Last Hand

Richard points to the dry cleaner across the street and the barbershop next door, longtime Five Points businesses. "The city is just waiting for the old-timers to die off so they can buy it from their kids," he says. He nods toward his friends. A new pool hall in the building, he says, will "just attract a younger generation of men."

The corner of their old club is all the La Paz 12 have left. Away from the window, the room recedes into shadows littered with debris. The ceiling has been pulled down, exposing the century-old wooden ribs of the building, and the plastered walls are cracked. The hardwood floor is gray and battered.

Time has caught up with the La Paz 12. Some members have died. Others, like Louis, are now widowers. "It's boiled down to a select few of us," he says, studying his cards. "We have no other place to go. So until we get told we can't, we'll just keep coming down here to have a little fun talking about each other...You know how old guys do.

"The good thing is, we're all still friends...those that ain't dead. Everything else around here has changed, but we haven't changed," he adds. "We could be sitting in some other bar across town. But this building here is home to us.