Jonathan Santlofer - L.A. Noire - The Collected Stories

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.

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.