Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [32]
Two pool tables sat behind the bar. And in the wall behind them, three closed doors. One no doubt led to a kitchen. One room was probably an office. And the third?
Roelke approached the bartender, a cadaverous-looking man perhaps in his fifties. The barkeep stopped sliding clean glasses into overhead wooden racks, looking wary. He had thinning gray hair combed away from a narrow face. The overhead light’s yellow glow wasn’t kind to his sallow complexion, or to the dark circles under his eyes.
“How’s it going?” Roelke asked, his tone pleasant but not jovial. Finding the friendly-balance in a bar was a knife-edge thing. If he was too friendly, regulars would come to expect chit-chat, slowing him down whenever he did a bar check while on patrol. Not friendly enough, an empty beer bottle might just come sailing from some dark corner next time he stopped by.
“Ah, Jesus.” The barkeep put both palms on the bar. “You got some problem in here?”
“As a matter of fact, we have had a complaint. Underage drinking and underage gambling.” Out of the corner of his eye, Roelke saw the waitress slide quietly through one of the closed doors. “Are you Joe Pagenkampf?” One Joe Pagenkampf had filed a request for the tavern’s liquor license.
“Yeah.”
“You know anything about those things?”
“Nope.” Pagenkampf shook his head. “I run a clean place.”
“That’s good to know,” Roelke said politely, holding the man’s gaze for an extra moment. Message delivered.
Before leaving he strolled around the room, nodding hello at the patrons. Most looked to be nothing more than tired men and women enjoying a cold one on their way home. He didn’t see anyone who looked young enough to card. He checked the bathroom. A bookie might not operate in the john, but drug dealers often did. This one was empty. In need of scrubbing, but empty.
As Roelke emerged from the bathroom a red-haired man wearing work clothes and cowboy boots burst through the door. “Is he here?” he demanded of the bartender. “Is he back there?”
“Stan!” Pagenkampf cocked his head infinitesimally in Roelke’s direction, then lowered his voice. “Sorry, Stan. Haven’t seen him tonight.”
Roelke had gone very still, watching.
Stan glanced at the policeman and shed his anger like a lizard shedding his skin. “Hey,” he said with a friendly nod, and slid onto a barstool. “Get me a draft Miller,” he told the bartender.
Roelke returned the greeting and headed out to the squad. After calling back in to service he sat, staring at the bar, thinking. Who had this Stan guy been looking for? The bookie?
Raindrops began a tentative sprinkle against his windshield. Roelke tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel with his thumb. He’d done all he could do tonight. The chief would probably send one of the young guys in wearing street clothes, one of the part-timers, not likely to be recognized. The EPD’s newest hire was fresh from the academy, still in the John Wayne phase. He’d leap at the chance to try to make nice with the bartender, and see if he could sniff out any hint of whatever was going on.
But Roelke would quietly talk with a few people in Eagle as well, see what else he could uncover. If a bookie was operating out of the back room at The Eagle’s Nest, the cops would need a warrant to nail him. And to get a warrant, they’d need more than a sullen teen’s vague admission.
His ear caught a call among the radio chatter, just as rain began a torrential timpani on the car roof. “George 220. Respond to a 10-45, northbound lane of Highway 67, approximately one mile north of junction with Highway 59.”
Great. Ju-u-ust great. “George 220. On my way.”
He started the car and pulled out of the lot. If he was a gambling man, he’d have put a lot