bodyguard – Troy Burroghs – And the Dunsbury Capers

Surrealist-Traveler


Three Capers


Advance: I was hired as a body guard out of San Francisco, by Mr. Dunsbury during a party I was at one evening. It would be a trying time in my life, but I needed the money and he offered me double my wages, for I worked at Lilly Ann’s dress factory as a bundle boy, sorting out cloths, and working my way up, as they say, the ladder. But I wasn’t going up too fast. I was going to be a designer, or higher level of management. But again I say the ladder was not moving fast.


And so when he, Mr. Dunsbury made the offer, it sounded pretty good. I was a karate expert at the time, studying the fine arts of this skill by a 6th degree black belt. I liked San Francisco, and I liked the idea I could make more money, and the job seemed easy. So I was to become a bodyguard, with a fist full of dollars, and knuckles, you know the old saying: the Knuckle Sandwich, that was my game, foolish now as it may seem, it was back in ’69, and I was kind of a wildcat you could say.


I’m talking in the past tense of course, for I guess I grew up sense those days. But I wanted to tell you a capper of a story, three in all.


I was hired back in l968-69, back when a buck was buck, as I was saying as a bodyguard, and I almost landed in jail. I’m a daring man, but I didn’t like what I was getting into. It’s called “Trouble, “my friend, on the highest mountaintop, something like that. There were three cappers as I was saying; I got involved with during this nine-month period of my young life. The first I call, The Party Caper, the second The Boat Caper, and the third I call The Photo Caper. You will find out in a moment my friend, hang on to your seats, I got to get a coke…………………ok, I’m back got my coke, let’s go:


The Party Caper


First off all it was not a moonlit night, it was a shitty night. I was with Mr. Dunsbury, and his associates, they all had guns but me; they figured I was deadly with my fists and so that was enough. We had gone to a house party, just us four, and met a man there. I don’t even know his name, nor never was told it. I sat close to Mr. Dunsbury; watching to insure his body was safe from harm: my job you know. I wasn’t too good at this job; I just knew I had to insure nobody hit the dude. And as Mr. Dunsbury talked to the fella, he got mad at him for not paying back some money; I was just praying it had nothing to do with drugs. And when he Mr. D, for short, looked at one of the three other associates, I call them Mr. Big, Mr. Medium, and Mr. Short, for they were all different sizes, and I can’t remember their names so readily. But I do remember their sizes. Big was 6’7 ½, Medium was 5’8“, and Short was 4’9”with out their shoes. Anyhow, as I was saying or about to say, Mr. Big pulled out a gun; shot the other man. Mr. D, got up walked over to the phone, and told the party on the other line, to set up a party, then we all walked out the door, and Mr. Big and Mr. Short, carried the dead dude.


“Does it bother you, Troy,” said Mr. D, to me with a rustic voice.


“Oh no sir, I’m used to this kind of stuff,” and my mouth went dry.


“Good,” he said, adding, “just cover my ass, boy!”


“I said I would insure no one shot it, if that is what he meant,” he kind of looked at me dumb, he wasn’t the smartest guy in town, or perhaps I wasn’t.


It was about 3:00 AM when we got to this empty lot, behind a building, and I seen a garage door open; we got out of the car, and Mr. Big and Mr. Short brought the body of the guy through it, and I followed Mr. D. Then all of a sudden two metal gates opened, and a woman with `a hundred or so people behind her came walking through it, she had a rifle in her hands, I wasn’t sure what to do, Mr. D, just stood there, I was thinking I wished I had his gun, but instead I stood in front of him, and got in a karate stance. I was just waiting for her to point the rifle, but she was too far away.


Said Mr. D, “Don’t worry Troy, she’s my party gal,” and she smiled, putting the rifle to her side. She was a beauty, and as she walked to Mr. D, she put her fingers through my hair, as she kissed him on the lips, and said,


“Where is my pearl ring, you were going to size it for me?”


And he pulled out a pearl ring the size of my finger tip (the big finger), and I have mighty big finger tips my friend, mighty big.


She put it on, kissed him again, and told the people to set up everything for a party, and instructed four cameramen to get into position to take pictures. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what the heck was going on, within ten-minutes everyone was dancing, drinking, and having fun. I seemed to be left out for some reason, but my job was to stand by the man. And so I did.


Then came Mr. Big and Mr. Short, with the dead man and another that looked just like him, dressed up just like him. What was going on I asked myself. Then Mr. Big put the dead man in a chair, while the other man went walking around, while people were taking pictures and movies of him. An hour went by, then all of a sudden a man came walking up to Mr. D to ask him something, and he put his hand out to him, and I kicked him in the groin, and gave him an elbow in the back of the spine and he dropped in front of him.


“Troy,” said Mr. D, with a little laughter, “this man works for me.”


“Woops,” I said, and then apologized to the man.


The fella stood up looked at me as if unsure of what to say, and I suppose there really was nothing to say, and said,


“Mr. Dunsbury, everything is in place, we’re ready to go. “


“Good,” replied Mr. D. nodding his head as if to give some kind of approval. Then out of the blue, within the following two minutes, a gunshot was heard, and the man standing that looked like the fella that Mr. Big had shot, got shot again, but this time he started to shoot first, and his bullets were not doing anything, and another person shot at him, and he fell down. Then the guy got up and ran, and Mr. Medium brought the other dude over to where the look-alike was and put him there on the ground. The guy, who shot, pretended to shoot the dude hollered:


“Call the police, “my head was spinning. When the police arrived, the man told him the story, that this dude pulled out a gun, and pointed to a gun, and he had no choice but to shoot, and that he and a license for the gun, and was a private detective. Mr. D and I just stood there. And the movie camera guy handed over the movie of the party, and several willing party guests handed over their instamatic pictures. And that was that. That was the day, I figured Mr. D, was smarter then I thought. But I didn’t like this business, and wanted to get out.


The Boat Caper


Everything happens at night it seems, or at least in Mr. D’s world [D, is short for Mr. Dunsbury, but I told you that already, I just want to make sure you do not forget].


Well, three months had passed by since I was involved with that last trick of a deal he played: his kind of business. Yet I still wasn’t sure what business he was in. But one night he wanted me to smoke some pot, and then some heroin. I told him no, I’d quite before I did that, and the other man that was talking to him, got mad. And Mr. D, said, “…he is still ok, Marty,” he called him Marty, by his first name you see because I think he was a close friend. They did a lot of business together. And so Marty said, “If you trust him, so do I,” and gave me a big smile, and walked away. In his business smiles mean one of two things, a raise, or the grave.


“It is dangerous not to accept a gift in this business,” said Mr. D, and smiled with his unorthodox smirk, which was likened to him: a jerky smirk. But I paid little attention, I was not a user, nor was going to be, and if he didn’t like it, I’d give him a knuckle sandwich, I think [that’s what I thought at the time].


Well, we ended up on a houseboat, down in the San Francisco harbor. There was that woman again, and a guy. She knew what Mr. D, was up to, and she was having an affair with this young dude. Mr. D was in his late 30’s; I was in my early 20’s, as was the dude and his girlfriend of sorts. Mr. D, Mr. Medium and myself were sitting in the houseboat, and they both walked in and sit down. The gal walks over to Mr. D, gives him a kiss, and the dude just sits there. And he looked mighty scared.


“Where is my money?” said Mr. D.


The dude pulls out $500, and tells him “I can get the rest later.”


Mr. D laughs, “You can get me four grand later, where?”


The young man tries to swallow, hoping he doesn’t shoot him in the head, and usually from what I was witnessing his victims got shot in the chest, or the heart he was particular. I think it was less messy, something like that.


The boy couldn’t speak, he pissed in his pants, and all Mr. D did was look at Mr. Medium, and smiled, and out came the gun, and a shot in the chest a second later. The girl took a deep breath, and let it out as a relief. Something was funny I felt. You know, mans intuition. But I just couldn’t put my finger on it, “Take the dude and put him in the back of the boat,’ he told the girl and Mr. Medium, and we’ll be back for him later.” Then he pointed to the girl to stay behind and make sure all went well, that Mr. Big was on his way.


By the time Mr. Big arrived both the boy-dude was gone and Mr. D’s girl. They had played a fast one on him. The dude had got to the gal, and had a metal jacket on, and the blood was ketchup. Mr. D was mad for three months about that, but he got over it when the money started coming in. They were out of San Francisco anyways, and D was too contemptible to have him followed across the country, if not Mexico or Canada. I was kind of happy it ended up that way; I was tired of being caught in the middle of this capers.


The Photo Caper


Mr. D and his three associates and I went on a little ride to a small town about 125-miles outside of San Francisco, to a hotel. There we checked into two rooms, Mr. D, and me and the three associates next door. For some odd reason, he trusted me more than them.


The day was hot and we were all walking about the little town, then in the back of the hotel Mr. Medium was taking photos all over the place, and Mr. Big was taking photos of Mr. Medium taking photos, where Mr. Short was, was beyond me I don’t know, someplace. And as Mr. Medium seen a man, he asked if he could take his picture, and he stood there and said “Sure,” and when he took the photo, a shot came from somewhere, I would bit it was from Mr. Short’s gun.


The man fell, and several people were around Mr. Medium, and me, and Mr. Big. Mr. Big just looked at the dude on the ground, spit along side his head, as if by accident, and trying to clear his throat; but it was more than that. Then all of a sudden the police came, and started questioning Mr. D and his relationship with the dead man. And to my surprise he knew him, but said he had nothing to do with the murder, and Mr. Big came out to show the police the pictures that Mr. D was simply walking around with his bodyguard, and Mr. Big was just a passerby. Mr. Medium showed the police his picture he took of the dude, saying, “I was testing out my new camera.” Well, to be honest, it kind of looked that way, but I new it was a crock of you know what.


And my friends that was that: we drove back to town. Three months later I told Mr. D I got drafted into the Army, and was so sorry about not being able to be employed by him (another Crock of you know what). Mr. D was sad, as sad as he could normally be, and that was not very sad on the human scale, but on a demonic scale it could have reached#10, but that was that.


Actually, I joined the Army; I couldn’t take the lifestyle of Mr. D.


5-2002/Revised 12/30/2005 (completed 2/22/2006)

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