“Yes.”
I powered up the Buick and rumbled out of the lot. I could see Morelli keeping a respectable distance behind me. Half a block from Stiva's I caught sight of the flashing lights of a motorcycle escort. Great. A funeral. I pulled to the side and watched the hearse roll by, followed by the flower car, followed by the limo with the immediate family. I glanced in the limo window and recognized Mrs. Mayer.
I checked my rearview mirror and saw Morelli parked directly behind me, shaking his head as if to say don't even think about it.
I punched his number into my phone. “They're burying George without his finger!”
“Trust me. George doesn't care about his finger. You can give it back to me. I'll save it for evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Tampering with a dead body.”
“I don't believe you. You'll probably toss it into a Dumpster.”
“Actually, I was thinking of putting it in Goldstein's locker.”
The cemetery was a mile and a half from Stiva's. There were maybe seven or eight cars in front of me, crawling along in the somber procession. Outside, the air was mid-thirties and the sky was a wintery blue, and it felt more like I was in traffic to go to a football game than a funeral. We pulled through the cemetery gates and wound our way to the middle of the cemetery where the grave had been prepared and chairs set up. By the time I parked, Spiro had the widow Mayer already seated.
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 along 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?”