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

by Doug Worgul

  Babaloo’s is the strip bar across the alley behind Smoke Meat.

  “And were you thinking that we’d charge admission or something, to pay for this party?” asked LaVerne.

  A.B. scowled and said nothing.

  “I thought so,” said LaVerne, with a slight smirk. “So, what other big ideas do you have for this party?”

  A.B. brightened up. “Okay. Well, it wouldn’t seem right to ask Mother to be the entertainment at her own party so I was thinking that maybe we could get Junior Provine to come play. Pug and the rest of the band would probably play for free. And maybe Junior would, too.”

  Junior Provine is the best blues harmonica player in Kansas City history. He was born in 1928 in Woodville, Mississippi—in the Delta where the blues themselves were born—the seventh son of a guitar-playing sharecropper. Junior is Junior’s real name, a name he shares with his father and three of his six brothers. In April 1950, after his discharge from the Navy, Junior boarded a train in Chicago with a ticket to Jackson, where he planned to catch a bus home to Woodville. But, in Kansas City, where he had to change trains, Junior’s life took a turn.

  Standing outside Union Station smoking a cigarette, Junior saw a handbill tacked to a telephone pole advertising the need for workers at a meatpacking plant in the Bottoms. The next day he stood in line with 61 other men to fill out an application and the day after that he was pulling cattle carcasses off the line. Within the month, he was sitting in with bands at after hours clubs around town.

  Out in the alley LaVerne thought about A.B.’s plan, while A.B. turned out the light in the walk-in and went to double-check that the front door was locked.

  When he came out and let the door close behind him, LaVerne said, “Sounds like you got it all thought out, son. And Mother deserves it. If you can get Pug on board with it, we’ll do it.”

  *

  Pug liked the idea, but didn’t think the party should be a surprise. “You get a hundred people jumping up and yelling ‘Surprise!’ all at once, and Mother’s likely to drop dead of a heart attack. Besides she’ll get a big kick out of knowing that there’s a lot of planning going for a big hoop-dee in her honor.”

  Pug also agreed to ask Junior Provine if he’d perform. When he first joined the force, Pug sometimes moonlighted as a bouncer at nightclubs around town. That’s when he met Junior, who had just begun making a name for himself. Pug even filled in occasionally for Junior’s longtime lead guitarist who sometimes had to pull a double shift at the post office where he was a mail sorter. Junior and Mother didn’t know each other well, but each respected the work of the other and they had mutual friends.

  “I can probably get Junior to do it for free,” Pug told A.B. “If not, he’ll probably do it for a bottle of cognac and a $100 bill. He’s got a fondness for Ben Franklin.”

  Junior said he’d be happy to play at the party and didn’t ask for money, but Pug gave him a bottle of Remy-Martin anyway.

  The other members of Mother’s regular backup band were eager to participate. They’re all young musicians, except for Pug, and playing on Mother’s gigs has given them a chance to perform with an established professional. Seth Cropper plays keyboards. Seth is an officer with the Kansas City police department’s K-9 unit. The other musicians call him “Cropper the Copper.” Seth claims he’s a distant cousin of Steve Cropper, the Stax studio guitarist, and he probably is. But, because he’s also quite full of himself, the rest of the band pretends not to believe him. Jake Green plays bass, usually an acoustic upright. Jake is a social worker at Catholic Charities, and is kind of quiet. He and Pug are pretty tight, but no one else knows him very well.

  Jen Richards is the drummer. She works on the line at the Harley-Davidson plant and rides a Sportster Custom-XL 883C. Jen has a fine voice and sometimes sings duets with Mother.

  Leon and Vicki agreed to work the night of the party after A.B. offered them time-and-a-half. And Babaloo’s said that if A.B. scheduled the event for a Sunday night he could use their parking lot since they were closed on Sundays.

  Finally, A.B. called Brother Ignatius up at Redemption Abbey and invited him to the party. Brother Ignatius had become acquainted with Mother Mary on his monthly wood delivery visits. When LaVerne first introduced them, Iggy said he’d always prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mother Mary, but hadn’t thought he’d actually meet her in this life. Mary laughed, “I am blessed, Mr. Iggy. That’s a fact. But I sure ain’t no virgin.”

  When Iggy accepted the invitation, A.B. asked if he’d drive down in his wood truck, so that they could use the truckbed for a stage, which Iggy said he would do on the condition that he be allowed to bring his guitar and sit in on at least one number with the band.

  Other than Raymond’s funeral and his own baptism, A.B. figured that Mary’s party was the most important event he had ever been a part of. Every person he cared about in the world was going to be there. Except his mother.

  He asked his mother if she wanted to come, but, even after he explained it three times, she wasn’t clear on who the party was for or why A.B. had anything to do with it.

  “You go ahead, Al Buddy,” she said. “I don’t know any of those people anyway. Besides, me and Rudy, we’re goin’ down to the boats and play the quarter slots.”

  A.B. didn’t know who Rudy was, and didn’t ask.

  After the lunch rush one afternoon, about a week before the party, A.B. walked over to Michael’s Fine Clothing for Men to reserve a tuxedo for the night of the party. His thinking was that, even though LaVerne was paying for the party, he was, in a way, the host of the party since it was his idea and he had made most of the arrangements. A good host should look his best, he thought. Besides, he’d never worn a tux and this was as good a reason as any he might ever have.

  “What’s the nature of the event, sir?” asked the sales clerk at Michael’s.

  “It’s a big birthday party.”

  “Is it an evening event?”

  “It is. There’ll be live music and all.”

  “Then I suggest a dinner jacket,” said the clerk. “Just right for a summer evening affair.”

  A.B. was disappointed. “I was really thinking more about a tux.”

  “Oh, it is a tuxedo,” the clerk assured. “It’s formal wear with a white jacket is all.”

  A.B. tried on a dinner jacket and liked the way it looked. He ordered one for the night of the party, along with a pleated-front shirt, bowtie, cummerbund, trousers with a satin stripe down the leg, and black patent leather shoes.

  Walking back to the restaurant, he got the hiccups.

  *

  A.B. didn’t get much sleep, the week leading up to the party. He was too excited, plus he had to work late getting things ready.

  Vicki and Leon helped with the cobbler and the pies, which they made a few days ahead. The chuck could be smoked the day and night before, but the greens would have to wait till the day of.

  LaVerne helped by making the beans. After the meat itself, LaVerne cares more about the beans than any other item on Smoke Meat’s menu and he wasn’t comfortable letting Vicki or Leon make them. Especially for a big party at which there’d likely be some folks eating his food for the first time.

  On the Sunday of the party, Leon and A.B. got to the restaurant early to start on the greens. While the greens simmered, Leon and A.B carried tables from the dining room out to Babaloo’s parking lot.

  Brother Ignatius arrived at about two in the afternoon and helped set up tables and chairs. Then he set up a stage in the back of his truck. He and A.B. joked about flying cows and dead chickens. When the band arrived, Iggy helped with the sound system.

  Jen Richards, the drummer, noticed the comfortable camaraderie between A.B. and Iggy. “You a friend of A.B.’s,” she asked.

  “Yeah,” said Iggy. “We’re friends. LaVerne and A.B. buy their wood from us, so I see them about onc
e a month or so. A.B. has as pure a heart as anyone I’ve ever known.”

  Jen smiled as she watched A.B. bring the chafing pans out to the serving tables. He stood back, looked things over, and checked something off a list on a clipboard.

  *

  When LaVerne and Angela arrived, Angela gave A.B. a big hug. “A.B. you’ve done such a wonderful job of putting all this together. Mother will be thrilled.”

  A.B. blushed. Angela and Raymond were the only two people who had ever hugged him as far as he could remember. Angela hugged him almost every time she saw him.

  About an hour before the party was to start, A.B. went inside, to the office, to change into his tux. He wanted to look like a proper host when guests arrived.

  After putting on the trousers and shoes, he was surprised to discover that his rented shirt had no buttons.

  “That’s just great!” A.B. said aloud, letting his arms flop to his sides in disgust.

  “What’s just great?” asked a voice behind him.

  A.B. turned to see Ferguson Glen poking his head in through the office doorway.

  “It’s this shirt that came with my tuxedo,” said A.B. “All the buttons are missing.”

  Ferguson nodded. “May I come in?” He held up a bottle of bourbon. “I’m replenishing LaVerne’s office stock.”

  After stashing the whiskey in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, Ferguson stood back and gave A.B. a once-over.

  “Was there a small plastic bag or paper envelope that came with your tuxedo? Perhaps in the pocket of the trousers or maybe the jacket?”

  A.B. fumbled around in his pants pockets and then in the jacket.

  “You mean this?” He held up a small zip-top plastic bag. In it were ten shirt studs and a pair of cufflinks.

  “That’s it,” said Ferguson. “Here, let me show you.”

  Ferguson took one of the studs and, on the middle hole of A.B.’s heavily starched pleated shirt, demonstrated how it worked.

  “I’ll be damned,” said A.B. shaking his head.

  Ferguson smiled. “Did you also rent a bowtie?” he asked. “Those can be a bitch.”

  A.B. searched the bag that contained the shoes and the cummerbund and found the bowtie.

  “I could show you how to tie one of these,” said Ferguson. “But we’d miss the whole party. It’ll be simpler if I do it for you.”

  He flipped up the collar of A.B.’s shirt, tied a perfect bow, and carefully turned the collar down and straightened the tie. Then he helped A.B. on with his dinner jacket, pulling on the shoulders to make sure it draped properly.

  “Young man, you look splendid,” he said.

  A.B. wished there was a mirror in the office, so he could see how he looked.

  They went outside to see how things were shaping up. Vicki had covered the serving tables with white plastic tablecloths and Leon was taking bottles of barbecue sauce out of a carton and placing them on the tables next to stacks of paper plates. A.B. walked over to ask Leon and Vicki what more needed to be done.

  “Hey, guys!” he called. “How’s it goin’?”

  Leon turned toward A.B. and, as he did so, placed a bottle of sauce down on its edge. It tipped over and rolled the entire length of the table, picking up speed as it went. It careened off the table in the direction of A.B. and exploded on the asphalt, splattering A.B. with LaVerne Williams’s Genuine BBQ Sauce KANSAS CITY STYLE.

  Leon, Vicki, and Ferguson stared in horror at A.B.’s pants.

  “Shit!” yelled A.B. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  He turned and stomped back into the restaurant, slamming the door behind him.

  In the office, he surveyed the damage. Only his slacks and shoes had been stained. Remarkably, his jacket and shirt remained clean. Even though LaVerne didn’t usually allow smoking in his office, A.B. lit one up and considered his options. Michael’s Fine Clothes for Men was closed. He didn’t have time to go back to his apartment. And though LaVerne sometimes kept a spare shirt and pair of pants at the restaurant, LaVerne was at least eight inches taller than he was. He decided to change back into the jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing while setting up. But when he picked up the T-shirt he saw it was smeared with grease and sauce and reeked of sweat and smoke. He examined his jeans. They were fine.

  A few minutes later, A.B. reemerged from the back of the restaurant wearing his white dinner jacket, pleated starched shirt with studs, cummerbund, blue jeans, and gleaming black patent leather shoes, freshly cleaned.

  Suzanne Edwards and McKenzie Nelson were just arriving. McKenzie jumped back when she saw A.B. “Look at you! You are stylin’, my man!”

  A.B. stood there, trying to remember how to talk.

  Leon and Vicki seemed to be handling the serving line without any problem. When Leon saw A.B., he hung his head in shame.

  “Dude. I’m really sorry about your pants,” he said, looking down at the pavement. “I can’t believe that bottle did that.”

  Vicki gave A.B. a long look. “I kinda think it worked out better this way. Movie stars dress like that. Jeans with a suit coat. Or a tuxedo with a T-shirt. It looks like you planned it this way.”

  “Thanks, Vicki,” said A.B., bewildered.

  He walked over to Iggy’s truck. Seth, Jake, and Jen were up on the flatbed testing their mikes and amps. Iggy was picking along on his ‘70s-era Martin as Seth played “What’d I Say” to warm up.

  Iggy grinned down at A.B. “It’s going to be a good turn out, A.B. There’s sixty or seventy people here already. Maybe more.”

  In the corner of the parking lot closest to the restaurant there was a small commotion, then Angela came hustling on over to the truck. She reached up to Jake who helped pull her up onto the truckbed where she took a microphone in hand.

  “Welcome, everybody!” she called out. “Thank you all for coming tonight to wish happy birthday to a Kansas City music legend.”

  The crowd cheered and whistled. Angela smiled. She looked down at A.B. and gave him a wink.

  “Tonight we’re gonna have us some barbecue!” Angela yelled. And there were more cheers.

  “Tonight we’re going to have us some music!” she shouted. And there were louder cheers.

  “Tonight we’re going to have us some rock ‘n’ roll, some soul, and some blues!” The cheers turned to screams and howls.

  Angela waited for the crowd to settle down.

  “But before we get this party started, let me direct your attention over there to the corner, for a few introductions. First of all, there’s my husband, LaVerne Williams, who’s feeding us all tonight.”

  LaVerne waved. Almost everybody there knew LaVerne. They hooted, and clapped, and called out his name.

  “With him is our musical guest for the night, the incomparable, the immortal, the one and only Junior Provine!”

  Junior waved and bowed to rowdy acclaim. He wore denim bib overalls, a starched white dress shirt, and red snakeskin cowboy boots.

  “And finally, everybody, give it up for our guest of honor, Mother Mary Weaver! Seventy-five years young!”

  The cheering crescendoed. Mary stood next to Pug, clutching his arm. She beamed and waved to her well-wishers. Pug escorted Mary to a table in front of the truck. LaVerne took Junior by the elbow and they followed Pug and Mary. There, Junior gave Mary a kiss on the cheek and LaVerne helped him up onto the truckbed. Then he helped boost Pug up onto the makeshift stage. Pug sat on a chair next to Seth’s keyboard, and took his Gibson cherry sunburst Les Paul out of a case by his feet. Junior approached the stand-up mike and removed a harmonica from the back pocket of his overalls. He looked down where Mary was sitting.

  “Happy birthday, Mother. I hope you took your heart pills, because we gonna party tonight.”

  Mother threw Junior a kiss. Junior turned and said something to the band, which immediately kicked
up the intro to “Kansas City.”

  Though it’s been cliché for more than five decades for Kansas City musicians and musicians performing in Kansas City to open their shows with this song, it still gets Kansas City audiences up out of their seats. Junior delivered the song in a low, guttural growl. When he got to the words “They got some crazy little women there, and I’m going to get me one!” he pointed at Mary with one hand and patted his heart with the other. Mother waved him off with an “Oh, go on now!” gesture.

  Next, Junior and the band launched into the Doors “Roadhouse Blues,” which kept the partiers on their feet. “You gotta roll, roll, roll. You gotta thrill my soul, alright.”

  A.B. went over to where Del, McKenzie, and Suzanne were sitting. As he chatted with them, Bob Dunleavy came over and clapped him on the back.

  “Excellent, as always, A.B.! Great food. Great party.”

  Three elderly ladies approached, on their way back to their seats from the barbecue table. One of the women took hold of A.B.’s hand.

  “Young man, we’re from Mary’s church, Mt. Zion Missionary Church. Mr. Williams tells me that you’re responsible for this get-together. I just want you to know that this means the world to Mother. The world. God bless you, child.”

  A.B. sat down with his friends, his eyes welling up.

  “What’s wrong, boy?” Del shouted, making McKenzie and Suzanne wince.

  “Nothing,” said A.B.

  “What?” yelled Del.

  “Nothing!” A.B. yelled back.

  After ripping through a few Big Joe Turner tunes, Junior Provine made an announcement.

  “I’m a little tired from all this partying,” he shouted, grinning wide. “I think a need a little help to carry on. Anybody out there that can help me? Anybody out there know how to sing the blues? Anybody out there a blues singer?”

  The party-goers were quick to reply. They began chanting “Mother Mary! Mother Mary!” in rhythm. Mother may have been surprised by this, but she wasn’t at all reluctant. She motioned to LaVerne, and he and Angela helped her to her feet and then up onto the stage. Pug offered Mother his chair and she sat.