THE BLACK DAHLIA by James Ellroy

I looked around the bedroom, picking out objects–and the price tags that Madeleine had bragged to me. There was the Picasso oil on the back wall–a hundred and twenty grand. Two Ming vases resting on the dresser–seventeen big ones. The Dutch Master above the headboard cost two hundred odd thou; the ugly Pre-Columbian gargoyle on the nightstand a cool twelve and a half. Emmett, smiling now, said, “You appreciate nice things. I appreciate that, and nice things like those can be yours. Just tell me what you want.”

I shot the Picasso first. The silencer went “Pffft” and the .45 hollow point blew the canvas in half. The two Mings were next, crockery fragments exploding all over the room. I missed the gargoyle with my first shot–a gold-bordered mirror the consolation prize. Daddy and darling daughter huddled on the bed; I took sight on Rembrandt or Titian or whoever the fuck it was. My bull’s-eye blew a dandy hole out of it, along with a chunk of the wall. The frame toppled and hit Emmett’s shoulder; the heat of the weapon singed my hand. I held on to it anyway, one round still in the chamber to get me my story.

Cordite, muzzle smoke and plaster haze making the air almost unbreathable. Four hundred grand in bits and pieces. The two Spragues a tangle of limbs on the bed, Emmett coming out of it first, stroking Madeleine, rubbing his eyes and squinting.

I placed the silencer to the back of his head. “You, Georgie, Betty. Make me believe it or I’ll take your whole fucking house down.”

Emmett coughed and patted Madeleine’s stray curls; I said, “You and your own daughter.”

My old brass girl looked up then, tears drying, dust and lipstick mottling her face. “Daddy’s not my real daddy and we’ve never really . . . so it’s not wrong.”

I said, “Then who is?”

Emmett turned, gently pushing my gun hand out of the way. He didn’t look broken or angry. He looked like a businessman warming to the task of negotiating a tough new contract. “Dreamer Georgie is Maddy’s father, Ramona is her mother. Do you want the details, or will that fact suffice?”

I sat down in a silk brocade chair a few feet from the bed. “All of it. And don’t lie, because I’ll know.”

Emmett stood up and tidied his person, giving the room damage a weather eye. Madeleine went into the bathroom; a few seconds later I heard water running. Emmett sat on the edge of the bed, hands firm on his knees, like it was man-to-man confessional time. I knew he thought he could get away with telling me only what he wanted to; I knew I was going to make him spill it all, whatever it took.

“Back in the mid-20’s Ramona wanted a child,” he said. “I didn’t, and I got damn sick and tired of being nagged about fatherhood. One night I got drunk and thought, ‘Mother, you want a child I’ll give you a lad just like me.’ I did her without wearing a skin, sobered up and put it out of my mind. I didn’t know it, but she took up with Georgie then, just to get that foal she craved so dearly. Madeleine was born, and I thought she was from that one mean time. I took to her–my little girl. Two years later I decided to go for a matched set, and we made Martha.

“Lad, I know you’ve killed two men, which is more than I can brag. So I know you know what it is to hurt. Maddy was eleven when I realized she was the stark spitting image of Georgie. I found him and played tic-tac-toe on his face with a nigger shiv. When I thought he’d die I took him to the hospital and bribed the administrators into putting ‘car crash victim’ on their records. When Georgie got out of the hospital he was a pitiful disfigured wreck. I begged him to forgive me, and I gave him money and I got him work tending my property and hauling rubbish for the city.”

I recalled thinking that Madeleine resembled neither of her parents; I remembered Jane Chambers mentioning Georgie’s car crash and descent to stumblebum. So far, I believed Emmett’s story. “What about Georgie himself? Did you ever think he was crazy? Dangerous?”

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