Charlie Haughey has gone to his eternal reward - forever green fields of successful strokes and celestial cash, where overdrafts don't exist and God never asks a hard question.
But not before C J extracts full value from the send-off. He always knew how to put on a good show, and his final gig, running over two days, is going to be a big one. Not to be macabre about it, but the open casket will prove a major draw.
Charlie, who was an expert in getting out the punters, planned his own funeral arrangements. A good turnout would have been foremost in his mind. Maybe not quite of Lenin and Red Square proportions, but you get the idea. The pope's recent obsequies would have supplied a few pointers too.
As a result, the squire's last journey should be a great occasion.
Take 81-one-year old Mamie Flanagan from Clanmaurice Road, just around the corner from Donnycarney Church.
"I met Charlie years ago when he was canvassing. I told him we were born in the same year. 'Oh, that was a very good year for babies,' sez he to me. He may have been a rogue, but he was a lovely man. Full of kindness and generosity to the people who weren't working. He did a lot for the community. Oh yes, he had a lot of nature.
"I'll be back here tomorrow to see him in the flesh."
Books of condolence were opened in a number of venues around Dublin city yesterday, and in many urban centres throughout the country. The age profile of people who came to record their sympathy was overwhelmingly elderly.
The last time the public turned out in large numbers to sign books of condolence was when Georgie Best died. Back in December, the average visitor to FAI headquarters was around 40, and nostalgic.
Today, for Charlie, the majority of visitors are above the 60 mark, and grateful. Marino widow Frances Mahon is delighted Mr Haughey "didn't forget his roots" and is returning to Donnycarney for his funeral. But she is even more delighted that he got pensioners the free travel.
"The people of Ireland wouldn't have seen the half of it if they didn't have the free travel," she said sagely. "I got the bus up here."
The proverbial steady stream trickled into the church, while in the city centre its tributaries seeped slowly into the Mansion House, Government Buildings, City Hall and Fianna Fáil headquarters.
In the Fianna Fáil HQ, a large portrait of Charlie addressing the Dáil was placed behind the table where the book of condolence and a vase of lilies rested. The painting looked over at a big portrait of Eamon de Valera. However, while Dev hangs permanently in the reception area, Charles J is there on a temporary pass. Back to Donnycarney and the sight of painters feverishly sprucing up the front of the church.
As it turns out, the paint job on the church, and the priests' houses in the parish, began last autumn.
"We heard seven weeks ago that Charlie took a turn, and put on a bit of a spurt. Then they said he was better, so we went back to doing one of the houses.
"When Fr Madden rang yesterday to say he was dead, I had to ring my three sons to help finish the job.
"We'll do it though, if we have to stay until nine," said painter Joe Murray.
Inside, as the floral displays were put in place and the studio lights were hoisted towards the ceiling, Clare Keely from Clontarf and Diana Deering from Rossbeigh in Kerry signed the book.
Both women worked as Dáil secretaries, and both agreed Mr Haughey was "nothing but a gentleman".
Ms Keely recalled his "high regard for women", while Ms Deering remembered meeting him in Galway's Moran's on the Weir restaurant.
"Trust a Dublin woman to go for fish and chips," he laughed. And what did Mr Haughey have? "Oh, oysters on the half shell."
No oysters for Mamie Flanagan and the Donnycarney Old Folks Club when they were invited to Abbeville. "Charlie put a bus on for us all, and we were shown around the house. It was magnificent inside, and then there were deers and the special lake with the special swans. We were offered tea and coffee, anything we wanted."
She's proud the former taoiseach chose to be buried from the place of his childhood. "His mother was very attached to this church. She used to tidy the candlesticks and everything."
Then she leaned in, and with a conspiratorial whisper, she revealed: "He wasn't born in Dublin. Mayo . . . But we'll say nothing. He was one of our own."