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

by Doug Worgul

  “I figured you might have a gun,” he said. “Go ahead and use it, if you got the balls to do it. My guess is you don’t. All mouth is what you are.”

  He released his grip and spat on the ground. Then he turned and continued on to the bus stop. Sweat rolled down his back and he felt the urge to urinate.

  Behind him the Black Panther coughed and shouted hoarsely. “Go on back to the plantation, Uncle Tom. We won’t be needing you, come the revolution.”

  *

  In his room at the Turner Hotel, he sat on the edge of the bed, and poured a glass of whiskey from a bottle he bought at a corner grocery down the street from the hotel. Beside the bed was a nightstand with a drawer. Delbert pulled it open. In it was a Gideon’s Bible.

  He settled back onto the bed and laid the Bible on his lap. He drank the whiskey and looked at the Bible. He wondered what Bible verse Rose would tell him was a good one to read at a time like this.

  35

  Tharn

  Royals’ tickets have been progressively easier to come by every year since 1985 when the team won the World Series. When it became clear, last year, that the team would finish its third consecutive season with more than 100 losses, the few remaining season ticket holders became so disgusted they began giving tickets away—entire home stands at a time if necessary—just to be rid of them. Bob Dunleavy tried giving a pair of his tickets to LaVerne.

  Bob and Pug Hale were finishing lunch when LaVerne emerged from the kitchen to fiddle with and swear at the thermostat. Bob waved LaVerne over to their table.

  “You want tickets for Sunday’s Royals’ game? They’re playing the Indians. I was going to take a couple of guys from our Charlotte office, but it turns out they’re not coming until next week. So, you can have two, if you and Angela want to go with Marge and me. Or you can have all four if you want.”

  LaVerne contemplated the offer.

  “Royals tickets, huh? Let me check my schedule. Nope, sorry, I’ll have to pass,” he said without the slightest hesitation. “Looks like I’ll be busy watching a classic Sanford and Son episode. It’s the one where Fred fakes a heart attack. Thanks anyway, Bob.”

  He turned and went back to the kitchen.

  Bob looked at Pug and shook his head. “I get that a lot this season.”

  A.B. was clearing tables. As Bob stood to leave he called out to him.

  “A.B., you like baseball?”

  A.B. turned around. “Hey, Bob. Hey, Pug. As far as baseball goes, Boss talks about it a lot. So I’ve learned some things about it. But I never been to a game or anything.”

  Bob grinned, and thrust two tickets at A.B. “You want to go on Sunday?”

  A.B. smiled and shrugged. “Wow, that’s nice of you, Bob. Maybe I can get Jen to go with me.”

  Pug spoke up. “Boy, you and that young lady are getting pretty tight aren’t you?”

  A.B.’s face reddened. He closely examined the towel he was holding.

  “I don’t know if ‘tight’ is what you’d call it, Pug. Maybe it is. I don’t know.” He looked up at Bob. “Anyways. Thanks for the tickets, Bob. This’ll be fun.”

  Bob put his hand on A.B.’s shoulder. “My pleasure, son. You’ll probably be sitting next to me and my wife. Or maybe me and my son, Warren, who we talked about, if that’s alright.”

  A.B. thought about the telephone pole up on 17th Street, where he’d seen Warren post the sign in rabbit language. He went into the kitchen, cut up red potatoes and hiccupped for the next hour and a half.

  *

  A.B. was worried about getting a good parking spot, so he and Jen arrived at Kauffman Stadium about 45 minutes before game time. Jen had assured him that parking wouldn’t be a problem, and she was right.

  “We’re going to be the only ones in the whole stadium,” she said.

  It was Bat Day at the ballpark. At each gate, stadium employees in Royals’ jerseys and caps gave each ticket holder a “2006 Kansas City Royals Commemorative Edition” Louisville Slugger mini-bat, about 18-inches long.

  “This is awesome,” said A.B. whipping the tiny bat back and forth. “I wish the boss was here.”

  Jen smirked. “I would have thought you’d know LaVerne better than that by know. He hates this kind of thing. Especially when it’s the Royals doing it.”

  A.B. thought about this for a moment.

  “You’re right. In fact, I better not even bring my little bat to the restaurant. He’ll make me throw it away.”

  Jen was determined that A.B. experience The Whole Baseball Thing, so on their way to their seats they bought hot dogs and beer.

  “Then we’re going to have peanuts and Cracker Jack,” she said. “I don’t care if I never get back.”

  On their way down the steps to their seats, A.B. saw that Bob was already there with his son Warren.

  “Ah, jeez,” he muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jen.

  “I was hoping Bob would be here with his wife,” he said. “I met her a few times and she’s real nice. Instead he’s here with his son, Warren. Remember, I told you about him? He’s obsessed with rabbits and stuff. Bob told me about what’s wrong with him. Something mental. Anyways, he gives me the creeps.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Jen said. She linked her arm in A.B.’s “He’s here to watch baseball, just like you.”

  Bob and Warren were laughing when Jen and A.B. arrived at their seats. A.B. was relieved. It seemed normal.

  Warren wore khakis and a white polo shirt. His longish hair was stylishly unruly, but clean. The thick glasses he was wearing when A.B. had seen him out on the city streets at night—the ones that had made his eyes look so big and frightening—were gone. He looked like the grown son of an affluent, suburban, country club family. Which is what he was.

  Bob stood and shook hands with A.B. and Jen.

  “Hey, guys! Glad you could come.”

  Then he smacked himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand in a mock show of self-recrimination.

  “Darn! I meant to tell you to bring a game of Scrabble or Monopoly for us all to play starting in the third or fourth inning when the Royals are down by eleven runs. It helps pass the time.”

  Warren grinned and nodded forcefully. “You always say that, Dad. I love it when you say that.”

  Bob smiled sheepishly at A.B. and Jen. “I don’t have any new jokes, so I keep recycling the old ones.”

  Warren vigorously nodded some more. “You always say that, too.”

  A.B. and Jen took their seats and Jen leaned forward and spoke to Warren who was sitting on the other side of his father.

  “Hi, Warren. I’m Jen Richards.”

  Warren nodded and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Jen.”

  A.B. thought Warren’s face seemed less fierce without his glasses and wondered if maybe he was wearing contacts.

  A.B. reached across Bob to extend his hand to Warren.

  “Hi. I’m A.B. Clayton. I’m a friend of your dad’s. I work at a restaurant where he eats all the time.”

  “I know who you are,” Warren said, without making eye contact. “You’re yona.”

  A.B. looked anxiously at Bob.

  “That’s a good thing,” Bob said matter-of-factly. “Means you’re a hedgehog.”

  The Royals were going through their pre-game warm-ups. Some were taking batting practice. Several were playing catch. Others were jogging around the outside edge of the field. Bob eyed A.B.’s hot dogs and beer.

  “Dang. I’m getting hungry. And since you didn’t bring any ribs with you, I guess I’ll have to go get me a weenie or two and some suds to wash ‘em down with.”

  Bob went for his refreshments, leaving A.B. and Jen there with Warren. Which was what A.B. had specifically dreaded.

  Jen sensed his discomfort.

  “So, Warren,” she s
aid. “Is this year’s Royals team the worst team in baseball history, or what?”

  Warren pondered the question. “The ‘67 Athletics were probably worse.”

  A.B. was grateful LaVerne wasn’t there to hear that remark. Though he probably wouldn’t disagree with Warren’s conclusion, he didn’t like being reminded.

  Warren cleared his throat. “Actually, I think the new GM, Dayton Moore, is going to turn things around. Though it may not happen until next year. And, frankly, I think Sweeney has got to go. He’s old and he’s always getting hurt. The future belongs to guys like Grudzielanek, DeJesus, and that new kid Alex Gordon.”

  He nodded, pleased with his analysis.

  Bob returned with food and beverages. He handed Warren a bratwurst and a large soda, keeping a hot dog and a beer for himself.

  “I don’t drink beer,” volunteered Warren to no one in particular. “It messes with my meds.”

  *

  To his surprise, A.B. had fun. The Royals racked up ten runs in the first inning. Even though it would mean nothing in the scheme of things, the crowd enjoyed the prospect of a Royals rout. A rarity at Kauffman Stadium. Laughter and cheering were heard, which was also rare.

  Then, midway through the game, things took a turn for the normal. The Royals began racking up errors, instead of runs, and the Indians began to score. The bullpen, which had been the object of great hopefulness before the season started, and of great derision ever since, proved incapable of defending Kansas City’s lead. The final score was a 15-13 Royals’ loss in ten innings. The once jolly crowd turned surly. Curses and catcalls were heard.

  A.B., Jen, Bob, and Warren got up to leave.

  “Well, A.B., I wish your first major league game had had a better outcome,” sighed Bob. “But at least it was an authentic Royals experience. Dashed hopes and all.”

  A.B. and Jen laughed at Bob’s observation, but Warren was silent. Bob, who had expected him to respond, turned to his son, prepared to repeat the joke.

  Warren’s attention was fixed on the ball field. His eyes wide and wild. He began moaning in a low drone, breathing in hard through his nose. He swayed slightly forward and back, his body rigid. Bob stepped up close to his son and put his arm around his waist.

  “What’s the matter, Warren?” he spoke gently near his son’s ear. “What’s upsetting you?”

  He followed the direction of Warren’s gaze. A small brown rabbit had somehow gotten onto the field and was frantically trying to find its way back out. The animal raced back and forth on the dirt track along the base of the stadium wall. A group of fans—boys in their late teens or early twenties—had spotted the rabbit and had gathered by the top corner of the dugout to watch its increasingly frenetic efforts to escape. The young men were shirtless and each had a big blue letter painted on his chest. They appeared to have consumed a great deal of beer over the course of the game, as evidenced by a tall stack of empty souvenir beer cups one of them was carrying, as well as by their loud behavior. The more panicked the rabbit became the more they enjoyed the spectacle. They leaned over and pounded the wall and flailed their arms to further frighten the rabbit. Then the one with the beer cups began throwing them.

  The cups made poor projectiles. None landed anywhere close to the rabbit. This frustrated the rowdies who each took a turn at trying to hit the rabbit with a beer cup. Finally, when none were successful, one of them flung his “2006 Kansas City Royals Commemorative Edition” Louisville Slugger mini-bat at the rabbit, striking it in the head. Jen gasped and clutched A.B.’s arm. Warren shrieked and had to be restrained by his father from rushing to the rabbit’s aid.

  The rabbit lay twitching on the grass in front of a rolled up tarp.

  Exiting fans who had passively watched the taunting were suddenly outraged at its violent conclusion. They began to boo the young men who, sensing the negative sentiment of the remaining crowd, decided it was time to leave. Stadium security officers intercepted them on their way out.

  A groundskeeper went out onto the field to examine the rabbit.

  Warren Dunleavy began to tremble and sweat. His eyes fluttered and he began to chant.

  “Zorn inle hrair elil owslafa zorn emblay zorn owslafa inle inle inle inle inle.”

  “Help me get him out of here,” said Bob, taking his son’s left arm.

  A.B. took Warren’s right arm, and Jen stepped in front of them and began to lead them up the stairs to the concourse. At the top of the stairs, Warren wrenched his head around to look back at the field. The groundskeeper had scooped the rabbit’s body up with a shovel and was dumping it into a trashcan.

  Warren fainted.

  *

  For days after, A.B. was depressed and distracted by what he had seen.

  “I don’t know what to do, boss,” he told LaVerne. “I feel like I should do something. I mean I was there. I saw the whole thing. It was horrible.”

  LaVerne shook his head. “Well, I can’t even imagine what that must have looked like. Bad, I’m sure. But I don’t know what you can do about it.”

  Angela knew exactly what to do. When A.B. told her what happened at the game, she called Bob to ask about Warren and to express support.

  “We’ve got him over at Two Rivers,” Bob said. “It’s the best psych hospital around. He’s been there before. They know him. It was a pretty serious setback, Angela. I won’t lie to you. Who would ever have thought something like that would happen at a baseball game, of all places. Going to games was one of the few things we did that seemed normal. Normal father and son stuff. I doubt he’ll ever want to go back. This is just heartbreaking. Marge is taking it real hard. And I’m sorry A.B. and Jen had to experience the whole thing. I really am sorry.”

  Angela had Leon and Vicki bring some sliced brisket, pulled chuck, two slabs of ribs, some red potatoes, and a vinegar pie to the Dunleavys’ house, along with some flowers and a note saying how everyone at the restaurant was praying for their family in their hour of need. Then she notified the leader of the prayer chain she belonged to at New Jerusalem Baptist Church and asked that Warren Dunleavy and his family be added to the list of people to be prayed for.

  The other thing she did was to tell A.B. that he should go visit Warren in the hospital.

  “I don’t know, Angela,” he protested. “It’s not like we’re friends. I barely know the guy. And, I hate to admit, I get really uncomfortable around him.”

  “Maybe what he needs most is a friend, A.B.,” Angela said. Her voice was gentle and firm. She looked A.B. in the eye.

  A.B. looked away. “But I don’t know anything about rabbits.”

  Angela held A.B.’s eyes with a motherly scowl, which made A.B. squirm.

  “Except for Richard ‘Rabbit’ Brown,” he said. “I know about him. And Eddie Rabbitt. Him, too. I know about music stuff and those guys are both musicians. I don’t think that counts as rabbits, though.”

  Angela smiled. “You might be surprised.”

  *

  Because it was a hospital, when A.B. arrived at Warren’s room he expected to see Warren lying in a bed, in his pajamas. Maybe sleeping. Instead he was sitting cross-legged in an easy chair playing solitaire on a handheld electronic device. He was dressed in jeans and a clean, pressed, white T-shirt.

  “Yona,” he said, without looking up. “My father said you were going to come.”

  A.B. stood in the doorway, unsure.

  “You can come in,” said Warren. “I’m crazy, but I’m not violent.”

  “So, Warren. I came to visit you,” A.B. said as he moved tentatively into the room.

  “I guess you did,” Warren’s eyes were dull and his voice flat.

  A.B. wished he hadn’t come to visit Warren. He stood there not knowing what to do or say. He wondered why being a hedgehog was good.

  “You can sit,” Warren motioned toward the other chair in the
room. “Go ahead and sit. I’m glad you came.”

  Warren still hadn’t actually looked at A.B. And A.B. only just barely at Warren.

  A.B. sat down. “So, are you feeling any better?”

  Warren shrugged. “I’m so heavily medicated I don’t feel anything.”

  A.B. shook his head. “Jeez, Warren. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. I’m sorry.”

  Warren didn’t say anything. A.B. shifted in his chair.

  “So, I know you like rabbits and baseball, Warren. Is there anything else you like? I, myself, am kinda into music. Especially the blues. But I like other music, too. Country, and rock. Even some jazz. You like music?”

  Warren shrugged again and nodded just slightly. “I like music.”

  He paused.

  “As far as rabbits are concerned, it’s not so much that I like them. At least not in the way that you’re probably thinking of it. It’s more that I understand them. I believe in them. Their role in God’s plan is clear to me in ways that other people don’t see. I know that my whole deal with rabbits is why people think I’m mentally ill. And if not being like normal people is the definition of mentally ill then I probably am. The doctors say that mental illness is a result of chemical imbalances in the brain. I know that my brain chemicals are messed up. That’s clear to everybody. Including me. But have you ever thought that maybe if your brain has a little bit more of one chemical and a little less of another, it doesn’t necessarily make you mentally ill, but maybe it makes you able to see things, perceive things, that normal people can’t. Maybe some brain chemicals are like a blindfold that prevent us from seeing things in the world that are really there. And if those chemicals shift or are changed somehow, you see the world around you as it really is. I wonder about that. I think that’s what makes prophets, like in the Bible, able to foretell the future. They see things. They see the hand of God at work in the world. I think that’s maybe why I understand the importance of the rabbit world. Richard Adams understood it. He’s a prophet. Watership Down is a book of prophecy. I understand that rabbits are like God’s chosen people. Only they’re not people. Obviously. But they are God’s creatures. And he has chosen for them a special place in his kingdom. But I’d never own a pet rabbit. I don’t like them in that way. Not like pet dogs or cats or gerbils or anything.”