Red Beans And Vice Part 4

"I thought about that on the way home. It has great historical value, of course, but I don't know what someone in another city would pay for an eighteenth-century iron cross from France and I don't think anyone in New Orleans could display it in their home if they bought it on the black market. So I don't think it was stolen for that. It could have been thrown in the river by someone who just wanted to destroy the outward trappings of the sisterhood."

"Like that Amelia Hart," Mona threw in.

"Of course, they could use it to commit a crime. That would irritate the sisters. I don't know if it's heavy enough to break the window of a bank or anything. And I don't know if the point on top is sharp enough to impale anyone," Heaven said, speculating.

"Heaven, stop," Mona ordered like an old maid schoolteacher.

"Well, whoever stole the cross isn't likely to have it polished and return it, you know," she said defensively.

"People are just no d.a.m.n good," Sal said as two high school students entered the shop for trims of their military-style haircuts, so popular with the kids at the moment. He looked at Heaven as if to say, no more crime stories.

"I better get to work. How are the reservations for tonight, Murray?"

Murray looked at Heaven intensely. "Busy. Let's go over and look at the reservation book. There are a couple of problem areas, like right around seven o'clock."

"Seven is always a problem on Friday night," Heaven said. "Bye, Sal."

Sal's unlit cigar moved from one side of his mouth to the other, a gesture they all took for good-bye.

Heaven and Mona and Murray got up and walked out the door. "I'll talk to you two later," Mona said as they walked across 39th Street.

"You better tell Mona about the letters pretty soon," Murray said in a low voice. "She'll be p.i.s.sed...."

"You mean if she finds out some other way, like in the newspaper?" Heaven hissed under her breath as they walked into the cafe. "Has something else happened?"

Murray looked down and nodded. "Sal's connection at city hall says the health department got the same letter you did sometime this week. Just like the newspaper, they don't follow up on unsigned accusations because they've been used for some personal vendettas. I guess an ex-wife p.i.s.sed off at her ex-husband, who owned a little cafe out on Wornall, made a big stink last year, saying he had rats, roaches. She sent the letters unsigned but got antsy they weren't closing him down fast enough and called up. Health department has caller ID. They went out and interviewed her and saw she was trying to cause trouble for her ex."

"I get the picture, Murray. The health department doesn't like to be used in personal vendettas. But the idea gets planted."

"Just like the newspaper. It gets them thinking that maybe they should have a policy about people working in the food industry with HIV. I guess all the honchos are meeting with the docs, trying to see what's what."

"They already have rules about what you're supposed to do if anyone has hepat.i.tis. Everyone takes a gamma globulin shot," Heaven said, knowing that had nothing to do with the current problem. "d.a.m.n."

"I'm going, I'll see you tonight. Heaven, I don't like the sound of things in New Orleans. Whoever is doing this is working up to the big benefit dinner. You know that."

"But what can I do? We've got some nut up here trying to destroy my business. The sisters are on their own for a while." Heaven stalked into the kitchen with a heavy heart.

Heaven, get out of here. You must be exhausted, after the trip to New Orleans and all." Sara Baxter, the lead line cook-she refused to be called the sous-chef-was trying to spare the kitchen the grief of having Heaven around while they cleaned up. It took twice as long to clean when Heaven was there because she was always finding nooks and crannies that she wanted them to pull everything out of and wipe down with bleach water. Not that it wasn't a good idea, just not tonight. They'd gotten their b.u.t.ts whipped tonight.

Heaven wouldn't hear of it. "I wonder how many orders of those fish in parchment we did? I should have thought when I decided to do it as a special it would come from my station. What a night. I do ache, I must admit. But I'll stay and help," she said cheerfully. Heaven wanted more physical labor. Sometimes, when you can't figure out a problem, getting slammed on the saute station on a busy Friday night and then organizing the walk-in cooler was the next best thing. But before she could protest further, Murray stuck his head into the kitchen via the pa.s.s-through window. He had a big grin on his face, which p.i.s.sed her off. He shouldn't be smiling after the night they'd just experienced. "Guess who just walked in the door?"

"Don't f.u.c.k with me, Murray," Heaven said shortly.

"Trust me. This will make you happy. Just come out here," Murray said, insisting.

Sara took the dirty kitchen rag from Heaven's hand and untied her ap.r.o.n. "Bye," Sara said firmly.

Heaven went over to the tiny kitchen bathroom and did her sixty-second beauty routine. She took off her chef's jacket. She splashed water on her face to get any large chunks of food loosened and rinsed off, then applied bright pink lipstick. She mussed her red hair with wet fingers, giving it a little life. Then she stepped back out into the kitchen and slipped on a 1950s men's sharkskin sports jacket that she always had hanging there, to give her tee shirt and tights a little boost. She didn't bother to change from her kitchen clogs to high heels. "Thanks for working so hard. Lucky us. We get to do it again tomorrow night," she said to the kitchen crew and stepped out in the dark of the dining room.

Every time Heaven entered the dining room it gave her a buzz. If the kitchen was backstage, the dining room was front and center. Hitting that swinging door, having your eyes adjust to the dim light, your skin be caressed with the coolness, your ears with the sound of Ella Fitzgerald and snippets of conversation from guests having a good time, it was a real high for Heaven. In those first few seconds of being in the dining room, the chaos of the kitchen, the sales tax due in a few days, the broken bar sink that would have to be fixed tomorrow, Sat.u.r.day, at overtime rates, even the anonymous hate mail seemed like a small price to pay for standing there in the dining room in a world you'd created.

Heaven looked over at the bar and saw why Murray had insisted she come out. Jack was back.

Jumpin' Jack, as he liked to be called, was a neighborhood fixture. For years, he wore only army camo gear and insisted he had served in Vietnam. Actually, he was raised a rich kid in Mission Hills, had never been in the armed services, and was ten years too young to have gone to Vietnam even if he'd been well enough to be in the military. His family didn't want to deal with him and his neuroses. They gave him money to stay away. Jack had helped Heaven out of some jams and in those cases his military delusions had come in handy, as he could could pick a lock and do surveillance with aplomb. But Jack had become confused and agitated more than a year before, and Heaven had insisted that his parents help him. Menninger's was just sixty miles away in Topeka, Kansas, and couldn't be beat for an expensive shrinking. This was the first time Jack had been seen since he went there to be fixed.

"Hey, stranger, long time, no see," Heaven said and gave Jack a big kiss on the cheek. The camo gear was gone, replaced by jeans, a black Gap tee shirt and a tweedy sports jacket. His old beard was also gone and, clean shaven, Jack looked almost like a college professor. Heaven thought he was puffy though, probably from his medication. A few months ago, Murray had found out they were having trouble finding the right combination of chemicals to soothe Jack's demons. Now, his eyes looked clear and friendly.

"Did ya miss me?" Jack said, like a regular person. Before he had spoken in military speak.

"We missed you terribly," Heaven said. "Murray and I tried to come visit you but they said it would interfere with your progress. Can you have a drink?"

"My doctor said one drink a day will be fine," Jack said.

"Tony, get this man what he wants, on the house. I notice you have a new wardrobe."

"Scotch and water, Tony. I had to give up on the Vietnam thing. h.e.l.l, people who did go there have to give up on the Vietnam thing, let alone me. But that doesn't mean I can't help you if you need me, Heaven."

"Tony, give me a gla.s.s of that new Adelsheim Pinot Noir, please. I'm gonna have a drink with my friend."

While Heaven and Jack sat there, the rest of the staff meandered over and gave Jack a h.e.l.lo. Joe and Chris insisted on bringing him three desserts, on them. Murray told him about how he was writing again on a part-time basis. Everyone was happy to have Jack back, safe and seemingly much more sound.

"I don't want to accuse you of ulterior motives, but you don't invite us to dinner at your restaurant on the house every day. Is something wrong?" Rabbi Michael Zedek and his wife were enjoying their dessert and coffee, having polished off a lamb shank and some hot, hacked chicken.

Heaven sat down at an empty chair at their table. "Patently transparent, eh? I love having you in the restaurant but, yes, I wanted to ask you something. I know that guy who got the genius grant and tracks the hate-crime people is your friend."

"Howard Yukon, yes."

"And I know that he keeps a very low profile because he gets death threats and all that stuff. I didn't even try to look him up in the phone book. I just a.s.sumed he wouldn't be listed."

"No, he even keeps his residence as much of a secret as possible. It's a cla.s.sic case of killing the messenger. These groups see him on some national television show explaining that there are x amount of white supremacists in Missouri and y amount in Idaho, and they think he's told the government their secret locations," Rabbi Zedek said.

"Do you think you could arrange it so I could talk to him? Even over the phone would be fine. He could call me. I wouldn't have to know his number. I could promise not to look at the caller ID. Or, we could meet in person. Whatever you think is best."

"Will you tell me why you want to speak to him? I a.s.sure you it won't leave this table," the rabbi said, and his wife nodded in agreement.

"Oh, I trust you. It's just, well, someone has written a vicious unsigned letter about Cafe Heaven and sent it around town. So far I've gotten one, and the health department and the Kansas City Star each got one too, all the same text."

"Any ideas who sent it?"

"Haven't a clue. That's why I thought if I spoke to the expert, maybe he could help me figure it out."

Rabbi Zedek shook his head. "I'm so sorry this has happened to you. The reputation of a restaurant is so delicate. Even for someone to claim they got food poisoning at a cafe can be damaging. I think Howard will want to talk to you. I'm not sure he can solve the mystery, however."

"Have you ever been through this yourself?"

"Many times. I get vicious E-mails and snail mail all the time. Because I'm on that radio show with Father Tom and Reverend Hill, I'm the Jew that killed Christ in many people's minds."

"Do you ever find out who writes them?"

"E-mails are rarely rerouted, so I know where they come from. The snail mail is too much trouble to trace. Occasionally someone will become so fixated, they want you to know who they are and they confront you physically or start signing their sick work. But you should talk to Howard. He and I have a conference call with someone in California tomorrow at two. Why don't I arrange for him to call you after that. Will you be here?"

"If Howard is calling, I'll be here. Just let me know if for some reason he can't. I'll be back here in the restaurant by two if I go out to run any errands." Heaven stood. "Have a good Pa.s.sover and thanks for the help. Don't forget you're coming to my house on Easter."

"We'll be there, and thanks for dinner," the rabbi said as he turned his attention back to the dessert plates.

Heaven was in the office when Howard Yukon called, wrangling the invoices into some semblance of order for the part-time bookkeeper.

"Cafe Heaven."

"Heaven, this is Howard Yukon. I'm here in Michael's office and he said you've been the beneficiary of some unsigned mail."

"Oh, Mr. Yukon, thank you so much for taking the time. This really is very disturbing because a restaurant just can't have bad press."

"Pardon me," the voice on the other end said. "But didn't someone die in your restaurant and didn't a group of people have a bad experience with some contaminated flour as well?"

Heaven took a deep breath so she wouldn't snap the man's head off. "Notoriety seems to be okay. But this is much different."

"I know it's hard, but you must tell me exactly what the note said."

Heaven told him.

"How was it arranged on the paper?" he asked.

She closed her eyes and could see it as though it was lying in front of her. "Three lines, each centered on the page. Why?"

"Although I don't know their ident.i.ties; some of these individuals have become familiar to me by the style in which they write these notes, and of course, the object of their hate."

"Do you think this hatred is directed toward gay waiters, or personally toward someone who works for me? I'm concerned for my employees, and I don't want a maniac to screw up my business with this bulls.h.i.t," Heaven said, more emphatically than she'd meant to. The poor guy didn't need her to yell at him, just because he took the time to call and help.

"It could be one of those reasons, or another one," he said quietly. "You are a high-profile woman. Your name and photo have been in the paper quite a bit. Many times this creates fixations, like the Jodie Foster stalker."

"But this person doesn't want me, they want to destroy me. I know you understand better than I what's involved here. But I'm not a religion or a government that can survive this kind of opposition. If this letter was to get wide circulation, even if people didn't really believe it, the damage would be done. If you were trying to figure out where to go to dinner and the nose-picking cook came to mind, you might choose another cafe, even if the choice was subconscious."

"You're right. And places like the Kansas City Star and city hall aren't the most secure. I had a friend who was an educator. Someone wrote a hate letter saying he was abusing young children. The letter was sent to the board of education office in his district. They discussed it with him, told him that they didn't respond to unsigned accusations. But the letter got copied. Soon enough parents had seen it that they demanded the teacher's resignation. He moved far away and has never taught again."

Heaven felt sick. This was just what she feared. "What can I do? This is such a vulnerable position for me. I'm helpless," she said.

"Do not give in to despair. If you do, this individual will have accomplished at least one of the things he was trying to do, and that's to get the better of you. He didn't say the waiters in all the restaurants in Kansas City were AIDS infested. He said the waiters in your restaurant were. That makes it personal."

"But how can I fight this thing?" Heaven was in tears again. One trickled down her face.

"Tomorrow you are going to messenger the original letter out here to Michael's office at the synagogue. Keep a copy for yourself, but send me the original. Then you are going to call your contacts at the Kansas City Star and at city hall and you are going to tell them that you will be down to pick up their originals in person in an hour."

"What if they won't-"

Howard Yukon broke in quickly. "It won't guarantee that there aren't already copies made. But it will stop the casual stopping-by-the-file-cabinet-to-view-the-gory-details kind of thing. And I've seen those photos of you in the paper myself. Don't tell me a beautiful redhead can't get her way with those boys downtown."

Right now Heaven couldn't talk a blind man into new eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. What if I need to talk to you, what if something else happens?"

"Just call Michael," the voice said soothingly.

"Thank you. Can I ask one more question?"

"Of course."

"Why do you have to have the original letter?"

Howard Yukon paused. "Sometimes I can feel them. I'll know if it's any of my regulars." Then he hung up.

"Do you think this is the original?" Murray said as he held a piece of paper up to the light streaming in the front windows at Sal's.

Heaven shrugged. "I wouldn't have a clue. I'm sure the copy paper at the Star isn't the same paper as the original, but I'm not a paper expert."

"So what happened?" Sal asked as he finished off a trim of an elderly man.

"Well, thanks to Murray, who called his friend and absolutely insisted that he give me the letter, it was easy. I went to the front desk. Murray's friend came down with an envelope, gave it to me, and shook my hand. Said as far as he could tell it was a dead issue in the news department, except for a more general story that was still brewing."

"You sure they don't have copies all over the office already?"

"No, Sal. I could have made the man sign in blood but, if he didn't have physical control of the letter at all times, he wouldn't know whether someone else made a copy. I didn't make him lie to me."

"What about you, Sal?" Murray asked as the customer shuffled out. "What about city hall?"

"Heaven doesn't even have to go down there. My guy is dropping it off on his way home tonight. Said he didn't know who had seen it, but he was willing to pull it out of the crank letter file, without a trace. Not that it hasn't been copied, but not by my guy," Sal said gruffly.

Heaven was slumped in one of Sal's chrome-and-Naugahyde chairs. "And after we collect these so-called originals, and if there are copies, they could be copied again and again. No one is going to bother to check and see if it's the real thing. It's filthy sleaze and if a person is copying it, they don't care about what's right."

"Don't think like that, Heaven," Sal said. "That hate-crime fellow, he gave you good advice about going around collecting the letters. It's just too bad we didn't think about it when we first heard other people had received that garbage."

Heaven went over to Murray and took the letter out of his hand, kissing the top of his balding head as she tore it up. "It wouldn't guarantee anything. It only takes two seconds to copy something. Thanks, guys, for your support during yet another Cafe Heaven crisis."

"Don't you think you should keep that, for evidence?" Murray asked.

"As I learned back in Criminal Law 101, because we have no chain of evidence, this is tainted and useless. We already have one copy in the office and that's more than enough. I hate even touching it, and I'm taking the copy home tonight. I don't want one of my employees to come across it by accident," Heaven said as she stuffed the paper shards in her jacket pocket, went out the front door and headed back across the street.

Sal and Murray watched as the late-afternoon sun hit Heaven's hair. It shimmered like fire.

Heaven looked around. The house didn't look too bad. She couldn't believe Easter had crept up so fast. The last few weeks had flown by. Now the Fifth Annual Spring Renewal, Resurrection and Rejuvenation Brunch, held on Easter Sunday, was officially over. It had been a big success. Even under duress, worrying about the hate mail and about New Orleans, Heaven could throw a party.

Now she was alone. Hank had to go to the hospital and he would be there all night, working the emergency room. The dishes were clean or at least the last batch was in the dishwasher. All the empty bottles had been deposited in the Dumpster outside by the waiters from Cafe Allegro Heaven had hired to work the party. She didn't want to ask any of her employees to work as they were all invited to be guests. There had been about a hundred people in and out of the house in the period from eleven to four. The last group left about five.

Heaven's home helped her entertain. A two-story building constructed in 1890, it was an Italian bread bakery before Heaven moved in. The coal-burning bread ovens were still installed in the brick walls, extending from the exterior of the building like an ear. The first floor was one big entertaining/kitchen/living room combination. Before the restaurant, Heaven had run a catering business out of the s.p.a.ce. It still had rows of baker's shelves lined with platters and baskets and antique culinary treasures, such as Heaven's collection of two hundred plus drinking gla.s.ses. When she had a big party like this, she put out a huge tray filled with all different kinds of gla.s.ses, from 1940s juice gla.s.ses to etched winegla.s.ses, and let people take their choice. Now she busied herself for a few minutes carrying gla.s.ses back to the shelves.

The phone rang. "Oh, s.h.i.t," Heaven mumbled and grabbed it.

"Mom, I'm tired and I want to go to bed. I thought you were gonna call after your party."

It was Iris, Heaven's daughter, who lived in England. "Honey, I'm so sorry. I started putting away gla.s.ses and I guess I s.p.a.ced out. I've got a lot on my mind. Happy Easter, honey."