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.

I asked Mrs. Krycki about my mother and men. She said Jean went out most Saturday nights. She never brought men home. She never bragged about men. She never talked about men at all. I asked Mrs. Krycki about my mother and liquor. She contradicted all her old statements.

George smelled liquor on Jean’s breath one day. He found two empty bottles in the bushes outside. Jean brought bottles home in brown paper bags. Jean looked tired most of the time. They suspected that Jean was quite a heavy drinker.

Mrs. Krycki stopped talking. I looked directly at her and nodded. She ran a fast free-form riff.

Jean had a deformed nipple. She saw Jean’s body at the morgue. They had her under a sheet. Her feet stuck out. She recognized them. Jean always walked around the yard barefoot. The cops ran up her phone bill. They never offered to pay for their calls.

Mrs. Krycki stopped talking. Bill eased her through 6/21 and 6/22/58. Her account matched our Blue Book reports.

Mr. Krycki walked in. Bill asked him to recount those two days. Mr. Krycki told the same basic story. I asked him to describe my mother. He said she was a good-looking woman. She wasn’t the El Monte type. Anna May knew her better than he did.

Mr. Krycki looked uncomfortable. Bill smiled and told him we were fresh out of questions. Mr. Krycki smiled and walked outside.

Mrs. Krycki said there was one thing she never told the cops.

I nodded. Bill nodded. Mrs. Krycki started talking.

It happened around ’52. She was living on Ferris Road in El Monte. Gaylord was six or seven. She was separated from her first husband.

She shopped at a market nearby. A family named LoPresti owned it. This box boy played cupid with her. He said his uncle John wanted to take her out real bad. John LoPresti was about 30 then. He was tall. He had dark hair and an olive complexion.

She went out with him. He took her to the Coconino Club. They danced. He was a good dancer. He was “smooth and calculating.”

They left the Coconino. They drove out to the Puente Hills. LoPresti stopped the car and made some very fresh moves. She told him to stop. He slapped her. She got out of the car. He grabbed her and shoved her in the backseat.

He pulled at her clothes. She resisted him. He climaxed and wiped his pants off with a handkerchief. He said, “You’ve got mustard” and “You’ve got nothing to worry about now.” He drove her home. He didn’t touch her again. She didn’t call the cops. She was embroiled in a custody fight with her ex. She didn’t want to raise a stink and tarnish her reputation. She saw LoPresti two more times.

She was out walking. He drove by her and waved. He asked her if she wanted a ride. She ignored him.

She saw him about two years later. She was at the Coconino with George. LoPresti asked her to dance. She ignored him. She warned Jean Ellroy about him—right before she went out that Saturday night.

The story played ugly and true. The coda played fictitious. It sounded contrived and way too coincidental.

LoPresti was local. LoPresti was Italian. LoPresti was a nightclub predator. I closed my eyes and replayed the Puente Hills scene. I added a vintage car and period clothing. I put the Swarthy Man’s face on John LoPresti.

We had a real suspect.

We drove back to Orange County. We talked John LoPresti nonstop. John was a sex-assault bungler in 1952. Give him six years to refine his act and grow more twisted. Bill agreed. LoPresti was our first hot suspect.

The drive took 13 hours. We got back around midnight. We slept the trip off and drove to El Monte.

We hit the El Monte Museum. We checked the 1958 El Monte phone books. We found eight markets listed in the Yellow Pages.

Jay’s on Tyler. Jay’s on Central. The Bell Market on Peck Road. Crawford’s Giant Country Store on Valley. Earp’s Market and the Foodlane on Durfee. The Tyler Circle on Tyler. Fran’s Meats on Garvey.

No LoPresti Market. No listings for Italian specialty stores.

We checked the White Pages. Most of the personal listings featured parenthetical addenda. They listed occupations and wives’ first names. We turned to the L’s and hit twice.

LoPresti, John (Nancy) (Machinist)—10806 Frankmont.

LoPresti, Thomas (Rose) (Salesman)—3419 Maxson.

Frankmont was near 756 Maple. Maxson was near Stan’s Drive-in and the Desert Inn.

We drove to the Bureau. We ran all four LoPrestis through the DMV and DOJ computers. We got no hits on Thomas and Rose. We hit on John and Nancy.

Nancy had a valid California driver’s license. The printout listed a current address and her old address on Frankmont. Her DOB was 8/16/14. John lived in Duarte. I pointed to some weird numbers by his address. Bill said it was a trailer park listing. John was 69 years old. He had blue eyes. He was 6′1″ and 215 pounds.

I pointed to his height and weight. Bill pointed to his age and eye color. The cocksucker did not match the Swarthy Man’s description.

Duarte was three miles north of El Monte. The trailer park was butt-ugly. The trailers were old and weather-stripped. They were jammed together with no space between them.

We found #16 and rang the buzzer. An old man opened the door. He matched our driver’s license stats. He had blue eyes and thick features. His face exonerated him.

Bill badged him and asked him his name. The man said John LoPresti. Bill said we had some questions about an old murder. John said come on in. He didn’t twitch or cringe or shake or admit or deny his guilt.

We entered his trailer. The interior was six feet wide tops. The walls were decorated with Playboy centerfolds. They were handsomely mounted and laminated with high-gloss shellac.

John sat down in an old recliner. Bill and I sat on the bed. Bill sketched out the Jean Ellroy case. John said he didn’t recall it.

Bill said we were looking up the old El Monte crowd. We wanted to dig the late-’50s scene. We knew he was living on Frankmont.

John said that wasn’t him. That was his late uncle John and aunt Nancy. He lived in La Puente then. El Monte was his stomping grounds. His uncle Tom owned a market in El Monte. El Monte was a swinging location.

I asked him where he hung out. John said the Coconino and the Desert Inn. He went to the Playroom sometimes. It stood behind Stan’s Drive-in. They served shots of whisky for 25 cents.

Bill asked him if he’d ever been arrested. John said he got popped for drunk driving. I came on skeptical. I said, What else? John said he got popped in 1946. Somebody said he pulled some dirty shit.

I said, What kind of shit? He said somebody stuck a dirty book under some woman’s door. He got blamed for it.

Bill said we needed names. We wanted to find the old Desert Inn crowd. We wanted to find every lounge lizard who ever cruised Five Points.

John lit a cigarette. He said he was going in for open-heart surgery tomorrow. He needed all the pleasure he could get.

I said, Give us some names. John dropped eight or ten first names. I said, Give us some full names. John said, “Al Man-ganiello.” Bill said we were looking for him. John said he was working at Glendora Country Club.

I pressed him for more names. Bill pressed him for more names. We named all the El Monte spots and told him to match some names to specific venues. John couldn’t feed us one single name.

I wanted to fuck with him.

I said, We heard that you were one sharp dude with the ladies. John said this was true. I said, We heard you really liked women. John said, Oh, yeah. I said, We heard you got lots of pussy. John said he got more than his share. Bill said, We heard you mauled a woman named Anna May Krycki and shot your load prematurely.

John shook and twitched and cringed and denied his guilt. We thanked him and walked out the door.