Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade

by Edward Bunker

  Chapter 4

  Whores, Hearst and Hollywood's Angel

  Freedom! My fingers were all thumbs and I was half dizzy as I stripped off county jail denim and waited for my street clothes. The trusty came out of the racks of hanging clothes and pushed mine across the counter: deep-pleated and full-cut doeskin gabardine slacks and a jacket with big shoulder pads and a brown suede front. The look was stylish. When they brought me from Lancaster I was dressed in US Army surplus khakis, but one morning when I returned from court, the man ahead of me took off and hung up the doeskin slacks and suede-fronted jacket. I switched tags — and here they were. They fit as if tailored for me. Except for the high-topped brogans, I was going forth dressed in the fashion of 1950.

  From the jail bathroom, where releases were dressed out, I was sent up corkscrew steel stairs into a cage. It had an empty bench along one wall, while the other was like a barred cashier's cage. At the end away from the stairway was an electrically controlled barred gate.

  A deputy sheriff stepped up to the cashier's window. "Who're you?"

  "Bunker."

  He looked through a pile of releases, found the right one with its attached documents, and motioned for me to step up. "What's your mother's maiden name?" he asked.

  "Sarah Johnston."

  "Where was she born?"

  "Vancouver, British Columbia."

  "Gimme your thumb."

  He took a thumbprint and, while I used a hanging rag to wipe off the ink, he compared it with a thumbprint taken when they booked me. Satisfied, he yelled around the corner to the elevator operator. "One out!" He pressed a button and the gate buzzed. I pushed it open, stepped out and let it crash shut behind me.

  Around the corner an old elevator operator was holding the door. I stepped in, the doors slid closed and we dropped ten floors swiftly. The doors opened into the teeming main corridor of the Hall of Justice. Lawyers, cops, witnesses, litigants, defendants, bail bondsmen and trial spectators swarmed rapidly about. Ahead of me was a big glass door. Beyond that, Broadway. I pushed out. j

  On the sidewalk, I stopped. Now what? Pedestrians swirled around me. The morning was sunny and warm. A pretty young woman in a bright print dress went by on high heels. I smelt het for a moment. She had tanned legs and her hair bounced around her neck. She was headed south on Broadway, toward the taller buildings and the many movie marquees. Al Matthews's office was in the old Law Building. It was south, too. I followed the young woman, looking at her legs and imagining them above the hemline. She moved with verve.

  I continued to imagine as we crossed Temple Street. She turned into the first building, the old Hall of Records. Goodbye, pretty lady, goodbye. Could you be Laura, passing in the misty light? Oh well. The Law Building was across the street.

  MATTHEWS & BOWLER, 11th Floor.

  The building was shabby but still striving for gentility. One 01 two of the better criminal defense lawyers were still there. Joe Forno had a fancy office, as did Gladys Towles Root, she who came to court with purple hair — or green or blue or whatever else matched her clothes. Her trademark hats made bystander duck. Feathers flew and blew everywhere. In the conservative world of the courts, she was flamboyance personified. She was a pretty good trial lawyer when she wanted to be. Some thieve swore by her. Like many jaded defense lawyers, she took every case whether she could give it proper attention or not. It was a common joke that she had her own tier of clients in Folsom.

  The elevator creaked, and when I entered the law offices of Matthews and Bowler the carpet was threadbare. Still, it had a certain somber respectability, with leatherbound law books in cases around the walls, and heavy leather furniture in the outer office. A bird-like woman, quick and petite, was behind the receptionist's desk. She came around the desk, smiling broadly, shook my hand and told me she was Emily Matthews, Al's wife. Al had mentioned her to me. "Al's in court," she said. "But let me introduce you around."

  A man was gold-lettering "Manley Bowler" on a door. Bowler was Al's new partner. Emily knocked and we entered. He was a slender, patrician-appearing man who shook hands and eyed me critically. "You're going to stay out of trouble this time?"

  I replied with candor: "I sure hope so. But ..." I ended with a shrug. I'd been in trouble as far back as I could remember, so how could I categorically declare I'd never get in trouble again?

  That would slap the face of probability.

  "Well, let's hope you make it." He was friendly, but his eyes had a different look than Al's. His partnership with Al Matthews was short-lived, although their friendship continued. Manley had a prosecutor's view and he soon returned to that side of the table, where his career flourished.

  The outer office phone rang. Emily hurried to answer it and Manley excused himself: he had work to do. In the reception area I started to tell Emily that I would return tomorrow. Still on the phone, she shook her head and gestured for me to wait. When she hung up, she said: "Stick around. Al wants to see you. Go sit in his office. Read something. I've got to answer these phones."

  Al's office was spacious, the wood old and dark. Glass-fronted bookcases were along the walls from floor to ceiling. Rows of numbered volumes, 51 Cal. App. Rpts, and 52, 53, 54, etc. Two fat blue volumes: Corpus Juris Secundum. A couple of worn smaller books: California Criminal Law, Fricke; California Criminal Evidence, Fricke. Fricke was the guy Sampsell and Chessman were talking about. Black's Dictionary of Law. These books had incantations that were almost magical, I thought. If I knew them, I would be a wizard of law.

  I sat in Al's chair. The desk was clear except for a photo of Emily and a boy about twelve years old. Under the edge of the green desk blotter was tucked a handwritten note. It said, Eddie . . . Mrs Wallis???? Did that refer to me? If it did, I would find out at the right time.

  I began browsing. The first book I took down had a slip of paper serving as a page marker. Opening to the marker, I found a California Supreme Court opinion affirming a death penalty conviction. Emily came in. "You might as well go. Al isn't coming in until late this afternoon."

  "What time?"

  "It's hard to know . . . whenever the trial judge calls it a day. Some of them go late."

  As I started to leave, she added, "The best time to catch him is in the morning . . . between 9 and 9.30 . . . before he goes to court."

  That was fine with me. I wanted to roam free. We went from the office to the reception room. "Where are you going to stay?"

  "I thought I'd rent a furnished room." Back then, a furnished room cost $9 or $10 a week. Called "piss in the sink" rooms, they usually had a sink and faucet, with the bathroom down the hall.

  "You got some money?"

  I hesitated half a second before nodding. Actually, I had about $40 in ones and fives. A five was the largest denomination a prisoner was allowed in his possession. I'd been red hot in a poker game during my last week.

  The hesitation sent Emily to her purse. She extracted three $20 bills and tucked them in my breast pocket. "Nice outfit by the way," she said.

  When I departed with $100, I felt good. It was two weeks' take-home for a factory worker. I was flush.

  Back out on Broadway, I continued south. The sidewalks were filled with well-dressed shoppers. Yellow streetcars clanged up and down the middle of the street with barely room for a car to pass on the right. In the shadowed canyon of buildings, the movie marquees sparkled. I could see them from 2nd to 9th Streets. Here, too, were LA's big department stores, the Broadway, May Company, Eastern Columbia, J.J. Newberry, Thrifty Drug Stores; and the local stores, Victor Clothing being the most well known.

  I looked in the display windows of the men's stores. The style of the hour was double-breasted suits with wide shoulders, wide lapels, pants with deep pleats, relaxed knees and tapers to the cuff. It was a modified zoot suit, the first time the style of the underclass had been assumed by the fashionable people. The basic style had been in vogue since I began caring about clothes. I assumed, back then, that the same style would be sharp
throughout my life.

  The display window also reflected my image. I was moderately tall and slender and very average looking, with lots of freckles. The years of mixing with precocious youths from East LA and Watts had molded my style. I walked like a hip Chicano.

  Continuing my walk down Broadway, I thought of things I had to do. Foremost among them was to visit my father in the home for old folks. He was in his mid-sixties, which was much older then than it is now. He'd already had one severe heart attack, and my Aunt Eva had written that he was showing some "dementia," the word the doctor used, she said. Thinking of him gave me a hollow ache in my stomach. He'd done all he could for me, a son he never understood. True, what he could do never included a home, and he had put my beloved dog to sleep, but even if there was no home, he had sacrificed to pay for good boarding homes and expensive military schools for me. I felt responsible for his aging so fast. I hated that he was in a retirement home, but I lacked the power to do anything about it. Maybe if I made enough money . . .

  I'd have to visit Aunt Eva, too, but I hoped that I wouldn't have to ask her if I could stay. The last time had been tough on both of us. Maybe I would stop by this evening after she got off work but that was hours away. What should I do right now? Maybe catch a number 5 streetcar through Chinatown across the bridge to Lincoln Heights. Lorraine, my first girlfriend, lived there with her older brother and two younger sisters.

  A car horn bleated. "Bunker!"

  I looked around. An emerald colored convertible with the top down was at the curb. The platinum blonde in the passenger seat was waving to me. I didn't know her, but I went over to see what she wanted. Behind the wheel was Manes, the pimp who got the pot on visiting day.

  The blonde opened the door and slid over. Cars were honking behind us. The blonde smiled and gave them the finger.

  I got in and we pulled away.

  "Hey, Bunker, good to see you. Meet Flip."

  "Hi, Flip."

  "This is the guy I told you about . . . the one that fucked up Billy Cook."

  Flip turned, her face close. "Congratulations. Let me shake your hand." Her fingers were slender, her flesh smooth, and her eyes were green and cat-like. With dye and makeup and clothes, she was the most beautiful woman I'd seen outside a movie screen.

  "Want to get high?" he asked.

  "Does a bear shit in the woods?" I replied.

  The Park Wilshire Hotel was across the street from MacArthur Park. Financed by a Union in the late '20s, the hotel was originally planned to be a first-class joint. Its architecture was striking and the lobby had a grand staircase suitable for a Russian palace. Alas, the location was too far west of downtown Los Angeles to attract business travelers, and too far east to get business from the movie studios. I was unaware of that as we waited for the elevator. To me it looked as palatial as the Waldorf-Astoria. Flip pushed the elevator button several times. Nobody is in a greater hurry than a junkie going to fix.

  The elevator had an operator. As we were going up, he eyed me in a manner that asked my companions a silent question. "He's okay," was the answer. "What's up?"

  "A friend of mine's got a girl who wants to work," said the elevator man.

  "She ever worked before?"

  "No. But she's game."

  "Bring her over tomorrow morning."

  "Late tomorrow morning," Flip added. "After eleven."

  "Yeah, late in the morning," Manes agreed. "But don't be surprised if she changes her mind. A whole lotta young chicks think they wanna turn tricks. They can get big money for doing what comes naturally — layin' down first and gettin' up last — but when it gets right down to the reality of it with some potbellied old man who's drunk and mean, they can't handle it."

  "That's why a lot of them turn into junkies. It covers their torment."

  "Yeah, it does take away all pain," Manes agreed. "Physical and mental."

  "What it doesn't take away, it makes not to matter," Flip finished.

  "I get it. I'll bring her by."

  As we walked down the hallway, I smelt Flip's perfume. It was intense after the various odors of jail, sweat, piss and disinfectant. She sure knew how to walk, long strides with her ass moving from side to side. She looked like a stripper strutting her stuff with her clothes on. Manes put his arm possessively around her hip, said something I couldn't hear, and they both laughed. What did he have that would make her sell her body and give him the money? It wasn't his looks. He was dissipated, gaunt and a little effete. I'd seen him naked in the shower at the county farm. He had blotchy skin pitted with acne scars. How could he have a chick who belonged on a calendar? Was he some kind of sexual genius? No. Somehow I knew his control had nothing to do with sex.

  Manes was unlocking the room door when another door opened farther down the hallway. A fat man in undershorts and over-the- calf stockings came out. His face was red, his body fish white. 1 le kept one foot in the door so it couldn't close and lock him out. It was both awkward and comedic. "Where is she? Where'd she go?"

  "Where'd who go?" Manes asked.

  "That whore . . . Brandi?"

  "We didn't see anybody," Flip said. "Did we?"

  I shook my head.

  "Bullshit! She just came out. I heard a door out here." He was glaring at us. "You had to see her."

  "Take it easy, mister," Manes said, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. Meanwhile, I stepped clear. If he got too loud and threatening, I was going to sock him with a left hook to the stomach. It would quiet him. I was sure of that. Flip saw my move and used her eyes to tell me not to hit him.

  Tears suddenly came to the man's eyes. He knew how stupid he looked.

  "What happened?" Manes asked.

  "She took my wallet . . . and my pants. I was in the john when I saw her go out. It was just—" he snapped his fingers to indicate how quick things had happened. "What am 1 going to tell my wife? I'm gonna call the police."

  I was half between a laugh and pity for him.

  "Take it easy, mister," Manes said. He walked toward the man and pushed his door all the way open. "Go in and wait. I'll see if I can help you."

  The man's lips trembled; he looked at each of us, uncertainty on his face.

  "Go on," Flip said. "You can't run around in your skivvies. It's going to be all right."

  The trick squinted at us; then did as he was told. Manes closed the door and came back to where we waited. As he turned the key in the door he was muttering curses.

  Brandi, the missing whore, was waiting inside. She'd been listening through the door. "Look," she said, holding up a fat sheaf of currency. "Eight bills and change." She seemed nervous, and she had reason to be nervous. Manes tried to backhand her. She ducked away and he kicked at her. She deflected some of it with her hand, and took some of it on her thigh.

  Flip quickly moved between them: "Take it easy. Don't bruise her. She won't be able to work."

  Manes checked himself; then he snatched the money. "Where's his wallet and his pants?"

  "I threw them out."

  "Out where?"

  "The air shaft."

  Flip looked down the air shaft in the building's center. "I can «r them."

  "Get your ass down there and get 'em," Manes said to Brandi.

  "Do I have to?"

  "Do I have to?" he mocked. "Goddamn right you have to. He still might scream copper and get us closed down."

  "You pay the patch, don't you?"

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "I thought he covered this kind of stuff."

  "Yeah, he does - but not if there's a buncha complaints. I told all you silly bitches not to steal from a trick. Didn't I?"

  Brandi's nod was grudging.

  I guess that's why you're a whore . . . you're fuckin' dumb." He turned and handed Flip the money. "Go back over there and cool him out."

  "You want me to give him the money back?"

  "Yeah. And tell him we're getting him his pants and wallet."

  Flip wen
t out. Manes reached for the telephone and told the front desk that he'd accidentally dropped his pants down the air shaft. A girl was coming down to search for them. Still on the phone, he gestured for Brandi to go. As she headed for the door, he hung up the phone and took one final kick at her rump with the side of his shoe. It lifted her on tiptoe for a moment. "Dumb bitch," he muttered when the door closed. He shook his head and chuckled, obviously enjoying the display of his power, a power that was an enigma to me. Why would beautiful women take being so demeaned? Flip and Brandi could use their bodies to subjugate many men. "Sid down. Make yourself comfortable." I sat down said he began searching through drawers; then in the bathroom. Through the open door, I could see him feeling around under the sink What was he looking for?

  Flip returned. "It's cool," she said. "Where's Brandi?"

  "She went to get his pants back. Say, where's the outfit?"

  "Out in the hallway in the fire hose. I'll get it." She went out, leaving the door ajar, and returned within seconds carrying a dirty handkerchief bundled around a bent and blackened teaspoon and an eyedropper with a baby pacifier on the bulb end and a hypodermic needle on the other. A gasket of thread around the eyedropper end tightly fastened the needle. It was a junkie outfit, circa 1950. Junkies didn't use syringes back then.

  She put the unfolded handkerchief and its contents on top of a dresser. Manes came out of the bathroom with a glass of water.

  "We need some cotton," Flip said.

  "Got it." Manes sat on the bed, took off his shoe and pinched a tiny ball of cotton from the bottom of the shoe tongue. He dropped it in Flip's palm as he put his shoe on. She added it to the paraphernalia lined up on the dirty handkerchief. "Look out the window," he said to me, "and see if she got those pants and wallet."