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like the losers of a
particularly sadistic tug-of-war.
    Safe at last, the mud-covered widow began to shriek,
piercing the air with remarkably synchopatic screams until Rebecca
Rosenbloom rose regally from her chair, marched ceremoniously over,
and slapped her full across the face. Stunned, Sabrina Rosenbloom
shut her mouth and stepped behind the rabbi for protection. He was
too busy digging mud out of his eyes to be of any help to anyone,
but if the old lady swung again, at least he'd go down first.
    This provided fresh fodder for the gossips trying to
make themselves and their theories heard. Auntie Lil was in danger
of pulling a neck muscle from overzealous eavesdropping. She hardly
knew where to turn next. T.S. could not separate the voices well
enough to glean any useful information. He used the time to look
around instead. Twenty yards away, leaning against the widow's
limousine, stood the young woman T.S. had seen on the way in. Her
wrinkled raincoat had fallen open, revealing her tight black sheath
and the incongruous high-top tennis shoes. Who was she anyway? Was
she simply an interested onlooker? One of those kooks who enjoyed
attending funerals? If so, she had hit pay dirt with this one.
    T.S. contemplated several other theories about her
identity until his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a
swarm of police cars. Their lights flashed through the fog of the
graveyard and sent eerie red-and-blue shadows flickering across the
gravestones. It looked like the set for a Michael Jackson music
video. All it lacked were dancing zombies.
    Police officers were suddenly as abundant as mourners
and a rigid processing system was established within minutes. A
pair of men dressed in orange rubber overalls shimmied down ropes
into the grave. They carried a black bag and a lumpy knapsack
between them. One had a camera slung over his shoulder. Other
officers began quickly taking down names and addresses. There was
no shortage of volunteers to describe what had happened. After
Auntie Lil had been pointed out by a dozen or so onlookers as the
person who had discovered the body, she began to take on the air of
a beauty pageant winner. She stood at the edge of the AstroTurf,
modestly accepting congratulations with queenly aplomb. The only
break in her orgy of egoism came when a detective pulled her aside
for questioning.
    T.S. gave his own statement and, deciding that enough
was enough, claimed Auntie Lil and began to firmly escort her back
to the car. She became petulant at having to leave the scene. It
was the most excitement she'd had in months.
    “You aren't going to get any more information right
now,” T.S. pointed out sensibly. “The place is a zoo and it's
starting to rain even harder. It's time to go.”
    She reluctantly complied. On the way back to the car,
they heard the rumor repeated several times: Davy had been shot in
the head. No one mentioned Max. In all the excitement, the man had
been completely forgotten. He'd probably be buried later, once the
lifting mechanism was fixed.
    A small line of cars had gathered at the cemetery
exit, where the mud-covered rabbi inexplicably stood guard. As each
car pulled up to the gate he tapped on the window and leaned
inside, mumbling something to the occupants.
    “Surely he's not soliciting gratuities,” Auntie Lil
said.
    “Why not? He's going to have a hell of a dry-cleaning
bill,” T.S. said. Suddenly the rabbi's muddy face loomed against
the car window in frightening detail. T.S. rolled it down hurriedly
before the rabbi smudged the pristine glass.
    “I have been asked by the family to inform you that
the mourning will take place at the family home as scheduled,” the
rabbi said mechanically. He noticed Auntie Lil and his mud-rimmed
eyes widened in anger. “You tried to hit me with a shovel!” he
said.
    T.S. thanked him profusely for the information on the
reception and pulled away before Auntie Lil could answer.
    “Hmmph.” Auntie Lil sniffed unapologetically