Red Beans and Vice (2 page)

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, remember? I’ll expect you to give me my instructions tonight, before 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 newspaper in the shop. Why couldn’t Murray just fold it up himself when he was done with it?

Sal noticed what Mona was doing and gave her a reluctant grunt. “Thanks, there, Mona.”

“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 said 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 to leave the front door open early in the morning. People could wander in off the street and the kitchen crew wouldn’t know they were in the dining room. Once, a couple of years ago, Heaven had found a derelict sleeping across a big 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 ball in a pinball machine, moving from one problem or task to the next without having a big plan for the day, propelled forward by who needed her the most. The produce guy was on the phone, and Heaven and he talked about what spring lettuces and vegetables
were available this week. The accountant called and asked a bunch of questions concerning a few pieces of new equipment he was trying to amortize. Pauline, the baker, and Brian, the lunch chef, had a squabble that Heaven had to referee. The night dishwasher called with the news he had broken his wrist on Sunday playing baseball 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. Because she was thinking of New Orleans, she decided to make Jambalaya for a special, so she started the prep for that.

The next thing Heaven knew, it was time to go get her hair cut. As she headed into the dining room she spotted a stack of mail piled on the bar where a waiter had thrown it so Heaven could look through it. She grabbed it and headed across the street to Sal’s.

“Don’t let me forget the coffeepot,” Heaven said as she walked in the door of the barbershop, 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, putting the rest on the bottom of the pile.

The cop shook hands with Sal, paid, and left. Heaven sat down in Sal’s battered 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 type. 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 for a minute because he had to find his best pair of snipping shears to work on Heaven. By the time he turned back to the chair, Heaven was holding out the letter, her hand shaking.

“What?” Sal asked.

“Look,” she said with a small voice Sal hadn’t heard before. He took the single sheet of paper and read. The text was in some generic typeface:

Sal folded the letter carefully by the edges. “I hope none of the guys is that way,” 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, you who know us all, you tend to believe something that’s written down. Not that having AIDS is something that makes a person bad, but the intentions of this letter certainly are.”

“Hell, I guess lots of waiters are gay. It would make sense some of them might be sick…” 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 like a kid. “What if they sent this to
someone else? What should I do, Sal? Why would anyone…”

“Honey, there are lots of deranged 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, her usual competency shattered.

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. That’s the plan. 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?”

“Can’t I tell Hank?” she asked, like a petulant child.

“Not now,” Sal said gruffly. “Just buck up and shut up, like a big girl.”

Heaven saw the glitter of tears in Sal’s eyes. Embarrassed at being caught under the sway of his emotions, he spun her around, away from the mirrors.

M
onday 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.

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 Veuve 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.

“It’s good for all times of the day and night,” Heaven said dully.

“You expecting someone?” Murray asked.

“No. I thought I’d drink the whole bottle tonight, all by myself.”

“Now, Heaven, calm down. I know you’re upset about the letter. 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 person, Murray. If that’s someone’s idea of a joke, he’s 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 champagne. Tony looked up and tried to make eye contact with Murray, like he was asking, “What’s up with the boss?” Murray kept his head down. Heaven reached over and poured herself another glass of champagne out of an ice bucket on the bar. She must have told Tony to keep the bottle handy. She gave Murray a don’t-fuck-with-me look.

“I’m afraid I have another piece of bad news concerning this hate-mail thing.” Murray couldn’t put it off any more. “Sal and I decided that I shouldn’t call any of my contacts at the newspaper. Why get people thinking about something they may not have any reason to think about, right?”

Heaven sighed. “And?”

“But one of my contacts called me. A reporter, someone with a city hall beat. His letter said the same thing yours did. He read it to me.”

“Great. Why the city hall beat? Why not the food editor?” she asked.

“Oh, maybe going for the food safety angle. That’s what we guessed. Now, don’t worry. My reporter talked it over with his editor and they would never print something like that, unsigned and unsubstantiated. But it does get folks thinking.”

“Thinking about what? What folks?” Heaven asked heavily. She shot back another gulp of champagne.

“Well, it made the editor think about doing a story about people in food service that are HIV positive.”

Heaven moaned. “So even if it doesn’t affect us, some poor waiters somewhere could be outed as being HIV positive?”

“You know, does the public have the right to know who touches their food, that kind of thing. It could be good, remind people that you can’t get AIDS that way,” Murray said quietly, wishing he wasn’t having this conversation.

“Next it will be produce pickers with TB, cooks with hepatitis. This could win someone a Pulitzer,” Heaven said. “In the meantime, do you think anyone else got that letter? If they sent it to one reporter, they could have sent it lots of places.”

Murray patted Heaven’s hand. “Just go on your trip and leave this at home. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway. I called my friend at the FBI—”

Heaven broke in sarcastically. “Oh boy, I thought we weren’t going to tell anyone.”

“I didn’t. I asked him some general questions about paper documents. Said I was doing a piece about hate mail, which I may do. My friend said it’s hard to trace if the perp wishes to remain anonymous and had used
gloves and generic paper, but that sometimes the person wants to let their victim know who they are.”

Heaven moaned again. “Something to look forward to. The maniac reveals him or herself. Oh goody.”

Suddenly a familiar voice came from the vicinity of the front door. “What does a doctor have to do to get a nightcap around this place?” It was Hank, Heaven’s boyfriend, who worked in the emergency room of the medical center a few blocks away from the restaurant.

Heaven turned toward Murray with fire in her eyes.

He quickly put up his hands in defense. “I did not call because you decided to drink an entire bottle of Veuve by yourself and then drive home. I called because Sal and I were worried about you. This letter is creepy stuff, Heaven. I didn’t want you driving all the way downtown by yourself tonight. Just in case this nut has something else in mind. So I called Hank and I told him about the letter. Sal said you’d wanted to tell him anyway.”

Hank had moved to stand between the two, listening to Murray try to explain his way out of a tongue-lashing. Now he kissed Heaven on the cheek. “Got a beer for a poor ER dog?”

Heaven smiled in spite of herself and threw her arm around Hank’s shoulder, pulling him onto the bar stool on her other side. “People are so screwed up, you know that, honey? Tony, get this man what he wants, please.”

“Just a Boulevard, Tony. The wheat ale if you’ve got it,” Hank said, requesting a popular local brew. He smiled at Heaven and tapped her champagne glass with his beer bottle as soon as it arrived. “Don’t tell me about screwed-up humans tonight. I’ve had a good dose of them today, including my last patients, two sisters who
stabbed each other. They’re both still alive and mad the other one survived, I’m happy to report.”

“And it’s only Monday,” Murray observed. “I thought you saved the good stuff for the weekends in ER.”

“Take me home, baby,” Heaven said to Hank as she got up and finished the last bit of champagne, tipping the bottle up to her mouth grandly, then tossing it over her shoulder for effect. It landed with a thud on the carpet behind her, not breaking, and rolled toward the bar. “I’ll leave the van here in case the kitchen needs it for something. I can hardly wait to get to New Orleans where everyone knows folks act crazy.”

Murray got up and shook Hank’s hand, then gave Heaven a little hug. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be just fine here.” He sure hoped he was right.