Uncle Alfredo slides in a bottle of special-edition Smugglers Club whiskey, and, next to me, Uncle Alberto takes the Rolex off his wrist and tosses it in. “I won it off the old bastard years ago. Your old man was never good at poker.” He cranes his neck to look at Rafe. “I don’t know where you got your talent from, kid.” It’s my turn. I don’t sink to my knees like I did with my mama; instead, I lean over the coffin, his black rosary in my hand. The beaded chain is wrapped around my wrist twice, the cross swaying in the wind like a pendulum. He never took it off. Until I took it off for him. I
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