Because the Night by James Ellroy Read Free Book Online

a customer attractive, then you fantasize about him and hate yourself for it afterwards. You despise hookers who consider themselves ‘therapists’ and the like. Your basic dilemma is a conservative nature, one grounded in the work ethic, undercut with the knowledge that what you do is shit, antithetical to every decent moral instinct you possess. You have rationalized this contradiction for years, bolstered yourself with self-help books and spiritual tracts, but now it won’t wash anymore and you came to me. Touché, Ms. Wilhite?”
    The Doctor’s voice had risen higher and higher, little crescendos of truth that Linda knew would grow in scope and intimacy without the man’s resonance ever cracking. Her hands fluttered over her lap, looking for something of and by herself to touch. When they descended on green paisley silk, she jerked them back and said, “Yes. Yes. Yes. How did you know those things?”
    Dr. John Havilland sat back down and stretched his legs until his feet dangled a few inches from Linda’s alligator shoes. “Linda, I’m the best there is. To be blunt, I am a work of fucking art.”
    Linda laughed until she felt a blush creep up from her bodice. “I’ve got a John who says the same thing to me. He collects Colombian art, so I know it’s an informed opinion. And you know the funny thing? He calls me ‘a work of fucking art,’ and he never fucks me—he just takes pictures of me. Isn’t that a hoot?”
    Havilland laughed along, first uproariously, then sedately. When his laughter wound down, he said, “What does this man do with the photographs of you?”
    â€œHe has them blown up, then he frames them and hangs them in his bedroom,” Linda said.
    â€œHow do you feel about that? Worshiped? Adored?”
    â€œI … I feel worthy of my beauty.”
    â€œDid your parents recognize your beauty early on? Did they fawn over you because of it?”
    â€œMy father did.”
    â€œDid your parents take photographs of you?”
    Linda flinched at the word photographs. She stammered, “N-no.”
    Havilland leaned forward and put his hand on her knee. “You’ve gone pale, Linda. Why?”
    Flinching again, Linda said, “This is happening so fast. I wasn’t going to tell you today because most of the time it seems so remote. My father was a violent man. He was a longshoreman, and he used to fight bare knuckles for money on the docks at San Pedro. He’d win or he’d lose and he’d always bet heavily on himself, so if he won he showered mother and me with gifts and if he lost he brooded and smashed things. Most of the time it was fifty-fifty, win, lose, win, lose—so that I never knew what to expect.
    â€œThen, when I was ten, Daddy hit a losing streak. He brooded worse then ever and punched out all the windows in our house. It was winter and we were broke and the heat was shut off and cold air blew in through the broken windows. I’ll never forget the day it happened. I came home from school and there were police cars in front of the house. A detective took me aside and told me what happened. Daddy had put a pillow over Mother’s head and shot her in the face. Then he stuck the gun in his mouth and shot himself. I was sent to Juvenile Hall, and a couple of days later a matron told me I had to identify the bodies. She showed me photographs from the autopsy—Daddy and Mother with half their faces blown away. I cried and I cried, but I couldn’t stop looking at the pictures.”
    â€œAnd, Linda?” Havilland whispered.
    Linda said, “And I went to live with an elderly couple who treated me like a princess. I swiped the pictures the matron showed me and forced myself to laugh and gloat over them. Those pictures gave me freedom from the shitty life I had, and laughing at them was like getting revenge on my parents. I—”
    Havilland raised a hand in