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Big Johnson

You know Larry Johnson as the Chiefs' new star — and a man who might have lady trouble. Now meet him as a fashion icon.

By Kendrick Blackwood 

It's a Friday night in the West Bottoms, and Larry Johnson is late arriving at Club Vital.

The four lanes of James Street are busy during the day, but at midnight, only an occasional truck rumbles through, drowning out the sound of crickets.

Once in a while, cars cruise by. Drivers and passengers study the bouncer standing beneath the awning and the sign reading "Eat Drink Dance Live." But few stop.

Johnson is always looking for a new place to hang out when he's not playing football. But he's learned not to get his hopes up in Kansas City. The town is really too small for him. He's originally from Baltimore, and he keeps a condo in Las Vegas — both of them are towns with entertainment options for a young African-American man with money.

Kansas City has Mi Cocina and The Drink.

Tonight, Johnson isn't particularly excited about going to Blonde, the supertrendy new club on the Plaza. He's heard that fellow Chief Dante Hall was turned away at the door for wearing a hat. Johnson says Tony Gonzalez is the only Chief who can go anywhere wearing whatever he wants.

"The word is they don't want Chiefs players," Johnson says. (A Blonde manager tells the Pitch that the club welcomes Chiefs but did turn away Hall when he wouldn't take off his hat.)

Johnson is one of the few Chiefs players who enjoys going to places such as the VI Ultra Club at 11th Street and Grand downtown. Though it's under new management, the hip-hop club occupies the same space as the former Club Chemical, which was the site of multiple shootings. The scene there is different now, but Johnson says he knows some people think he's courting trouble.

"People say, ‘You go down there just to show you can go down there.' No, I go down there because I like it.... I'm not saying I'd go to the middle of Oakland. It's not about risking it. It's about being comfortable in a situation." Johnson, who grew up in mostly white suburbs, says, "I like to be around black people."

There aren't too many black people tonight at Club Vital. There aren't too many people of any color.

"No hats. No white tees," the bouncer yells across the wide, empty street. Johnson tosses his Team Roc cap into the tiny back seat of his maroon Mercedes coupe.

He's riding with the agent of another player, who doesn't want his name published.

The two men show their IDs to the bouncer and follow the velvet ropes inside, stretching out their arms automatically to be patted down. Johnson pays the $10 cover charge.

He's greeted immediately by a tiny woman in a brown chiffon dress. She doesn't understand why he got lost. He tries to explain that Interstate 35 loops around downtown and he didn't know where to exit.

Johnson buys a Corona at the long bar. He wanders toward the club's second room and the dance floor, where a single interracial couple gyrates beneath the lights in a hyper-popping style. Two black men recognize him, and he accepts their smiles and handshakes.

The club is quite dark, but Johnson glows in an oversized white Team Roc warmup jacket that still barely fits his hulking shoulders. His pea-sized diamond earring and his diamond-rimmed watch sparkle in the lights.

He greets fellow Chief Julian Battle, who has one foot in a walking cast. His achilles-tendon injury has ruined his season but not his night.

The place isn't bad — it's just empty. Johnson and Battle decide to seek more action at the reliable Mi Cocina. Johnson and the agent climb into Johnson's Mercedes.

Mi Cocina's basement VIP room is the most exclusive party spot in town, and Johnson greets the manager, who makes the call on who gets downstairs.

It's not as if only pretty people get in. A short white guy in a Steelers cap greets Johnson at the bottom of the stairs. The man is a little drunk, and he gushes: "You're going to rush for 1,000 yards. I think you're going to have a great year. You're going to rush for 1,000 yards."

Johnson thanks him and then navigates the dance floor to post up at the white bar. "This is a little more my speed," he says. The room is crowded and hot. Except for the throbbing black speakers, most of the room is painted white, including the low-beamed ceiling and the bar itself.

The crowd is mostly white here as well, though there are a few African-American men and women besides Johnson, the agent and Battle, who has rejoined them.

Johnson has been allowed to keep his hat, which is crooked and pulled low over his eyes. He orders a bottled water and watches the dancers. He describes the music as Spanish techno.

"This is no fucking salsa club. Ain't no motherfuckers who can dance but a couple," he says with a smirk. Johnson doesn't smile much. And he rarely dances. A friend from Vegas says Johnson can tear up the dance floor. But not here. Not tonight. Not in Kansas City.

Johnson is joined at the bar by Sean Deaver, a school friend of Chiefs return man Dante Hall. The men don't seem surprised to see each other.

Deaver jokes that he calls Johnson "King Pink" because of his attraction to white women.

A tall black man dressed in all white — clear up to his floppy fishing hat — comes in. Johnson and Deaver exchange looks.

Johnson explains that the newcomer is an ex-boyfriend of the tiny woman he spoke to at Vital. Johnson and the man never look directly at each other, but they're clearly posturing. "He's mad because I'm fucking his bitch," Johnson says.

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