The lights were off in most of the building when Nicky Scalise’s black Cadillac pulled up in front of Klay Funeral Home a few weeks later. Klay had his shoes off and had been shuffling over the carpeting, building up static energy through his socks, touching his fingertip to lamps and doorknobs and casket lids, seeing which gave off the best shock. He was testing the front door latch when Scalise’s car arrived out front. He paused and watched. A man got out of the front seat and stood beside the car with his hands folded in front of him. Then the driver got out—it was the big man with the shaved head from the boardwalk. He circled the car and opened the back door.

Scalise stepped out onto the sidewalk. He looked in both directions as if checking for traffic; then he adjusted his cuffs and started up the funeral home steps.

“Who is it, Tom?” his father called from behind him.

Everybody in the neighborhood knew Little Nicky.

Klay heard his father’s footsteps increase—no doubt he had seen Scalise’s car out front. “I’ll get it, son,” his father said, just behind him now.

But Klay didn’t wait. He opened the door and let the boss of the Philadelphia–Atlantic City crime family into his family’s home. Klay’s first thought was that he had never seen such a tiny adult. Scalise removed his hat. He had silver hair combed straight back, the most perfectly cut hair Klay had ever seen. He wore a shiny silver suit with pointy lapels that fit him so perfectly it looked like the skin of an eel. He wore a white shirt, silver-gray tie, and dark sunglasses.

“Nice boy,” Scalise said, rumpling Klay’s hair.

“Good morning, Nick,” his father said, placing a hand gently on Klay’s shoulder. Scalise crossed their crimson carpet and disappeared into Jack Klay’s office.

“Go see what your mother needs,” his father said. Then he turned and walked into his office and closed the door.

Klay wanted to watch through the door’s keyhole the way he often did, but Scalise’s men stood beside it. So he opened a box of prayer cards and began inserting them in the slits in the oak holder. He rearranged flower baskets in the chapel, pulled flower sprays off one rack and stuck them onto another. He wiped the casket down with a chamois cloth. An hour passed. He repositioned more flower sprays. He spilled a box of prayer cards and knelt down to pick them up. He tacked photographs of people who weren’t related to the body in the chapel onto the memory board.

Finally, his father’s door opened and Scalise emerged.

“I’m sorry, Nick,” his father said.