“You can’t smoke that cigar in here, Pat.”

“This is the Scranton Coal Hole, Mike. We can do whatever we want in our Irish neighborhood bar.”

“Except hang a picture of Joe Biden on the wall because we hate Joe Biden.”

“That’s why there’s already a picture of Joe Biden in the urinal.”

Pat takes a drag off his cigar.

“I’m expressing solidarity with Trump’s threat to take over Cuba.”

“That cigar looks like one of those Phillies blunts those Black rappers use to smoke marijuana,” says Mike.

“What’s a blunt, Mike? And what do you know about rappers?”

“A blunt’s a cigar wrapper filled with marijuana instead of tobacco. My grandson Kevin got arrested, and in the magistrate’s hearing the police sergeant said Kevin was smoking a blunt in his car and disturbing the peace listening to rappers at full volume on the radio when the cops pulled up at the red light.”

“Jesus, Mike, those inner city gangsters got him hooked and now he’s a drug addict?”

“Kevin’s off the drugs now, thank God, and just drinking each day after work like everybody else.”

Pat inhales and blows smoke in the air.

“We’ll get all the good cigars we want when Trump takes over Cuba.”

“Good gambling, too.” Mike says.

“We can go down there on a Triple A tour like we went to Vegas with the Notre Dame Club,” says Pat.

Mike gets reflective.

“Remember when Russell Bufalino and the mafia ran all the casinos in Cuba before that commie Fidel Castro stole their businesses in his revolution?”

“Who did he think he was, anyway, Mike, stealing private businesses away from Mr. Bufalino and his family?”

“Except for being Italian, the mafia wasn’t all that bad, Pat. They were Catholics, kept the girls working in dress factories and the prostitution out of Northeastern Pennsylvania.”

Pat lowers his voice.

“I bet those Cuban hookers are beautiful. I can see us now, Mike, playing Blackjack in the casino, smoking fat Havana cigars with them caramel-colored chicks hanging all over us.”

“Knock it off, Pat, or you’ll have to confess your sins to the priest twice this week.”

“Capitalism’s the American Way, Mike.”

Pat blows a smoke ring in Mike’s face.

“Our way,” Pat says. “The way it’s supposed to be.”

Mike perks up.

“Like that Frank Sinatra song, right?”

“Close,” says Pat. “But no cigar.”