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the well-organized room. It was larger than it appeared from outside, looking at the glass door.
    Closing the door behind him, Adolfo pulled a wooden box off the shelf. “I regret I cannot sell true Cuban cigars, but this is made from seeds taken from Cuba and planted in the Dominican Republic. It’s a very good cigar, sophisticated and mild.” He handed one Montecristo to Tootie.
    She held it, in the wrapper, under her nose. “It’s almost like perfume.”
    “A bit stronger. This one.” Adolfo handed her a Pleiades. “Nowthis is a large cigar, a large gauge, but such a cigar draws smoother, easier than the small ones you often see women smoking. Granted those may be more ladylike, but I think in any social gathering it is the women who set the tone. If
you
smoked a Churchill,” he cited a monster gauge, “it would become the fashion.”
    “Well, I—”
    “We’ll take that,” said Sister, “and while I’m here, a box of Tito’s, if you have them. They’re somewhat hard to find.”
    “Madam, I have them.” Adolfo leaned down and slid a box off the bottom shelf. “Not one of the famous brands, but a cigar for a discerning individual. Yourself, perhaps?”
    “No, my gentleman friend. When he truly wants to relax, he smokes a cigar. When he’s nervous, he smokes a cigarette.”
    Adolfo laughed. “Yes, well.” Then he lowered his voice. “So much has changed. Tobacco additives. Well, there was always that, but if you bought a pack of, say, Dunhill Regular, you knew they were made with the best leaf from the tobacco plant. Whether it’s cigarette tobacco or cigar, the upper leaves are most prized. The lower you go in price, the lower you go on the plant until you get to those discount brands—those are just chop.” He squinted his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. “How anyone can put one in their lips, I don’t know. Smoking should be a ritual of pleasure.”
    “We have few true rituals of pleasure in this country. No siestas. No teatime. Other nations have a special part of the day to relax, recharge, give thanks. We do not.”
    “Well”—Adolfo paused for a moment—“I cannot criticize a nation that took us in as refugees where we flourished. It took some time but we have made our way, the Galdos family.”
    “Galdos?” Tootie’s eyes opened wider. “Do you know the designer, Sophia Galdos?”
    He broke into the biggest smile. “My middle child. My oldest is a vice president at Altria, my youngest is a lawyer.”
    “Then, painful as your exodus was, I am grateful you are here.” Sister reached out and took his hand, squeezing slightly.
    Tootie couldn’t stop grinning. “I can’t believe I’ve met Sophia Galdos’ father.”
    “She gets her talent from me, of course,” Adolfo joked.
    Sister plucked two packs of Dunhill Menthols to put with the one Montecristo, one Pleiades, and the box of Tito’s. “Ah, I think I must have that World War One cigarette case.”
    He bowed slightly, handed her the case as well as the small white card, good stock, with the price: $2,800.
    Sister noted it. “This is good fortune. And each time I hold it, I’ll remember my father and yours, too.”
    “I believe it will bring you good fortune.” He wrote out the ticket for the items, carefully deducting fifteen percent from the cigarette case, which he then slid over to Sister for her approval.
    “Mr. Galdos, you are very kind.” Sister misted up.
    She didn’t know why she was getting emotional.
    “To think of a beautiful woman with this case in her hands pleases me.” Then he looked over at Tootie. “Two beautiful women.”
    Sister rooted around in her purse, pulled out the slender little cell phone, found her small wallet with only the credit cards, and handed over her American Express Platinum Card.
    The transaction completed, the merchandise secure in a plastic bag, Adolfo came around the counter again and gallantly kissed both ladies’ hands.
    “Go with God,” he said, and he meant