THE BLACK DAHLIA by James Ellroy

Russ flashed his father-confessor smile and lied. “No, this is strictly confidential.”

Sally stood aside. Russ and I entered an archetypal trick pad front room–cheap furniture, bare walls, suitcases lined up in one corner for a quick getaway. Sally bolted the door. I said, “Who’s this guy we’re talking about, Miss Stinson?”

Russ straightened the knot in his necktie; I clammed up. Sally jabbed a finger at the couch. “Let’s do this quicksville. Rehashing old grief is against my religion.”

I sat down; stuffing and the point of a spring popped out a few inches from my knee. Russ settled into a chair and got out his notebook; Sally took a perch on top of the suitcases, back to the wall and eyes on the door like a seasoned getaway artist. She started with the most often heard Short case intro line: “I don’t know who killed her.”

Russ said, “Fair enough, but let’s take it from the beginning. When did you meet Liz Short?”

Sally scratched a hickey on her cleavage. “Last summer. June, maybe.”

“Where?”

“At the bar at the Yorkshire House Grill downtown. I was half in the bag, waiting for my . . . waiting for Charlie I. Liz was putting the moves on this rich-looking old hairbag, coming on too strong. She scared him off. Then we started talking and Charlie showed up.”

I said, “Then what?”

“Then we all discovered we had a lot in common. Liz said she was broke, Charlie says ‘you wanta make a quick double-saw,’ Liz says ‘yeah,’ Charlie sends us over for a twosie at the textile salesman’s convention at the Mayflower.”

“And?”

“And Liz was gooood. You want details, wait till I publish my memoirs. But I’ll tell you this. I’m pretty good at faking like I’m loving it, but Liz was great. She had this bee in her bonnet about keeping her stockings on, but she was like a virtuoso. Academy Award stuff.”

I thought of the stag film–and the strange gash on Betty’s left thigh. “Do you know if Liz ever appeared in any pornographic movies?”

Sally shook her head. “No, but if she did she’d be gooood.”

“You know a man named Walter “Duke” Wellington?”

“No.”

“Linda Martin?”

“Ixnay.”

Russ took over. “Did you turn any other tricks with Liz?”

Sally said, “Four or five, last summer. Hotel jobs. All conventioneers.”

“Remember any names? Organizations? Descriptions?”

Sally laughed and scratched her cleavage. “Mr. Policeman, my first commandment is keep your eyes shut and try to forget. I’m good at it.”

“Were any of the hotel jobs at the Biltmore?”

“No. The Mayflower, the Hacienda House. Maybe the Rexford.”

“Did any of the men react strangely to Liz? Get rough with her?”

Sally hooted. “Mostly they were just happy ’cause she faked it so good.”

Itchy to get at Vogel, I changed the subject. “Tell me about you and Charlie Issler. Did you know he confessed to the Dahlia killing?”

Sally said, “Not at first I didn’t. Then . . . well, anyway, I wasn’t surprised when I did hear. Charlie’s got this what you might wanta call compulsion to confess. Like if a prostie gets killed and it makes the papers, bye-bye Charlie and get out the iodine when he comes back, ’cause he always makes sure the rubber hose boys work him over.”

Russ said, “Why do you think he does it?”

“How’s a guilty conscience sound?”

I said, “How’s this sound? You tell us where you were January tenth through fifteenth, and you tell us about this guy we all don’t like.”

“Sounds like I’ve really got a choice.”

“You do. Talk to us here or to a butch matron downtown.” Russ tugged at his tie–hard. “Do you remember where you were on those dates, Miss Stinson?”

Sally fished cigarettes and matches from her pockets and lit up. “Everybody who knew Liz remembers where they were then. You know, like when FDR died. You keep wishing you could go back, you know, and change it.”

I started to apologize for my tactics; Russ beat me to it. “My partner didn’t mean to get nasty, Miss Stinson. This is a grudge thing for him.”

It was the perfect come-on. Sally Stinson tossed her cigarette on the floor, ground it out with her bare feet, then patted the suitcases. “I’m adios as soon as you walk out the door. I’ll tell you, but I won’t tell no DAs, no Grand Juries, no other cops. I mean it. You walk out that door and it’s bye-bye Sally.”

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