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

by Doug Worgul

  Hartholz shuddered and looked like he might throw up.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Delbert nodded. “Good idea. Let’s get this thing in the back of the truck.”

  Hartholz was horrified at Delbert’s suggestion.

  “What?” he exclaimed in near panic. “It’s not dead! What do we want with a dinosaur turtle, anyway?”

  “We’re going to eat it,” Delbert announced.

  Delbert was the only person in the world that Hartholz trusted, but the idea of eating this grotesque brute tested his confidence in his friend’s judgment. Delbert knew what Hartholz was thinking. He smiled.

  “You’ll see. Let’s put it in the boat. Then we’ll drag the boat to the truck and pull it up onto the truck bed.”

  Hartholz shook his head. Delbert grasped the edge of the turtle’s shell on one side, and Hartholz did the same on the other side. They strained and groaned and managed to get it over to the boat and shoved it in. It fell on top of the gunnysack and the remaining stink bait squirted out.

  Hartholz breathed hard. “That thing is 200 pounds,” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve.

  “I’m telling you, it’s the biggest ever,” said Delbert, bent over, his hands on his knees.

  They climbed up on the back of the pickup and, with monumental effort and much cursing, pulled the turtle-laden skiff up into the truck bed and covered it with the tarp.

  *

  Just north of Plum Grove, Hartholz noticed that a truck that had been following them for a half mile or so was speeding up, as if to pass them.

  “This one is hurrying,” he muttered, as he slowed his pickup to let the other truck by.

  Delbert turned and looked out the back window at the passing truck.

  “Oh, man,” he said. “Let’s hope he just keeps going.”

  The truck drove on past. Hartholz looked at Delbert.

  “Why?” Hartholz asked. “Why did you want him to keep going?”

  “Because the boy in that truck is Jimmy Neville Cray,” said Delbert. “Because you’re white, you’ve never had to deal with Jimmy Neville Cray. Let’s just say he’s the meanest son-of-a-bitch over in Montgomery County and he doesn’t much care for us colored. In fact, he thinks the world would be better off without us. Some folks say he already sent one poor black soul to his home over Jordan.”

  Hartholz pondered the possible meanings of “over Jordan.”

  Then, stopped there in front of them, blocking the road, was Jimmy Neville Cray’s truck. Jimmy Neville Cray was standing in front of it, with a shotgun over his shoulder. Hartholz braked to skidding stop.

  Jimmy walked up to the driver’s side window of Harholz’s truck and tapped on the glass with the barrel of his gun. Hartholz rolled the window down.

  “Out for an evening drive, fellas?” asked Jimmy.

  “We’re just driving home to Plum Grove,” Hartholz said. “Please let us go.”

  Jimmy cocked his head sideways, like a dog trying to figure something out.

  “You sound like one of them Nazi prisoners they got locked up at the fairgrounds,” he said. “Is that right? You a Kraut? One of ol’ Adolph’s boys? You escape from that camp?”

  Hartholz shook his head vigorously. “I am German,” his voice trembled. “But I’ve been in America a long time. Before the war. I’m not a Nazi. I didn’t escape from a camp.”

  Jimmy wasn’t interested in Hartholz’s explanation. He’d already turned his attention to Delbert.

  “A Kraut and a nigger,” he sneered. “Together in one place. Smells like trouble to me. You boys planning trouble?”

  Hartholz was about to deny any trouble making intent, but Delbert elbowed him and shook his head. Hartholz said nothing.

  “That’s right,” said Jimmy. “It’s probably best if you just shut the hell up.”

  There was nothing remarkable about Jimmy’s appearance. If you spent an hour alone with him in a room, an hour after leaving him you’d be hard pressed to describe him to anyone. He was of normal height and weight, had short brown hair, acne on his forehead, a bit of a mustache, and slightly larger than average ears. He wore a dirty white T-shirt, with a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket, blue jeans, and worn brown cowboy boots. He leaned into Hartholz’s window.

  “So, where you all been?” he asked in a secretive hush. “You been lookin’ for women? You been lookin’ for pretty white women?”

  Hartholz shook his head. Delbert stared ahead. Without obvious movement, he felt with his right hand for the old pistol Hartholz sometimes kept down by the passenger seat. It was there and he held it by the grip and sat still.

  “Wait a minute,” said Jimmy. “Is that stink bait, I smell? You boys been fishin’ for cats, ain’t ya? And you didn’t invite me. Shame on y’all.”

  He stepped back from the window. “Get out the truck,” he said. His voice was flat and cold.

  Delbert and Hartholz got out. Delbert left the revolver in the cab, planning how he might jump back in for it, if circumstances required.

  “It just so happens that I been needin’ me a new fishin’ boat,” Jimmy said.

  “But the boat is old,” Hartholz said. Jimmy shoved the barrel of his shotgun into Hartholz’s belly, doubling him over in pain.

  “I told you to shut the hell up,” Jimmy said.

  He took a deep breath. “So, I was sayin’ I need me a fishin’ boat. And praise be, here one is.”

  He walked around to the back of Hartholz’s truck. “See? You was wrong. It may be a little old, but this lil’ boat will do me just fine.”

  Jimmy hopped up onto the truck bed, and looked the boat over, as if he were about to purchase a thoroughbred race horse. He kicked at the tarp.

  A loud guttural hiss came from under the tarp, and the pronged bloody head of the gigantic Texas alligator snapping turtle thrust out and locked its barbed jaws around Jimmy’s right foot. Jimmy screamed and fell backward, letting go of his shotgun, which fell to the road and discharged, blasting buckshot into the truck’s left rear fender.

  The turtle retained its vise-bite on Jimmy’s foot, preventing him from fleeing. He flailed and shrieked, half in the boat, half out, his head hanging upside down over the back of the truck.

  Hartholz and Delbert jumped into the front of the truck. They looked back through the rear window in time to see Jimmy flop out onto the ground. The turtle, holding something in its mouth, remained in the boat, which remained in the truckbed. Hartholz jammed the accelerator and the truck sped away, spraying gravel and dust behind it.

  A few miles down the road, Delbert picked up the pistol and held it in his hands, thinking how their lives almost changed. He sighed.

  “Good thing we didn’t have to use this,” he said. “There ain’t any bullets in it.”

  *

  Hartholz and Delbert spent the afternoon and evening cooking turtle meat over a slow applewood fire. They drank whiskey and watched the smoke drift up, and fed turtle scraps to a gray tabby cat that had recently taken up residence in the smoke shack. Because the cat had six toes on each foot, Hartholz called it Six Toes.

  “That’s real clever, Fred,” Delbert told him.

  All afternoon friends and neighbors stopped by to ask if the story they’d heard about Jimmy and the turtle was true. The attention made Hartholz anxious, but Delbert reveled in it. He embellished the story with each retelling. In an early version he had caught four catfish, by the end of the day it was seven. He started out telling visitors that he reached for the pistol under the seat, but later implied that he might have fired a few shots at Jimmy as they were leaving the scene.

  The facts regarding the turtle itself required no exaggeration. After sending the beast home over Jordan with a bullet from Hartholz’s newly-loaded pistol, Delbert and Hartholz had heaved the carcass onto the shop’s
meat scale. It weighed 198 pounds.

  The next day, Rose, and six other church mothers, excused themselves from morning services to begin preparing turtle soup, to be served that afternoon at a church picnic.

  The first step was the roux—butter and flour browned in heavy cast iron skillets. Then, on three long wooden picnic tables behind the church building, the women chopped smoked turtle meat, onions, celery, peppers, garlic, tomatoes, and bacon. All this went into an 85-gallon cast-iron kettle suspended over a fire pit by a half-inch steel chain looped over a timber frame constructed from old railroad ties. The kettle was filled most of the way with clean well water, to which the meat and vegetables were added, then bay leaves, thyme, nutmeg, cloves, several cups of Worcestershire sauce, one jar of Rose’s homemade Louisiana hot sauce, and fresh lemon juice. When the soup was ready to serve, three dozen chopped boiled eggs were stirred in.

  *

  That evening, after the members of the Plum Grove Second Baptist Church and their guest, Frederick Hartholz, had their fill of turtle soup, the adults sat in groups on the church lawn drinking iced tea and lemonade. The children gathered under a black willow and took turns swinging sticks at two objects—a pair of totems— hanging by lengths of twine from a low branch. One was the front half of a worn brown cowboy boot. The other was a big toe that had once been attached to Jimmy Neville Cray’s right foot.

  28

  Halfway

  Sammy Merzeti was released from the Jackson County Juvenile Detention Facility into the care and custody of New Hope Halfway House on March 23, 1984, having served thirteen months for robbery and assault. It was his seventeenth birthday.

  The object of Sammy’s robbery was Blax Wax, Ink., a record store and tattoo parlor popular with headbangers—a subpopulation of teenage boys of which Sammy considered himself a member. The subject of the assault was Richie Black, the store’s owner.

  It was not Sammy’s intent to hurt Richie Black. He liked Richie. Richie let him and other kids who were into heavy metal hang out at the store. He let them buy cigarettes, even if they were under age. But in the middle of the night, when Richie came into the store, startling Sammy as he was loading up with cartons of cigarettes and a selection of albums by his three favorite bands—Slayer, Fear, and Venom—Sammy felt he had no choice.

  He had used a rock to bust out the glass in the front door and let himself in, assuming that Richie would be home sleeping. What Sammy didn’t know was that the back room of Blax Wax, Ink. was Richie’s home. Richie stood in the doorway between the front and back rooms of the store in his BVDs and black AC/DC T-shirt, sleepily scratching his crotch.

  “Man, are you robbing me?” he asked wearily. It wasn’t the first time one of Richie’s regular customers had taken advantage of his trusting nature.

  Sammy’s response was to smash Richie in the face with his fist and then run for it, hoping Richie hadn’t gotten a good look at him. But by the time Sammy was a block away, Richie had called 9-1-1, providing police with a detailed description of his assailant, including Sammy’s name. Sammy was apprehended about a mile from Blax Wax, Ink., scrounging around in the bushes behind a car wash looking for the Slayer album Show No Mercy, which he had dropped while trying to climb a fence.

  *

  The social worker at New Hope Halfway House assigned Sammy to a bunk in a four-bed room, which had one other occupant, a black kid named Ron. When Sammy and the social worker came in, Ron was lying on his bed reading. He was wearing black slacks and a white shirt and he smelled like meat grease and smoke. When the social worker saw that Sammy noticed the smell, he explained that Ron was working at Gates & Son Bar-B-Q as part of his probation program.

  “I don’t smell good when I get back from work,” grinned Ron, looking up from his book. “But I eat good when I’m there.”

  The social worker introduced the boys and gave Sammy a rundown of house rules and expectations. When he was finished, he put his hand on Sammy’s shoulder.

  “That’s all for now. You’ve had a big day. Why don’t you relax, get some rest, maybe go down to the common room and watch some TV? In the morning your probation officer will be here to talk with you about your work program.”

  Sammy sat on the edge of his bunk and looked around the room. On a bulletin board by the door several typed pages of rules and schedules were posted. A handwritten sign tacked up at the top of the board said, “DO NOT REMOVE.”

  On the opposite wall was a poster of a mountain climber standing on a mountain peak, silhouetted against a sunset. Under the picture were the words “If you can dream it, you can do it.”

  Over Ron’s bed was another poster. It featured a photo of John Lennon at a grand piano, with the word “IMAGINE” printed above it. On the wall above Sammy’s bed was a poster of Malcolm X.

  Ron put down his book. “If I don’t say anything, it’s not because I’m not friendly. I’m just guessing that you’re not really in the mood to talk much. I wasn’t when I got here. But if you got any questions about how things are around here, I might know the answer. Then again, I might not. I only been here six weeks. Six weeks and three days.”

  Sammy nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Ron held up his book.

  “I’m workin’ on my GED.”

  Sammy nodded again, but didn’t say anything. He lay down on the bed and remembered it was his birthday.

  *

  Sammy’s work program consisted of cleaning restrooms and emptying trash bins on the overnight shift at a 24-hour McDonald’s.

  “The objective is to reintroduce you into mainstream society,” said the probation officer. “Hopefully your fellow employees will become a support system for you.”

  Sammy had no idea what a support system was and was unclear as to the meaning of “mainstream”.

  *

  Since getting beat up at the trailer park basketball court three years earlier, Sammy was wary of black people. But Ron seemed like a nice guy and Sammy thought maybe they’d be friends, but they never saw much of each other because of their different work schedules. One afternoon, when Sammy was watching TV in the common room with some of the other boys, two young men came in and introduced themselves around. They wore jeans and T-shirts, like the kids who lived there did, but they looked newer and cleaner. One was about Sammy’s age. He said his name was Zack. The other was older, maybe in his late-20s. His name was Evan. Evan said that he and Zack were from Family First Community Church, over on the Kansas side, in Johnson County, and were there to invite the residents to a “youth jam” at their church on Saturday.

  “It’ll be fun,” said Evan. “We’re going to have live music and munchies and all. And don’t worry about it being a preachy church thing. It’s not going to be like that. We’ll just be hanging out. It’s just a chance for you to meet people. You don’t have to decide now if you want to come. We’ll bring a van by on Saturday. If you want to come then, we’ll give you a ride there and back. We’ve cleared this with your supervisors here and they’re fine with it.”

  None of the other guys seemed interested in it, so Sammy didn’t say anything to Evan or Zack about going. But later he mentioned it to Ron.

  “You should go, man,” Ron said. “I been goin’ to church since I got released and it helps me feel better about things. People are real nice and they don’t ask me about the trouble I’ve been in or nothing. You should go.”

  He smiled. “Everybody needs Jesus, Sam.”

  On Saturday, Sammy showered and put on a clean shirt, and waited for the church van outside on the steps. He wondered if any of the other guys would come, but when Evan drove up in the van, Sammy was the only one.

  “Tell me your name again,” said Evan, apologetically, extending his hand to Sammy. “I’m terrible at remembering names.”

  “It’s Sam,” he said, sliding into the front passenger seat.

  �
�We appreciate your coming,” Evan said. He smiled at Sammy and Sammy tried to smile back.

  On the way, Evan asked the questions Sammy expected he’d be asked. How long have you been at the halfway house? Are you from around here? Are you working anywhere? Sammy wanted a cigarette, but there was a sign on the dashboard that said, “NO SMOKING.”

  When Evan ran out of questions, Sammy offered him one.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what I done?” he said.

  “Jesus doesn’t care what you’ve done, Sam,” Evan said in a serious, even tone. “If he doesn’t care, neither do I.”

  Sammy nodded. “You ain’t curious?”

  Evan smiled. “Of course I am. I’m just hoping it wasn’t murder.”

  “Not yet,” Sammy snorted. “I hit a friend of mine while I was robbing his store.”

  He really wanted a cigarette.

  Evan was quiet for a time.

  “Sam,” he said. “I don’t know what led you to do what you did. My guess is you’ve had a hard life. Certainly harder than mine. Mine’s been pretty easy. And you’ve probably made choices you wish you hadn’t. I know that’s true of me, too. But everybody makes mistakes. Everybody needs second chances. I hope that things will turn around for you. The folks who run the halfway house seem like good people. So maybe they’ll help. Anyway, I just want to say that Jesus will give you a second chance. And a third and a fourth. You can’t run out of chances with him. Not ever. So maybe, if you give him a chance, things can turn around for you.”

  Sammy wondered what that would look like if it was really true.

  The youth center at Family First Community Church was located in the church basement. The cinder block walls were painted with a high-gloss, pale green enamel and were decorated with lots of hand-lettered signs praising God and celebrating previous “youth jams”. There was a poster from the musical Godspell, another depicting Jesus laughing, and one of Salvador Dali’s surreal painting of the crucifixion.

  Sammy looked away from the Dali poster with a shudder. It gave him the creeps.