cars going back an entire block.
I climb out of the hearse and head back to the first car in the funeral procession to inform them of their mistake. But before I can get to them, an unmarked sedan pulls up with Hurley at the helm. And right behind him is our office van with Izzy in the passenger seat and Arnie driving. They stop in the middle of the street since there’s nowhere else to park, and Hurley gets out of his car in a huff, looking annoyed.
“What the hell are all these lookie-loos doing here?” he asks me, shooting an angry look at the cops on the porch. “Don’t those uniforms know their job?” He starts toward the clueless cops looking like he wants to rip them both a new one, so I stop him by grabbing his arm.
“Hurley, hold up a sec. These people aren’t lookie-loos. They followed me here and those cops had no idea they were coming.”
“They followed you?” he repeats. “What, you have a fan club now?”
“No, it’s this stupid car,” I say, gesturing to the menace behind me. “I drove into the middle of a funeral procession and it confused some of the drivers. They followed me instead of sticking with the rest of the motorcade.”
Hurley looks from me to the cars and back to me again. Izzy, who has rolled down the window in his van and overheard our conversation, is trying vainly to suppress a smirk. Several of the drivers in the funeral procession have rolled down their windows as well, including the car directly behind me.
Hurley says, “They think this is a funeral?”
“My thoughts exactly,” the guy in the car behind me snaps. “What kind of Mickey Mouse operation is this, anyway? Are we burying Charlie in somebody’s backyard?”
“Who the hell is Charlie?” Hurley asks, sotto voce.
“I’m guessing he would be the deceased,” I surmise. I make a sweeping gesture toward all the parked cars. “And they all think he’s in the back of my hearse.”
Funeral Guy hears this and says, “You mean he’s not in there? What the hell did you do with him?” He gets out of his car, walks up to the back of mine and peers through the window, then turns and storms toward us, making me back up a few steps. Judging from his physique, I’m pretty sure Funeral Guy is a weightlifter on steroids. His thigh muscles are so big he walks like he just came in from a month of riding herd on his cattle. His arms are slightly extended because he can’t put them down at his sides and his biceps look like they are about to burst out of the sleeves of his suit. He’s almost as tall as Hurley, and judging from the way his fists keep opening and closing, I’m guessing his patience will burn out quicker than a magician’s flash paper.
“Sir, you need to calm down,” Hurley says, planting a hand on the man’s chest to stop his approach. “There’s been some confusion here.”
Funeral Guy’s face is the color of a ripe plum and I’m guessing his blood pressure is rising faster than a retiree on Viagra. “Damned right,” he grumbles. “Where’s the casket? Where the hell is Charlie’s body?”
“You followed the wrong car,” Hurley tries to explain calmly. “There isn’t any body here.”
“Well, technically there is,” I toss out, earning an exasperated glance from Hurley. “Just not the one you think.”
Funeral Guy looks momentarily confused, then the one brain cell that wasn’t killed off by the steroids finally fires. “What the fuck!” he yells, his voice resonating like thunder. “You assholes put the wrong body in Charlie’s casket?”
“No, sir,” I say quickly, trying to ameliorate the misunderstanding. “That’s not what I meant at all. There is no casket. The body I’m talking about is in that house over there. The body you want is—”
“You dumped Charlie in a house? You sonofabitchingcocksuckingbastards!”
Before I can so much as blink, Funeral Guy rears back and plants his fist in Hurley’s cheek with a sickening, bone-crunching
I backpedal quickly, stealing a glance at the cop and EMTs heading my way. I can tell they aren’t going to make it in time, and judging from the crazed look on Funeral Guy’s face, the time for calm persuasion came and went some time ago. I turn, grab the handle to my car door, and pull it open. I dive across the seat and quickly turn to try to grab the door to close it, but Funeral Guy is too quick for me. He catches the top of the door in one of his meaty hands and yanks it wide open. Realizing that the idiot could kill me, I look around frantically for something I can use to forestall him until the cop gets to me. As Funeral Guy grabs hold of my leg and starts to pull me from the car, I let out a bloodcurdling scream, kick him with my free foot, and then fire off the only weapon I can find.
“Arrgghhh!” Funeral Guy screams, releases my leg, and clamps his hands over his eyes. “What the fuck!” He backpedals away from my car and straight into the arms of a uniformed police officer. “My eyes! My eyes!”
Hurley gets up from the ground, massaging his jaw, and makes his way over to me. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“I didn’t know you carried pepper spray.”
“I don’t. It’s flea and tick repellant.”
Hurley starts to smile but it fades to a grimace as he massages his jaw again. “I’d say he’s been successfully repelled,” he says. “Serves the bastard right.”
Chapter 42
A second patrol car arrives and Funeral Guy is cuffed and hauled off to jail. It takes me a good ten minutes to explain to the other funeral attendees what has happened and to direct them back through the streets to the cemetery. Some of them are angered by the snafu, one guy is amused, and the others simply look embarrassed.
As soon as Funeral Guy is safely away, Izzy and Arnie get out of the office van and follow Hurley into the house with the corpse.
By the time I join them, Izzy is on the phone and Hurley and Arnie are standing in the living room staring at the dead man, who is sitting in a recliner. The man’s face is pasty white and his hands, which are hanging at his sides, are swollen and purple with lividity, as are his feet. He looks peaceful, though very dead, and I’m guessing he’s been this way for several hours.
“Who is Izzy talking to?” I ask Hurley.
“His physician,” he answers, nodding toward the corpse. “A neighbor told one of the cops that the old guy was a ticking time bomb and it was simply a matter of time before he cashed in his chips.”
“Who found him?”
“The same neighbor. Apparently he and Dead Guy have breakfast together every day. When Dead Guy didn’t show, the neighbor came in to check on him and found him like this.”
Izzy hangs up his phone and turns to address the rest of us. “In addition to diabetes, he had an extensive cardiac history that included three myocardial infarctions, CHF, and an ejection fraction of fifteen percent.”
“In layman’s terms?” Hurley says, wincing and massaging his jaw.
“Basically he’s been a dead man walking for several months. Judging from what we know and what we can see here, I think it’s safe to say this was a natural death.”
“Okay, then,” Hurley says, wincing again. “We’re out of here.”
“You need to get that looked at,” I tell Hurley, watching him rub the now faintly discolored area on his jaw.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles. “The guy just caught me off guard.”
Realizing Hurley’s male pride has been damaged, I say, “Yeah, who knew he was going to go nuts like that?”
Hurley eyes me warily, and I suspect he’s trying to determine if I’m busting on him or serious.
“I think he had ’roid rage,” I continue. “That kind of physique isn’t found in nature. It had to have come from steroid abuse. And the strength it can give people is frightening.” I reach up and gently palpate along Hurley’s
