Black Dahlia White Rose: Stories

by Joyce Carol Oates

  See, the trick was getting Norma to lie on the crinkly-crimson-velvet like she was a piece of candy—to be sucked.

  Getting Norma to relax & to smile—like she had not a care in the world & wasn’t desperate for money & broken-hearted, her jerk of a husband had “left her.”

  & wasn’t desperate, her movie career was stalled at zero.

  Guess what I paid Norma Jeane? Fifty bucks.

  I made nine hundred!—a record for me, at the time.

  Later Norma would come back to me begging—she had not known what she was signing, the waiver I’d pushed at her that day—& I said it was out of my hands by then, the rights to “Miss Golden Dreams” had been bought by the calendar company & beyond that sold & sold & sold—millions of dollars for strangers to this very day.

  Don’t argue with me, I told Norma—this is the foundation of Civilization.

  What I never told the L.A. detectives—or anyone who came around to ask about Betty Short—was that—(yes I am regretful of this, & wouldn’t want it to get out publicly)—there was this guy, this “gentleman”-like character, called himself “Dr. Mortenson”—an “orthopedic surgeon”—I think that’s what he called himself.

  The Bone Doctor he came to be, to me.

  Not my fault—all I did was bring them together.

  In fact it was Norma Jeane Dr. M. wanted to meet—not the other girls who came through my studio at that time & definitely not Betty Short he thought was somewhat common—vulgar.

  That’s how the Bone Doctor would talk: this prissy way like there’s a bad smell in the room.

  Not the black-haired one—her chin is too wide for feminine beauty & she’s got a cross-eye.

  The little blond girl. That one. SHE is the feminine beauty like an angel in heaven.

  (Did poor Betty Short have a “cross-eye”? Some photos you can see it, kind of—her left eye isn’t looking at you exactly the way the right eye is. So you’d think—something isn’t right about this girl, she’s witchy.)

  One day in September 1946 the phone rang—Hello? Is this K. Keinhardt the pinup photographer I am speaking to?—this prissy voice & I say Who the fuck is this? & he says Excuse me I am hoping to speak with Mr. Keinhardt on a proposition & I say What kind of a proposition? & he says I have been led to believe that you take “pinup” photos for the calendars & I say I am a studio photographer in the tradition of Alfred Stieglitz and Paul Strand—“nudes” are a small part of my repertoire & he says My proposition is: in my profession I see almost exclusively injured, disfigured, or malformed human bodies—particularly the female body is a sorry sight when it is far from “perfect”—and so—I am wondering if I might make a proposition to you, Mr. Keinhardt, who photographs only “perfect” female bodies . . .

  The deal was, Dr. M. would pay me twenty-five bucks—(which I later upped to thirty-five)—just to be a secret “observer”: looking through a peephole in the screen behind the camera tripod.

  Sure, I said. As long as you don’t take pictures of your own.

  How many times did Dr. M. come to the studio on Vicente Blvd., that fall and into the winter of 1947?—maybe a dozen times—& he never caused any trouble, just paid me in cash.

  Parked his shiny black 1946 Packard sedan across the street.

  Sat in the back behind the screen. “Observed.”

  Dr. M. had a face like a smudged charcoal drawing of Harry Truman, say. Same kind of glasses as Truman. You could not imagine this man young but only middle-aged with a prim little mouth & sagging jowls.

  Starched white shirt, no necktie but a good-quality coat and pressed trousers. Graying-brown hair trimmed and with a part on the left. Kind of stubby fingers for a surgeon but Dr. M. had that quiet air of “authority”—you could imagine this character giving orders to nurses and younger doctors in that voice.

  You could imagine the man giving orders to women—in that voice.

  Yes he was what you’d call a “gentleman”—“good breeding”—good taste too, he preferred the White Rose to the Black Dahlia—at least, that had been his wish.

  Of Betty Short whom he saw photographed on three separate occasions Dr. M. said frowning afterward:

  That black-haired vixen. She’s got a dirty mind—you can see it in her eyes—that cross-eye. And always licking her lips like there’s something on her lips she can’t get enough of tasting.

  Of Norma Jeane whom he saw photographed just once—(historic “Miss Golden Dreams” which was a session of just forty minutes, surprisingly)—Dr. M. did not speak at all as if tongue-tied.

  Dr. M. did request the girls’ names, telephone numbers & addresses & I told him NO.

  NO I cannot violate the girls’ privacy—that would be a considerable extra fee, Doctor!

  Something in my manner discouraged him. The Bone Doctor mumbled sorry & did not pursue the issue, did not even ask how much the “extra fee” might be—which was unexpected.

  After THE BLACK DAHLIA in all the papers the Bone Doctor vanished. He did not ever call me again & no one would ever know of his visits to my studio except me—and Betty Short.

  And how much Betty Short knew, I don’t know.

  Afterward I tried to find out who Dr. M. was—thinking maybe the Bone Doctor might find it worthwhile to pay me not to give the L.A. homicide detectives his name—but I couldn’t track him.

  So I thought Could be just a coincidence.

  A year or so before in L.A. there’d been another girl murdered in what was called a “sex frenzy”—in fact a girl Betty Short had known from the Top Hat—ankles and wrists tied with rope in the same way as The Black Dahlia—some of the same kind of torture-stab-wounds—and left in a bathtub naked—(but not dissected at the waist like Betty)—so you might think the same guy did both murders—but the detectives couldn’t come up with any actual “suspects”—there just wasn’t evidence & in the meantime there’s kooks confessing to the murder—not just men but some women too!

  Could be just a coincidence, I thought then, & I think now. Anyway—K.K. is not going to get involved.

  NORMA JEANE BAKER:

  It was just a n-nightmare.

  It was the awfulest—most horrible—thing . . .

  You could not ever imagine such a—an awful thing . . .

  When I came back to the room that night I was kind of m-mad at Betty ’cause she’d stood me up at the Top Hat—also Betty had not paid me back the thirty dollars she owed me—thirty dollars was a lot—also Betty was always in my things—she would “borrow” & never return what she took—like my lipsticks—that made me mad!

  At 20th Century-Fox I went to auditions all the time. Betty was not on contract but got on a list to audition, too—it costs money for makeup & clothes—& hair—Betty dyed her hair that inky-black color—my hair, that was brown, about the color of Betty’s natural hair, they made me bleach at the Blue Book Agency saying they could get twice as many shoots for me as with my brown hair & this turned out to be correct though an understatement—more like three times as many shoots. Like Anita Loos says—Gentlemen Prefer Blondes—this is a fact.

  But Betty Short had the wrong complexion for blond—so dyed-black hair was perfect for her. & with white makeup & powder & dark lipstick she made herself look really glamorous—“sexy.”

  Always wearing black clothes—that wasn’t Betty’s idea but some agent. Trying to get Betty Short work in the studios. Not who you are but who you know—they’d tell us. To get a contract you’d have to “entertain” the producers & their friends & then to keep the contract renewed you’d be expected to live in one of their residences like Mr. Hansen’s—he liked us to lie around the pool in the sun in teeny bathing suits & sunglasses—it was just party, party, party night after night & Betty Short thrived on it—& sleeping through the day—but I needed to get to my acting class & my dance class & that was no joke—you can’t audition either, if you are hungover & have shadows under your eyes. So—Betty Short & me—we did not always get along 100 percent—being fr
om different backgrounds too for Betty did actually have a “father”—she’d lived with him before coming to L.A.—she showed me pictures of him—& she said Oh my father was pretty well-to-do in Medford, Mass. when I was a little girl—see, this is my sisters & me on Daddy’s miniature golf course—then Daddy lost the business—people stopped buying miniature golf courses I guess—in the damn old Depression.

  And I was so jealous!—I said Oh Betty at least you have a f-father—you could go to him in Vallejo even now & Betty said with this hurt angry look Like hell I would never crawl back to him or to any God-damn man, my drunk father kicked me out saying I was no good, I was not even a good housekeeper like my mother, & Daddy accused me of being a strumpet & a whore—just on the evidence that I dated some boys.

  & I said But maybe your father feels differently now, you are older now & maybe he needs you & Betty looks as me like I am an idiot saying Maybe he needs me but I don’t need him, & I don’t need any man to boss me around, I will marry a rich man who adores me & wants to please ME not the other God-damn way around, see?

  So I backed off. I did not say that Betty had no idea how sad it is not to have a father—even a drunk father—& not to have a mother—even a sick mother like my mother who “could not keep me” because she had “mental problems”—but still, I would live with her, if she was discharged from the hospital . . . I did not say any of this because I did not want Betty mad at me & screaming & swearing like she did. It was known that Betty Short had a “short” temper! We were sharing a room at the Buena Vista & already it was up to me to make her bed not just my own & hang things up she’d throw down & take away laundry & wash it if I did not want a demoralizing sight to greet me every time I opened the door. & Betty owed me money, I was anxious she would not repay.

  Betty said You can get money from men—if they’re the right men not these God-damn bloodsuckers.

  Betty seemed angry at most men. She’d been engaged to a major in the U.S. Army Air Corps she had met at Camp Cooke—this was said of her by girls who’d known her longer than me—& her fiancé had died in a plane crash—& she had been pregnant at the time—(maybe)—& had lost the baby or—(maybe)—had had an abortion. & there was something more—Betty had tried to sue her fiancé’s family—for what, it wasn’t known.

  & I thought—we have that in common. As my husband Jim Dougherty had left me to join the Merchant Marines because he could not love me as I needed to be loved so Betty’s fiancé had left her in a terrible accident—in death.

  Later I found out Betty’s other roommates had evicted her! Coming home in the early morning & waking them & not giving a damn & worst of all stealing from them—they said.

  You can’t trust Betty Short. This “Black Dahlia” bullshit—what a laugh.

  Betty was nice to me, though—she laughed at me & called me Baby-face. She laughed at me not wanting to pose for nude pictures—I told her if you do nude pictures it’s like taking money from men for sex—it’s a crossing-over & you can’t go back. & she just laughed—Of course Baby-face you can “go back”—who’s to know? & I said if you have a nude photo in your past, the studios will not touch you—(for this was true & well known)—& she said Of course they will—if you are meant to be a star.

  Betty had great faith in this, more than any of us—if you could be a star, all would be changed for you.

  Between Betty Short & Norma Jeane Baker, it could not have been predicted who would be a “star.” Just looking at the two of us—you could not ever have guessed for sure.

  Soon, the name “Marilyn Monroe” would be given me. For the studio did not like “Norma Jeane”—this was an Okie name, they said. (It was not an Okie name! No one in my family was Okie or anything near.) & the studio did not like “Baker”—this was a dull name. But even the new name—“Marilyn Monroe”—did not seem real but a concoction like meringue, that would melt in the slightest rain.

  Betty was always looking at herself in a mirror. Betty would look right past your head & if you turned, you would see it was her reflection she was looking at like in a windowpane! Betty believed she was beautiful as Hedy Lamarr & that she would be a star soon—all she needed was the right break, the right audition.

  Well—this is true! So many of us yearning for this “break”—which will make the sadness of our lives fade, we think—like shadows on a wall when the sun comes out.

  & we will think then Now the sadness of my life is forgotten. Now—there will be a new life.

  When Betty was in a bitter mood she said you have only a few years if you’re a female. By twenty-five if you don’t have a man to adore you & take care of you or a studio contract—you are through.

  But Betty made a joke of it saying You are kaput! Finito! Dead meat!

  When she died in that terrible way, Betty was twenty-two.

  The saddest thing was—oh not the saddest maybe—but it was awful!—after Betty was found dead in a vacant lot in that terrible way a reporter for the Enterprise called her mother in Medford, Mass. & told Mrs. Short that her daughter “Elizabeth Short” had won a major beauty contest in California & please could Mrs. Short tell her anything she could of her daughter’s background—& poor Mrs. Short talked & talked all excitedly for an hour—(Betty would have thought it ironic, her mother seemed to have “forgiven” her having heard she’d won a big beauty contest!)—& at the end, the reporter cruelly told her that the actual news was, her daughter Elizabeth Short had been murdered . . .

  Reporters & photographers like K.K.—some cruelty enters their veins, like a parasite—they are not “human” any longer in their pursuit of prey.

  What do you know of your roommate Elizabeth Short’s life? “Secret” life?

  But I could tell the detectives nothing that others had not told them. & I did not know nearly so much as others did—this was a surprise!

  Who it could have been who’d taken Betty into captivity—if it was someone who knew Betty & had lain in wait for her—or someone who had never seen her before that night—was not revealed.

  Three days before the morning she was found in the vacant lot dumped like trash, the kidnap must have happened. Betty had been last seen at the Biltmore Hotel at about 9 P.M. where she had gone to meet someone—maybe?

  He must have h-hated her. This one. To hurt her so.

  For days he had her tied up in secret, it was revealed in the newspapers. Tied by her wrists & her ankles & (it was speculated) hung “upside down”—“spread-eagled”—& tortured before he k-killed her . . .

  He slashed her face—that was such a pretty face—& just a girl’s face without the makeup—He cut the corners of Betty’s mouth so it looked like she was crazy-smiling—like a mask . . .

  & then he—did something else . . .

  With sharp knives & it was speculated “surgical tools” . . .

  It is too terrible for me to say. It is too terrible to think of Betty Short in this way, who was my friend & my s-sister . . .

  Oh Betty what has happened to you! Who would do such a thing & why—why to you?

  Oh Betty I am sorry—every unkind thought I had of you, & that last night when you “stood me up”—again . . .

  Oh Betty forgive me—maybe I could have helped you s-somehow.

  I was twenty then. I was a model & had a “starlet” contract at 20th Century-Fox—which the studio would let lapse at the end of the year.

  Like Betty Short I was desperate for money & sometimes it did cross my mind—I would “do anything” for money . . .

  Except of course—I would not.

  BETTY SHORT:

  Why he was so—angry!

  This was such a shock to me I did not ever—comprehend—& then it was too late.

  You would say She asked for it. The Black Dahlia—a slut . . .

  She took $$$ from men, that makes her a slut—

  Well I say a married woman is a slut too then—taking $$$ from a man except it is “blessed” by the church—hypocrites I hate you & wish that I
could be revenged upon you from the grave especially those of you who have PROFITED FROM THE DAHLIA’S TERRIBLE FATE.

  The Bone Doctor did appear to be a “gentleman” & not like most others. He did appear to be well groomed & thoughtful. Waiting for me in his shiny black Packard sedan outside K.K.’s studio on Vicente Blvd. & when I crossed the street in my black patent-leather high heels worn without stockings having some difficulty with the damn paving stones he called to me Excuse me miss would you like a ride?—& I knew who he was (for K.K. had mentioned to me, this “Bone Doctor” who paid to see girls photographed nude & who had a particular interest in Norma Jeane) though not his name of course—& when I saw him, the glittery glasses like some politician or public man, the smile that was strained but polite, the thought came to me This one is well-to-do & can be trusted—& maybe the thought came to me This one is well-to-do & can be handled, by Betty Short.

  For always in that first instant if you are female an instinct comes to you: can this one be handled, or no. & if no you must flee.

  But if yes it will be worth your while to advance to him, if he beckons.

  & what happened was: Dr. M. drove me back to the Buena Vista in the beautiful black Packard car & said very few words to me—asked where I lived & was I a “starlet”—& stared straight ahead through the windshield of the car—(which I took note was sparkling clean & clear & the white sunshine of Los Angeles in January made my eyes water it was so bright)—& he said only that he was a resident of Orange County & had inherited a—(I am not certain of these fancy words, which I might mis-remember)—an “orthopedic surgical practice” from his father; but was an artiste in his heart & hoped to retire early & pursue his desires in that direction.