The Black Dahlia

I was scheduled to go back on duty Thursday, and got up early in order to spend a long morning with the master file. I was making coffee when the phone rang.

I picked it up; “Yes?”

“It’s Russ. We’ve got Sally Stinson. Meet me at 1546 North Havenhurst in half an hour.”

“Rolling.”

The address was a Spanish castle apartment house: whitewashed cement shaped into ornamental turrets, balconies topped by sun-weathered awnings. Walkways led up to the individual doors; Russ was standing by the one on the far right.

I left the car in a red zone and trotted over. A man in a disheveled suit and paper party hat strutted down the walkway, a slap-happy grin on his face. He slurred, “Next shift, huh? Twosies on onesies, ooh la la!”

Russ led me up the steps. I rapped on the door; a not-young blonde with mussed hair and smeared makeup threw it open, spat, “What did you forget this time?,” then, “Oh, shit.”

Russ held out his badge. “LAPD. Are you Sally Stinson?”

“No, I’m Eleanor Roosevelt. Listen, I put out for the sheriff’s more ways than one lately, so I’m tapped in the cash department. You want the other?”

I started to elbow my way inside; Russ grabbed my arm. “Miss Stinson, it’s about Liz Short and Charlie Issler, and it’s here or the women’s jail.”

Sally Stinson clutched the front of her robe and pressed it to her bodice. She said, “Listen, I told the other guy,” then stopped and hugged herself. She looked like the floozy victim confronting the monster in old horror movies; I knew exactly who her monster was. “We’re not with him. We just want to talk to you about Betty Short.”

Sally appraised us. “And he ain’t go

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 begi

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?”

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?”

“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.”

Russ said, “It’s a deal.” Sally’s color rose; that and the anger in her eyes knocked a good ten years off her. “On Friday the tenth I got a call at this hotel where I was staying. A guy said he’s a friend of Charlie and he wants to buy me for this young guy he knows who’s cherry. Two-day session at the Biltmore, a C-note and a half. I say I ain’t seen Charlie in a while, how’d you get my number? The guy says ‘Never mind, meet me and the kid outside the Biltmore tomorrow at noon.’

“I’m broke, so I say okay, and I meet the two guys. Big fat peas in a pod packing hardware, I know it’s a father and son cop act. Money changes hands, so

Sally lit another cigarette. Russ passed me Perso

“Vogel had a suite set up. So

I broke off the story. “Did he talk about stag films? Lezzie stuff?”

Sally snorted. “He talked about baseball and his peter. He called it the Big Schnitzel, and you know what? It wasn’t.”

Russ said, “Go on, Miss Stinson.”

“Well, we screw all afternoon, and I listen to the kid prattle about the Brooklyn Dodgers and the Big Schnitzel until I am blue in the face. Then I say, ‘Let’s get di