7:13 p.m.

War fever.

The prelims went by, ignored. The national anthem got more applause than all three bouts. A huge flag cinched to a girder fluttered above the ring. The Olympic Auditorium buzzed. Nobody talked boxing. Everybody talked war.

Conversations were impossible; it was just that loud. People talked to one another and at one another, regardless. We were here to be with other people and mark this moment. We were Americans out on the town. We were jazzed up, indignant and proud.

Scotty and I sat four rows back from ringside. Mexican bantamweights held no interest for us. We kept our heads together and whispered; I held Scotty’s arm while he rested a hand on my knee.

We spent the day on the Federal Building steps and around the corner at the cafeteria. We traded personal anecdotes and came to the aid of a young Japanese man trying to enlist. Scotty secured his Marine Corps papers. I got a glimpse of Captain William H. Parker and waved him off imperiously.

The man was a rankling presence now. Elmer Jackson had succinctly indicted him. Certain questions troubled me. They undermined this slice of early wartime je ne sais quoi.

Will Elmer tip Chief Horrall to my tap-transcription duty? What specifically does Parker know about me? Will Parker expose Lee for the murder of Abe Reles, and does he even know about it past phone-tap smears? Will Parker cross Dudley Smith over that matter? What does Parker want from me?

Scotty squeezed my knee and ran his hand under my hemline. I squeezed his arm and laughed. He said something; I couldn’t hear it; I said something back and could not hear my own voice. Scotty smelled like my smoke and his own lime cologne. I wanted to draw him like I drew Bucky. I held my breath for the main event and Bucky’s walk to the ring.

Scotty had borrowed his father’s car for his enlistment run and had parked it in a lot on Bunker Hill. We walked back to retrieve our cars and caravan to the Olympic. We passed Central Station en route. The newly formed “Alien Squad” was just rolling out. Elmer and Lee were among the cops brandishing pump shotguns. We watched them walk east, toward Little Tokyo. A K-car pulled into the parking lot. Two cops hauled out three Japanese boys and shoved them through the jail door.

A Sousa march came over the loudspeakers and distorted all the raised voices. I heard a commotion and looked around. Bob Hope led a dozen sailors into the ring.

We all stood up and cheered. The music died or merged with the cheers—I couldn’t tell which. Bob Hope grabbed the ring mike and laid down a run of jokes. Nobody heard him. We didn’t want to hear him. We couldn’t stop cheering and living out the moment.

Hope gave up and waved to the crowd. Our cheers became foot stomps and whistles. Hope led the sailors out of the ring and up to a row of back seats. Cops whisked him out to the lobby. His performance ran less than three minutes.

We all sat down. I held Scotty’s hands in my lap. I saw a handsome young Japanese man enter the arena and walk to the second row. He wore a Belmont High letter jacket; he attracted a range of curious and plainly hostile looks.

People looked, people whispered, people stared outright. People muttered “Jap” and issued catcalls.

The microphone dropped from the rafters again. The announcer entered the ring.

A main event roar smothered further invective; the Japanese man settled into his seat. Yells and locomotive claps covered the introductions. I already knew the statistics by heart.

Ten rounds of boxing, in the light-heavyweight division. Wardell “Junior” Wilkins, the “Sepia Sensation,” 22, 4, and 16. And, now, still undefeated at 35–0—Glassell Park’s own “Tricky” Bucky Bleichert!

I squeezed Scotty’s hand and laced up our fingers. A spindly Negro man jogged out and ducked into the ring. A barrage of boos greeted him. The few Negroes in the colored section gave him his only cheers.

The referee and cornermen hopped in the ring. The young Japanese man turned his head and looked back down the aisle; our eyes met for an instant. He kept looking. I turned my head and followed his line of sight. Bucky popped out of a dressing room and danced on his toes.

He wore his Belmont black-and-green robe. He flashed his buck teeth and raised a glove to salute his dead mother in heaven. I lost my breath, like I always do. Bucky passed by our row. He stopped at the second aisle and stuck a gloved hand out. The Japanese man tapped the glove. Bucky smiled at him. The man’s eyes welled with tears.

Some people saw it and booed. Bucky ducked under the bottom ring rope and showed the crowd his teeth. I got frightened for him and hungry for him, like I always do. It always flutters through me the same way.

A cornerman popped in his mouthpiece and removed his robe. Mine: the sweet Lutheran boy with the Jewish star on his trunks.

The referee issued instructions. Bucky and the Sepia Sensation touched gloves. I looked up at Greta Heilbrunner Bleichert, despite my disdain for heavenly pap.

The bell rang. Bucky circled, Wilkins charged. Bucky was a good five inches taller. He flicked his jab at the scar tissue above Wilkins’ eyes and stayed outside his range.

I squeezed Scotty’s hand. It meant Be still now. Bucky worked outside-in. He was “taking his opponent’s pulse” for a “blind-date introduction.” He was “measuring” Junior Wilkins for a “cheap-shot right hand.” Lee Blanchard taught me fight strategy and lingo.

Wilkins swung a haymaker. Bucky sidestepped it and left-hooked to the body. Wilkins’ knees dipped. Bucky threw a double jab. Wilkins’ right-eyebrow scar opened up and leaked blood down his cheek.

The bell rang. Wilkins was winded already. Bucky danced back to his corner and waved to the Japanese man. Scotty said, “Sambo’s out on his feet.”

I’d squeezed my hand numb. I unlaced our fingers and held Scotty’s palm to my cheek. Scotty flashed his stunning kid grin.

The bell rang. I turned back to the ring. The Japanese man diverted me. He mimicked Bucky’s feints as he watched him. It was perfectly concurrent mimicry.

Wilkins came in with coagulant smeared to his eyebrow; Bucky flick-flick-flicked jabs at it. I saw intent all over him. I knew the look. It was certainty replacing apprehension. Wilkins’ cut opened up and dripped blood; Wilkins pawed at it. He blinked at the precise wrong moment. Bucky measured him for a cheap-shot right and delivered it.

Wilkins went down. He hit his head on the canvas and spit out his mouthpiece. The referee waved the fight over and raised Bucky’s hand. Bucky waved to the Japanese man. The crowd stood up and applauded. Wilkins rolled over and crawled up on his feet.

Bucky hugged him. Reporters and photographers ducked under the ropes and eclipsed my view. My legs were weak; I tried to stand and slid back in my seat. Scotty helped me up. We joined the quick march out to the parking lot.

Scotty kept an arm around me. I watched people watching him and noticed them pause. Women were curious. Full-grown men possessed of fine éclat were wary of a twenty-year-old kid.

I turned around and blew Bucky a furtive kiss. The Japanese man diverted me. He was the only one still in his seat.

8:43 p.m.

Scotty got me to my car. I pulled out onto 18th and Grand, ahead of the fight crowd. Scotty drove right behind me. We took Washington west and La Cienega north. Lee was probably out with the Alien Squad or over at Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda. I didn’t think I’d see his car in our driveway.

Scotty stuck close behind me and played a kid game with his headlights. It was a kind of Morse code: low and high beams, on and off. I watched my rearview mirror and tried to make sense out of it. I think he was trying to spell out “I Love You.”

We turned west on the Strip and north on Wetherly. Lee’s car was gone. I parked in the driveway and left room for Scotty. I thought about Bucky and a new sketch to draw from memory.

We got out of our cars. Scotty slid on the damp pavement and bumped into me. I steadied him. He put his hands on my shoulders. He said, “Shit, Kay. How come you’re so sweet to me?”

I said, “I don’t want this day to end. I don’t want us to win the war until I learn a few things.”

Scotty touched the part in my hair. “I intend to win the war all by myself. I’ll ease up until you say it’s okay.”

“What were you trying to tell me with your headlights?”

“Prom-date stuff. I was trying to get it out before I go to boot camp and you go back to your life.”

I touched his cheek. “Not just yet, please.”

“Am I going to have to fight Lee Blanchard tonight? He was a ranked heavyweight, and I’m not so sure how I’d do.”

“Hush. It’s a silly-boy idea.”

“I’m full of those.”

I said, “We’re at war now. You’re entitled to be.”

We kissed then. I thought of Bucky as we leaned in.

9:21 p.m.

The walk upstairs was all fumbles and half-lit hallways. My bedroom was dark; shadows covered the Bucky Bleichert sketches. We fell on the bed and kissed with our clothes on. We undressed slowly. Snapshots, shutter clicks, discovery.

Scotty saw the scars on my legs. He kissed them, but did not comment. He was too tall for my bed. Passing headlights strafed the Bucky pictures and made him faux-groan. I told him about Sioux Falls. He told me about football at Hollywood High and all the fights he’d been in. I omitted Bobby De Witt, laudanum and coerced prostitution. He revealed that he’d read about the Boulevard-Citizens case. I praised him for not mentioning it at the start.

Midnight came. We made love and talked. Scotty was tender and passionate. He worked hard to please me and succeeded. Sweet boy—thank you for spending this day with me.

I thought about Bucky. Scotty told me about a girl he was with on a visit to his family home in Scotland. His mother died of lupus there. It was 1938. She was only forty-three.

He fell asleep, draped into me. I lay still and blew smoke rings as halos over the bed. Dawn came on; sunlight illuminated Bucky, with Scotty asleep beside me. We woke up and saw each other naked. We silently noted what we’d missed in the dark. We got dressed and had coffee in the kitchen.

I walked him out to his car. We embraced and kissed good-bye. Scotty drove off. I watched him dip down to Sunset Boulevard.

It was cloudy and cold. I looked across the street. Captain William H. Parker stood by a ’39 Ford.