Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade (25 page)

About a dozen convicts had been standing outside the
handball court watching the fight. Leon was forcing the action, trying to come
in behind a jab and hook to the body — but Jimmy was slipping the jab and blocking
the hook. Neither was doing any damage until Leon barreled in with his shoulder
and rammed Jimmy back against the wall. That brought a gasp as he fought to
breathe. Without warning, from the sidelines, Jimmy's "kid" sprang
upon Leon's back and tried to stab him in the face or eye with a ballpoint pen.

"Get him off me!" Leon yelled.

To my great shame, I hesitated. We were not as close
as we would become, but we were friendly. Moreover, he was a solid convict and
Jimmy Barry was a reputed stool pigeon. Yet he was white and Leon was black.
Race made me pause for ten seconds . . Then I moved toward the door into the
handball court, yelling, "Get off him." Jimmy Barry was looking at me
over I eon's shoulder. Before I could get through the door, someone else pulled
them apart, and some other convict called out: "The Man's coming!"
Everything broke up before the patrolling guard arrived. He could feel the
electricity or ozone, but had no idea what had happened. The crowd broke around
him as if he was a rock in a river. Befuddlement was written on his face.
En route
to the yard, I found myself walking with
Leon. "Thanks," he said. He was holding a handkerchief to his cheek.
It was bleeding slightly from the puncture wound by the ballpoint. Was there a
note of sarcasm? Maybe he hadn't known that I was among the spectators. That
was immaterial. What mattered to me was that I had failed to behave as my own
values dictated.

The fight in the handball court had occurred more than
a year earlier. Since then we had become close friends. He was respected by
white convicts, who were still about 70 percent of the prison population. Leon
also had status with many young blacks, especially those from Oakland and San
Francisco.

The months passed. I went to the parole board and got
a parole date. A few weeks after that I got in an altercation with two of San
Quentin's toughest black convicts, Spotlight Johnson and Dolomite Lawson.
Either one could have whipped me without much difficulty. Both were squat,
powerful men - and ugly as sin. In the Los Angeles county jail, the deputies
would put Dolomite in a tank to "straighten things up." He had rammed
one man's head into the bars and killed him. Spotlight lived in the East Cell
House, but I did not know what tier. Dolomite lived on the fourth tier of the
South Cell House. He would not expect me to be out of the cell first. He would
go out to the yard so he and his partner could brace me together. Instead I
would stick him the moment he stepped out of the cell. He would never think about
the early unlock. He was a stupid, illiterate brute. Unfortunately he was a
^:
very tough stupid, illiterate brute in a primal milieu to which he was
perfectly adapted. But I knew my way, too.

Through the evening I dwelled on the problem,
sometimes enraged, sometimes aching inside because it would be a Pyrrhic
victory at best. It would cost me at least six or seven more years even if I
didn't kill him. He wasn't worth it.

At 10.15, convicts started returning from night
activities. As their feet sounded on the steel stairs, some went past my cell
Leon appeared and stopped. "Somebody said you had words with big head and
his pal. Is it over?"

I hesitated. I wanted to tell him everything and seek
his help, yet my own code, personal and perverted as it may have been, ruled
that I should take care of my own trouble. I said, "It's not quite
over." As soon as the words were in the air, I felt guilty.

A guard at the end of the tier raised the security
bar. Convicts who were waiting stepped into their cells. Leon was alone on the
tier.

"Where are you supposed to be?"

"I'm going there, boss," Leon said.
"See you in the morning," he said to me.

It seemed that I was awake the entire night, but I
must have slept a little, for when the guard tapped the bars and shone his flashlight
on my face, it awakened me. "Bunker . . . early unlock."

"I got it."

Ten minutes later the security bar went up and the
guard unlocked my gate. As I stepped out a couple of other figures were on the
tier.

It was summer and already daylight when the laundry
foreman took his washing machine crew across the Big Yard, empty save for a few
seagulls and pigeons. The washing machine crew was all white, the crew for the
tumblers (huge machines that wrung out excess water by spinning at high speed)
was all black, and the drying machine crew was Chicano. Each had to cooperate
with the others to get their
bonaroos
done.
The steam presses were divided evenly. The con boss was black.

As soon as we entered the building I went to my stash
and got my knife. It was sixteen inches overall, its handle wrapped in
electrician's tape. It had the Arkansas toothpick shape, a sharp point that
widened a lot. I carried it over behind a huge washing machine where my rubber
boots waited beneath a bench. The shiv went down the side of my big rubber
boots.

All morning, I watched the clock. At 7.44 I told the
foreman (hat I was going up to sick call.

It was a bright morning and a very long walk across
the Lower Yard, up the stairs into the Big Yard. The first convicts from the
West and North Cell Houses were beginning to exit the mess halls. As I went
into the South Cell House and up the stairway, the fifth tier was coming down.
Good. Dolomite was still in his cell. On
the
third tier, I turned to walk in front of the cells. Ahead of me was Leon,
standing in front of Dolomite's cell. He saw me and gestured with his hand down
beside his leg. Go back.

I stopped and stepped back. A minute later Leon came
toward me. "C'mon," he said, leading me down the stairs.

"What's up?" I asked. Mentally I was ready,
and I resented being called off.

"It's settled," Leon said. "They really
don't want trouble. They're running a game on Fingers, too. They think you're
crazy . . . and being known as slightly crazy is an advantage around
here."

Leon
had saved my parole date, and probably saved me from an additional sentence for
assault or even murder. It was a great debt made even greater by my earlier
hesitance in helping him. He was really my friend. (I must add, especially to
convicts who read this, that such a friendship would never have started in San
Quentin after the early part of the 1960s, when the race wars began.)

But today was Memorial Day and I was being paroled in
the first week of August. As Leon and I walked toward the gym, the Frisco
Flash, a skinny little character, arrived and beckoned Leon to the side. The
conversation was brief. Leon came back shaking his head. "I fucked up. I
shouldn't have given it to him."

"Given him what?"

"Some pot and pills. He was selling them for me.
You know Walt and Country and Duane, don't you?"

"Yeah ...
all my life."

"They got some reds from him and claimed they
were bogus. They burned him."

"Let me talk to 'em."

"I don't want any profit, but I would like my
investment back."

"No problem. I'll take care of it." I
thought it would be no problem. All three were friends with some obligation to
me. I changed the subject: "Littlejohn will need somebody to work my
corner with him. Are you up to it?"

"Sure. I'll stop the blood."

"I love your confidence. Keep the towel ready in
case I'm getting killed."

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 remembered 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.