Chapter 11: Moosejaw the Jew

Every case has its ups and downs. The Edwin Caruthers Foundation is no exception. Yes, I had been discouraged about the race track fatality. Well, not the fatality exactly, but the fact that it hadn’t been a factor, hadn’t been a secret, all along.

I went back to Waldo, back to the cozy little bungalow where the Sullivan twins lived and worked. Worked in their bedroom office and, I assumed, lived in the other bedroom. None of my beeswax.

I updated them on Woolsey and said, “Print out everything on O’Conner and Hartman. I’m starting over.”

When you do a deep dive into someone’s life, it generates an amazing amount of paperwork. Especially when they’re in their fifth decade on earth.

The Board member — Millie Hargrove — who knew of the three presidential candidates turned out to be yet another dead end. She had always been a long-shot; I looked at her simply because she was aware of the competitors. Not only aware of, but approving of. But I had to check.

Now why did I want two cartons of paperwork? When almost all of it could be read digitally? It’s something I do when I have to start over. A different venue — home instead of my office; a different format — ink on paper instead of electrons.

It may or may not work, but isn’t that true of so many things?

Euforia’s first lunch kicked off at 11:30 on a Wednesday. Kansas City and other Midwestern towns have a lot of early diners. For some it’s work-dictated schedules. Others ... who knows? Maybe some agrarian rhythms left over from ancestral times.

In any case, we were ready. I’d taken three afternoons off to help out. Dumpster duty matches my skill set and I was ready to roll. I changed the window sign from “Lunching Soon” to “Lunching Now”.

As anticipated, the $5 cheeseburger chowder led the parade.

Although Vanessa kept the $5 cheeseburger too. As at BEAR’s, there is no extra charge for additional toppings. Bacon, onion, tomato, lettuce — whatever you want. And Vanessa had tweaked the formula to allow the customers to select whichever cheese they preferred — sharp cheddar, tangy blue cheese crumbles, silky camembert, etc. On top, or Daddy-style — folded into the middle of the patty.

I was pleased to see several of our friends show up to support the daytime launch. But also relieved to see people we didn’t know mixed in with the Euforia regulars and our pals.

We did two turns on all three days — Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. The Saturday lunch was different; people didn’t eat and dash back to their lives. They lingered, many of them. More booze, mostly beer and wine, was ordered. Several diners migrated from the dining room to the bar and settled in to watch sports. Euforia doesn’t have a television set, but iPads are available to anyone who doesn’t bring his own device.

The iPads were also used in an experiment. Vanessa understands the importance of staying current. Keeping up with, or, one hopes, getting ahead of the competition. Yelp of course for customer reviews. Vanessa trained the kitchen on plating Instagram-worthy helpings. With plates and bowls purchased for just that purpose. Like with the foodporn hashtag. Google even tells diners how busy the restaurant is.

But everyone uses these basics. Every joint in Euforia’s league anyway.

Vanessa’s now testing some new software that shows an iPad photograph of every dish on the menu. There’s a slider that allows each customer to determine the size — larger or smaller — of each portion. It’s a gimmick, yeah. But it’s also savvy. Someone with, say, an omega-3 deficiency can order a larger piece of salmon. The price is adjusted with every change — no cash register surprises.

According to a report Vanessa showed Gertie and me, the Boston Consulting Group predicts a six to ten percent increase from portion-personalization.

Amazingly, to me anyway, the restaurant soundtrack can account for another ten percent growth. Vanessa curated her playlists to match the spirit — the look, the feel — of Euforia. Then, still in an experimental mood, she tried an industry-generated selection. Using detailed information on the restaurant, this particular high tech company’s algorithms sort through millions of songs to deliver a mixture of mostly unknown songs.

Unknown, which gives the listener a subconscious sense of discovering something new, something pleasant. Mostly instrumental, non-intrusive, yet intriguing.

Of course the food itself may have something to do with success.

That first week was easy; we’d known it would be. Friends, regulars, folks curious about the new. The real test would come in a month or so. Once Mr. Routine settled in.

Matt Striker, with his FBI contacts in DC, learned that Gunner Gunther had gone Wild West on me. He called that night.

“So. I heard you didn’t get off a shot.”

“I scurried away like a scaredy-cat. Fast as I could.”

“Girls.”

Matt and I haven’t ... um, gone to the mattresses yet. But we’re at that anticipatory stage where we’re comfortable teasing each other.

“And I heard you don’t like girls. Pity.”

I could hear the grin in his voice. “Take ‘em or leave ‘em.”

“I live in Kansas City.”

“Pretty cool town. Maybe I’ll be back for a visit.”

“Suit yourself.” I hung up without saying goodbye. It’s a lady thing.

Walker: What’s long, hard, and full of semen?


Pilar: A submarine

It was almost two in the morning. Vanessa asleep, Walker and Pilar asleep. Hobo, I assume, asleep.

I’d moved the Foundation bumf into the kitchen. Dragged in a floor lamp — Tri-plex Mid-Century Modern from Room&Board if you must know — so I wouldn’t need the ceiling light. I despise ceiling lights — unsightly and unflattering. Although no one else was around to flatter.

I’d finished the William (Billy) O’Conner carton — nada. And was about halfway through Hartman when something niggled at me. I filled a highball glass with ice and poured myself some spicy Bloody Mary mix. Added Tabasco. Sipped and thought back over what I’d been reading. Something.

I sighed and started over on Catherine (not Cathy) Hartman. Boring, but I was no longer sleepy. Like Hobo after the sheep. Something.

Then it leaped out at me. I whispered, “Snowbirds.”

I looked at the Hartman Funeral Home financials. That Sullivan & Sullivan Research had obtained without bothering the company. The four Kansas City funeral homes received a casket ... um, not empty ... about three or four times a month.

The rate had slowed down as America’s involvement in Middle Eastern adventures had wound down. But one of the four homes — the smallest, newest, this one in Raytown — was still receiving almost one casket a week. Almost all of them were from Arizona and California.

I could see the logic — Kansas Citians who had retired to warmer climes. They aged and time took its toll. They had stipulated that their remains be shipped back ‘home’ for burial near loved ones.

Okay, makes sense.

But that one Raytown funeral home seemed to be accepting an undue amount of caskets. More than the other three combined. Hmm.

I shuffled papers for a few more minutes. There. Average weight around 400 pounds, counting the shipping crate, casket, and corpse. A casket without a corpse could carry a lot of contraband. Dope, of course. Guns. Stolen stuff.

And with the recipient being a funeral home ... with the crate labeled “Human Remains” ... well, really, who is likely to check?

More paper shuffling. Three Arizona funeral homes, five in California. Different owners for the most part. Too many for one conspiracy. Shuffle, shuffle.

Dietrich Transport. The common denominator in Arizona. Flipping pages faster. In California. Flip, flip, flip. In Missouri.

I sat back, feeling I’d filled an inside straight. No proof of course. But I had the feeling I was onto something. I checked my surveillance logs against the Raytown shipping manifestos. Yes.

The week that I had tailed Hartman, the Raytown location had received a casket from San Diego. June 23, a Friday. I had Hartman with a two-hour stay in Raytown that same day. What about the timing? My eyes darted back and forth between two sheets — yes. Noon to 2:14 for Hartman. A 12:25 casket delivery.

Again not proof. But I’d ask Daddy — do I take it to Sergeant Louise Finch of the KCPD? Or SAIC Ash Collins of the FBI?

It’s premature, way, way too early, to present anything to Kate Mulligan. But I had the feeling that Billy O’Conner would become the next president of the Edwin Caruthers Foundation for Children.

Pilar, in that innate kindness some children have, had taken one of the Wrigley’s permanent residents — Wally Maypole — under her wing. And then enlisted the participation of the newest permanent, Scout.

She knocked at Wally’s second-floor door, probably the first time anyone had. The slender 40-year old was startled, blinking in the hallway light. Pilar handed him the human end of Hobo’s leash and said, “I need your help exercising this guy, Mr. Pole.”

Wally, blinking ever more rapidly, numbly took the leash. Hobo smiled up at him. A friendly, but guarded smile. New territory for both guys.

Pilar led them down the back stairs to the lobby, out the front door to Main Street. Hobo looked up quizzically at Pilar from time to time, but trotted happily along when she said, “Stick.” Pilar turned right, toward Union Station just a couple of blocks south.

She said, “Borders need a lot of exercise, Mr. Pole. I’m counting on you.”

“Um.”

“You’ll do fine, he likes you already, see?”

Hobo, on cue, grinned up. More friendly this time.

Pilar led them across Main to a pocket park on Pershing. Washington Square Park, not to be confused with the famous one in NYC. This park leads east to Grand Avenue. Just a block square, but plenty of room to let Hobo fly. Plenty of room to avoid the large statue of George.

Pilar picked up a tree branch, no. Another, looking for just the right length and weight. Then a third one. She smiled at Hobo and said, “Stick.” She unleashed him and threw it as far as she could. He was off like a flash, a dirt cloud where his rear feet had been. Tail wagging furiously, he trotted back and dropped the stick at Pilar’s pink sneakers. Grinned up at her, let’s go.

Pilar made direct eye contact with Hobo and told him, “Mr. Pole.” She carefully placed the stick at Wally’s feet. Who, somewhat uncertainly, picked it up. Looked at it, possibly for slobber, then shrugged and, throwing like a girl, sent it spinning vertically. Not horizontally.

Pilar didn’t bother to correct him; there would be plenty of time for lessons. Hobo looked up and Pilar whispered, “Go!”

This time Hobo placed the stick directly in front of Wally’s brown wingtips. Pilar said, “Good boy,” possibly referring to both of them. She watched the procedure one more time, then told Wally, “It’s 10 now. Please bring Hobo back in about half an hour.”

“Um.”

By the third morning, as she and Walker left for school, Pilar stopped the elevator on Two and ruffled Hobo behind the ears. She kissed the top of his head and whispered, “Mr. Pole.”

Hobo hopped out and pranced to Wally’s door, leash trailing behind. Gave a short bark. Wally had been waiting and the door opened right away. Cautiously.

After a couple of weeks, Pilar approached Gerald Nuttinger, “Mr. Scout, I could use a favor.”

“Of course.” The hotel adored Pilar and Walker, sort of viewed them as honorary family. The kids were so polite, so well behaved. Well, so far as the hotel world knew.

“When you have time, would you go with Mr. Pole and Hobo to the park? Hobo needs exercise in the morning and afternoon while I’m at school.”

“Of course.”

Pilar told Vanessa and me about the Hobo operation after it was a fait accompli. She was bringing Wally Maypole out of his shell, into the world. And cementing his nascent friendship with Scout.

Also, as Vanessa noted wryly, “Pilar solved any boredom concerns she might have had with Hobo.”

Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, and I check up on Hobo when he’s Home Alone. We have the Canary security system which provides live iPhone feed from our loft through four different cameras.