It might be the best day of the summer, wherever this is.
A short distance from what appears to be the main compound, maybe a hotel, on a small, remote island, is a small cabana functioning as a bar. A few sordid looking characters are seated at a table playing dominoes.
Nearby, at the corner of the bar, sits Squinky, planted comfortably in a tall stool with a fruity, umbrella-ladened drink in front of him. The full sombrero and sunglasses hide most of his face, but the dangling tentacles are a dead giveaway. He seems focused on a periodical of some kind laying on the edge of the bar.