Finally the gruff voice returned. “Cactus, venom and rodeo, huh? Now what do you suppose that means?” it asked, as if for the hundredth time that night.

Ryan kept his gaze locked on the murky void through the window, from which Peter now noticed the faint sounds of shouting, or singing. It was hard to tell.

“I have no idea what it means,” Ryan answered firmly, “only that Hiram Pace told me it would get me in this door, this night, at this time.” Peter was subtly impressed with Ryan’s calm in the face of his mild interrogation. Normal circumstances would have had Ryan leaning on the door with both fists at this point.

“Hiram Pace, huh?” the voice answered back, in a less jaded tone.

Peter’s need for a bathroom was becoming urgent, so it was to his great relief that the inside door mechanism finally clicked into action. As the metal door lumbered open and strained its hinges, Ryan and Peter were awash in the smell of booze, sweat, and what either man could only have described as a bunch of flowers on fire.