Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“There aren’t any good words for something like that,” said Joan. “Elegy, lament, dirge…they’re nothing but blackness without a hint of the life that ought to be celebrated in memorial.”

“What about ‘threnody?'” said Austin.

“Not familiar with that one,” Joan said. “What is it?”

“A song or poem composed as a memorial. It’s the same idea as a dirge or an ode, but with emphasis not on the sadness but the memory. A subtle distinction, perhaps, but crucial.”

“Threnody…” Joan murmured, as if turning the word over in her mouth to get its taste. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you might,” Austin said. He passed a sheaf of music to Joan. “Here. A threnody for Olivia.”

“Here,” the clerk said, shoving the logbook at Travis. “There’s his name and info.”

Travis ran his finger along the entry. “Hirosaki Nagashima.”

“Like I told you,” said the clerk. “Asian guy. Sounds Japanese, I think.”

“And you didn’t see anything unusual about that name,” Travis sighed.

“Other than the fact that it’s Japanese?”

Travis slammed the book. “Other than the fact that our saboteur signed in with a name that’s a spoonerism of ‘Hiroshima Nagasaki?’ He was counting on having a dumb-ass American behind the counter, and by the sound of it you were lucky to finish fourth grade!”

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.”