Little Boy Blue

by Edward Bunker

  “Yeah, Max, you said it was cool … no night watchman.”

  “There shouldn’t be in a fuckin’ secondhand thrift store.”

  “There was.”

  “So he snatched you for the cops. I wasn’t back at the playground fifteen minutes when they came looking for me … asked the coach for me by name. ‘Where’s Max Dembo?’ You got busted cold duck, but the watchman can’t identify me. They got you. But if you say it wasn’t me with you they’ll let me go. Bobby, man, you don’t wanna be known as a snitch, do you? A stool pigeon. Do you want that?”

  Bobby shook his head. “But I don’t wanna be locked up either. You’ve been there before. You can take it.”

  Now Alex was watching intently. Max had a sharp-boned face, making it unusually expressive and adult. Now it personified contempt, so open a sneer that Alex had seen such an expression only in the movies. Bobby seemed to cave inside under the glare; he cowered without moving, refusing to turn his eyes upward even momentarily.

  Alex could see the gears turning in Max’s mind, the tightening resolve to smash the weakling. It was so obvious that Alex’s stomach knotted in anticipation. He felt no sympathy for the snitch.

  The key turning the lock froze everyone except for turning heads. The uniformed bailiff hooked his finger and motioned to the two of them. The weakling moved instantly, as if the bailiff was a rescuer (which he was), while the other boy moved slowly, head down as he passed the man waiting to relock the door. The boy, who was barely in his teens, managed to radiate an arrogant indifference to both the waiting officer and the situation.

  When the door was locked, Alex looked around at the ugly concrete walls, remembering with sudden clarity how he’d felt here nearly a year ago. He’d been afraid of the unknown, and that included nearly everything about this world. Still stunned by his father’s death and his own predicament, he’d been insulated from too intense feelings. He couldn’t feel. Now he was able to feel everything, and fear was there, an awful, specific fear of going back to a place similar to but more horrible than Pacific Colony, for he’d be committed as a psychopathic delinquent, not as feeble-minded, and that meant Mendocino, not Pacific Colony. Now, however he knew this world, understood it, and the world of freedom beyond walls and bars and locked doors had faded to the vague and unreal. True, it was the promised, fabled land, the one of dreams, but it was as hard to visualize as are dreams in the morning. The heaven of freedom was as nebulous to him as the heaven of God.

  Now he had minutes to waste alone in the bullpen. He shadow-boxed for a minute, practicing what First Choice Floyd and Toyo had shown him, and then his bladder ached for release. The lidless toilet was in the corner.

  While buttoning his pants, he saw a paper clip on the floor. Someone had straightened it out and dropped it. Alex picked it up and scratched his name into the paint. He couldn’t match the curlicues and fanciness of the Chicanos, who’d had lots of practice in defacing walls, so below his name Alex added something he’d heard Red Barzo say several times: “If you can’t do time, don’t fuck with crime.” Below that he put: “Whittier, 1944 to?” He was sure that was where he was going; he knew he wasn’t crazy.…

  Then he began shadowboxing again, stabbing out jabs and sliding forward to turn them into short hooks followed by right uppercuts, punching in combinations at imaginary opponents. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, slipping and counterpunching, loosening up.

  He was leaning forward, simulating a flurry of short body punches, when the door opened. The bailiff chuckled. “Don’t hurt nobody, kid!”

  Alex stopped, flushed with embarrassment. “Er … uh…”

  “You wanna be a boxer?” the bailiff asked, seeing the boy’s embarrassment and trying to assuage it.

  “Yeah,” Alex said spontaneously, though not insincerely. It was the first time he’d conjured the possibility. “I’d like to do that … if I’ve got the talent.”

  “It’s a tough game. Say, I came to find out if your parents are here to go to court with you?”

  Alex shook his head.

  “Is anybody else? An aunt? A guardian?”

  “Naw. Nobody. I haven’t got anyone.”

  The grin on the bailiff’s face lessened, as if he shouldn’t grin at an orphan. “Okay. You’ll be going in a few minutes.” He locked the door.

  When the door opened again two bailiffs were wrestling the cursing, kicking figure of Max Dembo. One bailiff had the boy’s arm twisted up behind his back, while the other had a headlock on him. They half-entered the room and threw the youth forward. “You’re goin’ to the hole when you get back tonight,” one said.

  “Fuck the hole, fuck you, and fuck that snitchin’ punk you sent home to his mama!”

  The men hesitated, obviously wanting to slap the foul-mouthed boy into respect. One of them tensed to do so. The boy didn’t flinch, but the other man grabbed his partner. “Fuck this punk. Imagine … jumped on that other boy right in the judge’s chambers. Picked up a brass ashtray and busted his head wide open.”

  Alex was awed, all his sympathy and respect going out to the defiant youth still glaring balefully at the men.

  “Did His Honor swallow his teeth?” the other bailiff said, chuckling, his anger suddenly dissipated.

  “Naw. He started yelling, ‘Get him outa here! Get him outa here!’” Then to Max Dembo: “You’re a tough punk, but where you’re goin’ there’s lots of toughies … Okies, niggers, and bean bandits who been fightin’ all their lives…”

  “I just don’t like finks,” the boy said. “And I’m already in the hole in Juvenile Hall or I’d have beat his ass before this.”

  “I don’t like finks either, kid. Why don’t you cool down? Don’t raise no more hell, and we won’t report what happened to the people back at the Hall.”

  While they backed out and locked the door, Alex wondered what kind of hell the boy could raise in this bare room? Perhaps kick up a ruckus by kicking the door, or start a fight, or flood the toilet.

  The boy began wiggling his shoulders, as one does to get rid of a kink of pain. Although his face was flushed, he didn’t appear otherwise discomfited.

  “What happened, man?” Alex asked.

  “Ah … fuck! What I figured would happen. That punk spilled his soul. The judge asked him if I was involved. Damn near told him that he’d go home if he said it was me. Sheeit! After that they damn near had to choke him to stop his snitching! They put him on a year probation. So when it was time to go, and his fat-ass mama was huggin’ him, I busted him upside the head with the ashtray. He started screaming like a bitch. Weak-assed motherfucker.” The word “motherfucker” seemed particularly gross in this boy’s mouth. Unlike the blacks, who used it as noun, verb, and adjective, flavoring every sentence and slurring it to virtual unrecognizability, this boy enunciated it precisely, each syllable clear; it was more vulgar by how it was said. Indeed, his entire manner of speech was unusually harsh.

  “What about you?” Max asked.

  “I dunno. Haven’t been into court yet. But I think I’m goin’ to Whittier. Fuck it!” He tossed a shoulder; reform school didn’t matter.

  “Yeah, fuck it! I’m goin’ back there. I just did eighteen months and stayed out ninety-four chickenshit days. Ain’t that a bitch?”

  “Sure is. I’ve been busted for a year.”

  “Yeah. What for?” The first real interest was aroused. Max raised his head to listen.

  “I shot a guy. He caught me busting in his store.”

  “Kill him?”

  “Uh-uh … no. Just wounded him … I’ve been in the nuthouse for observation.”

  “Yeah, they do that when something’s serious. See if you’re crazy. And you damn sure are goin’ to Whittier. I’ll see you there. My name is Max Dembo.”

  “Alex Hammond.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  “Yeah, I need it.” The hard-faced boy, whose whole manner spat defiance at the world, curved his mout
h in a grin; his eyes sparkled, and for that moment everything about him was warm.

  They shook hands, Alex feeling somewhat foolish in performing such an adult gesture with someone his own age, and before more words could be exchanged they heard the sound of the turning key. The bailiff stuck his head inside and summoned Alex.

  “Good luck again, man,” Max said.

  “Thanks, man.”

  This time the large courtroom was empty because the bullpen was likewise empty. The dozens of families were not there because the bullpen didn’t have dozens of boys waiting to be called into the hearing rooms.

  The combination office and tiny courtroom was the same as a year ago, the same nondescript clerks, recorders, and probation officer flanking the judge behind the polished darkwood table. The bailiff pointed Alex to a chair across from and below the judge. Alex couldn’t remember the previous judge’s name, or anything of what he looked like, but he knew this was a different judge simply because he was a Negro, albeit light-skinned, with his graying hair greased and pressed down to tight waves close to his skull. He wore owlish glasses of great thickness, making his dark amber eyes appear huge, yet he lacked the dour visage that Alex recalled from the last one. There was a kindly emanation from his face. He was studying a file and Alex knew it was his. The judge studied it for less than a minute, but that was long enough for Alex’s imagination to create a mental hospital worse than Pacific Colony. Utter terror arrived with the creation, nor did the judge allay the fear when he looked up; his big eyes were staring unsympathetically.

  “You don’t seem to get along anywhere, do you? It goes way back—runaway, runaway, temper tantrums, and finally breaking into a store and almost killing the owner. I’m sure it wasn’t in your plan, but you did pull the trigger. An adult would be in prison a long, long time for that.” The judge paused, and Alex felt the man was waiting for some comment, but Alex could think of nothing to say. The judge turned to the probation officer. “Are you sure he doesn’t have any family? None whatsoever?” The voice had a note of incredulousness.

  “None that we can determine. And there’s a file from social service agencies going back to age four, even prior to the court becoming involved.”

  The judge shook his head and grunted; then he spoke to Alex. “Well, you’re not crazy. At least not in the way we usually think about crazy. You seem sane, you talk more than just reasonably sane for your age, but some of the things you’ve done”—the judge shook his head—“can only be described as insane behavior.”

  What was he saying? What was going to happen? The dread of Pacific Colony or someplace worse swelled malignantly through his brain. It nearly drove out reason and made him scream his terror. For a few seconds he lost track of the judge’s conversation. The lips moved, teeth and tongue showed, but Alex couldn’t untangle sound and give it coherence. He was afraid to interrupt and show his confusion; it might tip the balance if the judge was weighing mental hospital against reform school.

  “Well?” the judge said, his eyeglass-swollen eyes staring. “What do you think?”

  “I … I dunno, sir.” Alex twitched a shoulder as children do in confusion.

  “You don’t know how you feel about what you’ve done?” The rising note of incredulousness cut through fear as cleanly as a boning knife through beef.

  “Oh, I know I’m sorry,” he said hastily. “But I didn’t mean to do it, not shoot him. I’d give anything not to have done it. But I didn’t mean to … I was scared and it just went off.”

  “Mmmmm.” Some judicial rigidity faded. To all present, most of whom were disinterested, thinking about lunch and a distant siren, the judge said, “This is one of the tragic cases where we don’t have the means to do what is right. It’s a classic institutional treadmill: the broken home and now no family whatsoever, the foster homes and military schools, chronic runaway but not criminal, not yet, eventually committing a crime and coming into the criminal-justice system. And what can we do? Our options won’t protect society in the long run. The best protection would be to make this boy a member of society, a citizen. We don’t know how. We don’t know what will come out of the other end of the system, someone better or someone worse. Statistics say he’ll probably be worse. But what can I decide? Society demands he be punished. He shot a man. But if they didn’t, where could I send him? To another foster home, boys’ home? He’d run away.”

  “No I wouldn’t,” Alex interrupted. “I wouldn’t.”

  “I believe you’re sincere. But, yes, you’d run away. I’m sure you would. But how else can I help you?”

  Alex’s mind screamed silently, Let me go home, which didn’t mean home, for he had none, but was the euphemism of the imprisoned for going free. But that was equally impossible. At his age society didn’t allow freedom, even without such a crime as shooting a man during a burglary. Not knowing what to reply, Alex shrugged. His circuits were overloaded.

  “Do you think going back to a hospital would help?”

  “No! Please! Please don’t … back there.” The choked fervency was heard, and the jurist frowned, lowered his head so he could peer over his eyeglasses, his eyes suddenly small and myopic—and very, very human.

  “Is it that bad? I’ve heard different stories.”

  Alex was suddenly afraid; it shot through him. He knew it was dangerous to criticize one authority to another. They were all together when it came right down to it. “I just … not for me. I hated it and…”

  “Don’t worry. Everyone agrees that you need treatment for emotional problems, but you’re not mentally ill. I’m going to commit you to the California Youth Authority. The commitment is until you’re twenty-one. You’ll probably go to the state school out in Whittier because of your age. They could keep you until you’re twenty-one, but that never happens.” The judge stopped for a wan smile. “Those who need confinement until they reach twenty-one usually manage to get into enough trouble so that San Quentin gets them at eighteen or nineteen. Most boys are released in a year to eighteen months. You might get out even sooner, considering the time you have already been in custody. I’m going to order them to consider it.

  “I’m not certain that sending you to the Youth Authority is the best thing. I’m never sure, or even half-sure, except when…” He trailed off, paused, shook his head. “Off the record, I somehow feel like Pontius Pilate in this case.”

  Somehow, the judge’s tone made Alex feel momentarily sorry for the man across the table. Then the judge threw off his personal involvement. “So that’s the Order of the Court. Commitment to the California Youth Authority. They will make the decisions of what to do with you. I hope you manage to make something of your life. I’d hate to see your good mind go to waste.”

  * * *

  When Alex followed the bailiff back to the bullpen, he felt relieved that he wasn’t going to the hospital, but he also felt tension. Whittier State School was the end of the line for boys between ten and fifteen. The toughest kids from the entire state were there. He would have to measure up or get walked on—or get sodomized and become a “punk,” which was the absolute degradation. Punks suffered every sadism that young rage could conceive. Whittier wouldn’t be so savagely brutal as what he’d seen, at least not where punishments were concerned, but he knew there would be more conflicts among the boys. He would be younger than most, and he vowed to prove his mettle. If most were bigger and tougher, nobody would have any more guts. That he promised himself as the bailiff opened the heavy door and locked it behind him.

  Max Dembo was stretched on his back on a bench bolted to the wall. He swung his feet to the floor at the sound of Alex coming in. He jerked his head, silently asking, What happened?

  “C.Y.A. How long before we go?”

  “I’ll go quick because they already have my records and stuff. You’ll stay in Juvie for a month or so while the papers get processed in Sacramento. I’ll wave hello when you get there.” He grinned, the wizened face turning boyish. “It’s gonna make you tough
or break you.”

  “Well, it’s not gonna break me.”

  Max grinned even wider, then winked. “I think you’ll make it.”

  “Can’t do nothing else.” It was another philosophic phrase he’d heard from First Choice Floyd.

  14

  Alex Hammond spent the next six weeks in Juvenile Hall while the wheels of the unseen bureaucracy turned, processing his commitment to the California Youth Authority. This time he got along better because he’d learned how to fight. Rather, he’d learned how to cop a Sunday—strike a sneak, full-force punch and follow the advantage with a volley of feet and fists. The black monitor had kicked him in the rump for whispering while in line en route to supper. It was his second day back. The counselor was watching so Alex took it silently, though his brain reddened with fury and he could barely choke his food down. After the meal, the company went outdoors for recreation. The huge yard had an area for each company; mixing wasn’t allowed. This company had the basketball court.

  During the meal and the march out, Alex’s eyes had met the black monitor’s several times. When the company was dismissed, Alex met the eyes again. The black was slender and tall, with a grace of movement indicating muscular coordination. He had to be a good fighter to be a monitor. Alex’s stomach mixed anger and apprehensiveness. He couldn’t let the kick pass, but he didn’t know exactly what to do.

  The decision was taken from him. The black youth sidled over, his manner tense and ready. “Say, suckah,” the black said. “You cuttin’ yo’ eyes at me like you got somepin’ on your mind. You wanna get it on or somepin’?” He was leaning forward, hands partly up, coiled to fight.

  “Man, I don’t want no trouble,” Alex said, spreading his hands with the palms up.

  The tension went out of the black. Alex could see it ooze away, the eyes becoming milder. That was the moment Alex swung as hard as he could punch—left and right, using his shoulders and body weight the way First Choice Floyd had taught him. Both blows landed full-force, making loud “splat, splat” sounds, and Alex could feel the shock run up his arms.