CHAPTER 5: REPO MAN

The best armor is to keep out of range.

Repossessing cars is an essential part of a used car salesman’s life. Repo’ing in the projects, a West Oakland neighborhood of rundown apartment buildings, meant risking that life, particularly these days with the Black Panthers strutting their stuff. Stuff often meaning automatic rifles. We’d carried paper on Charles Dodd’s 1961 Olds Super 88 convertible, and he hadn’t paid us in three months. Three months was the extent of the Brovelli Boys financial patience.

“Give me the address and the extra keys, and I’ll get Mr. Converse,” I said. Mr. Converse is a large leather gym bag that holds jumper cables, hot wiring equipment, and a couple of different length door-lock openers. It also holds a blackjack and a tire iron just in case. It takes two of us to repo a car, one to drive to the location, and the other to retrieve our car. It was my turn to do the retrieving, which was the dangerous end of the operation.

We keep Mr. Converse in the shed behind the office. I returned lugging it over my shoulder. We left Sylvia in charge and took off in the direction of West Oakland. We were always a little worried as we approached the architecturally bland buildings that marked this part of west Oakland. It was never a good idea for two white guys to be driving through this part of town, even in daylight. If it had been night, we’d be two bulls’ eyes for any black gangster with a hard on for whitey. These days especially. But a repo is a repo. Business required a little courage.

“I think the apartment complex is that way,” I said.

Vincent turned the corner and ran into a dead-end street. “Next guess,” he said, backing out quickly. In the projects, you don’t want to, God forbid, stall out in a dead end no matter what color you were. . We drove two more blocks and this time I guessed right. I low-geared to a slow roll down the street hunting for our Olds. Hoping to trick the repo man, deadbeats never park their cars close to where they live. Another of their tricks is to hide the car under a full-sized car cover, gray being the color of choice as it’s less noticeable. Not for two eagle-eye Brovelli boys.

“There it is,” I said. “What’s he think, I don’t recognize the shape of an Olds?”

“You sure?” Vincent asked. “Could be a Buick.”

“Nah, trust me. That’s ours. There isn’t another car in the entire neighborhood with a cover over it.”

Vincent stopped, and I got out. I lifted the cover and gave Vincent a thumbs up. Vincent brought me Mr. Converse. Opening the door was a snap. I popped the hood. Vincent placed the battery in front of the car, and I attached the cables.

“Hey, you, what the fuck you doing to my car?”

It’s not hard to recognize the voice of a very angry man. The voice was coming from down the block and coming fast. Dobbs. When he wasn’t drinking, Dobbs was a good enough guy. Given the tone and the epithet, I was betting he was plenty juiced.

“Time to split,” Vincent said.

I was in the Olds and cranking the motor over, praying it would start on the first try. It didn’t.

The angry voice got closer. “That you Brovelli pricks?”

“Crank it, crank it,” Vincent yelled.

“You get your ass out of here,” I yelled back.

“I’m staying. If it doesn’t turn over, you’ll need help with elephant man.”

My twin, what a guy.

It finally caught with a loud roar just as a shot rang out. “Mavaffuncullo,” I yelled. Vincent peeled off the cables, slammed down the hood, and scampered back across the street to his car, holding Mr. Converse in front of his face for protection. He peeled out, and I slammed the car into gear. As I hauled ass, the rear window of the Olds exploded. I ducked but not before a couple of pieces of glass embedded themselves in the back of my neck. Hurt like a sunavabitch. I leaned over the wheel and kept driving. Ahead, Vincent had already turned the corner. Full throttle to the cross street, I looked back at fucking Dobbs aiming a six-shooter like in a cowboy movie. I swung the wheel to the right and fishtailed around the corner. I took my foot of the gas, re-corrected. down-shifted, and stomped on the gas, laying a patch. Ahead of me, Vincent was doing his Cale Yarborough Daytona 500 impersonation. Doing my Mario Andretti thing, I caught up and passed him, pushing eighty. My neck was bleeding, and I was pissed.

Back on the lot, Sylvia dug the shards out of my neck and applied iodine and Band-Aids. Vincent was outside looking morosely at the shattered window. Not that costly to replace, but Dobbs had trashed the interior of the Olds. Swannee would charge us a couple of hundred to get it back up to Brovelli standards. We’d have to add on the cost to the asking price. I joined my brother.

“No more cars for Dobbs,” Vincent said. “He’s 86’ed.”

“No fucking kidding. Did you see the back seat? It’s like he used it as his personal lunch counter. I’ll drive the Olds down to Swanee for a cleanup job and walk back. I’m going to stop in to Flynn’s for a quick brew. I’m still shaking.”

“My turn when you get back,” Vincent said. “That darn Dobbs.”

By now you probably figured out that Vincent doesn’t swear like I do. He’s much more of a gentleman. But if my twin does swear, you better watch out.

“Next time it’s your turn to repo,” I said. “And I’m the driver.”

As I headed for the door, Sylvia grabbed my arm. “Vittorio, I really need to talk to you.”

“Not now, Sylvia. I’m wounded and badly in need of a brew.” Talk to Vincent.

“It’s got to be you.”

“Then you got to wait.” I walked out the door, leaving her fuming.

• • •

The lights are always turned down in Flynn’s. Ambiance, Flynn says; cheapskate, I say. The maroon faux leather booths against the wall opposite the long bar were empty. Beer ads and dim lights hung on the wall above the booths. Two men I recognized as salesmen from Montgomery Ward’s auto parts were sitting at the bar nearest the door, shaking dice. The back of Flynn’s opens up into a large room in which there are two pool tables and a couple of dartboards. A local pool hustler by the name of Cash – that’s his real name - was sharpening his game, the sound of ivories cracking against each other. The jukebox was playing Frank Sinatra doing it his way. Even though Body Flynn stocks a number of tasty Irish beers, I stick to our local Anchor Steam on tap, which he poured into a frosty mug. He wouldn’t dream of putting a bottle in front of a customer. I sat down at the bar next to Jay Ness. Jay is a detective sergeant in the Oakland Police Department. We met at one of Body’s poker games and became friends. He’s about my height, not quite six feet. If it wasn’t for his pot belly, you’d mistake him for a weight lifter. He’s pumped iron so much that it’s difficult for him to button his ubiquitous corduroy sport coat. His Jimmy Durante-size nose dominates his round face and small mouth. Bags below his eyes make him look sad all the time. His brown hair never seems to be combed. I heard some people remark that Officer Jason “Jay” Ness is the ugliest man they know who seems to convince really gorgeous women to marry him. I felt a little self-conscious, as he slapped me on the back, since it was conceivable at some point in the future Jay would have to arrest me for screwing up a crime scene, or being an accessory to a murder or whatever other frightening criminal activity Sweets would involve me.

“You okay?” Ness asked. “You were sighing.”

“Bad day. Had to repo a car. Dobbs took a shot at us.” I pointed to the bandage on my neck.

“Hell you say. You want me to arrest him?”

“Nah, he was drunk.”

Body placed the frosty mug in front of me, and smiled. “Tell me, Victor, me-boy-o why do so many Eye-talians have mustaches?”

“Haven’t a clue, Body, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“So they can look like their mothers.”

The smirking Irishman slammed his hand on the bar and began laughing. Ness joined in.

“Got to run, Victor,” Ness said, standing up. “Town’s in crises mode.”

Before I could ask, the door was closing behind him.

Flynn was still laughing. All the years I’d been drinking here, Body never failed to come up with an Italian joke. I could have countered with an Irish joke, like what’s the difference between a smart Irishman and a unicorn? Nothing. They’re both fictional characters. But, then, Body would have had to retaliate, and I’d have to counterattack. See what I mean? So I suffered the stupid jokes, like it was a cover charge to drink in his joint. We moved on to sports, our favorite subject. We talked while I drank my beer.

Body Flynn is one hell of a good guy, and we’d been through a lot of boozy nights together. His parents brought him to America and settled in San Francisco when he was nine years old. Body grew up rooting for the USF Dons, who I always managed to point out hadn’t won a basketball championship since the Bill Russell era in the early fifties. From 1958 on, the Galloping Gaels of Saint Mary’s have dominated the sport. That too, I never failed to point out. Fooking Gaels, he calls us, which, considering the accent, makes the adjective funny rather than insulting. When I’d pointed out Gael derived from Gaelic, he responded with, “Saint John Baptiste de la Salle was a fooking Frenchie.” The Saint was the founding father of the Christian Brothers whose teaching order runs Saint Mary’s College. Lately, neither team had been doing any winning. Body and I are both Giants fans. I was finishing my second brew when Vincent walked in and told me it was his turn for some suds.

As I walked back on the lot, Sylvia was waiting for me in the door baring my entrance, scowling. “Okay,” I said. “So what’s so important?”

“Vittorio.”

Whenever Sylvia starts with my Italian name, it’s trouble. I sighed.

“Vittorio, listen to me. I overheard some of what you and Vincent were saying. The whole neighborhood probably heard you. What have you guys got yourselves mixed up in with that nut job Sweets?”

Sylvia was tapping her foot like some exasperated grade school teacher.

“I need the truth here. If Brovelli Brothers’ Used Cars is going down in flames, you got to give me a heads up. You know I’ve been making plans to be part of this business someday.”

“Not a chance, cousin,” I said.

“You wait, but that’s not the point here. I’m still your business manager. I need to know what the hell’s going on, and if you don’t tell, I’m going to quit, capisci?

“I hear you, but you wouldn’t quit. You’re making too much on the side with your daddy’s gift cars.”

“Not enough to get in trouble with the cops. I heard enough to know you guys might be taking up space in the slammer. Then where would I be?”

Sylvia had a point. “Give me a minute,” I said, walking away from her, trying to figure how to deal with this problem. What the hell, I thought, there could very well be a time when we’d need Sylvia’s help, perhaps as a witness or a person to vouch for our good character in a court of law. Vincent might brain me, but the look on Sylvia’s face told me she wasn’t bluffing about quitting.

“All right,” I turned to her. “But you’re not going to like it.” I started with Winona’s dead body in the trunk of the Impala and ended with Sweet’s plan to dispose of Winona’s remains.”

“Che cazzo,” What the fuck, Sylvia exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “What is wrong with you? Are you completely out of your minds? This is murder, and your Pop’s so-called savior, that chooch, Sweets, is probably a goddamn murderer.”

“I know, I know, Sweets is a dumb ass,” I sighed. “We should’ve told you from the start.”

“You Brovelli’s,” she said. “What am I ever going to do with you two?”

“It’s done deal, cuz, so what you can do is keep your mouth shut. Pretend this never happened. There is no way this can come back on us.” Sylvia’s large bosom heaved. She shook her head a couple of times. The look in her eyes told me I was one pitiful soul.

“Okay, Victor, whatever you boys need. I’ll cover your asses, but you have to keep me in the loop.”

I promised.

“I don’t want to be visiting you boys in San Quentin.” She said, turned, and walked into the office.

I remained on the lot, talking to the cars. “San Quentin, did she say San Quentin?”

Not one fine pre-owned automobile responded to my question.

A half hour later, just as I was contemplating jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, the Asian couple Vincent had been talking to returned, and I sold them a gold Pontiac Bonneville. We made a decent profit since we didn’t have a lot of money tied up in the car, which lifted my spirits some. Vincent returned from Flynn’s, and gave me the old I-told-you-so about the Asian couple. When I told him about telling Sylvia, he clenched his fists and squared his jaw. We stood facing each other, breathing hard, moving right, moving left, feeling each other out as to who’d throw the first punch. Mario, our middle brother, used to call us bantam roosters circling for an advantage. Finally, I turned away, and he didn’t follow. We managed to avoid further confrontation by staying at opposite ends of the lot.

By closing time Saturday, we’d sold two additional cars. That surprised me even more. Perhaps things were going to pick up. I could only hope. The young Asian couple were both employed, made a strong down payment, and selected an automobile the bank had signed off on, so Sylvia was able to write them on a non-recourse contract, which meant the bank paid us and took responsibility for the balance of the contract. Aside from cash, that was the best possible deal for us. The second buyer was less financially stable, so Sylvia wrote him up on a recourse contract. In that case the bank will loan on a car, but if the buyer defaults we have to pay the bank back, then hustle to repo our car. The third buyer, a grad student at Hayward State, bought a Volkswagen van with a bumper sticker on it that read, If the van’s rockin, don’t come knockin. He was too risky for a bank, so we had to carry the paper at a percentage rate for which we would have been charged with usury had we lived in the Middle-Ages, and been denied the sacraments and a Christian burial. Considering the past six months of slumping sales, today turned out to be a fantastic sales day. The three of us, Sylvia, Vincent and me split the left-over chicken and hot links between us to take home. I was putting up the chains when a police car came flying down the street, its siren on, flashing red light. A moment later another cop car roared by, then another. I watched them speed down the street. I knew where they were going; it put a knot in my stomach.

“You Brovelli Boys are in soooo much trouble,” Sylvia yelled from the office door.