Read Online Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade by Edward Bunker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward Bunker
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came to a tank with a nearly empty runway. A bridge game was in progress on
the floor, a folded blanket serving as a table. The escorting deputy handed the
tank deputy my booking papers and a name tag that went into a slot on a board.
"You're in cell six," he said, beckoning me toward the gate into the
tank. First he had to unlock the steel door of a control panel beside the gate.
"Fish on the line!" he yelled. "Cell six."
He unlocked the tank gate, pulled it open and I
stepped inside.
The bridge players looked up; a few heads appeared in
open cell doors to look me over. One was black. Everyone was segregated in the
jail except fruiters and killers. That seemed to have some irony.
I walked down the tier. It was narrow and I had to
step across the bridge game, excusing myself as I did so. I reached cell six.
It already had two men on the two bunks. I'd known the jail was crowded, but
somehow I expected that men on trial for their lives would have a cell to
themselves. I hesitated. "Come on in," said the man on the top bunk.
He was small and muscular, in his late thirties, with gray sideburns. The man
seated on the bottom bunk wore a tank top undershirt that bulged at the gut. He
looked to be Italian.
From the front the jailer shook a lever that made all
the cell gates vibrate loudly. "Grab a hold a one! Grab a hole!"
The card game broke up. The two or three other men out
on the runway made for their cells. The tier started to clear. I stepped
inside. I had some fear. I was being locked in a cell with two grown men facing
the most serious felonies imaginable. From the front the jailer yelled
"Watch the gates! Coming closed!" All the cell gates slammed shut
with a horrendous crash of steel on steel.
Throughout the jail, gates were vibrating and slamming
shut. It was a general lockup. The heavyset man on the bottom bunk moved over.
"Sit on down. How old are you?"
"Nineteen," I lied.
He shook his head and grunted. His name, I would
learn, was Johnny Cicerone, and he was a real mob guy, or the LA version
thereof. The mob, I would learn, has little enclaves around Southern
California, but it doesn't carry the power it wields in the east. Johnny
controlled a bookmaking operation in several factories and the general
hospital, plus he was the muscle for the Sica Brothers, Jimmy the Weasel
Fratianno or Dominic Brooklier, the capo de regime on the west coast. Legend had it that they made their bones taking out Bugsy
Siegel.
"How'd you get in high power?" asked the
smaller man, whose name was Gordon D'Arcy. "Who'd they say you
killed?" (In jail or prison, I would learn, you never ask anyone what they
did, but rather what the authorities allege they did. That way you could answer
without admitting anything.)
"Nobody. I stabbed a bull in Lancaster." I
kept silent about how superficial it was.
"Stabbed a hack! Damn!" His surprise was
evident. He gestured toward my bruised and battered face. "Looks like they
fucked you up."
"Yeah, they danced on me a little. It's no big
thing." The stoicism valued in the underworld was already part of me.
Never snivel. Try to laugh, no matter what.
D'Arcy grinned. In the up-coming days I learned that
he was a professional armed robber facing a life sentence for "kidnap/robbery."
It was a technical kidnap: he'd moved a supermarket manager from produce to the
rear office to open the safe. Moving someone from room to room triggered the
"Little Lindbergh" law. If the victim had suffered any injury, D'Arcy
would have faced the gas chamber. As it was, he only faced life if convicted.
The victim said he could identify D'Arcy solely by his eyes. The perpetrator
had worn a ski mask over his entire face, so the defense attorney put five men
in identical clothes and ski masks and paraded them in front of the witness and
jury. The witness instantly pointed to D'Arcy. He screamed then fainted. The
jury deliberated for less than three hours before finding him guilty. Now he
was on appeal.
Cicerone rifled a
the floor, a folded blanket serving as a table. The escorting deputy handed the
tank deputy my booking papers and a name tag that went into a slot on a board.
"You're in cell six," he said, beckoning me toward the gate into the
tank. First he had to unlock the steel door of a control panel beside the gate.
"Fish on the line!" he yelled. "Cell six."
He unlocked the tank gate, pulled it open and I
stepped inside.
The bridge players looked up; a few heads appeared in
open cell doors to look me over. One was black. Everyone was segregated in the
jail except fruiters and killers. That seemed to have some irony.
I walked down the tier. It was narrow and I had to
step across the bridge game, excusing myself as I did so. I reached cell six.
It already had two men on the two bunks. I'd known the jail was crowded, but
somehow I expected that men on trial for their lives would have a cell to
themselves. I hesitated. "Come on in," said the man on the top bunk.
He was small and muscular, in his late thirties, with gray sideburns. The man
seated on the bottom bunk wore a tank top undershirt that bulged at the gut. He
looked to be Italian.
From the front the jailer shook a lever that made all
the cell gates vibrate loudly. "Grab a hold a one! Grab a hole!"
The card game broke up. The two or three other men out
on the runway made for their cells. The tier started to clear. I stepped
inside. I had some fear. I was being locked in a cell with two grown men facing
the most serious felonies imaginable. From the front the jailer yelled
"Watch the gates! Coming closed!" All the cell gates slammed shut
with a horrendous crash of steel on steel.
Throughout the jail, gates were vibrating and slamming
shut. It was a general lockup. The heavyset man on the bottom bunk moved over.
"Sit on down. How old are you?"
"Nineteen," I lied.
He shook his head and grunted. His name, I would
learn, was Johnny Cicerone, and he was a real mob guy, or the LA version
thereof. The mob, I would learn, has little enclaves around Southern
California, but it doesn't carry the power it wields in the east. Johnny
controlled a bookmaking operation in several factories and the general
hospital, plus he was the muscle for the Sica Brothers, Jimmy the Weasel
Fratianno or Dominic Brooklier, the capo de regime on the west coast. Legend had it that they made their bones taking out Bugsy
Siegel.
"How'd you get in high power?" asked the
smaller man, whose name was Gordon D'Arcy. "Who'd they say you
killed?" (In jail or prison, I would learn, you never ask anyone what they
did, but rather what the authorities allege they did. That way you could answer
without admitting anything.)
"Nobody. I stabbed a bull in Lancaster." I
kept silent about how superficial it was.
"Stabbed a hack! Damn!" His surprise was
evident. He gestured toward my bruised and battered face. "Looks like they
fucked you up."
"Yeah, they danced on me a little. It's no big
thing." The stoicism valued in the underworld was already part of me.
Never snivel. Try to laugh, no matter what.
D'Arcy grinned. In the up-coming days I learned that
he was a professional armed robber facing a life sentence for "kidnap/robbery."
It was a technical kidnap: he'd moved a supermarket manager from produce to the
rear office to open the safe. Moving someone from room to room triggered the
"Little Lindbergh" law. If the victim had suffered any injury, D'Arcy
would have faced the gas chamber. As it was, he only faced life if convicted.
The victim said he could identify D'Arcy solely by his eyes. The perpetrator
had worn a ski mask over his entire face, so the defense attorney put five men
in identical clothes and ski masks and paraded them in front of the witness and
jury. The witness instantly pointed to D'Arcy. He screamed then fainted. The
jury deliberated for less than three hours before finding him guilty. Now he
was on appeal.
Cicerone rifled a
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