My Dark Places

It was 4:00 p.m. Godfrey swung south on Garvey and stopped at the Melody Room.

The owner introduced himself as Clyde. He heard out Godfrey’s questions and told him to contact Bernie Snyder, the night barman. Bernie closed the place at 2:00 a.m. Sunday. Call Bernie and talk to him.

A customer butted in. He said he was here Sunday morning—and he saw a ponytailed blonde huddled up with a dark-haired guy. The guy was thirty to thirty-five. The ponytail and him were acting real nervous.

Clyde said the ponytail sounded like a regular named Jo. She worked for Dun & Bradstreet in L.A. He called the woman a “bar lizard.” The dark-haired guy didn’t come off familiar at all.

Godfrey took down the customer’s name and phone number. Clyde urged him to call Bernie Snyder—Bernie knew all the faces.

Godfrey called from the bar. Bernie’s wife answered. She said Bernie wouldn’t be back until 5:30—try him then.

It was 4:30 p.m. Most of your local nightspots didn’t open until 6:00 or 7:00. Godfrey was running up a long phone call list.

The Desert Inn was a hillbilly joint. It used to be called the Jungle Room and Chet’s Rendezvous. Myrtle Mawby bought the place for her kid brother, Ellis Outlaw. Ellis renamed it Outlaw’s Hideout.

Ellis was always in trouble with the cops and the fucking Internal Revenue Service. The Feds shut him down for skimming withholding money from his employees—then let him reopen so he could pay off his debt. Ellis brained Al Man-ganiello with a bottle back in ’55 and narrowly avoided a jail stretch. He just couldn’t make the Hideout turn a steady profit.

He sold it back to Chet Williamson. Chet renamed it the Desert Inn and let Ellis run it. Ellis came from a barkeeping family. His sister Myrtle shot her husband in the ear once and got two cocktail bars in the ensuing divorce settlement.

Ellis owned the bungalows behind the Desert Inn parking lot. His pal Al Manganiello rented a flop from him. Ellis ran a small handbook out of the bar. He took action on all the races at Hollywood Park and Santa Anita.

Ellis got popped for drunk driving in May of ’57. Two El Monte cops said he tried to bribe them—nice coin if they shit-canned the arrest report. A couple of Ellis’ buddies offered them backup bribes.

The bribe offers were relative chump change. The thing escalated into a hick-town cause celebre.

Ellis was convicted for drunk driving. Appeals kept him out of jail for over a year. Ellis and his pals beat the bribery rap.

The drunk driving appeals ran out on June 19th. A judge confirmed the conviction. Ellis was ordered to appear for sentencing on June 27th.

The Desert Inn was venerably shitkicker—and high-class by El Monte standards.

Spade Cooley played there on his way down from local TV. The quasi-Ink Spots played there on their post- Vegas slide.

Negro customers got the bum’s rush. Spies got a wary welcome—if they didn’t show up en masse.

The Desert Inn was a good place to drink and scout nookie. The Desert Inn was safe and civilized—by 1958 El Monte standards.

Jim Bruton met Hallinen and Lawton at the bar. It was 6:30 p.m.

They hit Al Manganiello up for the Desert Inn guest book. Al showed them a ledger filled with names and addresses. They skimmed it and found two men named Tom.

Tom Downey: 4817 Azusa Canyon Road, Baldwin Park. Tom Baker: 5013 North Larry Street, Baldwin Park.

Al said he didn’t know Tom Baker. Tom Downey was more their speed—sort of a slick dark-haired guy like the one they said was dancing with the redhead.

Hallinen, Lawton and Bruton drove to Downey’s address. A woman answered the door and ID’d herself as Mrs. Downey.

She said Tom was still at work—he sold Fords at El Monte Motors. He should be home in a few minutes.

They told her they’d be back later and staked out the house in Bruton’s car. “A few minutes” stretched to nine and a half hours.

They called it quits at 5:00 a.m. Bruton radioed the station and told them to dispatch a patrol unit to relieve the stakeout.

A black & white arrived five minutes later. Bruton drove Hallinen and Lawton back to the Desert Inn to get their cars. Everybody dispersed and went home.

The patrol guys watched the Downey house. Tom Downey showed up twenty minutes into their stakeout.

The patrol guys grabbed him. They radioed the El Monte switchboard and told the operator to rouse Captain Bruton.

Tom Downey was pissed off and bewildered. The patrol guys drove him to the El Monte Station and placed him in an interview room.

Jim Bruton walked in. His first impression of Tom Downey: This guy is too stocky to be our suspect.

Bruton questioned him. Downey said he was out chasing cunt—and boy was he tired. Bruton told him to run down his Saturday-night activities.

Downey said he was at the Desert Inn on two different occasions. The first time was between 8:00 and 9:00. He sat at a table with Ben Grissman and another guy while they ate their dinner.

Ben and the other guy left. He stayed another ten minutes or so. He hit a few more spots, returned to the Desert Inn and had two drinks. He cashed a 20-dollar check with the bartender and split just prior to midnight. He went to another bar and met up with a friend. They drove to a steak house in Covina and had a late supper. He got home real late.