The Cold Moon

company like Penn Energy hardly had a gift shop, like Disney World.

Chapter 12
    A heavyset woman walked into the small coffee shop. Black coat, short hair, jeans. That’s how she’d described herself. Amelia Sachs waved from a booth in the back.
    This was Gerte, the other bartender at the St. James. She was on her way to work and had agreed to meet Sachs before her shift.
    There was a no-smoking sign on the wall but the woman continued to strangle a live cigarette between her ruddy index and middle fingers. Nobody on the staff here said anything about it; professional courtesy in the restaurant world, Sachs guessed.
    The woman’s dark eyes narrowed as she read the detective’s ID.
    “Sonja said you had some questions. But she didn’t say what.” Her voice was low and rough.
    Sachs sensed that Sonja had probably told her everything. But the detective played along and gave the woman the relevant details—the ones that she could share, at least—and then showed her the picture of Ben Creeley. “He committed suicide.” No surprise in Gerte’s eyes. “And we’re looking into his death.”
    “I seen him, I guess, a couple, three times.” She looked at the menu blackboard. “I can eat for free at the St. James. But I’m going to miss dinner. Since I’m here. With you.”
    “How ’bout I buy you some food?”
    Gerte waved at the waitress and ordered.
    “You want anything?” the waitress asked Sachs.
    “You have herbal tea?”
    “If Lipton’s an herb, we got it.”
    “I’ll have that.”
    “Anything to eat?”
    “No, thanks.”
    Gerte looked at the detective’s slim figure and gave a cynical laugh. She then asked, “So that guy who killed himself—did he leave a family?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Tough. What’s his name?”
    A question that didn’t instill confidence that Gerte would be a source of good info. And, sure enough, it turned out that she really wasn’t any more helpful than Sonja. All she recalled was that she’d seen him in the bar about once a month for the past three months. She too had the impression that he’d been hanging out with the cops in their back room but wasn’t positive. “The place is pretty busy, you know.”
    Depends on how you define busy, Sachs reflected. “You know any of the officers there personally?”
    “From the precinct? Yeah, some of them.”
    As the beverages arrived, Gerte recited a few first names, some descriptions. She didn’t know anybody’s last name. “Most of ’em who come in’re okay. Some’re shits. But ain’t that the whole world? . . . About him.” A nod at Creeley’s picture. “I remember he didn’t laugh much. He was always looking around, over his shoulder, out the windows. Nervous like.” The woman poured cream and Equal into her coffee.
    “Sonja said he had an argument the last time he came in. Do you remember any other fights?”
    “Nope.” Sipping coffee loudly. “Not while I was there.”
    “You ever see him with any drugs?”
    “Nope.”
    Useless, Sachs was thinking. This seemed like a dead end.
    The bartender drew deeply on her cigarette and shot the smoke toward the ceiling. She squinted at Sachs and gave a meaningless smile with her bright red lips. “So why you so interested in this guy?”
    “Just routine.”
    Gerte gave a knowing look and finally said, “ Two guys come into the St. James and not long after that they’re both dead. And that’s routine, huh?”
    “Two?”
    “You didn’t know.”
    “No.”
    “Figured you didn’t. Otherwise you woulda said something up front.”
    “Tell me.”
    Gerte fell silent and looked off; Sachs wondered if the woman was spooked. But she was merely staring at the hamburger and fries coming in for a landing on the table.
    “Thanks, honey,” she growled. Then looked back at Sachs. “Sarkowski. Frank Sarkowski.”
    “What happened?”
    “Killed in a robbery, I heard.”
    “When?”
    “Early November. Something like that.”
    “Who’d he see at the St. James?”
    “He was in the back room some is all I know.”
    “Did they know each other?” A nod toward Creeley’s picture.
    The woman shrugged and eyed her hamburger. She pulled the bun off, spread a little mayonnaise on it and struggled with the ketchup lid. Sachs opened it for her.
    “Who was he?” the policewoman asked.
    “Businessman. Looked like a bridge-and-tunnel guy. But I heard he lived in Manhattan and had money. They were Gucci jeans he wore. I never talked to him except to