CHAPTER 17: BLACK PANTHERS

All Power to the People.

Sylvia looked out the office window, took her rosary out of her purse and said, “We’ve got company.”

I did not like what I saw. “Is that who I think it is getting out of the car?” I asked.

“Terrance Bowles, in the flesh,” Vincent said.

“Madonna,” I said. “He’s Huey Newton’s right-hand man.”

“Panther’s Minister of Education,” said Vincent. “I see his picture in the papers all the time.”

At the mention of the Black Panthers, Sylvia went back into the office, no doubt to get her Beretta.

I followed her into the office. I put on my sports coat that I left hanging on the back of the chair. It was my new double-breasted blue blazer with nautical buttons. I slipped it on over an open-collar Oxford dress shirt and returned to Vincent’s side. In the event of my sudden homicide any person inspecting my body would be able to see I was a gentleman. Unless, of course, my sports coat was riddled by bullets.

The minister had paused and was talking to his men, body guards, I figured. The Black Panthers Party, BPP, originally the Black Panthers’ Party for Self Defense was founded by Huey Newton and Bobby Seale a couple of years ago, its goal being to monitor police behavior in Black neighborhoods. That the Panthers advocated armed resistance did not sit well with the Oakland Police Department. The Panthers were a frightening bunch dressed in black leathers with matching berets. But as Vincent succinctly pointed out, it was the guns they carried that elevated the ensemble from frightening to terrifying. He got no argument from me. The guns had to do with a statement made by Franz Fanon, “The people have to be shown that the colonizers and their agents are not bullet proof.” How did I know this? Recently, a couple of Black Panthers attended one of Brovelli Brothers’ Used Cars Saturday barbeques and treated me to the entire history of their party, its inception greatly influenced by Fanon’s writings. My pop would have called Fanon a Commie. At the time, I didn’t mention that to my friends in black leather, one of whom later bought a clean 1961 Ford Falcon. Who was I to turn down a cash sale, commie or no commie?

Huey Newton’s trial for murdering a police officer in 1967 was set for this July and things were tense, particularly in West Oakland. The Brovelli Brothers’ Used Cars had established a good rapport with the growing Negro community in Oakland. Still, I didn’t know whether I should be pleased with the arrival of one of the Panthers top brass or be scared shitless.

“How did we get so lucky?” Vincent whispered. “First the Satans and now the Black Panthers, all in two days. I’ll tell you what it is. We’ve been jinxed ever since we agreed to help Sweets. That’s what this is.”

I nudged Vincent, “No discounts.”

“You gave the Satans a discount, you want the word to get out you’re prejudiced?”

“I’m not laughing, Vincent. You see me laughing, huh? I’ve got enough problems.”

The approaching Black Panther Minister was NBA tall and slender with a neatly-trimmed slightly graying afro. Behind granny glasses, his eyes were piercingly black. The glasses were perched on a long thin nose. There was a thin line where his lips should have been. His skin was the color of nutmeg. He wore a black leather jacket over a powder blue shirt, black leather pants and black beret. The thin line spread into a surprisingly warm smile as he held out his black gloved hand. Over his shoulder I could see that his body guards and driver standing by the car and not smiling were holding automatic weapons. One of them had a bandoleer across his chest. I flashed on a photograph my older brother Mario sent Vincent and me of him in Vietnam standing in a rice paddy holding a rifle the size of Wisconsin, with a similar looking bandoleer across his bare chest. A couple of Mario’s platoon were squatting on the ground sucking dope through the barrels of their rifles. Mario was an officer, but it looked to me that he was hanging with the enlisted men. The photograph was inscribed to us with a note: Don’t show Pop or Ma.

“You gentlemen were recommended to me by a couple of our members,” Minister Bowles said. “They told me they purchased a car from you, and you gave them an honest deal. Is that true?”

His voice had the same deep timbre as our Pop’s, and he pronounced each word as if every syllable was important. I hadn’t forgotten the 1961 Ford Falcon we’d sold a member of the Panthers. You don’t forget selling a car to someone who looked like he had anger management issues. I shook Bowles’ hand. “We have a lot of excellent vehicles,” I said. “All of them have been evaluated by our mechanic and fixed if fixing was needed.”

“I’m looking for a specific kind of vehicle that I can transport things in, a wagon of some kind.

I looked quickly around the lot. There was the International Harvester Travelall that I’d toted Winona’s body in, and a Ford Country Squire that was a beauty: Hard-rock maple frame, mahogany paneling, red leather interior, and a Fatman front end. Oh, man, if I could get rid of the Travelall. He shook his head at Winona’s hearse. He took a little more time thinking about the Country Squire and nixed that too.

“A commercial van would be the more desirable,” he said. He pointed to a 1964 Dodge A-100 Sportsman Van.

I thought the bright orange paint job would call too much attention to itself if they were planning to use it as an assault vehicle, but I wasn’t about to broach the subject.

He asked for a test drive. I went to the office and grabbed the keys. Vincent whispered, “Buona fortuna.” I’d need it, I thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sylvia crossing herself.

Terrance Bowles drove out of the lot, a nervous Victor Brovelli riding shotgun. I noticed that the car Bowles was driven to our lot in was tailing us. We reached the Nimitz, hit the onramp, and sped down the freeway, Bowles maintaining a nerve-wracking silence. I was trying to relax, to pretend this was just another car sales. Bowles exited on 5th Street. It didn’t take me long to guess that we were headed for West Oakland, not a neighborhood in which an Italian Caucasian would be welcomed, especially not these days. All of the Bay Area was stressed over the Vietnam War with race riots erupting throughout the country, but since the March 16th My Lai massacre had been exposed, tensions were running particularly high. A great many African-Americans agreed with Mohammed Ali on the day he refused to be inducted into the army, when he stated, I ain’t got no quarrel with those Viet Cong.

“Don’t worry,” Minister Bowles said, as if he was reading my mind. “You’re safe with me. I’m taking the wheels to our community center to see if the cadre think it fits our needs.”

“This van used to belong to a guy who ran a catering service. We removed all the shelves from the back, so it could be re-fitted for any use.”

“Like to carry grenades and rocket launchers,” he said.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

He began laughing and pounding the steering wheel, obviously delighted he’d frightened Whitey. I didn’t think it was all that funny, but laughed anyway, forcing myself to enter into the black humor, a pun that would not have been found humorous in present company. The way I figured it, I was taking my life in my hands just driving with Bowles.

“You should have kept the shelves in,” he said, after he’d stopped laughing. “If you can put together a fleet deal, we’d be interested in three more. We need large vehicles to deliver free breakfasts for school kids in our neighborhood, and we’re going to start a food bank and delivery service to feed our hungry elderly brothers and sisters. I like the way this van drives, real smooth for a truck. We wouldn’t want to have it break down. It would be an embarrassment.”

An embarrassment that might get my ass kicked. “Got it,” I said. “You don’t have to worry. If you want the van, I’ll have our mechanic give it another complete inspection. I’m sure we can discount for that many vans.” It looked like the Black Panthers were doing some good stuff, and weren’t the scary revolutionaries the papers made them out to be. Breakfast for kids, deliveries for old folks, and money in the Brovelli Boys’ pockets. A quick prayer of thanks was in order. Who was the patron Saint of car salesmen, I wondered. If there was a saint for chefs, there had to be one for salesmen.

Bowles turned onto Grove Street and drove to 45th.At the corner he slowed down. “Ah, fuck me,” he said, pulling suddenly to the curb.

“Did I say something wrong?” I asked, preparing to grovel if I had to.

“Pigs,” he said, pointing out the windshield.

Sure enough, three Oakland Police Department cruisers were parked in front of a building that bore the Black Panthers’ logo and slogan, All Power to the People, below which was a banner announcing a Free Huey Newton Defense Fund Barbeque to be held at DeFremary Park on April 7th. Newton had been arrested for murder in October of 1967. Eight Panthers and four of their women were standing outside the store being questioned by the police. It looked like trouble. The Black Panthers’ minister of education parked the van and got out. I checked to see if the doors were locked. No way was I setting foot on the sidewalk. If bullets began to fly, I could duck under the dash. A car skidded to a halt behind us. Bowles’ driver stepped out and followed his leader toward the confrontation. I was relieved to see that he’d left the carbine and bandoleer in the car.

My relief didn’t last. Suddenly the six officers of Oakland’s finest, none of them black or even remotely brown, pulled their pistols and began yelling for everyone to drop to the ground. What the hell? It didn’t seem to me that anybody had done anything to warrant guns. I looked at the ignition to see if Bowles had left the keys in. He had. If I pulled out real slow, the cops might not notice me. Probably not a good idea since they’d seen us drive up. In the meantime, as I was thinking of how to make a break for it, Bowles was arguing with the officer in charge and waving his hands like he was conducting an orchestra. The cops were clearly not enjoying the tune. The buildings in the neighborhood were mostly empty, abandoned warehouses and storefront so there were not many witnesses to what was going on. The few passersby who stopped and protested found themselves joining the Panthers. The men in blue were attempting to handcuff all the people on the ground, but they were refusing to cooperate, which caused more yelling and swinging of batons. The women were covering their heads with their hands and screaming. Jesus, I didn’t like them beating on the women. Bowles was now shaking his finger in the face of the head honcho officer, his own face twisted in anger. It was clear the cop did not like what he was hearing because he suddenly twisted Bowles into a choke hold.

My mind was torn between trying to help or getting the hell out of there. What could I do anyway, one guy? Maybe being white would help, I thought. But how? To my right just behind the van was a sidewalk telephone booth. Maybe I should call Vincent. He’d only tell me to get my sorry ass out of there. He’d be right of course, but for some reason I stayed put. The telephone booth gave me an idea. There was a chance it could work. I had to do something, didn’t I? I couldn’t just sit in the van like a lump and watch the cops beat up on people who, as far as I could tell, had done absolutely nothing wrong. I crawled over into the driver’s side and opened the door to the van. You can do this, I said to myself. Myself responded, no you can’t. Yes I can. No you can’t. Back and forth we went. Meanwhile the screaming went on. I closed the door. Then I opened it again. Fuck it, I thought. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, hunched over and moved slowly around the van so the cops couldn’t see me. I checked my attire, straightened my college tie, and ran my fingers through my hair. I made it to the telephone booth unobserved. I lifted the receiver off the hook, quickly reviewed in my mind what I was going to say and stepped out on to the sidewalk, holding the receiver to my ear, stretching the cord as far as it would go. Above the screaming and cursing coming from down the street, I heard myself yelling. Or was it someone else, a braver person I didn’t recognize or a more foolhardy person. Take your pick. There are times in a person’s life when one decision can change everything. I didn’t know it at the time, but as I look back, I was doubling down on game changing decisions, one already behind me, another about to happen.

“Officer, officer, hey, officers,” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

The big cop holding Bowles swung around to face me, still choking Bowles.

“Officer, officer,” I repeated. “I’m not armed.”

He yelled back, “This is a police matter, mister. Don’t interfere. Sir, you better get out of here.”

“Well, you see, I can’t,” I yelled back. “I just made a telephone call to the Oakland Tribune. I thought you’d like to hear what I said. Maybe if we talked about it face to face, I could call back just in case I got it wrong. You know tell him there’s no story, that I was mistaken.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What story? Drop that phone and get over here.”

I leaned into the booth, pretended to say something into the mouthpiece and hung up. I took my time walking toward the officer, who threw Bowles to the ground. As I approached, he withdrew his pistol and pointed it at me. With each step the needle on my fear tachometer rose. If I made it out of here alive, I was heading straight for Mills College and Renee and hustle her into the back seat of my Mustang. There is no way any of my brother’s stories could top this.

As I got close, I said, “Hold on, I’m not armed,” sticking out my hands, like my hands were presents he’d have to accept. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Victor Brovelli. I own Brovelli Brothers’ Used Cars over on East 14th.” The way he looked at me I thought that at any moment he might make my twin a singleton. When he didn’t shoot, I said, “Officer, the man you’ve got on the ground is a customer of mine. You see that beautiful van over there?” I pointed behind me. “He was bringing it here to see if his friends approved of the sale.”

The officer’s face said what was going through my own mind: Are you fucking nuts? Bowles was on his back looking up at me. I think he was thinking I was nuts too. But I noticed he had a slight smile on his lips. The cop had his pistol trained on my salesman’s heart. Surprisingly my fear had disappeared. What the cops were doing was just plain bullshit.

“What’s your reason for being here?” the cop asked. He was a huge guy, with ruddy complexion and a square jaw. “This is police business. You better start making sense, and fast.”

“I just explained, officer. This is all about purchasing an automobile. Mr. Terrance Bowles there, the guy whose chest your foot is on, is about to purchase that Dodge delivery van from me. It’s a fine truck, perfect for the service that this organization is starting. You’re aware of the Black Panthers’ project to feed the hungry people of Oakland. Can you imagine what good this will be for the community?”

“Are you out of your mind, son?” the officer asked. He stepped off Bowles and stepped toward me. When he did, Bowles sprang to his knees. The cop whirled back, his pistol in a two-handed grip. “Get the fuck back on the ground, you mothafucking, ni . ..”

Bowles’ hand shot into the air, palm out like he was bringing traffic to a halt. “Don’t say it, cop or you’ll have a war on your hands.”

Brave, I thought, but not smart. This cop was no lover of Bowles’ race and seemed to be itching to pull the trigger. Pop would have called the cop a babbo, Italian slang for a totally stupid person. Pop simplifies his prejudices to communists and fascists. Black, brown or yellow people are fine as long as they’re car buyers and don’t interfere with his life. Sweets complicated racial mixture doesn’t faze him.

I was looking at the barrel of the pistol, but I needed to deflect the heat from Minister Bowles. “Officer, I’m a member of the city of Oakland’s Chamber of Commerce and a member of the East 14th Street Lion’s Club. I don’t know the mayor, but I do know the Deputy District Attorney. We play cards together at Flynn’s. You know Flynn’s? Best Irish stew and chili in town. You know Detective Sergeant Jay Ness, well, he eats there. Great guy. Good friend. Anyway. . .” I stuttered “Anyway, like I was trying to explain. I put in a call to a reporter friend of mine for the Tribune. I told him I might have a story for him” Thinking of Bowles, I said, “See what I’m saying?”

Big cop’s eyes squinted like a rattlesnake’s.

Oddio, I might be in trouble.

I heard Pop’s voice, Quando si e in ballo, bisogna ballare, which has sort of the same meaning as in for a penny, in for a pound. I forged ahead, “I’m trying to decide if I should follow up with a call. If I’m not mistaken, I’ve heard your fellow officers use a bunch of racial slurs. I can’t imagine you’d say something like that, you know, with the times changing the way they are, but if they did. Mind you, I’m not saying they did. But just supposing they did? As a citizen, I’d have to do something about it, right? And once it hit the papers, well, your supervisor probably doesn’t like bad publicity. No, no, I wouldn’t think so.” I was on a roll, but I was also close to pissing my pants. Have you ever done something totally out of character in your life, without a clue as to why? That’s what Victor Brovelli was doing.

By now the rest of the police officers, having finally managed to cuff all the Panthers, were staring at me as if I was one of the loonies panhandling on the streets. The commanding officer’s ruddy complexion was turning ruddier as he stepped threateningly toward me. I took two steps back. With his free hand, he grabbed my sport coat and pushed me until I was backed up against a telephone pole, his nose very close to my face. He had a big nose and bloodshot eyes. His breath smelled like a cheap cigar. I pulled away and saw one of my coat buttons tear off in his hands. He threw it on the ground and grabbed me again. Another of my buttons bit the dust.

“You mind not mauling my sports coat?” I said.

“You better wipe that grin off your face, punk,” he said, sounding like Father Barry, the principal of my high school who used to say the very same thing to me every time I was hauled into his office, minus the “punk.”

“You wouldn’t be related to Father Augustus Barry would you?” I asked.

“Are you messing with me, punk?”

“I’m sorry officer. I meant no disrespect. I smile when I’m nervous.” The next thing I knew I was on the sidewalk holding my stomach, definitely not smiling, definitely gagging. Through the pain I could hear Bowles yelling for him to stop kicking me. I was struggling to catch my breath when I felt my left ear explode. I tried to look up, but the dark closed in around me.