The lezzie behind the serving bar poured a shot glass full of whiskey and placed it in front of me, saying, “You from the Beverage Control?” She had piercing light eyes; neon reflections turned them almost translucent. I got a weird feeling that she knew what I was thinking about on the way over.
Downing the booze, I said, “LAPD Homicide”; the dyke said, “Not your bailiwick, but who got snuffed?” I fumbled for my snapshot of Betty Short and the Lorna/Linda ID card, then placed them on the bar. The whiskey lubed my hoarse voice: “Have you seen either of them?”
The woman gave the two pieces of paper, then me, a long once-over. “You tellin’ me the Dahlia’s a sister?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ll tell you I’ve never seen her except in the papers, and the little schoolgirl twist I’ve never seen, because me and my girls don’t truck with underaged stuff. Capice?”
I pointed to the shot glass; the dyke refilled it. I drank; my sweat warmed, then cooled off. “Capice when your girls tell me that and I believe them.”
The woman whistled, and the lounge area filled up. I grabbed the pictures and handed them to a femme draped around a lumberjack lady. They checked the photos out and shook their heads, then passed them to a woman in a Hughes Aircraft jumpsuit. She said, “No, but USDA choice tail,” and gave them to a couple next to her. They muttered “Black Dahlia,” real shock in their voices. Both said, “No”; the last lezzie said, “Nyet, nein, no, and not my type besides.” She shoved the pictures at me, then spat on the floor. I said, “Good night, ladies,” and made for the door, the word “Dahlia” whispered over and over behind me.
The Dutchess was two more free shots, a dozen more hostile looks and “No” answers, all in an old English motif. Walking into La Verne’s Hideaway, I was half juiced and itchy for something I couldn’t put my finger on.
La Verne’s was dark inside, baby spots affixed to ceiling beams casting shadowy light on walls covered with cheap palm tree paper. Lezbo couples were cooing at each other in wraparound booths; the sight of two femmes kissing forced me to stare, then look away and seek out the bar.
It was recessed into the left wall, a long counter with colored lights reflecting off a Waikiki Beach scene. There was nobody tending it, no customers sitting on any of the stools. I walked to the back of the room, clearing my throat so the lovebirds in the booths could jump off cloud nine and return to earth. The strategy worked; clinches and kisses ended, angry and startled eyes looked up at the coming of bad news.
I said, “LAPD Homicide,” and handed the pics to the nearest lezzie. “The dark-haired one is Elizabeth Short. The Black Dahlia if you’ve been reading the papers. The other one’s her pal. I want to know if any of you have seen them, and if so who with.”
The pictures made the rounds of the booths; I studied reactions when I saw that I’d have to use a bludgeon to get simple yes or no answers. Nobody said a word; all I got from reading faces was curiosity tinged with a couple of cases of lust. The photos came back to me, handed over by a diesel dagger sporting a flat top. I grabbed them and headed for the street and fresh air, stopping when I saw a woman behind the bar polishing glasses.
I moved to the bar and placed my wares on the counter, hooking a finger at her. She picked up the mug shot strip and said, “I seen her picture in the paper and that’s it.”
“What about this girl? She goes by the name Linda Martin.”
The barmaid held up the Lorna/Linda ID card and squinted at it; I saw a flicker of recognition pass over her face. “No, sorry.”
I leaned over the counter. “Don’t fucking lie to me. She’s fifteen fucking years old, so you come clean now, or I slap a contributing beef on you, and you spend the next five years eating pussy in Tehachapi.”