按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
P。M。 A giant dirt playground and a swimming pool faced Wilshire Boulevard。 Every kid was guaranteed passing grades and a poolside tan。 A flurry of single moms hit the gate at 5：10。 I developed a yen for women in their late thirties。
My mother worked as a nurse at the Packard Bell electronics plant。 She had a boyfriend named Hank； a fat lowlife missing one thumb。 Once a week she'd take me to a drive…in double feature。 She'd sip from a flask and let me gorge myself on hot dogs。
I coveted the weekends with my father。 No church； sleepover studs； or liquored…up mood swings。 The man embraced the lazy life； half by design； half by the default of the weak。
Early in 1958； my mother began assembling a big lie。 This is not a revisionist memoryI recall detecting mendacity in the moment。 She said we needed a change of scenery。 She said I needed to live in a house； not an apartment。 She said she knew about a place in El Monte； a San Gabriel Valley town twelve miles east of L。A。 proper。
We drove out there。 El Monte was a downscale suburb populated by white shitkickers and pachucos with duck's…ass haircuts。
Most streets were unpaved。 Most people parked on their lawns。 Our prospective house： a redwood job surrounded by half…dead banana trees。
I said I didn't like El Monte。 My mother told me to give it time。 We hauled our belongings out early in February。
I traded up academically： Children's Paradise to Anne Le Gore Elementary School。 The move baffled and infuriated my father。 Why would a （tenuously） middle…class white woman with a good job thirty…odd miles away relocate to a town like El Monte？ The rush…hour mute： at least ninety minutes each way。 〃I want my son to live in a house〃： pure nonsense。 My father thought my mother was running。 From a man or to a man。 He said he was going to hire detectives to find out。
I settled into El Monte。 My mother upgraded the custody agreement： I could see my father all four weekends a month。 He picked me up every Friday night。 It took a cab ride and three bus transfers to get us to his pad； just south of Hollywood。
I tried to enjoy El Monte。 I smoked a reefer with a Mexican kid and ate myself sick on ice cream。 My stint at Children's Paradise left me deficient in arithmetic。 My teacher called my mother up to ment。 They hit it off and went out on several dates。
I turned 10。 My mother told me I could choose who I wanted to live with。 I told her I wanted to live with my father。
She slapped me。 I called her a drunk and a whore。 She slapped me again and raged against my father's hold on me。
I became a sounding board。
My father called my mother a lush and a tramp。 My mother called my father a weakling and a parasite。 She threatened to slap injunctions on him and push him out of my life。
School adjourned for summer vacation on Friday； June 20。 My father whisked me off for a visit。
That weekend is etched in hyper…focus。 I remember seeing 〃The Vikings〃 at the Fox…Wilshire Theatre。 I remember a spaghetti dinner at Yaconelli's Restaurant。 I remember a TV fight card。 I remember the bus ride back to El Monte as long and hot。
My father put me in a cab at the depot and waited for a bus back to L。A。 The cab dropped me at my house。
I saw three black…and…white police cars。 I saw my neighbor Mrs。 Kryzcki on the sidewalk。 I saw four plainclothes copsand instinctively recognized them as such。
Mrs。 Kryzcki said； 〃That's the boy。〃
A cop took me aside。 〃Son； your mother's been killed。〃
I didn't cry。 A press photographer hustled me to Mr。 Kryzcki's toolshed and posed me with an awl in my hand。
My wife found a copy of that photograph last year。 It's been published several times； in conjunction with my work。 The second picture the man took has previously never seen print。
I'm at the workbench； sawing at a piece of wood。 I'm grimacing ear to ear； showing off for the cops and reporters。
They most likely chalked my clowning up to shock。 They couldn't know that that shock was instantly promised。
The police reconstructed the crime。
My mother went out drinking Saturday night。 She was seen at the Desert Inn bar in El Monte with a dark…haired white man and a blonde woman。 My mother and the man left the bar around io P。M。
A group of Little Leaguers discovered the body。 My mother had been strangled at an unknown location and dumped into some bushes next to the athletic field at Arroyo High School； a mile and a half from the Desert Inn。
She clawed her assailant's face bloody。 The killer had pulled off one of her stockings and tied it loosely around her neck postmortem。
I went to live with my father。 I forced some tears out that Sundayand none since。
My flight landed early。 L。A。 looked surreal； and inimical to the myth town of my books。
I checked in at the hotel and called Sergeant Stoner。 We made plans to meet the following day。 He gave me directions to the Homicide Bureau； earthquake tremors had ravaged the old facility and necessitated a move。
Sergeant Mcas wouldn't be there。 He was recuperating from open…heart surgery； a classic police…work by…product。
I told Stoner I'd pop for lunch。 He warned me that the file might kill my appetite。
I ate a big room…service dinner。 Dusk hitI looked out my window and imagined it was 1950…something。
I set my novel 〃Clandestine〃 in 1951。 It's a chronologically altered； heavily fictionalized account of my mother's murder。 The story details a young cop's obsession： linking the death of a woman he had a one…night stand with to the killing of a redheaded nurse in El Monte。 The supporting cast includes a 9…year…Old boy very much like I was at that age。
I gave the killer my father's superficial attributes and juxtaposed them against a psychopathic bent。 I have never understood my motive for doing this。
I called the dead nurse Marcella De Vries。 She hailed from my mother's hometown： Tunnel City； Wisconsin。
I did not research that book。 Fear kept me from haunting archives and historical sites。 I wanted to contain what I knew and felt about my mother。 I wanted to acknowledge my blood debt and prove my imperviousness to her power by portraying her with coldhearted lucidity。
Several years later； I wrote 〃The Black Dahlia〃。 The title character was a murder victim as celebrated as Jean Ellroy was ignored。 She died the year before my birth； and I understood the symbiotic cohesion the moment I first heard of her。
The Black Dahlia was a young woman named Elizabeth Short。 She came west with fatuous hopes of being a movie star。 She was undisciplined； immature； and promiscuous。 She drank to excess and told whopping lies。
Someone picked her up and tortured her for two days。 Her death was as hellishly protracted as my mother's was gasping and quick。 The killer cut her in half and deposited her in a vacant lot twenty miles west of Arroyo High School。
The killing is still unsolved。 The Black Dahlia case remains a media cause célèbre。
I read about it in 1959。 It hit me with unmitigated force。 The horror rendered my mother's death both more outré and more prosaic。 I seized on Elizabeth Short and hoarded the details of her life。 Every bit of minutiae was m