by Doug Worgul
LaVerne told Angela about Delbert and Hartholz and the butcher shop and making barbecue and the smell of the cherrywood smoke and the briskets and sausage and drinking whiskey and Delbert’s blues. He told her about his high school baseball coach and how he taught him the fundamentals of the game and how to drive a car and how to chew tobacco.
Angela told LaVerne that the pharmacist at the drugstore down on Troost had offered her a job for the summer, but her parents told her no, even though the pharmacist is a deacon at New Jerusalem Baptist Church. She told him about each of her classes at the university and how she didn’t really like chemistry much, but her psychology class was interesting and how she would spend all day in her English lit class if they would let her. And she told him that there was a white girl named Elaine in her lit class that she had talked to a couple of times and that she seemed nice.
LaVerne told Angela about Birmingham and how he had seen a deputy sheriff set his police dog loose on a crowd of Freedom Marchers and how the next week that same man came to a ballgame and after the game asked him to autograph a baseball for his little boy.
Angela told LaVerne that she wondered sometimes if she might not suffocate under the weight of her parents’ expectations and how she didn’t really understand some of the rules her parents made her and the boys follow when they were growing up. Not dancing, for example. She and her brothers weren’t allowed to dance. They weren’t even allowed to go to prom. But there was dancing in the Bible and so what, exactly, was wrong with dancing, anyway?
One of the stadium janitors, an older black man, came down the row and approached Angela and LaVerne. “You kids about done? We’ll be leaving in a half-hour or so.”
LaVerne nodded. “Can you give us just a little more time? I’m with the team. We won’t be long.”
The janitor smiled and left them alone. The radio was playing the Temptations’ “Dream Come True.”
LaVerne took Angela’s hand and led her down onto the field. He put his arm around her waist and began to move her body slowly with his hand on the small of her back.
Smokey Robinson started singing “Ooo Baby Baby” and LaVerne pulled Angela closer and Angela understood why her parents objected to dancing.
14
Outside Shot
When the guy in the yellow double-wide lost his job at the landfill he started picking fights with his friends at the bars and wanting A.B.’s mother to pay for his beer, and the relationship lost its spark. A.B.’s mom stopped going up to the trailer park in Sugar Creek. By then A.B. was smoking Camels everyday. His mom knew about it but she had problems of her own.
Sammy Merzeti was the name of the big kid at the trailer park who got A.B. Clayton started smoking. Sammy was five or six inches taller than other kids his age, so people always thought he was older than he actually was. Kids his age were nervous around him because of his height and also the missing finger, and older kids picked on him and wouldn’t let him hang around because he was younger. This all resulted in Sammy being pissed off much of the time. Except when he was playing basketball.
Because he was tall even the kids who avoided him or bossed him around wanted him on their teams when they played pick-up games at the playground. Plus Sammy had a wicked jump shot, a reliable Kareem Abdul-Jabbar-style skyhook, and could dribble behind his back and between his legs. When he was playing basketball, Sammy felt light and forgetful.
A couple times he asked his mom to come to watch him play, but she said she couldn’t think of a reason why she would go watch a bunch of kids play shitty basketball on a shitty playground basketball court where the hoops didn’t even have nets.
“It’s not like you’re on a real team or anything,” she said.
*
Sammy had no reason to be any more optimistic than usual about how things would turn out when his mother first brought Rudy Turpin home with her. The other strays she brought home were only ever interested in one thing. And it wasn’t Sammy.
For the first few weeks Rudy pretty much did have only that one thing on his mind. But during that time he was nice enough to Sammy that he felt he could relax a little. Rudy even talked to him; asking him about school and girls and cars and sports. Sammy wasn’t familiar enough with the first three topics to discuss them in any depth, but he was happy to talk to Rudy about sports. Especially basketball.
Rudy had dark bushy eyebrows, heavy horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses, and an oversized nose. Sometimes when they were talking about the Lakers or the 76ers, Sammy would look at Rudy and imagine that he was wearing those fake glasses with the big plastic nose attached. Rudy never mentioned anything about his big nose or his thick glasses, so Sammy didn’t either.
Rudy was also short, which was why he was particularly fond of the Houston Rockets’ tiny superstar Calvin Murphy. Sammy was partial to the Kansas City Kings’ Otis Birdsong.
“Well, then,” said Rudy. “Maybe me and you ought to go to a Kings game sometime. What would you think about that?”
Sammy thought that it would never happen, that’s what he thought. But he told Rudy that he’d like to go.
*
On November 27, five days after Thanksgiving, Sammy Merzeti and Rudy Turpin watched the Kansas City Kings beat the Houston Rockets, 117-115, at Municipal Stadium, in downtown Kansas City.
Rudy bought them hot dogs and sno-cones, and a lemonade for Sammy, and a beer for himself. On the way home, after the game, Rudy played the radio. He sang along on the chorus to “Devil Went Down to Georgia” while Sammy played air fiddle during Charlie Daniels’ solo. When Bob Seger’s “We’ve Got Tonight” came on, Rudy cranked it up loud and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Sammy, which he accepted.
Rudy talked about his job on the line over at the Fairfax plant making Chevy Blazers. He asked Sammy about his finger, and Sammy explained that it got smashed in a car door when he was eight years old. He didn’t tell the part about his mother slamming the door shut because she was mad at him for stealing money from her purse. Sammy asked Rudy if he had any kids and Rudy said no, he didn’t. He’d always wanted kids of his own, but things didn’t work out that way.
On Sterling Rd., about a half-mile from the entrance to Harmony Haven, was a 7-Eleven where Rudy liked to stop for gas and cigarettes. He pulled in and filled up. When he was done he poked his head in the car window. “Come on in, kid. I’ll get you a Snickers or something.”
They went in and Sammy picked out a Zero bar. At the counter, Rudy asked the clerk for a pack of Kools. As the clerk turned and reached for the Kools, another customer walked up and asked for a pack of Marlboros. The clerk turned back around, gave Rudy his Kools and the other man his Marlboros. The Marlboro guy handed the clerk a five dollar bill. The clerk proceeded to ring up the sale for the Marlboros, which is when Rudy intervened.
“We was here first,” he said.
The other fellow glanced at Rudy impassively, then turned back to the clerk with his hand extended, expecting change from his five. The clerk looked anxiously at Rudy, but since he’d already made change he gave it to the Marlboro guy.
With a swift upward sweep of his left arm Rudy knocked the money from the guy’s hand. The coins jangled on the floor by the ice cream freezer. The competing customer gazed at his empty hand for a moment then made a move for Rudy, which Rudy intercepted with the point of a knife he produced from his back pocket. He held the blade of the knife alongside the man’s nose.
“I don’t think you were looking for trouble,” Rudy said. “So I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. But you need to work on your manners, mister. Seriously. You need to set a good example for youth who might be taking note.”
Rudy then delivered a hard open-hand shove to the man’s chest, which sent him stumbling back into a display of key chains, car deodorizers, and disposable lighters. Rudy gave the clerk a ten dollar bill, apologized for the inconvenience, too
k Sammy by the arm, and left.
It took Sammy a long time to fall asleep that night.
*
That weekend, on his way into Harmony Haven to see Sammy’s mom, Rudy drove past the playground and saw Sammy shooting baskets. He parked, got out of his car, went over and sat down on the bench, lit up a cigarette, and watched for while.
Sammy was self-conscious at first and missed several shots in row. Some didn’t even hit the backboard, or the rim, or the net. But eventually he found a groove and started sinking nearly everything, at one point swishing four straight.
“Hop in the car, boy. I’ll drive you home,” Rudy said, finally. “Your mother’s expecting me.”
In the car, Rudy smiled at Sammy. “You got a deadly shot, kid.”
*
A week or so later, on an unseasonably warm December Saturday afternoon, Sammy went down to the playground to practice free throws. Five black kids about his age were there playing shootout, laughing and teasing. Sammy recognized two of them. One lived in a trailer over by the ditch. The other went to his school. They stopped playing when Sammy stepped onto the court, waiting in wary silence to see what he would do, which Sammy himself hadn’t yet figured out.
At first Sammy thought he might ask if they were playing half-court. And, if so, could he use the other half. But he surprised himself.
“You guys need a sixth?” he asked. “For three-on-three?”
They deliberated by looking at each other, watching for non-verbal cues, positive or negative. The kid who lived over by the ditch broke the ice. His name was Wesley. He nodded.
“You play with me and Reggie,” he said, indicating one of the other guys, a tall skinny kid wearing a dark blue wool knit cap and a Detroit Lions jersey.
Sammy quickly realized that the others were a lot better than he was. Except for a cheerful chubby kid named Dwayne. Dwayne had lots of hustle, but was seriously uncoordinated and had no outside shot. Sammy decided that if he was going to stay in the game he’d have to go one-on-one against Dwayne.
The tactic worked well. Sammy stole the ball from Dwayne at will, and Dwayne’s attempts to defend against Sammy’s jump shot and skyhook were ineffectual. Sammy was emboldened by his success and began to taunt Dwayne.
“Come on, Dwayne! That all you got?” he hissed in Dwayne’s ear as Dwayne tried to block an inside drive.
“Hey, big boy! Watch this!” Sammy hooted, as he went in for a lay up.
Sammy’s cockiness made Wesley anxious. He grabbed Sammy’s shirt.
“Cool it, man,” he said. “This is for fun. And Dwayne is my boy.”
Sammy nodded and smiled. He breathed in and out hard and slow through his nostrils. There was a ringing in his ears and he wondered where it was coming from. His feet and hands felt tingly and electric and he thought that if he looked down at them they might be invisible. He felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead, swell up, then slide down between his eyebrows alongside his nose past the left corner of his mouth under his chin then down his neck, sternum, belly, and into the waistband of his underwear.
He backed off Dwayne, and Dwayne made a couple of layups. His teammates shouted encouragement and glared at Sammy.
It was getting dark, the wind had picked up and it was feeling like winter. Sammy knew the game would probably not last much longer. By his count, the score was tied.
Reggie missed a long outside jumper and Dwayne managed to snag the rebound. He turned and started dribbling slowly down court. Encountering Sammy about halfway to the goal, Dwayne stopped and looked for someone to pass to. He threw the ball toward a teammate on his left, but with a quick flick of his right hand Sammy intercepted the pass. Dwayne twisted his body around, reaching for the ball, hoping to steal it back. Sammy elbowed him in the ribs knocking him to the asphalt. He heard Dwayne grunt. He went in for an easy layup and came down dancing.
“Oh yeah! Oh yeah!” he laughed.
He turned around grinning as Wesley struck him full force in the face with the base of his hand, breaking his nose. He staggered backward hit the back of his head on the goalpost and slid to the ground. Blood spurted from his nose in thick short bursts.
Wesley bent over him. “I told you this was just for fun, asshole,” he said.
He stomped Sammy in the balls. Then he stomped him in the balls again.
Sammy lay in the dark on the grass by the side of the basketball court for a long time. When he finally struggled to his feet he saw that the front of his T-shirt was soaked in blood. He started home, breathing through his mouth, cradling his testicles with both hands. His mother had earlier said that Rudy was coming for dinner. He hoped Rudy was still there.
His mother was standing at the sink with her back to the door when Sammy came in.
“Is Rudy here, Ma?” he asked stuffily, through broken cartilage.
“No,” said his mother, without turning around. “He ain’t comin’.”
“Why? I thought he was going to eat here tonight.”
“Well he ain’t. Not tonight. Not ever.”
“Why?” Sammy demanded. “Why ain’t he coming ever?”
His mother still had not turned to look at Sammy.
“Because he says he didn’t like the way I was talkin’ with a guy at the bar last night. Even though I said it wasn’t nothing and I was just havin’ a little fun, he didn’t see it that way. So we got into it and he said we was done and I was a whore anyways.”
Sammy began to shiver. “You are a whore.”
Sammy’s mother whipped around to face her son. She gasped when she saw his broken face and bloodied clothes. And she gasped again when Sammy picked up the heavy glass ashtray from the kitchen table and swung it up against the side of her head with all that he had in him.
*
She wasn’t dead. He could see that. She wasn’t even bleeding that bad. He picked up the ashtray, went to the sink and washed it. Then he returned to the table, sat down, lit a cigarette, and looked at his mother.
His own wounds no longer hurt. He felt like there were possibilities. Like he could do things now he couldn’t do before. Before his mother was on the floor.
He felt like taking a nap. He thought about what to do next. Maybe call Rudy. He wondered where his mother kept Rudy’s number. His mother moaned. A glob of partially congealed blood fell from his nose onto the table.
He finished his cigarette, got up, went to the phone, and called 9-1-1. “Yeah, my name is Sammy Merzeti. Somebody broke into our trailer and beat up my mom and me. Some black guys. My mom is hurt bad. She’s knocked out, and my nose is broke, I’m pretty sure. It was black guys. Three of them.”
15
Thief in the Night
In 1983, the year after it opened, Smoke Meat was robbed three times. This almost convinced LaVerne and Angela that the restaurant business was too risky. At least in downtown Kansas City, and with Raymond spending so much time working there. But, in 1984 there was only one robbery attempt, which failed when the robber slipped on some spilled barbecue sauce. LaVerne’s and Angela’s anxieties were allayed somewhat.
These days, when attempted robberies of the restaurant fail, the failure is usually due to a sudden collapse in confidence on the part of the would-be thief, resulting in rapid retreat or capture.
A few weeks after Raymond died, LaVerne was working the counter when a guy came into the restaurant at lunchtime, stood in line with everyone else and when it was his turn to order, pulled a gun out of his pocket, pointed it at LaVerne’s forehead and demanded money.
LaVerne said no.
“I’m not giving you anything,” he said. “Because I got nothing. I got nothing to lose. Nothing left.”
The guy with the gun appeared confused. This was the first time that pointing a gun at someone’s forehead had not achieved the intended result.
LaVerne continued.
“Dying would be just fine with me. So if you want to shoot me, go ahead. I couldn’t care less. But that’s the only way you’re going to get a dime from me, asshole.”
The guy with the gun began to sweat as he contemplated his next move. That’s when LaVerne swept his right hand up and across, grabbing the gun. He jammed it up under the guy’s chin, forcing him back on his heels.
“Don’t kill me!” the suddenly gunless guy screamed.
“Then get the hell out of here!” LaVerne said, his jaws tight and clenching. He came out from behind the counter and the guy turned and ran out the door.
The next time somebody tried robbing the place LaVerne employed roughly the same tactics and they were once again successful. Thereafter this became LaVerne’s primary theft deterrent methodology. He kept the guns he collected this way in the safe in the office and turned them over to Pug Hale whenever he came in next.
LaVerne’s approach did not work every time. Once, in response to LaVerne’s refusal to hand over cash, a robber clubbed him on the side of the head with his pistol, knocking him unconscious. Since then, LaVerne has used more discretion in how he handles robbery threats. If the thief appears at all unsure of himself, or if no gun is visible, LaVerne will stand his ground. If however the thief is cold and calm, with hard dead eyes, LaVerne will open the cash register and let the thief take the money. To minimize losses in such circumstances, LaVerne never keeps more than $100 in the cash drawer. The rest goes in the office safe.
Because more often than not LaVerne is not the one behind the counter, he instructs his employees to never resist a robbery. “I don’t expect any of you to lose your life or get hurt for minimum wage,” he says.
*
One Saturday, Bob Dunleavy surprised LaVerne by presenting him a genuine autographed Rocky Colavito model K55 35-inch Hillerich & Bradsby Louisville Slugger from 1964—the one year Colavito played with the Athletics.
