Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade (38 page)

The Shit
Hits the Fan

The phone rang. I picked it up.
"Hello."

"Edward Bunker."

I didn't recognize the voice,
but warning bells rang in my brain "Who's calling?"

"Who's this?" he
asked.

"I asked first."

There was a pause. "I'm
his parole officer . . . and he's in big trouble."

Oh shit.
"He's not here right
now."

"Who're you?"

"I'll tell him to call
you." I hung up. My shirt was wet from sweat.

The phone rang again. I let it
ring.

The next morning I put a
handkerchief over the phone, affected a slight southern accent and called the
parole office. I was put through to Harry Sanders.

"I got a message you
wanted to talk to me."

"I'm your new parole
officer. Who do you think you are, driving a Jaguar?"

"I had permission to get a
car."

"I can't find any
written
authorization in your
fde."

"Well, my old parole
officer gave it to me. You can ask him." "He isn't here anymore.
Besides, it's supposed to be in wri- ting."

I said nothing. What could I
say?

"You haven't even tried to
do this parole."

"I've got a job."

"You've got a job selling
cars. That's a con game. You're supposed to be in jail right now with those
charges pending in Beverly Hills. I don't know how the hell you got out."

Again I was sdent.

"Get down to this office
right now."

"Are you going to put me
in jail?"

"We'll decide that when
you get here."

"I just wanted to know if
I should bring a toothbrush and clean underwear."

"You're a smartass,
too."

"No I'm not . . . not
really."

On hanging up the phone, I
debated flight. In my opinion it is better to be hunted than caught, and it was
obvious that a new day had dawned in my relationship with the Division of Adult
Paroles. With great misgivings, I got in my car and drove to the parole office.
It was downtown in the office building above the old Million Dollar Theater.
Once you entered, the receptionist had to buzz the door for you to get out. The
cubicles used as offices were down a narrow passageway, very much like a vision
from Kafka. A door opened, a head appeared and a hand beckoned me.

"Personally, I'd put you
in jail right now," was Harry Sanders's first sentence. He was in his
thirties, fat and unattractive, with jowls hanging over his shirt collar. They
vibrated when he moved his head. "My supervisor said to wait."

I was sure the supervisor
thought I still had the patronage of Mrs Hal Wallis. He wasn't going to make
any rash moves.

"I'll tell you one
thing," he continued. "You're getting a different job."

"What's wrong with selling
cars?"

"Too much temptation . . .
too many con games played on the public."

I wanted to argue, but I knew
the newspapers were full of a
scandal lately involving H.J. Caruso, one of the largest car
dealers in Southern California. I shrugged and kept my mouth shut.

"And that Jaguar. You get
rid of that car. Who the hell do you think you are, a parolee driving a
Jaguar?"

I dropped my eyes in
subservience, but I was envisioning how I would like to have him off somewhere
without witnesses. When I got back to the car, I realized that my hands were
trembling. As you must know by now, I am not a man easily shaken. 1 wanted to
kill him, for I knew, contrary to popular belief, that murder is perhaps the
easiest felony to commit and get away with if the perpetrator follows a simple
script. First, trust nobody. It is too much weight for them to carry,
especially if they come into a situation where they can trade it for their own
freedom. Too many people seem compelled to pour it out. Murder weighs so
heavily on the soul. It shouldn't, but it does. The second step is to find a
place to catch them alone, in the driveway, in a parking lot or a subterranean
garage. Step up and shoot them, preferably between the eyes or behind the ear;
the heart is okay, too.
Make sure
you fire killing shots and that nobody can identify
you. Dispose of the weapon where it can never be found, and make sure that it
cannot be traced to you if it is found. It is a crime without evidence or
witnesses. Even if the police believe you did it, that is not evidence they can
put before a jury. If questioned, don't lie. Say nothing except: "1 want
to see my lawyer." Say it to the arresting officers; say it to the booking
officer; say it to the detectives who interrogate you, say it to every officer
who passes by, say it to the nurse passing out medications; say it to the
janitor: "I want to see my lawyer."

I could get away with it, but I
didn't have it in me to murder in cold blood. In self-defense, yes. If someone
was a threat to my life, I would take them out quickly. Harold S. might fit
into that category, but
might
was not enough to take his life, worthless as he was.
I would go along with what he said, and try to placate him. It was contrary to
my nature, but it was the only chance I had to win. My parole had nine months
and twelve days remaining. The state had put a leash around my neck when I was
four and they made me a ward of the court. Ever since then I had been on parole
or probation. If I could ride it out, hopefully he would have other cases to
attract his attention. If I could hang on for a year I would be discharged and
truly free.

I quit selling cars and took a
laborer's job at the Disney studio, moving scenery on the back lot in the
burning sun. After two weeks I couldn't take it and quit. The brother of an
ex-con friend owned a strippers' club on 7
^th
Street near downtown.
He gave me a front, writing a check that I gave back, plus I paid the tax
deductions and social security. The parole officer would disallow the job next
month when I sent my parole report. After that I would simply claim that I
couldn't get a job. He would have a hard time violating my parole for not
working when he'd made me quit two jobs.

Another thing that bothered him
was women. "How come you have so many girlfriends? Who are these
women?" He wanted to see them. I had Flip see him using Patty Ann's name.

To comply with his order to get
rid of the Jaguar, I simply put it in Sandy's name with an appropriate bill of
sale. He wanted to know who she was, and when I told him that she was someone
who called when I put a "for sale" sign in the window, he demanded
her name and number. I couldn't say that I didn't have it. When I told Sandy,
she said, "What an asshole." My sentiments precisely. When he called,
saying he was a parole officer and wanted to know about the car, she told him
to see her lawyer. Instead, he called the bank (because the loan had to be
transferred), got the information on her credit application — and called the
movie producer who covered for Sandy when she needed a references. He
interrogated the movie producer: "Who is this girl? Did you know . .
." As soon as the parole officer hung up, the producer called Sandy,
demanding to know, "Who is this Edward Bunker?" She stroked him verbally
and calmed him down, but at the end he still said, "I don't know if I can
keep on being your job reference. Let me think about it." As soon as he
hung up, Sandy was on the phone with me. "That parole officer is fiickin'
nutty. Do you know what he did?"

"Nothing would surprise
me."

"That sadistic bastard
called my producer friend and — ohhh shit! Double shit!"

"I'm sorry, girl. Really . . ."

"Fuck
it. It's over. No use snivelin'." She paused. "You know what, I think
that parole officer has some kind of sexual hangup . . . probably can't get
any."

"He's got an ass like an elephant."

That made Sandy laugh, but made me feel no better.
"Forget him," I said. "Where do you want to go eat?"

"What about the Captain's Table?"

"That's fine with me."

"I'll be ready in about fifteen minutes."

While Sandy dressed and put on her face, I put
Ella Fitzgerald Sings Rogers and Hart
on the hi fi
record player and stepped onto the balcony to smoke a joint and look out at the
plain
ol
lights beginning to glow in the
growing night.'The music and the lilting, perfect voice came through the open
door. Screw Sanders. I was king of everything — or at least the pot made
me
feel that way — and my city was spread out
as far as I could see I popped my fingers to the music and laughed into the
dusk. Oil man, for a twenty-three-year-old, state-raised convict, I had hie by
the balls. Should we take my Jag or her Cad? How many twenty-three-year-old,
state-raised ex-convicts had that choicc? In retrospect, 1 should have had less
hubris.

It came time to appear in the Beverly Hills Municipal
Couri The police had originally booked me on suspicion of burglary, a felony,
but all they could fde were several misdemeanors My lawyer, retained by Louise,
was an old man who taught at Loyola. He was no lion in court, but he did know a
lot
of
people in the legal system. The judge
had been his student. The City Attorney prosecuting the case would drop
everything except one misdemeanor vagrancy - if I would plead guilty. And they
would not argue for any time if the judge wanted me to pay a fine. "They
couldn't care less about you. They want the other two."

"You guarantee it?"

"I can't
guarantee
it, but if the prosecutor doesn't oppose it, I've known this judge a long time.
If we go to trial, the jury might find you guilty of everything and he could
give you six months in jail orf each count. As soon as they find you guilty,
he's going to rescind bail, sure as the sun rises. If you plead guilty, he'll
leave you out until the day of sentence . . . and if you get a fine. . .
."

"How long before the sentence?"

"Six weeks . . . two months . . . and pay a
fine."

With hesitant misgivings, I nodded acquiescence.

In the courtroom devoid of spectators, I entered a
plea of guilty to one count of vagrancy. The judge set a date for probation
hearing and sentencing seven weeks away. He referred the matter to the
probation department for a report.

On the way out, the lawyer squeezed my shoulder and
said that he would call the chief probation officer. "Don't worry about
it."

Don't worry about it.
Was he crazy? All I would do was worry, or so I
expected. By that night, however, seven weeks was far away, and every day was a
fresh experience. Sandy knew things that I didn't know — about sex and how to
have fun. It was before the era of the hippie and dawn of sloppy dress, so we
were stylish when we went to dine at such restaurants as Perino's, Romanoff's,
Chasen's, Edna Earle's Fog Cutter, Don the Beachcomber's, and after that we
went to hear Francis Faye at the Interlude, above the Crescendo. We caught
Billie Holiday at Jazz City on Hollywood Boulevard near Western. Billie was
obviously half sick with withdrawals, so during the break between sets, when
she went to the ladies' rest room, Sandy followed her. There was no chance to
take a fix, but Sandy offered her a toot — and when she sang her next set, her
voice was husky and deep and at its unique best. It is phenomenal how fast a
little toot of smack will take away the agony of withdrawal, and most other
kinds of pain. What it cannot take away it makes meaningless. You may still
have a broken arm, but somehow it doesn't matter so much. The same is true for
angst and anxiety. Toot instandy wraps up your troubles and throws them out the
window. It cancels pain so hidden that you were unaware of its existence until
it disappeared.

After the regular clubs closed, we often went to the
after- hours clubs around 42
^nd
and Central Avenue, where the whiskey
you ordered was poured from teapot into teacup, where the lights were low, the
cigarette smoke was thick, and some
legendary musicians
came after their regular gigs to jam until the dawn.