Las Palmas was a great spot for the team to socialize after practices, but it was not a place to meet new people and women rarely darkened its saloon-style threshold, complete with swinging doors of thick, ornately carved mahogany. The doors were stained with the dirt and oil from the millions of hands that had pushed them open over many decades. The thick wooden bar was similarly well-worn and the floor was an expanse of linoleum tile, permanently colored by the spills and grime that, over the years, had become part of its DNA. Daylight from the doorway and from an illuminated, dust-covered Cerveza Pilsener sign over the bar were the room’s only sources of light. On the opposite wall across from the bar was Las Palmas’ namesake, a dingy mural of a balmy beach lined with a few poorly illustrated and badly faded palm trees. The mural was pock-mocked with various epithets scrawled and etched into the wall by La Palmas’ notoriously unrefined regulars.
“This bar would be the envy of every Archy who ever lived,” Jordan remarked, as he and Billy stood holding their icy Pilsners.
“Yes. It’s perfect,” agreed Billy, “but let's get out of here and walk down to that place we saw on Avenida de La Rosa. I want to see at least one young chica tonight."