CHAPTER 12: THE OASIS OR HOW I ALMOST LOST MY LIFE

I think the eyes flirt most. There are so many ways to use them.

Anna Held

The club’s florescent sign on the outside of the Oasis was a shimmering green outline of a naked woman holding a martini glass standing next to a yellow palm tree with the letters OASIS blinking atop the tree. The street light had just flickered on as I stepped inside. It was so dark that you’d need night-vision glasses to see through the gloom and low-hanging cigarette smoke. I took my time adjusting my eyesight before finding a seat at the horseshoe shaped bar that filled the middle of the room. In the center of the bar was a long liqueur well with a circular platform about four feet in diameter, rigged for pole dancing. Red and green painted wooden booths hugged the walls with a row of tables standing between the booths and the bar. The walls above the booths were decorated with paintings of palm trees and Arabian maidens dancing with Mexican men in sombreros, an artistic nod to multi-culturalism or Arab/Aztec schizophrenia. The back of the Oasis was taken up by three pool tables, two in use and a dozen or so pinball machines, all with players standing in front of them.

I’d figured the Oasis would not have a lot of customers yet, but I was wrong. Half the stools were filled and most of the booths. I didn’t see any Amigos, thank God. I recognized a couple of guys who dropped in for barbeque on Saturdays. They waved to me, then returned to talking to the woman sitting between them. I felt a little better that I knew someone. As long as there weren’t any Amigos, I believed there wouldn’t be any trouble. After a silent Hail Mary, I took a seat at the horseshoe turn, closest to the door in case I had to make a dash. I’d concocted a story on the way that I was looking for the car that Winona had bought from us, and now that she was dead. . .etc. . . and she couldn’t make payments, etc, etc. . . something like that.

The cute, petit bartender, with a blond beehive hairdo, who looked under age, asked me what I wanted. I ordered an Anchor Steam. She shook her head and pointed to choices over her head. I asked for a Pabst on tap. She poured and brought me a glass. This was not a frosty mug kind of place. Bowls of peanuts dotted the surface of the bar. I munched, sipped, and thought. In order to eliminate JR as a suspect I needed to talk to him. Sweets said he was a regular, which meant he could be here. Sweets had described him as tall, greasy looking, pock-marked face and ugly. No one fitting that description was sitting at the bar. No greasy looking guy occupied the booth directly to my right and left. I was sitting at a wrong angle to see into the rest of the booths.

I waited a while, then asked the bartender where the restroom was. She pointed to the back. As I walked I checked out the rest of the customers. I went to the toilet. It was surprisingly clean, except for a red Amigo graffiti taking up the entire back wall above the urinals. When I left, I pretended to examine the unused pool table like I might be interested in playing. No JR among the players. I returned to my seat via the opposite side of the bar, checking out the booths on the other side of the room. No guy fit JR’s description.

I’d try the bartender. I finished my beer and held up one finger. She nodded and took my mug, filled it, and set it in front of me.

I said, “I’m looking for someone.”

“I’ve been looking for someone for years, but I’ve never found him,” she countered.

Funny, I thought. “Maybe you haven’t been looking in the right place.”

“Are you saying the Oasis is not the environment in which I’ll find my future husband?”

Her dimples were showing. So were mine. But it was her eyes that told me we were in a flirting contest.

I said, “Not a husband, but how about the next best thing.”

“And would that be you, Mr. Brovelli?”

“Wow,” I said. “Do we know each other?”

“You sold my brother a neat MG. I was with him. You asked me if he was my boyfriend. When we drove off, my brother said to stay clear of you because you were a total womanizer.”

I wanted to ask, is that the same brother who allowed you to tend bar in this place frequented by gangbangers and drug dealers? But that would have ended the flirtation. Instead I said, “Womanizer, in my case has a more dignified definition. It means a man who totally respects females. And, now that you mentioned the MG, I do remember you. Your hair was a couple of shades darker, more honey blond. Right?”

“That’s right, as sweet as honey.” She batted her eyelashes.

“That MG was in mint condition,” I said.

Sometimes I remember people, sometimes I don’t. But I never forget a car. Once I focus in, it pops up onto my memory screen along with the person who bought it. In this case, her, but not her brother. “It was a red convertible with a regular top plus a tonneau cover. Black leather with red piping interior. Twin carbs. And that day you were flirting with me.”

“That’s not how I saw it Mr. Brovelli.”

“Call me Victor.” I stuck out my hand. We shook. Soft hand boded well for the rest of her body.

“You can call me Fredericka but everybody calls me Freddy.”

“I like Freddy. It’s cute like you. Your brother still have the car?”

“Nope. It’s mine now. He bought a new Jaguar.”

“Ugh,” I said. “He’s going to make his mechanic a rich man. He should have come back to the Brovelli Brothers.”

“I’m ready to trade up. You got anything for me?”

“You’d trade in the MG?” I asked incredulously. “That’s a fine automible.”

“I want something with a front and back seat.”

Our conversation was interrupted by someone from the other end of the bar calling her name. She left, promising to return. I watched her walk away, slender hips. Petit but athletic looking thighs and calves beneath her butt-tight mini-skirt. Gymnast came to mind. This was good. She liked me, which would make it easier to ask about JR and bring up the subject of Winona. I might even ask her out. She was pretty cute. I wasn’t sure about the beehive hairdo with the tiny pearls decorating it like a wedding cake.

The Oasis was beginning to fill up. A male bartender entered the horseshoe from the other end. He and Freddy exchanged words. She gave him a brush kiss on the cheek, and he headed to the opposite side of the liqueur well.

When Freddy returned I got down to business. I went through my story about looking for the car we sold Winona.

“I’d never seen you in here before,” Freddy said. “I wondered why you were here.”

“I hang out in Flynn’s mostly,” I said. “Right next door to our dealership.”

“I don’t like the place. All the TV screens, guys yelling about football. I tried the joint on a Saturday night and it was full of Irish guys straight off the boat throwing dice and singing about Good Old Emerald isle.” She paused, shook her pretty head. “I usually drink for company at the Embers at the Hilton near the airport. Nice piano bar. Classy guys.”

“So, how about this place?”

“The Oasis is where I make a living.” She looked up at the stage. “Stick around. I’ll be dancing soon.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

“Sorry I can’t help you about the car. Winona hasn’t been in here for at least six months. You might want to ask JR. He might know about the car.”

“I was looking for him earlier, but I didn’t see him.”

“He just walked in.”

I turned in my seat toward the door.

“He’s bartending,” She said, pointing to the bartender mixing a drink, close enough that I could see him in profile.

The only part Sweets got right about JR was that the man was tall. The real JR had wavy black hair, a straight nose, over a thin mustache, and strong jaw. Not ugly. From where I sat, he looked like Dick Tracy in the cartoon. So much for Sweets’ description.

“Hey, JR, get over here,” she called.

JR served his drink and came over. He stood next to her and looked at me. He would have been handsome, except for small eyes that were deep set.

“This guy giving you trouble, sis?”

Ah shit. In my mind’s eye I saw the MG, top down, brother and sister driving away from our lot, and me waving them on their way, money hard-earned by his whores in my hand. JR was not my picture of a pimp, but the more I looked at him, I decided just because he was white and didn’t wear outrageous clothes didn’t mean he wasn’t a sleezeball. Maybe I shouldn’t ask Freddy out on a date. Like brother, like sister.

“You remember Victor Brovelli, JR? You bought the MG from him.”

“Yeah, a good car, good price. What can I do for you?”

He was smiling, but he wasn’t showing any teeth. Pretty creepy.

I began my story about Winona’s car, but a couple of minutes into my explanation he interrupted me.

“What the fuck’s your deal, Brovelli? Winona never owned a car. She didn’t know how to drive and didn’t have a drivers’ license. So what’s all this bullshit?”

JR was tall but not that husky and there was a sturdy looking bar between us, so I felt relatively safe for the moment. I’d already measured the distance between my seat and the door and calculated getting out of the joint was doable unless the sonavabitch had a gun under the bar. The question was what was my next move, now that my cover story had been blown?

I didn’t believe honesty would work with a pimp, so I needed a story he’d buy into, a whopper of a lie. I took a swig of beer and began, giving him my best worried look.

“Winona stole some money from us when she temped. We found out about it, but we didn’t turn her in when she promised to pay us back. But then she got herself killed, and, naturally, we’d like to find out if there is any left. We thought if we could search the place where she lives, she may have hidden it there. Our business has run into a little cash flow problem and we’ve been trying to call in all our outstanding debts.” I finished. Looking at JR, I could tell he wasn’t impressed.

“No, no, I think you’re still bullshitting, Brovelli. You know what I think? I think you’re trying to hook me up in some way to Winona’s murder, like it was me who shot her. Well, I got an airtight alibi, and you can ask the pigs, you dago prick.”

“JR,” Freddy said, touching his arm. “The word is Eye-talian.”

“So, what do you say, you Eye-talian prick? You trying to fuck me up?”

Damned if he wasn’t smiling the whole time he was cursing me out. I held up my hands in surrender. “Cool down JR. It’s nothing like that.” Of course, it was everything like that. Time for honesty. “Okay, okay. Here’s the real deal. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m trying to help a friend out. The cops have arrested him for the murder, and I know he didn’t do it. So I’m helping him out.”

“It’s that goddamn Sweets Monroe,” Freddy said, turning to her brother. “He’s helping that scuzzball.”

That did it. I would not be asking Freddy for a date. Although her face remained pretty, all the sweetness had disappeared, replaced by something ugly.

“Sweets is not that bad a guy,” I said. By now our raised voices had attracted the attention of the men at the bar, looking our way, not looking happy.

“Sweets Monroe can kiss my ass,” a voice behind me said.

I turned. There was a behemoth wearing leathers, looking down on me with his one good eye. Ah, shit. A frigging Amigo. I stood up and as I did, Freddy, transformed by her anger into Fredericka, raised her hand to her beehive and withdrew one of the pearls. Attached to it was a vicious looking five-inch needle, which she pointed in the direction of my left eye. At the same time JR whipped out a switchblade. It sprung open. Great, a brother and sister killer act, just great.

“You’re a lying muthafucka,” JR said.

Fredericka hissed, “And to think I was considering you to be that special someone.” She jabbed her needle across the bar.

I fell backward. The big guy caught me, wrapping his huge arms around my chest. I might have one chance to get out of here alive, I thought. With a little luck, I could kick back and catch him in the balls, then make a dash for the door while he was flopping around on the floor.

Another prayer to the Blessed Virgin might be in order. Just as the prayer entered my mind, the prayer was answered.

“I got a very large pistol barrel shoved inside your big ear, you understand, stronzo? I’ll blow your turd brains out if you touch my brother.”

And that’s how I escaped death in the Oasis.