Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade by Edward Bunker Read Free Book Online Page B

glass
and l.s. nelson, captain stencilled on it.
The Captain commanded all uniformed personnel. Nelson was in his thirties and
had red hair. Later, when the red was mixed with sand and he was Warden of San
Quentin, everyone called him Red Nelson. He was one of the legendary wardens: a
man known to be hard but fair. He had a strong jaw and sunburned face. His eyes
were hidden behind a pair of aviator-style dark glasses that he wore for the
tough impression they conveyed. As he leaned back in his swivel chair and
webbed his fingers behind his neck, there was the vaguest hint of a sneer in
his voice. "Shit! You don't look like a holy terror to me. You're too
light in the butt to be that tough. You'll be
lucky if somebody around here doesn't break you down like a shotgun."
    "I'm not worried."
    "Me either. But I thought I'd tell you how it is.
You've made a little name for yourself in those kiddy joints. This isn't a
kiddy joint. This is a prison. Start any shit here and you'll swear the whole
world fell on you. I'll stomp your brains out. Got it?"
    "Yes sir," I said. "I wanna do my time
and get out as soon as I can." My words were true, but I resented the
threat. Everywhere I'd been — military school, juvenile hall, reform school,
nuthouse — they all had promised to break me. All had inflicted severe physical
and emotional pain on me, but here I was. If being part of the general
population had been less important, I would have dumped his desk over on him
and taken the ass-kicking - so he would know that I wasn't intimidated by his
words.
    "Okay, Bunker ... hit the yard. Any trouble, I'll
bury you so deep in segregation they'll have to pump in the air." He
dismissed me with a jerk of the thumb. I turned and the waiting sergeant opened
the door.
    Assigned to Dorm 3, I was making up my bunk when
buddies of mine from reform school and juvenile hall began streaming in,
grinning and horseplaying. Someone jumped on me and I bumped into a bunk that
skidded loud across the floor.
    "Take that horseplay outside!" yelled the
dorm guard from his desk. We went outside down the road to the handball courts.
    Ahead of us was a crowd. We came up from behind. In
the center stood two young Chicanos, lean as hawks; each had a big knife. One
of them I recognized from reform school without remembering his name. Off to
the side was the object of their dispute, a petite white queen called Forever
Amber. She was wringing her hands together. The Chicano I recognized gestured
to the other, plainly signalling "come on . . . come on . . ." His
denim jacket was wrapped around his forearm. Both wore white T shirts.
    What then happened bore no resemblance to a movie
knife fight. They came at each other like two roosters in a cockfight, leaping
high and flailing, stabbing and being stabbed. The one without the jacket took
a blow that opened his forearm to the bone. Then he stabbed back. His long shiv
penetrated the other's white T-shirt and sank in to the hilt. Both grunted but
neither gave way. In seconds, both were cut to pieces. The one with the jacket
suddenly muttered, "Dirty sonofabitch . . ." He sank to his knees and
fell forward on his face, the knife falling from his dying fingers while his
blood spread in a pool soaking the dry, hard earth.
    The other Chicano turned and walked away, blood
spraying from his mouth. It reminded me of a blowing whale. Forever Amber ran
after him, still mincing and all feminine. About fifty yards down the road, the
"winner" suddenly stopped, coughed up a glob of blood and fell. He
tried to rise, but stopped on his knees, his head down. Several convicts rushed
forward and carried him to the hospital, but when they came back they turned
thumbs down. He, too, had died.
    It took a while after lights out for the dorm to
settle for the night. Silhouettes in skivvies moved through the shadows to the
washroom and latrine. They carried their toothbrushes in their teeth or in
their hands with towels wrapped around their necks. Down