CHAPTER 22: ANIMAL CONTROL

One good act of vengeance deserves another.

Sicilian adage

An hour after Vincent called the bank, he got the word that our line of credit was increased but only a hundred grand. Good enough. But it made me nervous. Perhaps the Car Gods might be playing a trick on us. The day we found Winona in the trunk of the Impala, the Brovelli Boys’ business was in the red. Suddenly we were heading for the black, and the banks were looking upon us favorably.

As I was pondering the reasons for this good fortune, Sylvia returned, walked into the office and threw our bank book on her desk, then her own.

“You want to bet which has more money in it?” She asked, smugly. You want to increase sales, all you got to do is let me buy in. My daddy’s connections can really help us.”

“No offense, cousin, but we’re not interested in partners.”

“Is it because I’m a woman?”

“Not at all, Sylvia. Women can be good salesmen, but they’re better off selling cosmetics.”

If looks could kill, I’d be keeping company with Winona.

“Only joking. Only joking,” I yelled as she squinted her eyes and balled her fist.

• • •

It had been some time since the Brovelli twins had spent any time together on the lot. We took off our blazers and pulled on cover-alls. I put on some Carpenter tunes and cranked up the loudspeakers. We took an hour washing our cars and wiping them down, ever mindful of Pop’s belief that first appearances, like a business man’s wardrobe, was an important part of salesmanship. I took one side of the lot, Vincent the other. We met in the middle. Jitters came over from the gas station. We started talking about carburetors, but switched to the riots and damage to businesses along East 14th and elsewhere in the Fruitvale neighborhood. Most of the damage had occurred below MacArthur Boulevard. Jitters went back to work and so did we. I took the lot, and Vincent took the paperwork. The weather was a typical non-weather Bay Area day, fog in the early morning, followed by skies of pastel blue, followed by pastel gray, followed by a scattering of blue in the afternoon. Temperature somewhere in the 60’s. But the day had a different feel, like our cities by the bay were experiencing a hangover. I couldn’t imagine we’d get any paying customers, but surprisingly toward the end of the day, Vincent sold one of our best, a midnight blue 1966 Olds Toronado with custom rims. It had a 425 cu in V-8 engine with 385 horses and was one of the first cars with front wheel drive. 1966 was a historic safety year in the auto industry. Lots of new government requirements like non-rupturing gas tanks and hoses, collapsible steering wheels, four-way flashers, and standard bumper heights and a bunch more that raised the price of cars. As used car dealers we didn’t have to worry about the cost of new technology, but new car dealers were grumbling about socialism.

Vincent and I were happy for the sale, but were a little sentimental about the loss of the Olds, a car that we’d often placed on our center platform to attract passersby, kind of like good looking chicks’ casino owners provide free chips to attract guys to sit down and lose their money.

After helping with clean-up, I told Vincent that I needed to go to Alameda County jail before visiting hours ended. When he asked why, I told him I needed to talk to Sweets. He shook his head sadly. I left without going into details. I wouldn’t need much time with Sweets to get what I needed.

The guard brought Sweets in. The burglar looked worse than the last time I saw him. “You look like shit,” I said.

“I feel like shit. The food is shit. I’m surviving on candy.”

Sweets asked me if I had anything good to report. My answer was you gotta be kidding. “You don’t get the news in here?”

“Yeah, Martin Luther King was murdered, and my people are rioting.”

“Your people? When have you ever acknowledged your African heritage, you dickhead?”

“Doesn’t matter, Victor. The brothers in here have accepted me as one of their own.” He paused, gave me a wink. “In here, Blacks are in the majority. Prison is an entirely futuristic social order.”

I reminded him first that this was not quite San Quentin and, in any case, the wardens and guards were mostly whites.

“Don’t be naïve, dude; it’s the inmates that control what really goes on in here, you dig?”

I dug all right, like maybe his grave, and changed the subject. I explained what I needed. He thought awhile, then thought some more.

“I’m getting old waiting,” I said.

“Patience, my man, patience. A master brain at work here.” He paused and looked at me to see if I was going to make a snide comment on the status of his brain.

“Okay,” he said. “The glass removal won’t work, but there is a way to get in through a sky light, so that’s your best bet. You’ll need one of my tools. My tool kit is in your apartment under the sink. You’ll find a couple of half inch and quarter inch wide metal bars of different lengths about the thickness of a credit card. Take all of them with you and use the one that will extend from the edge of the skylight where there’s a rubber seal. You can jiggle the bar through the seal. Once you get it through, move the bar so you can hook the latch. We already know that Parsegian doesn’t have a burglar alarm system. Drop the rope and shimmy down.”

“How about the dog?”

“No problem. If I’d only known, I could have taken care of him. Get a couple of pounds of ground beef. In my tool kit you’ll find a package of sleeping powder I got from a veterinarian friend. Mix it with the meat. Before you shimmy down dump a pound of the meat and wait for the dog to pass out. Keep the other pound with you in the event the dog wakes up unexpectedly.”

That didn’t sound comforting. Given the size of the beast, whose name I’d decided should be Rex for Tyrannosaurus. I’d probably need the entire cow to pacify him. I rubbed my ankle that still hurt and wondered if mixing in a little cyanide might be the better idea, nothing like a little doggie pay-back. Cancel that, I thought. There’s little satisfaction in revenge against an animal. People, on the other hand. . .

“Make sure you poke holes in the meat wrapper. Dogs have a high regard for a person holding food.

“What if I can’t get the skylight to open?” asked. “Any other way I can get in?”

“The old disappearing act works well in a department store.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s simple. You go into the store about twenty minutes or so before the store closes. Find a hidey hole. When they start announcing that the doors will be closing, you hide and wait until all the employees are gone and the place is locked down. You exit your hiding place and do what you got to do. That’s the way I always get my wardrobe.”

“You burglarize the Goodwill?” I asked.

“I’m strictly a Nordstroms’ man,” Sweets said. “Steal from the rich is always more fun.”

I couldn’t imagine Nordtroms or any other department store carrying clothing as eccentric as the kind Sweets wore.

“How the heck can I hide in Discount Furniture? Parsegian follows his customers around like they were planning to shop lift one of his couches.”

“Know what you mean,” Sweets said, smiling. “Stick a coffee table in a pocket and walk out.”

We both laughed and the guard looked up from the Sports Illustrated he was reading and frowned. I said, “Sorry.”

“Lighten up, Victor, there’s no rule against mirth in jail.”

Mirth, did he just say mirth? How does a Cajun burglar come up with a word like mirth, I wondered.

“All right,” I said. “Plan A or Plan B. I’ll figure out some way to hide in the store if Plan A doesn’t work.”

“This is not the Hilton, Brovelli. You got to get me outta here. There’s one big bozo who’s been smiling a lot at me lately and checking out my butt.”

“Don’t succumb to the temptations of the flesh,” I said as I stood up and signaled to the guard that we were finished.

“Ass hole,” Sweets said.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I said.

“Jerk,” Sweets said.

As I left the building, a woman walked past me and through the doors. I did a double-take. She was the spitting image of Winona Davis. I rushed after her, but she’d disappeared. Che cazzo, I said to myself. Helping Sweets was one thing, dealing with apparitions was not part of the bargain. Back in my Mustang, I sat for a while, both hands on the steering wheel, getting a grip. It was my mind playing tricks. You make one mistake in your life, and your life can be fucked. One selfish little mistake to protect your business, help a friend, be a good son, and see what happens. You start seeing ghosts. I turned the engine over and slammed the Mustang into first. I’d have to talk to my mother about this, in case I’d inherited some kind of supernatural gene.

But later; I had things to do.

• • •

Midnight had come and gone and East 14th was quiet. I was crouched on the roof of Discount Furniture, dressed in my burglary duds. It was a clear night and in the distance I could see the tops of the buildings in Downtown Oakland and further in the distance the glow of San Francisco. It was a cool, but I was sweating. The burglary was not working. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the damn bar to unhook the skylight latch. I sat atop the roof feeling that burglary was not a career I should consider. I climbed down with my tools and two-pound bag of hamburger. Time to activate Sweets’ Plan B, which meant I had to enlist the help of my twin.