Thin Blue Smoke: A Novel About Music, Food, and Love

by Doug Worgul

  A.B. and Raymond sat on the other bench.

  “What are we going to do?” Raymond asked A.B. in a low, urgent tone.

  “I don’t know,” A.B. admitted. “Maybe they’ll let us call again later when your dad might be home.”

  They sat there quiet. The stinky white kid belched in his sleep. Then he raised up on his elbows and vomited. The spew slid down his bare chest. He wiped it off with his hand and lay back down. Raymond got up and spoke to the officer at the desk.

  “Sir, this guy just threw up,” he said. “He might be sick.”

  The attendant didn’t like having to interrupt his phone conversation. He came over to the door and looked in. “Step back,” he told Raymond. He unlocked the door, went in and roused the sick kid. He helped him out of the cell, locked the door behind them and walked the boy down the hall.

  Then the officer who had apprehended the boys in the alley behind the restaurant came in from down the hall carrying a clipboard. LaVerne came in behind him. The boys stood right up.

  “Dad!” Raymond cried. “Did they tell you what happened?”

  LaVerne was signing paperwork the desk attendant gave him. He didn’t look at Raymond. The officer from the alley walked over to the cell.

  “We called your father and he corroborated your story,” he told Raymond. “Be more careful next time. We see a black kid trying to break into a business establishment at night, well, bad things can happen.”

  He looked at A.B. “And you; you should know better. You need to be careful who you associate with.”

  A.B. glared at the man. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means,” the cop replied.

  LaVerne approached the cell.

  The cop smirked. “So which one of these is yours?”

  LaVerne looked at A.B. and Raymond.

  “They’re both mine,” he said.

  18

  Side by Side

  Once or twice a year, a food or travel writer from an East or West Coast newspaper will come to town, visit a half-dozen barbecue joints, scarf down a half-dozen sandwiches, then dispatch a tale of discovery informing readers back home of the marvels of Kansas City barbecue. Smoke Meat has never been among the establishments included in these write-ups. One reason for this oversight is that journalists get their ideas mostly from reading what other journalists have already written. And since most newspaper and magazine articles about Kansas City barbecue tend to focus on the more well-known venues—Bryant’s, Gates, Jack’s Stack, KC Masterpiece, and more recently, Oklahoma Joe’s—those are the places that continue to get most of the attention. When a writer wants to demonstrate an intimate knowledge of out-of-the-way, off-the-beaten-path joints that only locals know about, they may also include Danny Edwards’ place or L.C.’s. This is not nearly the original idea the writer thinks it is. Even though they’re smaller, grittier, and a bit more difficult to find, these joints have also been frequently and thoroughly covered by out-of-town food and travel writers.

  Another reason LaVerne’s place is overlooked is that LaVerne has never made an effort to widen the restaurant’s reputation beyond its own neighborhood. Nobody much knows about Smoke Meat except the regulars. LaVerne doesn’t do any advertising beyond taping a typed copy of the menu in the front window.

  Finally, LaVerne is generally suspicious of journalists. He never much liked the stories that the Star or the Times wrote about him when he was with the Athletics, especially when he got hurt. And he thought that Raymond’s death deserved a lot more attention from the press. On the off-chance an out-of-town writer happens in to Smoke Meat, LaVerne is likely to be cool and minimally responsive, bordering on rude.

  Once when A.B. had to bring his mother to her podiatrist for one of her bunion checkups, he picked up a copy of Midwest Vacation magazine while he waited in the lobby. The cover story was a review of Kansas City barbecue joints, including all the usuals, plus Danny Edwards’ place. Smoke Meat was not mentioned. A.B. was steamed. He tucked the magazine into his jacket and brought it back to the restaurant to show LaVerne.

  “Why should these guys get all the glory, boss?” A.B. demanded, jabbing his finger into the magazine’s offending pages.

  “Who knows and who cares?” LaVerne shrugged, immediately shifting the conversation to a more pressing matter. “Did Rocco deliver the onions and cabbage?”

  The fact that onions and cabbage were of greater concern to LaVerne than the magazine situation exasperated A.B.

  “Boss, we got to get ourselves some of this kind of publicity. It says here these joints are ‘authentic Kansas City’. We’re just as authentic as any of these guys. Why did they get in here and not us?”

  LaVerne was unruffled by A.B.’s indignation.

  “Son, what’s publicity going to get us that we don’t already have?” he asked.

  A.B. threw up his arms and let them flop back down at his sides. “People will know who we are!”

  “The people who eat here already know who we are,” said LaVerne, wondering how he was going to get the discussion turned back around to onions and cabbage. “We don’t need too many more people eating here than we already have. There’s only 44 seats in the place.”

  A.B. could see he wasn’t getting anywhere. He shook his head and went out in a huff to clear tables. LaVerne went back to the office to call Rocco’s Produce.

  A few months later, a travel writer from Boston happened to call the restaurant. A.B. answered the phone the way he usually does. “Smoke Meat,” he said in the clipped hurried way he felt implied the full authority of his position as second-in-command. The caller on the other end of the line paused and A.B. thought for a moment there was nobody there.

  “Is this LaVerne Williams’ Genuine BBQ and City Grocery?” the caller asked.

  “Yes, sir,” said A.B. “Can I help you?”

  “My name is Ainsley Ponairi,” said the caller. “I’m a freelance writer in Boston. I’m doing a piece on barbecue restaurants around the country and I’ll be coming through Kansas City next week and was wondering if the owner or manager could spend some time with me talking about Kansas City barbecue. Would that be Mr. Williams?”

  “Yes!” A.B. yipped. “That would be Mr. Williams. LaVerne Williams. He’s the owner and the manager. Well, I’m kind of the manager. But more like the assistant and I couldn’t really talk to anybody about Kansas City barbecue. I mean I grew up in Kansas City and I work at a barbecue restaurant, but I couldn’t talk about it to a free writer. Or lancer. Whatever you said.”

  “Freelance writer,” said the caller. “May I speak with Mr. Williams?”

  “Yes! You can!” said A.B. “I’ll get him.”

  A.B. sensed hiccups coming on and struggled to suppress them. He clamped the telephone receiver to his chest and motioned frantically to Vicki Fuentes, the recently hired college student working the cash register.

  “Go get the boss!” he whispered fiercely, shooshing her toward the office with frenetic arm flapping. Vicki scurried off and returned a moment later with a visibly peeved LaVerne. A.B. thrust the phone at him and mouthed ITSAWRITER with great exaggeration. LaVerne scowled and shrugged. A.B. tried again. AWRITERFROMBOSTON. LaVerne sighed, shook his head and snatched the phone from A.B.’s grip.

  “This is LaVerne Williams,” he said, already impatient.

  Ainsley Ponairi explained to LaVerne that he was going to be in Kansas City in a week and would like to meet to talk about barbecue and maybe take a tour of the restaurant.

  “Well there’s not much to see,” he said. “We’re a pretty small operation.”

  A.B. hovered expectantly.

  “I suppose,” said LaVerne without enthusiasm to a question posed by the writer.

  A.B. nodded energetically.

  “Wednesday would work,” said LaVerne. “But you’d have to come after
two o’clock and before four.”

  A.B. held his hand up for LaVerne to high-five. LaVerne ignored it.

  “That’s fine,” said LaVerne and hung up. He started toward the office with A.B. close on his heels.

  “So?” A.B. asked eagerly. “Is he coming here? Is he going to interview you or something?”

  “Looks like it,” said LaVerne.

  When it dawned on A.B. that he wasn’t likely to obtain anymore information from LaVerne on the topic he went out back for a smoke.

  *

  Ainsley Ponairi arrived at Smoke Meat promptly at 2:00. He was petite and perfectly groomed: perfectly pressed tan gabardines, perfectly pressed blue oxford shirt with open collar, perfectly fitting navy blazer with burgundy pocket square, and perfectly shined cordovan penny loafers with silky white socks. He approached the counter and announced that he had an appointment with Mr. Williams.

  Leon Noel was working the counter that day and he went to retrieve LaVerne. Leon was a parolee who started work at Smoke Meat a few months after serving a short jail sentence for writing a bad check.

  “I think that boy got a bad rap,” LaVerne told A.B. shortly after he hired Leon. “He can hardly read or write. He gets his letters all mixed up. That’s probably why he wrote a bum check. He didn’t know how to write it right. Angela says it’s probably that dyslexia.”

  Leon returned from the kitchen with LaVerne who was wiping his hands on his apron. He and Ainsley Ponairi introduced themselves. They sat, and LaVerne asked Ainsley if he wanted to order anything.

  “What’s your specialty?” Ainsley asked.

  “Barbecue,” said LaVerne with only the slightest smile.

  Ainsley looked as if he might actually try to explain that he meant to ask what specific item on the menu did LaVerne consider to be his specialty, but LaVerne waved his hand to prevent it.

  “I was kidding. I know what you mean. My personal favorite is our pulled chuck. We’re the only place in town that serves it as far as I know. But our brisket is real good also. We slice it thick. Lots of places here in Kansas City use a deli-style slicer and cut it paper thin. But we slice it thick, which is Texas style because that’s where I’m from.”

  Ainsley said he’d have the pulled chuck and LaVerne motioned for A.B. to come over to the table. A.B. had been pretending to be busy behind the counter while he watched over the interview hoping to discern its content and tone. He hustled over to the table.

  “What do you need, Mr. Williams?” he asked solicitously.

  LaVerne rolled his eyes. “Our guest will have a Big Charlie. And how about a short end, and some greens and potatoes, just to give him a sampling.”

  “And an iced tea,” said Ainsley. “If you have it.”

  A.B. scooted off to the kitchen for the food.

  “So, do you also sell groceries here?’ asked Ainsley, looking around.

  “We used to stock a few items when we first opened,” LaVerne explained. “But for a long time nobody lived downtown, so we quit. Nobody was buying anything but the barbecue. Recently folks have been moving back so maybe we’ll add some groceries again. But I don’t know where. We’ve added tables and there’s not much room.”

  “How long have you been open?” asked Ainsley. LaVerne was about to respond when Del James came in.

  “Anyone seen a chisel?” he bellowed. “It’s a five-tooth coarse Milani.”

  Customers dutifully looked under and around their tables and chairs, but no chisel was found.

  “Thanks anyways!” Del shouted as he exited.

  “That’s Del,” said LaVerne. “He’s an artist. He lives down the block and doesn’t hear very well.”

  Ainsley nodded and smiled and waited for LaVerne to answer his question but LaVerne had already forgotten what it was. Ainsley moved on.

  “You said you came from Texas. What brought you here to Kansas City?”

  “Well, I was playing baseball for the Kansas City Athletics,” LaVerne started to explain. “That was in 1967 . . .”

  Suzanne Edwards came in and said hi to LaVerne on her way to the counter. A.B. brought Ainsley’s food. LaVerne looked at the writer.

  “You came here from Texas . . .” Ainsley tried to keep the interview on track.

  “Yes,” said LaVerne. “That’s where I learned barbecue. From my uncle. I always like to say that the best Kansas City barbecue actually comes from Texas. By that I mean Arthur Bryant’s and mine. My wife doesn’t like it when I say that. She grew up here in Kansas City.”

  “Where did your wife go for barbecue when she was growing up?” asked Ainsley.

  LaVerne didn’t much care for the question. “Bryant’s. And Gates, too, I think. There was a place called Oven Bar-B-Q. Her family went there, too.”

  Suzanne walked by on her way back out. She was carrying a big cardboard box full of food.

  “That’s Suzanne,” LaVerne said. “She works at the furniture store across the street. Whenever they have an open house or a big meeting with clients they get their food from us. She’s a good customer.”

  “You were telling me about your uncle,” Ainsley said. “What were his barbecue secrets?”

  “Delbert didn’t have any secrets, really,” said LaVerne. “It was all real straightforward. Briskets and sausage mostly. He didn’t put anything on ‘em. Just salt and pepper. Sometimes garlic or cayenne. That’s it. The rest was all smoke. He used oak. Cherry if he could get it. Plus, he sliced the brisket thick.

  “Uncle Delbert and his business partner, Hartholz, had a little butcher shop in the town where we lived and they made the barbecue out back behind the shop in a brick pit they built. On Saturdays people would drive up all the way from Houston to buy smoked brisket and homemade sausage. My cooker is more expensive and lots fancier than theirs but my barbecue isn’t any better. Nobody’s is any better.”

  LaVerne was interrupted by crashing and breaking glass. Behind the counter A.B. sheepishly held the end of a roll of red butcher paper in his hands.

  “It’s okay!” he called to LaVerne. “I pulled on the paper too hard and the roll came loose and knocked over a rack of glasses. I’m takin’ care of it.”

  He wiped sweat from his upper lip and forehead.

  LaVerne went over to inspect and Ainsley ate some of his Big Charlie pulled chuck sandwich.

  When LaVerne returned to the table Ainsley waited for him to continue talking about Delbert, but LaVerne was finished with the subject. He waited for Ainsley to ask another question.

  “So, now that you’ve lived here in Kansas City awhile and have owned your own barbecue restaurant, how do you think Kansas City barbecue compares to Texas barbecue?” Ainsley asked.

  “Well, there’s a lot more to Kansas City barbecue,” said LaVerne. “More kinds of meat and sauces. Kansas City style is its own thing now, but it originates originally from Texas and the Carolinas. Kansas City gets its beef style from Texas and our pork style comes from the Carolinas. That’s not just my thinking. A lot of other people say the same thing.”

  Suzanne Edwards came marching back in with her box of food, past LaVerne up to the counter. She was red-faced and unhappy. She plopped the box down next to the cash register.

  “Where’s A.B.?” she demanded of Leon. “This order is all wrong! I need to talk to A.B.!”

  LaVerne suspended his explanation of Kansas City-style barbecue to observe the goings on in the back of the restaurant. Ainsley sighed and took a forkful of the greens, then some red potatoes. Up at the counter, Vicki Fuentes stood wide-eyed biting her bottom lip. Leon, who had filled the order, looked like he needed to sit down. They stared at Suzanne in silent dread.

  A.B. came in from the kitchen. “Hey, Suzanne. What’s going on?”

  “A.B., I ordered three pounds of burnt ends, two pounds of turkey, two pounds of pulled pork, and one gallon of beans,”
she said. “Look what I got! You guys have never messed up before. Not ever! But on the day that we’re pitching our biggest account yet, you give me six gallons of beans and two plastic forks! Is this some kind of joke or something?”

  A.B. looked in the box. There were six gallon containers of beans in the box, and tucked in one corner, two plastic forks.

  LaVerne got up and went over to the counter. Ainsley Ponairi started in on his short end.

  “I know what you ordered, Suzanne, because I took your order over the phone,” said A.B., trying to figure out what went wrong. He reached around through the pass-through window for a clipboard of order slips and found Suzanne’s. He turned to Leon and Vicki.

  “Who filled this order?” he asked, his face flushed and damp.

  Leon admitted that he had. At that point LaVerne intervened.

  “A.B., get Suzanne the food she ordered,” he said. “It’s on the house. Suzanne. I’m sorry about this. We’ll have this fixed in a few minutes. If you need to get back to your meeting, we’ll bring the order over to the store for you right away.”

  Suzanne nodded and left. A.B. handed the order slip to LaVerne and retreated into the kitchen. LaVerne read the slip. A.B.’s handwriting was sloppy but legible:

  3 lbs burnt ends

  2 lbs breast

  1 gal beans

  2 lbs pork

  LaVerne held the slip out for Leon to see. “Tell me what this says, boy.”

  Leon leaned in to study the slip. “Well, I wasn’t exactly sure.”

  He looked up to see if Vicki was listening. Vicki noticed Leon’s discomfort and went to help A.B with the order.

  Leon sighed. “I think it says 3 tubs of beans, 2 tubs of beans, 1 gallon of beans, and two forks. I wasn’t sure what a tub was, but I figured it was a gallon. Anyways, I’m not real good at reading. It seemed like a lot of beans. I guess I should have asked.”