From Amazon
Penzler Pick, August 2001: His previous thriller, Heartbreaker, was a smooth slam-dunk of a novel. Now Robert Ferrigno is back with his sixth book--and he's still making it look easy. Those who don't already know Ferrigno's work-- especially fans of Elmore Leonard, Daniel Woodrell, Robert Crais, and Carl Hiaasen looking to broaden their horizons--should check out this tale of sibling rivalry and serial murder in sunny, sinister Los Angeles.
Jimmy Gage, the hero, is a journalist, and a hard-working one. But when he's on the job, he doesn't cover school board meetings, mayoral press conferences, or even Lakers games. If a story doesn't have some angle that can sharpen his skewer, offering new ways to puncture the pompous, satirize the starstruck, or engineer an exposé, he'll move on to the next lurid opportunity. He's also a take-no-prisoners film reviewer, which is the same as being loathed and feared in a town where just about every dental hygienist has a script in turnaround. And in case these responsibilities are not keeping him busy enough, Jimmy writes a column slugged "Media Whore" for his employer, the wholly disreputable SLAP magazine.
Savvy readers probably won't be shocked to find beneath Jimmy Gage's jeering exterior a highly moral guy whose cynicism masks--as cynicism often does--an all-too-vulnerable romantic soul. Unfortunately, when a vicious serial killer calling himself "The Eggman" starts sending Jimmy boastful letters about his crimes, the police see it only as a tabloid tease set up by Jimmy himself.
Flinch is a terrific title for a story in which every character is an antagonist of at least one other. Why is Jimmy Gage sleeping with his brother's wife? And why is his brother making a strange set of Polaroids appear and disappear? Who is going to look away first? Whose self-control is out of control? You'll have to read it to discover the answer. --Otto Penzler
From Publishers Weekly
In this engaging, darkly comic thriller, tabloid journalist Jimmy Gage returns to Los Angeles from a self-imposed exile and finds his ex-girlfriend, Olivia, married to his brother, Jonathan, a polished and philanthropic plastic surgeon. The brothers' absurdly competitive relationship the title of Ferrigno's sixth novel (after The Horse Latitudes) refers to a childhood game in which each tried to make the other flinch is ratcheted up significantly when Jimmy finds Polaroid "splatter shots" of six bodies in Jonathan's possession. Are the people in the pictures the victims of the self-styled serial killer Eggman, who took responsibility for the crimes in a letter to Jimmy? Or are they simply random corpses, part of the "background noise" of contemporary L.A.? A huge cast of quirky, interesting characters, multiple story lines and an indelible setting contemporary Los Angeles with its "blank sensuality and lubricious greed" contribute to the densely patterned mosaic of this always entertaining and often riveting novel. Ferrigno is a great interpreter of L.A., a city of manufactured dreams and unbridled ambition, and an incisive critic of its popular culture. Scenes and characters bristle with energy, and the conflict between the brothers is real and compelling. Ferrigno may bite off more than he can chew at times the tangled plot sometimes obscures the drama, and the mesh linking all the elements could be more tightly woven. Still, the expansive canvas, spot-on characterizations, excellent prose and incisive dialogue will please those readers who like their mysteries more complex and ambitious than the average work of genre fiction. Agent, Mary Evans. 15-city author tour.
Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
Ferrigno's sixth novel (after Heartbreaker) follows an eccentric cast of characters through the gritty underbelly of Southern California. Jimmy Gage returns to Los Angeles after a year in Europe to find that he can't escape his past. Still at large is the Eggman, a serial killer who destroyed Jimmy's credibility as a journalist. The people Jimmy wronged are out for revenge and closing in fast, and Jimmy finds the woman he loved now married to his brother a successful plastic surgeon and Jimmy's main suspect in the Eggman case. It's up to Jimmy to catch the killer while watching his own back and nursing a broken heart. This thriller is slow to start, the plot and subplot have little to do with each other, and most of the action takes place in the past. Yet Ferrigno redeems the novel with his ability to develop memorable characters, believable dialog, and dark humor. His characters crackle with intensity, and fans of Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen will appreciate his style. Recommended for large public libraries. Emily Doro, "Library Journal"
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Booklist
*Starred Review* Ferrigno's ferocious portrait of L.A. is the linchpin of this riveting thriller featuring the preternaturally cool Jimmy Gage, a reporter for the abrasive tabloid Slap. Here's Jimmy on spotting an insane West Coast trend: "Next month the nasty-cool thing would be cockfighting, and the richies would be pontificating about titanium heel spurs over drinks and yellowfin at the Five Feet Cafe." Jimmy's cynical, knowing patter can't hide the fact that he is a loyal friend and a devoted lover--even when the friend is overextended and always in trouble, and even when the lover is now married to his wealthy brother. Deep-seated sibling rivalry drives the plot--in his brother's secret hiding spot, Jimmy discovers Polaroid shots of the victims of a serial killer dubbed the Eggman. Is his brother a murderer? Is his marriage to Jimmy's ex-girlfriend merely another move in the head games they've been playing with each other all their lives? In many ways, the plot of this novel merely serves as a framework within which Ferrigno crafts superb characterizations of unusual depth; highly intelligent, rapid-fire dialogue; and, most impressively, his apocalyptic vision of L.A., where the rock bands sport names like O. J.'s Knife and even the sunshine seems menacing. Joanne Wilkinson
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Review
Praise for Robert Ferrigno
“Ferrigno can make you afraid, he can make you laugh, and he can keep you turning the pages.”
—Washington Post Book World
“A hard-swinging Southern California writer . . . Ferrigno has a gift for creating confrontations of high impact and his dialogue bites hard . . . Like other inheritors of the Hammett-Chandler-Ross MacDonald
private-eye tradition, Ferrigno balances the tough doings with a strong sense of moral outrage and compassion.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“What is distinctive about Ferrigno’s gripping action is that it is often set in a natural world whose appeal he makes the reader vividly feel.”
—New York Times
“Every few years another writer is described as the next Raymond
Chandler, but Ferrigno may be the real thing. [He] doesn’t craft elegant thrillers that peak precisely where you figure they’re going to; his just keep blowing up in your face. You can’t second-guess Ferrigno or
predict where he’s going.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Ferrigno’s crime plotting is terrific, but what’s most appealing is his photographic eye for L.A. life.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Ferrigno can make you afraid, he can make you laugh, and he can keep you turning the pages.”
—Washington Post Book World
“A hard-swinging Southern California writer . . . Ferrigno has a gift for creating confrontations of high impact and his dialogue bites hard . . . Like other inheritors of the Hammett-Chandler-Ross MacDonald
private-eye tradition, Ferrigno balances the tough doings with a strong sense of moral outrage and compassion.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“What is distinctive about Ferrigno’s gripping action is that it is often set in a natural world whose appeal he makes the reader vividly feel.”
—New York Times
“Every few years another writer is described as the next Raymond
Chandler, but Ferrigno may be the real thing. [He] doesn’t craft elegant thrillers that peak precisely where you figure they’re going to; his just keep blowing up in your face. You can’t second-guess Ferrigno or
predict where he’s going.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Ferrigno’s crime plotting is terrific, but what’s most appealing is his photographic eye for L.A. life.”
—Chicago Tribune
From the Back Cover
Praise for Robert Ferrigno
“Ferrigno can make you afraid, he can make you laugh, and he can keep you turning the pages.”
—Washington Post Book World
“A hard-swinging Southern California writer . . . Ferrigno has a gift for creating confrontations of high impact and his dialogue bites hard . . . Like other inheritors of the Hammett-Chandler-Ross MacDonald
private-eye tradition, Ferrigno balances the tough doings with a strong sense of moral outrage and compassion.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“What is distinctive about Ferrigno’s gripping action is that it is often set in a natural world whose appeal he makes the reader vividly feel.”
—New York Times
“Every few years another writer is described as the next Raymond
Chandler, but Ferrigno may be the real thing. [He] doesn’t craft elegant thrillers that peak precisely where you figure they’re going to; his just keep blowing up in your face. You can’t second-guess Ferrigno or
predict where he’s going.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Ferrigno’s crime plotting is terrific, but what’s most appealing is his photographic eye for L.A. life.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Ferrigno can make you afraid, he can make you laugh, and he can keep you turning the pages.”
—Washington Post Book World
“A hard-swinging Southern California writer . . . Ferrigno has a gift for creating confrontations of high impact and his dialogue bites hard . . . Like other inheritors of the Hammett-Chandler-Ross MacDonald
private-eye tradition, Ferrigno balances the tough doings with a strong sense of moral outrage and compassion.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“What is distinctive about Ferrigno’s gripping action is that it is often set in a natural world whose appeal he makes the reader vividly feel.”
—New York Times
“Every few years another writer is described as the next Raymond
Chandler, but Ferrigno may be the real thing. [He] doesn’t craft elegant thrillers that peak precisely where you figure they’re going to; his just keep blowing up in your face. You can’t second-guess Ferrigno or
predict where he’s going.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Ferrigno’s crime plotting is terrific, but what’s most appealing is his photographic eye for L.A. life.”
—Chicago Tribune
About the Author
Robert Ferrigno is the author of five previous novels, including Heartbreaker and The Horse Latitudes. He lives with his family in the Pacific Northwest.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
"Never take a woman on vacation to someplace where the cockroaches are bigger than your dick," said Jimmy, scratching away at his reporter's notepad.
"We went to Costa Rica, man, land of enchantment," said Rollo.
"The land of enchantment is New Mexico," Jimmy corrected him, raising his voice over the cheers from the crowd. "Costa Rica is the land where your date rips off your bankroll and passport, then ditches you eighty miles from a phone."
Not that Jimmy was in any position to give advice. Rollo's brief vacation might have left him broke and desperate, but Jimmy himself had just gotten back after a ten-month absence that had been even more disastrous. He had quit his job at SLAP without giving notice, quit everything else, too, leaving Olivia with less notice than he gave his landlord. Most people thought he'd been reeling from the Eggman fiasco, burning bridges in his haste to get out of town, but Rollo knew better. Jimmy was surprised he hadn't asked to come with him.
"You still staying with the cop?" asked Rollo. "I don't think Desmond likes me, man. That one time I was over, he gave me a look like he wanted to frisk me."
"Desmond is a good judge of character," said Jimmy, watching Blaine the Robo-Surfer strut stiffly around the ring in a victory lap, the young wrestler grimacing in genuine pain, blood pouring down the side of his face. He was a blond behemoth in knee-length Aussie-print jams, silvery duct tape wrapped around his bulging biceps, power dials drawn crudely onto his shaved chest with orange Magic Marker. One hand held his ear in place from where the Kongo Kid had practically torn it off, trying to show off for the chubby ring girl. While the Robo-Surfer completed his glory circuit, the Kongo Kid was carried out on a stretcher to a chorus of boos. The ring girl adjusted her gold lamé bikini top in the far corner, oblivious to it all.
"Look at that ear." Rollo pushed back his black-framed glasses; he was a nervous nineteen-year-old with flyaway hair, a braided hemp necklace, and a scraggly soul patch under his lower lip. "Oh man, I am so fucked."
Jimmy and Rollo had met about three years before, after Rollo sent him a series of vicious but well-reasoned critiques of his movie reviews, plus a couple of petite mal?inducing animated shorts that he'd made for his tenth-grade media studies class. Rollo should have been studying filmmaking at USC by now, should have been churning out scripts or interning at Fox, but instead he chose to hustle hot electronic gear from the back of his VW van, using the profits to finance interminable documentaries on mall walkers and carpet installers that couldn't even get screened at Slamdance, let alone Sundance. Rollo was always overextended, always over budget, always in trouble. He was Jimmy's best friend.
"No way is Blaine going to talk to me with his ear thashed," complained Rollo. "All he's going to care about is Does it look infected and should he get a rabies shot and--"
"Stop sweating on me," said Jimmy, scribbling notes while watching the ring girl clomp around the ring in her high heels and baby fat, holding up an ARE WE HAVING FUN YET? sign. He was thirty-six years old, loose and lanky as a colt, wearing black jeans and a billowy gray checked shirt that resembled a TV test pattern circa 1955. The ring girl stepped around the spattered blood on the canvas, her smile faltering, and Jimmy stopped writing. There was nothing about her that was even vaguely reminiscent of Olivia, nothing but that uneasy smile, a brave smile, trying to tough it out. It was enough.
Olivia had been in the middle of a sweet dream the morning he left for the airport, a half smile on her face as she slept, one bare brown leg outside the sheets. The cab was already out front, but he had lingered in the doorway to the bedroom, watching her in the warm light, her hair spread out across the pillow, lips parted, as though about to say something, maybe ask him to stay. Ten months later and he still wondered what would have happened if she had awakened.
"You listening to me, Jimmy?"
The ring announcer climbed through the ropes, thumped the microphone, Testing, testing, one-two-three, but Jimmy's chest was pounding so loudly he barely heard it.
Club wrestling had come to southern California this Sunday afternoon, Retro Wrestling, an unapologetic blend of semipro contestants, unscripted violence, and net-stocking cocktail service. The cheap seats overflowed with accountants and frat boys, WWF cable potatoes looking for live-action body-slams. The plush ringside seats of the Big Orange Arena were reserved for richies slumming the latest trend: ash-blond yacht-club wives with smooth, bare arms and cigar-club morons with florid faces and thick fingers, mouths full of Stone Cold Steve Austin trivia and the exact height of the late, great Andre the Giant. Next month the nasty-cool thing could be cockfighting, and the richies would be name-dropping their favorite bird at the Monday-morning sales meeting, pontificating about titanium heel spurs over drinks and yellowfin at the Five Feet Café.
"Jimmy? Lose the fugue state, man." Rollo fumbled in his oversize black trench coat--a baby-faced brainiac who could play complete chess games in his head but couldn't use a self-serve gas pump without splashing his shoes. He finally pulled out a Palm Pilot speckled with pocket lint. "I was going to give this to Blaine as a peace offering, ask him to put in a good word for me with Pilar." He pulled off a Certs that was stuck to the case. "Now I don't know if--"
"Yeah, Blaine probably can't wait to E-mail his senator or access his on-line stock portfolio." Jimmy deftly caught the Palm Pilot as it slipped from Rollo's grasp, then tucked it back into his trench coat. "You'd do better with an autographed photo of the Rock and a lifetime subscription to Muscle Mania."
Rollo bundled the trench coat around himself. "I should never have come here tonight anyway. You shouldn't be here, either. I saw Great White when I first came in, that big fucker gliding around on the other side of the arena, and I half expected to hear the theme from Jaws. I don't think he spotted me, but--"
"If you saw him, he saw you."
Rollo shivered. "Sometimes when Great White looks at me . . . I think maybe he can read my mind."
"If that were true, you'd be dead already. We both would." Jimmy checked the crowd, barely moving his head. "Don't worry, the pure of heart have nothing to fear."
Rollo wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "What's that got to do with you or me?"
Jimmy grinned.
"Go ahead, make with the happy face--you got luck, what do you care?" Rollo burrowed deeper into the trench coat. "Me, I was born under the sign of fucked-up-and-fucked-over. Jimmy walks through a shitstorm and never gets wet. Meanwhile, back at the motorcade, Rollo takes a five-point-five-six-millimeter slug to the head, a hot shot from the grassy knoll."
"You're no JFK," said Jimmy. "I see you more like Jackie O, lunging for the rear bumper, making that percentage move out of the range of fire." He saw sweat rolling past Rollo's eyebrows. "If you're so worried about Great White, why are you here?"
"You're here, aren't you? I figure you know what you're doing."
"Since when?"
Rollo tugged at his lower lip as if he were pulling open a trap door. "Great White and Macklen, those two are last year's paranoia, over and done with. But Pilar, she's a right-here, right-now problem."
Jimmy looked up as crumpled dollar bills rained onto the canvas from the balcony. The ring girl bent down to scoop them up, and a party of drunken attorneys hooted and waved their neckties at her cleavage. "How much do you owe her?"
"More than I can borrow from you." Rollo pushed back his glasses again. "That's why I took a chance on coming here tonight. I figured I'd link up with Blaine in the dressing room afterward, ask him to talk to her for me--"
"Blaine is useless. You need to talk to Pilar direct."
"Pilar's been waiting for me to mess up longer than my guidance counselor. I go to see her . . ." Rollo shook his head. "It's like the roach motel, man: Rollo walks in, but he don't walk out. You've been gone, Jimmy. Things have changed."
"I hope so."
"No, man, things have changed for the worse. You remember that skateboarder Pilar had hawking tie-dyed yoga pants in Venice? He shorted her a few times, so she had Blaine cut off one of his pinkie fingers with pruning clippers. How bogus is that?"
"Pilar is just trying to scare you."
"I seen the finger, Jimmy. She keeps it in an olive jar on her coffee table, which is totally uncool." Rollo licked his lips. They both knew what was coming. "Can you help me? Pilar likes you."
"Pilar doesn't like anyone."
"Well . . . you're as close as she gets."
Jimmy checked the crowd, barely moving his head. He thought he had seen Great White before, too. "I'll talk to her."
Rollo sighed, looking even younger in his relief. The crowd hooted as the announcer introduced the Jackal, a beefy man in Kmart jungle-print briefs who sprinted down the aisle and awkwardly dove into the ring. "I'm out of here," Rollo said.
"Move slowly," said Jimmy, drowned out by the cheers for Blind Man Munz--Munz paunchy in baggy tights, dark glasses perched on his nose, tap-tap-tapping his way to the ring with a white cane. Jimmy waited until Rollo had disappeared into the crowd, then he eased over to the entrance to the VIP section and snagge...
"Never take a woman on vacation to someplace where the cockroaches are bigger than your dick," said Jimmy, scratching away at his reporter's notepad.
"We went to Costa Rica, man, land of enchantment," said Rollo.
"The land of enchantment is New Mexico," Jimmy corrected him, raising his voice over the cheers from the crowd. "Costa Rica is the land where your date rips off your bankroll and passport, then ditches you eighty miles from a phone."
Not that Jimmy was in any position to give advice. Rollo's brief vacation might have left him broke and desperate, but Jimmy himself had just gotten back after a ten-month absence that had been even more disastrous. He had quit his job at SLAP without giving notice, quit everything else, too, leaving Olivia with less notice than he gave his landlord. Most people thought he'd been reeling from the Eggman fiasco, burning bridges in his haste to get out of town, but Rollo knew better. Jimmy was surprised he hadn't asked to come with him.
"You still staying with the cop?" asked Rollo. "I don't think Desmond likes me, man. That one time I was over, he gave me a look like he wanted to frisk me."
"Desmond is a good judge of character," said Jimmy, watching Blaine the Robo-Surfer strut stiffly around the ring in a victory lap, the young wrestler grimacing in genuine pain, blood pouring down the side of his face. He was a blond behemoth in knee-length Aussie-print jams, silvery duct tape wrapped around his bulging biceps, power dials drawn crudely onto his shaved chest with orange Magic Marker. One hand held his ear in place from where the Kongo Kid had practically torn it off, trying to show off for the chubby ring girl. While the Robo-Surfer completed his glory circuit, the Kongo Kid was carried out on a stretcher to a chorus of boos. The ring girl adjusted her gold lamé bikini top in the far corner, oblivious to it all.
"Look at that ear." Rollo pushed back his black-framed glasses; he was a nervous nineteen-year-old with flyaway hair, a braided hemp necklace, and a scraggly soul patch under his lower lip. "Oh man, I am so fucked."
Jimmy and Rollo had met about three years before, after Rollo sent him a series of vicious but well-reasoned critiques of his movie reviews, plus a couple of petite mal?inducing animated shorts that he'd made for his tenth-grade media studies class. Rollo should have been studying filmmaking at USC by now, should have been churning out scripts or interning at Fox, but instead he chose to hustle hot electronic gear from the back of his VW van, using the profits to finance interminable documentaries on mall walkers and carpet installers that couldn't even get screened at Slamdance, let alone Sundance. Rollo was always overextended, always over budget, always in trouble. He was Jimmy's best friend.
"No way is Blaine going to talk to me with his ear thashed," complained Rollo. "All he's going to care about is Does it look infected and should he get a rabies shot and--"
"Stop sweating on me," said Jimmy, scribbling notes while watching the ring girl clomp around the ring in her high heels and baby fat, holding up an ARE WE HAVING FUN YET? sign. He was thirty-six years old, loose and lanky as a colt, wearing black jeans and a billowy gray checked shirt that resembled a TV test pattern circa 1955. The ring girl stepped around the spattered blood on the canvas, her smile faltering, and Jimmy stopped writing. There was nothing about her that was even vaguely reminiscent of Olivia, nothing but that uneasy smile, a brave smile, trying to tough it out. It was enough.
Olivia had been in the middle of a sweet dream the morning he left for the airport, a half smile on her face as she slept, one bare brown leg outside the sheets. The cab was already out front, but he had lingered in the doorway to the bedroom, watching her in the warm light, her hair spread out across the pillow, lips parted, as though about to say something, maybe ask him to stay. Ten months later and he still wondered what would have happened if she had awakened.
"You listening to me, Jimmy?"
The ring announcer climbed through the ropes, thumped the microphone, Testing, testing, one-two-three, but Jimmy's chest was pounding so loudly he barely heard it.
Club wrestling had come to southern California this Sunday afternoon, Retro Wrestling, an unapologetic blend of semipro contestants, unscripted violence, and net-stocking cocktail service. The cheap seats overflowed with accountants and frat boys, WWF cable potatoes looking for live-action body-slams. The plush ringside seats of the Big Orange Arena were reserved for richies slumming the latest trend: ash-blond yacht-club wives with smooth, bare arms and cigar-club morons with florid faces and thick fingers, mouths full of Stone Cold Steve Austin trivia and the exact height of the late, great Andre the Giant. Next month the nasty-cool thing could be cockfighting, and the richies would be name-dropping their favorite bird at the Monday-morning sales meeting, pontificating about titanium heel spurs over drinks and yellowfin at the Five Feet Café.
"Jimmy? Lose the fugue state, man." Rollo fumbled in his oversize black trench coat--a baby-faced brainiac who could play complete chess games in his head but couldn't use a self-serve gas pump without splashing his shoes. He finally pulled out a Palm Pilot speckled with pocket lint. "I was going to give this to Blaine as a peace offering, ask him to put in a good word for me with Pilar." He pulled off a Certs that was stuck to the case. "Now I don't know if--"
"Yeah, Blaine probably can't wait to E-mail his senator or access his on-line stock portfolio." Jimmy deftly caught the Palm Pilot as it slipped from Rollo's grasp, then tucked it back into his trench coat. "You'd do better with an autographed photo of the Rock and a lifetime subscription to Muscle Mania."
Rollo bundled the trench coat around himself. "I should never have come here tonight anyway. You shouldn't be here, either. I saw Great White when I first came in, that big fucker gliding around on the other side of the arena, and I half expected to hear the theme from Jaws. I don't think he spotted me, but--"
"If you saw him, he saw you."
Rollo shivered. "Sometimes when Great White looks at me . . . I think maybe he can read my mind."
"If that were true, you'd be dead already. We both would." Jimmy checked the crowd, barely moving his head. "Don't worry, the pure of heart have nothing to fear."
Rollo wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "What's that got to do with you or me?"
Jimmy grinned.
"Go ahead, make with the happy face--you got luck, what do you care?" Rollo burrowed deeper into the trench coat. "Me, I was born under the sign of fucked-up-and-fucked-over. Jimmy walks through a shitstorm and never gets wet. Meanwhile, back at the motorcade, Rollo takes a five-point-five-six-millimeter slug to the head, a hot shot from the grassy knoll."
"You're no JFK," said Jimmy. "I see you more like Jackie O, lunging for the rear bumper, making that percentage move out of the range of fire." He saw sweat rolling past Rollo's eyebrows. "If you're so worried about Great White, why are you here?"
"You're here, aren't you? I figure you know what you're doing."
"Since when?"
Rollo tugged at his lower lip as if he were pulling open a trap door. "Great White and Macklen, those two are last year's paranoia, over and done with. But Pilar, she's a right-here, right-now problem."
Jimmy looked up as crumpled dollar bills rained onto the canvas from the balcony. The ring girl bent down to scoop them up, and a party of drunken attorneys hooted and waved their neckties at her cleavage. "How much do you owe her?"
"More than I can borrow from you." Rollo pushed back his glasses again. "That's why I took a chance on coming here tonight. I figured I'd link up with Blaine in the dressing room afterward, ask him to talk to her for me--"
"Blaine is useless. You need to talk to Pilar direct."
"Pilar's been waiting for me to mess up longer than my guidance counselor. I go to see her . . ." Rollo shook his head. "It's like the roach motel, man: Rollo walks in, but he don't walk out. You've been gone, Jimmy. Things have changed."
"I hope so."
"No, man, things have changed for the worse. You remember that skateboarder Pilar had hawking tie-dyed yoga pants in Venice? He shorted her a few times, so she had Blaine cut off one of his pinkie fingers with pruning clippers. How bogus is that?"
"Pilar is just trying to scare you."
"I seen the finger, Jimmy. She keeps it in an olive jar on her coffee table, which is totally uncool." Rollo licked his lips. They both knew what was coming. "Can you help me? Pilar likes you."
"Pilar doesn't like anyone."
"Well . . . you're as close as she gets."
Jimmy checked the crowd, barely moving his head. He thought he had seen Great White before, too. "I'll talk to her."
Rollo sighed, looking even younger in his relief. The crowd hooted as the announcer introduced the Jackal, a beefy man in Kmart jungle-print briefs who sprinted down the aisle and awkwardly dove into the ring. "I'm out of here," Rollo said.
"Move slowly," said Jimmy, drowned out by the cheers for Blind Man Munz--Munz paunchy in baggy tights, dark glasses perched on his nose, tap-tap-tapping his way to the ring with a white cane. Jimmy waited until Rollo had disappeared into the crowd, then he eased over to the entrance to the VIP section and snagge...
