Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade (27 page)

It was twilight when we landed.
Instead of the raised tunnels that fit against the plane, in those days we
still descended onto the tarmac and crossed the field toward a chain link
fence, behind which stood the people awaiting arrivals. I saw Louise from some
distance: her white clothes and blonde hair made her stand out, plus she was
enthusiastically jumping up and down and waving. It made me grin and I felt a
surge of affection. I was a lucky ex-convict; there was no way else to put it.

She met me at the gate and
hugged me; then pushed me back and looked me up and down. "We'll get rid
of those clothes," she said. "Tomorrow."

"I have to see the parole
officer tomorrow."

"No, no. I took care of
that. He'll come by to see you in a few days. Let's go."

As we turned to push through the
crowd, I noticed that she was accompanied by a youth of sixteen or so. She
introduced us as we headed toward the parking lot. His name was Mickey and he
was her driver from the McKinley Home for Boys, which was giving me a job.
"You'll have a room at McKinley and the apartment where we're going now.
Here." She gave me a key on a key ring with a religious medal of St
Francis. "Blessed by the Pope," she said. "When we go to Europe,
I'll take you to meet him."

The apartment was over a
four-car garage behind a two-story Victorian style house on the corner by the
edge of Hancock Park. She had built the house before she met Hal and her
parents had lived in the apartment over the garage. She and Hal had just
purchased the estate of Joan Bennett and Walter Wanger on Mapleton Drive in
Holmby Hills. Walter Wanger was in deep financial trouble at the time. Ingrid
Bergman's
Joan of Arc
had collapsed at the box office, and Walter Wanger had spent a few months in
the LA County Jail for shooting Jennings Lang (who would later become the head
of Universal Studios) in the parking lot. It was all over Joan Bennett. The end
result was the need to sell the house as quickly as possible. Louise said she
got it for the value of the lot, $90,000 and the house's value back then was
about $250,000. Thirty years later, when Hal Wallis died, the same house sold
for $6,500,000.

At the time of my release,
Louise was still residing in her Van Nuys estate. It had been condemned under
eminent domain, and was to be used for a school. Although it was a fortune in
'54, for a twenty-acre estate she got no more than the price of an average
house south of Ventura Boulevard today. She had written me about it. She had a
long time to move, a year or two at least.

Louise was excited when we went up the stairs and
opened the apartment. It was a one-bedroom, perhaps 800 square feet, neady
designed. It was narrow, of course, for it was above four garages, with the
doorway at the top of the stairs opening into the living room. It had windows
overlooking sycamores on the street, and the front house on one side. The other
was a blank wall from a new apartment building. It provided absolute privacy.
The living room was very comfortable, and also tastefid. The sofa and overstuffed
chair were in gray slipcovers; the walls were burnt orange. On one wall were
two small watercolors in ornate frames. I would learn that the artists were
well-known. What dominated the room from a corner was a huge, ornate antique
secretary, its burled wood gleaming in deep, dark colors. "I had it and I
didn't know what to do with it," Louise said. "So here it is."
She leaned closer, confidingly: "It's worth forty thousand dollars."
She winked. I didn't know why she winked but smiled as if I did.

The bathroom and the kitchen
faced each other across a narrow hallway. It was a smart use of space. Beyond
the bathroom the hall opened onto the bedroom. It was adequate — much larger
than any cell I'd lived in, but perhaps smaller than a bullpen. Classy windows,
the kind with wooden frames and small panes and a latch that turned, ran along
one side and the rear. The bedroom furniture was simple and expensive, she told
me. It had come from the Wanger residence. Its closet was full-sized walk-in.
"We'll put some things in it tomorrow," she said. "Get rid of
those things." she ordered, pointing at my clothes.

I started to protest. The gray
flannel slacks and the navy blazer went everywhere then and now. They were good
quality. The label read Hart, Shaeffner & Marx. It wasn't Hickey Freeman,
but it was excellent. "They look good, don't they?" "Yes, but
they came from prison."

"So did I."

"I know. I know. But for
me, get rid of them."

"Sure."

She opened half of a French door
into a breakfast nook at the end of the kitchen. "Well, whaddya
think?" she asked.

As she spoke, I spotted a new
Royal portable typewriter on a writing desk next to a window overlooking the
swimming pool. I was literally choked speechless, unheard of for me. Tears
welled into my eyes. How could I fail? How could I let her down? She had made
the dream real for me. She wasn't going to give me the world on a platter, but
she would help me to help myself. She would open doors, although I had no idea
what those doors were.

"You'd better do some
writing on
that,"
she said.

"I will," I said with
all sincerity, although future months would expose the promise as hollow. I
meant it, but the lure of bright lights, fast cars, sweet-smelling young women
with long legs, was too much for me. It would be decades before I spent one
night at home when not incarcerated. I would sleep when I was tired and eat
when I was hungry — and every day outside of prison was swollen to bursting
with possibilities for adventure after the first few months of acclimatizing
myself.

Late the following morning, she
arrived with Bertha Griffith, whom I'd met before going to prison. Bertha's
husband was a wraith-like figure ravaged by paresis, with twisted facial
muscles and distorted movements. He'd been a sdent-film director who caught syphilis
from a young actress fifteen years before antibiotics could cure it. I wanted
to ask her how he was, but sensed it would be an impropriety and kept sdent.

Using Louise's long white
Chrysler station wagon, we drove a few blocks down to the Miracle Mde. The
shopping area was planned with the automobile in mind, with large parking lots
behind the stores. It was considerably more tasteful than the giant shopping
malls of the future. At the time this stretch of Wilshire was considered the
most expensive real estate in Southern California.

Starting at the art deco
masterpiece of Bullocks-Wilshire, we worked west, shopping for my wardrobe as
we went. Louise bought me everything. The rear of the station wagon was piled
high with boxes. In one department store, a dazzled sales clerk followed her
with a chair. When she stopped to sit, he shoved the chair under her. She
whispered to me: "I'm Lady Wallis, remember?" In her pristine white
gabardine pants suit, it was impossible to forget. Playing that role was one of
her greater enjoyments in life — it was a scene out of many movies made real. I
was awed and grateful. She was so munificent that I felt a gudty discomfort.
Still and yet, beyond doubt I would take it all — and thank you.

In Beverly Hills, we went to
Oviatt's, at that time the most elegant classic tailor in Southern California,
where Hal's suits were made. She had me fitted for two, one a worsted navy
("If you have nothing else, you have that"), the other a lightweight
white flannel that was soft and smooth between my fingers. "They'll think
you're Gatsby," she said.

Gatsby was great, but most
unlikely. Gatsby was too unreal. Although I thought Fitzgerald wrote as well as
any American novelist of the twentieth century, Gatsby was as far from truth as
Fu Manchu. He was too soft to be what he was storied to be. Gatsby might be a
cat burglar, but he was definitely not a gangster. He lacked the force of will
to compel tough men to his bidding. He failed another test: he was too weak for
a broad.

"I was in several movies
from his stories and books," she said.

That was something I have never
verified. Today I simply repeat what she said, which is how an honest memoir
should be. At the time, I wondered how they could catch Fitzgerald's character
nuances in sdent movies, or any other for that matter.

From the Beverly Hills of
two-story buddings, courtyards and fountains, and many red-tile roofs,
circa
'56, we crossed Beverly Glen
into the San Fernando Valley. About a mile from the Wallis estate was the
McKinley School for Boys. It had about 120 boys, from age five through high
school; several who had grown past eighteen but were still not ready to leave
stayed on as employees. They had a budding of their own. In '56 the boys of
McKinley were predominandy white, but there was a liberal collection of colored
kids and Mexicans, the operative and acceptable terms then. Most came from
homes of drunken abusers, some were sent by social agencies, a few came from
the juvenile court. Once upon a time they had tried to put me here. In the
parking lot I threw a tantrum of such maniacal ferocity that whoever was
looking out of an administration building window decided not to accept me. I
felt wonderful then. I would get to stay with my father in his furnished room,
sleeping on the army cot in the corner, for at least a couple more weeks. My
father's face was scarlet; veins stood out in hard ridges. He was stifling
rage. I had perfected getting thrown out of these homes and schools that I
hated; now they wouldn't even take me. Not long thereafter, I went from being
the concern of social service agencies to that of the juvende justice system.

Louise turned off Riverside and
passed through a tunnel of trees to a parking lot. It was full of cars, but the
only person visible was an eight-year-old in a bathing suit setting off along a
sidewalk. As soon as his bare feet hit the hot cement, he danced and jumped off
onto the lawn then disappeared around a two-story building. As we went that way
we could hear splashing and excited voices cheering, "Go! Go! Go!"

When we came around the corner,
we saw the Olympic-sized swimming pool and a swimming meet was in progress. A
white- haired man of sixty separated himself from a group of adults near the
pool and came to greet us. He was Mr Swartzcoff the superintendent. It was he
who had offered me a job to satisfy the requirements of release on parole.
Although it was much easier for an ex-con back then, jobs in general being more
plentiful, there was still a stigma, so I was trying to read Mr S., as he was
called by the boys and the staff alike, for I wanted to know if the offer had
been made willingly or because Mrs Hal Wallis was the McKinley Home's foremost
benefactor. Actually hiring me cost them nothing. Mrs Wallis wrote them a check
for the amount of my salary, and immediately deducted it from her taxes as a
charitable contribution. Had she paid it after taxes it would have cost her
several times the amount.

Mr S. was affable enough, but it
was the effusive Mrs S., his wife, who made me feel comfortable and she showed
me around the home. I wasn't starting work until the next Monday. My room above
the kitchen was quite large and had a balcony overlooking the driveway and the
walkway to the mess hall. I could stay here during the week and at my apartment
on the weekend. We unloaded the many packages and shopping bags marked
Desmond's, Bullock's, Silverwood's, and piled them on the floor next to the
bed. I was given the key and I laughed as I inserted it and turned. It was the
first door I could remember locking. It seemed funny — but many things that
have seemed funny to me seem un-funny to most others.

It was time for a late lunch and
the gate to Wallis Farms was around the comer and down Woodman about half a
mile. I asked her why it was called a "farm," and she told me it was
so they could pay the cook, maid, chauffeur and gardener as farm employees, not
servants.

We turned off Woodman and
curtsied for the solid green gate that was already swinging open. It was
familiar, yet entirely new. It was certainly more vivid after five years of San
Quentin had polished my lenses of perception. The roses were a riot of color
and a wisp of breeze blew the sweet scent to me. God, it was good to be free.

During lunch, Louise told me
about Mr and Mrs S., how fond she was of them and what good work they did at
McKinley.

After lunch, Bertha departed.
Louise snapped her fingers in sudden recall. "You need a couple other
things. Come on."

She led me upstairs to Hal's
suite, where she purloined gold and sapphire cufflinks from a posh yacht club
in the Bahamas and a tie tack with a half-carat diamond. She started to take'
one of the three watches, but put it back. "No, I'm going to buy you
one," she said. I took the gifts, but I had vague misgiving?. I didn't
expect material things. She'd always indicated that she wanted to help me help
myself, and that was what I expected and wanted. The clothes and the apartment,
they were generous and I appreciated them - but what I hoped for was that she
would make introductions and open doors.