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

by Doug Worgul

  A.B took in a deep breath and let it out slow. He felt a bit nauseous. He felt hiccups coming on. He wished Jen were there with him. Even more, he wished he were with Jen, wherever she was.

  “So? What kind of music do you like Warren?”

  Warren looked out the window. “I like the Eagles. And Tom Petty. Johnny Cash quite a lot. Neil Young. And Bob Dylan. Only sometimes he makes me anxious so I have to quit listening to him.”

  A.B. smiled. “You have great taste in music, Warren. I didn’t really know what you’d like, but I made you a CD. So maybe, you know, you could listen to it sometime.”

  He handed Warren a plastic case with a CD in it. It was labeled. “Rabbit Tunes”.

  “I don’t know about rabbits being God’s chosen people or anything,” A.B. said. “But I like going online and finding and downloading songs. My friend Jen, who you met at the game, she and me do that a lot. So I made this. Some of the songs are kind of about rabbits or they have rabbits in the title or the musicians have rabbit in their name somehow. It’s probably dorky to do a whole CD of rabbit music now that I think about it.”

  Warren looked at A.B. and smiled.

  “It’s not dorky,” he said. He turned the case over and read the list of songs printed on the back.

  Pet Rabbit—Johnny Shines

  Rabbits—Dave Bernstein

  The Rabbit Dance—George Winston “The Velveteen Rabbit” soundtrack

  Rabbit Blues—Robert “Smoky Babe” Brown

  Rabbit—Count Basie and the Kansas City Five

  The Rabbit—John Hammond, Jr. Mason Daring

  Br’ Rabbit—Johnny Hodges

  Rabbit Song—The Lost & Found

  White Rabbit—Jefferson Airplane

  James Alley Blues—Richard “Rabbit” Brown

  Come with me to Rabbittland—Eddie Rabbitt

  “I guess I never knew that there were so many songs about rabbits,” he said.

  A.B. nodded. “Actually there was a lot more. But most of them weren’t very good. And some of them had, I don’t know, bad words . . .”

  Warren made a small laughing noise.

  “The Jefferson Airplane song is a classic. Especially for us crazy people. We like the line, ‘One pill makes you smaller. One pill makes you tall. And the ones that mother gives you don’t do anything at all’.”

  Warren studied the song list.

  “The only other song I know here is ‘The Rabbit Dance’ from The Velveteen Rabbit. That was one of my favorite books growing up. I watched the movie on TV lots of times.”

  Warren stood and went over to the window and put the disc in a CD player sitting on the windowsill. Then he and A.B. listened to it all the way through.

  36

  Briefcase Full of Blues

  After A.B.’s fourth rabbit-themed monologue in as many days, LaVerne laid down the law.

  “Son, if you don’t shut up about rabbits I’m going to lock you in the damn freezer,” he snapped. “In fact, I have a better idea. Just plain ol’ shut up. About rabbits, about everything. Just be quiet for a while. Long enough for me to remember what it feels like to think my own thoughts again.”

  About a week after he started visiting Warren at the hospital on a regular basis, A.B. surprised everybody at the restaurant with a detailed oral biography of Baseball Hall of Famer Walter “Rabbit” Maranville. Baseball not having been a subject he’d previously shown much interest in, in spite of LaVerne’s background in the sport.

  “I’m sure you probably heard of him, boss. Apparently he was this really aggressive little ball player,” A.B. said as he was washing greens.

  “He played for 23 years, which is a really long time. All of it in the National League. He played mostly for the Boston Braves. He started out with them in the early 1900s and played with them until 1920. Then he went and played for the Pittsburgh Pirates for awhile. Then he played for the Chicago Cubs and then the Brooklyn Robins. The Robins seems like a silly name for a sports team if you ask me. But when you think about it it’s not really any sillier than the Blue Jays or the Cardinals. Which, by the way, is where Walter “Rabbit” Maranville played next. Then he went back to the Braves. Warren told me all this. It’s really kind of amazing all the things he knows about. Anyways, I don’t know a lot about baseball, as you know, boss. But Warren told me the Braves don’t even play in Boston anymore. The team moved to Milwaukee and then to Atlanta. Or maybe it’s the other way around. You probably knew that. So, this guy Rabbit was famous for his ‘basket’ catches, which I don’t really know what that is. Warren says the most interesting thing about him is that he was real little and that’s why they called him Rabbit. Because rabbits are little. Plus he was quick like a rabbit.”

  LaVerne scowled at A.B. “Just because I played one year of pro ball doesn’t mean I have personal knowledge of everybody who ever played the game. And it doesn’t mean I have any interest in some rabbit guy who played almost a hundred years ago. Furthermore, your yammering on about it has caused a slow down in your washing responsibilities.”

  Later in the week, A.B. asked aloud, as he was turning briskets, if anyone else was as concerned as he was about the plight of the New England cottontail rabbits and the Columbia Basin pygmy rabbit.

  Even though neither Leon nor Vicki said that they were concerned, A.B. decided it was an important enough issue that they should be apprised.

  “Only 300 New England cottontails are still alive in the state of Maine, which is where they live,” he explained. “New England cottontails are the only true rabbits in Maine. There’s some people trying to make a bigger area for these rabbits to live so they’ll be protected. About 450 acres by the Spurwink River. So that’s good.

  “But the Columbia Basin pygmy rabbit situation is real serious. The last purebreed male Columbia Basin pygmy rabbit died recently, leaving just two females in captivity, so the Oregon Zoo is going to try to breed the females with some Idaho and Idaho-Washington rabbits. But they won’t be pure Columbia Basin pygmy rabbits.”

  Leon said he was going out for a cigarette and Vicki said she was going out to clear tables.

  On Friday, A.B. started in first thing in the morning with an explanation of how it was that the recently deceased World Heavyweight Champion Floyd Patterson got the nickname of “The Rabbit.”

  “Basically, it was Muhammad Ali who first called him that. He called him that as an insult. Warren says that that Floyd Patterson shouldn’t have been insulted by it. He should have been honored by it.”

  LaVerne shook his head. “Boy, I didn’t think insanity was contagious, but I think you been infected. You been hangin’ out with Warren a little too much. I’m going to have to call Jen and pay her to take you out on a date so you’ll have something else to do instead of going to listen to crazy Warren and his bunny stories.”

  LaVerne went out back to get wood for the smoker. Leon and Vicki were in the dining room pretending to work, having realized that avoiding A.B. as much as possible was a good idea while he was on his rabbit jag. When A.B. eased a few words of rabbit language into casual workplace conversation, then later began to talk about the cruelty of giving rabbits as pets at Easter time, LaVerne put his foot down.

  “Seriously, A.B.,” he said. “I think it’s good and Christian of you to be visiting Warren in the hospital and all. Angela is proud of you. So am I. And I’m sure Warren and Bob are grateful. But you got to be careful not to become too involved. You got a life you got to think about. Your work. Your other friends. Jen. You and her got a good thing goin’ on, boy. Don’t get so carried away by doing a good thing that it turns out bad.”

  *

  On a Saturday morning, three or four weeks after Warren was discharged from Two Rivers psychiatric hospital, a limousine pulled up in front of LaVerne Williams’ Genuine BBQ and City Grocery. It was a vintage 1967 Cadillac Fleetwood 75. T
wenty-feet long. Cream exterior, maroon leather interior, with seating for eight.

  It was about 10:30, and though the restaurant was open, there weren’t yet any customers in the place. A.B., Vicki, and Leon were in the kitchen, and LaVerne was out in the dining room taking chairs down from the tables.

  Whoever it was who was driving the limo laid on the horn, which blared the first eight bars of “Somewhere My Love” from the movie Dr. Zhivago. Then, whoever it was did it again.

  This aroused LaVerne’s attention.

  “What the hell,” he groused, setting a chair down with more force than the situation called for. He went over to the window to see what all the commotion was about.

  LaVerne’s arrival at the window prompted a reprise of Lara’s Theme.

  “I hate that song,” LaVerne muttered. He went out to the curb to demand that the limo go somewhere else. As he was about to knock on the driver’s window, the window slowly lowered. Bob Dunleavy was sitting in the driver’s seat, wearing aviator-style sunglasses and a big grin.

  “How do like my new wheels?”

  Up to that point, LaVerne was so annoyed by the repeated choruses of “Somewhere My Love” he hadn’t actually noticed the car itself. He stepped back to take a look.

  “Bob! This is a sweet ride, man!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”

  He bent down to check out the inside and saw that Warren was sitting in the front passenger seat, which he had not expected. He paused, not sure if he should say something.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m LaVerne Williams.”

  Warren nodded. “Is A.B. here?” he asked.

  “He is,” LaVerne said. “Would you like me to go get him?”

  LaVerne looked at Bob. Bob smiled an “It’s okay” smile.

  LaVerne went inside and a few moments later returned with A.B. behind him, wiping his hands on his apron.

  Bob and Warren were standing curbside.

  “Well, young man? What do you think?” Bob asked A.B., stepping to the side and sweeping his hands in the direction of the car, in the manner of a game show hostess.

  Warren spoke in a voice lacking animation. “Cool, huh? What do you think, A.B.?”

  His eyes were focused on some point down around A.B.’s knees. He seemed to be trying to smile.

  A.B. grinned. “No way, Bob! Warren! This is yours? This is the same year and make as the Caddy in the Blues Brothers movie! No lie!”

  Warren nodded and succeeded in smiling. “That was good movie. Those guys were on a mission from God.”

  “So, what’s the story, Bob?” LaVerne asked. “Where’d you get this big ol’ barge?”

  “Well, there was this ‘high society grand dame’ that Marge knew who died about a month ago,” Bob said. “She was never married and apparently had no heirs. This car is what her hired man used to drive her around in. But I guess he passed on several years ago and this baby’s just been sitting in her garage since then. So, when they had the estate sale, I scooped it up for a song.”

  Bob opened the back driver’s side door. “Come on you two. Get in. Let’s take this boat on a cruise.”

  LaVerne stepped inside the restaurant and yelled to Leon and Vicki that he and A.B. would be back in a little bit. He got in the car. A.B. was about to, when he stopped and bolted for the restaurant door.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. Seconds later he returned holding a CD. In the car, he handed it to Bob.

  “If you’ve got a CD player in here, put this in,” said A.B.

  Bob checked. “You’re in luck, A.B. Looks like it’s been retrofitted.”

  He slid the disk into the player. It was the Blues Brothers first record, Briefcase Full of Blues. The first track was Otis Redding’s “I Can’t Turn You Loose”. A half-hour later the Caddy pulled up in front of Smoke Meat and discharged its passengers and crew.

  Three men in suits were outside the restaurant looking up and down at the building, as well as the other buildings on the block, the buildings across the street, and the street itself. Bob recognized one of the men.

  “Hey, Ute Johansson,” he said. “What are you doing in this neighborhood?”

  Bob extended his hand to a tall burly man with blond hair and a broad ruddy face.

  “Hey yourself, Bob Dunleavy!” the ruddy man replied, vigorously shaking Bob’s hand. “We’re scouting out some properties. Hoping to get in on the action down here. Downtown is where it’s all happening, with all these big projects you got going. You must be hauling the money to the bank in truckloads every night.”

  He laughed loudly.

  Bob didn’t laugh. “Ute Johansson, meet my friend LaVerne Williams. This is his restaurant. My favorite restaurant in all the world.”

  Ute and LaVerne shook hands. LaVerne reluctantly so, having already sized up the situation and understanding it not to be in his favor.

  “Nice to meet you, LaVerne,” said Ute, cheerily. “I’ve always meant to come down here and check out your place. I hear it’s great.”

  LaVerne nodded. “That’s right.”

  He looked at Bob, then back at Ute. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  La Verne and A.B. went inside, leaving Bob and Warren out on the sidewalk with Ute and his colleagues.

  LaVerne stormed through the kitchen, past Leon and Vicki, into his office where he swiped a bottle of barbecue sauce off the top of the filing cabinet and heaved it against the far wall, shattering the bottle, splattering his framed team photo of the 1967 Kansas City Athletics.

  A.B. was right behind him. “Are those guys out there going to buy this building? Is that what they’re doing?”

  “What does it look like?” LaVerne barked. “They’re not here to deliver flowers.”

  “But they can’t really buy the restaurant, can they? We’ve got a lease, right? So that would still be good with some other owner, right? That’s what happened with my apartment building. They had to honor the lease.”

  LaVerne paced in front of his desk. He glanced over at the wall where sauce and shards of broken bottle were sliding slowly down.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. All I know is it’s out of our control and I don’t like it. You scrape by, doing the best you can for 25 years then some fat-ass developer comes along and pulls the rug right out from under you. I should never have located in a building I couldn’t afford to buy myself. This is just unbelievable.”

  *

  Outside, Bob pushed Ute Johansson regarding his intentions.

  “We’re looking to increase our holdings in this area,” Ute explained. “With all the rehabbing and condo and office development, the galleries and such. We just want in on the action, like I said. We’re actually in negotiations to buy this entire block. We’re bullish on downtown, just like you. This block is ripe for some high-end retail. We envision a Pottery Barn, a Starbucks, a Chipotle, maybe a Barnes and Noble.”

  Bob interrupted Ute’s reverie. “What about the local homegrown businesses that are already here?”

  “Oh, they’ll be fine,” Ute said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We’ll pay to have ‘em relocated to some other part of town. If they’re really a healthy business, they’ll survive. Their customers will follow them. It’s a win-win.”

  Ute and his cohorts excused themselves and walked down the block to continue their inspection.

  Bob and Warren got back in the Caddy.

  “I don’t like that man,” said Warren.

  “I don’t either, son,” said Bob, shaking his head. “Vair. Vair.”

  Warren nodded. “Elil.”

  *

  Almost immediately rumors began to migrate up and down the 1700 block of Walnut Street. One day at lunch Suzanne Edwards and McKenzie Nelson told LaVerne that they’d heard that Johansson’s company was planning on locating a
franchise of the Great USA Barbeque Company in the neighborhood somewhere.

  “Well, that tells you all you need to know about their plans for LaVerne Williams Genuine BBQ and City Grocery, doesn’t it?” he sneered. He threw a dishtowel into the sink and stalked off.

  The next day, LaVerne sat down next to Ferguson as he was finishing a pulled chuck sandwich.

  “I been doing some research on this so-called Great USA Barbeque Company,” he said. He looked and talked as if he had a mouthful of turd.

  “First of all, they spell barbecue with a Q. Not B-B-Q, like we do. Not B-A-R-dash-B -dash-Q, like lots of other folks do. No, they spell it B-A-R-B-E-Q-U-E. That’s a sissy-ass way to spell barbecue.

  “Next of all, it was started up by some guy named Tony David, who used to be an accountant at ConAgra. You catch that? Accountant. ConAgra. They’re that big food corporation. Good place to learn barbecue, huh? Plus this guy was born and raised in Wisconsin. Wisconsin!

  “Then, get this. Listen to their motto. ‘Best Barbeque in the World’. Can you believe it? And if that ain’t bad enough, they don’t just have one motto, they have two. Their other one is ‘Legendary for Ribs’. How do you like that? We don’t even have one motto. Though maybe we should have one. How about this? ‘This is our barbecue. If you don’t like it, I don’t give a shit.’ Or maybe we could have two mottos like them. Here’s our second one: ‘We’ve been here for 25 years, so take your so-called ‘legendary ribs’ and go to hell’.”

  Before Ferguson could say a word, LaVerne had huffed back to the kitchen.

  As Ferguson left Smoke Meat he saw two men across the street. They had clipboards and tape measures, and they were looking at the restaurant from different angles, taking notes and talking on walkie-talkies.

  37

  Up in Michigan