Death Of A Dream Maker Read Online Free PDF

peeked from
beneath her raincoat.
    “She's wearing sequins,” Auntie Lil whispered grimly. “To a funeral.”
    The sequins were tacky, but they did match her
glittering black pumps. They also set off her synthetic complexion
nicely. Her face had a curiously flat quality to the skin—it
gleamed dully, like rubber that had been stretched too thin. Her
hair was an unlikely brown and generously streaked with blond. It
twirled in a long continuous tube that met at the apex of her crown
in a swirl like the top of a meringue.
    “That's a wig,” T.S. remarked, ashamed at his
pettiness but unable to help it.
    “I'm afraid not,” Auntie Lil answered tersely.
    “Where's her husband?” T.S. asked quietly. “One would
think he'd attend his own brother's funeral.”
    “I don't know,” Auntie Lil admitted.
    At the other end of the semicircle stood an empty
chair. Every few minutes, one family member or another would glance
at it.
    “Davy hasn't shown yet,” a voice behind T.S.
muttered.
    “Are you surprised?” another voice answered back.
    The service was momentarily delayed while workmen
rearranged the heavy lifting machinery that held the coffin. The
mechanism was carefully pulled back from the edge of the grave,
lest it trigger a landslide of wet red clay. Unfortunately, this
adjustment encouraged comparisons to a diving board, with the grave
as the swimming pool. Once the adjustment had been accomplished,
there was a short, whispered conference between the rabbi and the
workmen that ended with a helpless shrug of shoulders all
around.
    “They better hurry before we all fall in,” T.S.
muttered.
    As if on cue, the rabbi turned to the crowd, raised
his arms, and began to speak.
    A few seconds later, T.S. tuned him out. It was
obvious, even to a stranger, that the man had not known Max
Rosenbloom at all. For one thing, the rabbi began by saying,
'Though I did not know him personally, I understand that...” T.S.
found this most distasteful. Secondly, the bored looks that
descended on the faces of most of the family members belied the
inappropriateness of the rabbi's words. Of course, T.S. thought as
he surveyed their hard-set faces, these people were unlikely to
perk up at all— until the will was read. He had never taken such an
instant dislike to such a large group of strangers, at least not
since the year he had stumbled into a convention of real-estate
developers while vacationing in Miami.
    A sharp poke from Auntie Lil brought him back to
reality. “Go on,” she hissed.
    “Go on what?” he asked, bewildered.
    “You're supposed to put a rose on the coffin and
shovel a clump of dirt into the grave.”
    “I'm supposed to what?” T.S. looked up and saw
the other mourners watching expectantly.
    The rabbi cleared his throat and repeated himself,
nearly shouting in T.S.'s face. “Those of you who wish to may now
step forward and show your respect.”
    T.S. had been to many funerals before, most often as
a representative of his former employer. But he had always hung
back respectfully on the fringes of the crowd and, he now realized,
had not paid sufficient attention to what was going on in the
front. As the nearest non-family member to the coffin, it was up to
him to begin the ritual.
    “Oh, for heaven's sakes, I'll go first.” Auntie Lil
elbowed her way past him, using her huge black pocketbook as a
shield. As she passed in front of the seated family, her eyes met
those of Rebecca Rosenbloom. Rebecca's hooded eye quivered
violently, then blinked. There was no other sign of
recognition.
    Auntie Lil took a rose from a large mound at the foot
of the grave, then stood a few feet from its opening. She stared
down at the mud dubiously. The rabbi cleared his throat loudly and
glanced at a nearby workman, who did not take the hint. T.S. did.
He hurried forward and gripped Auntie Lil's elbow. God forbid she
should fall in.
    Still Auntie Lil did not move. She locked eyes with
the rabbi. “Aren't you going to lower him