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in Hyannisport. I will contact Mr. Romelli with delivery details. Is that satisfactory?”
    â€œSure, Peter. That’s fine.” Then Joseph had frowned, thinking. Something had bothered him, something from the past, something about Kennedy when he was a senator—in Cuba, at Noches Cubanas. Something to do with Kennedy and cigars and old Victor Salazar before the Don had discovered Salazar’s embezzlement and before they …
    â€œPeter! You won’t believe this!” He had laughed, pleased with himself. “I have some cigars from a very old Cuban cigar factory, one that’s no longer in business. I remember when the president visited Havana once back in the fifties; he loved these cigars. I’ll see they are part of our gift. Don Salazarios, that’s what they’re called, Don Salazarios.”
    Â 
    So, Joseph thought, knifing the Porsche through the lower Hudson valley, our president wound up with some fine old cigars he didn’t get to enjoy. I wonder if he smoked
any of the Don Salazarios? Probably not. He would have called me. Hope Teddy or Bobby enjoy them. Wouldn’t hurt if they knew where they came from. Sure remember the big deal about them when the senator was in Cuba. Haven’t smoked one since then. Maybe I should in honor of the poor bastard. I think there’s still a box of ’em in the humidor room at the office.
    The thought cheered him and he pulled over to light the Churchill. As he did, he thought again of Victor Salazar. The miserable wretch had died horribly, taking his three-million-dollar secret with him.

EIGHT
    CENTRAL PARK SPARKLED below, the full moon refracting particles of November frost into infinitesimal points of light. Joseph Bonafaccio collapsed onto the massive leather couch, worn by the monotonous drive but anticipating the Manhattan night ahead. First Sardi’s, then the Stork Club, then, well, the evening would take its own shape. It always did.
    But first, a shower and a cigar, a Don Salazario.
    Â 
    Still wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe, Joseph toweled his hair and crossed to the couch, humming. Dominick Romelli stepped from the walk-in humidor and closed the glass door etched with a lazy, gracefully curved palm tree.
    â€œI found them, Joseph. You were right. There was one box left here. Presidentes. The other three boxes from the warehouse went to Hyannisport for the president.”
    Joseph beamed. Discovering a lost vintage cigar was like a personal rebirth.

    Carefully, he pried open the box. Then he lifted the lid and absorbed the rich fragrance that had waited inside for at least ten years.
    â€œAhhhhh! Dominick, take in some of that,” he said, offering up the opened box. “Better than—well, lots of things.” Joseph still struggled with vulgarity in front of the man who had virtually raised him.
    He pulled the ribbon that released the first cigar. Then he teased out another, for Romelli.
    Joseph lapsed into silence, letting the luscious smoke spread around them. Havana seemed so close again. Those slow, wonderful days; the long, tropical nights …
    Romelli followed his lead and the two smoked in silence, the twinkling lights below as jewels masking the city’s darker secrets. Finally, Romelli spoke.
    â€œJoseph, you’ve had something on your mind, right? I’ve noticed, this past month, something’s eating at you. What’s up?”
    A long hush of smoke escaped Joseph’s mouth. He rose and walked to the picture window framing Central Park. He leaned his forehead against the glass, his hands clasped behind him. The Don Salazario rested between the thumb and cupped fingers of his right hand.
    â€œDominick, you don’t miss much,” he said, looking out over the park. Then he turned and faced the man his father had trusted to shield him from the past.
    â€œIt started before Kennedy was killed, but since then it’s become ten times worse.