CHAPTER 1: CRIME SCENE

There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself.

from Farewell My Lovely by Raymond Chandler

I was staring into the trunk of a 1961 Chevrolet Impala. “The fucking trunk shouldn’t have a dead body in it,” I said to my twin brother, Vincent. “It didn’t have a dead body in it when Sweets drove it off the lot.” Stay calm I told myself.

My twin looked at me, like duh.

“It’s a fucking dead woman,” I said, my voice rising a couple of decibels. “You see that hole in her head?”

“No.”

“Right there.” I pointed. Her dark hair almost obscured it. Small. No blood, but definitely a hole. I could have stuck a pencil in it. I felt my stomach turn. Was I alarmed? You bet your ass I was. Vincent and I were standing in front of the office of Brovelli Brother’s Used Cars, the business we’d owned for the last three years since our pop, Big Sal Brovelli, retired and handed the keys over to us. I’m Vincent’s other half, Victor Brovelli. Occasionally, people shorten our names to Vince and Vic. Vincent doesn’t seem to mind, but I do. Vic reminds me of victim, while Victor is all about winning. But if someone calls me Vic, I don’t get too upset. Most of my friends know better.

“I don’t think she’s been dead for long,” Vincent said. “I don’t smell anything.”

Smell, smell, are you shitting me? Smell, who cares,” I said, “Do you recognize her?”

“Not without seeing her face,” he said. “And don’t ask me to turn her over.”

“Fine, you coward.” The body was tucked into the fetal position, mini skirt revealing long brown legs. No stockings, no shoes, crimson toenails. I reached down.

“No, no, don’t do that.”

I jumped back, smacking my head against the open trunk lid. “Sonavabitch, sonavabitch.”

“Stop yelling,” Vincent said. “You want Sylvia to hear you.” Sylvia Vitale was our accountant and our cousin on our mother’s side of the family.

“She’s in the office balancing her checkbook.” I touched the back of my head. “I’m bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch,” Vincent said. “You touch the body, and your fingerprints will be all over her. Get some gloves or something.”

I was examining my hands for parts of my brain, thinking I’d like to brain my twin. I grabbed the buffer rag laying on the hood of the ’64 Ford Galaxy I’d been polishing when Vincent drove in. A little voice inside my head was saying, don’t do it, don’t do it. But I’ve been known not to follow my own advice. I placed the rag on the dead woman’s shoulder and with two hands shifted her so I could get a good look at her face. One arm flopped over. A Mickey Mouse watch encircled her slim wrist.

We both said her name at the same time, “Winona.”

“I forgot her last name,” I said.

“Davis,” Vincent said.

Beautiful Winona Davis was a temp we’d hired when Sylvia, our accountant, took a week off to visit her father in San Diego for his birthday celebration. Winona was Sweets’ girlfriend. We’d sold this cherry midnight blue ‘61 Impala to Sweets Monroe three months ago.

Her forehead was exposed but I couldn’t see an exit hole. Which meant what? The bullet was still in there? In a waxy kind of way, beautiful Winona remained beautiful.

Vincent said. “Call the cops.

“Yeah,” I said and started in the direction of the office. Half way there, I turned back. “You know, they’ll arrest Sweets, and Pop will go absolutely ape-shit.”

“It’s a murder, Victor. You gotta call the cops.”

I was almost to the office steps. Something occurred to me. I turned back toward my twin.

“The cops will turn our car lot into a crime scene and close it down for God knows how long.” Lately, sales at the Brovelli Brothers Used Cars had been for crap. All right, worse than crap. We were teetering on the edge of having our worst year. A couple of months of bad sales, and we could disappear into the abyss of failed used car dealerships, which would not only do us in, but put a serious dent in our father and mother’s retirement.

“Hold on, hold on,” I said. “Let’s think about this.”

“What’s to think about? Be logical, Victor. This is about Sweets not about us.”

Sweets Monroe was one of our repeat customers, albeit an unconventional one. His car-buying routine goes like this: Sweets shows up, marches his skinny butt up and down the rows of cars, with his hands clasped behind his back, checking out the stock, strutting like one of those Sergeant Majors in British war movies inspecting the troops. He test drives a couple of cars he likes, selects one, gives us tax and drives away. License is his responsibility. We carry the paper, knowing we’ll never see another payment and don’t expect to. The banks would never touch such a deal, which works sort of like a loaner. Around the fourth month without a dime from Sweets, we go looking to repo our car. Usually we find it right away, like Vincent did this morning. Sweets has never tried to avoid us. He accepts the inevitable, and there are no hard feelings. Like I said, he is a repeat customer. He would manage for a while driving around on his beat-up motorcycle, then he’d come in, pick out another car, and the game would start all over again. Crazy, huh?

You might ask why the Brovelli Brothers would put up with this. Because this was the verbal agreement Sweets and Pop had come to eight years ago, after Sweets saved Pop’s business from the Amigos, the local gangbangers who were determined to drive Brovelli Motors from its East 14th Street location. According to Pop, Sweets saved our mom from becoming a widow. It is Pop’s belief that the Brovelli family is beholden to Sweets, big time. I can’t argue with that.

We inherited Pop and Sweets’ weird handshake-agreement, unhappily, but with the solemn promise we’d honor it. Being from the “old country,” Pop’s belief in honor, onore, boarders on fanaticism. Since we knew eventually we were going to get the car back from Sweets, we went along with the program. Sweets was a fixture in this neighborhood, a burglar, a womanizer, and a bad dresser. But with all Sweet’s faults, he possesses a goofy surfer disposition and a ready smile. It was rumored that Sweets, after a particularly successful burglary, would bring baskets of food and an envelope of cash to local single moms in need of which there were plenty in Oakland. The basket always contained hard candy for the kids – sweets from Sweets, so to speak. The cynical inhabitants of the neighborhood claimed that Sweets only gave to single moms who were good looking. Sweets claims that’s a lie. Considering Sweets’ Robin Hood rep and the fact that he only hits rich neighborhoods, most folks around here gave the burglar a pass. As far as our cars were concerned, Sweets never abused the vehicles. The cars we repo’d from him were as sharp inside and out as the day he drove them off the lot. Until today - blood being damn hard to clean up.

“You gonna call the cops or am I?” Vincent asked.

I began pacing.

“For Christ’s sake, Victor, the woman’s been shot. We’ve been selling cars to a frigging murderer.”

“Sweets Monroe may be a burglar,” I said, “but you know as well as I do that he could never kill anyone. Somebody stuck his girlfriend in the trunk so the cops would blame him.”

“What does it matter? If we don’t call the cops, they’ll arrest us as accessories. With our asses stuck in jail, we’ll lose business. We can’t afford to lose business right now. Start making sense, will you.’

“Let me think,” I said. “Close the trunk. Customers heading this way.”

Vincent slammed it down. I waved him in the direction of a young Asian couple. He looked at me like I was crazy thinking of a sale at a time like this, but he smiled one of his perfect smiles, slipped on the blue Brooks Brother’s blazer he was holding, buttoned it, and walked toward them with his hand outstretched. Mr. Slick.

Women have often told me that Vincent is a handsome hunk and his smile is irresistible. We’re identical twins, but I’ve never heard women compliment me on my looks. We’re both one inch short of six feet with black curly hair, hazel eyes, dimples, and swarthy southern Italian complexions, except mine is marred by a scar on my cheek that starts just below the center of my left eye and curves like a cradle around my cheek bone to the middle of my left ear, the result of a line drive that tagged me as I was stealing second. But who’s complaining. The scar gives me a certain edgy look, you know, the kind some women can’t resist.

I resumed pacing. My bro was right. If the cops arrested us as accessories to murder, Pop couldn’t handle the lot by himself, not at his age with a bad ticker, and not in the sketchy financial condition it was in. A murder investigation could drag on for a long time and our bottom line would drop closer to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, a direction it had been heading for the last six months that Vincent claimed was due to the craziness in the county. As he put it, The Shameless Sixties. I don’t find anything shameless going on, but Vincent is a bit of a prude. I won’t go into how deep our debt is. Let’s just leave it that our line of credit at banks is stretched like a fat woman’s Pantyhose. Thank God for Morris Bank and Trust that still believed in us. That could disappear too if our neighborhood customers began avoiding us with the heat hanging around. Distrust of cops in Oakland was endemic, particularly, recently, with the Vietnam War in full swing, President Johnson announcing he won’t seek a second term, and the Black Panthers making all sorts of scary noises. Not to mention that the cops would definitely impound the Impala. I looked at the Impala and wanted to cry. It was a four-door ebony sedan with white double S trim. Of the 490,000 plus existing Impalas, only 453 came with the double S trim, which starts like spear points just back of the headlights and widens as they extend down the side of the body coming to rest at the taillights.

I looked out onto East 14th Street, home to our family dealership since Pop started the business in 1950. The city of Oakland’s East 14th Street began at First Avenue in downtown and extended south to the city limits of San Leandro, although the street name remained the same until it turned into Mission Boulevard in the city of Hayward. There were plenty of used car lots like ours on East 14th and some new car dealership, although you’d find most of the most prosperous new car dealership I liked to refer to as the “Big Dogs” on Broadway in downtown, Oakland. Altogether there were over 900 separate properties that did business along East 14th. Name a business and you’d find it somewhere along the length of our street.

The noise of morning rush hour traffic was starting to ebb. It was March, gray and chilly in the Bay Area. Considering there was a dead body in the trunk of our car, I welcomed the cool weather. In the distance I could hear the whoosh and roar of airplanes taking off and landing at the Oakland Airport, so many planes since World Airways started transporting troops to Vietnam. At regular intervals came the whine of the big rigs speeding along Nimitz Freeway that runs from the Bay Bridge south to San Jose the length of the San Francisco Bay and parallel to East 14th Street. The distant wail of an ambulance, a pissed-off motorist blasting his horn, nearby, a car pealing rubber, a waste disposal truck backfiring. City rock-and-roll, my kind of rhythm.

It was time for a plan.

My first thought was to get the Impala off the lot and pretend we never saw it. Let Sweets fend for himself. As I went over this in my head, I imagined our Pop tending his vegetable garden, his wide body, encased in blue overalls, bending over his Early Girls and Heirlooms. What would he think of this idea? He wouldn’t like it. To leave Sweets hanging would be dishonorable. To not call the cops, however, would be illegal. Pop versus cops – there was only one possible choice.

Vincent returned to tell me the couple said they’d be back tomorrow. He knew better. Once a customer walks away, I reminded him. Odds are they’re gone for good. They’ll be back, Vincent insisted. I had a lot more on my mind than starting an argument.

“We can’t do it,” I said.

“Can’t do what?” Vincent asked.

“We can’t call the cops.”

“Okay, I get it. That’s easily taken care of. I drive the car back where I found it. You pick me up, and we cut Sweets lose.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Which is what? This isn’t about Pop’s deal with Sweets, is it?”

“It’s about honor, Vincent. Sweets saved Pop’s business, our business now. Pop would want us to help Sweets.” To be honest, I wasn’t thinking only of Pop and honor, but about that beautiful Impala being impounded and beat to shit by bunch of the city’s finest searching for evidence. It is no secret that when it comes to cars, I’m an incurable romantic.

“Well, we’re not our pop,’ Vincent said. “At least I’m not.

“We’ve got no choice, Vincent. “A portion of Pop and Mom’s retirement comes from sales.”

“I know that. I know. But, come on, all that old country honor stuff doesn’t cut it in today’s world.”

I smacked Vincent in the chest, knocking him back. He kept his balance and came at me, fists balled and stopped, nose to nose. Neither of us spoke, staring each other down.

I broke the silence. “Look, Vincent, if it hadn’t been for Sweets, we wouldn’t have a father. We’re talking moral responsibility here.”

“There’s nothing moral about Sweets.”

Vincent is far less tolerant of Sweets than I am, and his take on Sweets’ charitable contributions, agrees with those who believe Sweet’s benevolence has more to do with trying to seduce single moms.

“Look at it another way, Vincent,” I said. “There’s no way if this gets out it’s going to help sales. Hey, like, do you want to buy a car from the Brovelli’s? Might find a stiff in the trunk. Stuff like that.”

“I don’t know, Victor, I don’t know.”

Stai zitto,” I said. “Just give me Sweet’s telephone number.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” he said, this time, smacking me hard on the chest. I tripped and fell on my ass. I bounced back on my feet already swinging. He stood there, glaring at me, his chin jutting out, like okay, go ahead, I dare you. I don’t know about other twins, but it seems to me that half of our lives have been spent toe to toe staring into each other’s angry eyes like mirrors. I rarely back down to Vincent, but we were wasting time. My right-hand-cross stopped inches from his jaw.

“This is stupid,” I said. “I’m sorry, all right?”

Vincent shrugged, and his shoulders sagged.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Look, this is not the big deal you’re making it out to be. We give Sweets a chance to get out of this casino, by giving him a heads-up.”

“It’s more than a screw-up,” Vincent said.

When I’m tense, I find myself speaking Italian, not a characteristic shared by my twin, who accuses me of sounding like fake Italian mobsters in the movies. In Italy if one is really stressed, the term casino is often prefaced by fottuta casino, meaning fucking mess.

Vincent said, “If Sweets gets involved, it will be a frigging mess all right. If we don’t call the cops this is going to come back and bite us on the ass; you know that, don’t you?”

Probably, Vincent was right. I held out my hands, palms up. I said. “We’ve worked hard.”

He let out a long sigh, reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a little leather-bound book. He shook his head and handed it to me. “Under S, for murderer,” he said. “This is on you Vittorio.”

We walked to the office where I dialed. On the fourth ring, I heard a sleepy voice, “Yo, you gotta be kidding me.”

Mouthing the word, personal, I waved Sylvia out of the office. She shrugged her shoulders, like what the hell, shook a Pall Mall out of her pack, and left without commenting on my rudeness. I waited until she was out the door and on the car lot, before answering Sweets. “Have you checked on the whereabouts of your girlfriend lately?”

“Which Brovelli is this? I can’t tell your voices apart. I’m not taking kindly to being waked up. You know I work nights, and what do you mean, my girlfriend? I’m presently a man without a main squeeze.”

“Yeah, well, main squeeze or past squeeze, you’re not going to like the condition she’s in.” I told him about Vincent repo’ing the Impala and that we found Winona in the trunk with a bullet in the back of her pretty head. Sweets let out a sound like he was being strangled.

I said. “I’m sorry, Sweets, really, but our butts are on the line here. We need to talk right away.”

“Winona,” he said again. “You’re screwing with me? You sure?”

“Tall, great body. Brown skin about your color. Slanty eyes. Always wears a Mickey Mouse watch.”

“I’m on my way.”

“No, no, not here. I’ll meet you at your place.”

“Bad idea,” Sweets said. “Meet me at Lenny’s near the airport.”

“On Hegenberger Road. Okay, I’m leaving right now.” I hung up the phone. For a moment I stared at my desktop calendar. It was the 29th of March. In two days it would be April. I had a feeling I would never forget this day. I left the office and headed for the Impala almost knocking Sylvia down. She gave me the finger as I peeled rubber.