I sidled up to Spiro and leaned close. “I have George’s finger.”

No response.

“George’s finger,” I repeated in my mommy-to-three-year-old voice. “The real one. The one he’s missing. I’ve got it in my pocketbook.”

“What the hell is George’s finger doing in your pocketbook?”

“It’s sort of a long story. What we have to do now is get George put back together again.”

“What, are you crazy? I’m not going to open that casket to give George his finger back! No one gives a shit about George’s finger.”

“I do!”

“Why don’t you do something useful like find my damn caskets? Why are you wasting your time finding things I don’t want? You don’t expect to get paid for finding the finger, do you?”

“Jesus, Spiro, you’re such a slime sucker.”

“Yeah, so what’s your point?”

“My point is that you better figure out how to get old George his finger, or I’m going to make a scene.”

Spiro didn’t look convinced.

“I’ll tell Grandma Mazur,” I added.

“Shit, don’t do that.”

“What about the finger?”

“We don’t drop the casket until everyone’s in the cars with motors running. We can pitch the finger in then. Will that work for you?”

“Pitch the finger?”

“I’m not opening the casket. You’re gonna have to settle for having it buried in the same hole.”

“I feel a scream coming on.”

“Christ.” He pressed his lips together, but his lips weren’t ever able to entirely close over his overbite. “All right. I’ll open the casket. Anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”

I moved away from Spiro to the edge of the gathering, where Morelli stood watching. “Everyone tells me I’m a pain in the ass.”

“Then it must be true,” Morelli said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Have any luck getting rid of the finger?”

“Spiro’s going to give it back to George after the ceremony, after the cars have cleared out.”

“Are you going to stay?”

“Yes. It’ll give me a chance to talk to Spiro.”

“I’m going to leave with the rest of the warm bodies. I’ll be in the area if you need me.”

I tilted my face to the sun and let my mind float through the short prayer. When the temperature dropped below fifty Stiva didn’t waste time at graveside. No widow in the burg ever wore sensible shoes to a funeral, and it was the funeral director’s responsibility to keep old feet warm. The entire service took less than ten minutes, not even enough time to turn Mrs. Mayer’s nose red. I watched the old folks beating their retreat over the blighted grass and hard ground. In a half-hour they’d all be at the Mayer house, eating pencil points and drinking highballs. And by one o’clock Mrs. Mayer would be alone, wondering what she was going to do rattling around in the family house all by herself for the rest of her life.

Car doors slammed closed and engines revved. The cars drove away.