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'How did you know him?' A nod toward the urn.
'We worked together,' Pulaski said.
Blinks from everybody.
'A few years ago.'
A frown from one of the younger men. Right out of The Sopranos. 'You worked together?'
'That's right.'
'Closely?'
Be tough. 'Yeah. Pretty close.' His gaze said, What's it to you?
Pulaski recalled everything he could about the crimes that the Watchmaker had run. His plan wasn't to claim outright that he'd been a partner but to suggest that he'd had some mysterious dealings - to whet the appetite of anyone who might want to get a piece of the Watchmaker's ongoing projects after his death.
Containers, shipments, insider trading ...
Less is more, more is less.
People fell silent. Pulaski realized that classical music was streaming from invisible speakers. He hadn't heard it earlier.
To get the conversation going Pulaski said, 'So sad.'
'A blessing, though,' one woman offered.
Blessing, Pulaski reflected. He supposed that, yes, rather than spend most of your life in prison, a fast
, relatively painless death was a blessing.
Pulaski continued, 'A couple years ago, we were working, he seemed healthy.' He could actually picture Logan from that time. He had seemed healthy.
Those present exchanged glances once more.
'And so young,' the undercover cop added.
Something was wrong. But the oldest one of the mourners leaned close and touched Pulaski's arm. A smile. 'To me, yes, he was young.'
The visitors eased away. One, he noticed, had left the room.
To get his gun?
This isn't going well. He turned back to the older man but before he could speak another voice intruded. Soft but firm. 'Excuse me, sir.'
Pulaski turned to find a large man, in a dark suit, looking him over closely. He had silver hair and dark-framed glasses. 'Could I speak to you for a moment?'
'Me?'
'You.'
The man extended his hand - a very large, calloused hand - but not to shake. He pointed and directed Pulaski out of the room and up the hallway to the left.
'Sir,' the man said, 'you are?'
'Stan Walesa.' He had a cheap ID that he'd hacked together himself.
But the man didn't ask for any identification. His eyes boring into Pulaski's, he rasped, 'Mr Walesa. You know some people occasionally come to services in hopes of getting something.'
