The beam from Murray’s flashlight made the marble letters stand out in sharp relief.

“Here lies Constanzo ‘Stan’ Firelli,” he read. “No gangster was more bold. Died of unnatural causes – a heart attack.”

“That’s the one,” said Lucy. She handed Murray a crowbar.

“Y-you sure about this?” said Murray. “I’m not about being chased by any old vengeful ghost, but a vengeful mobster ghost?”

“If Sam Mendoza was right, it’s empty. If Firelli’s gonna haunt your ass for opening an empty sarcophagus, he’ll probably haunt you for just about any old thing. And gold dollars don’t haunt.”

“Gold dollars don’t haunt,” Murray repeated to himself, almost as a maxim, as he leaned into the prybar. “Gold dollars don’t haunt.”