CHAPTER 31: NORTH BEACH

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imagination.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

When I was in my sophomore year of college, the year most students discover they’re intellectuals, the freshman year being too scary and the junior and senior years too consumed with studying, Frank Shirley, the school’s chug-a-lug champ, and I used to drive to the North Beach in San Francisco on weekends. Our destination was a tavern called Vesuvio’s, where we knew there’d be a plethora of hippie chicks waiting for two handsome college studs. It was Frank’s idea that we take some poems with us to impress the maidens with our literary skills. Being business majors, those were skills neither of us possessed. No problem, Frank said. All we needed to do was hit the library, find some archaic Greek or Roman poems in translation, write them on the back of an envelope and present them as our own. Plagiarism was not a consideration, hippie chicks were.

The memory of those nights of mellow fruitfulness followed me into Vesuvio’s. I’d arrived early. I sat down at the bar and ordered an Anchor Steam. The television above the bar was tuned to the concluding portion of the Academy Awards, the announcement for Best Motion Picture of the Year. A cheer went up when it was announced that In the Heat of the Night was the winner. The camera panned into the audience to the smiling faces of Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger. A guy next to me, told me, Steiger won for Best Actor in a leading role. Poitier had already won an Oscar for Best Actor in 1964 for his role in Lilies of the Field, a movie my twin said couldn’t possibly be good with a wussy name like that. I saw it anyway, but didn’t tell him. Didn’t blow me away. I was on my second beer when the door opened and Dila walked in, hip in a purple waistcoat with fringes draped over a white silk blouse tucked into black flared trousers from which emerged the tips of two high heeled black boots. Madonna, protect your good Catholic boy. I wasn’t being altogether insincere.

I was trying to decide whether to give her a hug, or perhaps a peck on the cheek, some sign of how happy I was to see her, when she surprised me by kissing my cheek.

“The electrical system failed in the fourth act,” she said. “I hitched a ride with the director who lives in the Marina. I’ll ride back with you so you won’t be lonely.”

The hell with Sweets, I wasn’t going to ruin what appeared to be the start of a propitious evening with talk of drug dealers and murders. The guy sitting next to me moved over, and she sat down and ordered a white wine. She looked up at the TV and asked who’d won for best picture. “Right on,” she said when I told her Heat of the Night. We talked about the movie. She said the scene in which Mr. Tibbs slaps the white plantation owner was one hell of a brave move by Hollywood. She brought up Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner as another brave Hollywood flick. I agreed, thinking to myself what the reaction my folks would have if I brought Dila home for pasta. If Dila brought me home, her father would probably shoot my honky ass. We talked a little about Othello and some more about Shakespeare. She reminded me that the Bard always included scary stuff like witches, clowns, somnambulists, and ghosts in his plays to appeal to the common folks. I kind of knew that. I didn’t mention that the ghost of dearly departed Winona was following me around.

After Vesuvio’s, we crossed Columbus Avenue to the Anxious Asp to hear a singer named Mose Allison, who Dila assured me was fabulous for a blues singer. “You’d think he was black,” She said. “If you didn’t see his face.” The club was located in a basement where I imagined Beats like Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, writers like that hung out. I remembered our English professor lauding the Beat writers and only the English majors giving a shit. I had a copy of Ginsberg’s Howl on my bookshelf. Read it once, thought it stunk. The club was dark and crowded, cigarette smoke covering the ceiling like cirrus clouds. The sweet scent of weed permeated the air. Through the gloom, I spotted a couple leaving their table, and we got there before a trio of hipsters. We had a good view of the small stage. A couple seated to our left were huddled over a chess board oblivious to the piano and the singer and the people circling around them. We ordered drinks, white wine for Dila, Anchor Steam for me. Mose started singing with an accent much like Sweets’, which was not surprising since, according to Dila, Mose Alison grew up in Louisiana. The song was called “Seventh Son”. I liked it.

During a break, Dila leaned across the table and asked me what was wrong.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing will come of nothing,” she said. “Speak again.”

Couldn’t fool me, that was Shakespeare, but I didn’t remember the play. If I spoke again, I’d have to lay out the whole, from start to finish, including Vincent and my part in the cover-up. How would Dila take having a relationship with an accessory to murder? On the other hand, since Winona was African-American, wouldn’t Dila be more motivated to help find her killer, than if she was some white girl from the burbs? So, I took a deep breath and explained everything, ending with my present frustration.

“Ohwee,” Dila said. “You snuck that poor girl’s body into the Satans’ clubhouse and left her alone.”

“We were real respectful,” I said, thinking being alone wouldn’t have mattered to Winona. I hadn’t counted on her ghost. But I was not going to tell Dila with my ghostly encounters.

“That was cold, Victor.”

“I know, I know. If I could take it back, I would, believe me. I feel really shitty about it.”

“Trying to save your ass.”

“And Sweets’ ass,” I added. “And our car dealership. Not to mention our family honor was at stake.”

That drew a chuckle. “Good lord, whites talk about black families being fucked up.”

“Honor makes a man strong as a mountain,” I said quoting my father. It was a belief I held on to, but recently my grip on the paternal ledge was slipping. Sorry, Pop.

“That’s beyond strange,” Dila said. “So, what do you want from me?”

My black angel didn’t sound happy, and I didn’t blame her. “Another view point. I’ve run out of ideas. And suspects.”

Dila shook her head. “Look, this is messed up, to say the least. I’ll try, but no guarantees. Why don’t you start over again, from the beginning, and don’t leave any details out.

She was right. My detection manual made the point that it’s all in the details.

Our conversation was interrupted by Mose returning to the piano. He started singing “Parchman Farm” that Dila explained was his signature song about a convict picking cotton. I thought of Sweets describing the penitentiaries in Louisiana, not that the liar had ever actually been inside. Dila explained that “Parchman Farm” or “Parchman Farm Blues” was first recorded by a black guy named Bukka White in 1940 about his experiences in the Mississippi State Prison, notorious for its harsh conditions. I told her about Sweet’s trying to get my sympathy by lying to me that there was an outstanding warrant for him from Louisiana.

“I don’t know Sweets,” she said, “but I heard a few things from the brothers.”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s got some kind of weird mojo.”

“The Panthers,” I said.

“No, not the Panthers, but some of the older brothers helped him a while back.”

My pop never knew what Sweets actually did to get the Amigos off his back. Perhaps those older brothers had helped.

“I’m ready to hear the next episode of the Brovelli boys,” Dila said. “You can tell me the rest on our ride home.”

Second Street led to the Bay Bridge onramp. At this time in the morning, traffic was light. I stayed in the slow lane so we could talk better. I shook my head. “You know, Dila, I don’t think Sweets did it, but I don’t think Fournier did it either. Something in my gut tells me I should be able to figure out who did?” I told her my analogy about the unexplained car noise. “So, you see, you’re my expert mechanic. I need you to bring all your objective prowess into play.”

“Damn, Victor. I’m pretty good at figuring out government tactics or interpreting lines in plays, but a Girl Friday I’m not. Isn’t your job to get Sweets off, not find out who the real killer is?”

“I guess,” I said. “The reality has very little to do with Winona, who I hardly knew. But I liked Arabella.”

“Aha,” she said. “This is the very ecstasy of love.”

“I like this line better. ‘Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?’ ”

“You loved her at first sight?”

“I’m talking about you.”

“You can’t tell, but I’m blushing.”

No way was I going to step on that P.C. landmine. “It’s the truth, Dila, from the moment I woke up in the Panthers’ office and saw your face looking down at me.”

“We better get back to talking about the murders.”

Forget the murders. I wanted to talk about her and me, but I felt pushing it would not help my cause. “Okay. Lets.” I said. “You have any flashes of insight?”

“Nothing specific, but I remember a problem-solving strategy one of my professors taught us. It’s called webbing. You start out with a blank sheet of paper in the center of which you place your subject. In your case it would be Winona or Arabella or both. Then you start writing down words or phrases that you associate with the subject and place them around the subject, drawing arrows from the center to the satellites. The key is to write every little thing you associate with the subject, no matter how trivial. It’s kind of a free flowing thought process. Let your mind go. Soon you’ll have a page filled with circles all interconnected. You see what I mean?”

“Not exactly.”

“The sheet of paper will look like a galaxy.’

“Like a bunch of gaskets.”

“I don’t know what those are.”

“Just car talk. All right, I get it.”

“You’re weird, Mr. Brovelli.”

“Once I’ve run out of things to put in the holes, then what do I do?”

“You fixate. Ask yourself why you wrote them down? For each of your little satellite subjects you have to be able to answer that question. My prof used to tell us that there are unexplored places in everyone’s mind where one’s best ideas are hidden.”

“It sounds a little hippie-dippy to me.”

“There’s nothing hippy about it. You don’t have to drop any acid, all you need is a blank sheet of paper, a pencil and your mind.”

“I’ll try it tomorrow first thing. Thanks.”

“You can go a little faster, Victor. You can’t keep a girl out to all hours when she has to go to work early in the morning. I’m not just a volunteer, I get a paycheck.”

I accelerated. Dila turned on an R & B station, Gladys Knight and the Pips she told me when the voices started singing, “Do You Love Me Just a Little Honey?” Followed by another of their hits, “Every Beat of My Heart”. We reached the turnoff to Berkeley, from there she directed me to her house. I parked in front of an attractive two-story shingled home with a wrap-around porch on a tree lined street close to the University of California. There was no ghetto in this woman’s life. She turned to face me.

“My daddy owns a successful business. A very successful business.”

Anticipating my question, she said, “I wouldn’t want the Panthers to know.”

“All your secrets are safe with me.” I said, thinking the Panthers probably knew anyway.

“You’re a good man, Victor.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on my cheek.

I reached for her, but she was too quick. I started to speak, but she shushed me with her finger on my lips.

“Remember, we’re only in Act One.”

With that she opened the door, stepped out of the car and ran to her front door.

“Madonna,” I whispered, as I pulled away from the curb. I was thinking about Act Two.