Heaven opened the freezer and produced a loaf of sourdough. “We can slice this and put it in the toaster oven, but I don’t think I have the strength to slice frozen bread.” She let her head fall to one side dramatically, as if she were failing, which she was: “I need champagne, then I need to call my daughter. She’s in England, you know.”
Jim was busy cutting perfect slices of bread out of the sourdough. “Why don’t you go call your daughter, take a quick shower, get into something more comfortable, and I’ll be up with champagne and turkey melts in just a few minutes.”
Heaven shook a finger at Jim. “Forget about the slip-into-something-more-comfortable routine. I only let you come here because I agreed with you and Bonnie and everyone else that I shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
“You’ve had a tough weekend, Counselor, what with saving the city and Ella Jackson,” Jim said as he sliced turkey. “Where’s the butter?”
Heaven took the butter out of the refrigerator door and handed it to Jim. “It’s Plugra. And I knew you wouldn’t ask me as many silly questions as Mona or Murray. Bonnie was busy with Nolan and Ella.”
“What’ll happen to them?”
“For Nolan, it’s manslaughter for Evelyn, assault for Ella and me, but he’s a good guy who did bad things. He should be able to plead down,” Heaven said as she cut a piece of Brie and found some crackers in a cupboard. “Ella, I think if she promised to never come back to Kansas City, she might get off. But I guess she will be prosecuted for kidnapping Boots at gunpoint and shooting Nolan.”
Jim shook his head. “I don’t think Boots will testify against her.”
“I don’t either,” Heaven said as she ate cheese and crackers and made one for Jim. “One good thing that came out of this disaster was that by the end of the day Mona and Sam Scott were talking to each other and so were Boots and Lefty and Sam. I saw them all hug good-bye. There’s just nothing like a good disaster to bring people together.”
Jim smiled. “And Bob Daultman was as happy as a pig in you know what He still had all his crews working when the scene in the Ruby came down, so they covered it from all POVs. I’m sure you’ll see yourself falling from that catwalk in slow motion in a screening room near you. He got a little more than just an artsy jazz documentary. He’ll take that to Cannes next year and win something.”
“What about Louis and his dad? I bet they weren’t pleased, leaving empty-handed,” Heaven said, trying one more time.
Jim grinned and shook his head. “They left happy, trust me.” He put down the knife and took Heaven by the hand. “Go upstairs and call your daughter. I’ll behave and I’ll feed you, I promise.”
“I am kind of hungry,” Heaven said as she went up the stairs. “And cranky,” she yelled.
Jim smiled, looked for and found a sauté pan big enough to grill two sandwiches at once. He turned on a burner, set the pan on the fire, and dropped in a pat of butter. From above he heard a one-sided conversation.
“Iris, it’s your mom. I guess you’re not home. I’m sorry I missed your call this morning. It won’t be a Sunday without talking to you. You won’t believe what happened to me today. Call soon. I’m fine.”
Then another. “Hi, Hank. I guess you’re off at the emergency room. Well, before you see some silly picture of me in the newspaper, we had another little problem today at the Ruby Theater, but I’m fine now. I’m dead. I mean, I’m alive and well, just tired, so don’t call me back tonight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Soon he heard the shower go on and then off. Jim found plates, a wine bucket, champagne glasses, and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, cold in the refrigerator. When he got to Heaven’s room with all the loot, he found her curled up with the phone resting on the bed next to her, fast asleep in a big Kansas City Monarchs tee-shirt.
Jim put the tray on a coffee table and leaned down to ruffle Heaven’s hair with a hand that then touched her lips. She didn’t stir and he plopped down in a big leather club chair and poured himself a glass of champagne then turned on the television. He took the diamond out of his jeans pocket and tossed it up in the air, caught it with one hand, then put it back in his jeans. “Another day, another dollar,” he said out loud, and started on his sandwich.
It was great to be back in Kansas City.
Recipe Index
Cornbread, 1
Escargot with Pernod, 15
Plum Tart, 27
Chutney—Cream Cheese Spread, 37
Hoppin’ John, 59
Greens with Leeks and Apples, 83
Eggplant Roll-ups, 101
Stuffed Cabbage, 113
Chicken with Green Dumplings, 127
Banana Pudding Trifle, 147
Kansas City Chili, 165
Sweet Potato/Pecan Pie, 187
Duck and Sausage Gumbo, 219
Read on for an excerpt from
Lou Jane Temple’s latest book
RED BEANS AND VICE
Available in hardcover from St. Martin’s Minotaur
So, first they sent women from Paris to be brides of the French settlers, then they sent these nuns to help birth the babies and start schools and stuff.” Heaven Lee was pacing around Sal’s barber shop, waving a hardcover book. Sal was getting ready for his day, setting out his clippers and combs and scissors in a neat, orderly row. Murray Steinblatz, the maitre d’ at Cafe Heaven had brought Lamar’s doughnuts to the barber shop and Heaven had brought coffee across the street from the restaurant. She would only drink Sal’s coffee under crisis circumstances. The other member of this impromptu coffee klatch was Mona Kirk, the owner of the cat gift store right next to Cafe Heaven. She was the only one who seemed interested in Heaven’s history lesson.
“And that was how long ago?”
“Really early. 1727. My friend sent me this history of New Orleans and it tells all about them,” she said, waving the book again. “Can you imagine a bunch of nuns coming across the ocean to God knows where?” Heaven expounded, glad to have an audience. “New Orleans was just a swamp with a few houses then.”
Sal turned his head to face the crowd rather than talk through the mirrors that lined the room as he did when he had a customer. “So what’s different from right now? That city is still under sea level and still filled with alligators and other slimy two-legged critters, from what I read in the newspaper.”
The word “newspaper” pulled Murray away from the one he was reading, the Kansas City Star. Murray was really a journalist who had dropped out for a while and was working at Cafe Heaven. He used to write for the New York Times and was now sending them a column entitled, “Letters From the Interior.” “That’s right, Sal. That city is full of corruption. I did a story down there once. The vice squad had to be disbanded because it was just too corrupt. What a hoot! The bar owners on Bourbon Street complained because the cops would just come in and help themselves to the bills in the cash register, scoop the money out and walk away.”
It did seem comical and also exciting, and they all chuckled wistfully. Kansas City rarely had scandal, and when it did, it was a more boring, stolid Midwestern variety.
“Remind me, Heaven,” Sal said, “what do these nuns have to do with you going down to ol’ Nola?”
“Nola?” Mona Kirk asked peevishly. She was the only one who had been listening and she didn’t remember a Nola being part of this tale. “Who’s Nola?”
Heaven patted Mona’s leg and knocked off some glazed doughnut leavings. “Nola is just a nickname for New Orleans, Louisiana. N and O for New Orleans, and LA is the state abbreviation for Louisiana,” she explained in a slightly condescending manner.
“I knew that,” Mona said crossly.
“The nuns?” Sal asked again. Once Sal started tracking on something, he wanted to get it straight.
Heaven looked around the room like an old-maid schoolteacher. “Now everybody, pay attention. The history stuff was just to show that I’m not leaving you all for some unimportant, trivial pursuit in another city. The nuns, The Si
sters of the Holy Trinity, are a very important part of New Orleans history and my national women’s chef group is helping Susan Spicer and Anne Kearney, who are restaurant owners and chefs in New Orleans, put on a benefit for the Sisters. The Sisters’ thing is education and that happens to be important to the women’s chef group too.” She could see by the way Murray’s eyes were kind of glazed over that she was losing them again. “And a woman I knew when I was a lawyer, she used to live here but she married someone and moved to New Orleans, just happens to be on the committee for this benefit. She called personally and asked me to be one of the chefs and so I couldn’t say no to a good cause and an old friend, now could I?”
Sal turned back to his brushes with a roll of his eyes. “You know, it’s not a crime to just take a vacation. You could say, ‘Bye everybody, I’m off to New Orleans for a few days.’ No, you have to go and get involved with some big production number. That New Orleans society, they’re different, Heaven. I had an uncle who lived down there. Lots of Italians came through there after the famine of. . . .”
“What are you saying, Sal, that you think Heaven can’t breeze through a little Southern society event?” Mona broke in. “Heaven single-handedly kept the 18th and Vine dedication from going to hell in a handbasket, with a little help from me, of course. New Orleans will be a piece of cake for Heaven,” Mona said defensively.
“That reminds me, what are you cooking?” Murray asked, trying to diffuse the bickering between Sal and Mona.
“We don’t have that figured out yet. That’s one of the reasons I’m going down there tomorrow, so we can assign the courses and decide where everyone will do prep and take a look at the convent. But Pauline and I have been working on an outrageous pie with praline bits and chocolate and other decadent things. We’re calling it NOLA pie.”
Murray stood up and shook the doughnut icing off his trousers. “Well, let me know when you need a taste-tester. I’m leaving. I’ve got errands to run. See you later.”
“You’re working tonight, aren’t you?” Heaven asked.
“I’m working for the next four days while you’re gone. I’ll expect you to give me my instructions tonight after the open mike.”
“It’s time for me to open the shop,” Mona said as she folded up the newspaper Murray had left in a tangle on his chair. They all knew Sal hated a messy paper in the shop. Why couldn’t Murray just fold it up when he was done with it?
Sal noticed what Mona was doing and gave her a reluctant grunt. “Thanks there, Mona. Have a good day and don’t let anybody talk you into another stray.” Mona always seemed to have a new cat that someone had left at her door for her to give shots to and find a good home for.
Mona thought about arguing the finer points of her cat placement service with Sal, but Heaven grabbed her by the arm before the two could resume bickering. “Bye, Sal,” Heaven said and blew a kiss in his direction.
“You might need a trim before you go down to New Orleans,” Sal barked, trying to act like he didn’t really notice Heaven’s hair.
Heaven stopped at the door. “Good idea,” she said as she checked her red locks in the mirrors. “Let me go see what’s up in the kitchen and I’ll come back over later. Are you busy all day?”
“Eleven,” Sal pronounced without turning around as the two women banged the door shut.
Heaven and Mona crossed 39th Street to their businesses, stopping for a quick hug on the sidewalk between the two places. “Later,” Heaven said vaguely in Mona’s direction as she watched the mailman stuffing envelopes in the mail slot of her cafe. She said hello to him as they passed on the street, then unlocked the front door with the key she’d slipped in her shirt pocket when she went to Sal’s for coffee. Heaven didn’t like the front door left open early in the morning. People could wander in off the street and the kitchen crew wouldn’t know they were there. Once Heaven had found a derelict type sleeping across a big four-top table hours after the kitchen crew had been working in the back. In the morning, deliveries needed to come to the kitchen door anyway.
The minute Heaven set foot in the restaurant, she felt like a pinball in a pinball machine. Ping, the produce guy was on the phone and they talked about what early spring vegetables were available this week. Pong, the accountant called and asked a bunch of questions about new equipment he was trying amortize. Bam, Pauline the baker and Brian the lunch chef had a squabble that Heaven had to referee. Bong, the night dishwasher called with the news he had broken his wrist on Sunday playing softball with his kids. He was waiting at the Medical Center for a special waterproof cast to be put on and he might be late for work. The next thing Heaven knew, it was time to get her hair cut. As she headed out into the dining room, she spotted the stack of mail piled on the bar where a waiter had thrown it when he came in for the lunch shift. She grabbed it and headed across the street to Sal’s.
“Don’t let me forget the coffee pot,” Heaven said as she walked in the door of the barber shop, shuffling through the mail as she talked. Sal was brushing off the neck of a uniformed policeman. Heaven sat down and started opening envelopes, ripping a few of them almost in two to indicate they were junk mail and putting the rest on the bottom of the pile. As the cop shook hands with Sal and left, Heaven sat down in Sal’s old, real leather barber chair. She held up a plain white envelope with a handwritten address and tossed the rest of the mail on Sal’s countertop. “Look at this, Sal. It sticks out like a sore thumb among the rest of the day’s mail. Guess why?”
Sal moved the unlit cigar he kept in his mouth most of the day, from one side of his face to the other. “Easy,” he grumbled. “Handwritten, not computer-generated. No return address either.”
Heaven smiled. “Sal, what a mind. I hadn’t noticed the lack of a return address. I hope it’s a party invitation.” As Sal put a clean smock around her shoulders, she ripped open the envelope. Silence followed. Sal didn’t notice it for a minute because he had to find his best pair of snipping shears to work on Heaven. By the time he found them and turned back to the chair, Heaven was holding out the letter, her hand shaking.
“What?” Sal snapped.
“Look,” Heaven said with a small voice Sal wasn’t familiar with. He took the single sheet of paper and read. The text was in some generic typeface. Sal guessed it had been done on a word processor, not a typewriter.
CAFE HEAVEN IS FULL OF AIDS INFESTED FAGS. THE COOKS PICK THEIR NOSE IN YOUR FOOD. EAT THERE AT YOUR OWN EXPENSE.
Sal folded the letter carefully by the edges. “I hope no one is sick,” he said gruffly. “I think a lot of Chris and Joe.”
Heaven started crying. “See? That’s what happens when someone writes down that kind of filth. Even you, who knows us all, tends to believe something that’s written down. Not that having AIDS is something that makes a person bad.”
“Hell, I guess lots of waiters are gay. It would make sense that some of them might have that, you know. . .” Sal trailed off, red-faced.
Heaven stood up, tears streaming down her face. “Yes, but as it happens, none of my waiters, who are also my friends, are sick. And having someone slander them that way, about something life and death . . .” She sank back down in the chair. “What a monster.” She wiped her nose with her arm. “What if they sent this to someone else? What should I do, Sal? Why would anyone . . .”
“Honey, there are lots of sick people out there. Your restaurant is popular and that makes some people want to destroy, to tear it down.”
“But what should I do? Should I tell the guys?” Heaven whimpered, not her usual competent self.
Sal patted her shoulder and handed her a wad of tissues. “I tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna cut your hair real pretty for New Orleans. Then you’re gonna go back to the cafe and keep your mouth shut. I’m gonna call Murray and show him this thing and he’s the only one we’re gonna tell. Not even Mona, you understand? That’s the plan.”
“Can’t I tell Hank?” Heaven asked like a petulant child.
&nbs
p; “Not now,” Sal said gruffly. “Just buck up and shut up, like a big girl.”
Heaven saw the tears in Sal’s eyes. He spun her around, away from the mirrors.
Monday nights were busy at Cafe Heaven because it was open-mike night. The actors and poets and musicians of Kansas City came in and performed free because they knew it would be a full house and a tough crowd. If they could make it there, chances were their act would fly anywhere else in town. But the open mike had been over for about an hour. It was after midnight and Tony the bartender was counting his drawer. Most of the waiters had checked out with Murray and a couple were helping the busboys set up the tables for tomorrow’s lunch. Heaven was at the bar nursing a glass of Vueve Clicquot. She’d left the kitchen cleanup to the rest of the line. Murray came and sat down, ordering a Diet Coke with lime, “You usually don’t drink that bubbly stuff this late at night,” he remarked to Heaven.
“I don’t like to open it if I’m not with friends ‘cause it goes flat,” Heaven said dully.
“You expecting Hank or someone?” Murray asked.
“No. I thought I’d drink the whole bottle, all by myself.”
“Now, Heaven, calm down. I think this is just a crank who wrote that thing. Chances are, by the time you get home at the end of the week, nothing will have come of it.”
“That’s a sick fucker, Murray. If that’s someone’s idea of a joke, they’re insane and should be put away. If someone is starting a campaign to ruin my business, well. . . Those seem to be the two choices we have. Insane or vicious. Fun, huh?” Heaven threw back her glass of champagne. Tony looked up and tried to make eye contact with Murray, asking what’s up with the boss? Murray kept his head down. Heaven reached over and poured herself another glass. She looked at Murray with a “don’t fuck with me” look.
The Cornbread Killer Page 22
