Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade (54 page)
Read Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade Online
Authors: Edward Bunker
Once more the prison was locked down . . . Two months
passed before it was slowly unlocked. Now, however, guards carried nightsticks,
the first time since the lead-tipped canes were taken away in 1940. Nobody was
indicted or convicted of the stabbing and killings. Marin County didn't want
San Quentin convicts in its courthouse.
During the days of the long
lock-down, I cut 20 percent of the book I was working on,
No Beast So Fierce.
Every extraneous page,
paragraph, sentence or word was considered. That was what Merrill Pollack at
W.W. Norton & Co. said he wanted, and even if he couldn't offer me a
contract in advance, his had been the most interest anyone had shown in
seventeen years. Besides, what else did I have to do? When I sent it back, I
included a story about the race war I've just described.
Two months later, I had a pass
to see my case worker to prepare the report for my yearly appearance before the
parole board. A young man fresh from San Francisco State, he had been working
as a case worker for several months. I knocked on the door.
"Oh yeah, Bunker. Come in.
Let's go get your fde." As we walked along the front of the cinder block
cubicles to the first cell where records were kept in file cabinets, he said,
"By the way, the Warden's Office called and authorized a phone call to New
York."
"A phone call to New York.
What about?"
"They didn't say."
He unlocked the cabinet and went
through the manila folders. The case worker found my file, or
"jacket," and grunted as he pulled it out. It was about the thickness
of a Los Angeles Central Telephone Directory. While walking back to the office,
he hoisted it to test the weight. "I've never even
seen
a file this big. As a matter of
fact, this is
twice
the size of any file I've seen." We turned into the office and he went
behind the desk. "What's this?" He put on his glasses and looked at a
slip of paper Scotch-taped to the outside of the folder; then burst into
laughter. "Do you know what it says?"
I shook my head.
"It says 'See file number
two.'"
I saw the humor, but it was also
sad. It was my life.
"Let's make this
call," he said. He had the prison operator give him an outside line; then
he dialed and handed me the telephone.
"Watkins Agency," a
woman said.
"My name's Edward Bunker.
I'm supposed to call."
"Oh yes, Mike wants to talk
to you."
A voice one would expect from
Victorian times came on the line. "Why, hello Mr Bunker, Mike Watkins
here. I finally get to talk to you. Do you know what this is all about?"
"Uhhh . . .
maybe ... I dunno ...
I mean I hope."
He chuckled. "Merrill
Pollack at W.W. Norton has made an offer to publish your book. The advance is
small, but Norton is a good publishing house and I think we should take the
offer."
"Oh . . . yes . . . sure .
. . whatever you say."
"I was sure that was what
you'd say. Oh, and one more thing. Lotus Lapham at
Harper's
wants to publish that article
you sent him about prison race war. He wants it for the February lead."
Seventeen years, six unpublished
novels, scores of unpublished stories without seeing so much as one word in
print. Writing had become my only chance to escape the morass of my existence.
I had persevered even when the candle of hope had burned out. I had persevered
from habit, because I had no idea what else to do. Now, in one day in one phone
call, one of America's most prestigious magazines and a quality book publisher
had agreed to publish my first essay and my sixth novel. Years before, when I
first embarked on the path of becoming a writer, I had visions of what it would
do for me. I would live a mixture of Hemingway, Scott and Zelda and the then
famous Franchise Sagan, who had a smash international bestseller whde a
teenager. Writing a good book would open doors for me. The world would read the
truths I would write. I would make a lotus grow from the mud. Those dreams were
seventeen years old, fourteen of which had been spent behind grim prison walls.
I was happy, of course, but time had taken the sheen from the dream. I had no
idea what the future would hold beyond my continuing to write. I had already
embarked on another novel.
That night in my cell I tried to
conjure the same old dreams. They remained opaque and obscure. The truth of the
subsequent two and a half decades is greater, in most respects, than my visions
of forty-five years ago. The dream has been fidfilled - in spades. My four
novels are still in print in nine countries, and the first,
No Beast So Fierce,
remains so twenty-five years
after initial publication. A lotus definitely grows from the mud.
I am alone in Paris. My wife of
nearly two decades has gone home to Brendan, our five-year-old son. I was
invited here to play a small role in a small French movie,
Cameleon,
about a
femme fatale
who is definitely a chameleon.
Benoit Cohen, the enthusiastic young director, is using prayer and donated
pieces of film stock to put his vision on the screen. My pay is minuscule, but
it does cover most of the expense - and who would refuse a free month in the
world's most beautiful city? February has turned to March and the meager snow
has disappeared except in the crevices the sun never probes. The tree branches
are still starkly bare, but since I've been in Paris they're sprouting hard
little buds that will soon become glorious leaves dancing in the breeze. God, I
love Paris any time of year.
The Normandy Hotel is on the
right bank of the Seine near the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde, which I
think is where they cooked Joan of Arc.
"Do you know where this
is?" I asked the concierge. I have to pick up a week's per diem, the cash
money for expenses that isn't taxed as income.
The concierge produced one of
those convenience street maps for tourists, the kind that list main boulevards
and landmarks, but few detads. He pointed to a green spot designating a park.
"It's right around there," he said, "four or five
kilometers."
"I can walk it?
Right?"
"Yes. It's a long walk . .
. but it's a nice day."
He was right on both counts. I
set forth up the Avenue de l'Opera. It is bright enough for sunglasses, but the
morning chill is the perfect coolant for a vigorous stride. I'm sure I can
reach my destination if I find the park, and that should be easy. How long it
takes is immaterial. I enjoy exploring cities on foot. New York, London, Rome,
any city but LA — and Paris most of all. I recall Thomas Wolfe's nocturnal
meanderings through the dark, empty streets of Manhattan whde communing with
his muse. His prose turned deserted streets into symphonies of description.
At the Opera House (it is sure
big enough to have a phantom wandering around inside), I turn right. I think it
is the Boulevard Haussman. After another twenty minutues, I turn right again.
Now I'm trudging up a fairly steep hill lined with chic apartments. Unlike the
United States, where the middle class abandoned the central city to deteriorate
in the care of the poor and minorities, in France and most of Europe, the
affluent stayed in the city. The poor were pushed to the surrounding suburbs.
Space in the city increased in value. Apartments are small and expensive. This
is one reason there is so much vibrant street life in Paris. In LA almost
everyone might have a swimming pool in their back yard. In Paris only the rich
have a back yard.
The park started a block from the
hill's summit. It was bigger than I anticipated and I didn't know which way to
go. Spotting a couple of men engaged in conversation, I waited for an opportunity
to excuse my intrusion and extended the slip of paper with the address. It was
a question that didn't require French. One of the men pointed back down the
hill and up the next hill.
I started walking. I had gone
about half a block when the sound of running footsteps made me stop and turn. A
young man was gesturing for me to wait. I did so. He arrived, panting, and
spoke in accented English: "I know you."
"You know me?"
He nodded. "Edward Bunker.
I read your books." His grin was wide, perhaps in reply to my manifest
surprise. He held up three fingers. That was how many I'd published at the
time.
"There's another one due
next year."
"I'll get it. What's the
title?"
"Dog Eat Dog."
"I'll still be waiting.
That man—" he gestured back up the hill whence I'd come. "He told you
wrong. That street is that way . . . on the other side of the park. I saw a film
crew over there."
"Merci beaucoup.
That's what I'm looking
for." I started to turn, and stopped. "So how did you recognize
me?"
"Reservoir Dogs.
Mr Blue, right?"
"Yep." The role had
been minuscule, but
Reservoir Dogs
had been a blockbuster in most of Europe, especially
France and England and, especially in the latter, had spurred sales of my
books.
As I continued walking through
the park that overlooked Paris, I found it hard to believe that someone would
recognize me on a sidewalk 6,000 miles from home, someone who had read all
three of my books. I was still glowing within when I spotted the trucks and
lights of the small film crew. The set was a cafe. When I arrived the cast and
crew were having lunch. I paid my respects to Benoit Cohen, the talented young
director, without intruding, for he was going over a scene with Seymour Cassell
and Chiara Mastrianni, the leads (I played his ex-con best pal) and it was poor
movie protocol to interrupt such a situation. I found the production manager,
who gave me a stack of francs, supposedly enough to live on for a week. She
also had the "call sheet." I was scheduled to work the next day. It
was at this location, the end of the scene they were shooting today. I was
welcome to hang out and watch the scene being shot, but I had other plans for
the afternoon. I wanted to see the Pantheon and Napoleon's tomb. He sure made a
big noise for a little Corsican. They still have the Napoleanic "N"
on bridges over the Seine.
As I waved goodbye to the
director, one of the cameramen came up with two of my books in the French
edition. Would I sign them? I drew my trusty felt tip, which make for great
signatures. Thick and dark, they look substantial. Ball-point pen signatures
look too thin.
Before I finished with the
cameraman, a line had formed. The crew was small as film crews go, no more than
a score, but more than half had books for me to sign. Some were brand new, but
many were books the owner had had for some time. One said he'd taken the job
because I was in the cast. Who would have imagined such things from my first
forty years of life? It may not have equaled the metamorphosis of St Augustine,
but it was certainly unexpected. I never envisaged this reality when I walked
out of prison twenty-some years earlier. Now I'd passed sixty, which I never
thought I'd see. In recent years my body has shown evidence of mortality:
bladder cancer cured by surgery ten years ago, antibodies for hepatitis C (I'm
one of the 80 percent in whom the disease remains inactive), a mild heart
attack (if there is such a thing) treated with angioplasty and a tiny stent,
borderline adult diabetes that seems under control from half a pill and
diligent exercise on a treadmill. I have never looked better and, with average
luck, expect to live another decade to play with and educate my son. Still,
whatever way I look at it, most of the game has been played and it seemed time
to write about it.
Meandering in the direction of
the hotel, I thought about the two decades since I'd gotten out of prison. Who
would have expected me to stay out? Not me, for sure. The only decision in that
regard was that I would not do anything stupid. Other than that, whatever
happened, happened. Over the years I've been asked by interviewers why I
changed. My reply, and the truth, is that I changed as my circumstances
changed. Being a published, and somewhat acclaimed writer was, of course,
central to everything. Just when I got out, the movie based on the book was
beginning pre-production. That introduced me to an entirely new milieu — and
people that I liked. I also made my acting debut, playing a scene in a bar with
Dustin Hoffman. It takes all day to shoot one five-minute scene. When the
assistant director yelled, "That's a wrap" at the end of the day, the
cast and crew applauded — and made me blush. Over the years I've appeared in a
score of small roles; not a living but enough to cover health insurance for my
family.