My Dark Places

We needed names.

We needed the names of old Desert Inn regulars and San Gabriel Valley cocktail lounge trawlers. We had to find out who they knew in 1958. We had to establish a range of friendships and acquaintanceships. We had to find names to match the physical characteristics of the Blonde and the Swarthy Man. We had to create an ever-widening concentric circle of names. We had to find two names in a big place and a faraway time.

Roy and Jana gave us three names:

An old Desert Inn waitress now employed at a local Moose Lodge. An old Stan’s carhop. An old Desert Inn bartender.

We found the waitress and the carhop. They didn’t know shit about the Jean Ellroy case and couldn’t supply any names. Roy and Jana got their time and venues wrong. The carhop worked at Simon’s Drive-in. The waitress worked at The Place, not the Desert Inn. She knew a much younger crowd.

Bill and I discussed the Desert Inn. We placed it in the context of late June ’58.

Ellis Outlaw was about to serve a drunk-driving sentence. He catered to local yokels and illegal off-track bettors. He catered to local hoods and satellite people with shit to hide from the cops. Margie Trawick saw the Blonde and the Swarthy Man one time only. Myrtle Mawby saw them one time only. Margie worked part-time. Myrtle worked part-time. The Swarthy Man was probably a local guy. The Desert Inn was the local spot. The Swarthy Man could have passed through before that night and left his image in a hundred memory banks. Hallinen and Lawton camped out at the Desert Inn all summer. They took down names and left them in their personal notebooks. Certain people could have lied to them. Certain people could have known. The Blonde could have owed Ellis Outlaw money. The Swarthy Man could have told certain people that the nurse was a goddamn cocktease. Certain people could have figured the cunt had it coming. Certain people could have lied to the cops.

Bill and I agreed.

Our crime played out within narrow boundaries. The Blonde and the Swarthy Man got lucky and fell through the cracks.

We had to uncover two names and link them to a runner in hiding.

23

Kanab, Utah, was just above the Arizona border. The main drag was three blocks long. The local men wore cowboy boots and nylon parkas. It was 20 degrees cooler than Southern California.

The drive took us through Las Vegas and some sweet hill country. We got two rooms at a Best Western and crashed out early. We were set to see George and Anna May Krycki in the morning.

Bill called Mrs. Krycki two days in advance. I listened in on a bedroom extension. Mrs. Krycki was shrill in 1958. She sounded just as shrill today. My father used to goof on her jerky hand gestures.

She couldn’t believe the cops were rehashing such an ancient case. She referred to me as “Leroy Ellroy.” She said I was a spasticated boy. Her husband tried to teach Leroy Ellroy how to push a broom. Leroy Ellroy just couldn’t learn.

Mrs. Krycki agreed to be interviewed. Bill said he’d drive up with his partner. He didn’t say his partner was Leroy Ellroy.

Bill ragged me for two days straight. He called me Leroy. He kept saying, “Where’s your broom?” Mrs. Krycki told the cops that Jean Ellroy never drank. I came home one night and found my mother and Mrs. Krycki tanked.

The Kryckis’ house in Kanab looked like their house in El Monte. It was small and plain and well tended. Mr. Krycki was sweeping out the driveway. I remembered his posture more than his face. Bill said he had a great broom technique.

We got out of the car. Mr. Krycki dropped his broom and introduced himself. Mrs. Krycki walked out. She’d aged as recognizably as Peter Tubiolo. She looked strong and healthy. She walked up to us and invaded our collective body space. She ran some mile-a-minute greetings and agitated gestures like the ones my father satirized.

She walked us inside. Mr. Krycki stayed outside with his broom. We sat down in the living room. The furniture was garishly upholstered and mismatched. Plaids, stripes, geometric designs and paisleys worked against each other. The overall effect was agitation.

Bill stated his name and displayed his badge. I stated my name. I waited a beat and said I was Jean Ellroy’s son.

Mrs. Krycki ran some gestures and sat on her hands. She said I got so big. She said I was the most spasticated boy she ever saw. I couldn’t even push a broom. God knows her husband tried to teach me. I said broom work was never my forte. Mrs. Krycki didn’t laugh.

Bill said we wanted to talk about Jean Ellroy and her death. He told Mrs. Krycki to be absolutely candid.

Mrs. Krycki started talking. Bill flashed me a let-her-talk sign.

She said the Mexican influx drove her and George out of El Monte. The Mexicans destroyed the San Gabriel Valley. Her son, Gaylord, was living in Fontana now. He was 49. He had four daughters. Jean had red hair. She cooked popcorn and ate it with a spoon. Jean answered a newspaper ad and rented their little back house. Jean said, “I think this place will be safe.” She thought Jean was hiding in El Monte.

Mrs. Krycki stopped talking. Bill asked her to explain her last remark. Mrs. Krycki said Jean was cultured and refined. She was overqualified for El Monte. I asked her why she thought that. Mrs. Krycki said Jean read condensed books published by the Reader’s Digest. She stood out in El Monte. She didn’t belong there. She came to El Monte for some mysterious reason.

Bill asked her what Jean talked about. Mrs. Krycki said she talked about her nursing school adventures. I asked her to describe those adventures. She said that was all she recalled.