Red Beans and Vice (7 page)

A
nd that’s why I’m so glad to be home,” Heaven said with a big sigh at the end of a sparkling recitation of all the problems that had occurred in New Orleans.

Sal and Murray and Mona were speechless for a minute. “You left Tuesday morning and got back Thursday night and that much happened?” Murray asked, in awe. “You could write a whole novel just from those three days.”

“It’s really more like two days. You have to take time off for flying there and back,” Heaven said smugly.

“Heaven, what in the world will happen when there’s food involved?” Mona asked. “Troublemakers love it when there’s food involved.”

“That worries me too. But no one even mentioned canceling the event. Ninety-nine percent of the people of New Orleans seem to really love the sisters and what they mean to the city.”

“What happened to the cross?” Sal said, leaving the
obvious comment that it only takes one percent to screw everything up left unsaid.

“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 damn 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 pissed….”

“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 pissed 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 hepatitis. Everyone takes a gamma globulin shot,” Heaven said, knowing that had nothing to do with the current problem. “Damn.”

“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.

H
eaven, 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 butts 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 pass-through window. He had a big grin on his face, which pissed her off. He shouldn’t be smiling after the night they’d just experienced. “Guess who just walked in the door?”

“Don’t fuck 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 apron. “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, Saturday, 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. Hell, 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 glass 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 hello. 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 assumed he wouldn’t be listed.”

“No, he even keeps his residence as much of a secret
as possible. It’s a classic 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 assure 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 Passover 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.

H
eaven 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 identities; 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.”