Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade Read Online Free PDF

Daly, peddling newspapers for a nickel apiece. Twenty-five
was enough to eat and go to a movie. Late at night, I made my way back to
Welch's Laundry and burrowed into the rags beside the track. By the third day I
was so filthy that eyes followed me when I entered the market where I'd stolen
the newspapers for two nights. On the third night they weren't there. I had
enough to buy milk and a candy bar, meanwhile slipping several more inside my
shirt.
    When it started to rain again, I climbed the slope
behind my aunt's apartment building. The rain cleared the street. This time
nobody was looking out a window as I pushed through the little door into the
kitchen. I called out, "Aunt Eva! Aunt Eva!" No answer. The apartment
was empty.
    I wanted to get in and out quickly. Again I ran the
bath and dug clean clothes from the box. I bathed quickly, the water turning
gray from the grime in my hair, ankles, face and hands. I pulled on the clothes
while still wet. When dressed, I felt a little more secure — and I was hungry.
    I found some canned tuna in a dish, and put two slices
of bread into the toaster for a sandwich. As I ate it, I went to see if she had
some change lying around. In her bedroom, I spotted the envelopes on the
dresser. Some were bills; one had an SPCA return address. It had been opened. I
pulled out the letter. It was a receipt for putting my little dog to sleep.
When I realized what they'd done, I think I screamed. I've had many things
happen to me, but that was the greatest anguish I ever experienced. It welled
through me. I choked and gasped; my chest felt crushed.
    I rocked back and forth and sobbed my utter and
absolute torment. Thinking of it more than half a century later still brings
tears to my eyes. My aunt and father had told me the dog had a home in Pomona.
Instead they had given her over to be killed because she was too much trouble.
I believe that this was the moment the world lost me, for pain quickly turned
to fury. How could they? She had loved them and they murdered her. If I could
have killed both of them, I would have - and although a child's memories are
quickly overlaid with evolving matters, I never forgave them.
    Three days later, a Friday morning, I came again for a
bath, clothes and food. This time my father was waiting in the shadows. He
blocked the door so I couldn't run. He had to call the juvenile authorities.
"Nobody else will take you. God knows I don't know what to do."
    "Why don't you kill me like you killed my
dog?"
    "What?"
    "You know what! I hate you! I'm glad I made you
old."
    Using the number on a business card, he started to
dial the phone. I moved toward the bathroom, planning to go out the window
again. He put the phone down. "Stay right here."
    "I gotta go to the bathroom."
    Perhaps sensing my plan, he put the phone down and
accompanied me. As I stood at the toilet, I saw a heavy bottle of Listerine on
a shelf. I grabbed it, whirled and swung at my father's head. He managed to
duck. The bottle gouged a hole in the plaster.
    Twenty minutes later, two juvenile detectives arrived
and took me away. By evening I was at juvenile hall on Henry Street, in the
shadow of the general hospital. It was past my bedtime when they finished
processing me. A tall, gangly black counselor with a loose-limbed gait escorted
me through locked doors and down a long hallway to Receiving Company. The
hallway floor gleamed with polish. At the end, where another hallway crossed it
like a T, a different counselor sat at a desk illuminated solely by a small
lamp. The black counselor handed my papers to the man at the desk. He looked
them over, looked at me; then picked up his flashlight and ushered me down a
hall to double doors into a ten-bed dormitory. With the flashlight beam he illuminated
the empty cot.
    The clean sheets felt smooth and cool. Despite my
exhaustion, sleep came hard. Bright floodlights outdoors illuminated the heavy
mesh wire on the windows. I was caged for the first time. When sleep