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"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 take his order."
"How'd you find out about his death?"
"Overheard something. Them talking."
"The officers from the precinct?"
She nodded.
"Any other deaths that you heard of?"
"Nope."
"Any other crimes? Shakedowns, assaults, bribes?"
She shook her head, pouring ketchup on the burger and making a pool for dunking the fries. "Nothing. That's all I know."
"Thanks." Sachs put ten down on the table to cover the woman's meal.
Gerte glanced at the money. "The desserts're pretty good. The pie. You ever eat here, have the pie."
The detective added another five.
Gerte looked up and gave an astute smile. "Why'm I telling you all this stuff? You're wondering, right?"
Sachs nodded with a smile. She'd been wondering exactly that.
"You wouldn't understand. Those guys in the back room, the cops? The way they look at us, Sonja and me, the things they say, the things they don't say. The way they joke about us when they think we can't hear 'em . . ." She gave a bitter smile. "Yeah, I pour drinks for a living, okay? That's all I do. But that don't give 'em the right to make fun of me. Everybody's got the right to some dignity, don't they?"
Joanne Harper, Vincent's dream girl, had not returned to the workshop yet.
The men were in the Band-Aid-mobile, parked on east Spring Street across from the darkened workshop where Duncan was about to kill his third victim and Vincent was about to have his first heart-to-heart in a long, long time.
The SUV wasn't anything great but it was safe. The Watchmaker had stolen it from someplace where he said it wouldn't be missed for a while. It also sported New York plates that'd been stolen from another tan Explorer--to pass an initial call-in by the cops if they happened to get spotted (they rarely checked the VIN number, only plates, the Watchmaker lectured Vincent).
That was smart, Vincent allowed, though he'd asked what they'd do if some cop did check the VIN. It wouldn't match the tag and he'd know the Explorer was stolen.
Duncan had replied, "Oh, I'd kill him." As if it was obvious.
