Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade

by Edward Bunker

  We went up the stairway to the top floor of the Old Industrial Budding where the gallows had been when they hanged the condemned in California. The first floor was divided into maintenance shops, and part of the second floor was the Catholic chapel. Two other floors were empty space, with the gym on top. It was built at the bottom of a hill at the edge of the Lower Yard. Until recently, to reach it one had to walk down the alley past the doorways into the maintenance shops, and then trudge up five flights of stairs on the outside of the building. After Popeye Jackson (later killed on the streets of San Francisco) hit somebody with a hatchet and an older guard had a heart attack running up the stairs, a bridge-ramp was built from the top of the hill to a gym door. That made it easier to control pedestrian traffic in and out of the gym, plus the guards could get there faster.

  Paapke, the 300-pound Hawaiian guard, was at the ramp entrance, checking ID cards against a list. Knowing me, he waved me through without checking.

  The boxing department was quiet. The bell that rang in a three minute, one minute sequence had been turned off. The constant staccato sound of speed bags was missing, as well as the splat of hard punches landing on the heavy bag. Conversations were unusually soft as the gladiators got ready for battle and the trainers hovered about with help and advice. The payoff for fighting was two photos taken during each bout: Frank Littlejohn with his two champions, Rudy Thomas and Frank Deckard.

  "Hey, we meet again," Leon said. Then to me: "I'm gone. I'll see you when you get down there."

  I nodded and asked Rudy, "Where's Littlejohn?"

  Rudy indicated the doorway to the matchmaker's office at one corner of the boxing section. It was a private space where nobody could see what was going on. As I headed in that direction, I saw Country Fitzgerald and Duane Patillo come through the door. Country was a known con man who would chastise a sucker unmercifully. He had gotten the drugs from the Frisco Flash. Duane was the muscle if muscle was needed, a real tough white boy out of Compton, and Walt was an all around co-conspirator with them.

  I veered to intercept them. They stopped, faces affable. We were friends. "Hey, that stuff you got from the Frisco Flash. That belonged to my friend, Leon. He doesn't want whatever you said you'd pay, but just what he had invested. And you don't have to pay right now if you haven't got it. Put a day on yourselves."

  "Oh, man, it didn't belong to the Flash?"

  I assured them that it did not.

  "We don't have it right now."

  "When can you get it?"

  "Probably next week."

  That seemed reasonable to me, and I was sure Leon would agree. It was more a question of saving face than the value involved. "I'll tell him," I said.

  As is common in the Bay Area at the beginning of summer, the morning fog burned away and the afternoon was bright and warm. Four thousand convicts were in the lower yard. Boxing was a big thing in San Quentin. Several contenders had come from behind the walls. Whenever champions were in the Bay Area, they visited San Quentin. The walls of the boxing department had their signed photos: Archie Moore, Bobo Olson, Rocky Marciano. Most of the 4,000 stood in the outfield around the ring, but free world visitors and a score of important convicts sat in ringside folding chairs.

  Today there were to be eight bouts: three preliminaries and five for prison championships in the various weight divisions. I was in the third preliminary, supposedly welterweight. Actually I weighed a few pounds more, around 150 pounds, and my opponent was actually a lightweight, weighing in at 137.

  The first bout was a pair of featherweights having their first fight in a ring. True, they had boxed many rounds in the gym, trainers had drummed into them what to do — but as they caught the electricity generated by the crowd, they forgot what they should do. They circled cautiously, hands high, sort of dancing. One extended a tentative jab, the other swung a right hand that landed. Both began swinging like windmills, heads down, arms flailing, very little landing with much effect. The convicts loved it. They yelled and clapped and bent over with laughter. The decision was a draw.

  I paid little heed to the second bout. I was getting loose, warming up, moving around. A sudden mass bellow went forth ringside. I turned to look. One of the fighters was sitting on the ring floor, holding a bottom rope. He was trying to use it to get to his feet.

  The referee stepped forward, waving both arms over his head. The bout was over. "In one minute and nine seconds of the first round ..."

  Littlejohn was lacing on my gloves, pulling them up tight. God they gave me a headache. If I have to be punched, I much prefer a bare fist to a boxing glove.

  The knockout victim came past me, his legs still wobbly, his eyes glazed, his manager in his ear. "Goddamnit! I told you to watch out for that overhand right."

  Leon went up the stairs to the ring apron and held the ropes apart for me. I went to the resin box and did a little dance so the soles of my shoes scraped the resin. It kept my feet from slipping on the canvas. When I turned away, my opponent was waiting to use the resin box. I was bigger and younger, but on his face were etched forty-two professional fights, mostly around Tijuana. I was already uptight. Now my stomach churned, too.

  Back in the corner, Littlejohn told me, "Stay away, move on him. Use the jab. You've got a good jab."

  Frankie Carter, the referee, motioned us to the center of the ring. "You know the rules. Break when I tell you. Protect yourself at all times ..." While he gave the standard instructions I looked at my opponent, not with the intimidating glare now popular in many sports. I was looking him over. He was stockier than me, with thinning black hair. His arms were short, the biceps strong but not remarkable. His forearms reminded me of Popeye. He was covered with blue, India ink tattoos, ugly and forever. They were a brand.

  Standing there I was conscious of the sun's heat on my bare shoulders.

  We went back to our corners. The bell rang and the fight was on, three rounds, each round of three minutes' duration. Because I was in such poor condition I planned to take it easy in the first round, jab and keep away. If he pressed me, I would hold and conserve wind and energy. That was the plan.

  I circled, stuck out a jab — and got hit flush in the left eye with a hard overhand right. Lights exploded in my brain. Oh shit! I reached to grab and he hit me with an uppercut body punch that almost lifted my feet from the canvas. Ooof! I realized I was in serious trouble. I managed to clinch and pin his arms. When the referee said "Break," I ignored the order. He had to pry me loose.

  Somehow I got through round one. I was happy when the bell rang. When I flopped on the stool, panting, I looked across the ring. My opponent was standing as he talked to his trainer. Was he grinning?

  "Jab him!" Littlejohn kept saying. "Use your reach to keep him away. Box his ass. Move and stick . . . move and stick . . . How's your gas?"

  "Okay ... so far."

  The referee came over. "Seconds out."

  Leon wet my mouthpiece and stuck it back in my mouth.

  The bell rang. The second round was better than the first. My legs felt better and I was able to move, move, move — and when he got over-anxious, I stopped and stuck a jab in his face. I stuck out a jab, came in behind it and hooked him hard in the stomach. His "ooof' said I'd hurt him. I was dancing like Fred Astaire.

  I was winning the round until the last thirty seconds. All of a sudden, like air going from a balloon, I ran out of gas. My legs became lead. He came at me and I meant to shp the punch and move away. My legs refused the command. They got crossed and I tripped myself, stumbling and almost going down. He hit me in the ribcage under the heart. It hurt. Next came two punches in the face, both of which sent coruscating lights to my brain. Instinctively I grabbed for him. My extended arms let him punch over the top. Another flashing light. Damn!

  The bell rang. Thank God. Where's the corner?

  ". . . doin' good," Leon said, taking my mouthpiece. Littlejohn rubbed my legs. "Do what you were doin'. Jab and grab. Jab and grab." Even as he spoke, I remembere
d that jab and grab was how Joey Maxim beat Sugar Ray Robinson on a sweltering New York night in Yankee Stadium. Robinson won every round until the thirteenth; then he quit in the corner from exhaustion and dehydration. He'd lost over twenty pounds in the thirteen rounds. Why did I think of that?

  The bell rang.

  I remember little of the third round, except that it took three hours. The referee would have stopped it except that I kept coming forward — and Tino Prieto kept hitting me until he got arm weary. One time when I stood in the middle of the ring, half bent over, like a bull awaiting the final thrust, I heard Litleejohn yelling: "The jab! Use your jab!"

  I stepped back, looked over my shoulder and said quite loudly, "Hey, Frank, I would if I could. I can't!" Littlejohn closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. Leon grinned.

  The convicts at ringside laughed once more. I tucked my chin against my shoulder, kept my right hand high, my elbow in tight, and walked into his punches, moving my head from side to side. Every so often I'd throw a haymaker left hook that landed just once, and even that was up high where it mussed his hair and nothing more. Anyone who hasn't been there can't imagine how long it takes for a three-minute round.

  When the final bell sounded, 4,000 convicts were jumping up and down and screaming. I barely made my stool.

  "Get up. Wave!" Littlejohn said.

  "Are you crazy? You might have to carry me outta this fuckin' ring. If I ever put on another pair of boxing gloves ..."

  "We have a split verdict," said the announcer. "Referee Frankie Carter scores it twenty-nine to twenty-eight for the blue corner. The two judges, Willy Hermosillo and Frank Washington, score it twenty-nine to twenty-nine. The fight is a draw by majority vote."

  A draw! A draw! Unbelievable. I was so surprised and excited that I overcame my exhaustion and stood up. I managed to wave to the crowd and embrace Tino Prieto. He looked bewildered and returned my hug without enthusiasm. Later, I looked at the scorecards. Two judges had scored the first round even, ten points to ten points; they gave me the second round by ten points to nine points, and him the third round by the same ten to nine.

  When I came down the steps from the ring, Rudy Thomas was grinning. "I didn't know you could box that good," he said.

  "Desperation," I said. "And I'll never put on another set of boxing gloves, believe me."

  Later, in the gym, my opponent came out of the shower as I was combing my hair at a sink. Our eyes caught in the reflection. "Good fight," he said.

  "You, too, man."

  "I'm kinda glad I didn't win."

  "What're you talkin' about?"

  "Now I don't have to worry if you're going to stab me."

  "Oh, man, I wouldn't do that."

  "I know it." He grinned, one tooth missing, and went his way.

  I finished combing my hair, aching all over and thinking about what he'd said. Was it paranoid? Sure it was, yet it was also an admonition. I'd deliberately established a reputation for being a little crazy. The purpose was to warn others away as does the skunk's white stripe. But if someone thought I might stab them over a boxing match it might defeat its purpose. If someone thought me that crazy and we had words, they might stab me in a pre-emptive move. All I hoped was that it didn't happen in the next two months. After that I would be back on the streets of Los Angeles.

  Later, during the main count lockup, I bent over to straighten my bunk and a bolt of pain shot out from my ribs. When I came out on unlock for the evening meal, I asked the cell house sergeant to call me through to the hospital. The convict nurse on duty poked the rib and I winced. He thought it was cracked, but that wasn't enough to call for the medical officer of the day to come inside the walls. However, an older convict was experiencing a heavy chest pain and streaks of pain down his left arm. A possible heart attack was enough to bring the medical officer of the day. It took an hour, and he arrived in shorts and sweatshirt. Thank God the convict with chest pains wasn't having a heart attack. When the doctor got to me and found that I'd gotten the injuries in the boxing ring, he muttered something about ignorance — but he ordered an X-ray and found a hairline crack. It hadn't separated. As long as it was immobilized, it would heal. This was accomplished by a sheet of white adhesive covered by Ace bandage around my torso. When a guard escorted me back to the cell house it was about 10.30. I had to wait at the Sergeant's Office to be checked in, while around me convicts streamed in from night unlocks. They climbed the stairs and stood in front of their cells for lockup.

  Walt came in, saw me and came over. "Damn, man, your eye . . . "

  "I've had worse. It'll be all healed when I walk out the gate."

  "How much you got left?"

  "Sixty-two days and a get up. You get that business straight with Leon?"

  "Yeah, it's straight."

  There was something in his voice that contradicted his words. "Hey," I said. "All he wants is what he invested."

  "Yeah, well, uhhh, we talked it over. We're gonna give that nigger what we think he's got comin'. If he don't like it, fuck him in the ass."

  The words were slaps across my face. Each one pumped more red into my brain. I nearly choked and had to clear my throat. The lockup bell rang, and convicts still far from their cells began to scurry. I managed to choke out: "I don't know what he wants . . . but lemme say this, if it ain't right and there's some trouble, I'm backin' that nigger ... all the way to the gas chamber if necessary. You think about it; I'll see you tomorrow."

  A guard appeared at the section door and put his flashlight beam on us. "Lockup. Move it."

  "I'm waiting to check in," I said.

  Walt disappeared up the stairway to his tier.

  They counted me at the Sergeant's Office. When the count cleared, a guard escorted me to my cell.

  It was a bad, sleepless night. I can't imagine that many readers will have spent a night thinking they may have to kill someone with a knife — or be killed the same way — when the sun comes up. It is not conducive to peaceful sleep, nor any sleep, although I may have dozed for a moment or two during the night. My cracked rib throbbed, plus my swollen eye was nearly closed. I counted my remaining days in San Quentin. Sixty-one. Was I crazy, letting my mouth get me into another shitstorm? I could have been more diplomatic. I didn't have to throw down a threat the first thing. Still, he'd been an asshole, referring to Leon as a nigger. There were plenty of niggers around, loud, gross, ignorant — and plenty of white niggers, too. Come to think of it, Walt was illiterate and ignorant. A convict comic handed him a book of matches, offering a carton of Camels if he could read the ad on its face. Walt looked, threw the matchbook down and said, "Fuck you!" He probably hated Leon doubly because Leon was so well educated.

  No matter. They'd made their declaration; so had I, although I was now tormented with misgivings. I wanted to go home. I hadn't realized what I had going for me when I first met Mrs Hal Wallis. Now I felt that she was indeed Mom, as she signed her letters. She wanted to open doors for me; she wanted me to help myself. She'd arranged a job at the McKinley Home for Boys on Riverside Drive and Woodman. It would become a giant shopping mall, anchored by two department stores, but that was two decades away. Now it was still a rustic home for boys, with Louise Wallis their foremost benefactor — and mine. Because of her I had a chance to fulfill my dreams — or at least I had a chance untd morning. This seemed like a repeat of a few weeks earlier when Leon had interceded for me. He'd saved my ass one way or another, from getting my brains kicked in or being charged with a felony for sticking one or both of them. How could I have gotten into almost the same situation? It was because I had originally spoken to them and told Leon it was okay. I'd put myself in the middle, and I was responsible. I still felt gudt for not instandy pulling Jimmy Barry's punk off Leon, and I felt in debt because he had saved my parole by getting between me and the dynamic duo of Spotlight and Dolomite. God, they were ugly.

  This time I wouldn't let him down, no doubt of that — but goddamn I wanted to get out. I'd b
een too quick with my retort. Why did I have to declare myself when Walt told me how they intended to pay — or not pay? I could have played it off and gone off to plan something instead of this gunfight at the OK Corral confrontation. I should have at least gone to see Leon before threatening to kill people. For a smart guy I was sure dumb sometimes. Still, there was no way back without putting my tail between my legs.

  At least I had behaved so I could look in the mirror. Mine was a macho world, with some rules that belonged in the Code of Chivalry. Fuck it. Whatever happened . . . happened. The first birds were beginning to chirp. Soon enough the early morning unlocks would start.

  I was waiting fully dressed when the flashlight beam probed the cell and the silhouette called softly: "Bunker."

  "Got it, boss."

  Ten minutes later, I stepped onto the tier and closed the cell gate. Down the tier another figure was dressing. I headed for the stairway to the south dining room. Instead of grabbing a tray and getting in line, I walked up the center aisle, circled behind the steam tables and entered the main kitchen. Other convicts assigned to food service were coming to work, going through the kitchen to a locker room where they changed into white kitchen clothes. Avoiding the locker room, I went down a corridor through double doors into the vegetable room. The vegetable crew, eight Chicanos, were peeling potatoes and throwing them into huge pans of water. They looked up without expression as I passed through and opened the rear door onto the loading dock behind the kitchen. The kitchen had its own yard with weights. A wall on one side overlooked the lower yard. The gun bull with the carbine watched both. The route he patrolled took him away from the kitchen yard. On the other side of the kitchen yard was a fence, and beyond it a yard for the West Honor Unit, where convicts could come and go from their cells from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. Leon's cell was on the fifth tier at the rear. He'd moved to the honor unit a couple of weeks earlier. I'd helped him carry his gear.

  A couple of convicts wearing high boots, heavy rubber aprons and thick gloves were using steam hoses to clean garbage cans. I feigned interest in that until the gun bull turned his back to walk the other way. Then I scrambled over the fence. It ratded loudly, but the gun bull never heard it.