L.A. Noire: The Collected Stories (9 page)

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 MA 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 PM.

& at 7 PM 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.

NORMA JEANE BAKER:

In the Top Hat I waited for Betty & she did not come.

Oh gosh I was getting mad at Betty!

Ohhh damn you Betty I was thinking!

& my heart hardened against her for Betty had promised she would join me—there were two guys wanting to buy me drinks—& I needed to get home because I wanted to wash out some things & dry them on the radiator & in the morning iron—my flannel skirt & my white cotton eyelet blouse—I would wear these to acting class, the others wore slacks & cheap sweaters—I had the philosophy
It is always an audition, you don’t know who is observing you
& so I needed to be in bed by midnight & needed at least seven hours sleep or there would be blue shadows beneath my eyes but damn Betty would come into the room later, I knew—for Betty was always coming home late & stumbling-drunk—& if you scolded her she would cry
Go to hell! Screw you!
like she did not even know me & did not care for me any more than she did for the other girls in the Buena Vista.

For her heart was broken Betty had said, she’d been engaged to a wonderful man she had loved so much, Major Matt Gordon of the US Army Air Corps & they were to be married several years before but Major Gordon died in a plane crash far away in India & his body never recovered & Betty confessed she’d been so broken-hearted & a little crazed she had told her fiancé’s family that they had actually been married—in secret—& had had a little baby that had died at birth; & the family refused to believe this & scorned her & kept her from them & finally pretended that “Elizabeth Short” did not exist—so she had ruined her chances with the Gordon family, & was sick to think of it—
So much that I have lost, I hate God sometimes He has cursed me
. & I said to Betty
Don’t ever say that! Don’t give God any reason to hurt you more.

& Betty cried in my arms like a little girl as no one had ever seen her except me—for Betty did not wish anyone to know her weakness, she said—& swore me to secrecy, I would never tell; & I held her & said
We can help each other, Betty. We will!

But then, you could not trust her. My new lipstick missing, & one of my good blouses—& I knew it was Betty doing what Betty did which was take advantage of a friend. & I knew a time was coming when we would split up—& Betty would have no place to stay for the girls of Buena Vista were getting sick of her & then what? Where would she go?

That January night it was cold & rainy & I came back to the Buena Vista finally in a taxi by 1 AM & climbed the stairs to the second floor & there was the door to our room shut & I thought
Maybe Betty is here: maybe Betty did not feel well & did not go out at all tonight
—& when I came inside I stumbled in the darkness & groped for the light switch & I could see someone in Betty’s bed sprawled & helpless-seeming—limp & not-breathing—& when I managed to switch on the light I saw that it was just bedclothes twisted in Betty’s messy bed, coiled together like a human body.

“Oh Betty! Gosh I thought it was
you
.”

School for Murder

Francine Prose

All summer I kept hearing people say
desperate
. Actors are always eavesdropping on strangers, picking up phrases, gestures, stuff we can use. And wherever I went, whenever I listened in, I heard: desperate, desperate, desperate!

At the pharmacy, I heard a dame say, “Hon, if my landlord evicts me, things are gonna get desperate.” A buddy of mine said, “If my girl in New York doesn’t call pretty soon, man… I’m desperate.” I overheard a bum on Skid Row say, “That jerk better pay me back, I don’t care how desperate he is.”

The funny thing was, this was 1947. Desperation was yesterday’s mashed potatoes. Happy days were here again. The Depression was over, the war was over, we’d dropped the bomb, we’d won. Guys like me had defended our country, and girls appreciated that. I’d been in the battle of Okinawa. That was pretty much all I had to say and gals would feel like it was their personal mission to heal whatever was broken.

In L.A., the studios were popping out pictures like bunnies having babies. L.A. was the place to be! As soon as I got discharged, I spent a week with my mom in Seattle, then stuck out my thumb and headed south. Hollywood, here I come!

For a while, it seemed I was getting paid back for risking my life and seeing things I shouldn’t have seen. Horrors I kept seeing in those nightmares I’d wake up from, drenched and shaking.

At first, good things were coming my way. No great things, I wouldn’t say great. But I was making a living.

Everyone knew about the stars who’d started out as extras, or with one-sentence walk-ons that made some producer sit up and ask, “Who’s that? Get me his agent on the phone.” Bit parts were a foot in the door. I was glad to get them.

If you’ve seen enough pictures from those years, you’ve probably seen me. I’m the croupier in that scene where Barbara Stanwyck wins all that money. I’m a ranger out searching for the kid right before Lassie finds him. I give Bing Crosby directions in
Road to Utopia
.

For a while life looked rosy. Then… my luck turned. People lost interest. If I’d had a dollar for every time I heard the line, “My agent stopped returning my calls,” this story wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have needed the money. But it wasn’t about the money. Or maybe a little about the money. Maybe the reason I kept hearing people say
desperate
was because it described my state of mind—and my bank account.

At Gatsby’s, the actors’ bar where my unemployed friends and I hung out, the clientele was so desperate we never used the word.

Chuck was my agent at the time. The one not returning my calls. The boys at Gatsby’s gave me advice. They said, “Vince, you need to get heavy with the guy.” You could ask why I took the advice of other unemployed actors. But I did. I made a real pest of myself, called my agent twenty times a day. His receptionist hated my guts. But she had to pick up the phone.

Chuck finally called back. Maybe his receptionist had read him the riot act. He’d blackmailed someone into blackmailing someone into getting me a part.

I’d been drinking the night before, needless to say. Chuck called at nine and gave me the address of a studio. Not one of the majors—but not somebody’s garage in Pasadena, either.

I asked what the picture was called. He said, “
Not Guilty.
” Then louder, “
Not Guilty!
With an exclamation point!”

I asked when I could see the script. Chuck said he didn’t have one. I should just show up on the set and they’d take it from there. Then he said, “To sweeten the pot, the director is Harry Wattles.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said.

Everyone knew Wattles’s name. He’d been a rising star who’d fucked himself, or more specifically, the girlfriend of some big-shot producer. Now he’d been busted down to doing low-budget noir films. But everybody saw them. He had a reputation.

Chuck said, “You should be paying
them
for a chance to work with Wattles. Though I don’t know how I’d calculate my commission on that. Relax, big guy. I’m joking.”

The shoot was in Pasadena on a soundstage that smelled like a cross between a dead rat and a recent electrical fire. Everyone was running around—frazzled, yelling their heads off. But you couldn’t tell what anyone was doing, and they didn’t seem to know, either. In other words, a film set.

Wattles looked even stranger than he did in his photos. It was weird to have a name like Wattles and look like a hammerhead shark. It was also weird to look like that and get any girl you wanted.

Someone intercepted me on my way to Wattles, someone else intercepted that person, who was intercepted by the one who actually got to talk to Wattles. Wattles came over and shook my hand. He was surprisingly friendly, but like a friendly shark smiles before he chews your leg off.

He said, “Nice to meet you. Love your work.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” he said. “Sorry we couldn’t find you a part with some meat on its bones.”

“Gee, Mr. Wattles, I’ll take a skinny part.” I sounded like a moron!

“But I have to tell you, Vince.” Wattles was one of those guys who says your name every five seconds. I never trusted guys like that, but maybe I’d been wrong. “Your role is crucially important. It sets the tone for the whole picture.”

I was definitely wrong. Harry Wattles was a prince.

“Really?” My voice was climbing. I thought, You just screwed yourself out of a job unless they’re looking for boy sopranos.

Wattles said, “It’s not a speaking part. I assume Chuck made that clear.”

“He did.” I should have gotten an Oscar right then for pretending that I knew.

Wattles handed me on to a dame named Celia who outlined the plot of the movie. Jimmy Parker was playing the hero. Celia couldn’t believe a big star had agreed to do such a small picture. She guessed that it was Wattles. Actors wanted to work with him.

“So what’s my part?” I asked.

Oh, right. Well, apparently, Jimmy says goodnight to his girlfriend, gives her a kiss at her door. She invites him in for a nightcap, but he has to work early. The girl walks into her apartment. I’m there. I turn and see her. I grab her around the neck and strangle her dead. The rest of the movie is Jimmy Parker being accused of the murder he didn’t commit. I did the crime, but you don’t see me again. Grab, scream, I’m out of the picture.

Celia obviously hadn’t heard about my setting the tone.

I said, “Who plays the girl?”

“Iris Morell,” she said.

“Iris Morell gets eighty-sixed in the first scene?” Iris was the actress Wattles stole from the big-shot producer. The producer made a few calls, both their careers went down like the Titanic. The gossip was they were having problems, that lately she’d been seen around town with the big-shot producer again. Maybe they were working things out.

Everyone gossiped about everyone else, most of it was bullshit. On the other hand, Iris had starred in most of Wattles’s films, but now she was dying so early in the picture that if you were in the lobby getting popcorn, you’d miss her completely. That should have told you something—that is, if you understood that secret Hollywood language.

Celia weighed her annoyance at having to deal with me against her desire to show someone, even me, that she had the scoop on some hot gossip.

“Bettina Raymond plays the tough girl reporter who shows up after the murder and believes in the guy and helps him clear his name. People say that Wattles and Bettina are a hot item, but y’know, people say anything.”

“People are desperate,” I said.

Celia looked at me, wondering if I was nuts or just trying to sound interesting. She went for the second option—and sent me on to costume.

I don’t know why I expected Harry Wattles to stop by for a chat. I don’t know why I thought someone would give me some direction before we started shooting. I was asking the make-up girl. That’s how desperate I was.

“Don’t I need to know why I’m in the apartment? Am I stealing something? Looking for something? Was I hired to kill her? Why couldn’t I just push her and run out the door?”

She said, “You better ask Mr. Wattles.”

I did ask Mr. Wattles. He seemed irritated that I asked. Or maybe it was a bad moment. Iris Morell was on the set. I couldn’t help goggling at how gorgeous she was, and Wattles saw me looking. Which added a personal note to our professional discussion.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Wattles said. “But no one needs to know why you kill her. No one cares why you did it after the scene is over. The point is that our hero isn’t the killer. You are.”

“I understand that,” I said. “But while I’m in her room… am I doing something or just waiting?”

“Jesus Christ,” said Wattles. “Isn’t that the first thing they teach you in acting class? Don’t they teach you how to wait?”

It turned out I had plenty of time to wait. Wattles was famous for how long he spent getting the lighting—and the shadows—just right. He was a pretentious son of a bitch, but his movies looked great. That’s what I kept telling myself. I was lucky to be there.

Finally Wattles got what he wanted or else hallucinated the voices of the money guys yakking in his ear.

“All right, Iris,” he said. “Kiss kiss goodnight. Jimmy drives off. But you can’t get him out of your head. It’s been a fabulous date. And now you’re going to brush your teeth, put on the lacy nightie, crawl in bed, no funny stuff under the covers. That’s what you’re thinking as you walk into your apartment. But something’s a little… off. Maybe you smell something, maybe you sense it. You’re getting really nervous when the guy sneaks up from behind. He grabs you and turns you around. You look into his eyes. You’ve never seen him before. You scream and beg for your life. Cut to his hands around your neck with the maniac squeezing and—”

“Excuse me… So you’re saying I should play this like a maniac?”

“Hold everything,” Wattles said. “Laurence Olivier here wants to know our thinking about Othello. Look, buddy, just kill the dame and pick up your check so we can move on to the suspicious cops showing up at Jimmy’s. I’d like to not go over budget for once, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sorry,” I said. What if the word got out that I was hard to work with? But the word wouldn’t get out. Wattles wouldn’t remember my name.

“Okay, I’m ready,” I said.

“Thank God,” Wattles said. “All right. Let’s see how it looks.”

The cameras started rolling. Iris unlocked the door and walked through her living room into her bedroom. Her feet hardly touched the ground, that’s how in love she was with Jimmy.

I tried not to look at Wattles. I didn’t want to think about how I would feel if she was the girl I’d given up everything for, and now she was going back to her fat-cat producer?

Iris was wearing expensive perfume, I hadn’t counted on that. It threw me.

I thought about the six months since my girlfriend Caroline left. And she’d said I was starting to scare her. She wouldn’t say why, which made me even madder. I used to tell her, Honey, I’d be fine if I could just get some work and stop feeling so desperate.

Iris pulled her dress above her head. I crept up behind her. That beautiful face gazed up at me. Tears of fear and horror wobbled in her eyes.

“All right,” said Wattles. “Grab her throat.” The girl’s real-life boyfriend was ordering me to kill her, and I couldn’t do it.

“Excuse me?” I said. “Excuse me? I think I need a minute.”

Iris jumped back like I’d slapped her. Wattles stalked onto the set, his hammerhead slicing the air like the figurehead on a ship.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Can’t what?”

“Kill her. I can’t kill her.” I knew I was probably losing my job—probably the last work I was ever going to get in this town.

“All right,” Wattles said. “I get it. You need motivation. Okay. You
are
a maniac. An escapee from a mental asylum. If the girl reports you, you’ll be back in maximum lock-up. So you kill her. That’s it. End of story. Let’s take it from the top.”

We began again. The casual kiss between Iris and Jimmy wasn’t as casual as before. You could feel the strain. Iris was no longer the unsuspecting innocent coming home, but an actress trying to do a scene with a lousy actor. Me. You could see it in her eyes: not with fear of being murdered but the fear of
not
being murdered.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m not feeling it. Iris, Mr. Wattles. Can I talk to you privately for a second?”

Wattles looked as if I’d asked if I could stick needles in his eyes. He yanked Iris over to the edge of the set, and I followed.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. “It’s not something I usually tell people.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. Another Oscar, please. So what? It was true. I mean the story was true.

I said, “I was in Okinawa. I saw a lot of bad things. Really bad.”

“Like what?” asked Iris, all sympathy and concern.

Wattles looked blue murder at her.

“I had this crazy commanding officer. Lieutenant Mather. I saw him shoot an old Japanese woman point blank in the head.”

“Why?” asked Iris.

“He wanted to warn the people in town what he would do to spies.”

“That’s terrible!” said Iris. That’s what women always said. I loved women, I really did.

“And?” said Wattles. “What the hell does that have to do with my picture?”

“Harry!” said Iris.

“I have a condition… sometimes it all comes back. Just now… I think the memory was telling me I shouldn’t kill. Not even for a part.”

I fell silent and waited. I waited to hear Wattles tell me to get out. Instead he muttered to himself, “Is this guy kidding?” Then it was like a cartoon light bulb went on over his head. He thought a moment, then said, “Okay. Let’s move on to the next scene.”

I hesitated. Was this the moment when I was supposed to thank him and leave?

“Stick around,” he told me. “Watch the shoot. If you’re not busy later, we can go for a drive.”

The rest of the afternoon passed, as they say, in a fog. I got to spend hours watching Harry Wattles at work, getting genius performances out of second-raters like Jimmy and Bettina. Every direction he gave them transformed the picture from dime store crap into art!