Chapter 13: A Committee of Vultures

When Vanessa and I bought the failed liquor store on 63rd Street in Brookside, we knew the gut remodel required to convert the space to house Euforia would be extensive and expensive. As an important part of it all, she had focused on the acoustics. On dampening down the noise level.

“Quiet is the new black,” became her mantra.

The sound level, along with how flattering the lighting was, were two of the sometimes overlooked elements that could be critical to a restaurant’s success.

For noise abatement ... common sense stuff like heavy drapes that absorbed sound even when they were open. And innovative touches like an open coat check area so the dinners’ outerwear would perform a similar function.

But technology kept advancing the game. Just recently, Vanessa purchased an app that had a built-in decibel reader. And she decided to improve the restaurant’s acoustics even more.

She and I were in my office in the Exchange Building soliciting Gertie’s approval for the added expenditures. I wasn’t concerned; Gertie’s hearing deterioration wasn’t dramatic — she certainly wasn’t deaf as a turnip — but it had been noticeable over the years. She’d be interested in anything that made restaurant conversations more comfortable.

Gertie looked over the proposal, nodded, “Noise and stress are definitely related. And think of your customers, Vanessa. Out on a first date, or an anniversary or a birthday. They want to be able to hear each other. Or a business luncheon. Well, Brookside isn’t like Manhattan.”

“We do have some business lunches.”

“Even if you didn’t, you don’t want the joint to be too loud. Although some restaurants do prefer that. They do it on purpose.”

I said, “Why? Why in the world?”

Vanessa said, “Noise makes you feel hurried; you order faster, eat faster. Those loud restaurants can turn their tables over more quickly.”

“But I go out to have fun, relax, socialize.”

“That’s why I want to quiet Euforia down even more.”

Gloria said, “What’s your average decibel level?”

“It’s 65 to 67 most nights. The average restaurant in America is 78 or 79.”

Gertie looked at me, the designated noise-dummy, “And that scale is logarithmic. Which means 70 is exponentially louder than 65.”

I nodded knowingly. Vanessa patted my knee.

As she rolled her unlit Camel between her fingers, Gertie read from the spreadsheet, “You want to apply acoustic panels to the underside of the tables. Not that expensive. But putting panels on the ceiling costs a few shekels. Go for it anyway.”

I said, “What about that noise-absorbing plaster?” I had read about that.

“Let’s wait and see how the first two changes work.”

Vanessa nodded, “And I also like the idea of those acoustic panels that are disguised as paintings, but they’re too ugly for now.”

Maeve Hardmore, “Tell them about the Delicious Irony, honey.”

Warren laughed, “Ah, Operation Paperclip.”

He paused; I could hear him drinking from a beer bottle. “Joe-Harlan, I know that you and Mike and Larry haven’t studied our history the way Maeve and I have. But you should be aware that The Restoration is merely one arm of a secret, powerful movement. A movement centered right here in the United States.”

Maeve, “Put it in perspective, Warren. It’s true that these guys don’t know the breadth and depth of our purpose-driven people, but neither does the fucking United State government.”

“You’re right. And that brings us back to Operation Paperclip. Germany had a setback in World War II. Obviously tactical mistakes were made. Serious tactical mistakes like fighting on two fronts at once. But the two remaining superpowers — Russia and America — recognized the true genius, the brilliance of Germany’s scientists, engineers, technicians.”

Maeve, some glee in her voice, “And the United Cesspool of States got into a bidding war with the Bear.”

“That’s right, this stupid country brought thousands and thousands of Nazis right into the bosom of their family.”

“The Justice Department’s Immigration and Naturalization Service gave those talented Nazis and their families new identifications, money, jobs, a brand new life. Each file was given a paperclip and they eventually changed the name from Operation Overcast to Operation Paperclip.”

Joe-Harlan, “I never heard of such a thing.”

Warren, “Oh, they’d like to pretend it never happened.”

Maeve, cheerfully, “But it did. In fact, several Operation Paperclip members were awarded the NASA Distinguished Service Medal. Including Wernher von Braun, who killed thousands of Jews in his race to build rockets.”

I didn’t actually go to DC. A middle-aged woman with saggy boobs and compression stockings — Mildred Hawkins — did. Although I didn’t use that name; it could have been burned when the FBI agent using my fake ID nosed around a few Nazi compounds a couple of years earlier.

I didn’t do full dowdy like I could have. The Four Seasons would have some appearance standards for its employees. And I didn’t bother with the merkin either. There are some things below which I will not stoop.

Hector Delgado was a dapper little gent with a pencil mustache. He was discreet enough not to mention that someone with some clout had wired me into the Folsom soirée. An 8 PM affair and I showed up at 7.

He led me up to the Conference Level, to a smallish room — Sequoia. Where two white-clad girls were already setting the dining table. Following hotel protocol, I was similarly attired.

The rectangular wooden table looked like it belonged in a conference room; it probably did double duty during the day. Ten beige leather chairs — four/four and one/one ringed the table. Each place setting had a tall cylindrical water carafe that the girls would fill when the guests arrived.

I introduced myself, “Hi, Barbara Reynolds.” Barbara was usually a redhead; not this evening.

Penny and Sal were curious who the new dame was, but too well trained to nose into my business. Both were white; I wondered if that were a coincidence or a request.

I’d taken a quickie course from Amelia Baxter. My primary bartending experience had been at a couple of high school keggers, probably not what the Four Seasons had in mind.

The portable bar was about eight feet long, with three sinks and the water lines hooked up. Everything looked neat and tidy and ... professional.

I skinned a lemon carefully so that I’d end up with curly peels. Washed and quartered a few limes, approved of the mix of olives, and checked the inventory. Top-shelf booze — bourbon, scotch, gin, vodka — but everything, even the single malt scotch, was American. Tonic and club soda. Basics.

The glasses were sparkling clean, no surprise there. One of the sinks was filled with ice and the necks of American craft beers were poking up.

The first guest to walk through the door was Warren Hardmore. He strode confidently over to me, smiled, and asked for a glass of ice water.

Gulp.

Since Hardmore didn’t know me, had never seen me, I decided not to faint.

Next in — Martin Folsom, our host. The two men nodded politely, didn’t shake hands. Folsom murmured quietly, “Nice work in Houston.”

“Where?”

“Exactly.”

Folsom took a little device out of his jacket pocket and wanded the room. Smiled at me, didn’t apologize, but checked me for listening devices. The same with Penny and Sal when they came in with tinkly pitchers of ice water. Neither one reacted; the hotel had no doubt hosted sensitive diplomatic and secretive business events before.

Eight other men came in, one at a time. Folsom didn’t shake hands with them either. That would have contributed to my ‘loner’ theory, but I’m resisting confirmation bias these days.

I clocked the room as I mixed simple drinks. Each guy had on a suit or sports coat, about half wore ties. The talk was quiet, and while it wasn’t stiff, it wasn’t a good-buddies reunion. There was a quiet formality to the gathering; I had a sense of autonomy, of strangers meeting for the first time.

When everyone was seated, Penny and Sal offered wine and there were a few takers. I had only one serious drinker, a mild looking gent with a Southern accent, “A little serving of sour mash, young lady. And keep in mind the rigors of the drought.”

I poured with a heavy hand, easy on the water, and surveyed the room. Every man was quietly dressed, mild in manner. They were all white, aged 35 to 45 or so. It was like a national sales meeting with the key regional offices represented by the local managers. Folsom was the youngest guy in the room.

As they started on their heirloom tomato salads, I slipped out the side door along with the other two girls. I left them in the kitchen and walked down the hall, around the corner, into another private room. Clint, no expression, handed me a fountain pen that didn’t write. I kept walking as I slipped it into my apron pocket. Clint closed the door behind me; Hardmore had met him back in KC.

In the prep area I filled a small bucket with ice and returned to Sequoia. They were still on the salads, talking quietly, obviously marking time until they were alone. The room was booked until midnight.

The listening device would record for over twenty hours — one click and it reported for duty. I slid it into the bottom of a bowl of lemons, invisible to the room. I’d tested it at home; worked well even covered with fruit.

Everyone had the same entrée — lobster pot pie. Smelled delish.

Dessert was simple, and even sort of healthy — sliced pears, mixed nuts, three cheeses.

As Penny and Sal cleared the last of the dishes, Folsom looked at me, “We’ll need the room.”

“Of course. I’ll leave the bar in case anyone wants a nightcap. Come back to clean up when your meeting is over.”

“Fine.”

Sal said, “Fresh coffee and tea by the door. Ring if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

My fountain pen was a simple recorder; Clint and I couldn’t listen remotely. It was a dedicated device, designed for performing only one task. We waited to listen until we were back in Matt’s condo, just a few blocks away.

First things first. I shed my disguise and hit the shower. No surprise, a retired FBI agent was right on my tail. Literally.

The Four Seasons recording was colorless in its droning, businesslike slog. And horrifying since we knew what was left unsaid, what the context was.

It took me a few moments to make the connection. Folsom’s voice, his tone, his ... understated eloquence, reminded me of Hardmore’s own quiet fluency. And, in a way, of the chilling calmness emanating from the text of “Mud People”.

Folsom kicked off the formal session, “In addition to our common cause, the foundation of our relationship is a mutual lack of curiosity about each other.”

Murmurs of approval

“Today, we finally have a friend, a true friend, here in DC. But for most establishment politicians, there is a sunless future that faces them, faces America’s so-called leaders. For them, the white heat of The Restoration is not a forging heat, it is a melting heat. It dissolves the falsehood of equivalency and reduces to cinders the very foundation of an integrated society.”

More murmurs of approval.

“For them, the only glories of this once-great nation lie in its bygone days. And let them cherish the past while they still can. For us, for The Restoration, we celebrate the best of America’s history while turning our eyes to the future.”

A few other things besides Folsom’s smooth way with words stood out to me:

> Folsom had congratulated Hardmore on Houston. Privately.

> Percival Highbottom must have come in after the dessert plates had been cleared. Folsom didn’t introduce him, merely said, “Take a good look, gentlemen. If he shows up, he’s in charge.” Highbottom didn’t utter a word.

> Each of the nine regional guys delivered a financial overview. Income, expenses, projections. The minimum balance on hand was over $100,000; one guy reported $247,000. I recognized Hardmore’s voice — $189,000 available.

> No specific city was cited as each representative reported his group’s financials.

> No attendee names were mentioned, not even Folsom’s.

> At the end, Folsom said, “As you know, I can’t share any operational details, but The Restoration has launched. Quietly and successfully.”

Murmurs of approval.

Houston. Maybe Detroit, maybe Albuquerque.

In bed that night, Clint was particularly fierce. He almost matched my own ardor.

In the morning — I was still hankering for some lobster pot pie — I headed to the airport after re-storing my Mildred Hawkins gear in Matt’s garage. Clint, fountain pen in hand, headed out to see Ash.

I didn’t know, and didn’t ask, if Ash would listen to the surreptitious recording. His business. Because DC was a one-party consent town, the tape would have actually been legal had I been able to stay in the room. No chance of that.

Also Ash’s business — how his agents had managed to identify the other eight men. They’d known about Folsom and Hardmore and Highbottom; now they knew the identity every other man in the room.

It was a working assumption that ten of those men — Folsom and nine regional directors — were heading up the entire operational side of The Restoration. Ash’s team wouldn’t stop looking for additional city cells; but would immediately concentrate on the nine team captains who’d been in DC. Would be especially curious about any Detroit and Albuquerque connections.

Each of the nine had two federal agents accompanying him on the return flight. And each would be met by another two feds at his hometown airport. Since the Houston death — Ezekiel Matthew Greene — the net in each city would tighten. Warrants would be easier to obtain, funding was no longer in question, the A-Team would be on it.

It was just a coincidence, but Vanguard Security, LLC had an office in six of the nine Restoration cities. Not that I expected we’d see much action, not with Ash and his team all over the Nazis.

The Sullivans met me at Shake Shack to refuel and bring me up to date on their latest Folsom inquiries.

Double bacon cheeseburgers, extra bacon please.

Skin-tight black leggings, loose white sweaters. Jessie said, “This is more hearsay than factual.”

Jesse, “We scoured the social media accounts of Folsom’s high school classmates.”

Jessie, “The Field School.”

Jesse grinned, “We assumed the identity of a guy who wasn’t posting — Jerry Lassiter. He’s in an ashram in Dharamsala. India.”

“So a month ago, Jerry went online and started asking about Folsom.”

“We didn’t do it very often, nothing suspicious.”

“Got a few of those students walking down Memory Lane.”

Jessie grinned, “And what they remembered was Fearsome Folsom.”

The twins were quite pleased with themselves. Which was perfectly fine with me. There’s more than one way to dig up intel and if a little social engineering was involved, so be it.

Jesse, “Turns out that ‘Fearsome’ isn’t Martin Folsom, it’s his mother. Maxine”

I sat up, “Really?”

Jessie, “Turns out she’s a bitch on wheels, nobody liked her.”

“Really domineering.”

“No father in the picture, not since the divorce.”

“Which we’re still digging into. It was abrupt and ugly.”

I said, “Ugly how?”

Jessie, “Not sure, the divorce records are under seal. But Maxine ended up with a pot of Bartholomew’s money.”

Jesse, “We’re starting to think that Our Martin wasn’t pussy-whipped, he was mommy-whipped.”

SABBATH LOUISE ARMSTRONG

I’m not sure what I had going; it certainly wasn’t an ordained church. And I certainly wasn’t a trained psychologist. But my little rented bungalow had generated an after-school following. At first it was just two or three neighborhood children and they showed up only irregularly. But word spread, kids talked, and these days it wasn’t unusual to have ten or fifteen boys and girls stay for an hour or two.

It was partly juice and snacks; I didn’t have any doubt about that. After my first week of operation, I doubled down on groceries. It was obvious that some of those poor kids wouldn’t go home to much of a dinner. I stocked plenty of bananas, apples, oranges, which seemed to be the most popular.

Probably the smartest thing I’d done was to listen to my instincts. I’d been sensitive enough to make my little retreat a safe place, an unofficial sanctuary, from day one.

I don’t know if it was subconscious irony or some crossed cosmic wires, but one day I said, “Welcome to The Haven,” and the name took. Haven House.

The afternoons were mostly quiet times. Some arguments, some yelling, but I was usually able to smooth things over. There was nothing formal to those afternoon sessions, certainly no sermons. Some days it was purely a social respite for those kids — between school and an uncertain home life.

The children learned, or came to realize, that there weren’t any hidden tests; judgments weren’t being passed; bullying wasn’t tolerated. Over time, some of the questions touched on ... behavior, I guess. The value, even if it’s not immediately perceptible, of doing the right thing. The kind thing, the honest thing. But I was diligent in making sure there was nothing preachy in my words and tone.

After the last kid left for home, I took a short walk to have dinner with Gloria and Sheree at the shelter. We always ate with the girls, but left it up to them to guide their own conversations.

When the cleanup was complete, I’d go to my corner of the cafeteria and welcome the growing cadre of girls who sat crosslegged on the floor and looked to me for guidance or gossip on whatever was on their minds that evening.

One night, after lights-out, I heard Rosalita Gomez quietly recite a song I’d taught some of the Haven kids:

“There are four corners to my bed.

And four angels overhead.