Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Also by James Ellroy

Title Page

Dedication

Part I: CRIME CULTURE/MEMOIR

Balls to the Wall

Where I Get My Weird Shit

Stephanie

Grave Doubt

My Life as a Creep

The D.A.

Little Sleazer and the Mail-Sex Mama

I’ve Got the Goods

The Trouble I Cause

Part II: RICK LOVES DONNA

Hollywood Fuck Pad

Hot-Prowl Rape-O

Jungletown Jihad

Copyright

About the Author

James Ellroy was born in Los Angeles in 1948. He is the author of the acclaimed ‘LA Quartet’: The Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, LA Confidential and White Jazz. His most recent novel, Blood’s a Rover, completes the magisterial ‘Underworld USA Trilogy’ – the first two volumes of which (American Tabloid and The Cold Six Thousand) were both Sunday Times bestsellers.

About the Book

This is James Ellroy’s second collection of short pieces following on from Dick Contino’s Blues. Starting in 1983 and ending in the present day, these interlinked novellas tell the story of a bad cop, Rick Jenson and his twenty-year obsession with Donna Donahue, a beautiful Hollywood actress. The only way Rick can get close to Donna is by bringing her into investigations of the teeming Tinseltown underworld: psychopathic killers, stalkers and terrorists commingle in an unholy cocktail of sex, sleaze and violence. Jenson and Donahue cut a swathe through the cases, treading a high wire of danger and a fatal sexual attraction.

The book also contains eight previously unpublished non-fiction articles ranging from cases from the Los Angeles Police Unsolved Homicide files to the first article Ellroy has written on his imaginative process.

ALSO BY JAMES ELLROY

THE UNDERWORLD U.S.A. TRILOGY

American Tabloid

The Cold Six Thousand

Blood’s a Rover

THE L.A. QUARTET

The Black Dahlia

The Big Nowhere

L.A. Confidential

White Jazz

MEMOIR

My Dark Places

The Hilliker Curse

SHORT STORIES

Hollywood Nocturnes

JOURNALISM/SHORT FICTION

Crime Wave

EARLY NOVELS

Brown’s Requiem

Clandestine

Blood on the Moon

Because the Night

Suicide Hill

Killer on the Road

To Oscar Reyes

Balls to the Wall

BOXING IS:

Blood sport declawed and reregulated. Cockfights for aesthetes and wimps.

Boxing is microcosm. Boxing baits pundits. Boxing rips writers and rags them to riff.

Boxing taps testosterone. Boxing bangs to the balls. Boxing mauls and makes you mine meaning.

Mexican boxing is:

Boxing distilled. Boxing stoicized. Boxing hyperbolized.

Mexican boxing is machismo magnified. Mexican boxing is bristling bravado. Mexican boxing means you die for love and live to impress and subjugate your buddies.

Vegas boxing is:

Lowlife pomp. Westminster West. Best-of-weight class as best-of-breed.

Vegas boxing is Rome revived. Gladiators divert high rollers. Imperial goons exploit muscled maxi-men and mainline their money.

I got the word:

Erik Morales meets Marco Antonio Barrera.

Junior featherweights. Title tiff. Vegas.

I had to go.

I love boxing. We go back.

My folks divorced in ’55. My dad got me weekends. We holed up. We watched the fights.

We had a bubble-screen TV. We snarfed Cheez Whiz. My dad rooted on race and “heart.”

He liked white fighters best. He liked Mexicans next. He liked Negroes last.

Heart eclipsed race. Heart mitigated race. Heart gave Mexicans White Man status.

“Mexican” meant all Latins. Mexican meant some Italians. Mexican meant the Cuban Negro Kid Gavilan.

My dad fucked up race and geography. He was a Wasp. He hit L.A. and learned Spanish. He dug inclusiveness. He knew the White Man ruled. He knew the Brown Man craved in.

He wanted him in. If he kicked ass to his specifications.

Race. Heart. My early education.

I lived in L.A. I watched TV fights. I watched fights live.

The Olympic. The Hollywood Legion Stadium.

Smoke. Ceiling lights. Beer and crushed peanuts.

My dad took me. We sat with Mexicans. We watched Mexicans kick triracial ass.

My dad went chameleon. My dad gestured wild. My dad Mexicanized.

He talked to Mexican men. He slapped their backs. He translated for me.

Male-speak. My early education.

Headhunter. Go to the body. Cut off the ring.

Pendejo. Cojones. Maricon.

My dad divided Mexicans. Illegal immigrants were “wetbacks.”

Wetbacks had heart. They swam the Rio Grande. They sought trabajo.

They scuffled. They worked hard. They craved White Man status.

Hoodlums were Pachucos. Pachucos lacked heart.

They oiled their hair. They overbred. They packed switchblades.

They shivved cops. They smoked mary jane. They disdained White Man status.

I met two Mexican kids. Reyes and Danny. They came from T.J.

They saw T.J. fights. They saw the mule show. They loved Art Aragon and Lauro Salas.

We smoked mary jane. I was ten years old.

I got dizzy. I punched the air like a maricon.

My mother died. I bunked full-time with my dad. We watched fights. We snarfed TV dinners.

12/5/58:

Welterweights. Title tiff. Don Jordan versus Virgil “Honey-bear” Akins.

Jordan wins. Jordan’s a Dominican negrito.

He’s mulatto. My dad digs him. My dad grants him Mexican status.

He’s psycho. He was a child hit man. He killed men at age ten. He killed thirty men in a month.

Mexicans were killers. My dad said so. My dad spoke Spanish. My dad saw the mule show. My dad knew his shit.

12/10/58:

Light heavyweights. Title tiff. Archie Moore versus Yvon Durelle.

It’s Armageddon. Moore wins. Moore’s Negro. Durelle’s Quebecois.

My dad upgrades Moore’s racial status. Moore gets Mexicanized. My dad downgrades Durelle. Durelle gets Mexicanized.

Durelle “eats leather.” Durelle “leads with his face.”

5/27/60:

Welterweights. Title tiff. Jordan bows to Benny “Kid” Paret.

Paret’s a Cuban Negro. My dad hates him. My dad gets his race right.

3/24/62:

Welterweights. Title tiff. Paret versus Emile Griffith.

Griffith’s Negro. Griffith’s island-bred. Griffith stomps Paret.

Paret dies.

Paret trash-talked Griffith. Paret called him queer.

Sex hate. Revenge. My early education.

I went to fights. I watched TV fights. I read fight magazines.

I still lived in L.A. I bopped around. I dug racial stratification.

Negroes lived south. Mexicans lived east. Whites lived everywhere.

Negroes craved civil rights. Mexicans craved conflict and personal honor.

Mexicans grew small. Mexicans moved swift. Mexicans ran stoic and expansive.

Mexicans coveted. Mexicans aspired. Mexicans knew the White Man was El Jefe.

Mexicans hobnobbed with whites. Common tastes united. Common language flowed.

Chili con carne. Una cerveza, por favor. Hook to the liver.

I Mexicanized. I Mexicanized with Wasp circumspection.

I wore Sir Guy shirts. I provoked fights with little kids. I notched mixed results.

I lacked power. I lacked skill. I lacked speed. I lacked heart.

It showed. My defeats were ignominious. My victories were pathetic.

Summer ’64:

I was sixteen. I stood 6′2″. I weighed 120. My dad said I ruled the Toilet-Paper-Weight Division.

I challenged my pal Kenny Rudd.

Six rounds. With gloves. Robert Burns Park.

Cornermen. Ref. Five-dollar purse.

I had height. I had reach. Rudd had heart. Rudd had speed and power.

Rudd kicked my ass. Rudd fought barechested. I wore a Sir Guy shirt.

My dad got sick. He went to the hospital. He bunked with a Mexican guy.

They talked fights. I brought them cheese enchiladas.

My dad died. The Mexican guy recovered.

I lived by myself. I watched TV fights. I hit the Olympic.

I saw Little Red Lopez. I saw Bobby Chacon. I saw six million guys named Sanchez and Martinez.

I sat ringside. They bled on me. I ate cut residue.

I sat top-tier. I shared piss cups with Joses and Humbertos. They protested bum verdicts. They tossed piss cups. They doused puto officials.

I pulled some dumb stunts. I got in trouble. I detoured and paid.

I did county jail time. I talked fights with wicked Juans and rowdy Ramons. I fought a Mexican drag queen named Peaches.

Peaches squeezed my knee. I popped him. I aped Benny “Kid” Paret. I called him a maricon.

Peaches kicked my ass. Guards pulled him off. Triracial inmates cackled.

I dissected my defeat. I put something together.

Mexican boxing explicates the mind-body split for white wimps worldwide.

MEXICAN BOXING IS WORKMANLIKE. Mexican boxing is inspired.

It’s savage emphasis. It’s basic boxing retuned to short range.

You move in. You stalk. You cut the ring off. You intimidate with forward momentum.

You crowd your man. You eat right-hand leads. You counter and left-hook to the body.

You instigate exchanges. You trade in close.

You take to give. You forfeit your odds for survival. You eat shots. You absorb pain. You absorb pain to exhaust your man and exploit his openings. You absorb pain to assert your bravado.

You clinch when desperate. You backpedal when stunned or insensate. You fight coy to avert the brink and buy moments.

The body shots sap wind. The momentum saps will. The absorbed pain saps brain cells. The absorbed pain builds character and fatuous ideals.

Mexican boxing is lore.

Mexican fighters chew steaks. They drink the blood and spit out the meat.

Mexican fighters slurp mescal. They gargle and swallow the worm.

Mexican fighters do roadwork at 10,000 feet. Mexican fighters train in bordellos.

Mexican boxing is memory.

Fights in bullrings. Fights at weigh-ins. Fights at victory balls.

Fights.

The Trifecta. ’70–’71. Ruben Olivares and Chucho Castillo.

The Inglewood Forum. Sellout crowds.

Rockabye Ruben rocks. Chucho presses and bleeds. Round 3—Ruben rests recumbent. Ruben rises and rallies rapidamente.

Ruben takes tiff one. Unanimous decision. The mayhem mandates tiff two.

Ruben rips. Chucho chops and chisels. Ruben launches left hooks. Chucho counters contrapuntal.

Ruben cuts. His left eye leaks at the lid. The cut calls it. It’s over. Chucho—TKO 14.

The rubber match rocks. It’s all pressure. Chucho drops Ruben. Ruben rises and rebounds.

Ruben roils. Ruben wracks the ribcage. Ruben rules the ring. Ruben reigns in the rubber.

4/23/77:

The Forum. Nontitle tiff. Carlos Zarate and Alfonso Zamora.

Seventy-two fights collective. Seventy-one KOs.

Round 1 goes slow. Zarate tests Zamora. Round 2 disrupts.

A geek jumps in the ring. Cops haul him out. Cops kick his ass.

Round 3. Zarate zips close. Zarate zaps Zamora.

One knockdown. Eight count at the bell.

Round 4. Zarate in close. Zamora’s got zilch. Two-knockdown TKO.

It’s over. It’s not momentous. It’s not competitive.

Zamora’s dad’s in the ring. Zarate’s dad ditto. Zamora’s dad zaps Zarate’s dad.

It’s instantaneous. It’s Zarate–Zamora II.

Memory:

Zarate. Lupe Pintor. Rafael Herrera.

The great Salvador Sanchez. Julio Cesar Chavez—el grande campeón.

Mexicans. White Men all. Ask my dad.

Morales–Barrera vibed walk-through or war.

Morales was 35 and 0. He had the WBC belt.

He had youth. He had speed. He had a more diversified attack.

He had career momentum. He had an HBO contract. He had the Next Chavez prophecy.

Barrera was the last Next Chavez. He ate some right hands. He got de-prophesied.

He was 49 and 2. He had the WBO belt. Wags called it WBOgus.

Barrera owned the Mexican attack.

He closed in. He cut off. He left-hooked. He went downstairs.

He had career momentum. He had HBO ties. Junior Jones de-momenticized him.

Right hands.

One KO loss. A rematch. One loss by decision.

Barrera learns defeat. Barrera fugues out. Barrera regroups.

Barrera’s a Mexican. Barrera’s a Catholic. Barrera digs redemption.

Barrera’s a rich kid. He hails from Mexico City.

Boxing ends someday. He knows it. He’s eyeing law school.

Morales was middle-class. He hailed from T.J. His dad was a fighter.

He’s a soft touch. He donates Christmas dinners. He won his belt. He banked the check. He stocked T.J. schools with computers.

They were good kids. “Good kids” is fanspeak. Good kids are killers who limit their rage to the ring.

VEGAS WAS T.J. UNCHAINED.

I hit T.J. in ’66. I got a head job. I saw the mule show.

T.J. was scary.

I hit Vegas in 2000. Vegas was worse.

I stayed at the Bellagio. I heard it had “class.” I heard right and wrong.

It featured an art gallery. It featured silent slot machines. It featured stretch limos.

License plates: Cezanne/Matisse/Picasso.

My suite was big. My suite had a church directory. My suite had cable fuck films.

I settled in. I walked the Strip. I misjudged distances.

Hotel facades streeeetched.

Medieval moats. Paris skylines. Mock Manhattans.

Street traffic crawled. Foot traffic gawked.

Folks carried kiddies and cocktails. Folks carried slot-machine cups.

I grabbed a cab. The cabbie was psycho. The cabbie vibed Klan.

He picked his nose. He picked his teeth. He slurped beer in a McDonald’s cup.

He talked fights.

He liked Morales. Barrera was stale bread. J. C. Chavez was a punk. He lost to Frankie “the Surgeon” Randall. He trashed his suite at the MGM Grand.

He talked Mexican fights.

The cholos had heart. The cholos fought dirty. The cholos fucked goats.

He talked Vegas fights.

Morales–Barrera was small. Hipster stuff. Rap stars and movie shitbirds verboten.

Big fights rocked Vegas. Big fights flew on big money.

Site fees. Pay-per-view. Casino perks. High rollers lured in to lose.

Big fights drew big names. Ringside recognition.

Big fights meant heavyweights. Big fights meant Tyson and bad juju. Big fights meant Oscar de la Hoya.

Oscar was pretty. Oscar bruised pretty. Oscar magnetized chicks.

He ain’t a real Mexican. You can’t be real and come from L.A.

I FOUND a Mexican restaurant. It vibed L.A.

I ate a Mexican dinner. I schmoozed a Mexican waiter. He came from L.A.

We talked fights.

He liked Morales. Barrera was shot.

His wife liked Oscar. His daughter loved Oscar. He thought Oscar was queer.

I walked to the Bellagio. A waiter brought coffee up.

He was Mexican. He came from L.A.

We talked fights.

He liked Morales. Barrera was through.

His wife liked Oscar. He didn’t get the allure.

The waiter split. I dug my view.

Ant swarms. Streeeetch facades. Seduction signs.

Caesars. The Mirage. Gay white tigers.

The swarms vibed migration. Peons with cups. Supplicants hot for cash and diversion.

I felt like El Jefe. Call me Batista. Call me Juan Perón.

I viewed my Third World. I dispensed benedictions. I scrutinized and exploited small men.

Sanctioning bodies ruled boxing. Puto patriarchs reigned.

The IBF got indicted. The WBC held in. A wag called it “World of Bandits and Charlatans.”

The WBA. The IBA. The WBOgus.

The I’s meant “International.” The W’s meant “World.” It stressed dominion and shared thought.

Official judges judge fights. State commissions appoint them.

Sanctioning bodies court them. Sanctioning bodies corrupt them. Sanctioning bodies stress shared thought.

Fractured titles. Multi-championships. Two I’s/three W’s.

Titles mean money. Titles drive a fighter’s momentum.

Judges judge off it. Judges vote what’s perceived best for boxing. Judges know the formal rules. Judges know subtext. Judges enforce consensus thinking.

Not all judges. Not most judges. Some judges in key fights.

Bribery.

Implicit. Covert. Unindictable.

The migration continued. The light show blipped on.

I fucked with the TV. I hit HBO.

Wags called it Home Breast Office. I hit breasts and an end-title crawl. I hit a Boxing After Dark teaser.

Two days hence:

Morales–Barrera. Sangre. The Holy War.

BAD had it. BAD should have it. BAD knew.

BAD was the best boxing show in TV history. BAD broadcast great fights. BAD broadcast bravura.

Great blow-by-blow. Jim Lampley in tight. Pro scoop and malapropisms via Roy Jones and George Foreman. Larry Merchant on meaning.

Bad Boy Barrera top-lined BAD card #1. He KO’d Kennedy McKinney.

A fierce fight. A tuff tiff. A proud prophecy.

I went to bed. I slept late. A waiter brought coffee up.

He was Mexican. He came from Oregon.

We talked fights.

He liked Morales. Barrera was fucked.

The Mandalay Bay:

Slot-Machine Acres. Blackjack Estates. Keno Kountry forever.

I walked through it. I got lost. I gagged on smoke. I smelled spilled cocktails.

I rerouted. I trekked on.

Card-Table Terrace. Roulette Rendezvous. Blow-Your-Mortgage Mesa.

I hit a corridor. I saw directional balloons.

Tricolor. Mexican. Red, green, and white.

I followed them. I hit the press gig.

Dais. Lectern. Steam tables. Buffet in gear.

I mingled. I saw Wayne “Pocket Rocket” McCullough. Morales decisioned him. I saw Richie Sandoval. Gaby Canizales KO’d him.

He got hurt. He quit boxing. He went into boxing PR.

I saw Latin reporters. I saw Latin cornermen. I saw some Anglo press.

The room chowed down. The food was bad. All starch and grease.

I sipped coffee. I listened. I bootjacked conversations.

Male experts dueled. Male experts interrupted. Male experts riffed lore.

I was there. I saw it. Dig my perception.

The honchos hit the dais.

Lou Di Bella. Mr. HBO. State commissioners.

Morales. Barrera. Promoter Bob Arum.

Morales looked calm. Barrera looked drained.

Weight.

Stabilize. Walk at 135. Make 122 by tomorrow.

Weight.

Eating disorders. Boxing’s dirty secret. Cosmo— take note.

Intros went around. Honchos sanctified. Arum worked the mike.

His cheeks glowed. Perfect circles. He Mexicanized.

His kids spoke Spanish. We all should.

Mexicans were great fighters. Mexicans were great people. Mexicans were great fans.

He cited Mexican battles. He overpronounced names.

He coaxed his boys. Speak English, por favor.

Morales spoke. Barrera spoke. They spoke haltingly.

They pledged results. They showed their youth. They oozed dignity.

The gig broke up. Morales and Barrera mingled.

Reporters closed in. Interpreters assisted.

Standard stuff.

Nobody said, “You get my rocks off.”

Nobody said, “You make me feel alive.”

Nobody said, “Nationalism is all shuck-and-jive.”

I thought about youth. I thought about glory. I wondered how brain cells dispersed.

I thought about middle age. I grooved on self-preserving circumspection.

Morales brought some guys. They vibed buddies. Barrera brought some guys. They vibed entourage.

They wore reflecting sweat suits. They waxed sullen. They looked like the Tonton Macoute.

They brought some girls. The girls brought babies.

One baby cried. Mom fed him Pepsi. Mom shut him up.

Bob Arum mingled.

He glowed. His cheeks glowed. His cheeks looked rouged and augmented.

TICKETS SOLD. Mexicans bought them.

They eschewed “Latino.” They eschewed “Chicano.” They were born here. They were born there. They were “Mexican.”

Tickets sold fast. Tickets sold out.

I schmoozed PR flacks. They extolled the demographic.

Working folks. Mexicans. Cognoscenti.

I prowled the Mandalay Bay. I caught the weigh-in.

Barrera looked drained. Barrera looked scared. The Tonton looked apprehensive.

I prowled the casino. I surveilled the ticket booths. I cataloged rumors.

Morales hates Barrera. Barrera hates Morales.

Turf tiff. T.J. versus Mexico City. Class clash. Middle meets moneyed.

They had soccer teams. The Morales Marauders. The Barrera Banditos.

They played. They clashed. The hell-bent jefes almost hurled heat.

My wife flew in. Some friends drove up from L.A.

We viewed a friend’s wedding. We ate in mock cantinas. We strolled mock-Mexican streets.

We polled personnel.

The cognoscenti said walk-through. The starstruck said war.

The fans arrived. Mariachis piped them in.

It got loud.

The walls boomed. The walls trapped noise. The walls echo-chambered.

The fans lugged posters.

Morales. Barrera. Exhortings en español.

Balloons tapped the ceiling. Tricolored all.

A sound system cranked. Mariachi shit exclusive.

The room filled. The room roared. The room vibed bullring.

Fans positioned. Fans waved signs. Fans slugged cerveza.

Factions mingled. Factions placed bets. Total strangers held money.

I sat with the press. I watched the prelims.

They went fast. They went loud. The Mexicans drew cheers. The non-Mexicans drew silence.

TKOs. One decision. One woman’s fight.

I hit the john. I crashed a rehearsal.

A baritone. A prime gig. The Mexican anthem.

We talked fights.

He liked Morales. Barrera was shot.

I bopped back. The noise reignited. I sat with my wife and friends.

A Morales guy flanked me. He was expansive. He was loud.

He waved a roll. He peeled C-notes. He placed bets.

Barrera guys bet him. A neutral popped up. He held the dinero.

A band filed in. Thirteen musicians.

Sombreros. Embroidered threads.

They entered the ring. They played loud. HBO cameras turned.

Fans held signs up. Cameras panned. Signs eclipsed views.

The noise built.

The fighters filed in.

The noise built.

The ring announcer spieled.

He spieled bilingual. He rolled his r’s. He rolled rich and rapt.

The noise built.

That cat sang the Mexican anthem.

The noise built.

The announcer introed the officials. The announcer introed the men.

He ratched his r’s. MoRales extended. BaRReRa rolled long.

The noise built.

The men derobed. They’d added weight. They’d sapped and replenished.

The ref gave instructions. The men touched gloves.

The noise built.

They went to their corners. They knelt. They crossed themselves.

The noise built.

The bell rang.

The noise stratosphered.

They moved. They squared off. They hit center ring.

Morales pops a jab. Barrera hooks to the body. Morales moves back.

Barrera. Fast hands. A shock.

Barrera moves in. He lands a right. He left-hooks downstairs.

Morales moves back. Let’s bait and counter.

Barrera moves in. Barrera cuts off. Barrera double-hooks low.

Fast hands. Shocker. “Shot”—bullshit.

Morales backs up. Morales moves in. They trade right hands.

Morales backs up Barrera. His rights sting.

They square off. They trade. Morales backs up Barrera.

They circle. They pause.

Morales backs up. Let’s bait and counter.

He taps the ropes. Barrera’s on him. They trade hooks at the bell.

The noise built. The noise leveled. The noise leveled loud.

Round 2:

Barrera stalks. Morales jabs.

It’s a range finder. It’s a sizer-up. It’s a reach enhancer.

He’s dancing. He’s on his toes. Barrera closes in.

He lands a left hook. He lands a left/right.

Morales stands firm. Morales steps inside. Morales lands an uppercut. Morales rocks Barrera.

They stand. They trade. They deliver.

Morales has right hands. Morales has uppercuts. Barrera has killer hooks.

They disengage. Barrera moves in. Barrera hooks low.

Morales jabs. Morales moves in. Morales lands lefts and rights. Morales eats hooks.

He’s fighting Barrera’s fight. He’s standing in. He’s taking to give.

He’s fighting close range. He wants to. His work vibes abandon.

He’s pausing. Barrera’s on him. He’s launching hooks.

The bell. Hard to hear. One mini-gong.

The noise built. The noise releveled. The noise releveled loud.

Round 3:

Morales circles. Morales jabs. Barrera lunges. Barrera hits his knees.

He gets up. The ref wipes his gloves. Morales comes on.

Morales jabs. Morales leaves a jab out. Barrera hooks low.

Morales moves back. Barrera stalks. Barrera lands hooks.

Morales moves in. He lands two-handed. He moves back.

Barrera presses.

He misses hooks. He lands hooks.

Morales leans on the ropes. Morales blocks hooks. Morales eats hooks.

Morales spins off. Morales lands two-handed. Barrera spins off. Barrera moves in. Barrera repins Morales.

He lands. He misses.

Morales launches. Barrera launches. They trade fucking wild.

The bell. A beep in a cacophony.

The noise cranked. The noise releveled.

I yelled. My wife yelled. Words went undiscerned.

A sign bopped me. A guy apologized. The Morales fan yelled. I read his lips. He said, “Barrera!”

Round 4:

Barrera stalks. Morales jabs. Morales spins and falls.

He gets up. The ref wipes his gloves.

Breather.

Barrera circles. Morales circles. They’re rubber-band-tight.

Barrera works the body. Morales moves back.

He flurries. He moves. He flurries. His work rate’s up.

They regroup. They’re in sync. They’re synced to stand and deliver.

War. Collaborative. Mexican.

They fight off the ropes. They spin loose. They reverse positions.

It’s wild.

It’s war in sync.

Barrera flurries. Barrera rings the bell.

The crowd stood. The nose releveled. I got the gestalt.

Bipartisanship. National pride. Love inclusive.

It had it even. Morales: punch stats. Barrera: aggression.

I held a piss. My heart fluttered. The noise hurt my head.

Round 5:

They move. They meet. They trade jabs.

Barrera hooks to the body. Barrera plows Morales. Morales hits the ropes.

Morales flurries off. Morales pops Barrera. Morales dominates.

Morales lands rights. Morales staggers Barrera. Morales lands uppercuts.

Barrera wobbles.

I vibe turning point. I vibe wrong.

Morales fades. Morales wings arm shots.

They both weave. They both wing. They both miss.

Barrera comes on. Barrera backs up Morales. Morales taps the ropes.

Barrera fades. Morales wings arm shots. Morales extricates.

They square off. They weave. They circle and stalk.

Sync. Pre-attack mode.

Barrera sucks it up. Barrera pounds Morales. Morales taps the ropes.

Barrera flurries. He’s got juice. Morales fires weak.

The bell. A peep. One heartbeat heard.

I watched the prompters. I got close-ups.

I saw welts. I saw bruises. I saw deadpan will.

Round 6:

Slow-mo now. Save it. Sync the breather.

Jabs. Center ring. Barrera’s lead right.

It’s weak. Morales taps the ropes. He’s weak. He pushes off.

He jabs. He lands. His jab looks weak. His arms look heavy.

Barrera hooks to the body. Barrera hooks twice.

Morales hooks to the body. Morales hooks twice.

They separate. They pause. They breathe.

Barrera lands. A right. A left. Body rockets.

Morales measures. Morales jabs. Morales uppercuts.

Morales stuns Barrera. Morales pushes him back.

The bell. Loud now. Loud against held breath.

Six down. Six to go. My card: three rounds each.

The noise notched down. The noise went hoarse. The noise deleveled.

Round 7:

They meet. They square up tight.

They brush heads. They trade body shots.

They work. They rest. They breathe. They claw at momentum.

Barrera’s stronger. Barrera lands a right.

Morales jerks back. Morales moves back. Morales hits the ropes.

Barrera’s on him. His head’s down. He’s landing combinations.

Morales rests. Morales reaches. Morales rallies back.

He comes off the ropes. He lands a right. He rocks Barrera.

Barrera takes it.

Barrera reaches.

Barrera rallies back.

Barrera rocks Morales.

The crowd yells. The crowd stomps. The crowd outrings the bell.

It was Barrera’s fight. Barrera made Morales fight it. Morales wanted to fight it. Barrera made him. Barrera stamped the ticket. Barrera defined their mutual will.

Round 8:

Barrera moves in. Morales moves back.

They jab. They exchange. Barrera lands a one/two. Barrera rocks Morales.

Morales moves back. Morales hits the ropes. Barrera works the body.

Four shots. Evil. Evil shots back.

Morales shoves off. Morales lands lead rights. Morales lands uppercuts.

Barrera eats shots. Barrera goes low. Barrera lands to the liver.

They stand.

They deliver.

They launch arm shots.

They land and miss.

The noise schizzed on me. The roar went normal. Time schizzed. Three-minute rounds took six seconds.

I checked the prompter. I caught the damage.

Barrera bruised light. Morales bruised dark.

Dark rings. Sharp cheekbones. A ghost effect.

Dark eyes. Both men. Will smashed insensate.

Round 9:

Center ring. Exchanges. Barrera’s advantage.

Morales hits the ropes. Morales flurries. Morales rallies back.

Barrera rallies back. Morales hits the ropes. Morales rallies back.

He finds some snap. He dredged it. Barrera takes it.

Sync:

They’re both fried. They circle. They buy some breath.

Barrera charges. Barrera knocks Morales back.

They both flurry. They both miss. They both land.

They rest. They regroup. They earn breath.

They’re slack. They’re arm-shot. They’re on deficit.

Barrera comes back. Barrera lands. Barrera hurts Morales. Barrera pounds him to the ropes.

The bell rang.

Fans screamed.

Fans screamed “Morales!” Fans screamed “Barrera!”

The syllables blended. The names clashed. The names unified.

Round 10:

Center ring. Wide punches. Misses.

Exhaustion. Bilateral. Cumulative.

They come close. They lean close. They brush heads. They punch way wide.

They breathe. They dredge.

Morales gets air. Morales lands three rights. Morales hurts Barrera.

Barrera sways. Barrera wobbles. Morales loads up.

He’s fried. His tank’s dry. He stands still. He moves back.

They rest. They breathe. They dredge.

Barrera gets air. Barrera gets legs. Barrera drives Morales back.

Morales stands. Morales swings. Barrera swings back.

They’re insensate. They’re on Queer Street. They’re the standing dead.

The bell. A peep in screams.

I checked the prompter. I caught close-ups.

Barrera bled. One sliced bruise. Morales wore black hollows.

Round 11:

They trade jabs. They trade rights. They plant and hold.

Barrera lands body shots. He’s got more pop. Morales lands arm punches.

They lack pop. They hurt anyway. They push back Barrera.

He backpedals. He takes more. He sucks it up.

He shoves Morales. Morales lays back. Morales finds the ropes.

Barrera plows in. They tangle. The ref extricates.

Barrera lands a right. Barrera lands body shots. Morales slides left. Barrera shoves him back. Barrera taps the body.

The bell. Loud again. 360 sound.

I checked my card.

Even at 6. Barrera takes 7 to 9. Morales takes 10. Barrera takes 11.

Barrera—4 points up.

A sign sailed. I saw Morales upside down.

Round 12:

They touch gloves. The crowd stands. It’s respect.

They swarm. They flurry. They catch big breaths.

Morales bounces. Morales moves in. Morales hooks downstairs. Morales backs up Barrera.

Barrera plants and stands. Barrera backs up Morales. Barrera backs him into the ropes.

Morales flurries off. Morales moves back. Morales looks shaky.

Barrera jumps. Barrera lands hooks. They’re close. They tangle. Morales goes down.

It’s a slip. It’s not a knockdown.

Morales took no punch. Morales slid and fell.

The ref rules a knockdown. The round goes 10–8. Miscue and break to Barrera.

Morales gets up. Barrera goes in. Wild punches arc to the bell.

It’s over.

I sat down. My legs caved. My bladder said, “Run.”

The Morales fan slapped my back. I dredged some high-school Spanish. Barrera’s fight. 10–8 to clinch. Insurance past a 10–9.

The Morales fan smiled. Fuck it. Coin comes and goes.

The crowd breathed in. The crowd breathed out. The crowd stood still.

The bell rang. The announcer coaxed applause. The crowd delivered.

The announcer scanned his cards. The announcer delivered.

Judge Duane Ford: 114–113—Barrera.

Judge Carol Castellano: 114–113—Morales.

Judge Dalby Shirley: 115–112—Morales.

The crowd booed. Signs sailed. I saw “Barrera” upside down.

The Morales fan shrugged. The neutral tried to pay him. The Morales fan blew off the money.

Heist.

Dry hump.

Fucking.

Misappropriation.

Consensus thinking.

The WBC.

“World of Bandits and Charlatans.”

The fans reviled the verdict. The fans glowed through it. The fans yelled, “Barrera!”

The crowd walked out. I joined my friends. A chant built. The one word: “Barrera!”

I felt punch-drunk. I felt de-Protestantized.

My dad should have seen it. My dad had perspective. My dad had race and geography.

We walked out. We hit the HBO party. We ate some Mexican food.

The walls leaked sound. Chants crashed the party. The one word: “Barrera!”

We all felt punch-drunk. We ate and split. We roamed the casino.

Jackpot gongs went off. Whoops and red lights.

I peeled my ears. I heard echoes.

“Barrera!”

I saw the Tonton Macoute. They held coin cups. They wore reflecting sweat suits.

They brought their girls. Their girls brought babies.

A baby cried. A girl fed him Coca-Cola.

Where I Get My Weird Shit

IT’S A PUZZLE cube. Memories and conceits snap off inner gears. Images replace colored blocks and click to cohesion. Bar rows connect. Plumb lines appear. You take what you need and what you were and sift it through what you’ve become. You impose order. You lay on some moonshine. If you’re skillful and honest and pure, it all works.

I’m from L.A. My folks hatched me in a cool locale. I checked in at the hospital Bobby Kennedy checked out of. My mother hated Catholics and dug ruthless men. Bobby K. would have rocked her ambivalente.

My birthright mandates a disclaimer:

I viewed L.A. as a native. I never saw it as a strange land chronicled by outside writers. I grew up there. I sifted data and transfigured it kid-style. It was diverse shit. The connecting threads were corruption and obsession. Kiddie noir was my metier. I lived in the film noir epicenter during the film noir era. I developed my own strain of weird shit. It was pure L.A. It was bravura L.A. for one reason: I denied the existence of non-L.A. shit.

Because I’m from there. Because I thought L.A. was everywhere. Because I was that xenophobic and self-absorbed. Because I knew my weird shit was the best weird shit alive. Because you don’t smear your hometown with outside writers’ perceptions. Because L.A.’s weird shit is the best weird shit on earth and I grew up where it flourished prosaic.

My dad worked for Rita Hayworth circa 1950. He told me he poured her the pork. My mom wet-nursed juicehead film stars. My dad was lazy. My mom was workaholic. My dad taught me to read at age four.

I gained access to scandal rags and the Bible. Profligacy and the stern rule of God hound me still. I got man’s schizoid nature young. We lived in West Hollywood. My dad called it the “Swish Alps.” We lived beside a Lutheran church. Proximity made me a Lutheran. Martin Luther torched the world in 1530. Martin Luther reviled the Catholic Church. He blasted its corruption. He disdained its celibate laws. He was horny and craved some fine trim.

Papists took their orders from Rome. My mom said so. I puzzled the logistics. I developed a theory: The Pope spoke through their TV sets.

The Bible featured sex and wall-to-wall carnage. Ditto the scandal rags. Martyrdom and trysts with Rubi Rubirosa. Sex and published smears. My narrative gift incubated. My imagination afire.

My folks split the sheets in ’55. My mom got main custody. I shuttled between them. I studied their separate lives. I logged their separate cultural donations.

My mom drank bourbon highballs. I watched her shape-shift behind booze. She dated men who vibed the film noir psychopath. I caught her in flagrante twice. My dad lurked near the pad and spied on his ex. My mom fed me healthy meals and epic novels. My dad fed me Cheez Whiz and the fights. He taught me to root. I rooted for Mexican fighters over Negroes. I rooted for white fighters first and last.

Race: A ’50s primer. Sex: the big deal above all. The ’50s joke ne plus ultra: I want to find the guy who invented sex and ask him what he’s working on now.

Both parents made me read. Both parents hauled me to flicks. My dad riffed on nympho movie stars. My mom spieled on actors she nursed. She took me to a Martin and Lewis show. A scene portrayed a dog driving a car. It cracked me up for days running. My mom found the reaction extreme. She was enlightened. She took me to a kid shrink.

The shrink was female. She gave me play blocks and probed my eight-year-old mind. She quizzed me per dogs and divorce. I said I liked to read. I said I liked the fights. I said I loooooved to tell myself stories and think.

My therapy lasted three sessions. I caught my mom hobnobbed with the shrink. The gist: I was imaginative and fucked up.

The two-parent shuttle continued. I bopped back and forth and picked up dirt. Rita Hayworth—nympho. Rock Hudson—fruit. Floyd Patterson—cheese champ. Mickey Rooney—satyr. ZaSu Pitts—a sweetheart and a pleasure to nurse.

June ’58 hits the calendar. My Walpurgisnacht goes down. My mother is murdered. The scenario is SEX. The crime goes unsolved.

I went with my dad full-time. He exulted in my mother’s death and tried not to gloat in my presence. My bereavement was complex. I hated and lusted for my mother. Bam—she’s dead. Bam—my imagination finds CRIME.

The fixation sidestepped my mother’s death and locked in on surrogate victims. The Black Dahlia became my murdered woman of choice. Her death-details were savage. They blitzed my mother’s death-details in malign imagery. The Dahlia was my mother rendered hyperbolic and distanced enough to be fantasy-savored. She was my invitation to mourn once-removed and my beckoning to all-time obsession.

I studied Dahlia news clips. I rode my bike to the Dahlia’s dump site. I brain-spun savior stories. I rescued the Dahlia as the killer’s blade arced.

I never posed her story as a novel. I brain-spun the tales for kicks. I did not equate my mother with the Dahlia then. I did not know that her death betrothed me to crime.

I read kids’ crime books. I jumped to Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer. The stories were vindictively anti-Commie. I dug Mike Hammer’s fervor and rage. I was a childhood Red basher. I raged to punish some unseen other. I was stalking my mother’s killer then. I didn’t know it. I didn’t know that I was dredging shit for my own future pages.

My dad let me read for thrills and ignore my homework. My dad let me hoard scandal rags and skin magazines. We watched crime TV shows. My dad knew a costar on 77 Sunset Strip. He said the guy’s wife “flashed her snatch” at him. My dad spoke in non sequiturs. He assumed my sex knowledge. He praised male homos. He said they expanded the pool of fuckable women. He saw groovy quail on the stroll. He always responded thus: “Somebody’s screwing her, and it sure isn’t us.”

He let me learn life void of good-parent intrusion. I did poorly in school and educated myself. I read From Here to Eternity in 1960. Crime merged with social history. I gorged on a life-in-the-raw text. Institutional sadism/the adult laws of sex/young men reared as cannon fodder. Schofield Barracks/Hawaii/1941—a spritz on my All-L.A. World and the spark point of my grandiose kid ambition.

Dig it:

You can do this. You can write big stories. You can become a great writer.

Dig the subtext:

Fuck school. Fuck hard work. Fuck that bromide that you’re french-fried fucked without a high-school diploma. Read, watch crime flicks, bop around L.A. Fantasize and pick your nose and tell yourself stories.

Dig the subtext decoded:

Be lazy. Be slothful. Disdain adult wisdom. Be inflamed with your fatuous new self-knowledge.

My life skills were substandard then. They declined from ’60 on.

I lived to read and fantasize. I shoplifted books, food, and car models. I cruised L.A. on my tacoed-out bike. Dig the gooseneck handlebars and chrome fenders. Check the rhinestone-studded mud flaps. Orb the plastic saddlebags, aaa-ooo-gah horn, and toy tommy gun. Grok the speedometer—it tops out at 150 miles per hour.

I bike-stalked girls. I was a conspicuous stalker. I stalked rich Hancock Park girls and Jewish girls west in Kosher Kanyon. They spotted me by daylight. My taco wagon magnetized and drew yuks. I stalked better by nightfall. I parked and reconnoitered on foot. I peeked windows and glimpsed undies and skin.

I stalked through summer ’61. I detoured to protest gigs and chucked eggs at ban-the-bomb fools. The Berlin Wall ascended. Uncle Sam and the Commos played chicken. A newsman ran a nightly warometer graph. The odds on nuke war soared to 90%. I knew it was curtains. America was fucked. Mike Hammer couldn’t save us from this one. The crisis filled me with nihilistic glee. I was fucked. I would never become a great writer. I could brave fallout and steal books with impunity.

The crisis tapped out. The warometer lied. I grooved a theme—small lives set against big events. Summer ’61 snapshots bipped off a screen in my head.

Bomb-shelter kits on sale in a Christmas-tree lot. The Larchmont Safeway picked clean. Our dipso neighbor stocking up on scotch and cigarettes. Those ban-the-bomb pinkos egged up.

It was history. It was dramatic infrastructure. Memory and conceits connected. I was seeing things. I was sensing things. I was living free and dreaming big. I was indexing big future pages.

Nobody called me bright. Nobody tagged me with bipolar disorder. I was a charmless mini-misanthrope with poor hygiene. I was an egomaniac with cystic acne. I was an acquired taste that no one ever acquired.

I squeaked through junior high and hit high school. Adult life loomed wicked large. Fairfax HS was almost all Jewish. I stood out only as a gentile and bad-skin exemplar. I craved attention. I lacked attention-getting skills. I was a poor student, worse athlete, worse social mover still. Stock losers and teenage lepers shunned me. My loserdom did not conform to adolescent rebellion laws. Stock martyrdom bored me. I disdained the canonized alienation of disaffected kids worldwide. I wanted to promote myself as strictly unique and attract commensurate notice. I was a rebel with self-aggrandizement as cause.

I pondered the dilemma. I hit on a solution. I joined the American Nazi Party. I debuted my führer act in the West L.A. shtetl.

It backfired—and worked.

It got me some attention. It got me recognized as a buffoon. I did not subvert the status quo at Fairfax High School. I did not derail the Jewish hegemony. I passed out hate tracts and “Boat Tickets to Africa.” I anointed myself as the seed bearer of a new master race. I announced my intent to establish a Fourth Reich in Kosher Kanyon. I defamed jigaboos and dug the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. I ragged Martin Luther Coon and hawked copies of “The Nigger’s 23rd Psalm.” I got sneered at, I got laughed at, I got pushed, I got shoved. I developed a sense of politics as vaudeville and got my ass kicked a few times. I learned how to spin narrative and elicit response. I knew that I didn’t hate Negroes or Jews—as long as they comprised a rapt audience. I harbored a warped sense of the early-mid ’60s. I nursed a writer’s feel for timing. I honed my ability to stand tall and eat punches. I learned to front my crazy shit and revel in it as unique.

My Nazi act succeeded and tanked. It moved me, bored me, and vexed me in sync with my audience response. I lived to fantasize and assimilate storylines. Good books and TV fare subsumed my performance art. I flew with shit that clicked real in my gourd.

It’s fall ’63. My dad’s health is fading. Poor nutrition and Lucky Strikes are playing catch-up. Bam—The Fugitive debuts on TV.

It’s pure concept. There’s a small-town doctor. His marriage is fucked up. His wife’s an alcoholic shrew. A one-armed bum B&Es the doc’s pad and snuffs her. The doc gets tagged with the snuff.

He’s tried, convicted, and sentenced to fry. Prissy Lieutenant Gerard takes him to death row. Bam—the train derails. Bam—he’s on the run forever. He’s chasing the one-armed bum. The cop’s chasing him.

The show grabbed me. The show obsessed me. The show messed up my sleep. Dr. Kimble ran. I ran along at warp speed.

There’s Kimble. He’s a slick cat. He’s haunted and twitchy and doomed. He’s isolated like me—but imbued with better looks and hygiene. The cop’s hounding him. The cop’s got some secret agenda. My dad thinks he’s a fruit. He’s a chicken-chasing Charlie at the Hollywood Gold Cup.

Kimble hits numerous towns. They all look like studio lots or L.A. He’s a lightning rod. He attracts sexual discontent and ennui. The grooviest woman in town always finds him.

Real women. Women ripped by loneliness and hunger. Lois Nettleton, Patricia Crowley, Diana Van Der Vlis. Barbara Rush, Sandy Dennis, Madlyn Rhue, Shirley Knight. Suzanne Pleshette, Elizabeth Allen, the great June Harding—the most accomplished TV actresses of the era.

Ooooooh, Daddy-o!!!! They were tripping up my trouser trout triumphant!!!

Kimble was a heat-seeking missile. The women sizzled with longing. Nobody got laid. Exigent circumstances precluded it. Kimble’s sprint was one long dry hump. It was my futile drive for selfhood refracted. The women were my mother transmogrified.

The Fugitive slammed my imagination. Mass-market noir—Tuesday nights at 10:00. Counterpoint to my nutty life and weird public life ascendant.

My dad had a stroke on 11/1/63. I came home from school. I found him weeping and babbling. He was streaked with his own feces and urine.

His condition horrified and repulsed me. I saw his death as my abandonment and my own death decades hence. I started prepping for life solo. I started shutting him out.

He spent three weeks at the VA Hospital. His condition and survival prospects improved. I ditched school every day. I bike-looped L.A. I swiped nudist magazines. I visited my dad. I watched episodes of The Fugitive. They ticked time to the JFK hit. I recall the plotlines and the guest-star women still.

My dad split the VA on hit day. Jack’s death and the attendant hoo-ha bored him. Ditto for me. Fuck Jack. We were Republicans and Protestants. Jack took his orders from Rome. The fruit cop almost nabbed Kimble that Tuesday. Patricia Crowley’s red hair beamed in black-and-white.

MY DAD RETRIEVED IT. My dad blew it anew. I distanced myself. I sabotaged out of his grasp.

He resumed smoking. He resurrected his high-salt/high-fat diet. I ditched school most days. I flunked the 11th grade. I bike-roamed. I watched The Fugitive and read crime novels. I brain-screened crime fantasies. I eyeballed rich girls and their fortyish moms throughout Hancock Park.

Obsession suited me. My self-obsession blinded me to extraneous social trends. America mourned Jack the K. It was fodder for my Nazi shtick and no more. LBJ goosed the Vietnam troop count. I stumped for nuclear war. A store cop detained me for shoplifting. My dad had a heart attack as I sweated custody. The Jack-hit aftermath metastasized. Conspiracy talk bubbled up. My feelers perked. I dug the inherent mystery. I brain-screened Dallas scenarios for Doc Kimble. Jackie Kennedy was June Harding for the poor.

The blur heightened. School became a nonendurable drag. I was seventeen. I was white. “Free” would make it the trifecta. I stepped up my Nazi antics. I got suspended from class for a week. My dad started calling me “you kraut cocksucker.” I painted swastikas on the dog’s dish. My dad wore a Jewish beanie to torment me.

I returned to school. I juiced the escape process. The Folk Song Club met. I regaled and disrupted with a pro-Nazi tune and a chorus of the “Horst Wessel Lied.”

They expelled me. It was midweek in mid-March of 1965. I walked south on Fairfax. I’ve got the details memorized.

The smell outside Canter’s Deli. School kids sneaking cigarettes. The old Jews headed for shul.

I hitched home on Beverly Boulevard. I felt airless and scared. I got a jolt of destiny. High-school dropouts were fucked. I’d better become a great writer fast.

THE NOTION HELD. I stalled the work. My wacked-out education continued.

Future writers hide inside books and snort up the craft by enjoyment. They read and learn structure and style. Their curiosity points them to subject matter. They read to titillate and edify. They scratch the itch to see life revealed. They swing on an I-can-do-this/I-can’t-do-this tether. The novel form awes them. The soapbox aspect entices. A sense of potential accomplishment looms. The novel is autobiography mislabeled. The novel avenges sand kicked in the face and larger and more longstanding trauma. The novel enraptures career losers with justifying visions of self. The novel itemizes and encapsulates experience and contains it within a worldview. The novel takes abstraction and turns it to dramatic incident. The novel makes incident specific and loftily abstract. The novel explicates moral concerns to the novelist himself and reveals them through his dramaturgical choices. The novel bestows a huge ego on the novelist and jerks him to humility concurrent. The novel is a big fucking endeavor. The puzzle-cube aspect of the novelist’s gift always stuns.

Novelists mold memories and conceits. Their images replace colored blocks and click to cohesion. Plumb lines appear. They take what they need and what they were and sift it through what they’ve become. Their voices build off a mute state often nurtured in recklessness and privation.

The novel is a daunting task. It takes some building up to. My prelude took fourteen years.

I dawdled post–high school. I nursed an urge to blow town. My dad let me join the Army. My dad had a second stroke my second day in. I exploited his condition. I faked a nervous breakdown.

The Army scared me shitless. I hated the discipline. I was a craven and seditious faux führer. I did not want to go to Vietnam.

I got an emergency leave. I visited my dad on his deathbed. His last words to me: “Try to pick up every waitress who serves you.”

The Army cut me loose. I was parent- and draft-free at age 17. I got a jolt of destiny. Teenage orphans were fucked. I’d better become a great writer fast.

“Fast” is relative. Fourteen years runs relative against a lifetime. “Great” is relative. It’s often a self-bestowed or posthumous tag.

It was time to live and read. It was time to complete my picaresque education.