Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade (32 page)
Read Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade Online
Authors: Edward Bunker
One night he called me with excitement in his voice.
"Ah, man, I'm gonna cut you into this big redheaded stallion. She's so
fine . . .
me oh my . . . she likes to get
high."
It was before seat belts, much less seat belt laws, so
all three of us squeezed into two bucket seats. "So what're we gonna
do?" I asked.
"It's on you, baby," Jimmy said to Sandy.
"I want to get loaded," she said. "I
called my connection. He's holding."
"Where is he?"
"On the east side . . . near Brooklyn and
Soto."
We were on Sweetzer just north of Santa Monica
Boulevard in the Sunset Strip. It would be renamed West Hollywood when it
incorporated as a city, but in '57 it was still a "strip" of county
territory surrounded on three sides by the City of Angels and on the fourth by
Beverly Hills. The Strip was home to most of the flashy clubs, vice and
gambling. A hooker busted in county territory got a $100 fine. In Beverly Hills
she would get ninety days the first time, six months the second.
"East LA is a long way," I said. "I
know somebody a mile from here."
"A connection?"
"Uh huh ... a friend of mine."
"A drug dealer in Hollywood?"
"Uh huh."
"He must be the first one."
It was true. Until then anyone who wanted drugs had to
go east, at least to Temple Street just west of the civic center, or to the
Grand Central Market on 3
rd
and Broadway, where drug dealers stood
around with tiny balloons of drugs in their mouths, like chipmunks. If the
narcotics officers jumped out of a doorway, the street pusher simply swallowed.
I called Denis from a pay phone in a Richfield
station. He was on his way out, but because we were so close he agreed to meet
us in the parking lot of Smokey Joe's, a coffee shop with legendary hamburgers
at the intersection of Beverly and La Cienega Boulevards.
We arrived first and got out of the crowded car to
wait. I spotted Denis's new two-seat Thunderbird as it turned in. He parked
some distance away. Not knowing my friends he had no desire to meet them, a
standard precaution for the cautious drug dealer. As I walked up, he was
looking past me at Sandy. "Damn, man, that sure is a big fine redhead. You
didn't tell me what you wanted."
"Just
a couple caps." In those days heroin, at least on the streets
of LA, was sold in small number 5 gelatin capsules. A cap was
still potent, and two non-addicts could share one, but the practice of cutting
it with lactose was beginning. Every hand it went through put another cut on
it. In a couple of years it would be a fraction of what it had been, and
eventually they sold grams in balloons.
"I didn't think you
slammed," Denis said.
"I've tried it a couple of
times. It feels so good that I don't wanna fuck with it. I can see how somebody
gets hooked."
"Yeah . . . and when you've
had a good jones, you're hooked for the rest of your life. You
always
crave it."
He fished out two white
capsules, dropped them into a cigarette pack's cellophane and twisted the top.
They would melt if carried by hand.
"Thanks, D. What do I owe
you?"
"A favor sometime down the
line."
"Damn, who ever heard of a
dope dealer giving anything away?"
"We do it all the time . .
. especially to kids. . . until we get them hooked. Then we make them turn
tricks and steal the family TV." He said it flady; his face expressionless.
It was his idea of humor.
"Did you cop?" Sandy
asked when I returned.
I opened my hand so she could
see the cellophane pack and we stuffed ourselves back into the Jaguar. "So
where do we go?" she asked.
"What about that spot at
the beach you told me about?" Jimmy said.
My apartment was closer, but
less impressive than the private cabana Louise had authorized me to use at the
Sand and Sea Club on the Santa Monica beach. Jimmy had a good idea, for
although I had never been obsessed with girls (or sex) to the extent of my
teenage friends, on occasion the serpent of lust would bite me — and it bit me
now. I wanted to spread this big redhead's legs until it caused pain in my
crotch. And although I lacked experience in the games of seduction, I sensed
that Sandy sneered at men who were too obvious. Such men were tricks to be
manipulated and not respected. A whore is often more difficult to seduce than a
good, God-fearing woman, unless money is involved, at which time the man
becomes a "john" or a "trick," deserving only disdain. It
was important to hide how much lust I had.
As I expected, the parking lot
was empty and nobody saw us push through a gate and circle the swimming pool to
where the stairs rose one flight to a long balcony that fronted all the
cabanas. The crash and whoosh of surf further masked our presence. Although I
was authorized to use the place, I had no key. During the day the manager
opened the door for me. It was a sliding glass door and I had rigged it to
slide open without a key.
I shook my head when it was my
turn to fix. "I'm seeing my parole officer tomorrow. I think he's going to
test me with nalline."
"You're on parole?"
Sandy asked. Was it with new interest or was it my perception of new interest?
In some worlds instead of a stigma, a prison term was a cause for respect.
"Yeah."
"He did five years,"
Jimmy said.
"Not quite five."
"In San Quentin,"
Jimmy said.
"I thought you were a
little rich boy," she said.
"That's my dream, but it's
sure not the reality."
"He knows Flip," Jimmy
said.
"Do you really know the
legendary Yvonne Renee Dillon?"
"I'll never forget
her."
Sandy laughed and nodded
agreement.
With the drapes pulled shut over
the glass doors and the ocean smacking the beach and whooshing up the sand,
they fixed. "Good junk," Sandy said, her voice slurred and full of
gravel, meanwhile rubbing her eye and nose with the back of her hand.
"Real good," she said, her head slowly falling to her chest; then
snapping erect. She was fighting the nod and feeling a euphoria that went
through her entire being, physical and emotional. It was a total absence of
pain. It wasn't a time to pitch at her, or even to talk very much. Someone full
of junk wants to stay in one place, eating ice-cream cones and smoking
cigarettes. Junkies on the nod burn a lot of upholstery. But I could see how
good they felt, how they became sufficient unto it, including the ritual, and
it scared me. Sandy
didn't want
any more conversation for the present. I went out onto the balcony and smoked a
Camel while watching a big moon low on the horizon. The wide beam of moonlight
stretched across the sea like a path that could be walked. The wind was mild
and the night comfortable. When the surf finished each crashing roll and rushed
up the beach, it left a pattern like white lace that lasted a few seconds
before disappearing as the broken wave receded.
Such scenes as these always triggered a longing, or
perhaps epiphany, in me. More than anyone I knew, I liked being alone with my
thoughts in certain settings. This was one of them; so was trekking through the
dark, sleeping city in the hours after midnight when all was quiet and empty.
Good pot would unlock the doors of perception. I was disappointed that Sandy
had zonked herself to heroin oblivion. I wanted to know her better. No doubt
her body with its high, full breasts and big, tanned thighs stirred my desire,
but there was her personality too. Jimmy said she was like one of the guys. In
a way it was true; she was as much a man's woman as any I've known, comfortable
among the roughest
of
men. Knowing what they
wanted, the primal lust she aroused in men gave her power she recognized, yet
hidden beneath that was hunger to be the small, helpless female that is looked
after, protected and loved by men. Sometimes she thought she had found it, but
so far it had proved a mirage when the masks were taken oil and the face of
truth exposed.
Those
insights would come over time as I knew her better. At the moment she had me
thinking of Flip, whom I hadn't seen for more than five years, although I had
certainly thought about her many times in the darkness of my cell, remembering
how beautiful she had been, the alabaster skin, the perfect butt, the way she
coul fuck. Although I could not claim wide sexual experience, she made all
others seem limp bodies who simply stretched out and opened their legs. Back
then the power of her beauty intimidated me. On graduating from a nickel in the
House of Dracula, I was no longer intimidated by anything less than a
twelve-gauge shotgun two inches from my head. Surviving five years in San
Quentin does wonders for one's self-confidence.
Several days later my telephone
rang. Sandy was on the line. "I got your number from Jimmy," she
said. "I hope you don't mind."
"No. What's up?"
"Flip remembers you. She
wants to see you."
"I want to see her, too.
What about tonight?"
"No. She said Thursday.
She's not doing real good right now."
"What's wrong?"
"The guy she was with cut
her loose. She had everything in her car. She went to score out in East LA and
somebody threw a brick through the side window and stole her clothes — all her
clothes. It's hard for her to work without a front."
"Why does she need a
wardrobe to he down first and get up last?"
"She doesn't . . . but she
needs to look like Bloomingdale's to walk through a fancy hotel lobby on a
date."
Yes, that was understandable. The difference between a
whore on the corner and a call girl in a penthouse was often no more than
facade. Take the former to a hair stylist, put her under a sun lamp, dress her
from Neiman Marcus and put her in a plush apartment — and her price for the
same services goes from $20 to $200 for twenty minutes, and from $200 to $2,000
for the night.
In 1957 Paramount Studios did
not extend out to front Melrose Avenue, as it does now. It was back a block on
a street called Marathon. On the narrow street that ran between Melrose and
Marathon was a three-story apartment building of lath and plaster in a
faux
Tudor design. The third-floor
apartments had a window opening to a fire escape that overlooked the De Mille
gate, that studio landmark somewhat less famous than the snow-capped mountain
logo. The window faced west and caught the sunset full on.
Flip liked to sit in the window
next to the fire escape and drink Scotch whisky during the magic twilight hour.
She would muse on what might have been had she not been so hell bent on
personal destruction.
When Sandy led the way through
the apartment's front door I didn't get a good look at Flip until we were in
the living room and she closed the door and turned to us. I don't think I
reacted visibly, although perhaps the flesh flinched between my eyes. The
idealized image of sexually potent beauty was dashed. Five years of Scotch and
heroin had defaced the perfect sensual beauty God had given her. Her face was
still unusually beautiful, and with little makeup she would be stunning, but
her body showed the flab that came from kicking habits.
"Hey, sweetmeat," she
said. "You've grown up. I'll bet you shave now."
I think I blushed; at least my
face felt hot.
"I haven't got much
time," she said. "I'm' sorry. I got an unexpected call for a date. A
regular. Scott Brady."
"The actor?" Sandy
asked.
"Uh huh?" Flip said.
"Wait here." An exposed stairway went up the side wall to another
floor. Bathroom, bedroom and a door to the hallway were up there. "It's a
good place for a working girl," Sandy said. When I didn't understand, she
explained: "It can stand traffic. A john leaving through that door up
there—" she indicated the stairway, "doesn't run into a john coming
in that door." She indicated the front door. Then I understood.
Flip came down the stairs. She
had combed her hair, but had done littleelse. She was several levels scruffier
than my expectation of a high-powered call girl. "Look here," she
said to Sandy. "Do me a favor and give me a ride to his house."
"We're not going to wait
for you," Sandy said.
"No . . . no . . . that's
fine. I'll get back on my own."
Scott Brady lived in a small
white house perched on a flattened bluff somewhere up Laurel Canyon. A swimming
pool covered
all
the property
not taken by the house. It was one of those where you can hold onto the rim of
the swimming pool and look down and out over the vast plain of Los Angeles or
the San Fernando Valley. When she got out, Flip handed me a slip of paper with
her phone number. "Gimme a call. I'll cook you a steak and baked
potato."
As we drove Laurel Canyon's
tight turns toward the Sunset
Strip, Sandy joshed me:
"Damn, baby, looks like you caught the absolutely fabulous Miss Yvonne
Renee Dillon of Palm Springs and Hollywood."
"The question is, how much
trouble is she? They don't call her Flip for nothing."
"She is Flip . . . but
she's still a moneymaker. Her book has over a thousand numbers, and she's got
some regulars who won't see another girl."
"No . . . Uh uh . . . I'm
no pimp. In fact I despise pimps. I like whores . . . but not pimps."
"Some aren't so bad. They
look after their old lady . . . don't let them shoot the money in their arm. A
lot of girls can't trick unless they're loaded."
I could understand. Being high
would buffer them from the unpleasant realities of sucking a strange prick.
"They do have a lot of money," Sandy said, "and they don't go to
jail. Not very often anyway."
At the time of the conversation
my attention was primarily focused on the intermittent flash of brake lights on
the car ahead of us. What she said registered without being examined. Sometime
within the next couple of days, an idea came to mind: I would make these pimps
pay me protection. I would, so to speak, play Lucky Luciano and organize them.
The main selling thing was to convince them they needed protection. All kinds
of things could happen if they didn't have protection from vandals and maniacs.
They owned jukeboxes and cigarette machines which could fall over or suffer an
accidental sledgehammer blow. Didn't what's- his-name own a nightclub on Santa
Monica Boulevard? It could burn down. The wives of their tricks could be called
and told about their whoring husbands. The pimps could have an accident
somewhere along the line. Wasn't it worth 10 or 15 percent to feel secure and
protected? Eighty-five percent of big money was better than a 100 percent of
nothing but trouble.
To make it work, it had to be a
fait accompli
at the moment they heard about
it. The first move had to be checkmate where killing me would bring about the
death of everyone they knew. Actually, they only had to
believe
that killing me would result in
madmen they couldn't identify kicking down doors to slaughter them and their
whole family.
Of course I wasn't that capable.
It was a game with me, backed up with a vicious Sunday punch and a mouth that
would make anyone believe I was ready to murder them at any moment. My eyes
rolled, my hand was steady and I was telling them that 1 wanted to go to the —
and the muzzle of a twelve-gauge was ten feet away. Nobody ever told me,
"Go ahead, asshole." God knows what would have happened in such an
event.
Several bona-fide madmen were
loose in LA. I could enlist their help. The problem was, could I control them
afterward? Maybe I could use some of Joe Morgan's boys to stand in the
background and look mean.
The protection idea was still
floating around in the undecided part of my brain several days later when I
called Flip to see if her offer of a steak and baked potato was real. That very
night was fine. Six-thirty? Fine.
It was still twilight when I
parked at the curb and got out. Flip was perched in the window and fire escape,
glass in hand. She saw me and held it up in a salute. When she opened the door
and I stepped in, she pulled me close and gave me a wet, sloppy kiss. Then she
said, "I'm gonna cook you a big steak and fuck your brains out." She
smelt of Scotch and was already drunk. After pouring me a drink and freshening
hers, the bottle was empty. "Why don't you go get a pint while I
cook," she said. "There's a liquor store right around the corner on
Melrose."
"Sure," I said. The
least I could do was get her a pint of whisky if she was going to fuck my
brains out. If past is prelude, she was certainly capable of it.
By the time she finished cooking
the steak, long before the potato was done, she was too drunk to move the meat
from flying pan to plate. It fell from fork to floor with a splatter of hot
grease. She laughed and I joined her.
When she bent over to retrieve
it, she got the fork in and was lifting it; then she lost her balance and fell
down. This time the meat flew through the air. If the first mishap was funny,
this was hilarious. "I wasn't hungry anyway," I said, reaching for
her. She was compliant enough, but I quickly realized that I didn't want her
either, not in a drunken near-stupor.
During the next few days I
visited Flip several times, invariably bringing her a pint of Black and White,
which is what she liked. Next to getting high, her favorite activity was to
talk. She reviled the pimps to whom she had given so much money before they
threw her out. From Flip, I learned about the beach house one owned in Hermosa,
and the partnership that owned the Regency Club on Lankershim Boulevard in North
Hollywood. I had a photocopy made of the "book." It was before Xerox
and therefore white print on black background instead of black print on white
paper. One afternoon we were in a beer joint on Santa Monica Boulevard and she
mentioned that Richie owned the jukebox. "Do you know other places he's
got them?" I asked.
"Uh huh. A few."
"What about cigarette
machines?"
"Yeah ...
at least some of them. Why do
you want to know anyway?"
Being young and vain, plus
believing she despised them, I told her about my plan. I was unaware of how
much she feared them, and had no idea she had told them about me until I pulled
into an underground garage off Sunset Boulevard. A pair of goons imported from
Las Vegas were waiting. As I got out of the car, one called me to "wait
up." Not expecting anything, I waited for them — until they were twenty
feet away and I saw one of them slip on a pair of brass knuckles.
I jumped as if touched by a live
wire. I ran between cars; then jumped on hoods and ran on top of cars to a
partially open window. The pursuit was half-hearted, their threatening curses
ringing in my ears. "Better run, you fuckin' punk," are the words I
remember. I knew who they represented. Flip or Sandy had told me the Hollywood
pimps were mob-connected in Las Vegas.
Of course I was frightened at
the time. Brass knuckles are terrible weapons. They easily crush facial bones.
Once I was out the window and down the street, the fright gave way to a weird
excitement. It wasn't anger. It was exhilaration. This was my best game. It was
a level of excitement that my metabolism thrived on. My whole life had
conditioned me to such situations. They would think they had conjured up a
demon.
I
walked to Sherry's, the club at Sunset and Crescent Heights. Among the many
underworld characters who frequented Sherry's was a friend of mine, Denis
Kanos, Hollywood's first resident drug dealer. He was there. I called him from
the pay phone and told him I would be walking east on the south side of Sunset
Boulevard. There was a chance the two goons would come to Sherry's.