The Black Dahlia

I started smelling Corporal Joseph Dulange as an attention-seeking drool case. Russ said, “Booze confessions aren’t valid in court, Joe. But I’ll tell you what. You convince me you killed Betty Short, and I’ll make sure Joh

“I say I chopped the Dahlia.”

“I say you didn’t. I say you and Joh

“I chopped her.”

“How?”

“On her titties, ear to ear and in half. Chop. Chop. Chop.” Russ sighed. “Let’s backtrack, Joe. You flew out of Dix on Wednesday, January eighth, you landed at Camp MacArthur that night. You and Joh

Dulange cracked his knuckles. “Nathan’s Tattoo Parlor, 463 North Alvarado.”

“What did you do there?”

Crazy Joe rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a forked snake’s tongue with “Frenchy” emblazoned below it. Flexing his bicep, the tattoo stretched. Dulange said, “I’m a Frenchman.”

Millard pulled his patented reversal. “I’m a cop, and I’m getting bored. When I get bored, Detective Bleichert takes over. Detective Bleichert was once the tenth-ranked light heavyweight in the world, and he is not a nice man. Right, partner?”

I balled my fists. “I’m a German.”

Dulange laughed. “No tickee, no washee. No Joh

I almost leaped across the table at him. Russ grabbed my elbow and held it, viselike, while he bargained. “Joe, I’ll make you a deal. First you convince us you knew Betty Short. Give us some facts. Names, dates, descriptions. You do that, and when we take our first break, you and Joh

“Joh

“No, his big brother Joh

The Frenchman grabbed the pack of butts and shook one loose; Russ had his lighter out and extended. Dulange took a monumental drag, exhaling a rush of words along with the smoke:

“After the tattoo joint, me and Joh

“Cockroaches start howlin’ like niggers. The Filipino says Joh

Dulange stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the pack. Russ jotted notes; I figured time and location, remembering the Night Owl from my days working Central Patrol. It was on 6th and Hill—two blocks from the Biltmore Hotel, where Red Manley dropped Betty Short on Friday, January tenth. The Frenchman, DT recollections notwithstanding, had gained another notch of credibility.

Russ said, “Joe, this was Saturday the eleventh into Sunday the twelfth you’re talking about?”

Dulange fired up another cigarette. “I’m a Frenchman, not a calendar. Sunday follows Saturday, you figure it out.”

“Go on.”

“Anyhow, Dahlia, me and Joh

I threw in a cut-the-shit question: “Describe her body. Do a good job, or you won’t see Joh

Dulange’s face went soft; he looked like a little kid threatened with the loss of his teddy bear. Russ said, “Answer the man’s question, Joe.”

Dulange gri

I tingled, remembering the “soft lash marks” the coroner mentioned at the autopsy. Russ said, “Go on, Joe.”

Dulange ghoul gri

More confirmation, smack in the middle of a DT haze—the Matt and Gordon were obviously Matt Gordon and Joseph Gordon Fickling, two of Betty Short’s fantasy husbands. I thought 50-50, let’s close it out for Big Lee Blanchard; Russ said, “Then what, Joe?”

Dulange looked genuinely puzzled—past bravado, boozebrain memories and a desire to be reunited with Joh

“Where?”

“In half.”

“No, Joe. Where did you perform the murder?”

“Oh. At the hotel.”

“What room number?”

“116.”

“How’d you get the body to9th and Norton?”

“I stole a car.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Chevy.”

“Make and model?”

“‘43 sedan.”

“American cars weren’t manufactured during the war, Joe. Try again.”

“‘47 sedan.”

“Somebody left the keys in a nice new car like that? In downtown LA?”

“I hot-wired it.”

“How do you hot-wire a car, Joe?”

“What?”

“Explain the procedure to me.”

“I forgot how I did it. I was drunk.”

I cut in: “Where’s9th and Norton?”

Dulange toyed with the cigarette pack. “It’s near Crenshaw Boulevard and Coliseum Street.”

“Tell me something that wasn’t in the papers.”

“I cut her to ear to ear.”

“Everybody knows that.”

“Me and Joh

“She wasn’t raped, and Joh

“She was a bad fuck.”

“Bullshit. You said Betty fucked like a rabbit.”

“A bad rabbit.”

“All cats are gray in the dark, shitbird. Why’d you kill her?”

“She wouldn’t go French.”

“That’s no reason. You can get French at any five-dollar whorehouse. A Frenchman like you should know that.”

“She gave bad French.”

“There’s no such thing, shitbird.”

“I chopped her!”

I slammed the tabletop a la Harry Sears. “You’re a lying frog son of a bitch!”

The JA man got to his feet; Dulange bawled, “I want my Joh

Russ told the captain, “Have him back here in six hours,” and smiled at me—the softest smile I’d ever seen him give.