Fred looked about and noticed a funny fellow who he could rob when he - oh - the creepy guy who said he'd go gambling. He followed the man to the bar, quietly and sat not far off. He was certain he would be recognised, and would look to the ceiling and sniff if looked at. For now though,  he kept quiet and would stir his drink with a swizzle stick. 

He thought this was to do with the job; perhaps it was, so he decided to listen in, even if not as best as he could from this distance. He would put some caps on the table, in case later he was too drunk to pay, and to keep the barman's attention on the man, knowing Fred had paid. 

While waiting he wondered what the others were up too. Dusty was probably lying in a puddle of her own making, be it chems, vomit or piss. The Ghoul, well he was probably being a ghoul and eating someone. He pulled his recharger pistol and started spinning it in a cowboy manner, and shot it at the nearest dartboard in use hitting the very centre; it was hard to miss with a weapon of that quality but he had not even seen one of the beauts outside of the Mojave. Point - or simple show of masculinity - made, he put the weapon away and awaited the next item of interest.