Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade

by Edward Bunker

  I raised the window into the air shaft and looked down. Brandi was carrying the pants back to the window she'd used to reach the bottom of the air shaft. "She's got 'em and just comin' back in."

  "Fuck all that," Flip said. "Let's get fixed. That's what I want." She extended her hand toward Manes and snapped her fingers. He produced two number 5 caps of white powder. They looked small to me. She pulled one of them apart and tapped the contents into the spoon. Drawing water from the glass into the eyedropper she then let several drops fall into the spoon so it covered the powder, which immediately began to dissolve, although not entirely. She lighted several book matches in a cluster and jiggled them under the spoon until the liquid turned clear. She quickly cooled the spoon bottom by touching it to the top of the water in the glass, rolled the tiny bit of cotton between thumb and forefinger and dropped it into the liquid. She drew the liquid through the cotton and the needle into the eyedropper and then carefully measured a portion back into the spoon. My presence was forgotten.

  Manes rolled up his sleeve and wrapped an old necktie around his upper arm and pumped up a big vein.

  Flip stood beside him and, bracing the eyedropper between thumb and index finger, she tapped the needle into the vein.

  A tendril of blood shot into the eyedropper. The needle was in the vein. She squeezed off a portion of the eyedropper's content and stopped. He waited; then nodded. She squeezed off the rest.

  While he cleared his throat and savored the flash of heroin going through him - no sensation in the world compares to it - she ran water through the needle and drew up another portion in the spoon. She sucked the cotton dry; then squirted back three small drops as she winked at me.

  Carefully she put the outfit down and wrapped the necktie around her biceps, holding one end of the necktie in her teeth. At the inner aspect of her elbow were bluish scars and tiny scabs.

  They were covered with makeup but showed through. The scars traced the veins and were vaguely reminiscent of a bird's tracks. And no wonder, for it took her several tries to register blood that meant she was in the vein.

  "Chicks always have trouble," Manes said, "especially when they're hooked real good. It makes their blood pressure drop, or something."

  She pumped in the heroin. Her distended pupils turned into pinpoints. I'd never seen it before, but once I learned to recognize it I could tell if someone was high on heroin across a crowded room if I could see their eyes.

  "Ahhhh . . . God's medicine," she said, humming. "Or the devil's," Manes said.

  She squeezed water through the needle to clean it; then sucked up the last few drops. "This is for you," she said. Her voice had the gravelly slur that comes from opiates, as I would learn.

  I was scared, but mixed with fear was hypnotic fascination. It wouldn't kill me. What kind of sucker would I appear if I refused? And Charlie Parker liked it. What the hell . . .

  I rolled up my sleeve and took the necktie. "You fix me," I said to Flip.

  Drowsily she scratched the tip of her nose and nodded. She came close and took the outfit. Our bodies brushed together. I could feel her warm breath and smell its sweetness. I almost missed the prick of the needle. The blood registered immediately.

  "Good pressure," she said, pausing momentarily to scratch the tip of her nose again. Then she squeezed the pacifier and the liquid disappeared into my body.

  I waited for several heartbeats. Then came an indescribable warmth that spread through my entire being, erasing all pain. Good God! It was . . . wonderful . . . Then, suddenly, nausea rose from my gullet to my throat.

  I ran for the bathroom, hand over my mouth. The torrent splattered into the toilet. Thank God I hadn't thrown up on the floor. Then I would have felt the fool.

  I stayed bent over the toilet a while until nothing came as I dry heaved. My shirt was soaked with sweat and it was running from my forehead into my eyes. I wiped my face with a towel and exited the bathroom. The paraphernalia was gone. Brandi had returned. She was giving Manes some money. She looked up as I entered. "What happened?" I asked.

  "She tricked him," Flip said, then laughed. "A man with a hard dick is the biggest fool in the world."

  I took a couple of steps. My movement stirred up the nausea again. Flip saw it on my face.

  "Lie down," she said. "Don't move and you'll be cool."

  I followed her suggestion and found that she was right. As long as I was quiet, so was my stomach. The bliss washed over me, the absolute euphoria and utter insulation from every torment, mental and physical. I felt wonderful when I closed my eyes and savored the glow. I hadn't known what to expect. It was different than the perception-distorting high of marijuana, or the almost electric energetic charge of amphetamines. It made me drowsy, yet did not dull my brain like Seconal or Nembutal. I simply felt good.

  It seemed like only a few minutes had gone by, but when I looked at the window the sky was dark and the city's lights glowed.

  The hotel's top floor was a whorehouse. Manes had an arrangement with the night manager and with cab drivers and bartenders. Pimps brought their whores there. One wanted a tiny piece of sponge, her period was nearly over and the sponge absorbed the last traces of blood so she could work. Next came a black pimp who wanted to know if Manes had any heroin. His old lady was sick from withdrawal and couldn't work. Manes turned to Flip, who was at a mirror trying on earrings. "You've got the connection," he said.

  "You want me to go to Temple Street?" She said it in a challenging tone; the message was obvious: Temple Street was somewhere she should avoid. It was notorious at the time, a pool hall and Traveler's Cafe on Temple Street were where drug dealers and thieves connected. Once on an escape from Whittier, I had slept for a week in the abandoned hulk of a '37 Cord parked on Beaudry Street which intersected Temple half a block from the pool hall.

  "I'll go with you, baby," the black pimp said.

  "You're gonna throw us out a fix, right?" Manes asked.

  "Sure, man. Damn . . . you know that."

  Flip looked at me on the bed while putting on her coat. My head and shoulders were braced against the headboard so I could survey the comings and goings. "How do you feel?" she asked.

  "Shit! I feel great!" My voice, too, had an added rasp, and I did feel great. The only problem was that if I moved around, it jiggled my stomach and the nausea returned. What the hell, I didn't have anywhere I had to go. This was great. I was seeing all kinds of things and people.

  Everyone departed, Flip and the pimp on the errand, Manes to pay "the Patch." The "patch" was a kind of bag man. The street hustlers, pimps, confidence men, whores, gamblers and boosters who paid off the vice and bunco details all gave their payoff to a "patch," and he dealt with the police bag man. The "patch" right now was a bartender in a cocktail lounge on West 8th Street.

  It didn't matter that I'd been left alone. In the argot of the junkie, I was coasting on the nod. The door opened. Brandi came in with a cafe au lait black girl. "Hey, baby," Brandi said. "Where's Flip?"

  "She went to score."

  "Oh shit! Say, we've got a hundred-dollar trick and we need a room."

  "So?"

  "This is the only one. We'll give you twenty."

  I swung my feet to the floor. "Forget it. Where do you want me to go?"

  "Go right there. The closet."

  "The closet? What kinda shit is that?"

  "Shhhh. He's out in the hallway."

  I went in to the closet. It was large, had an overhead light and was empty except for some lingerie on a hook. Before I could say anything, Brandi turned off the light and closed the door.

  Instantly I saw the light coming through the wall. It was a peephole. They had done this before. Voices came through the door. I accepted the invitation to play the voyeur and peeked through the hole. The hotel room was now bathed in green light, a catalyst I guess to erotic fantasy. It does smooth the wrinkles and make flab look firm. Brandi stood in the middle of the room in a garter belt, mesh stockings and high heels.
The black girl was in thigh-high rubber boots with long metal heels, and an open-faced brassiere made of hard rubber. She had a twelve-inch ruler in one hand and was slapping it into the palm of her other hand. The sound was sharper than one might have imagined. Whooaaa . . . this I had to see . . .

  The whores played with the trick as if they were cats and he was a trapped mouse. It was a game the trapped mouse seemed to enjoy. He took off his expensive suit coat, unsnapped gold cufflinks and removed his shirt. As he stood there in his baggy shorts, flabby white legs and knobby knees, with garters holding up his socks, he went from captain of industry to trick with the speed of an erection. I expected to be aroused by the show, but instead I found myself biting my fist to keep from laughing, especially when he was on his knees cleaning the floor. The black girl stood over him, her pussy inches from his face, and gave him orders. He sneaked a look at her pussy. For punishment she swatted him on the butt with the ruler. "Ouch! Ohhhh . . . that feels soooo good."

  I'd heard a lot of jailhouse tales of whores, pimps and tricks, but this was something else entirely. Later when I became friends with call girls I was told that many men who buy sex do so because they are both a little kinky and a little priggish, so they pay for fantasies with a hooker that they would be ashamed to ask of their wives.

  Brandi turned on the light and laughed at me. "How was that?"

  "Weird."

  The cafe au lait hooker obviously felt bad. She sagged as she sat and sniffled. "Where the fuck is she?"

  As if that was a signal, the door opened. Flip, Manes and the black pimp came in.

  "We be first, man," the black pimp said. "She gotta get to work."

  "Sure. You paid for it."

  I stayed in the background, watching the scene. No wonder they were called "dope fiends." There was a glazed-eye fever as they waited for their turn. It was as if it was some kind of sacrament. Carefully they counted drops and divided them between spoons. The black pimp tapped in the needle and the eyedropper turned red with his blood. He squeezed off some and stopped. "Shit! It's plugged." He pulled it out, took the needle from the eyedropper and put the remaining fluid back in the spoon. "Oh God! I forgot. I had hep—"

  "You did!" Manes said. "Whaddya think, Flip. This guy had hepatitis and he put some of his blood back in the spoon."

  "That's okay," she said. "I love hepatitus. Don't you?"

  "Oh yeah." Manes fitted the needle back on the eyedropper, drew up water and squirted it through. It wasn't plugged. He drew up the fluid in the spoon and handed it to Flip. As I watched, I thought they were all crazy. In Preston I'd known a boy who came down with acute hepatitis. When his skin turned yellow, so did the whites of his eyes, and his urine was like black coffee. He died a few days later.

  Then I realized that they were sure the claim of hepatitis was a sham. The pimp virtually confessed when he shrugged. He'd hoped they would be afraid and he could have the rest.

  "Gimme that hepatitis," Flip said. "It makes the flash better."

  All the action slowed after 2 a.m. when the bars closed and the cabbies brought the last of the tricks. At 3.20, the Park Wilshire released five whores, three pimps and a white boy delinquent. It had all been an adventure for me. For everyone else it was just .mother night of work. Now they were ready to eat. We piled into a taxi and Manes's car. I rode between Manes and Flip and the car motion jostled me against her. We headed downtown to the Pantry, a rough and ready steakhouse that stayed open twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. The door was without a lock. It couldn't close.

  When we flamboyant whores and flashy pimps entered, heads turned, including those of two uniformed policemen at the counter. I felt immediate fear, for technically I was still under the curfew law. Had I not been in the forefront of the group, I would have turned and walked out. That, however, would have invited suspicion, so I kept walking behind the waiter. He took us to two big tables they had pulled together at the rear. I was just sitting down in the corner when a voice called: "Lookit Sambo with the white ho!"

  One of the black pimps turned and called out: "The dog that said that's got a mama that sucks donkey dicks - and he gets fucked in the ass by big black dicks."

  "Ohh, shit," Manes muttered, reaching for the pimp's sleeve. The pimp shook off the hand as a big redneck got up.

  The policemen at the counter were also quick. The redneck's back was to them; he had not been aware of them until one of them grabbed his arm. "Get outta here," the cop said.

  "I'm not finished with my coffee."

  "Yes you are . . . unless you wanna take it to Lincoln Heights with you."

  "Yeah, okay." The redneck sneered at the black pimp over the cop's shoulder. The black pimp started forward. The other cop blocked him with his nightstick. "Easy, boy!"

  "Boy! I ain' your boy, man."

  "Okay. I'm not your man either. Just take it easy."

  Beside me, Flip muttered, "Stupid fuck."

  "Are you goin'?" the cop asked the redneck.

  "Yeah." He threw some change on the table and went out, muttering something about "nigger-loving motherfuckers."

  Both cops faced the black pimp. "C'mon now, don't bite off more'n you can chew."

  The cafi au lait whore stood up and tugged her man's arm. "C'mon, baby sit on down. Don't be parlayin' nothin' into somethin'."

  Grudgingly, the black pimp sat down, muttering "fuck it" as he did so.

  The two policemen returned to the counter. The waiter came to take our order. A New York steak was 70 cents, although nearly everyone ordered bacon and eggs. It took a few minutes for the tension to recede. Finally the pimp said, "That fool was lucky I didn't kick his ass." Everyone laughed.

  We were eating when the front door opened. In came two more uniformed officers and two detectives. They went over to the officers at the counter; then looked toward our table at the rear.

  I was next to the wall. "Here," Flip said. "Ditch this." From the purse on her lap she extracted a snub-nosed .38 wrapped in a handkerchief.

  I took it, let my arm hang down and curled my leg so when I dropped it, my ankle broke its fall and eased the noise, plus I coughed loudly. Using my foot, I pushed it behind the table leg. By then the detectives and uniformed cops were filing down the aisle.

  "On your feet . . . everybody."

  "What for?" asked a whore.

  "'Cause I say so, Miss Coupe de Ville."

  Coupe de Ville! What a nickname.

  "Outside . . . outside," said a cop.

  Quickly I headed for the door, as far from the pistol as possible. One cop noticed me trying to slip behind the others using their bodies as shields. He crooked a finger. "How old are you?" he asked.

  "Twenty-two."

  "You got any identification? A driver's license?"

  "No driver's license. All I got is this." I handed him two business cards stapled together: one from my probation officer with an appointment day and time written in; the other from Al Matthews.

  "Matthews is your lawyer, huh?"

  "Yessir."

  "Get outta here."

  "What?"

  "Start walking. Put it on the road."

  Over his shoulder through the window, I saw a uniformed cop at our table. He was bending over. I didn't wait to see what he had picked up. "Thanks," I said, pivoted and walked away. About fifty feet from the door was an alley. As soon as I reached it and turned, my walk became an all-out sprint. At the next street I turned. What is now the Harbor Freeway was then a row of several old frame houses. I went part way down a driveway and ducked into the bushes. If the pistol had them looking for me, I would stand out walking around downtown at 4 a.m.

  It was late spring and dawn came early. When the street lamps went out, cars began to appear and the first light of day peeked over LA's low skyline of the time. I came out of the bushes and began to walk east and north. It was about a mile and a half to Al Matthews's office. As I walked, I wondered if the police were looking for me. I doubted it. They had no way to pr
ove the pistol belonged to me. The handkerchief had kept my fingerprints off it. While I walked and watched the stars fade, I wondered if something was wrong with my mind. Social scientists of the era thought crime was prima facie evidence of mental disorder. But wasn't that just demon possession by another name? I sure as shit did things that might seem crazy. On the other hand, I'd never heard voices, or seen anything that wasn't there. Dr Frym thought I had some paranoid traits. Why wouldn't I have paranoid traits, living as I had lived? As my life went on, my mini-paranoia would save my life more than once.

  When Al and Emily Matthews arrived at the office, I was waiting in the downstairs lobby. From their eyes more than their words, I could tell that my appearance worried them. I wasn't quite as neat as the day before. I wondered if my pupils were still pinpoints. I told them that I'd spent the night in the YMCA, which rented rooms. Emily called Al aside. When she came back she asked if I wanted a job for the day, painting a fence at their house. My reply was an enthused affirmative. I wanted the money enough to ignore my exhaustion.

  My youth carried me through the morning while I splashed whitewash on a picket fence, but after lunch I sat down in the sun room. I could hear music from the radio in the kitchen. I closed my eyes while listening to Billie Holiday singing "Crazy He Calls Me," and at once fell asleep. My next recollection is of Emily shaking me awake. It was twilight and we had to go back downtown to pick up Al at the office.

  When we reached the office, Al wanted to see me alone. As soon as the door closed, he turned on me. "Why'd you he?"

  "About what?"

  "About where you were last night?"

  "I didn't lie."

  "About four this morning you were with some pimps and whores. Sergeant O'Grady called me. There was a gun."

  "I didn't have anything to do with a gun."

  "If Judge Ambrose heard about what happened, gun or not, you'd be in jail on a probation violation."

  I shrugged. My resentment of authority, and especially of any threat, was quickly ignited. Had the accusatory tone been from anyone else, I would have told them to kiss my ass ... and fuck the judge in his ass. With Al, however, I checked myself, although he could see my attitude. He changed his. "Please stay out of trouble." He opened the door and beckoned Emily. "Mrs Wallis called," he said. "She's interested in meeting Eddie."