We entered the place, pausing in the open doorway to get our bearings. I hadn't been in Dale's for years, but it looked much the same – narrow room with a bar running along the left and a jukebox in back. There were six or eight small tables jammed up against the wall on the right. The lighting was primarily of the neon beer-sign variety, blue and red. There were numerous patrons on hand, occupying half of the bar stools and most of the tables. Eighty-seven percent of those present were smoking, the air as gray as morning fog. The overhead fixture made the light seem flat, very close to the quality of waning daylight outside. The jukebox, I remembered, was stocked with old 45-rpm records. At that very moment, the Hilltoppers were crooning "P.S. I Love You" while a couple danced on a narrow expanse of floor by the unisex bathroom. The sawdust underfoot and the acoustical ceiling tiles muffled the noise level so that both music and conversation seemed to be taking place in another room.

The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs, taken in the forties, to judge by the ladies' hairstyles and clothing. Each photo featured the same balding middle-aged man, perhaps the eponymous Dale. He had his arm slung around various minor sports figures – baseball players, professional wrestlers, and Roller Derby queens – their signatures scrawled across the bottom of the pictures.

At the far end of the room, a concession-sized machine produced a steady spill of popcorn that the bartender scooped into paper cups and set out for general consumption. At intervals along the bar, there were collections of assorted popcorn seasonings: garlic salt, lemon pepper, Cajun spices, curry powder, and Parmesan cheese in a green cardboard container. The popcorn wasn't sufficient to keep patrons sober, but it gave them something to fiddle with between the downing of drinks. As we were taking our seats, a peevish argument flared up, the topic being politics, about which no one present seemed to have the faintest clue.

"So where is he?" I said, looking around the room.

"What's your hurry? He'll be here in a bit."

"I thought we were having dinner. I didn't know they served food in here."

"Well, they do. Seven-way chili." She started ticking off the choices on her fingers. "Macaroni, chopped onions, cheese, oyster crackers, sour cream, or cilantro in any combination."

"That's only six."

"You can have it plain."

"Oh."

The next 45 selection came into play and Jerry Vale launched into his version of "It's All in the Game": "Many a tear has to fall..." I refused to think about Cheney lest I jinx the relationship.