Bill stayed on the case. He lost a partner and gained one back. Joe Walker was a crime analyst. He was on the L.A. Sheriff’s Department. He knew the law enforcement computer network intimately. He was hopped up on the Karen Reilly case. He thought a black serial killer snuffed Karen Reilly. He wanted to work the Jean Ellroy case. Bill told him he could.
I missed Bill. He’d become my closest friend. He chaperoned me for 14 months. He cut me loose at the perfect moment of impasse. He sent me away with my mother and my unresolved claim.
I didn’t nail up my corkboards at home. I didn’t need to. She was always there with me.
The holidays ended. A TV producer called me. She worked for the
I said yes. The producer said they wanted to shoot the actual locations. I said I’d fly out. I called Bill and told him the news. He said it was a fabulous break. I said we had to densify our segment. We had to saturate it with details on my mother’s life. I wanted people to call in and say, “I knew that woman.”
The Wagners might see the show. They might assail the portrait of my mother. She sent her son to church. Her son cashed in on her death. He turned her into a cheap femme fatale. He was a boyhood con artist. He was a character assassin now. He defamed his mother. He totaled up the balance sheet of her life incorrectly and gave the world a faulty accounting. He staked his claim of ownership on skewed memories and his worthless father’s lies. He egregiously misrepresented his mother for all fucking time.
I went back to that dark bedroom and the food court epiphany. The new memory balance. Bill’s implication. The exclusive bond that I would not sever. The Wagners might see the show. They never saw or never reacted to the book I dedicated to my mother. They were midwestern stiffs. They weren’t media hip. They might have sailed past me in newspapers and magazines. Leoda underestimated me. I hated her for it. I wanted to rub my real-life mother in her face and say, See how she was and see how I revere her anyway. She could cut me down with a few stern words. She could say, You didn’t talk to us. You didn’t trace your mother back to Tunnel City, Wisconsin. You based your portrait on insufficient data.
I didn’t want to go back yet. I didn’t want to break the bond. I did not want to disturb the core of sex that still defined it. Dead people belong to the live people who claim them most obsessively. She was all mine.
They filmed our segment in four days. They shot Bill and me at the El Monte Station. I re-enacted the moment at the evidence vault. I opened a plastic bag and pulled out a silk stocking.
It wasn’t
The director praised my performance. We shot the scene fast.
The crew was great. They were up for some laughs. The shoot played like a party in Jean Ellroy’s honor.
I met the actor who portrayed the Swarthy Man. He called me Little Jimmy. I called him Shitbird. He was lean and mean. He looked like the Identi-Kit portraits. I met the actress who portrayed my mother. I called her Mom. She called me Son. She had red hair. She looked more Hollywood than rural Wisconsin. I kidded her. I said, “Don’t go out chasing men while I’m gone this weekend.” She said, “Buzz off, Jimmy—I need some action!” Mom and Swarthy came to laugh. We got some good shtick going. Bill showed up every day. He had a total blast.
They shot the Desert Inn sequence at a sleazy cocktail lounge in Downey. The set looked anachronistic. I met the actress who portrayed the Blonde. She was skanky bar bait personified. The Swarthy Man was dressed to kill. He wore a nubby silk-jacket-and-slacks combo. My mother wore a mock-up of the dress they found her in.
They filmed the three-way dynamic. The Swarthy Man looked evil. My mother looked too healthy. The Blonde hit the right skank chord. I wanted a noir vignette. They shot a faithful expository scene.
We moved down the street to Harvey’s Broiler. I saw 20 vintage cars lined up. Harvey’s Broiler was Stan’s Drive-in. A bit actress was set to sling trays and portray Lavonne Chambers.
The Swarthy Man and my mother got in a ’55 Olds. Lavonne brought them menus. They were miked up and ready to act. The producer gave me headphones. I listened to their dialogue and some random chitchat. Swarthy made a real-life play for my mom.
They shot the murder at the real location. The crew commandeered Arroyo High School. They brought in camera trucks, sound trucks, a catering truck and a wardrobe van. Some locals strolled by. I counted 32 people at one point.
They set up arc lights. King’s Row went hallucinogenic. The ’55 Olds pulled up. A chaste murder prelude and a simulated murder occurred. I watched the prelude and the murder and the body dump 25 times. It wasn’t painful. I was a murder pro now. I was more than a victim’s son and less than a homicide detective.
They shot two scenes at my old house. They paid Geno Guevara a site fee. I met the actor who played me as a kid. He looked like me at age ten. He wore clothes like I wore on 6/22/58.
The El Monte PD blocked off Bryant and Maple. The crew dressed the street with three vintage cars. Chief Clayton showed up. Spectators gathered. A 1950s cab materialized. The director rehearsed the Ellroy kid and the cop who gave him the news.
They blocked out the arrival scene. The cab pulled up. The boy got out. The cop told him his mother was dead. Thirty or forty people watched.
They shot and reshot the scene. The word went around. I was the kid in the cab half a lifetime ago. People pointed to me. People waved.
They shot a domestic scene in my old kitchen. The kitchen was dressed up ’50s style. My mother wore a white uniform. I wore my arrival outfit. My mother called me into the kitchen and told me to eat my dinner. I crashed into a chair and ignored my food. It was wholesome TV fare. Bill said they should have shot me looking down my mother’s dress.
We broke for lunch. A catering truck arrived. A grip set up service for 20 on Geno Guevara’s front lawn. The buffet line stretched out to the street. Some local yokels grabbed plates and crashed the party.
