My Dark Places - James Ellroy [41]
Mrs. Krycki told my father that I stabbed her banana trees to death. She demanded restitution—pronto. I told my father that I was just playing a game. He said it was no big thing.
He was coming off somber. I could tell he was really happy and in some state of serendipitous shell-shock. He was closing out his ex with postmortem minutiae.
He told me to amuse myself for a while. He had to go downtown and identify the body.
The Wagners arrived in L.A. a few days later. Uncle Ed was composed. Aunt Leoda was near distraught.
She worshipped her big sister. A style gap separated the Hilliker girls—Jean had the looks, the red hair and the sexy career. Her husband was superficially dashing and hung like a mule.
Ed Wagner was fat and stolid. He brought home the bacon. Aunt Leoda was a Wisconsin hausfrau. She was slow to rile and a good grudge holder. Her sister lived an alternative life that she found compelling. The explicit details of that life would undoubtedly shock her no end.
My father and I saw the Wagners several times. No discernible Ellroy-Wagner hatred surfaced. Ed and Leoda chalked my calm emotional state up to shock. I kept my mouth shut and let the adults do the talking.
The four of us drove out to El Monte. We stopped at the house and took a last walk through it. I hugged and kissed my dog. She licked my face and pissed all over me. My father goofed on the Kryckis—he thought they were geeks. Ed and Leoda picked up my mother’s personal papers and memorabilia. My father tossed my clothes and books into brown paper bags.
We stopped at Jay’s Market on our way out of town. A checker fussed over me—she knew I was the dead nurse’s kid. My mother started a fight with me in that market just a few weeks back.
Something got her going on my poor scholastic progress. She wanted to show me my potential fate. She hustled me out of the market and drove me down to Medina Court—the heart of the El Monte taco belt.
Mexican punks were out walking that slick walk I admired. There were no houses—just shacks. Half the cars lacked axles and wheels.
My mother pointed out harrowing details. She wanted me to see what my lazy ways would get me. I didn’t take her warnings seriously. I knew my father would never let me turn into a wetback.
I didn’t go to the funeral. The Wagners went back to Wisconsin.
My father took possession of the Buick and sold it to a guy in our neighborhood. He managed to pocket my mother’s down payment. Aunt Leoda became the executrix of my mother’s estate. She held the purse strings on a fat insurance policy.
A double-indemnity clause boosted the premium up to 20 grand. I was the sole beneficiary. Leoda told me she was putting the money in trust for my college education. She said I could extract small amounts for emergencies.
I settled in to enjoy my summer vacation.
The cops came by a few times. They quizzed me on my mother’s boyfriends and other known associates. I told them all I knew.
My father kept some newspaper clippings on the case. He told me the basic facts and urged me not to think about the murder itself. He knew I had a vivid imagination.
I wanted to know the details.
I read the clippings. I saw a picture of myself at Mr. Krycki’s workbench. I nailed down the Blonde and Dark Man scenario. I got a spooky feeling that it was all about sex.
My father found out that I’d been through his clippings. He gave me his pet theory: My mother balked at a three-way with the Blonde and the Dark Man. It was part of a larger riddle: Why did she run to El Monte?
I wanted answers—but not at the expense of my mother’s continued presence. I diverted my curiosity to kid’s crime books.
I stumbled onto the Hardy Boys and Ken Holt series. Chevalier’s Bookstore sold them for a dollar apiece. Adolescent detectives solved crimes and befriended crime victims. Murder was sanitized and occurred off-page. The