Alex waited, hands jammed in his windbreaker, the big, long-barreled .38 police special stuck in his waistband, rubbing uncomfortably on his hipbone. Despite his discomfort, he enjoyed the awareness of the weapon. It gave him more than mere power. It gave him consciousness of that power.
The door across from Alex opened, throwing a rectangle of yellow light across the sidewalk onto the wet asphalt. The female and male employee came out, their good-byes wafting across to Alex; then they separated. She went down the sidewalk, and he turned into the parking lot, where two cars waited: his and the manager’s, an old white Nash and the new bronze Chevrolet—about fifteen feet apart. The man’s footsteps crunched audibly to Alex’s keyed-up hearing. He reached the car door when suddenly there was a flash of movement beyond him. His hands started to go up in reflex and then dropped as the figure of Wedo reached his side. Alex’s mouth dropped; he was dumbfounded. Wedo had captured the wrong man. While Alex was still stunned, both figures disappeared into the shadows in front of the car. Some meager shrubbery was there, too.
All was motionless and calm as far as Alex could determine. He’d held his breath without realizing it; it now hissed from between his teeth. Wedo was obviously holding the first man, waiting for the other. Perhaps he’d been spotted and forced to make the move. Now all they could do was wait.
A couple more minutes passed, during which a misty rain began. Alex turned up his jacket collar and backed away from the bench into a doorway. Finally, the front door opened and the manager came out. As he locked up, the burglar alarm sounded for a few seconds until he closed the door. He would shut it off when they went back in.
Alex felt his tension gathering as the man crossed the parking lot to his car.
A truck rumbled down the street, blocking Alex’s view for just a second. When he could see again, Alex literally fell back a step. The manager and the employee were running full tilt across the lot in a direct line toward him. One of them yelled “Help! Help! Help!” until they reached the corner of the building. There they crashed into each other as one stopped to look back. Wedo hadn’t pursued them. They unlocked the door, the alarm going off, and disappeared inside to call the police while the alarm kept ringing.
Alex had stood frozen, initially because he was stunned, and then because any action might have attracted their attention. The moment the door closed, he bolted across the street and through the parking lot, the alarm ringing in his ears. As he passed the cars, he yelled for Wedo, just in case. No answer. He took the route planned for the successful getaway, running flat-out. He had to slow for a second to get the pistol from his waistband. He carried it until he reached the dark passage of the motel. His breathing was hard from the exertion as he went up the outdoor side stairs two at a time on tiptoe, trying to combine both speed and silence.
The motel room’s lights were out, but when he tapped softly on the door it opened instantly. He shut the door and turned on the lights. Wedo was standing beside the bed. On the bedspread was a wallet and its contents—papers and cards and three one-dollar bills. Alex’s burning eyes looked up from this pittance into Wedo’s face, where he saw shame and apology. Always Wedo had been the leader. He was older and more experienced, and usually Alex deferred to him. In this precise moment, Alex became the dominant personality. Not consciously, for he was consciously just angry; not violently so, for Wedo was his friend, but furious in tone and demeanor.
“That was a cool fucking move,” he said caustically.
“Oh, man…”
“Grabbed the wrong motherfucker. Jesus!”
“How did I know?”
“Because I told you what fuckin’ car. Damn!” He shook his head in disgust, and Wedo said nothing. “What happened back there?”
“I grabbed him, took his wallet, and found out he wasn’t the right guy—so I had him lay down under his front bumper. I jumped the wall and split.”
“Why didn’t you just wait for the other guy?”
Wedo shrugged and shook his head. Later he would rationalize his reason, find an excuse, but now he just felt bad.
“That fool just lay there for five minutes—by himself. Jesus!” Alex shook his head in disbelief, then sneered at the wallet and three dollars on the bedspread. “Is that our score?” He couldn’t restrain a snorting laugh.
Wedo managed a wan smile. “Carnal, I’m sorry I fucked up.” He spread his arms to emphasize his sincerity.
Alex shook his head and his eyes were wet. “Fuck it … wasn’t nothin’ there anyway.”
* * *
Half an hour later the Buick was still on Sunset Boulevard, but instead of being near downtown Los Angeles, it was in West Hollywood’s Sunset Strip. Most of the posh women’s shops and antique stores were closed, but the four-star restaurants and big floorshow nightclubs of the era were doing good business. According to newspapers and some ragged movie magazines Alex had seen in “G” Company, this was the playland of movie notables, the stars and those who got rich behind the cameras or in offices. Alex wasn’t looking for something to rob—and it didn’t seem he would find it on the Sunset Strip. A big liquor store might have been worthwhile, except that it was across the street from Ciro’s, a big elegant nightclub with doormen and parking attendants taking and bringing automobiles. Too many eyes could see through the plate-glass windows.
“Let’s go down to Santa Monica Boulevard,” Wedo suggested when they neared the end of the Strip, beyond which sat the perfection of Beverly Hills, a world that awed Alex.
“Good idea,” Alex said without turning his eyes from the sidewalk, wanting to retain his keyed-up determination, a sort of half-anger necessary to pointing a pistol at someone and taking their money. He could not relax and let the tiny ball of inescapable fear grow and spread until it paralyzed him. He’d learned that he couldn’t think too much about what might happen; if he did the images could become terrors and cripple him.
As they sat in the left-turn lane, a sheriff’s car went by, and Alex was glad they weren’t still driving Wedo’s clunker. It would always get a police stare, and therefore always added to the chance of them being pulled over.
Santa Monica Boulevard was long and wide and lined with a myriad of businesses, everything from an athletic club to a U-Haul truck rental. Alex could see the neon for miles ahead and was certain they would locate a score. Several times Wedo slowed so they could look at something. Once they circled the block to scrutinize a small grocery. It looked perfect until Alex saw the proprietors—they were Orientals. He knew the underworld maxim that Orientals would prefer death to surrendering their money. Alex wanted money, not murder.
LIQUOR pulsed the big red neon sign. On a corner with a dark side street, it was the ideal getaway situation. Businesses on the boulevard were dark and empty. The closest possible witnesses were in a beer joint on the next block. He began adrenaline pumping as he sensed that here was what they sought.
“Turn right,” he said. “Make it slow. I wanna look in.”
As Wedo made the turn, Alex scanned the interior through the open door. A big man with a shiny pate was behind the counter.
The side street had apartment buildings on both sides. Cars lined the curbs, leaving nowhere to park except in front of a fireplug in the glow of a streetlamp.
“Put it there,” he said.
“It’s a bad spot,” Wedo said.
“Fuck it. We ain’t gonna be long … and nobody’s gonna be followin’ us.”
Wedo shrugged and parked. He turned the wheels out and left the key in the ignition. The slight risk was worth the gain of a fast getaway. Both youths began working themselves into the state of nervous anger necessary to pull pistols and take things. It was easy to reach this condition by remembering the mistake of an hour ago. Frustration made good kindling.
“Man, let me take him and you cover this time,” Alex said—and even while he spoke Wedo shook his head.
“No, carnal. We’ll do like we been doin’. You lay back in the door an’ cover
me. I’ll throw down on the guy and get the bread.”
Alex clicked his teeth together, cutting off the impulse to argue before the words came out. Wedo had to make up for the earlier blunder. It was weird, Alex thought, but whenever he was committing a crime his faculties were acutely perceptive. He saw things that were usually filtered out. He understood Wedo as if actually looking into his mind. He also perceived such things as the sound of their footsteps on the pavement, the growl of a truck a block away, a barking dog. His eyes caught the flaming eyes of a cat in a driveway. The red and green circles of a traffic light pierced his senses. He said nothing, for to speak would lessen the intense concentration he needed to point a pistol at people and take their money. They weren’t real people; he couldn’t let them become so in his mind or he would sprout doubts and misgivings. They had to be the enemy, those who condoned caging him, condoned the “holes” he’d been in, condoned the tear gas and beatings. The policemen, attendants, and guards were their surrogates. He owed them nothing and could maintain the rage toward society that allowed him to rob, steal, and hurt people without guilt.
Now they were in the light of the liquor-store window, ten feet from the entrance. Alex patted Wedo on the back and held back a moment so Wedo could enter first.
As with most California liquor stores, this also served as a convenience market. When Alex entered, Wedo was coming from the rear cooler with a quart of milk. The big, balding man was at the cash register halfway down the counter. Nobody else was visible.
A single glanced showed all this. Alex turned his back and faced a magazine rack along the wall beside the door. It was intended to hide his face and make him look busy. He watched the door; it was his responsibility.
Wedo spoke, his voice dripping fervency though the words were indecipherable to Alex.
“Huh?” the manager said, disbelieving.
“You heard me, punk motherfucker!” Wedo said loudly.
Alex glanced over his shoulder, saw them confronting each other, Wedo’s hand under his jacket near his waist. He had his hand on the exposed butt of the pistol. The big man, bald head gleaming with sudden sweat, had both hands visible.
CLICK-CLACK
The sound was loud, whatever it was. Alex frowned, puzzled.
BOOM! BOOM! The deafening blasts of a shotgun loaded with 00 buckshot.
Alex whirled at the first sound, then dropped to a crouch. The second blast tore away Wedo’s left shoulder and cheek, spinning him like a child’s top while he screamed. Flesh and blood were blasted away, splattered against a wall; it mingled with smashed bottles. Wedo was down, legs thrashing, screams following each other.
Horror and terror filled Alex as he lurched backward. His own pistol was out. He crashed into the magazine rack and wondered momentarily if he was shot without knowing it.
The manager’s bald head came up over the counter. “There’s two of ’em,” he screeched.
Above the box freezer a man rose up, knocking over a SEAGRAM’S 7 sign he’d hidden behind. He was identical to the man behind the counter. He had the shotgun open and was jamming a red cartridge in as Alex came up. The man behind the counter now had a long-barreled revolver. Alex ducked behind a shelf of canned goods. Some fell, rolling along the floor.
Wedo still screamed.
The big freezer faced the two aisles. The man with the shotgun was kicking over display signs to get into position. The man behind the counter was edging along it. “Billy!” he yelled. “We got the bastard. We got him!”
Fear nearing panic overwhelmed Alex’s rage. He was still near the front door. For one instant, quick as a flick of light, he envisioned the other, dark market. But that recollection was gone instantly as he confronted the reality of this moment. He had to get out of here, run the gauntlet. He locked his brain on that one truth—and came up shooting, busting one toward the counter, turning two toward the top of the freezer. The man behind the counter fired once, the bullet sizzling next to Alex’s ear like an enraged yellowjacket. Alex’s bullet did nearly the same, for that man dropped from view. Alex dashed to the door, meanwhile blindly firing across his chest toward the top of the freezer. His bullets pierced the glass doors and shattered bottles inside.
As he reached the door the shotguns went off, the concussion literally shaking the air. Two pieces of large buckshot hit Alex, one just behind the right hipbone, the other in his right thigh. The force of them hurled him through the door and knocked him down for a moment, jerking his right leg from under him. He came down on his right elbow, scraping his skin away as he skidded.
Momentum carried him around the doorframe beyond the direct line of fire. The same momentum brought him back on his feet, running in a crouch past the lighted window, his mind screaming in fear and rage. As yet he felt no pain, nor was he aware of the blood until, halfway down the block, his right leg collapsed and he fell. He reached down and felt the blood pouring out. When he tried to rise the leg buckled.
The men rushed out on the sidewalk, framed from the doorway light. Alex raised his pistol and shot once. The bullet brought a scream. One man sank down; he wasn’t dead because he was whining loudly. The other man jumped behind a car and began shooting down the dark sidewalk. Now, however, Alex was also behind a car. He had extra bullets and was trying to reload, but he was too frantic, hands shaking. He got two bullets into the cylinder and dropped most of the others. The car was thirty yards away. He lay on his back and began squirming along under the automobiles, oblivious to whatever dirt or oil was on the asphalt. At first he was goaded by fear and defiance, by his rage against surrender in any form. Soon, however, he realized he was too slow. Already the outcry of police sirens was audible. Moreover, his strength was oozing away, and he was terrified by the weakness creeping through his limbs. For the first time in his life he understood the fear of death. Life was draining away unless the bleeding stopped.
The sirens reached a crescendo, then died to a whimper; red and blue lights throbbed against the buildings. Lights were on; people were coming out.
“Where is he?” a voice yelled.
“Somewhere along here,” another answered.
“I quit!” he yelled, the words and accompanying tears torn from him.
“Don’t move!”
So he lay in the gutter half under an automobile. The lament of other sirens peaked as they arrived. He could see the dark shapes of onlookers. He was going back to jail. It would be even longer this time. “Jesus!” he muttered, made sick by the thought of the cage.
A spotlight illuminated the car he was under.
“Throw your gun out,” someone yelled. “Then come out on your stomach.”
Suddenly the automobile he was under was sprayed by a spotlight. The glare blinded him. He was getting dizzy. He managed to toss the pistol clear of the car into the street. He heard the commanding voice again, but now he was spinning and the words were indecipherable. Blackness sucked him down.
When he came back to awareness—or halfway so—legs and shoes were around him. Most were dark blue, those of policemen, but those lifting him were white. He was certain he would live.
Before he slipped away again, he had a thought: If there’s life, there’s hope. I won’t give up. The story isn’t over.…
Also by Edward Bunker
No Beast So Fierce
Animal Factory
Dog Eat Dog
Praise for Edward Bunker
“Bunker is a true original of American letters.”
—James Ellroy
“Bunker is among the tiny band of American prisoner writers whose work possesses integrity, craftsmanship, and moral passion.… An artist with a unique and compelling voice.”
—William Styron
“Edward Bunker writes about the netherworld of society’s outcasts with a passion and insight that comes from having lived life close to the bone.”
—Los Angeles Times
“The best first-person crime novel I’ve ever read.”
�
��Quentin Tarantino
“Bunker shoots straight—his direct and transparent prose captures the primacy of violence that defines life in the slammer.… Bunker clearly articulates the code of prison life and the pathology of the career criminal in raw, muscular prose.”
—Kirkus Reviews
This novel is a work of fiction. All of the events, characters, names and places depicted in this novel are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously. No representation that any statement made in this novel is true or that any incident depicted in this novel actually occurred is intended or should be inferred by the reader.
LITTLE BOY BLUE. Copyright © 1981 by Edward Bunker. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bunker, Edward.
Little boy blue / Edward Bunker.—1st St. Martin’s Press ed.
Little Boy Blue Page 38
