took Ellroy and his son down to Tiny Naylor’s Drive-In. The kid ordered an ice cream concoction. Hallinen and Lawton ran their Mom’s-boyfriend riff by him again.
He rehashed the stuff he already told them. He couldn’t dredge up any new studs.
They went back to the apartment. Ellroy told the kid to go outside and play. He needed to talk to the gentlemen alone.
The kid walked out and tiptoed back down the hallway. He heard his father and the cops talking in the kitchen.
His father was calling his mother a promiscuous drunk. The cops were saying their case was dead. Jean was such a goddamn secretive woman. Her life just didn’t make sense.
II
THE KID IN THE PICTURE
You fooled people. You gave yourself out in small increments and reinvented yourself at whim. Your secret ways nullified the means to mark your death with vengeance
.
I thought I knew you. I passed my childish hatred off as intimate knowledge. I never mourned you. I assailed your memory
.
You fronted a stern rectitude. You cut it loose on Saturday nights. Your brief reconciliations drove you chaotic
.
I won’t define you that way. I won’t give up your secrets so cheaply. I want to learn where you buried your love
.
6
M y father put me in a cab at the El Monte depot. He paid the driver and told him to drop me at Bryant and Maple.
I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to leave my father. I wanted to blow off El Monte forever.
It was hot—maybe ten degrees more than L.A. The driver took Tyler north to Bryant and cut east. He turned on Maple and stopped the cab.
I saw police cars and official-type sedans parked at the curb. I saw uniformed men and men in suits standing in my front yard.
I knew she was dead. This is not a revised memory or a retrospective hunch. I knew it in the moment—at age ten—on Sunday, June 22nd, 1958.
I walked into the yard. Somebody said, “There’s the boy.” I saw Mr. and Mrs. Krycki standing by their back door.
A man took me aside and kneeled down to my level. He said, “Son, your mother’s been killed.”
I knew he meant “murdered.” I probably trembled or shuddered or weaved a little bit.
The man asked me where my father was. I told him he was back at the bus station. A half-dozen men crowded around me. They leaned on their knees and checked me out up-close.
They saw one lucky kid.
A cop split for the bus station. A man with a camera walked me back to Mr. Krycki’s toolshed.
He put an awl in my hand and posed me at a workbench. I held on to a small block of wood and pretended to saw at it. I faced the camera—and did not blink or smile or cry or betray my internal equilibrium.
The photographer stood in a doorway. The cops stood behind him. I had a rapt audience.
The photographer shot some film and urged me to improvise. I hunched over the wood and sawed at it with a half-smile/half-grimace. The cops laughed. I laughed. Flashbulbs popped.
The photographer said I was brave.
Two cops led me to a patrol car and put me in the backseat. I scooted over to the left-hand window and looked out. We took Maple to a side street to Peck Road southbound. I stuck my head out the window and registered odd things.
We turned west on Valley Boulevard and pulled up in front of the El Monte Police Station. The cops walked me inside and sat me down in a small room.
I wanted to see my father. I didn’t want the cops to hurt him.
Some uniformed men kept me company. They were gentle and deferred to my status as a now motherless child. They kept a line of friendly chatter going.
My father picked me up Saturday morning. We took a bus to L.A. and went to see a movie called
The Vikings
. Tony Curtis got his hand chopped off and started wearing a black-leather stump guard. I had a nightmare about it.
Cops drifted in and out of the room. They kept handing me cups of water. I drank it all. It gave me something to do with my hands.
Two men walked into the room. The friendly cops walked out. One man was heavyset
He rehashed the stuff he already told them. He couldn’t dredge up any new studs.
They went back to the apartment. Ellroy told the kid to go outside and play. He needed to talk to the gentlemen alone.
The kid walked out and tiptoed back down the hallway. He heard his father and the cops talking in the kitchen.
His father was calling his mother a promiscuous drunk. The cops were saying their case was dead. Jean was such a goddamn secretive woman. Her life just didn’t make sense.
II
THE KID IN THE PICTURE
You fooled people. You gave yourself out in small increments and reinvented yourself at whim. Your secret ways nullified the means to mark your death with vengeance
.
I thought I knew you. I passed my childish hatred off as intimate knowledge. I never mourned you. I assailed your memory
.
You fronted a stern rectitude. You cut it loose on Saturday nights. Your brief reconciliations drove you chaotic
.
I won’t define you that way. I won’t give up your secrets so cheaply. I want to learn where you buried your love
.
6
M y father put me in a cab at the El Monte depot. He paid the driver and told him to drop me at Bryant and Maple.
I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to leave my father. I wanted to blow off El Monte forever.
It was hot—maybe ten degrees more than L.A. The driver took Tyler north to Bryant and cut east. He turned on Maple and stopped the cab.
I saw police cars and official-type sedans parked at the curb. I saw uniformed men and men in suits standing in my front yard.
I knew she was dead. This is not a revised memory or a retrospective hunch. I knew it in the moment—at age ten—on Sunday, June 22nd, 1958.
I walked into the yard. Somebody said, “There’s the boy.” I saw Mr. and Mrs. Krycki standing by their back door.
A man took me aside and kneeled down to my level. He said, “Son, your mother’s been killed.”
I knew he meant “murdered.” I probably trembled or shuddered or weaved a little bit.
The man asked me where my father was. I told him he was back at the bus station. A half-dozen men crowded around me. They leaned on their knees and checked me out up-close.
They saw one lucky kid.
A cop split for the bus station. A man with a camera walked me back to Mr. Krycki’s toolshed.
He put an awl in my hand and posed me at a workbench. I held on to a small block of wood and pretended to saw at it. I faced the camera—and did not blink or smile or cry or betray my internal equilibrium.
The photographer stood in a doorway. The cops stood behind him. I had a rapt audience.
The photographer shot some film and urged me to improvise. I hunched over the wood and sawed at it with a half-smile/half-grimace. The cops laughed. I laughed. Flashbulbs popped.
The photographer said I was brave.
Two cops led me to a patrol car and put me in the backseat. I scooted over to the left-hand window and looked out. We took Maple to a side street to Peck Road southbound. I stuck my head out the window and registered odd things.
We turned west on Valley Boulevard and pulled up in front of the El Monte Police Station. The cops walked me inside and sat me down in a small room.
I wanted to see my father. I didn’t want the cops to hurt him.
Some uniformed men kept me company. They were gentle and deferred to my status as a now motherless child. They kept a line of friendly chatter going.
My father picked me up Saturday morning. We took a bus to L.A. and went to see a movie called
The Vikings
. Tony Curtis got his hand chopped off and started wearing a black-leather stump guard. I had a nightmare about it.
Cops drifted in and out of the room. They kept handing me cups of water. I drank it all. It gave me something to do with my hands.
Two men walked into the room. The friendly cops walked out. One man was heavyset
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