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

by Doug Worgul

  “Now we’re getting into a tricky area,” Peri cautioned. “Pulled pork is something we Southerners know about. But, generally speaking it’s favored more east of Memphis. So I can’t claim to be an expert. But I can tell you that this was divine.”

  A.B. nudged LaVerne, which LaVerne ignored.

  Then Peri frowned. “The ribs. The ribs. The ribs. I’d have to go back to Memphis and close down my restaurant if I said your ribs were better than mine. As a matter of business strategy, it’s my responsibility to tell my customers that they’re eating the best ribs in the whole wide world. So, Mr. Williams, sadly, I must tell you that Memphis ribs rule.”

  LaVerne smiled slightly and conceded the point.

  Peri wasn’t done. “Then there’s this pulled chuck roast. The reverend here tells me this is a house specialty. Well, all I can say is that it is special. Very special. If you promise never to tell anyone back home, I’ll admit to you that this is the best barbecue I ever had.”

  LaVerne grinned. “Well, Ms. Brown, that’s a high compliment coming from another barbecue proprietor. You’re welcome here as my guest anytime. And I look forward to someday checking out the fine food at your establishment. Now, may I interest you in some cobbler or maybe some pie?”

  Peri agreed to a slice of vinegar pie, which annoyed A.B., who feels strongly that vinegar and pie are incompatible concepts.

  They sat with their coffee listening to A.B., LaVerne, Vicki, and Leon in the kitchen, cleaning up.

  Peri patted Ferguson’s hand. “What you said yesterday? About being alone?”

  He nodded. Peri gripped his hand and squeezed.

  “You’re not.”

  34

  April 1968

  A men’s room attendant at the airport told Delbert that there was a hotel about six or seven blocks east of the Alameda County sheriff’s department where Negroes from out-of-town sometimes stayed when they came to visit or bail out their relatives at the County lock-up. So when he got on the bus that was headed downtown, that’s where he told the driver he wanted to go. An hour later, the driver stopped in front of the Turner Hotel, a three-story brown brick building badly in need of tuck-pointing and new windows. The hotel’s neon sign also needed fixing. The “ner” in Turner and the “Ho” in Hotel were broken and didn’t light up.

  The lobby of the Turner Hotel, such as it was—humid and dingy, peeling wallpaper and worn wood floors—was occupied by three women of indeterminate age, two black, one white, each wearing skirts so short Delbert felt he should avert his eyes. One of the black women wore a lacy white blouse that, before he looked away, Delbert noticed he could see through. The women looked tired and hard. He thought about Loretta.

  The furniture in the lobby consisted of a dented metal folding chair and a small lime-green upholstered couch with a crust of dried vomit where the seat cushions used to be. Nobody was sitting on either the chair or the couch.

  Delbert smelled rotting fruit, disinfectant, and reefer. The latter a memory of his lost time down in Houston’s Fourth Ward before the war. After they found Madeleine in the river. Before Rose led him to Jesus.

  Opposite the front door was a sliding window that opened into a small office where the hotel manager sat. The window was made of thick Plexiglas, smudged and scratched to such an extent that it was nearly opaque. Delbert tapped on the window. The manager, a heavyset white man in an undershirt and stained chinos was watching TV with his feet on the desk and his back to the window. He was, at first, unresponsive to Delbert’s tapping, so Delbert tried again, at which point the manager pulled his feet off the desk, heaved himself out of his chair, and stepped to the window. His left eye was covered by a large square of gauze, adhered to his face with white medical tape. The bottom half of the gauze was yellowed and crusty. He slid the window open, and stood there.

  “I’d like a room,” said Delbert. “For three nights.”

  The manager pushed a pen and a registration form across the counter to Delbert. When Delbert had completed the form, the manager took a key from a pegboard on the wall.

  “That’ll be twenty dollars a night. In advance.”

  Delbert gave the man sixty dollars. The man gave Delbert a key to Room 203 and pointed in the direction of the stairs.

  *

  Delbert pushed the chest of drawers against the locked door, just to be on the safe side. It made him anxious that there was no lock on the window, but he told himself that there was probably nothing to worry about since his room was on the second floor.

  He slept poorly that night, and only for brief periods. Outside there were sirens, barking dogs, yelling and cursing, screeching tires, and at least one gunshot.

  In Plum Grove there were sometimes barking dogs, but never screeching tires or gunfire. Often there was laughing.

  In the morning, as he was leaving to get a bus to the sheriff’s department, Delbert noticed that the white girl he’d seen in the lobby the night before was sleeping on the lime-green couch. There were still no cushions on the couch and Delbert wondered if she was sleeping on the dried puke.

  There was an Oakland Tribune newspaper box at the bus stop, and as he waited and wondered what he would say to LaVerne when he saw him, he glanced down at the newspaper displayed in the box window. The headline read, “Panthers Demand Release of Assailant.” The main photograph pictured several young black men on the steps of a large brick building. They were dressed in black pants, black leather jackets, and black berets, and they carried signs that said “Free our brother!”, “Justice NOW!” and “A’s = KKK”. One of the men was yelling into a bullhorn.

  Delbert bent to get a closer look at the paper. There, next to the large photograph, was a smaller picture. It was a photo of LaVerne, from his Kansas City Athletics baseball card. The caption read, “Ex-Big Leaguer held in assault on officer.” Delbert stood up straight. His heart beat fast and he felt sweat on his upper lip. He fished around in his pocket, found a quarter, put it in the box and took a copy of the newspaper, which he read on the bus.

  *

  The incident involving LaVerne and the deputy at Oakland Alameda County Coliseum had been witnessed by a stadium janitor who later recounted what he had seen to his older brother—a petty thief, heroin addict, and Black Panther Party hanger-on.

  The Black Panthers were not in need of additional reasons for outrage. In addition to 300 years of slavery, impoverishment, segregation, lynchings, and the assassination of Martin Luther King earlier in month, there was the shooting death, just days before, of Bobby Hutton, one of the organization’s founders.

  On April 6th, officers from the Oakland police department stopped two cars in which eight Panthers were traveling on their way across town. Both the officers and the Panthers were wary and suspicious after two nights of tension and violent outbursts following the King killing. Two of the Panthers, Bobby Hutton and Eldridge Cleaver, took off running and ended up cornered in a basement surrounded by police. A shootout ensued, resulting in the use of tear gas to flush the young men out of the building. Hutton was the first to escape the building, whereupon he was shot twelve times by the police and killed instantly. He was 18 years old.

  When the Panthers learned of LaVerne’s arrest, they saw it as an opportunity to fuel the fire of rage they had kindled in Oakland, in hopes it would spread.

  *

  Delbert got off the bus at the corner, about a half block from the sheriff’s department. He could see that protestors had gathered again around the front steps of the building. He heard them chanting.

  He knew about the Black Panthers from TV. He had seen them carrying guns and shouting about revolution on the news. One time Rose had asked him about it.

  “Goodness, Delbert,” she said. “What are those young men up to? Someone is going to get hurt. What have we come to?”

  She speculated about their upbringing.

 
Delbert guessed out loud that the Black Panthers probably did not have parents who were much worried about them carrying guns and shouting about revolution.

  “I can see why any colored person would be angry,” he said. “That doesn’t take any imagination. But the only progress I seen us make in this country is how Dr. King was showing us. You disobey the laws that ain’t just, that ain’t right. But you know to begin with what the consequences are going to be and you take ‘em when they come your way. It ain’t that you don’t believe in being law abiding. You just can’t obey laws that ain’t right. You just want the law to be the same for everybody. You do what’s right. And you pray for them that do wrong. Anyways, people start shooting and killing other people, things are going to get a whole lot worse. Not better.”

  As he approached the steps, the group of young black men and women stopped their chanting and moved aside to allow Delbert up the stairs. This relieved Delbert’s anxiety somewhat. He reached for the door to go inside and a uniformed deputy stepped out to block his entry. The deputy put one hand on Delbert’s chest to keep him from moving forward. The other hand gripped the handle of his holstered revolver.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked Delbert.

  “Well, sir, I’m here to see one of your prisoners,” Delbert said.

  Delbert looked down, his head bowed slightly. The Panthers moved in around Delbert and the officer.

  “Who exactly are you here to see?” the deputy asked, eyeing the group warily.

  “LaVerne Williams, sir,” Delbert said. He kept his head low and didn’t make eye contact. One of the Panthers huffed indignantly.

  “You don’t need to be calling that pig ‘sir’,” he growled. “He ain’t your master, is he?”

  The deputy pulled Delbert into the building and locked the doors behind him. He led Delbert down a narrow hallway, then down a flight of stairs into a large room with a high ceiling and dull fluorescent lights. There were six holding cells; two on the facing wall, and two each on the left and right walls. On the rear wall were two doors that opened into rooms where prisoners and their visitors could talk at a table, separated by a tall Plexiglas barrier that divided the table lengthwise.

  LaVerne was sitting on a bench in the far right corner cell, his back turned to the door. He didn’t see Delbert come in. The officer led Delbert into the visiting room.

  “Wait on that side of the table,” he told Delbert, pointing to the far chair, opposite the door. Delbert sat down. He said a prayer and waited.

  *

  There was a clock on the wall by the door. It was eight minutes past eleven. The room smelled like cigarette ashes and weak coffee. One leg of his chair was just a bit shorter than the others, causing it to rock slightly when he shifted his weight.

  He waited and remembered the boy.

  He remembered wiping the boy’s nose as they waited on the Dibbs’ front porch when they went to visit after Ronnie Dibbs was killed in Korea. He remembered buttoning the top button of the boy’s Sunday shirt before the school talent show at which the boy performed magic tricks with his friend Junebug. He remembered the boy trying to catch smoke from the pit in a Mason jar. He remembered laughing with Hartholz and teasing the boy as he heaved and retched behind the smoke pit after swallowing a plug of chewing tobacco, having decided that real baseball players needed tobacco chewing skills.

  He remembered the seventh inning of the boy’s last high school game. When the boy was at bat and had already hit two home runs. And the pitcher, who had decided that he would not give up another home run, hit the boy hard on the hip with a fastball. And the boy trotted to first, then took a sharp left turn, raced across the infield and tackled the pitcher and managed to bloody the kid’s nose and upper lip before the ump and the two coaches pulled him away.

  He remembered listening to the boy sing in church. Too loud and off-key. Sweet and sincere.

  *

  The deputy led LaVerne into the room. He was handcuffed and his face was crumpled up like a discarded paper sack. He sat down on the other side of the Plexiglas partition. His head and shoulders slumped and he cried.

  “I can’t believe you came, Uncle Delbert,” he sobbed. “I can’t believe you came.”

  Delbert nodded. “Well, boy, you’re in a tough spot and you needed some family.”

  LaVerne sank deep in the chair and put his forehead on the tabletop.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle. I’m so sorry. I ruined everything. I ruined everything for everybody.”

  Delbert interrupted. “Enough of that. Nothing’s ruined for nobody.”

  “But it is, Delbert,” LaVerne moaned. “It didn’t happen the way they say it did, but it happened just the same. And if I hadn’t come out here, if I hadn’t left my wife and baby, it never would have happened. But you need to know, Delbert, I didn’t attack that officer. I didn’t attack him. I was just upset and I needed Finley to listen to me and he was acting like he’d never seen me before. But he was the one who signed me. When I signed my contract we even shook hands. Then when I tried to talk to him he just walked on like I was nobody. And that deputy had hold of me and wouldn’t let go and Finley was laughing and I needed to talk to him so I pulled loose and the deputy just fell. He fell back and hit his head. I didn’t mean to hurt him. But I did hurt him. And now it’s all over. Everything good in my life is over and done with. Gone. My family. Plum Grove. Baseball. All gone. They’re going to put me in jail. They’re not going to let a black man off the hook for something like this. Not when it involves a deputy. Not the way things are right now. Then there’s those guys outside stirring things up. They’re just making all these police even more mad. I don’t know how they even heard about me or why they’re here. It’s not that I asked them to do this. It just makes things worse.”

  He wiped his eyes and sat up. “Not that they can really get any worse.”

  He was finished. He stared down at his shackled hands.

  Delbert was silent. He could hear LaVerne breathing.

  “Nothing’s over, son,” he said quietly. “Nothing’s gone. It’s all still right here. This is just a little detour on the road.”

  LaVerne didn’t look up.

  “LaVerne, I checked with Sheriff Link Thompson back home and he told me that they have to give you one of those public lawyers to defend you in the court. It’s the law,” Delbert said. “The lawyer will tell the truth. He’ll explain that it was an accident.

  “Here’s the other thing, son. You got people who love you. Your grandma and me. And Angela and your little Raymond. Angela’s folks . . .”

  LaVerne shook his head at the mention of Angela’s family.

  “May as well take them off the list, Uncle. They were never too pleased that their daughter ended up with me. This will sink my boat with them.”

  Delbert leaned close to the divider.

  “Listen to me, LaVerne. This is what I want you to hear. It doesn’t matter how this all turns out. You are loved. I love you. And I won’t stop. Not ever. No matter what you do or what anyone else does to you. I know you feel lost, son. But you are not lost. Because I know where you are. I know right where you are.”

  *

  The officer came in to tell them the visit was over. He escorted LaVerne back to the cell.

  “I’ll be back, LaVerne,” said Delbert. “It’s all gonna be alright.”

  The officer led Delbert back up the stairs.

  “Next time you visit your nephew it’ll be over at the county jail,” he said. “He’s being transferred over there after his hearing.”

  As Delbert and the deputy stood at the exit, the officer turned to Delbert.

  “Your nephew seems like a good kid. He hasn’t made any trouble. And he seems real broke up about all this. I think he’s got remorse. I hope things work out somehow.”

  Delbert nodded. “Thank you, sir. He is
a fine young man. He made a mistake is all.”

  The deputy held the door open for Delbert, and Delbert made his way down the stairs. The protesters had mostly dispersed. Among those who remained was the surly young man who had challenged Delbert for calling the deputy “sir.” He was leaning against a tree near the sidewalk with one of the other demonstrators. As Delbert walked by, on his way back to the bus stop, the young man sneered.

  “That’s it, old man,” he snorted. “Shuffle and step. Shuffle and step. Just like a good Nee-gro.”

  Delbert stopped and turned. “Who are you?”

  The man lit a cigarette.

  “I’m the Deputy Minister of Community Organization of the Black Panther Party. Who are you?”

  “I’m Delbert Douglass Merisier III,” Delbert said. “And I am LaVerne William’s uncle.”

  The man grinned. “I knew I recognized you! You’re Uncle Tom!”

  Delbert stepped close to the Deputy Minister of Community Organization. He was at least five inches shorter than the younger man, but nearly fifty pounds heavier. He looked up directly into the man’s eyes.

  “Why are you here?” he asked in a cold even voice.

  “The Black Panther Party demands justice for Brother Williams who has been wrongfully imprisoned by the white police state,” the minister recited.

  Delbert’s thick calloused right hand shot up and gripped the minister’s Adam’s apple. He heaved the minister against the tree and pushed his knee against the young man’s testicles.

  “As I pointed out, I’m Mr. William’s uncle,” Delbert hissed, his face inches away from the minister’s. “So I happen to know that you ain’t his brother. I also know you’re just using him. You don’t give a damn about him or what happens to him. You’re just marchin’ around out here makin’ noise tryin’ to get folks to pay attention to your sorry ass.”

  The minister’s colleague reached inside his black leather coat. Delbert turned to him.