HISTORY LESSON: Movie Stars and the Mob

Hollywood's favorite Gangster: James Cagney

There is something intoxicating about the element of danger, isn't there? All of our favorite actors possess it. Who is Brando without it? For that matter, who is Davis without it? Just as different celebrities hypnotize us through their various characters, so too were they mesmerized by a certain breed of the male animal that was even more intoxicating than themselves-- the gangster. Brutal, violent, merciless, not to mention unlawful, the birth of the thug came with the death of alcohol. In protecting human beings by taking away their booze, prohibition ironically unearthed an even more foul, yet even more tempting, villain. Iconically remembered with Tommy guns, cigars, and sometimes baseball bats (thanks to Robert De Niro's turn in The Untouchables), these tough guys emerged from a world of hard knocks and ruthlessness with no other agenda than to make a buck off other men's weaknesses. Businessmen and bruisers, they became rich and powerful through drugs, gambling, white slavery... You name it. Their legacy is a strange and dark mutation of the American dream. Living as the Royalty of the Underworld, it wasn't long before live villains started rubbing elbows with screen heroes. Elbows... and then some.

Why do good girls always want the bad boys? You'd think a lady would know to run far and fast when a man with a more-than-disreputable reputation came into view, yet the opposite effect more popularly occurs. Even some of our most beloved starlets have been hoodwinked by the charms of a devious gangster. Be it the allure of being that close to danger, the attraction of power, the money and spoils the "hood" is able to provide (however his means of obtaining them), certain women have temporarily muted their common sense for a forbidden adrenaline rush. One such lady was Lucille Ball (looking very much the gangster's moll in her role for Dance Girl Dance, left). As a fourteen year-old youngster, her first major boyfriend was a local hood named Johnny DeVita, whose resume included "chauffeuring" for his sketchy father-- aka transporting whiskey. Johnny was tough, which Lucille found a turn-on, and the fact that he carried a gun around made her even more enamored. However, not long after his dad was shot and killed, Johnny would find himself in Jail for his own transgressions. Lucy's taste didn't change much when she became a struggling model in NY. Working for Hattie Carnegie, she often came across gang members looking for good-looking dames to show a swell time. Lucy struck up friendships with many of these fellows, which helped her get a free meal or two, not to mention a false sense of protection. After a neighborhood shootout, she earned the nickname "two-gun." Just why remains a mystery.

Another tough guy Lucy would date and befriend was George Raft. Raft (right) had a lot of mobster ties dating all the way back to his boyhood. He had no ambitions to rise in the ranks of that type of "business," but he ingratiated himself to a number of wise guys who would later call on him for favors when he became a movie star. Mae West would recall meeting Raft for the first time when he was a mere chauffeur for Owney Madden. They had a brief fling, which left Mae reminiscing in later years that George was "all man." Mae, like Lucy, had a taste for the bad boys, but was too smart a business woman to get involved too deeply with them. Emotions remained out of the equation. Strangely, she tried to coerce Raft into appearing in her latest stage production, "Sex," but George had no ambitions toward being an actor either. He had no ambitions at all it seemed, other than to just live as comfortably as possible. It was thus a shock to Mae when, later, George made it to Hollywood before she did and secured a role for her in what would be her film debut: Night After Night. It was a welcome reunion. Despite this, Raft was known by some as hot-tempered and threatening. He still carried around a gun, cozied up to thugs, and had no qualms about slapping someone around. He would even testify on behalf of Bugsy Siegel when the latter was brought up on bookmaking charges. Yet, George seemed to have a soft spot for certain ladies. In addition to Mae, he was helpful to Lucy when he loaned her the money to rent her first bungalow in Hollywood. It was a touching move, for it allowed her to move her entire family from Jamestown to L.A. It would take her more than six years to pay him back, but her pal said that there was no rush.

Pat DiCicco also had mob connections. Publicly an acting agent, privately he was good friends with the likes of Lucky Luciano. Luckily, whatever fling Lucy Ball had with Pat was brief, but Carole Landis was too suckered by his deceptive charms. Initially turned on by his confidence and swagger, she soon found that her Prince Charming had some major rage issues. Their affair would quickly come to an end after a mysterious hospital visit: she was reported to be undergoing cosmetic surgery on her nose, though it is commonly believed that she was repairing the physical damage of a brutal beating. The girl was perfect, after all; she didn't need plastic surgery. Whatever the source of her visit, it marked the end of their relationship. Most notoriously, it was comedienne Thelma Todd who was all too seriously involved with Pat. The two were married in the 1930s (see newlyweds left). Like the others, Thelma fell for what she mistook as Pat's strength, only to find herself constantly on the receiving end of his anger and jealousy. A common error, most women sought these men in hopes of finding protection but put themselves in the line of fire instead... literally. As their marriage was ending, Pat introduced Thelma to Lucky Luciano aka Charles Lucifer, and the two began their own affair. But, as Lucky put the pressure on Thelma to give him space in her Sidewalk Cafe to use as a gambling center, Thelma adamantly refused. Consequently, she was found dead in her garage on December 16, 1935. Though Lucky was certainly the mastermind behind her "accidental" demise, many believed Pat too played an intricate part in ending his ex-wife's life. Since all of Tinsel Town knew this, it makes it strange that any other woman would give Pat a second glance, but in addition to winning over Lucy and Carole, Pat too would tac Joan Blondell, Gloria Vanderbilt, Virginia Bruce, and Elizabeth Taylor onto his roster.

Another infamous Hollywood death that has been tied to in some respect to gang warfare is that of The Black Dahlia, Elizabeth Short. Though many would attest that the macabre nature of her death and the precision with which she was brutally sawed in half suggested the work of a calculating psychopath or serial killer, there were also clues attached to her body that pointed to none other than Bugsy Siegel (right). One theory postulates that newspaper magnate Norman Chandler paid Siegel, along with the aid of a couple of other thugs and a doctor, to kill Bettie after she became pregnant with Norman's child. He feared the threat of a scandal and the tarnishing of his illustrious family's name. If so, this would explain the brutality with which Bettie was beaten across the head and face-- the sadistic Bugsy had a penchant for "pistol whipping." Because her uterus was removed, this too lends to the speculation that her murder was used to cover up an abortion/pregnancy. Also, her body was dumped not far from Bugsy foe Jack Dragna's house, and-- something the police did not let the press in on-- a "D" was carved into her skin, which many attribute to an antagonistic Sicilian "Eff you" from Bugsy to Dragna. With Bugsy's schedule, flying back and forth non-stop while finalizing his precious Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas, it is possible that he was present to have just enough time to take part in the murder and, knowing him, enjoy it.

Whether or not he did play a role in Bettie's end, Bugsy had a very prominent role in Hollywood-- with both the women and the men. Whatever his sickening and reprehensible behavior in fact, he was able to at least concoct enough fiction to make him fascinating to all of the glitterati. He could be seen on the town at various shindigs, rubbing elbows with Clark Gable and Gary Cooper-- and George Raft, of course. Naturally, the man known as the handsomest thug too partnered up with several actresses, including Marie McDonald and Wendy Barrie. He was also in tight with Jean Harlow's abysmal step-father, Marino Bello, which put him in contact with Jean as well. (Harlow, of course, is also rumored to have had a relationship with Abner "Longie" Zwillman, who helped her secure her first acting contract. He too was said to carry around a locket containing hair from her... uh... nether-regions). Whether these actors truly liked Bugsy or merely tolerated him out of fear is uncertain. One would at least hope that they had their guards up. Most notoriously, Bugsy had a violent and torrential relationship with wannabe actress Virginia "Sugar" Hill (left), who was supposedly just as venomous and abusive as her lover. It would be at Virginia's home in Beverly Hills, 810 N. Linden Drive, where Bugsy would finally meet his maker and face the music for all of his worldly crimes. He was shot clean through the eye. His murder was believed to be payback for all of the money he owed his Flamingo investors.

But all of these names were floating around Hollywood for a reason. The Mob was moving West-- away from the Metropolises of New York and Chicago-- to do big business in show business. Names like Siegel, Luciano, Mickey Cohen, Meyer Lansky, and Frank Nitti are attached to Movieland for very specific reasons. One is now known as "The Great Hollywood Shakedown." Two lesser known names involved are those most responsible for what was to become an enormous extortion racket- Willie Bioff (right) and George Brown. Their scheme started in Chicago, where after dabbling in prostitution, they set their sights on the Stagehands Union. Step one, membership. The slogan was simple: join us you little, underpaid children... or be beaten within an inch of your life. Step Two, after Increasing dues, B&B threatened theater owners with "strikes" if they didn't pay up monthly fees for the use of the union members. Theater owners Sam Katz and Barney Balaban were some of the first hit with the new, raw deal. To keep their theaters running, they played the game, and business continued smoothly. Frank Nitti, Al Capone's heir, soon partnered up (or rather took over), and the venture moved West. Capone had already laid the ground work, and Nitti wanted to finish the job. With the corrupt Buron Fitts running things as the District Attorney in Los Angeles, a complete goon-takeover wouldn't be difficult.

Next, New York's Lucky Luciano (left) was brought into the loop in a temporary or at least feigned truce, and the two branches would work together to take over Tinsel Town. Adding the projectionists' unions and IATSE to the scheme, they could return to men like Balaban, now in Hollywood running Paramount, and demand huge payments to keep their theaters running and their studios filming. The film-businessmen would be forced to pay or suffer the consequences: the loss of their livelihoods or worse, the loss of their lives. All of the major studios were hit: Paramount, Warners, Twentieth-Century, MGM... Game, Set, Match. In a way, it worked for everyone. Under mob control, the studios ran more efficiently than ever, as long as they payed up, and moguls actually saved money paying the bad guys instead of paying the Unions directly. Needless to say, the union members were the ones getting truly and financially screwed. As hot-shot gang members became commonplace at Hollywood parties, corruption whipped into full swing. Producer Joe Schenck even got in on the action via a Dupont Film monopoly, for which he paid ol' Bioff off with a Ranch. The feds caught up with him, however, ironically from a tip from Montgomery Clift, then the SAG President, whose informants alerted the IRS to the fishy financial goings-on. Schenck served five years in prison as a result. By the end of the '40s, with the cat out of the bag, the whole troupe of accomplices was led into court both for participation in the extortion plot and tax evasion. Most would get off due to their connections, but some did not fare as well, including Nitti, who blew his own brains out when the prospect of facing jail time became too daunting. The only one who escaped completely was Lucky, who (after killing Thelma Todd), had left the whole racket, or rather was kicked out by his own partners, to return to New York. He was later deported back to his native Sicily where he would die in 1962 at the ripe old age of 69. One hopes his soul did not fare as well.

Frank Sinatra (right) was the man most notoriously associated with the Mafia in the latter days of Hollywood's golden age. It is common knowledge by now that it was through Old Blue Eyes's influence and mob connections that the Kennedys were able to buy their way into the White House. Of course, after they got what they wanted, the Prez quickly disappeared from Frank's life so that his pristine public image wouldn't be maligned. Frank was... ticked. (There are continuing theories that many members of the mafia, who had connections with the Kennedy family, were outraged by the political family's inability to "do business" properly. While many in America were shocked when JFK was shot dead, those in the underworld were not). Frank often overcompensated for his diminutive stature by surrounding himself by powerful people. His big voice and even bigger ego were all the guy needed, but his need to appear tough and throw his weight around was enhanced by his relationships with gangsters. Sam Giancana and Mickey Cohen were co-owners of Frank's Cal Neva Lodge. Skinny D'Amato was the manager. Frank was also throughout his life associated with Joe and Rocco Fischetti and John Formosa. While this made him somewhat of a moral and political threat, it equally boosted his fan appeal and public image. His male fans particularly were more intrigued when they learned that little Frankie was more than just a singing heartthrob for the ladies. He was a bad-ass mother-f*cker! Say what you will, no one messed with Frank. Well, almost. Frank got a little miffed at Lucille's beloved Desi Arnaz after he started producing "The Untouchables." He felt it was insulting to both Italians and "his friends." Yet, even after he tried to persuade his Cuban comrade to pull the plug, Desi sweet-talked him out of his anger. As Frank himself would say, "I just can't stay mad at the guy."

Edward G. Robinson takes a bullet and makes a hit in Little Caesar.

"The Untouchables" turned out to be a huge hit for Desilu Studios, and one of many Hollywood products that contributed to our understanding of gang warfare. The show would make Robert Stack a star, though his role was that of Det. Eliot Ness (a character reprised by Kevin Kostner in the film version). The show was, however, more about the triumph of good over evil, whereas earlier Hollywood films made in the gangster infiltration hey-day-- specifically those produced during the pre-code era-- had a tendency to glorify the thugs, the goons, and the hoods. It's funny that, aside from Sinatra and Raft, some of the actors most famous for playing these guys were very far from their screen selves. Edward G. Robinson, the infamous pug-faced actor who rose to fame in Little Caesar, was in life an educated aesthete who collected fine art, had a wide knowledge of music and culture, and could speak seven languages fluently. And Cagney, the mad hero of Public Enemy and White Heat? His portrayals of gangsters were convincing, because he observed them while growing up in the Lower East Side of NY. But, while he studied them, he did not assimilate, despite the fact that many of his friends did. He put his passions and angst into his art, becoming a song and dance man instead. His true self would come to the forefront in Yankee Doodle Dandy. Though admitted facades that could never possess the brutality of the real truth, the classic reel tales of booze, violence, and "bidness," are still offers we can't refuse. I guess the flesh and blood (and I do mean blood) realities were just as enticing for some celebs, though dancing with the Devil too often left then burned.

HOT SPOTS in CA: Hollywoodland

Don't mind if I do...



The thing about Hollywood is that it's very much alive, even while being haunted. In truth, despite all of the sordidness and usary, the hypocrisy and superficiality, you kind of can't help loving this city. I guess what it all comes down to is that, while I myself often can't stand what Hollywood currently stands for, I still marvel at what it was built upon. Vision, integrity, imaginiation, grit, artistry, beauty, determination-- these things all came together inexplicably when man embraced his latest invention and found himself encroaching on modern genius. This is why Hollywood will forever have my heart, and while I cynically enjoy driving down the paved streets in need of serious repair, past the electric lights pointing me toward the nearest bar, strip joint, or medical marijuanna emporium (which are sprouting up everywhere like... weeds), there is something equally yet contradictorally invigorating about the open landscapes and unknown wildernesses that indicate what once was-- the Hollywood that Cecil B. DeMille stumbled upon in 1914 after he overruled AZ as the shooting locale of The Squaw Man.

Original Stone Gate at the Hollywood Entryway.

The real estate development venture known as Hollywoodland still exists. This is a fact that I myself did not know. I assumed that whatever properties had once been established by Harvey and Daeida Wilcox had long since been demolished and buried beneath the latest architectural ventures Los Angeles has had to offer. However, on a whim, and with a little luck from Living Social, I encountered a tour meant to take me on a narrated hike around the Hollywood sign. Twenty bucks later, I found myself walking up Beachwood Canyon into a small, tucked away neighborhood known as Hollywoodland. My jaw dropped, my eyes bulged, and I very nearly kissed the pavement beneath me when my brain accepted what my eyes were seeing, but I stilled myself for fear of frightening the other hikers.

Site of today's Hollywoodland Realty.

 

Yes, H-land is still very much alive, and despite the array of modern cars lining the streets, it remains very much untouched by time. Upon entering the stone entryway, complete with turrets and a large clock, one will see the Village Coffee Shop (great Eggs Benedict, left) and the local market, where a scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers was filmed. A few small shops and private businesses greet the eye, and then a slew of streets take one up into the hills above Hollywood. Of course, there have been modern renovations and new homes built, but many of the buildings are reminiscent of or actually are the original structures regimented by the original neighborhood rules: homeowners were once given a choice of French Normandy, English Tudor, Mediterranean Revival, or Spanish Revival styles of design.

Example of classic architecture and original

supporting stone walls.

When walking up Ledgewood, one can get pretty close to the notorious Hollywood sign, and on the hike up I was too able to spot an interesting bit of property known as The Garden of Oz. Since Frank Baum was an early resident in Hollywood, and his The Wizard of Oz went onto become one of the greatest films of all time, it makes sense that there be a little tribute to him. I'm not sure what the whole story is, and the doors were locked, so I couldn't go inside, but I got a peek. Inside the closed gates there seemed to be a child-sized world resembling Willy Wonka's chocolate factory-- minus the chocolate. It appears to be private property accessible only to the neighborhood children, who each have a key.

The Garden of Oz.

Perhaps the most surprising moment was when I laid my eyes on Hollywoodland's greatest secret-- Lake Hollywood. Man-made by engineer William Mulholland, this vessel holds 2.5 billion gallons of water and once kept nearby inhabitants very hydrated during the hot and dry summer months, (we all know Los Angeles isn't known for its rain). Begun in 1923 and finished in 1925, it used to be a very popular swimming hole for local residents and sunbathers. It is still there, visible, but untouchable and off limits after the disaster of 9/11.

Lake Hollywood

Different homes were also pointed out on the tour: one that belonged to both Madonna and Bugsy Siegel (Castillo de Lago- Wolf's Lair), one that belonged to Debbie Reynolds, but the most interesting and lasting structures are perhaps the still remaining, original staircases (right) that early residents used to climb the vast hills of their neighborhood. It really puts things in perspective when you realize that people didn't always have the privileges we take for granted today: paved roads, cars, and highways that can take us up and over anything in a few minutes. There are several steps still around, but you have to look a little bit to find them. Surmounting them makes you realize why everyone was in much better shape in the days of yesteryear. Many people use the stairs today to exercise. One staircase in particular had a counter at the top, so joggers could keep track of their laps-- aka insanity.

Original Staircase Marker.

At the end of my two hour hike, I was sad to leave. This small little gem, tucked away in the hills behind Franklin, felt much more like Hollywood to me than today's Hollywood, which is loud, littered, and overcrowded. Standing back and over the city on Mt. Lee and taking a glimpse at all of the structures we have built, the bright lights, and the social achievement is one thing, but there is something even more interesting about turning in the opposite direction and facing only green hills and rugged terrain. One direction is this city's past; one is its present. If you are ever in the area and are bored or in the need of a little mental and physical exercise, I suggest you take the hike up to Hollywoodland. It is truly wonderful that this small patch of earth remains somehow untainted and pure. As the starting point for all that Hollywood has become, it remains the still beating heart from which the unruly Los Angeles spread out to take over the world. Just dallying around and grabbing a cup o' joe, you can feel the nostagia and reminisce about the way we were and how amazing it is that such a great something came from a little nothing. But, I guess that is the story of all America. While others will surely extol the praises of their own hometown or self-proclaimed favorite city, I can not part from mine. I guess I left my heart in Hollywood.

Hollywoodland was but one of many signs that went up (in 1928) 

to mark regional real estate development sectors, yet it is the

only one that remains, thanks to the movies.

If you're in town and want to take a great tour through the hills around the Hollywood sign, go to LA Active Adventures.

Hahaha, oh Hollywood...

 

PERSONAL NOTE: My Year with Bettie

Now that the crazy mayhem of the Halloween Holiday has passed, I am more than ready to rest, recuperate, and enjoy the general gluttonous merriment that is certain to come as Thanksgiving approaches- a much more restful holiday. This past year has been a hectic one for me, and in many ways an eerie one. Twelve months worth of research and grave-hunting has caused me to unearth some, at times, unsettling facts, and I have had more than one spooky experience to make me wonder whether or not I have tarried too long with the ghosts of the past. At these odd moments, when I stumble upon something or someone in the crumbling facade of Hollywood that leaves me- for lack of a better word- uneasy, I fear that these phantoms have followed me into the present. It is a burden that is sometimes difficult to shake off.


When it comes to my research, I feel as though I am guided by a force greater than myself. Almost every time I choose a subject, some odd occurrence or stroke of luck leads me to a happy coincidence that would have completely passed me by had I not ventured down this particular path at this particular moment. These moments of chance, as it were, are often uplifting: me researching Errol Flynn, only to randomly discover that a personal friend of his is giving a lecture on his life that night, (a mere stone's throw away at the Hollywood Heritage Museum); me researching the current month's muse Mr. Chaney, only to discover that his famous makeup bag is on display to the public for a limited time, when it is normally tucked away collecting dust (rubbish). But there are times, when certain situations occur that strike me the wrong way, or rather in asking questions, I get more in answer than I bargained for. I am thence guided still by a force, but it is leading me to darker truths instead of lighter fare.

So it was with my investigation of Elizabeth Short (above): an adventure that culminated this October 31, 2009, when I kept a promise to dress up as her for Halloween. My relationship with her, if I can call it that, is strong, perplexing, and other-worldly. It crept up on me out of nowhere and has stayed with me for 12 months. Perhaps now I can finally put her to rest... though it is hard to imagine a sad soul such as hers ever finding true peace. As a bit of post-Halloween spookiness, here is an account of my experiences with her for the past year:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The exact year that I became aware of the shocking tale of the "Black Dahlia" escapes me. I do know that it was in the 6th grade that my fascination with cinema began to take hold. Alfred Hitchcock led to Cary Grant, who led to Katharine Hepburn, who led to etc. etc. etc. So, I can logically assume that it was sometime in my early junior high-school years that I came to know "Bettie." I asked for the book Severed for Christmas, which probably would have concerned any parents other than my own, who fostered all of their children's curiosities, mundane or macabre as they may have been. I read John Gilmore's tragic reconstruction of Bettie's life and death, shed a tear for her, and put the book away. Armed with a little more knowledge, I let the Sleeping Beauty lie, and went on to my next topic of interest, which I'm sure was a more uplifting one.


I did not seriously think of Bettie again for several years, other than a random cursory thought that flitted in and out of my mind. Even watching De Palma's film, The Black Dahlia, did not incite in me anything more than irritation that Hollywood could have gotten one of its most infamous daughters so completely and utterly wrong. (If you haven't seen the movie, DO NOT waste your time. It does no justice to that poor girl or the way she died).


Then one morning, in November of 2008, I woke up to a normal day, with the afternoon sun pouring through my window (must have been a weekend), and Elizabeth was on my mind. I did not know where she came from, nor why all of a sudden she was so present in my thoughts, but there she was: Elizabeth Short, Elizabeth Short, Elizabeth Short... beating like a mantra in my head. I tried to shrug it off at first as an attack of randomness, but later I decided to pursue her strange re-emergence. It began simply enough. I flipped through the old Gilmore book, still aghast at the horrendous photos of what was done to this beautiful, young girl. Then I got on the internet, looked up the ever accumulating theories surrounding her macabre murder, and later found a site with photographs of the location where her body was found over 60 years ago.

Then, a light-bulb went off! Now living in California, I could add the gruesome site to one of my weekend jaunts! I typically find time to go scavenging about town, looking for former homes of the stars, important landmarks, graves, etc. So, adding this to the agenda, I drove out to 39th and Norton in East Los Angeles, and found myself in an average neighborhood tucked behind Crenshaw Blvd. All of the houses were one level, bearing little ornamentation; the dry grass was cut almost identically the same short length all down the road. Then, I pulled up to 3925 Norton (below), the address that was identified as being closest to where Elizabeth was found in pieces on the morning of January 15, 1947. I got out of the car, took some photos, and stood for a second. For some reason I felt disappointed. I don't know what I expected to find, or see, or feel, but it was not there. So, I tucked my camera back in my pocket, and drove away with an awkward feeling on my shoulders.

This little bit of investigation still did nothing to quell the overwhelming feeling of unease and anxiety that was taking hold. Something was wrong. I felt, as strange as it sounds, that Bettie was trying to talk to me or that she wanted me to "find" her. So, I went to the book store, bought every thing I could find on the Dahlia case, and got to work with my investigation.


For the next month, I delved into the mystery, the theories, the cover-ups, the scandal, the sadness, and most importantly the gruesome death. I was appalled. I now felt that the reason I was so urgently looking for answers was because the explanation I had accepted before as a youngster was not the whole truth, but merely the tip of the iceberg. The book I found that most closely captured the spirit of the media mayhem and the sorrow of the departed, and the book that for me produced the best theory of Elizabeth's death, was the immaculately researched, sympathetic, and intelligent-- The Black Dahlia Files: The Mob, The Mogul, and The Murder That Transfixed Los Angeles by Donald H. Wolfe. In it, Wolfe postulates that Bettie was done away with to protect the image of Norman Chandler, (heir to the family fortune and distinguished owner of the Los Angeles Times), who had gotten her pregnant. He called in a favor to a few cronies, Bugsy Siegel among them, and ordered her killed. Of course, the humiliating and torturous fashion by which she was "done away with" was not part of the plan, but then Bugsy and his retinue were not the most honorable of characters. (For a more descriptive explanation of the case as well as Beth's life and death, visit my Elizabeth Short Bio ). 

All of the information about Bugsy's (right) involvement also unearthed a memory from the not-so-distant past. As I mentioned, I am somewhat of a grave-hunter, and the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on Santa Monica Blvd. is thus a goldmine where my scavenging is concerned. I have spent many a day there, going down my list of the interred, and paying my respects to Rudolph Valentino, Tyrone Powers, Marion Davies, etc. After I had searched every nook and cranny, and broken into every shady corner, there was but one "stone" left unturned: Bugsy Siegel. I wasn't too interested in him, as he is not directly linked to film and is more notorious than celebrated. But, since I had reached the end of my quest, I figured "Why not?"

I walked back into the Beth Olam Mausoleum, which lines the south side of the cemetery, and walked toward Bugsy's grave (above). As I approached, a sickening feeling took over. I felt uneasy... "icky," if you will. I stood in front of his marker: "Benjamin Siegel," and for some reason did not want to take a picture. I didn't like it, standing there. I believe my exact reaction was: "Blech." At the time, I had no knowledge of Bugsy, or his violent crimes against men. All I knew of gangsters was what the movies had taught me: they were sexy bad-asses with tommy guns. Feeling foolish, and assuming I was merely spooked by the claustrophobic graves surrounding me, I snapped a quick shot and booked it out of the mausoleum. 

Looking back, I now see that I was having a reaction to Bugsy himself, not his grave. I had felt the presence of a man who was malicious, twisted, and demented. I disliked him, sensed his evil before I knew of the dark nature of his soul. Warren Beatty got it all wrong in his Bugsy, a film that sugar-coated one of the most Devilish human beings who ever lived; humanized what cannot be humanized. My unease those months ago was confusing, but as I read about Bettie's death, they became warrented. It truly sickens me that Bugsy is glamorized today, and receives a kind of hero worship when in reality he was just... well... "Blech!"


Anyway, jumping back to November of '08: having just read about the brutal nature of Bettie's death and the ensuing cover-up, I was enraged! I was angry, fuming, confused, scared... The world around me seemed to change. I had lived a naive life, blessed with the ignorance of a secure childhood, a safe home, and maybe just blind luck. I thought the Good would be protected, the Dirty punished... but No. There was no karma, there was no God, so deep went my frustration and empathy for Bettie and what she had endured. I felt like lashing out, but where, and how?!?! I hopped online again to do some fishing, for something was needling me. I looked up again the location where her body was found, and this time saw my error: the correct address was 3825 Norton, for it was closer to the fire hydrant by which her body was discovered. Arming myself with my camera and canning my nerves, I drove back to the nook behind Crenshaw to see "the spot" (below).

This time, things were different. Perhaps just fueled by the emotions I was experiencing from my research and all the new information I had come across, I stood at the lonely patch of grass and felt an overwhelming sense of despair land on me like a weight. I could barely lift my hands to take a photo. Here Bettie was found ripped in half. I knew it. This was it. I could see it, just as Betsy Bersinger had seen the gruesome sight when she had been out walking her baby on that January morning. I saw the pale, mangled body in the weeds, the face sliced into a brutal, ironic smile, the bloodless mannequin that used to be a living body. I became numb. My fury left, and all that remained was pity, sorrow...


I got into my car, put my hands on the wheel and looked up. There, up in the hills, guarding the golden city, was the Hollywood sign. The same sign (minus the -land) that once had filled Bettie's heart with hope and joy; the symbol of the fame she was sure to achieve, but that she only found in death. The same letters that inspired her to come out to California from Massachusetts had watched coldly from the hills as two men unloaded her bit by bit into the grass like she was garbage. My heart sank; I clutched the wheel as the realization of the great ugliness that had been done hit me. I wept. I wept, and wept, and wept, unable to control myself, as if possessed by Bettie's own sadness. Finally, mustering my strength and realizing the scene I was making before all of the Norton neighbors, I turned the ignition and drove on. But in my mind and in my heart, I could feel Bettie with me, as if she were sitting in the back seat, while I drove us away.

Things shifted after this. My desire to "get to the bottom of things" was still present, but not as intense. Not as manic. I more and more seemed to sink into a deep depression. I felt that the things I had learned had altered me, and I wasn't certain that I would ever be the same again. Even around friends I wondered, "Could they see the change in me? Was my sadness and confusion apparent?" I tried to keep it under wraps, but social outings had become cumbersome and exhausting. Life was not fun, and when it was I felt guilty in the enjoyment of it. Why should I have happiness when Bettie had suffered such torture? Why should I live a spotless life when she had had hers ripped away?


One day, I received word from my manager that I had an audition- a little independent number, scheduled for sometime later that night. While at work, I put the address into Google and printed out directions. Early that evening, I grabbed some dinner to kill time before I made the trek out to downtown L.A, and as I ate I finished reading the last pages of Wolfe's book. In it, he stated that he had discovered the location where Elizabeth was actually murdered- a bungalow, owned by the police protected Brenda Allen, a "Madame," and loaned to Chandler and Siegel for the deed. The address was 835 Catalina Street. Reading the closing remarks, I closed the book and felt a relief. It was over. The journey I had been on was finished. I knew what I believed to be the truth, or as close as I would ever get to it, and I could move on and leave Bettie behind. Or could I?


Going down to my car, I prepped myself for my audition, (for a druggie, by the way), and pulled out the directions I had printed out earlier. Scanning the list of rights and lefts, my eyes landed on one of the last turns... And I froze. The second to last street I had to turn down to reach my destination was Catalina Street.


Was I crazy?! Was the world this chalk-full  of coincidences?! Or was Bettie calling me from beyond the grave, beckoning me to the very place where she had met her death? My mouth hung open for what felt an eternity, and I am sure that the color had drained from my deer-in-headlights face. Shaking, I turned the key in the ignition, and drove out to my audition, which I made it to just in time to pull myself together. (Perhaps my quaking, nervous energy when I walked in the room enriched my reading as a drug addict).


As I left the audition, my heart beat loudly. I got into my car and decided I had to go to the site tonight! I turned onto Catalina, and followed it all the way to 835. As I drove, the streets around me changed. I felt as though I were seeing the Hollywood of 1947. The roads became smoother, the litter disappeared, and the bright lights dimmed to a softer, more romantic glow-- a haunting glow. Reaching my destination, fear began to take over. I parallel parked between the dirty, rusting cars lining the narrow street and looked out my window at Brenda Allen's former bungalow. I opened my door, and stood out in the cold, shivering more from nerves than from the chill in the air.

Peering up at the building marked 835, probably looking like a stalker, I saw the lights of a television screen dancing on the walls. Inside, someone sat enjoying the peaceful calm that comes at the end of the day, indulging in the fake lives on the blue screen. Some unwitting person sat on the same ground, within the same walls, that witnessed Bettie being beaten, sliced, and sawed in half. If those walls could talk, they would scream... but the oblivious occupant now living there heard only the dialogue cascading out of his television set. It seemed odd, how easily the past had been erased, hidden, and written over with such normalcy.


I uneasily moved forward, looking up the staircase that led to the dark alley between the little apartments. I was scared. I half expected to witness the past actions being reenacted by malevolent ghosts; I half expected to see Bettie's sleek, pale form emerge from the shadows and beckon me. I took one last look, closed my eyes, braced myself as the images in my head took hold... And then I let them go. Feeling Bettie with me, I turned around, got into my car, and pulled away from the abyss of the past and back to life.


On the car ride home, I again felt Bettie. I feared that if I looked into the rear-view mirror I would see a pair of pale, blue eyes staring back at me in sorrow. Thanks to my cell phone and an emergency call to my sister, Haleigh, I made it home safely. How I fell asleep that night I don't know. I was disturbed, undone, depressed... And yet I felt myself coming out of a long and tedious labyrinth. I awoke the next morning heavier, now carrying more knowledge than I'd bargained for, but my life slowly returned to normal.


I continued my research of course, though now my intermittent forays back into Bettie's world were done as a hobby and not as a vengeful quest for truth. I felt I had found my truth. Of course, I had chosen to believe Wolfe's theory, but then it felt right. The way things had fallen into place within the pages of his book, and the way things fell into place before my eyes in my own life... I felt like Bettie had guided me through her story, as close as I would ever come to really knowing it. I returned later to the location of her murder on Catalina (below), this time in the daylight. Perhaps the sun made it seem less terrifying, or perhaps my understanding now guarded me from the what I had once feared.

In between books on Greta Garbo or Gary Cooper, I would sometimes return to Bettie. I read The Black Dahlia Avenger, which I found intriguing but inconclusive, as the entire book hinges on a picture of Elizabeth Short that is clearly not Elizabeth Short. I too read Childhood Shadows, and aside from the head-scratching accusation that Orson Welles murdered Bettie, it was a good read, for it introduced Bettie as the girl she had been before Hollywood-- innocent, sweet, nurturing, and undeserving of the fate that awaited her in La La Land.


My year with Bettie ended, as I stated, this Halloween, when I dressed as her. It was a strange promise to make to her, back when I was in the midst of my bewildering encounters, but it somehow seemed appropriate. It was my way of commemorating her, and of introducing her to every stranger who approached and quizzically asked, "Who are you supposed to be?" Halloween now over, and black wig put into storage with the rest of my rarely used junk, Bettie has finally released her entrancing hold on me, but I know I shall never let go of her.

Forever, she will be in my mind, a subconscious presence that I conjure up every once in awhile. Though I have "found" Bettie, I will always be searching for her, for just as her face looks different in every picture taken of her, so the true Bettie seems to hide, evading and inviting at the same time the world that so cruelly turned its cold shoulder on her. Because of all the lies told to cover up the true reason of her demise, Bettie is still remembered incorrectly as a whore, a lesbian, a freak with infantile sex organs... all complete and utter B.S. Of course, the public buys into this because it makes it easier to cope with so devastating a death. If you believe the slanderous portraits painted of Bettie, then "She had it coming."


No one, no one, has that coming. Especially not a naive, albeit mysterious, girl from Massachusetts, whose whimsical dreams led her only to an inescapable nightmare. Though my experiences over the past months have left me shaken and a bit disturbed, I have found a sort of peace with what I have learned. I don't think the preternatural force I rubbed elbows with was meant to frighten me, but to instruct. What all of this means, and what I am meant to do with it, I do not know. Perhaps Bettie wants me to tell people her story; perhaps she sensed in me a soul mate-- a young girl, a hopeful actress, seeking answers in a place not to be trusted. I feel she has guided me to a safer place.


As I continue on my personal voyage into Hollywood history, I continue to see-saw between stories of grandeur and heroism, romance and glory, and stories of madness and self-destruction. All of these twisted truths grow and converge, filling my curious mind, which continues to question. Nothing else that I have researched has been, and I pray will ever be, as ghastly as the Black Dahlia murder, and though my little other-worldly coincidences continue to happen, no pull or embrace has been as strong as Elizabeth's.  All I can say in the end to her is, "Rest in peace, sweet Bettie. Your life is remembered, your beauty overcomes the ugliness said of you, and your martyrdom continues to open the eyes of a jaded and skeptical world." Elizabeth Short: July 29, 1924- January ?, 1947.