DON PEDRO

Don Pedro doesn't usually drink at the Palm Lounge. Too many lawyers who want to live the cantina life for a few hours ruin the atmosphere. He prefers the more authentic locales like the Sportsman and La Movida.

"They are Brownsville's spiritual centers," said Don Pedro. "I want to be close to the source."

When I told him the Palm still had the best hamburgers in town, he accepted an invitation to meet me at the bar and hoist a few in memory of Freddy Fender. Rigo Tovar and now Freddy. It marks the end of an era. After toasting the proud sons of Matamoros and San Benito, cocaine became the subject of the conversation.

"How often do you do coke?" asked Don Pedro.

"I did some recently, but I bet it had been several years since the previous time. I've never gotten the nose for it. I have too much nervous energy. I like coke's initial rush, but it unravels me after a while. I prefer downers."

Don Pedro nodded his head.

"It's not good for you," he said. "It's a form of madness. You become delusional. You're also pushing the limits of your body. Give me marijuana and alcohol any day of the week."

I nodded in response.

"But sometimes you need a quick rush," I said.

"I have the best quick rush in the world," he counseled. "Whenever I'm feeling uninspired, but I want to be a part of the action, I throw back a couple of tequilas. Nothing changes my perspective for the better quicker. I know when to stop that shit. Coke won't let you stop."

The hamburgers arrived and Don Pedro gave me the thumbs up.

"These are good," he said.