Homeboy: A Novel
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Seth Morgan's frenzied, addictive walk on the wild side of 1980s San Francisco When strip-joint barker Joe Speaker unwittingly steals a sixty-nine-carat blue diamond, he becomes enmeshed in a blackmail-and-murder conspiracy that begins with the savage slaying of high-priced call girl Gloria Monday. Suddenly Joe's a wanted man. Hunted by a murderous pimp known as Baby Jewels Moses and a relentless homicide cop named Tarzon, Joe ends up taking the rap and getting sentenced to three years. But it's in prison that the real trouble begins. An adrenaline-pumped, hallucinogenic descent into the lower depths, Homeboy is a tough, eye-opening look at San Francisco during the AIDS epidemic. Part memoir and part richly conceived work of imagination, this gritty, rambunctious novel reads like pure poetry and celebrates an uncommon talent at the height of his storytelling powers.
Dog. The hucklebuckin hambones Afropicked and jerrycurled their cornrows and donned their baddest boneroos; the vatos and street bravos wrapped their cleanest bandannas around Dippity-Doed razorcuts and spitshined their Santa Rosa hightops till they glowed like lamps; the whiteboys splashed on fifi water and groomed their mustaches with toothbrushes and wrapped bandannas around their upper thighs, ceremonial tourniquets. The Q Wing punks and B CAT queens greased on party paint and shimmied into
mixed up with another of my parole clients. I have so many.” JINGLE BELLS Christmas morning broke clear and cold as the bells of Coldwater heralding it. Joe rolled out of his bunk and brewed a cup of coffee with his contraband heating coil, the hottest selling item in the Maintenance Yard. He tuned his radio to the shitkicker station and, humming along to a chickenfried “White Christmas,” pumped hot water into his sink. At least the Boiler Room was manned this holiest of feast days. Joe
eagerly, of La Barba on the prison yard. Si, it was correct that La Barba was in la pinta. But he fell in SoCal lifting from a San Diego gutter drain a kilo of chiva floated under the border through the Tijuana sewer. So La Barba was at Chino now, the Southern Reception Center. Hearing these institutional euphemisms, Joe had to guard against imagining they’d all been admitted to some exclusive resort colony. “And you, ese?” Joe invited the cholo to tell his own Tale. Tool launched into a
with alarm giving way to wary pity. Maybe it was time to put Reilly out to pasture. At least then Gasse wouldn’t have to look at that luxurious silver mane every day. “Hey!” the Warden shouted suddenly. “What happened to your hair? Who cut it?” Grinning abashedly, Reilly rubbed the stubble around his neck and ears. “I had to go to the barber in town. Del Rio got sent to the Hole by the same rookie who gaffled Moonpie up.” “Savage! I want to kill him!” Bloodlust rocketed Gasse to his feet.
arm. “Here come the space cadets.” Approaching the Yard Sally Port down the Mainline marched in lockstep the most menacing military detail Joe had ever seen off the silver screen or outside comicbook covers. They were uniformed in a synthetic quilted armor like black polyester chainmail. It flowed from the bottom rim of their conical helmets, giving them a scifi samurai look. They wore heavy studded gauntlets and kneehigh metalnailed boots that rang sparks down the Mainline. “Christ! They look