CHAPTER 30: JITTERS

The world is full of obvious things, which nobody by any chance

ever observes.

Sherlock Holmes

Being it was Ash Wednesday, I briefly considered dropping in to Saint Joe’s on my way to work and having some ashes smudged on my forehead. I nixed the idea because I was feeling too happy for such a religious downer. I stopped at the gas station to fill up and was greeted by Jitters. He topped off the Mustang and cleaned the windows all around. I groused about gas prices going up to 34 cents a gallon. Somebody was making big bucks. Not us, we agreed. After last night’s dinner, I was in a great mood. A gorgeous woman in my future, and I was free of Sweets. I wished the weather was sunny to match the way I felt. I was paying Jitters when he picked up the Tribune laying on the counter.

“You know that f’fellow, got himself murdered over in San Leandro. See here. . .” He pointed.

“I seen this g’guy around.”

It looked like a passport photograph of Jordan Fournier, side by side with the grainy photograph in yesterday’s newspaper of a body sprawled face down on a motel bed.

“Around here?” I asked.

“Yep. Couple of d’days ago. Drove in to gas up.”

Jitters practices what I call selective stuttering. He’ll stutter one letter, then pronounce that same letter perfectly the next time. “You sure it was the same guy?” I asked. Sometimes Jitters, who’d lived through a North Korean prison camp, suffered lapses of memory.

“Maybe it was a little longer ago, but I’m sure of the guy and the car.”

“Could you have seen him before Winona got killed?” I asked, getting my hopes up.

“Nope, not that long ago. Just a c’couple of days. Three at the most.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Mercedes. You know, like the one Sylvia got from her p’pappy.”

“You saying it was the same car?”

“N’no, not saying that, just like it though, same year, same make, model, colors and all.”

“Did you talk to the guy?”

“You know m’me, Victor. friendly is my middle name. But this fellow didn’t say much. Asked if I could direct him to the Oasis. He thanked me p’polite like, you know, real southern gentleman talk, sounds like they got m’mush in their m’mouths.”

Damn. If Jitters could put Fournier in the area before Winona’s murder, Carter would have more fuel for the Other-Dude-Did-It defense. Hell, even if Fournier was around before Arabella’s murder that would work too. I paid Jitters and drove up the block to our lot. After I parked, I sat staring through the windshield. Fournier going to the Oasis could not be a coincidence. Jitters said he didn’t think it was Sylvia’s Mercedes, but what if it was? How many exact same models, same year and color Mercedes were there around in our part of town? Not many. Could Sylvia’s customer have been Fournier? Nah, if that had been the case, she’d have recognized him at Romano’s when she brought me the camera. But she’d been surprised.

I left the Mustang and walked around to the front of the building. Vincent was leaning inside a Corvette, doing something and didn’t see me. I waved at his backside, hollered, “Yo!” and entered the office. Sylvia looked up from her desk and said, “Ciao,”

I ciao’d in return and went to my desk. For a while, I sat trying to remember exactly what Sylvia had said when she saw Fournier in Romano’s. Did it matter? Probably not. I stood up and went to the coffee pot. I poured a mug and returned to my desk. I swiveled in my chair, “Hey, Sylvia, you know that Mercedes you sold. Who’d you sell it to?”

“Why you want to know?”

“No reason. Just curious.”

“A priest friend of my father’s. Actually, he’s got a parish in Sacramento. I forgot the name of the church. You want me to look it up?”

“No, no reason to.”

Just then, Vincent came through the door, and I left to take my ups. I took a walk through the aisles, inspecting the cars, not that any of them needed inspecting. Knowing Vincent, he’d already checked them out this morning. They were all spotless. I looked up at the sky. The sheets of cloud-cover on the eastern horizon were backlit by a sun trying hard to break through, creating a fuzzy light. To the south, in the direction of San Jose, I could see swatches of blue sky, like patches on a gray blanket. The weather was mild. Extreme weather is foreign to the Bay Area. The rest of the morning my mind raced back and forth between two subjects, Dila Agbo and Sweets. As much as I was resolved to forget about the ciuccio, I was having trouble managing my resolve. This did not make me happy. On the other hand, the subject of Dila gave me a warm feeling. I tried to concentrate on Dila, but Pop’s voice kept popping into my head, onore, onore, onore like popcorn, pop, pop, pop. Sweets was like the needle on a compass pointing in my direction. Maybe I should talk to my twin. Could I confide in him that I was considering continuing to help Sweets, which I wasn’t, hell no, absolutely not, not for one second. You hear that Winona. I looked around to see if the murdered woman’s ghost was within hearing distance. I shook my head. The whole thing from the start had stupid written all over it. I was too damn young to be a private eye. Private eyes were mature men with experience, according to the book, ex-cops, ex-military police; they carried gats in shoulder holsters, and talked like Robert Mitchum. What was I? A twenty-six-year-old car salesmen only five years out of college with a degree in business administration and a secret love of literature.

In my mind, I heard Vincent: It’s high time we asserted ourselves, Victor. We’re our own men, adults. No more Pop. Just you and me, the Brovelli Brothers.

But my resolve, which seemed rock solid yesterday, was cracking. Like I couldn’t help myself. I was a total weenie. There was, I had to admit, something loveable about Sweets not that I ever found anybody who’d been able to tell me exactly what it was. He took advantage of Pop’s friendship, disrespected women, broke into people’s homes, lied, cheated at cards, dressed like a clown, and left his frigging candy wrappers for other people to clean up. The only specific good I could name was the rumor of Sweets’ donations to poor single moms. Maybe that’s what endeared him to me. He did keep the cars we provided him with in immaculate condition. Like me, he was a lover of cars. If you did well by your automobile, how bad could you be? It’s what my mom once told me about one of her friends from her women’s church group who said she’d married her husband because he was kind to animals. In all other ways, she admitted, he was a complete ass.

An hour went by without customers. Vincent relieved me, and an hour later I relieved him. By noon I was ready for chili at Flynn’s. I told Vincent I was taking an hour, then I’d handle the afternoon so he could spend the rest of the day with his wife. Vincent was stressing out over Gloria, who was in the last month of her pregnancy. Winona’s murder and Sweets arrest had compounded the stress. No way could I tell him I was having second thoughts.

Larry Hughes’ wide ass was taking up two stools. There was an empty on his left. I sat down. A pair of cabdrivers, known as Abbot and Costello, sat next to Larry. There were a couple of Pacific Gas and Electric workers two stools down seated to my left. Stuart was behind the bar. He explained Body was at the dentist and asked me for my order. He returned with a steaming bowl of Irish stew. It came with a thick slice of crusty French bread and my usual frosty mug of Anchor Steam. Hughes was eating his stew and watching the TV that was showing the public memorial for Doctor Martin Luther King Jr being held at Morehouse College, King’s alma mater. I figured if Body had been tending bar the funeral would have been quickly replaced with a sporting event. As I ate, I played over in my mind everything I remembered about Jordan Fournier, from the first time I saw him standing in front of Romano’s. In my last memory of him, he was talking to one of the Brown Berets before I lost him in the crowd. What the hell was Fournier doing talking to the Mexicans anyway? As far as I knew he wasn’t Mexican, nor was he a political radical. The way Sweets had described him, he was a small-time gopher for the principal New Orleans’ mafia family.

I was mulling this over, when a hand clapped my shoulder, and I heard the familiar voice of Body Flynn. I steeled myself for what was coming.

“Victor, if Tarzan and Jane were Eye-talian, what would Cheeta be?”

“An Irishman because they all look like gorillas,” I answered, turning in my seat to face the grinning Flynn.

“Wrong,” Body said. “The answer is the fooking monkey would be the least hairy of the three.” He erupted into laughter that turned into a knee slapping Irish jig. He was wearing a vest covered with green shamrocks. Sometimes Body was a parody of himself. That is until he got with his Irish buddies on Saturday nights, then he was all IRA business and a little scary.

“Knock yourself out, Body,” I said. “I’ve got too much on my mind to listen to your dumb jokes.”

“What’s the problem, me boyo?” Body asked. “Don’t tell me you’re still trying to help that jerk off, Sweets.”

“No,” I said. “Well, maybe, just a little. But you can’t say a word to Vincent.” Body crossed his heart. “It’s just there’s some things that seem odd.” I explained about Winona’s husband as well as I could. I didn’t mention the Mercedes.

“So, he might have been around the neighborhood earlier than you knew.”

“If Fournier was here earlier, like before Winona was murdered, doesn’t it stand to reason he’d try and get in touch with her?” I asked.

“Or he might not have wanted to get in touch,” Body said. “Divorced guys don’t usually carry on a relationship with their ex’s. What the hell difference does all this make anyway? The guy is in the morgue.”

“They weren’t divorced,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter, estranged, whatever. The man might have had business in the Bay Area.”

“Okay, can you give me a reason why Fournier was yakking it up with one of those Brown Berets at the Little Bobby Hutton vigil?”

Body said. “Probably has something to do with the Oasis. If Fournier works for the Mafia in New Orleans, like you said, he might be having dealings with some of our local gangsters. The Amigos handle most of the dope in the East Bay. Except for weed, which is the domain of our very own neighborhood Satans.

Duh, I thought. “So you think Fournier was into dope?”

“Absolutely, Victor. Look, if Carter wants a defense, he needs to focus on the beaners.”

“Don’t let Jitters hear you talking about beaners,” Stuart said as he put down a mug of beer in front of Body. “He’ll get his Mexican cousin Raul, the weightlifter, after you.”

“Jitters is only a little bit Mex,” Body said. “Besides, if he gives me any shit, I’ll make him pay his tab. It’s approaching the fooking national debt.”

Body looked like he had more to say about Jitters, but stopped. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Stuart,” Body exclaimed, looking up. “What the fook you have on TV. Get that morose shit off and find some sports. There’s got to be a baseball game.”

“That’s Doctor King’s memorial,” Larry Hughes said.

“Ah shist, Larry, me boyo, I didn’t see your black ass there. Sorry.”

“Pretty hard to miss my black ass. It’s taking up two of your skinny-white ass stools.”

Body hollered, “Keep it where it is, Stuart, what the fook were you tinking trying to change channels. That’s important stoof there.”

All the while this exchange was going on, I was thinking how appalled Dila would be with Body’s racism. Until now, as often as I heard Body and some of the other guys in the tavern talk about people’s race and religion, it has been like background noise, like traffic on the street.

Body said, “Larry, me boyo, you know I admired Doctor King. I’m all for fighting the fooking oppressors.”

“If you didn’t make the best chili and stew in the city, I’d stop coming here, you Irish prick.”

I changed the subject. “I think I have to go back to the Oasis and talk to the Amigos.”

“And you’d be crazy if you do.” Body said, raising his voice. “Did you hear what our esteemed Italian friend is proposing, Stuart?”

“I hope you have your life insurance paid up,” Stuart said. “You’re definitely persona non grata there.”

“On second thought,” I said. “Maybe I’ll send Vincent. He’s more likely to survive than me.”

The cabbie called Abbot said, “Like the time he stuck a gun to the head of that pimp and saved your ass, Victor.”

Larry Hughes leaned into the conversation. “And the time the robber put a gun to your brother’s head and your bro bluffed him out of killing him.” He chuckled.

Thanks for the memories. “That happened just after we took over the lot from our pop.”

“What was that all about?” Stuart asked. “I wasn’t around then.”

Stories about my brother were becoming mythic in the neighborhood. I have to admit I love telling them, and occasionally embellishing. This particular tale was a classic. I began, “So, you see, this guy calls and tells Vincent he he’s got a 1966 Thunderbird convertible for sale and how much would he give him. Vincent tells him, $2,000.00 dollars if it’s in good shape. Great the guy says, he’ll be right down. He drives up in the Thunderbird, points a gun at Vincent’s head and says to fork over the money. Vincent pulls out his check book. No, no, the scumbag says. He wants cash.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stuart said. “What did Vince do?”

“Yeah, what did happen?” the PG&E guy two seats down from me asked.

For a moment I thought, if only Renee were here, I’d get laid, and instantly felt guilty talking that way about Dila’s only white friend. I continued. “Vincent says, he doesn’t have cash. The robber says he’ll shoot my brother’s muthafucking head off. Vincent says go ahead and fuck you, and you’ll be doing him a favor, since his business was going down the tubes and his wife took their children, cleaned out their bank account, ran away with the green grocer, and his dog just got run over by a truck. The dude gets a frightened look on his face, tells Vincent he’s one crazy sonavabitch, runs out the door and jumps into a ‘67 Lincoln Continental like he’s going to drive away. Of course the key is not in the ignition.”

“What did the looney do then?” The question came from a guy sitting at the end of the bar.

“He jumps out and sprints back to the Thunderbird and roars away. By then Vincent has been on the phone, and the cops catch the guy before he gets to the Bay Bridge.”

“He had a Thunderbird, why’d the dummy try to steal the Lincoln?” Body asked.

“The cops asked him the same question. He told them the Lincoln was a better made automobile than the Bird.”

“I agree,” Stuart said. “You know granddaddy Ford was a Nazi lover?”

“The Fuhrer couldn’t have been all that bad,” Body said. “Bombed the hell out of the fooking English, didn’t he?”

Body started laughing as if what he said was funny. “I’d be joking you pissants. It’s a joke.

I love the fooking English.”

That started me laughing and the rest of the bar joined in.

“Must have missed a good one,” Jay Ness said, closing the door behind him.

“It’s our favorite member of the constabulary,” Body announced. “Welcome Detective Sergeant, you’ve arrived just in time to keep me boyo here from winding up in your morgue.”

“Victor,” Ness said. “Are you still playing detective? I heard from Sweets’ lawyer, that you’d resigned.”

“I did, Jay. I swear. But there’s a few things that are bothering me, you know like when there’s a rattle in your car and you can’t figure out where it’s coming from. You take it to the mechanic, but he can’t find anything. It drives you crazy, right?”

“How many beers has my good friend Victor Brovelli had, Stuart?”

“Victor believes he has to interrogate the Amigos,” Body said. “Because, the fool thinks there’s a connection between those assholes and the dead guy from New Orleans.”

“Sweet Jesus, Victor. What’s this all about? If you know something, you need to tell me.”

I told him.

“Well, now, that is interesting. Maybe you have a future as a gumshoe. We knew about his record in Louisiana, small potatoes. We didn’t connect him in any way to those Mexican hoods.”

“Could be drugs,” I said. “You know he worked for the mafia?”

“Yeah, we knew that too.”

“Sweets knew him when he lived there.”

“Interesting. Sweets didn’t say a word to us. “

Why wouldn’t he, I wondered.

“If there is anything to this, it’s a good bet it is about drugs. In that context, Fournier’s murder makes sense. The way things have been going, we haven’t had any let up to deal with ordinary crimes like murder and robbery, not with all this political and racial unrest. I haven’t had four hours of uninterrupted sleep since Doctor King was assassinated.”

With dark, saggy patches under his bloodshot eyes, Jay looked as if he hadn’t slept for a month. He’d definitely lost weight. Jay was a good guy and a good cop in a profession that often, unfortunately, attracted arrogant pricks. I know that isn’t a common belief, but all the guys from my high school class that went into law enforcement were bullies and complete assholes.

I felt bad for my friend Ness. Maybe this information about Fournier would provide him with some brownie points with his superiors.

Ness sat down next to me and ordered a shot and beer, dumping the shot into the glass.

“Now, what’s all this about going to interview the Amigos?”

Ness had heard about how the Amigos had intimidated my father and how Sweets had saved the day.

“It seems that Fournier could still have murdered Winona and Arabella if this whole thing is about drugs. Or he could have been up here because of some shady business with the Amigos, seen Winona and shot her. They weren’t even divorced. She ran away from him.”

“If it bothered Fournier that much, why has it taken him this long for paybacks?” Ness asked.

“Who knows? He had other work to do. And he probably didn’t know where she was.”

Stuart said. “Don’t forget Winona temped part time tending bar at the Oasis.”

“There you go,” I said. “That’s how he found out about her. Her ex-pimp works as a bartender there, along with his sister.”

Jay said. “That foxy little blonde is dangerous.”

“Yeah, Fredericka,” I said. “A real cutie.”

“Cute, all right,” said Jay. “But those long pins in her hair are deadly weapons.”

I wasn’t sure if Jay knew about my little altercation with the cutie and her brother.

If he didn’t he was about to as Body began sharing my adventure with Jay and the rest of the tavern, all of whom were intently listening to our conversation as though it were the featured lunchtime entertainment. When Body finished his tale that ended with Vincent saving my ass, the bar erupted in applause.

I sighed. “Thanks, Body,” I said.

“A tale worth telling, me boyo. That twin of yours has got some bollocks.”

“Victor, I should arrest you for being a dumb shmuck.” Jay said.

“Don’t arrest me, Jay, you’re the police, go with me.”

“Where? What are you talking about?”

“Let’s you and me go to the Oasis. We’ll question Fredericka, her brother if he’s working and some of the Amigos.”

“I’m not going in there half-cocked. If the Amigos shot Fournier, I’ll need evidence. I’m not going to tip my hand. I need to talk to my snitches, probe a little. See what surfaces. If there’re new drug deals going down, the word will be out on the street.”

He was right, of course. But I was disappointed. In How to Be a Private Investigator I’d read that good P.I.’s know instinctively when they’re close to solving the crime. Well, that took care of that. I wasn’t a hundred miles close. Anyway, I was donating the book to the library.

“Excuse me,” Jay said, getting up. “Got to use the phone.”

“Give him the bar phone,” Body said to Stuart.

“I’ll use the payphone in the back. I don’t want half of East 14th Street listening.”

My stew had grown cold, and I asked Stuart to heat it up. I tried not to listen to the bar talk, which centered mostly on different episodes in my twin’s life. The more I listened, the more Vincent began to sound like James Bond. He was daring enough and certainly was handsome, but I couldn’t imagine him with a martini in his hand sweet-talking lovely Pussy Galore. Like Pop, he was a one-woman guy.

Jay returned and slapped me on the back. “Thanks for the information, Victor. I got the ball rolling. I’ll put you in for a police commendation if this drug connection turns out. Perhaps the mayor will give you the key to the city.”

“Va fangul,” I said.

Jay slapped my back again. “I could arrest you for telling an officer of the law to go fuck himself, you know.” Picking up his change from the bar, he ignored my second “Va fangul!” and hurried out the door, laughing.

Body took Jay’s seat next to me. “Hey Victor, do you know what an Italian nativity scene consists of?”

Give me strength, I thought, shaking my head.

“Jesus, Mary and three wise guys.”

Screw the stew, I threw a couple of bucks on the bar and left, the sound of Body laughing trailing me out on to the street. One of these days, I thought, I was going to knock him on his ass. I walked back to the lot and told Vincent he was good to go. Sylvia looked at me longingly. I gave her the rest of the day off too.

In the office, I tried to do paperwork, but I couldn’t keep my mind focused. I went outside and ran a rag over a few cars that didn’t need dusting, and straightened out a couple of price tags. Not a customer in sight. As usual, there was a lot of traffic coming and going along East 14th. If I closed my eyes, after a while the sound was comforting, like wind in trees or ocean waves were to a nature lover. A foursome of Satans roared by on their hogs, Sunny Badger riding the lead hog, the trio spread out behind him, taking up both lanes of traffic. The drivers in the cars behind the Satans were smart enough not to blow their horns. I thought of waving, but they were long gone.

Back in the office, I spotted another of Sweet’s candy wrappers under Sylvia’s desk. Sylvia was a meticulous bookkeeper but a lousy janitor. I grabbed a broom from the back, swept them up and dumped the irritating reminders of Mr. Sweet Tooth into the trash can. When the hell was the last time Sweets was in this office, I wondered. I put the broom and dust pan away and returned to my desk. It was two o’clock. The phone rang; Carter Innis on the line reminding me I had a date with his cousin tonight. I assured him I hadn’t forgotten Veronica - which I had forgotten – completely. I hung up without mentioning that Jordan Fournier was once again a possible alternative suspect. Until I heard from Ness, I didn’t want to get Sweets’ hopes up. Or Innis’ hopes up of becoming the next F. Lee Bailey.

Veronica, a 10 out of 10 on the stewardess scale, Top of the Mark for dinner. How in the world did I forget? I tried to imagine her naked on a bed, but instead I was looking at the face of Dila Agbo across the table from me at Ettores. I opened my wallet and withdrew Dila’s telephone number, trying to figure out if asking her for a date less than twenty-four hours after last night’s dinner would seem as if I was too anxious. Unlike women I’d dated before, Dila worried me. She possessed a combination of traits that I’d not found in my other. . . what was the P.C. term the hippies were using to describe lovers? Significant others, right? Not that Renee, one of my others, was by any means insignificant. But, I’d long ago figured out our relationship. Dila would not be so easy to pigeon-hole. Nor did I really want to. I simply enjoyed being with her. For the first time in my life, when I thought of a woman, I did not immediately think of sex. If I shared this thought with any of my local buddies at Flynn’s the derision would be universal: Next step is the altar, Victor. Guess we won’t see you at the poker games anymore. Pussy whipped, eh? Victor, my friend, say it isn’t so? Tell me, me boyo, what do you call an Italian who doesn’t immediately think of sex when he sees a good-looking woman? Not to mention, Dila was African-American, what an uproar that would create in the tavern. The thought occurred to me that, perhaps, the first indication that you were falling in love was when you didn’t think of the woman in question in terms of sex. Don’t be stupid, Brovelli, I said to myself. That contradicts the entire history of male behavior.

I dialed Veronica’s number. The phone rang. “You are about to do something really dumb,” I whispered as I listened for her to pick up. On the fourth ring, she answered in the same sultry voice I remembered hearing for the first time on a flight to Chicago when she’d stopped at my seat and asked me for my luncheon preference. When I told Veronica important business had come up, and I couldn’t get away, her sultry voice turned petulant. As she was scheduled to fly out tomorrow, I promised next time she was in town we’d get together. By her response, I didn’t believe that would happen. I should have felt like a dumb fuck passing on Veronica of the scrumptious body. Instead, as I hung up the receiver, I felt pretty damn good, like when you go to confession and you don’t leave any sins out.

The next couple of hours dragged, until two old ladies with blue gray hair marched onto the lot – and I mean marched, not a cane or a limp between them. We’d been recommended by their colleague, Mr. Stokes, they explained. It took me a moment to realize they were talking about Jitters. Unless they were drag-racers or mechanics, I wondered what they meant by colleagues. They explained they wanted to purchase an automobile with a little giddy-up. I showed them a number of cars I thought they’d like. After test driving a few sports cars, including a sharp 1966 Corvette, the two senior citizens selected a gunmetal gray 1955 Chevy 3100 series pickup. It definitely had giddy-up-and-go. Under its hood was a rebuilt 347 cu in Ford engine with 350 horses. It was too much car for them, but they offered cash, so who was I to dissuade them? I wrote them up, followed them out to the lot, and watched them drive off, their arms out the windows waving at me. When they hit the street, the pickup peeled rubber and was gone.

Back in the office I tossed the paper work in Sylvia’s in-tray, which caused another of Sweets’ candy wrappers to pop into the air. It fluttered to the floor like a miniature bird. Cursing, I picked the wrapper off the floor and held it between my fingers. It smelled faintly of orange. The thought came to me that instead of the wrappers in Arabella’s apartment being proof Sweets was the murderer, didn’t it prove the opposite? Why would the killer leave behind such obvious evidence of his presence at the murder scene? Sweets was not a genius, but he was no dummy. On the other hand, it would have been smart of the real murderer to place Sweets’ candy wrappers at the scene. The candy wrappers wouldn’t have been hard to come by since wherever he went, he left a trail of them behind him like Hansel and Gretel left breadcrumbs. Only in Sweets case, it would have turned out better for him had the script stayed true to the fairy tale and a flock of birds had eaten the trail. I’d pass on this thought to Carter, in the event he hadn’t already thought of it

The phone rang. I picked up and listened to Renee inviting me to an Academy Award Party at a friend’s house. Because of Doctor Martin Luther King’s memorial service, Gregory Peck, the President of the Academy, had postponed the ceremony that was scheduled for the 8th to the 10th. According to some of the guys at Flynn’s the Awards had been high jacked by the liberals with two movies about race relations: In the Heat of the Night that I thought was boss, and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, that I hadn’t seen. Both movies starred a black actor named Sidney Poitier. I told Renee, maybe, but not to count on me. One thing about Renee, she didn’t waste her time being disappointed. I’d never doubted that my quasi-girlfriend had alternative males in her address book. She made kiss-kiss sounds, said “later” and hung up.

Closing time was still a couple of hours away. So far, we’d had a slow day. One sale did not fire my engines, albeit a cash deal. Screw hanging around. I began closing up. First, I checked the cars to make sure they were all locked. I sorted through the paperwork on Vincent and my desks to be sure there wasn’t anything that Sylvia needed to do in the morning. Accounts receivable was always welcome; accounts payable, not so much so. I found a post-dated check on Vincent desk. I wasn’t sure what transaction it belonged to. I left it for Sylvia with a note. I took the key box and locked the office. In the distance, I could hear the grinding sound of rush hour traffic on the freeway and the occasionally whine of semis as they geared down. East 14th had cleared out some. The sun had broken through and was low on the horizon, turning the Oakland Tribune clock tower the color of burnt orange. I watched the sunset for a moment, then walked behind the office and got in my Mustang. I turned on the ignition, then turned it off. I slapped the steering wheel. Ever since Jitters told me about Fournier, this whole pain-in-the-ass business was making those irritating noises in my head. Sweets’ conviction hinged on the evidence in Arabella’s apartment and the testimony of the old lady across the hall from Arabella that put the bird-man at the scene of the crime. But did it place him inside? Not necessarily. However, the candy wrappers and his fingerprints on the glass did. Was there any way Fournier fit into this? Could he have killed the two women, then wound up getting shot because of some drug deal gone bad? Of course, but where was the proof? Jitters saw Fournier at his gas station, driving a Mercedes. All that proved was he was there after the murders, but not before the murders.

My gut told me there was evidence that would clear Sweets, if only I could figure out what it was. Then I heard myself say, “But you’re too dumb to figure it out.” If that’s the case, I thought, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone, would it? Just talk. I wouldn’t be going back on my word to Vincent. I was always able to bounce ideas of Renee. Only she’d think this was really exciting and dangerous, which would get her thinking sex. Besides, she was heading to an Academy Award party. No, the person I really wanted to talk to was my Black Angel. I got out of the car and returned to the office. I took her telephone out of my wallet. Three rings and she answered.

“I had a fabulous time last night,” I said.

“Victor?”

“The only Italian white guy you know.”

“I can’t talk. I have another performance tonight, and I’m late.”

“Are you free afterwards?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“How about an assignation in San Francisco?”

Dila laughed. “Give me an assignation designation quickly, and I’ll meet you.”

“Ten-thirty at Vesuvio’s on Columbus.”

“Is that the place across the alley from City Lights Books?”

“Right.”

“I know it,” she said. “See you there. Sorry, got to run.”

The phone went dead, but I felt very much alive.