The war is over, the good guys won, and Los Angeles is less a city than a string of small towns stretching from the Pacific to the Sierras. Hollywood, sure, but orchards, too—plenty of green and two-lane roads. No TV, just movies at the Aero, sandlot baseball, an ocean a quick walk away. His neighborhood is lower working class, far more Mexican than Anglo, but everyone gets along. A fine time and place to be a kid.
He's a milkman's son, a lad who checks the box scores to see if Ted Williams got a couple of knocks yesterday, a boy with a paper route. He's on the corner at six in the morning, groggy, when the truck dumps the bale of the Santa Monica Independent. He folds up his…