Homeboy: A Novel

Homeboy: A Novel

Seth Morgan

Language: English

Pages: 430

ISBN: 1504005880

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


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.

The Boys From Siam (Yale Drama Series)

The Poisoned Crown (The Accursed Kings, Book 3)

Why I Committed Suicide

The Infernal Machine and Other Plays

The Chinese Wall: A Farce

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

parked cars. A slow fat rain began to fall, muddying splotches of oil here and there on the concrete. It was growing dark. Over his shoulder he heard the uneven fall of McGee’s boots. He reached his car, unlocked it. He climbed in, snatching the harness over his shoulder. Before he could close the door, McGee grabbed it. “This is a state reservation, Lieutenant. Not only aint you got jurisdiction, you aint got no right to verbally assault a correctional officer.” Tarzon regretted not retrieving

understood them to say he had shredded his blanket, stuffing it between the door and its jamb so there wasn’t enough play to turn the lock’s tumblers. They used sledgehammers to break the lock. He sang “Peace in the Valley,” metering the hymn to the strike and rumble of iron. Louder and louder, big eyes rolled up to home until the box was breached and wildly milling clubs felled him from the port, spraying it with his blood. No easy ways out the back door even of Z-3. Then they cracked Joe’s own

reticulated with tattoos. “No Hollywood showers in the jailhouse!” crowed Smoothbore. The drifter jumped from beneath his showerhead and grabbed two towels from the steel table. Brows raised meaningfully, he shook one in warning at Joe. “Dude’s got more than whore splash comin,” Joe growled, still locked on that impenetrable stare. It took all his heart to pretend he was ready to fight for an extra minute in the pelting spray. Casually he stepped dripping from the stall and took the towel. “All

He stared around, wildeyed. A black jumped back and hollered—“Whoa! I dint sentence yuh, homey.” Back in the tank, Smoothbore was showing Clovis how to fold and weave empty cigaret packs into a picture frame. It was an indigenous jailhouse art, as sacred as lying. Smoothbore was more adept with silver foil than what he called his silver tongue. “The real trick is closing the square, tucking the last pack into the first,” the drifter schooled the punk. Joe stood nearby, staring at his image in

Galveston was only a threat; the last place she’d go broke and pregnant was home to Papa’s brutalities. Alone, she’d take her chances on the streets, but she couldn’t gamble with the life within her. To avenge the crack about Joe, she grudgefucked Dan. Doggystyle, she wrung expert snapper muscles slamming it shut like elevator doors, so he went limp trying to push in. An old hooker’s trick to keep the little boy in every man strapped to his psychic trainer toilet. In the dark she patted his

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