“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.
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 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.”
“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 bullshit,” 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 guarante
e 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 space. 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 glasses. When she had a big party like this, she put out a huge tray filled with all different kinds of glasses, from 1940s juice glasses to etched wineglasses, and let people take their choice. Now she busied herself for a few minutes carrying glasses back to the shelves.
The phone rang. “Oh, shit,” 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 glasses and I guess I spaced out. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Happy Easter, honey.”
“That doesn’t sound good. First, tell me about the party. What did you serve this year?”
Heaven always tried for a menu that skirted around the traditional Jewish Passover food and Christian Easter items. “I did a Zakuski table this year, very Russian.”
“Zakuski?” Iris echoed.
“In the really old days in Russia, before it was just potatoes and cabbage, on their plantations or whatever they called them, people would have food out on their sideboard all the time because when travelers would get to your house they were usually from far away, and they’d been traveling a long time and they were hungry. The steppes you know. So it’s the Russian version of Tapas, kinda.” “Like what?”
“Blini all piled up with mushrooms. Caviar, beet caviar, eggplant, pirogi dumpling things, and a Kilebiac, a salmon in puff pastry. Other stuff. These Armenian pastries filled with farmers’ cheese. Yum.”
“How exotic. Did you serve vodka?”
“Of course. I put the vodka bottles in milk cartons full of water in the freezer. And I put flowers in the water so the vodka looked very festive, in an iceberg of flowers.”
“Sounds like Martha to me, Mom.”
Heaven bristled. “People were putting their vodka in icebergs long before Martha Stewart.”
“So, what’s the problem? You said you had a lot on your mind.”
How much did she want to tell her daughter? “Someone wrote this horrible unsigned letter about Cafe Heaven and also sent it to the newspaper and to the health department.”
“Mom, what did it say?”
She decided to paraphrase. “That our waiters had AIDS and our cooks put nose boogers in the food.”
“Mom, that’s horrible!”
“Yes, it is. There’s virtually no way you can stop people from doing something like that. And it can ruin your business.”
“The newspaper isn’t going to print that crap is it?”
“No, but who knows what this sicko will do next. And I have to leave town next week.”
“Where to?”
“New Orleans. I’m cooking at a benefit for the oldest nuns in America.”
“Poor old dears,” Iris said sweetly.
“The order is old, not the actual nuns. But that’s not going too well either.”
“Tell me.”
“I went down there a few weeks ago to a planning meeting and while we were there in the convent, someone wrote bad words in red paint on the convent walls and s
tole the eighteenth-century cross they brought from France and put termites on their historical staircase.”
Iris giggled. “I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t laugh but you just painted quite a picture. Did all that happen at once, the graffiti and the cross and the termites?”
“Not quite. But enough about me. You left a message and said you had a good new gig?” Iris had been writing since she finished up at Oxford. Her father was a well-known English rock star and she was writing about music for magazines.
“I go to Brazil next week for a magazine kind of like Tattler, I don’t think they have it in America. I get to stay two whole weeks and write a what’s-going-on-in-Brazilian-music piece. Won’t that be fun?”
“Just be careful—tourists are always getting shot on the beach in Rio—and don’t go to any late-night clubs by yourself.”
“Mother! You’ve got a lot of nerve fussing at me about being safe. Some nut is writing hate mail to you and you’re heading off to New Orleans where another nut is after the nuns. Nothing that could happen on the beach in Rio could compare. Besides, you-know-who will be with me most of the time.” You-know-who was Iris’s boyfriend, another member of her father’s band and a man as old as her father. It infuriated Heaven.
“Then you’ll have bodyguards and a driver and all that. Good,” Heaven said shortly.
“Mom, let’s not hang up mad. I’ll be fine and I’ll call you from there next week, if I know where you’ll be.”
“I’ll put the phone number at my hotel in New Orleans on your machine in England. You can get it off that. Or call the cafe. They’ll have my numbers.”
“I’m worried about you, Mom. Have you told that detective friend of yours about this?”
“No, but that’s a good idea, Iris. Bonnie couldn’t come to the party today or maybe I would have thought of that when I saw her. Now go to bed, honey. Alone, I hope.”
“As alone as one of your nuns, Mom. Be careful. I love you.”
“Love you too, honey,” she said as Iris hung up.
Heaven, dialing, could hardly wait to talk to her friend Sergeant Bonnie Weber, of the Kansas City Police Department. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before.
Red Beans and Vice Page 6
