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.
T had no idea Tyvola had so many friends,” the brother marveled, waving back.
wy “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.
Vy That’s what you think, thought Chad Tiny, director of the Tiny 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. Tiny’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.
Tiny had driven in more funeral processions than he could remember.
He was a formidable businessman who hadn’t gotten his fine suits and rings by being a pushover. He not only didn’t let that little piece of lawbreaking banged-up blue Dodge
shit through, but Tiny got on his two-way radio. He raised his lead car on the air.
“Flip,” he said to his number-two man in the company.
“Coming at ya, boss.”
“Put the brakes on up there,” Tiny told him.
“You sure?”
“Always am,” said Tiny.
This stopped the entire line of black cars with lights burning. The Dart could not get
across the Boulevard now, and Song was momentarily confused. He stopped,
too, long enough for a cop to yank open his door and get the crabby old man out of the
car.
“Flip,” Tiny was back on the air.
“Move along.” He chuckled.
W Hammer was not amused as she applied lipstick after lunch and listened to her two
female deputy chiefs bickering like rival siblings.
“I’m in charge of patrol,” Goode announced inside the Carpe Diem, as if the restaurant’s name applied to her.
“And he’s not riding with us.
God only knows what will end up in the newspaper. You’re so hot on him, let him ride
with your people. ”
Hammer got out her compact and glanced at her watch.
“Investigations doesn’t have ride-alongs. Ever,” West replied.
“It’s against department policy and always has been.”
“And what you’re proposing isn’t?” Goode demanded.
“Ride-alongs, volunteers, have been riding with patrol for as long as I’ve been here,”
West reminded her in a strained voice.
Hammer got out her wallet, and studied the bill. Tm wondering if there’s some personal agenda here,” Goode went on.
West knew exactly what the bitch was implying. It had been duly noted around the
department that Andy Brazil was rather good to look at, and West had never been famous
for dating. The current theory circulating was that she had found a boy toy because she
couldn’t get a man. Long ago, she had learned to ignore such gossip.
“The bigger issue,” Goode was saying, ‘is that volunteers don’t routinely ride with a