We walked into The Barn, the inky darkness washing over us as the rich sounds of Santana blasted from the jukebox placed strategically two feet inside the front door.

“Where’s the bar?” I yelled at Sal.

“In the back,” he answered, pointing past a dozen empty tables to the back of the room. “Through the red door.”

“Strange place for a bar.”

“In the desert, or behind a door?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Yes.”

The few patrons in the bar were huddling in a corner opposite the front door. They endured the sight of an old ex-hippie and his badly sunburned, glitter-ball BFF negotiating the maze of tables only to pause at the red door.

“Are you sure?” I asked, my hand reaching for the door knob.

A cowboy in the corner – or, maybe he was an Indian – spoke up over the music, “Not a good idea, fellas.”

“Why? He needs a margarita,” Sal said, jabbing his thumb at me, his eyes locked on the door.

“Not seen a one come back in ten years,” he said – definitely an Indian.

“Bad mojo.”

Ah, what the hell.