Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade

by Edward Bunker

  I arrived in a navy blue suit and a necktie. Tennessee Williams was in black and red check Pendleton, half drunk, unshaven and with perceptible body odour. By the time we sat down, he was totally drunk. Halfway through the soup, he said he felt sick and excused himself.

  Every Saturday evening the latest movies were screened in the blue room. A screen rose out of the floor, and across the room a painting moved down to reveal a projection booth. The projectionist was hired from the studio. When Hal was home, his friends came. When he was gone, which was much of the time, Louise's friends were the guests. I liked languishing on a well upholstered chair while watching Elizabeth Taylor running through the jungle ahead of a herd of rampaging elephants, or Jack Palance as a movie star who is simultaneously beloved by the multitude and under the thumb of the movie mogul. Having a private screening was a great way to start Saturday evening, and in the incomparable LA nights there were always adventures to be had untd the sun rose on Sunday morning.

  The summer of '56 came to an end. The only change was that afternoons in the Valley were 82 degrees now instead of 102. I stayed away from most ex-convicts and former friends, but my vow of rehabilitation never included that I would stop smoking pot. That necessitated keeping a connection with my chddhood partner, Wedo Gambesi. When I went to see him, I found that during my five years in San Quentin he had married his girlfriend, fathered two chddren and turned into a junkie who peddled on a street level to maintain his habit. He was on probation for illegal possession, and on bad for a second case. Within the month he was going to court for sentence and it was a cinch he was going where I had just been.

  I also met Jimmy D., who was married to Wedo's wife's sister. Jimmy gladly procured me pot if I gave him some of it and a few dollars. Although we were the same age, my five years in San Quentin gave me status. Jimmy was lean, powerful and handsome, but he was oblivious to his appearance or his clothes. I once gave him an expensive suit. He put it in the trunk of his car. Five months later I saw him open the car trunk. The suit was there, now mddewed and ruined. Jimmy was too lazy to work and had become too scared to steal. A couple of years later he drove the getaway car while I heisted a bookmaker. When I came out, the car was gone. I had to make my escape on foot, down alleys and over fences in an area I knew poorly. When I confronted him, he said that a police car had circled the block so the officers could give him special scrutiny, so he had driven away. At the time I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but when he later folded up en route to a score ("I can't do it, man. I just can't do it") I changed my judgement on the earlier episode. I used it as a basis for a sequence in the movie Straight Time two decades later.

  I had no close family. I did have some second cousins, although I hadn't seen any of them since my parents' divorce, when they were adolescents and I was four. Bob H., then twenty-nine, ran one of several departments at Channel 4, the local NBC affiliate. He was a handsome man who sang well, but not quite well enough; he was an even better painter, but again not quite enough better. Or perhaps he could have been fulfilled in either endeavor but lacked tenacity. Either way, he wasn't what he wanted to be. He had converted to Catholicism and wanted to be a priest. I don't remember why that never reached fruition. At first I thought he was gay. His mannerisms appeared to me like those of queens in the penitentiary. As a convict said, "I ain' never seen no man act that way." After a while, however, I reached a different opinion. I think he was asexual. Although he was far closer to being gay than being a male warrior, the thought of male to male sex would have been physically repulsive to him.

  Bob had a girlfriend, although it was a weird romance. He had kissed her just once. She was sui generis as far as I was concerned. Twenty-six years old, slender, pretty, well educated, vivacious, intelligent — and a virgin. It was something I wouldn't learn for some time. Although it was still the uptight '50s, and she was a nice Catholic girl, it was hard to believe that any twenty-six-year-old outside a nunnery was a virgin. I met her on a Saturday afternoon at Channel 4, where I went to see Cousin Robert about a party he was giving that night. He was the supervisor of a woman named Patty Ann and they were catching up on some work.

  Patty Ann and'I had immediate affinity. By the time the party ended it was long past midnight. We walked through Hollywood until dawn, talking about all kinds of things. She'd never even met anyone who had been in jail. That, too, was hard for me to believe.

  Within a week we were seeing each other regularly, and whatever idea we might have had about romance at the outset, it quickly became obvious that we were too different for anything more than a great friendship. But we did share a love of books and writing. She gave me encouragement and advice. Of all the people I've known, I think she has the best attitude toward life. She is as happy as anyone can be without being psychotic. She benefited my etiquette, and when I started to think or act in the manner taught by my background, she would pinch my cheek and say, "No, no, poochie. You can't do that anymore. You're a writer now." She could always make me feel good.

  Mrs Wallis thought she was wonderful. She let us use a cabana at the Sand & Sea Club, the mansion that Hearst had built for Marion Davies on the beach at Santa Monica. The original colonial pillars, facing the ocean, were as big as those on the White House. The swimming pool, with a bridge across it, was of Carrara marble. Much of the original was gone, and a double deck of cabanas had been constructed. Each was a single room plus a bathroom and a shower, opening onto a wide terrace overlooking the sand and sea. The cabana had furnishings appropriate for the beach, a sofa of bamboo and water-resistant cushions, a glass-topped table in an alcove, a cabinet with a bar and closet. It also had a card table. On occasion I would play a role of writer, moving card table and portable typewriter onto the terrace — and then posing with a tall drink while looking down at the unwashed masses running around below. For me it was a fancy way to go to the beach.

  Meanwhile Louise's behavior became more irrational, although I still didn't see how irrational it was. Saying offhandedly that she never really liked it, she gave Patty Ann a diamond and sapphire brooch. I had no idea of its value, nor that she had been dispensing her jewelry and other possessions almost willy-nilly. She changed toward me, too. Where she had once been generous but not excessive, now she began giving me more than I felt good about. I traded in the Ford convertible for a used XK120 Jaguar, planning to make the payments myself. She said I was impatient and to slow down, and how hard it was to ask someone to help me when I arrived in a Jaguar. Still, when I made a payment, I found the loan had been paid in full. It was great, but not what I wanted. When I pressed about those things, she waved me aside and said I didn't need to worry. It was easy to do, but I knew it was transitory. It wasn't a permanent he I could hide behind. It felt wrong.

  Realization of the situation's gravity came at a Saturday night screening. Usually I ate dinner at the house if I was invited to a screening, but for some reason Patty Ann and I dined at the Sportsman's Lodge on Ventura Boulevard, which was then fairly new and somewhat fashionable.

  When we reached the house, dinner was finished there, too. Brent Wallis was on hand with a friend named Henry Fairbanks. Three or four Catholic teaching brothers from nearby Notre Dame High School were waiting for the movie, plus a young woman from the neighborhood with whom Brent had grown up, and her husband who worked for the Bank of America.

  When we reached the blue room, Louise was drunk. The jacket of her white pants suit was unbuttoned down the back. Apparendy a young woman had been protesting Louise's excessive generosity in giving them the mortgage to their home, which she held. That conversation was winding down because of our arrival and because everyone was settling in to watch the movie. The painting over the projection booth opening came down, the screen rose from the floor across the room and people began to find seats. Louise sat on a sofa at the rear, under the projection booth, and motioned Patty Ann to sit next to her. "And you there," she said to me, indicating the space on the other side of Patty Ann. My attent
ion was caught by a conversation across the room, the content of which I no longer remember. Then Louise's voice, shrill with alcohol, cut through: ". . . take this and marry him. He needs you. He said he wanted me to get him Anita Ekberg. He was joking, but . . . He doesn't want an actress. He just thinks he wants an actress. They never see anything outside the mirror. He needs a good girl. He's going to be rich . . . gonna make him the richest man in the San Fernando Valley." She noticed me paying attention and waved for me to turn away. "This is between us," she said. In her hand was a ring with a diamond I would have thought was fake if it wasn't being waved by Mrs Hal B. Wallis. It was somewhere between three and five carats.

  The intercom buzzed and the projectionist notified Louise that all was ready. She told him to start the movie.

  The lights went down. The beam of dancing gray light cut through the cigarette smoke and threw images on the screen as the music rose. I was glad for the anonymity it gave, for my face was fiery with embarrassment and Patty Ann was nearly in tears.

  As the credits rolled, Louise continued on Patty, repeating the phrase: "Do this little thing for me. Please do it for me." The movie sound was drowning her out so she pushed a button on the armrest and the sound went off. The movie continued to run, silent in the darkness. The only sound was Louise's drunken voice pleading with Patty Ann to take the ring and marry me.

  Brent and his friend got up and left the room. I followed them into the entry hall. I forget what I said, but it was some combination of apology and disclaimer of responsibility. Likewise, I cannot recall his reply, except that it was brief and gracious. They went out the front door.

  I turned back toward the blue room. The sound was back on - thank God, I thought — and just then Patty Ann came out, shoulders shaking, arm over her face. When she raised her eyes to see where she was going (even mortified she didn't want to crash headlong into a wall) I could see two black streaks of runny mascara. She was distraught and I could feel empathy with her. Nevertheless, the streaks of mascara somehow went beyond anguish into soap opera parody. Neither death or jail was at stake. There was not merely pain, but pain's humor and, despite myself, I started laughing.

  After more tears, she stamped her foot on the floor. "Shame on you, Ed Bunker. You don't know how to comfort a girl." Then she, too, perceived the absurdity and began laughing while crying. I rubbed her back and debated returning to the blue room. Through the open door down the hall came the flashing gray light and soundtrack, but only for a moment. The movie stopped and the room's lights came up. I could have handled the darkness, but the particular kind of chaos likely to transpire was not something my life had prepared me for. And Patty Ann certainly didn't deserve further harassment.

  "Come on, let's go." I guided her to the door.

  My car was not far from the front door. As we got in, the Mercedes roadster with Brent and his friend went by. We were close behind as they went out the gate, but when they turned left, I turned right. I didn't want them to think even momentarily that I might be following them.

  I drove up winding Beverly Glen to Mulholland Drive, which ran along the top of the line of hills from Cahuenga Pass in Hollywood to the Pacific Coast Highway beside the ocean, Mulholland was curves and switchbacks. At times the San Fernando Valley was visible, clustered lights with darkness in between. Soon enough it would become a carpet to the next line of mountains, We spoke little. The scene in the blue room was still with in, perhaps more so with me. Louise's earlier comedic behavior now had darker meanings. Something was wrong with her, and being drunk was only the catalyst that exposed it.

  On Monday morning I called Paramount and tried to contact Hal Wallis. He was out of town and the woman wouldn't give me his number without details of what I wanted. I wasn't ready to give her those. I could have called Minna Wallis, but I didn't know her. Finally I called the Hacker Clinic in Beverly Hills I knew Louise had once undergone therapy from Dr Hacker. He listened to my story, but his response was noncommittal. Several days later, Dr Frym called to tell me that I'd done the right thine, Someone had told Hal, who had flown back to Los Angeles and also called Dr Hacker. Their telling him that I'd already informed them might lessen his suspicion of me. Dr Frym emphasized two things. "Don't take any money from her, and don't drink with her. When someone has as much money as she does and starts giving it away, they'll take the right away from her."

  Several days later, without warning, she was admitted to Cedars. Over that weekend everything was moved from the house in the valley to the larger mansion at 515 Mapleton Drive in Holmby Hlls. Dr Hacker thought that losing the house in the valley, which had been her sanctuary for many years from Hal's flagrant infidelity, then became part of her problem. Over that weekend, got a message at the McKinley Home that Mr Wallis wanted to ice me. The move was in progress when I arrived at the house. He told me that Louise had given away a considerable amount of money and all her jewelry. "I know you didn't get that much of the money, but what about the jewelry?" All I could account for was the brooch she had given to Patty Ann. I retrieved and returned it to him at the Hillcrest Country Club. The conversation lasted only a few seconds, but it ended with him saying that maybe he could help me.

  When Louise exited Cedars, it was to the new house in Holmby Hillss. Minnie and her husband, who were loyal to Louise, were replaced by a couple hired by Hal's sister. When I went to visit, I had the feeling that they were watching me. Always before

  I'd felt that she and I were together, a kind of non-malicious conspiracy. Now, however, she had manifestly experienced some kind of breakdown. Dr Hacker still visited her every week. It was impossible for me to talk with her as I once had. I couldn't add stress to her situation.

  I had given her the half-finished manuscript of my second novel, about a young drug addict who becomes an informer. It was missing after the move. This was not a family unfamiliar with scripts and manuscripts: nobody would throw it out without at least knowing what it was. I had no doubt that its loss was the result of malice from someone, but there was nothing I could say or do about it. The novel was probably unworthy of publication, since my next four were found wanting, although the last of those will soon be published in England, and perhaps in America with some judicious pruning and polishing. It was a kind of a Jim Thompson noir story, unlike the realism of my other work.

  I'd been out of San Quentin for about a year and it was time for me to move on from the McKinley Home for Boys. Because of my voracious reading and aspiration to the literary life, it seemed

  reasonable to try for a job in the story department of one of the studios. Louise thought the same, but she also thought it inappropriate for her to call Mervyn Le Roy. Minna Wallis, being an agent, dealt with people at the studios and would make the calls, although it would be behind the scenes at Warner Brothers, where mention of Hal Wallis would send Jack Warner into apoplexy. A "story analyst," or "reader," would be given a book or article, would write a very brief, no more than a page, comment on its viability as a movie, and then a three- or four-page synopsis of the story. I was given The Nun's Story, which Warner Brothers had already bought, and with Patty Ann's help did the job, which Louise read and thought quite good.

  I'd gone through four studios when the head of the story department at Paramount told me that while Minna had arranged for the meeting, she had also said that she and Hal preferred that he not hire me. "I don't know what it's about," he said, "but don't think that she's your friend."

  As I crossed the parking lot to my car, I was certain who had taken and destroyed my unfinished novel. I wasn't even angry. It confirmed my belief in human nature. And so much for Hal Wallis's throwaway line about helping me.

  I had a first-class wardrobe and a Jaguar sports car, although it was evident to me that it was a lemon and the used car lot had clipped me. It was constantly in need of frequently expensive repair. I had a $2,600 check that Louise had given me and I had never cashed. I knew how she handled such matters. A man she had put into business with a j
anitorial service that now serviced several downtown buildings was a bookkeeper. Once a month he came over and took care of her accounts. He would bring the unusual check to her attention, for in 1956 it would equal at least ten times as much on the eve of the twenty-first century. Although not a king's ransom, by the standards of the time it was certainly an amount to be queried. She would simply make it disappear. That I knew.

  The clutch went out on my Jaguar. I cashed the check and forgot about it. I had not gotten it by subterfuge or deceit: it had been given to me. And there had been no question of Louise's competence at the time, not that I knew about. I will admit a slight sense of unease before cashing it, but no sense of having done wrong.

  A few weeks went by. Without warning, she went into Cedars and had an "extremely serious" liver operation, as Dr Frym phrased it. "The liver is always serious surgery."

  I called Cedars, and they denied having any Louise Wallis, Mrs Hal Wallis, or any Wallis or "Wallace," or any Fazenda. By then the switchboard operator was abrupt and irritated. I considered calling all the hospitals in Southern California, but the list was too long, the possibilities too many.

  She was under another name, of course. The name of a character she'd played in some obscure movie.

  She called me in about a week. It had been touch and go, or so I'd been told, but she was both strong and funny.

  She stayed in the hospital another week, during which period the checks for the various personal accounts had come back. She told me immediately when I first visited her when she was convalescing at home on Mapleton Drive that Hal had gone through them. For a moment I felt as if I'd lost something — but I knew that I'd lost nothing. Hal Wallis was never going to help me unless he could profit from it, and that was unlikely, although he would have gotten a loyal friend without avaricious intent or duplicity from the deal. I would have wagered then, and now, that he could never have pointed to three men and sincerely proclaimed them his friends.