The Black Dahlia

by James Ellroy

  The straight business was frenzied, too. Men were working with DMV registrations and Huntington Park street directories, trying to put together a lead on the “Red” Betty Short left San Dago with; others were reading her love letters, and two officers were on the DMV police line getting info on the license numbers Lee had gotten last night while camped out at Junior Nash’s fuck pad. Millard and Loew were gone, so I dropped my questioning report and a note on the warrants I’d issued into a large tray marked FIELD DETECTIVE’S SUMMARIES. Then I took off before some ranking clown forced me to join the circus.

  Being at loose ends made me think of Lee; thinking of Lee made me wish I was back at the squadroom, where at least there was a sense of humor about the dead girl. Then thinking of Lee made me mad, and I started thinking about Junior Nash, professional gunman more dangerous than fifty jealous boyfriend killers. Itchy, I went back to being a Warrants cop and prowled Leimert Park for him.

  But there was no escape from the Black Dahlia.

  Passing 39th and Norton, I saw rubberneckers gawking around the vacant lot while ice cream and hotdog vendors dispensed chow; an old woman was peddling Betty Short portrait glossies in front of the bar at 39th and Crenshaw, and I wondered if the charming Cleo Short had supplied the negatives for a substantial percentage cut. Pissed off, I pushed the buffoonery out of my mind and worked.

  I spent five straight hours walking South Crenshaw and South Western, showing Nash’s mug shots and talking up his MO of statch rape on young Negro tail. All I got was “No” and the question “Why ain’t you after the guy who chopped up that nice Dahlia girl?” Toward mid-evening I surrendered myself to the notion that maybe Junior Nash really had blown LA. And still itchy, I rejoined the circus.

  After a wolfed burger dinner, I called the night number at Administrative Vice and inquired about known lesbian gathering places. The clerk checked the Ad Vice intelligence files and came back with the names of three cocktail lounges, all on the same block of Ventura Boulevard out in the Valley: the Dutchess, the Swank Spot and La Verne’s Hideaway. I was about to hang up when he added that they were out of the LAPD’s jurisdiction in the unincorporated county territory patrolled by the sheriff’s department, and were probably operating under their sanction—for a price.

  I didn’t think about jurisdictions on the ride out to the Valley. I thought about women with women. Not lez types, but soft girls with hard edges, like my string of fight giveaways. Going over the Cahuenga Pass, I tried to put pairs of them together. All I could come up with was their bodies and the smell of liniment and car upholstery—no faces. I used Betty/Beth and Linda/Lorna then, mug shots and high school ID combined with the bodies of the girls I remembered from my last pro fights. It got more and more graphic; then the 11000 block of Ventura Boulevard came into view and I got women-and-women for real.

  The Swank Spot had a log cabin facade and double swinging doors like the saloons in western movies. The interior was narrow and poorly lit; it took long moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did I saw a score of women trying to stare me down.

  Some of them were bull dykes in khaki shirts and GI issue trousers; some were soft girls in skirts and sweaters. One hefty dagger eyed me head to toe; the girl standing next to her, a svelte redhead, put her head on her shoulder and slinked an arm around her thick waist. Feeling myself start to sweat, I looked for the bar and someone with the air of top dog. I spotted a lounge area at the back of the room, bamboo chairs and a table covered with liquor bottles, all of it encircled by wall neon blinking purple, then yellow, then orange. I walked over, arm-draped couples separated to let me through, giving me just enough room to maneuver.

  The lezzie behind the serving bar poured a shot glass full of whiskey and placed it in front of me, saying, “You from the Beverage Control?” She had piercing light eyes; neon reflections turned them almost translucent. I got a weird feeling that she knew what I was thinking about on the way over.

  Downing the booze, I said, “LAPD Homicide” the dyke said, “Not your bailiwick, but who got snuffed?” I fumbled for my snapshot of Betty Short and the Lorna/Linda ID card, then placed them on the bar. The whiskey lubed my hoarse voice: “Have you seen either of them?”

  The woman gave the two pieces of paper, then me, a long once-over. “You tellin’ me the Dahlia’s a sister?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you I’ve never seen her except in the papers, and the little schoolgirl twist I’ve never seen, because me and my girls don’t truck with underaged stuff. Capice?”

  I pointed to the shot glass; the dyke refilled it. I drank; my sweat warmed, then cooled off. “Capice when your girls tell me that and I believe them.”

  The woman whistled, and the lounge area filled up. I grabbed the pictures and handed them to a femme draped around a lumberjack lady. They checked the photos out and shook their heads, then passed them to a woman in a Hughes Aircraft jumpsuit. She said, “No, but USDA choice tail,” and gave them to a couple next to her. They muttered “Black Dahlia,” real shock in their voices. Both said, “No” the last lezzie said, “Nyet, nein, no, and not my type besides.” She shoved the pictures at me, then spat on the floor. I said, “Good night, ladies,” and made for the door, the word “Dahlia” whispered over and over behind me.

  The Dutchess was two more free shots, a dozen more hostile looks and “No” answers, all in an old English motif. Walking into La Verne’s Hideaway, I was half juiced and itchy for something I couldn’t put my finger on.

  La Verne’s was dark inside, baby spots affixed to ceiling beams casting shadowy light on walls covered with cheap palm tree paper. Lezbo couples were cooing at each other in wraparound booths; the sight of two femmes kissing forced me to stare, then look away and seek out the bar.

  It was recessed into the left wall, a long counter with colored lights reflecting off a Waikiki Beach scene. There was nobody tending it, no customers sitting on any of the stools. I walked to the back of the room, clearing my throat so the lovebirds in the booths could jump off cloud nine and return to earth. The strategy worked; clinches and kisses ended, angry and startled eyes looked up at the coming of bad news.

  I said, “LAPD Homicide,” and handed the pics to the nearest lezzie. “The dark-haired one is Elizabeth Short. The Black Dahlia if you’ve been reading the papers. The other one’s her pal. I want to know if any of you have seen them, and if so who with.”

  The pictures made the rounds of the booths; I studied reactions when I saw that I’d have to use a bludgeon to get simple yes or no answers. Nobody said a word; all I got from reading faces was curiosity tinged with a couple of cases of lust. The photos came back to me, handed over by a diesel dagger sporting a flat top. I grabbed them and headed for the street and fresh air, stopping when I saw a woman behind the bar polishing glasses.

  I moved to the bar and placed my wares on the counter, hooking a finger at her. She picked up the mug shot strip and said, “I seen her picture in the paper and that’s it.”

  “What about this girl? She goes by the name Linda Martin.”

  The barmaid held up the Lorna/Linda ID card and squinted at it; I saw a flicker of recognition pass over her face. “No, sorry.”

  I leaned over the counter. “Don’t fucking lie to me. She’s fifteen fucking years old, so you come clean now, or I slap a contributing beef on you, and you spend the next five years eating pussy in Tehachapi.”

  The lezbo recoiled; I half expected her to go for a bottle and brain me with it. Eyes on the bar, she said, “The kid used to come in. Maybe two, three months ago. But I’ve never seen the Dahlia, and I think the kid liked boys. I mean, she just cadged drinks off the sisters, that was it.”

  Sidelong, I saw a woman just starting to sit down at the bar change her mind, grab her purse and make for the door, as if spooked by my words with the barmaid. The baby spotlight caught her face; I caught a fleeting resemblance to Elizabeth Short.

  I gathered up my pictures, counted
to ten and pursued the woman, getting to my car just as I saw her unlock the door of a snow-white Packard coupe parked a couple of spaces up from me. When she pulled out, I counted to five, then followed.

  The rolling surveillance led me over Ventura Boulevard to the Cahuenga Pass, then down into Hollywood. Late-night traffic was scarce, so I let the Packard stay several car lengths in front of me as it headed south on Highland, out of Hollywood, into the Hancock Park District. At 4th Street, the woman turned left; within seconds we were in the heart of Hancock Park—an area Wilshire Division cops called “Pheasant Under Glass Acres.”

  The Packard turned the corner at Muirfield Road and stopped in front of a huge Tudor mansion fronted by a lawn the size of a football field. I continued on, my headlights picking up the car’s rear plate: CAL RQ 765. Checking my rearview mirror, I saw the woman locking the driver’s side door, even from a distance her trim sharkskin figure stood out.

  I took 3rd Street out of Hancock Park. At Western I saw a pay phone, got out and called the DMV night line, requesting a vehicle make and criminal record check on white Packard coupe CAL RQ 765. The operator kept me waiting for close to five minutes, then returned with his read-out:

  Madeleine Cathcart Sprague, white female, DOB 11/14/25, LA, 482 South Muirfield Road; no wants, no warrants, no criminal record.

  Driving home, the shots of booze wore off. I started wondering if Madeleine Cathcart Sprague had anything at all to do with Betty/Beth and Lorna/Linda, or whether she was just a rich lezzie with a taste for low life. Steering with one hand, I took out my Betty Short mugs, superimposed the Sprague girl’s face over them and came away with a common, everyday resemblance. Then I saw myself peeling off her sharkskin suit and knew I didn’t care one way or the other.

  Ten

  I played the radio on the ride to University Station the next morning. The Dexter Gordon quartet was bebopping me into good spirits when “Billie’s Bounce” quit bouncing, replaced by a feverish voice: “We interrupt our regular broadcast to bring you a bulletin. A major suspect in the investigation into the slaying of Elizabeth Short, the raven-haired party girl known as the Black Dahlia, has been captured! Previously known to the authorities only as ‘Red,’ the man has now been identified as Robert ‘Red’ Manley, age twenty-five, a Huntington Park hardware salesman. Manley was captured this morning at the South Gate home of a friend and is now being held and questioned at the Hollenbeck police station in East Los Angeles. In an exclusive handout to KGFJ, Deputy DA Ellis Loew, ace legal beagle working on the case as civilian-police liaison, said: ‘Red Manley is a hot suspect. We’ve got him pegged as the man who drove Betty Short up from San Diego on January ninth, six days before her torture-ravaged body was found in a vacant lot in Leimert Park. This looks like the big break we’ve all been hoping and praying for. God has answered our prayers!’”

  Ellis Loew’s sentiments were replaced by a commercial for Preparation H, guaranteed to reduce the painful swelling of hemorrhoids or double your money back. I flipped the radio off and changed direction, heading for Hollenback Station.

  The street in front of it was blocked off with sawhorse detour signs; patrolmen were holding reporters at bay. I parked in the alley behind the station and entered through the back door to the holding tank. Drunks jabbered in cells on the misdemeanor side of the catwalk; hardcase types glowered from the felony row. It was a jailhouse full house, but there were no jailers anywhere. Opening a connecting door into the station proper, I saw why.

  What looked like the entire in-station contingent was crammed into a short corridor inset with interrogation cubicles, every man straining for a look through the one-way glass of the middle room on the left side. Russ Millard’s voice was coming out of a wall-mounted speaker: smooth, coaxing.

  I nudged the officer nearest to me. “Has he confessed?”

  The man shook his head. “No. Millard and his partner are giving him the Mutt and Jeff.”

  “Did he admit knowing the girl?”

  “Yeah. We got him from the DMV cross-checks, and he came along peacefully. Wanna make a little bet? Innocent or guilty, take your pick. I’m feelin’ lucky today.”

  I ignored the offer, gently elbowed my way up to the glass and peered in. Millard was seated at a battered wooden table, a handsome young guy with a carrot-hued pompadour across from him fingering a pack of cigarettes. He looked scared shitless; Millard looked like the nice-guy priest in the movies—the one who’s seen it all and granted absolution for the whole enchilada.

  Carrot top’s voice came over the speaker. “Please, I’ve told it three times now.”

  Millard said, “Robert, we’re doing this because you didn’t come forward. Betty Short has been on the front page of every LA newspaper for three days now, and you knew we wanted to talk to you. But you hid out. How do you think that looks?”

  Robert ‘Red’ Manley lit a cigarette, inhaled and coughed. “I didn’t want my wife to know I was chipping on her.”

  “But you didn’t chip on her. Betty wouldn’t put out. She cock-teased you and didn’t come across. That’s no reason to hide from the police.”

  “I dated her down in Dago. I danced slow dances with her. It’s the same thing as chipping.”

  Millard put a hand on Manley’s arm. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Tell me how you met Betty, what you did, what you talked about. Take your time, nobody’s rushing you.”

  Manley stubbed out his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, lit another one and wiped sweat from his brow. I looked around the corridor and saw Ellis Loew leaning against the opposite wall, Vogel and Koenig flanking him like twin dogs awaiting the command to attack. A static-filtered sigh came over the loudspeaker; I turned back and watched the suspect squirm in his chair. “And this is the last time I’ll have to tell it?”

  Millard smiled. “That’s right. Go ahead, son.”

  Manley got up and stretched, then paced as he talked. “I met Betty the week before Christmas, at this bar in downtown Dago. We just started gabbing, and Betty let it slip that she was sort of on her uppers, staying with this woman Mrs. French and her daughter, sort of temporarily. I bought her dinner at an Italian joint in Old Town, then we went dancing at the Sky Room at the El Cortez Hotel. We—”

  Millard interrupted. “Do you always chase tail when you’re out of town on business?”

  Manley shouted, “I wasn’t chasing tail!”

  “What were you doing, then?”

  “I was infatuated, that’s all. I couldn’t tell if Betty was a gold digger or a nice girl, and I wanted to find out. I wanted to test my loyalty to my wife and I just …”

  Manley’s voice died down; Millard said, “Son, for God’s sake tell the truth. You were looking for some pussy, right?”

  Manley slumped into his chair. “Right.”

  “Just like you always do on business trips, right?”

  “No! Betty was different!”

  “How was she different? Out-of-town stuff is out-of-town stuff, right?”

  “No! I don’t chip on my wife when I’m on the road! Betty was just …”

  Millard’s voice was so low that the loudspeaker barely picked it up. “Betty just set you off. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Made you want to do things you’d never done before, made you mad, made you—”

  “No! No! I wanted to fuck her, I didn’t want to hurt her!”

  “Sssh. Sssh. Let’s go back to Christmastime. You had that first date with Betty. Did you kiss her good night?”

  Manley gripped the ashtray with both hands; they shook, butts spilled onto the table. “On the cheek.”

  “Come on, Red. No heavy pass?”

  “No.”

  “You had a second date with Betty two days before Christmas, right?”

  “Right.”

  “More dancing at the El Cortez, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Soft lights, drinks, soft music, then you made your move, right?”

&n
bsp; Goddamn you, quit saying ‘Right’ ! I tried to kiss Betty and she gave me this song and dance about how she couldn’t sleep with me because the father of her child had to be a war hero and I was only in the army band. She was goddamn nuts cm the subject! All she did was talk about these horseshit war heros!”

  Millard stood up. “Why do you say ‘horseshit,’ Red?”

  “Because I knew they were lies. Betty said she was married to this guy and engaged to that guy, and I knew she was trying to make me look small because I never saw combat.”

  “Did she mention any names?”

  “No, just ranks. Major this and Captain that, like I should be ashamed of being a corporal.”

  “Did you hate her for it?”

  “No! Don’t put words in my mouth!”

  Millard stretched and sat down. “After that second date, when was the next time you saw Betty?”

  Manley sighed and rested his forehead on the table. “I’ve told you the whole story three times.”

  “Son, the sooner you tell it again, the sooner you’ll be able to go home.”

  Manley shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. “After the second date I didn’t hear from Betty until January eighth, when I got this telegram at my office. The telegram said she’d like to see me when I made my next sales run down to Dago. I wired back, saying I had to be in Dago tomorrow afternoon, and I’d pick her up. Then I picked her up, and she begged me to drive her up to LA. I said—”

  Millard held up a hand. “Did Betty say why she had to get to LA?”

  “No.”

  “Did she say she was meeting somebody?”

  “No.”

  “You agreed to do it because you thought she’d put out for you?”

  Manley sighed. “Yes.”

  “Go ahead, son.”

  “I took Betty with me on my rounds that day. She stayed in the car while I called on customers. I had some calls in Oceanside the next morning, so we spent the night in a motel there, and—”