While Kevin Farley worked the cash register, Billy Mays sold one Wash-matik after another at the Pittsburgh Home Show until Mr. Farley no longer could believe his eyes or his ears.

Billy Mays never seemed to take a breath. He was tireless in his sales pitch, hour after grueling hour, without ever losing his bold voice or letting his charisma ebb.

"How'd he keep doing it, pitch after pitch after pitch?" said Mr. Farley, a 52-year-old McKees Rocks man and close friend of Mr. Mays. "I asked him how he did it, and he'd say, 'The more I pitch, the more money I make.'"

The high-energy McKees Rocks native who learned his craft on the Atlantic City boardwalk before taking it nationwide and eventually to television could lay claim as America's premier salesman, as his cable show, "Pitchman," on the Discovery Channel helped to confirm.

His sudden death on Sunday silenced a voice full of Pittsburghese that projected such warmth and genial determination that he seemed able to sell ice to Alaskans.

"He would say, 'I don't shout, I project,' " said his cousin, Dean Panizzi.

Hillsborough County Medical Examiner in Tampa, Fla., said Mr. Mays suffered from hypertensive heart disease, with the wall of the left ventricle of Mr. Mays' heart and the wall of one of his arteries enlarged.

But further tests are needed to be sure of the cause of death, said Medical Examiner Vernard Adams. The official cause of death will be issued after toxicology and other tests are completed in eight to 10 weeks.

Mr. Mays' funeral will be held in his hometown of McKees Rocks.

Visitation will be held from 1 to 8 p.m. Thursday at the Anthony M. Musmanno Funeral Home, 700 Seventh St., Stowe. His funeral Mass will be celebrated at 9:30 a.m. Friday in St. Mary Church, Church Avenue, McKees Rocks. Burial will be private.

"While it provides some closure to learn that heart disease took Billy from us, it certainly doesn't ease the enormous void that his death has created in our lives," his wife, Deborah, said in a statement. "As you can imagine, we are all devastated."

The medical examiner said Mr. Mays was taking prescription drugs Tramadol and hydrocodone for hip pain, but there was no indication of drug abuse. Mr. Mays had planned to have hip-replacement surgery yesterday.

He had told his wife he did not feel well when he went to bed sometime after 10 p.m. Saturday. Earlier in the day, he said he was hit on the head when his flight from Philadelphia had a rough landing after blowing its front tires at Tampa International Airport, but the airline said no passengers reported serious injuries. The autopsy revealed no evidence of head trauma, Dr. Adams said.

The boisterous 50-year-old with a trademark, closely cropped black beard was found dead Sunday by his wife in their Tampa condominium.

In a 911 tape released yesterday, a frantic woman tells emergency operators she found Mr. Mays cold and unresponsive.

"The heart disease is perfectly consistent with sudden death," Dr. Adams said.

Devastation also is the term those close to Mr. Mays used in describing the impact of his untimely death.

"He brought a lot of joy and helped a lot of people," Mr. Farley said. "That's why this is so horrible. "We're walking around like zombies."

Mr. Farley said he and Mr. Mays became friends in the seventh grade, when Mr. Mays' wit, energy and ability to "ham it up" already were apparent.

Longing to become a star athlete, the ever-competitive Mr. Mays would rise early in the morning to run around the streets of McKees Rocks in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt, a white towel around his neck -- a homegrown Rocky Balboa. He would then climb the steps leading up to Sto-Rox Middle School where he'd raise his arms in triumph.

"He created this image in his mind," said David Presutti, a good friend of 40 years. "He was going to be the Jack Lambert of this town, of this school. There was no stopping him."

He became the most valuable player as a linebacker on the Sto-Rox High School football team.

In high school, he was an attention-seeker. In the cafeteria, his classmates would clap and cheer for his bizarre if not disgusting lunch combinations, each one weirder than the last.

He and his friends went to dance clubs and concerts. Mr. Mays' favorite was rocker Tom Petty. His favorite dance?

"When 'Kung Fu Fighting' would come on, he'd kick his clogs off in the air and hit the dance floor," said Mr. Panizzi.

"He loved to get the attention, just like on air," Mr. Panizzi said. "He was boisterous. It was in a great way."

After high school, he enrolled at West Virginia University, but college didn't work out, so he returned home before heading to Atlantic City, where he learned his craft as a pitchman from old-timers on the boardwalk.

There, he earned the nickname "Bucket Billy" while selling what became known as the Wash-matik: a plastic bucket with a 7-foot hose, which Mr. Mays would say was perfect for apartment-dwellers who needed to wash their cars but didn't have access to a garden hose.

It was also great for getting rid of nosey neighbors, he would add.

If a prospective buyer didn't bite, he'd pretend to keep an eye out for an imaginary boss, and with a conspiratorial tone, offer to sell two for the price of one.

"It was a down-to-earth, street-smart pitch," Mr. Presutti said.

His big break came at the Pittsburgh Home Show, when he lent a microphone to Max Appel, the creator of OrangeGlo.

"That guy became a bigwig, and Billy got his break," Mr. Farley said, noting that Mr. Appel eventually hired Mr. Mays to sell OrangeGlo and OxiClean on television commercials, which launched his TV career.

"He got his break because he did something good. He helped someone out. That's what Billy did. He was a tremendous humanitarian."

Rick Patterson, owner of Pop's Wholesale Seafood in San Antonio, Texas, described Mr. May's as an inspiration to all sales professionals.

"I've followed him over the years, and he had to overcome the stigma of pitchmen," Mr. Patterson said. "He's selling a product and you don't realize it. He's entertaining you, and the entire time he's putting the sale on you. But he's not selling the product; he's making you want to buy the product, and he's doing it in a respectful way.

"He's making you feel like you're missing something if you do not buy it."

After becoming a celebrity, though, he never forgot Pittsburgh or McKees Rocks, returning as many as six times a year to be with family and friends.

"He was a wonderful, wonderful person, and he loved this town," Mr. Farley said. "I loved him like family."

Which makes his death all the more difficult to handle.

"We're in a fog," a tearful Mr. Farley said. "This hit me like a sledgehammer."

The Associated Press contributed to this report.