Black Dahlia & White Rose: Stories (3 page)

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.

The starched white shirt-collar & cuffs—the stubby hands but nails manicured & very clean—the pressed trousers & shiny shoes not scuffed or battered in the slightest—the third finger of the left hand with a just-perceptible paleness & impress where—(Betty Short had a sharp eye for such clues!)—a wedding band had been removed—all this I absorbed without seeming to be staring. My hands were clasped on my knees & my nails were dark-maroon polish—to match my dark-maroon lipstick—& my face powdered very white like (as K.K. would say part-sneering & part-admiring) a geisha. & I am wearing black of course—a black satin flared skirt & a lacy black blouse & black “pearls” at my throat—each of these borrowed from friends at Buena Vista except the “pearls” a gift from Mr. Hansen—& I am smiling & mentioned to Dr. M. that the concrete in the sun glittered in my eyes reminding me of the snow of Medford Mass. of my childhood & Dr. M. said
You are from New England, Betty?—
(for I had told him my name Betty Short by this time)—
you do not seem like you are from New England
.

Where does it seem that I am from, then?
—I asked him with a sidelong smile.

He continued to drive the Packard slow along the street as other vehicles passed us & his forehead furrowed & he said finally—
I could not guess. I would think that you are born of Hollywood—you have stepped out of a movie—or of the night.

Out of the night
—this struck me, it was a strange thing to say & flattering to me & so I thought
He is attracted to me. He will fall in love with me—he will be in my power.

& I smiled to think how K.K. would be surprised! That bastard treating us like shit on his shoes & taking such advantage of us.

Dr. M. let me out at Mr. Hansen’s stucco “mansion” (as it would be called in the newspapers) asking did I have a roommate & I said yes & Dr. M. said with a catch in his throat
Is your roommate that little blond girl
—
“Norma Jeane”—
& I had to say yes.

What is her last name?
he asked & I said stiffly
I am not comfortable talking about Norma Jeane, she is so dear to me. I’m sorry.

Dr. M. asked me for my phone number—he did not ask for Norma Jeane’s phone number—(which was identical to my own in fact—the phone did not belong to either of us but was shared by girls on the second floor of the house)—& so I thought maybe he would call me; & hoped that he would, for he did seem like a “gentleman” though old & starched-stuffy as hell but clearly he had $$$ & seemed kindly disposed & not a tightwad. & the next day a call did come for “Elizabeth Short”; & he was shy at first clearing his throat & saying did I remember him?—& I said yes of course—& he said he would like to see me again & also—if it was possible—my friend Norma Jeane; he would like to take us to dinner that night to a nice restaurant he knew of, on Sunset Boulevard, if we were free—& I said
Yes I believe we are both free, Norma Jeane & me—yes.
& a date was made, he would come to pick us up at the Buena Vista at 7
P.M.

& at 7
P.M.
I was dressed & waiting—from our friend Phoebe who was away I borrowed a beautiful black satin dress with a “plunging” neckline—around my neck the black “pearls” Mr. Hansen gave me—& my black patent-leather shoes & silk stockings—(also borrowed from Phoebe, who had more than one pair)—& there came Dr. M. exactly on time—no one saw me depart, I think—I hurried to the curb & slipped into the front passenger seat of the shiny black Packard came & hoped not to see in the man’s face a look of disappointment that Norma Jeane was not with me—(for I did not ask Norma Jeane to join us of course—& I would not have told Dr. M. that Norma Jeane was not coming for Dr. M. might have said he would not wish to see me alone)—& quickly said
Norma Jeane is not free after all—
& he said
Oh—but where is she?—she is not coming with us?
—like he was hard of hearing & I said in a louder voice smiling at him to put him at ease for he seemed stiff & unyielding—
Oh Norma Jeane leads a crazy life, you see—she has a former husband very jealous of her—he is her “ex” but he is always spying on her & threatening to “beat to a pulp” her man-friends
& after this, Dr. M. said nothing more of that simpering baby-face Norma; but paid attention to
me.

Before the dinner we would stop by a place he knew, Dr. M. said. For he had forgot something essential—his wallet. (He said with an awkward wink.) & asked would I come inside & I said
Oh—I don’t know . . .
for I did not want the “gentleman” to think that I was not shy & fearful of being alone with a strange man; & he said he was an
artiste
in his heart & was learning photography too—he would like to take photographs of me he said—for I was so beautiful—
But only with your consent, Betty.
& we entered into this house on Norfolk St.—which did not seem like a nice enough house for Dr. M. to be staying in & also did not seem to be furnished—& a strange smell came to my nostrils, a chemical-smell like some kind of strong disinfectant—but I was thinking how Dr. M.’s hair was the color of a sparrow’s feathers & Dr. M. was not very tall so that in my high heels I was almost his height—& he was not a muscled man but lean & stringy—I was smiling thinking I could
handle him
if necessary; & he said, taking my elbow to help me up a step, in the most gentlemanly way as we further entered the house he said
Betty, may I kiss you? Just once please may I kiss you, you are so beautiful Betty Short
& his breath was quickened & his eyes moist & intense behind the glittery glasses & I leaned to him & held my breath against the starchy-stuffy smell & shut my eyes knowing how gorgeous the Black Dahlia was at this time of dusk, & in the wan light of a single lamp inside, & lifted my lips to be kissed that were dark-plum in hue & “kissable” as Hedy Lamarr’s. & I thought—
Maybe he is the one. Maybe—this will be the one.