The Black Dahlia

by James Ellroy

  Kay was wearing her Eisenhower jacket and tweed skirt, just like when I’d first met her. I said, “Babe,” and started to ask “Why?” My wife counterpunched: “Did you think I’d let my husband vanish for three weeks and do nothing about it? I’ve had detectives following you, Dwight. She looks like that fucking dead girl, so you can have her—not me.”

  Kay’s dry eyes and calm voice were worse than what she was saying. I felt shakes coming on, bad heebie-jeebies. “Babe, goddamn it—”

  Kay backed out of grabbing range. “Whoremonger. Coward. Necrophile.”

  The shakes got worse; Kay turned and made for her car, a deft little pirouette out of my life. I caught another scent of Madeleine and walked into the house.

  The bentwood furniture looked the same, but there were no literary quarterlies on the coffee table and no cashmere sweaters folded in the dining room cabinet. The cushions on my couch-bed were neatly arrayed, like I’d never slept there. My phonograph was still by the fireplace, but all Kay’s records were gone.

  I picked up Lee’s favorite chair and threw it at the wall; I hurled Kay’s rocker at the cabinet, reducing it to glass rubble. I upended the coffee table and rammed it into the front window, then tossed it out on the porch. I kicked the rugs into sloppy piles, pulled out drawers, tipped over the refrigerator and took a hammer to the bathroom sink, smashing it loose from the pipes. It felt like going ten rounds full blast; when my arms were too limp to inflict more damage I grabbed my uniforms and my silencer .45 and got out, leaving the door open so scavengers could pick the place clean.

  With the other Spragues due back in LA anyday, there was only one place to go. I drove to the El Nido, badged the desk clerk and told him he had a new tenant. He forked over an extra room key; seconds later I was smelling Russ Millard’s stale cigarette smoke and Harry Sears’ spilled rye. And I was eyeball to eyeball with Elizabeth Short on all four walls: alive and smiling, dumbstruck with cheap dreams, vivisected in a weedy vacant lot.

  And without even saying it to myself, I knew what I was going to do.

  I removed the file cases from the bed, stacked them in the closet and ripped off the sheets and blankets. The Dahlia photos were nailed to the wall; it was easy to drape the bedding over them so that they were completely covered. The pad perfect, I went prowling for props.

  I found a jet-black upswept wig at Western Costume, a yellow barrette at a dime store on the Boulevard. The heebie-jeebies came back—worse than bad. I drove to the Firefly Lounge, hoping it still had Hollywood Vice’s sanction.

  One eyeball circuit inside told me it did. I sat down at the bar, ordered a double Old Forester and stared at the girls congregating on a matchbook-size bandstand. Footlights set in the floor shined up at them; they were the only thing in the dump illuminated.

  I downed my drink. They all looked typical—hophead whores in cheap slit kimonos. Counting five heads, I watched the girls smoke cigarettes and adjust their slits to show more leg. None was anywhere near close.

  Then a skinny brunette in a flouncy cocktail dress stepped onto the bandstand. She blinked at the glare, scratched her pert button nose and toed figure eights on the floor.

  I hooked a finger at the bartender. He came over with the bottle; I held a palm over my glass. “The girl in the pink. How much to take her to my place for an hour or so?”

  The barman sighed. “Mister, we’ve got three rooms here. The girls don’t like—”

  I shut him up with a crisp new fifty. “You’re making an exception for me. Be generous with yourself.”

  The fifty disappeared, then the man himself. I filled my glass and downed it, eyes on the bartop until I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hi, I’m Lorraine.”

  I turned around. Close up she could have been any pretty brunette—perfect molding clay. “Hi, Lorraine. I’m … B-B-Bill.”

  The girl snickered, “Hi, Bill. You wanna go now?”

  I nodded; Lorraine walked outside ahead of me. Straight daylight showed off the runs in her nylons and old needle scars on her arms. When she got in the car I saw that her eyes were dull brown; when she drummed her fingers on the dashboard I saw that her closest link to Betty was chipped nail polish.

  It was enough.

  We drove to the El Nido and walked up to the room without saying a word. I opened the door and stood aside to let Lorraine enter; she rolled her eyes at the gesture, then gave a low whistle to let me know the place was a dive. I locked the door behind us, unwrapped the wig and handed it to her. “Here. Take off your clothes and put this on.”

  Lorraine did an inept strip. Her shoes clunked on the floor, she snagged her nylons pulling them off. I made a move to unzip her dress, but she saw it coming, turned away and did it herself. With her back to me, she unhooked her bra, stepped out of her panties and fumbled with the wig. Facing me, she said, “This your idea of a big thrill?”

  The coiffure was askew, like a gag rug on a vaudeville comic; only her breasts were a good match. I took off my jacket and started to work at my belt. Something in Lorraine’s eyes stopped me; I snapped that she was afraid of my gun and handcuffs. I got the urge to calm her down by telling her down by telling her I was a cop—then the look made her seem more like Betty, and I stopped.

  The girl said, “You won’t hurt—”; I said, “Don’t talk,” and straightened the wig, bunching her lank brown hair up inside it. The fit was still all wrong, whorish and out of kilter. Lorraine was shaking now; head-to-toe shivers as I stuck the yellow barrette into the coif to make things right. All it did was rip loose strands of black as dry as straw and tilt everything off to one side, like the girl was the slash mouth clown, not my Betty.

  I said, “Lie down on the bed.” The girl complied, legs rigid and pressed together, hands underneath her, a skinny length of tics and twitches. Prone, the wig was half on her head, half on the pillow. Knowing the pictures on the wall would spark perfection, I pulled off the sheets covering them.

  I stared at portrait-perfect Betty/Beth/Liz; the girl screamed, “No!” Killer! Police!”

  Wheeling around, I saw a naked fraud transfixed by 39th and Norton. I hurled myself onto the bed, pressed my hands over her mouth and held her down, talking it right and perfect: “It’s just that she has all these different names to be, and this woman won’t be her for me, and I can’t be just anybody like her, and every time I try I fuck it up, and my friend went crazy because his little sister might have been her if somebody didn’t kill her—”

  “KILL—”

  The wig in disarray on the bedspread.

  My hands on the girl’s neck.

  I let go and stood up slowly, palms out, no harm meant. The girl’s vocal cords stretched, but she couldn’t come up with a sound. She rubbed her throat where my hands had been, the imprint still bright red. I backed off to the far wall, unable to talk.

  Mexican standoff.

  The girl massaged her throat; something like ice came into her eyes. She got off the bed and put on her clothes facing me, the ice getting colder and deeper. It was a look I knew I couldn’t match, so I got out my ID buzzer held up LAPD badge 1611 for her to see. She smiled; I tried to imitate her, she walked up to me and spat on the piece of tin. The door slammed, the pictures on the wall fluttered, my voice came back in racking fits, “I’ll get him for you, he won’t hurt you anymore, I’ll make it up to you, oh Betty Jesus fuck I will.”

  Thirty-one

  The airplane flew east, slicing through cloud banks and bright blue sky. My pockets were stuffed with cash from my all but liquidated bank account, Lieutenant Getchell had bought my line about a grievously ill high school pal in Boston and had granted me a week’s accumulated sick leave. A stack of notes from the Boston PD’s background check was on my lap—laboriously copied from the El Nido file. I already had an interrogation itinerary printed out, aided by the metropolitan Boston street atlas I’d purchased at the LA airport. When the plane landed, it would be Medford/Cambridge/Stoneham and Elizabeth Short’s past
—the part that didn’t get smeared across page one.

  I’d hit the master file yesterday afternoon, as soon as I quit shaking and was able to put how close I’d gotten to havoc out of my brain—at least the front part of it. One quick skimming told me that the LA end of the investigation was dead, a second and third told me it was deader, a fourth convinced me that if I stayed in town I’d go batshit over Madeleine and Kay. I had to run, and if my vow to Elizabeth Short was to mean anything, it had to be in her direction. And if it was a wild-goose chase, then at least it was a trip to clean territory—where my badge and live women wouldn’t get me into trouble.

  The revulsion on the hooker’s face wouldn’t leave me; I could still smell her cheap perfume and imagined her spitting indictments, the same words Kay had used earlier that day, only worse—because she knew what I was: a whore with a badge. Thinking about her was like scraping the bottom of my life on my knees—the only comfort in it the fact that I couldn’t go any lower—that I’d chew the muzzle of my .38 first.

  The plane landed at 7:35; I was the first in line to disembark, notebook and satchel in hand. There was a car rental place in the terminal; I rented a Chevy coupe and headed into the Boston metropolis, anxious to take advantage of the hour or so of daylight left.

  My itinerary included the addresses of Elizabeth’s mother, two of her sisters, her high school, a Harvard Square hash house where she slung plates in ‘42 and the movie theater where she worked as a candy girl in ‘39 and ‘40. I decided on a loop through Boston to Cambridge, then Medford—Betty’s real stomping ground.

  Boston, quaint and old, hit me like a blur. I followed street signs to the Charles River Bridge and crossed over into Cambridge: ritzy Georgian pads and streets packed with college kids. More signs led me to Harvard Square; there was stop one— Otto’s Hofbrau, a gingerbread structure spilling the aroma of cabbage and beer.

  I parked in a meter space and walked in. The Hansel and Gretel motif extended to the whole place—carved wood booths, beer steins lining the walls, waitresses in dirndl skirts. I looked around for the boss, my eyes settling on a smock-clad older man standing by the cash register.

  I walked over, and something kept me from badging him. “Excuse me. I’m a reporter, and I’m writing a story on Elizabeth Short. I understand that she worked here back in ‘42, and I thought you could tell me a little about her then.”

  The man said, “Elizabeth who? She some sort of movie star?”

  “She was killed in Los Angeles a few years ago. It’s a famous case. Do you—”

  “I bought this place in ‘46, and the only employee I got left from the war is Roz. Rozzie, come here! Man wants to talk to you!”

  The battle-axe waitress of them all materialized—a baby elephant in a thigh-length skirt. The boss said, “This guy’s a reporter. Wants to talk to you about Elizabeth Short. You remember her?”

  Rozzie popped her gum at me. “I told the Globe and the Sentinel and the cops the first time around, and I ain’t changing my story. Betsy Short was a dish dropper and a dreamer, and if she didn’t bring in so much Harvard business, she wouldn’t a lasted a day. I heard she put out for the war effort, but I didn’t know none of her boyfriends. End of story. And you ain’t no reporter, you’re a cop.”

  I said, “Thank you for that perceptive comment,” and left.

  My atlas placed Medford twelve miles away, a straight run out Massachusetts Avenue. I got there just as night was falling, smelling it first, then seeing it.

  Medford was a factory town, smoke-belching foundry stacks forming its perimeter. I rolled up my window to hold off the sulfur stink; the industrial area dwindled into blocks of narrow red-brick houses crammed together with less than a foot between them. Every block had at least two gin mills, and when I saw Swasey Boulevard—the street the movie theater was on—I opened my wind wing to see if the foundry stench was dissipating. It wasn’t—and the windshield was already bearing a film of greasy soot.

  I found the Majestic a few blocks down, a typical Medford red-brick building, the marquee heralding Criss Cross with Burt Lancaster and Duel in the Sun—“All Star Cast.” The ticket booth was empty, so I walked straight into the theater and up to the snack stand. The man behind it said, “Anything wrong, officer?” I groaned that the locals had my number—three thousand miles from home.

  “No, nothing’s wrong. Are you the manager?”

  “The owner. Ted Carmody. You BPD?”

  I reluctantly displayed my shield. “Los Angeles Police Department. It’s about Beth Short.”

  Ted Carmody crossed himself. “Poor Lizzie. You got some hot leads? That why you’re here?”

  I put a nickel on the counter, grabbed a Snickers bar and unwrapped it. “Let’s just say I owe Betty one, and I’ve got a few questions.”

  “Ask on.”

  “First off, I’ve seen the Boston Police background check file, and your name wasn’t listed on the interview sheet. Didn’t they talk to you?”

  Carmody handed me back my nickel. “On the house, and I didn’t talk to the Boston cops because they talked Lizzie up like she was some sort of tramp. I don’t cooperate with badmouthers.”

  “That’s admirable, Mr. Carmody. But what would you have told them?”

  “Nothing dirty, that’s for damn sure. Lizzie was all aces to me. If the cops had been properly respectful of the dead, I’d have told ‘em that.”

  The man was exhausting me. “I’m a respectful guy. Pretend that it’s two years ago and tell me.”

  Carmody couldn’t quite peg my style, so I chomped the candy bar to ease him into some slack. “I’d have told ’em Lizzie was a bad worker,” he said finally. “And I’d have told ’em I didn’t care. She brought the boys in like a magnet, and if she kept sneaking in to watch the picture, so what? For fifty cents an hour I didn’t expect her to slave for me.”

  I said, “What about her boyfriends?”

  Carmody slammed the counter; Jujubees and Milk Duds toppled over. “Lizzie wasn’t no roundheels! The only boyfriend I knew she had was this blind guy, and I knew it was just palship. Listen, you want to know what kind of kid Lizzie was? I’ll tell you. I used to let the blind guy in for free, so he could listen to the picture, and Lizzie kept sneaking in to tell him what was on the screen. You know, describe it to him. That sound like tramp behavior to you?”

  It felt like a punch to the heart. “No, it doesn’t. Do you remember the guy’s name?”

  “Tommy something. He’s got a room over the VFW Hall down the block, and if he’s a killer I’ll flap my arms and fly to Nantucket.”

  I stuck out my hand. “Thanks for the candy bar, Mr. Carmody.”

  We shook. Carmody said, “You get the guy who killed Lizzie, I’ll buy you the factory that makes the goddamn things.”

  As I said the words, I knew it was one of the finest moments of my life:

  “I will.”

  The VFW Hall was across the street and down from the Majestic, yet another red-brick structure streaked with soot. I walked there thinking of blind Tommy as a big washout, someone I had to talk to to soften up Betty, make her live more easily in me.

  Side steps took me upstairs, past a mailbox labeled T. GILFOYLE. Ringing the bell, I heard music; looking in the one window I saw pitch darkness. Then a soft male voice came from the other side of the door. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Los Angeles Police, Mr. Gilfoyle. It’s about Elizabeth Short.”

  Light hit the window, the music died. The door opened, and a tall pudgy man wearing dark glasses pointed me inside. He was immaculate in striped sportshirt and slacks, but the room was a pigsty, dust and grime everywhere, an army of bugs scattering from the unaccustomed blast of brightness.

  Tommy Gilfoyle said, “My Braille teacher read me the LA papers. Why did they say such nasty things about Beth?”

  I tried diplomacy. “Because they didn’t know her like you did.”

  Tommy smiled and plopped into a ratty chair. “Is the apartment reall
y disreputable?”

  The couch was littered with phonograph records; I scooped a handful aside and sat down. “It could use a lick and a promise.”

  “I get slothful sometimes. Is Beth’s investigation active again? Priority stuff?”

  “No, I’m here on my own. Where did you pick up the cop lingo?”

  “I have a policeman friend.”

  I brushed a fat bug off my sleeve. “Tommy, tell me about you and Beth. Give me something that didn’t make the papers. Something good.”

  “Is this personal with you? Like a vendetta?”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “My friend said policemen who take their work personally get in trouble.”

  I stomped a cockroach exploring my shoe. “I just want to get the bastard.”

  “You don’t have to yell. I’m blind, not deaf, and I wasn’t blind to Beth’s little faults, either.”

  “How so?”

  Tommy fingered the cane by his chair. “Well, I won’t dwell on it, but Beth was promiscuous, just like the newspapers implied. I knew the reason, but I kept still because I didn’t want to disgrace her memory, and I knew that it wouldn’t help the police find her killer.”

  The man was wheedling now, caught between wanting to kick loose and keep secrets. I said, “You let me judge that. I’m an experienced detective.”

  “At your age? I can tell by your voice that you’re young. My friend said that to make detective you have to serve at least ten years on the force.”

  “Goddamn it, don’t dick me around. I came here on my own and I didn’t come to—”

  I stopped when I saw that the man was frightened, one hand going for the telephone. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, and I’m a long way from home.”

  Tommy surprised me by smiling. “I’m sorry, too. I was just being coy to prolong the company, and that’s rude. So I’ll tell you about Beth, her little foibles and all.

  “You probably know she was star-struck, and that’s true. You probably guessed that she didn’t have much talent, and that’s true, too. Beth read plays to me—acting all the parts, and she was a terrible ham—just awful. I understand the spoken word, so believe me, I know.