At the top of the seventh inning, the score tied at 2 to 2, Wally Post of the Reds smashed a homer into the parking lot past center field. The enthusiasm in the stadium evaporated—“You can give them a nice park but that don’t mean they still ain’t bums,” one scribe said to another—and Tarantula excused himself. Enough. Everything here was wholesome. In other words, nothing here to sell papers.

He hauled himself out to the parking lot and wedged his frame behind the wheel of his ten-year-old Hudson Hornet. The sight of some Mexican-American vendors selling bootleg Dodgers pennants reminded him that the city of Los Angeles had land-grabbed Chavez Ravine from the laborers and their families who lived here, the city’s claims of eminent domain giving way to lying and bullying. Now, that had been a scandal.

The public didn’t care; the victims were Mexican-Americans, and Angelenos wanted a new stadium for their new team. The snobs at the Los Angeles Times looked down on the likes of Tarantula, he thought, not only because of his appearance and coarse manner but also—perhaps primarily—because he worked for a scandal sheet. And yet, where were these would-be Jacob Riises when it came to the men, women, and children ousted from Chavez Ravine? All of the major newspapers had stood behind the Dodger Stadium project, Tarantula recalled with disgust. They fancied themselves speakers of truth to power but they quickly turned on the last holdouts, Manuel and Abrana Arechiga and their daughter Aurora, diligently regurgitating untrue claims pushed by the developers that the Arechigas actually owned many properties throughout the Los Angeles area.

It was all a lie, Tarantula thought as he merged onto the Santa Monica Freeway. A complete hit job. The Arechigas didn’t own those other houses; their relatives did. But falsehood flies, and truth comes limping after it, as Jonathan Swift once said. A quote Tarantula knew well because those swift falsehoods were his bread and butter. But in this case, the folks who considered themselves true newspapermen, who sneered and grimaced at Tarantula when their paths crossed at events like this, were the ones who’d led the charge, smearing the poor Arechigas on behalf of the richest Angelenos, afflicting the afflicted, comforting the comfortable. Tarantula was so worked up over the memory, he didn’t notice the car that had been tailing him from the moment he left the parking lot.

Other than his bosses, no one knew where Tarantula lived. Hollywood Nightlife was owned by USA Media Inc., a subsidiary of Information Technologies Ltd., which itself was owned by a larger conglomerate. Tarantula’s abode had been purchased by a shell corporation owned by that bigger entity, incorporated in the Caribbean and run by Rosselli. Paychecks were sent to his work address.