“About seventy-five hundred worth.”

     Collins clicked his tongue and Gilsa gave a little sneer that said, This is what happens in a world where life insurance is sold like tulip bulbs and any little brown man can finagle a Gold Card.

     “Did I mention the Turbo LeBaron?” I said. “They had a rebate offer, remember? Two thousand back on selected models. Lito selected one for himself a few months ago, he used a thousand for the down payment and put a thousand in the bank. Chrysler Credit never heard from him again. Probably sold it to a chop artist.”

     “Or put it on a boat for Manila,” Collins said. “It'd go for big money over there, and nobody asks for a title.”

     “They like Detroit iron?”

     “Eat it up like ice cream. That's one place where Made in the U.S.A. still carries weight.”

     “They'll learn,” I said.

     Gilsa had the paper file open now, studying the death certificate. Elaborate engraving, seal stamped on gold foil, it looked like a relic of a distant age. Behind him San Francisco Bay yawned from Sausalito to the Coliseum.

     “A fair piece of work,” he said, and he passed the certificate over to Collins, who gave it a long glance and said, “I've seen worse, I've seen better.”

     In the business it's called a Nigerian Death Kit, though that's not really fair. Lagos, Nigeria, is just one place in the world where you can buy good forged evidence of your own demise. Manila is another.

     This is the scam. You're a Third World immigrant to the U.S.; you take out a life policy with an American insurance company. Sometime later you go home for a visit, buy a Death Kit, and send it to your stateside beneficiary, who uses it as the basis for a claim. If you keep it small, and if you're patient enough to season the policy for a few years before you try it, probably nobody will notice. Even if a computer does kick out the case for investigation, you and the truth are ensconced in the heart