer in the joint.

He edged around a knot of young people near the front entrance.  They seemed to be holding each other up, though it was not yet ten o'clock.  He didn't want to be around these folks at midnight.

There was a live band, four guys, and a gal as the lead singer.  Her hair was Dolly Parton big and swirled around her head as she danced while crooning a Faith Hill ballad to pitch perfection.  The band looked like petrified wood next to her steamy gyrations.  She started her next set, and from what Decker could hear, the lyrics focused principally on guys, gals, dogs, and guns, with a Chevy pickup thrown in for good measure.  There was a quartet of ninety-inch TV screens on the walls, all tuned to sports channels.  In one corner behind a waist-high partition was a mechanical bull, but it didn't seem to be in operation.  It just sat there looking pissed off.

He stood near the back and took his time surveying the room.  On one wall was a sign with very large letters that read, BAR RULES: YOU PULL ANY CRAP IN HERE PARTICULARLY FIGHTING AND YOUR ### IS GONE FOR GOOD.  WHEN YOU ARE CUT OFF, YOU ARE DONE.  ZERO TOLERANCE.  HAVE A GOOD TIME.

A minute later he spotted the pair.  Caroline was on the parquet dance floor flitting around a flat-footed Baker, like a hummingbird to a very large, very stiff flower.  Or cactus, more like it.  Baker moved his feet an inch or two from side to side, stuck his hands up, and tried to look like he was enjoying himself.

Why is she with him?

Someone nudged Decker.  It was a man even larger than he was who started speaking to him in a low but menacing voice.

"Look, bud, you want to stay here you need to buy something, food or drink or preferably both," the man said.  He weighed in at about three-fifty, bald as a cue ball, and his flabby gut was overshadowed only by the muscular breadth of his shoulders.  "Otherwise, you need to go.  Somebody's got to pay to keep the lights on and the booze flowing."