“What?” Brazil asked, baffled. “How . . . ?”

But the patrol car sped off.

“Doesn’t matter who he relieves from traffic,” Goode was saying as she gave up on food in hopes it would give up on her. “I don’t want him. He’s a spy, CIA, KGB, whatever you want to call him.”

“Now how stupid is that?” West pushed her plate away. “For Chrissake.”

Hammer said nothing as she looked around the restaurant to see who else she recognized. The book columnist for the Observer and an editorial writer were eating lunch, but not together. Hammer trusted none of them. She had spent no time with Andy Brazil, but thought maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea. He sounded interesting.

When the hearses slowly appeared, they were gleaming black, with headlights burning. Brazil watched their formidable approach as he struggled to keep his side street blocked and continued to direct cars to turn away. The endless funeral procession crept past with precision and dignity, and hundreds of people waiting for Shriners and scooters drank sodas and watched and waved. This wasn’t exactly what they had expected when they’d headed out into the morning for a little free excitement, but they were here and would take whatever they could get.

Inside a black Lincoln Continental stretch limousine with white leather interior and a television and VCR, the bereft brother and the widow were dressed for Sunday and staring out tinted glass. They were impressed by all the spectators lining the street to pay last respects. A lot of them had brought snacks, drinks, kids, and small American flags. They were waving and cheering, which was the way it ought to be, a celebration, as one crosses over to the other side, into the loving arms of Jesus.

“I had no idea Tyvola had so many friends,” the brother marveled, waving back.

“And all these police came out.” The widow shyly waved, too.

Brazil blew his whistle and almost got run over by an old man in a Dodge Dart who didn’t seem to understand that a policeman holding out both palms was a hint that the driver might want to stop. The unbroken caravan of stretch limousines, town cars, hearses, all black with lights on, didn’t seem to send any direct message to Howie Song in his Dart. By now, Song was halfway out into the intersection with a line of cars bumper to bumper behind him. It was not possible he could back up unless everyone else did.

“Don’t you move!” Brazil warned the impatient old man, who had his radio turned up as high as it would go, playing a country western tune.

Brazil set three traffic cones in front of the Dart. They scattered like bowling pins the instant Brazil stepped back to direct other cars to back up. Song in his Dart helped himself to the Boulevard, certain the lumbering funeral cars would let him through so he could get to the hardware store.

That’s what you think, thought Chad Tilly, director of the Tilly Family Mortuary, which was famous for its air-conditioned building, plush slumber parlors, and quality caskets. His big ad on page 537 of the Yellow Pages was unfortunately positioned directly next to Fungus and Mold Control. Tilly’s secretary was forever telling people who called that although they had similar concerns in the funeral business, they could not help with basement moisture problems or sump pumps, for example.