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established fact and half…heard scandal and whispered innuendo。 It was the world of horror I had first glimpsed the day my mother died。
It was Mickey Cohen and his henchman Johnny Stompanato。 It was 〃Hush…Hush〃 magazine； my stand…in for 〃Confidential〃。 It was sex shakedowns and perverts modeled on Stephen Nash and Harvey Glatman。 It was the 〃Bloody Christmas〃 police…brutality scandal and the twisted story of a theme park disingenuously disguised to remind readers of Disneyland。
〃L。A。 Confidential〃 was conceived and executed as a large…scale novel。 It was not written with an eye toward movie adaptation。 I did not expect it to bushwhack me six years after its publication。
I read the screenplay。 Two writers had taken my milieu； my characters； and a good deal of my dialogue and fashioned their L。A。 world within my L。A。 worlds。
I walked into the wood…frame house。 I was entering their visual world now。 I passed the bedroom where the woman would be gagged and bound with neckties。 I found Curtis Hanson framing a shot in the living room。
He saw me and smiled。 He said； 〃What do you think？〃
I said； 〃It looks inspired。〃
I had dinner with Hanson that night。 We met at our mutual favorite restaurant。
The Pacific Dining Car is a swanky steak pit on the edge of downtown L。A。 It's been there since 1 921。 It's dark and wood paneled。 It's a self…contained time warp in a city of time warps and dark continuums。
Hanson's uncle Jack brought him to the Car for steak dinners that his father couldn't afford。 My father brought me to the Car on my tenth birthday； in 1958。 I met my wife at the Car。 A minister married us a few yards from my favorite booth。
I sat down in the booth and stretched my legs。 I was exhausted。
I'd watched Bud White shoot the rape…o two dozen times。 I'd watched Hanson refine and perfect the scene。 I felt dispersed。 I was losing track of all my L。A。's。
Hanson showed up a few minutes later。 A waiter brought us our drinks automatically。
We discussed the day's shooting and the thematic shifts between my novel and his film。 Our conversation drifted back to L。A。 in the '5os and the dark corners we had peered into as children。
I said； 〃There's a phrase that puts it nicely。〃
Hanson said； 〃Tell me。〃
I said； 〃L。A。： e on vacation； go home on probation。〃
Hanson laughed and said； 〃It's inspired。〃
October 1997
LET'S TWIST AGAIN
Seasons of grace e and go。 People never designate them in th moment。 They look back individually or en masse and imposc narrative lines。 It all es down to what you had and what you lost。
The lines apply to nations； cities； and people。 Kodachrome snapshots offset them。 Faded colors send out a glow。 Gooey music fills in the rest of the picture and tells you what to think。
It was better then。 We were better then。 I was younger then。
It's specious stuff all the way。 It's schmaltzy hindsight built from verisimilitude。 It obfuscates more than it enlightens。 There's just enough hard truth in it to keep it running strong。
One season defines the whole mind…set。 A formal name denotes it。 Knights and maidens in a savage time。 A three…hanky weeper on stage； screen； and CD。
A corny musical and a worn…out media concept。 With a threepoint intersection running soft and sure in my head。
I had my own Camelot。 It ran concurrent with the Broadway show and Jack Kennedy's spin in the White House。 I lived in a dive apartment with my pussy…hound father and our unhousebroken dog。 I had a fancifully corrupted mind and poor social skills。 I had a Schwinn Corvette with gooseneck handlebars； chrome fenders； rhinestone…studded mud flaps； fringed saddlebags； and a speedometer that topped out at 150 miles per hour。 I had a great city to roam and a shitload of kid lore to assimilate。
Our pad straddled Hancock Park and lower Hollywood。 To the south and southwest： Tudor castles； French chateaus； and Spanish haciendas。 To the north： small houses and studio back lots。 To the east： wood…frame cribs and apartment dumps on a hilly plumb line downtown。
My beat covered Hollywood to Darktown。 The southern border was a race line that white kids never crossed。 It was pre…riot L。A。 L。A。 was pre…hysteric。 Parents told their kids not to stray south of Pico and let the little flickers roam。
I started roaming at age i i。 It was summer I had to start junior high in September。 It scared the shit out of me。
I bike…roamed。 I shoplifted books and candy bars。 I ran into strange kids in bike cliques and picked up information。
How this girl popped some Spanish fly and impaled herself on a shift knob。 How Hitler was still alive。 The word on aspirin and Coke。 The word on Liberace and Rock Hudson。 The word on your local junior high schools。
Le Conte Junior High； AXA 〃Le Cunt〃： Coool guys。 Fast girls。 Partyville； U。S。A。 A breeding ground for studs in the 〃Lochinvars〃 and 〃Celts。〃 Be cool or stay out。
Virgil Junior High： Full of cholos with Sir Guy shirts and slitbottomed khakis。
King Junior High： Full ofJaps and creeps from Silverlakethe 〃Swish Alps。〃 Lots of homos who wore green on Thursdays。
Louis Pasteur Junior High： Full of uppity spooks who thought they were white。
Berendo Junior High： Danger zone。 Pachuco rumbles。 Full of Catholic girls who smoked Maryjane and had babies out of wedlock。
Mount Vernon Junior High； AKA 〃Mount Vermin；〃 AKA 〃Mau…Maunt Vernon〃： Niggerland； U。S。A。 Beware！ Beware！ Frequent homicides and race riots on campus。
I was slated to attend John Burroughs Junior High； AKA 〃J。B。〃 I asked about it。 Nobody had a riff down pat。
I spent three years at J 。B。 It was the buffer zone between my dark childhood and bleak postadolescence。 J。B。 was Camelot writ small and contained and unimpaired by hokey images of lost innocence to e。 It was my taste of earned privilege and potent destiny and the unacknowledged secret pulse of my wild L。A。 trip。
J。B。 stood at 6th and McCadden。 It was the southwest edge of Hancock Park。 Kosher Canyon kicked in a few blocks away。 J。B。 divided two diverse and significant hunks of Central L。A。
Pedigreed goys and big…ass homes to the east。 Hard…scrabbling Jews in duplex pads and stucco huts to the west。 A legacy of entrenchment and a prophecy of powerful emergence。 A contentious demographic。 Two gene pools programmed to spawn swift kids。
J。B。 was red brick and built to last。 The main building and north building were contiguous and joined at an L…shaped juncture。 Offices and classrooms covered two floors linked by wide stairwells。
The main building adjoined a large auditorium。 A blacktop athletic field stretched south to Wilshire。 Shop bungalows and two gyms abutted the main and north buildings perpendicularly。 They enclosed the 〃Lunch Court〃a paved space dotted with benches and green…and…gold trash cans。
J。B。 was named after a dead guy who fucked around with plants or soybeans。 Nobody stressed his acplishments or gave him much play as an icon。 He was stale bread。
The student body was 8o％ Jewish。 I didn't know from Jews。 My father called them 〃Pork Dodgers。〃 My Lutheran pastor called them plicit in the famous Jesus Christ homicide