The Black Dahlia

I walked to the heart of the neon smear.

The streets were filled with men in uniform: brownshirts, U.S. marines and sailors. There were no Mex nationals to be seen, and everyone was quite orderly—even the knots of jarheads weaving drunk. I decided that it was the walking Rurale arsenal that kept things pacified. Most of the brownshirts were scrawny bantamweights, but they were packing firepower grande: sawed-offs, tommmys, .45 automatics, brass knucks dangling from their cartridge belts.

Fluorescent beacons pulsated at me: Flame Klub, Arturo’s Oven, Club Boxeo, Falcon’s Lair, Chico’s Klub Imperial. “Boxeo” meant “boxing” in Spanish—so I made that dump my first stop.

Expecting darkness, I walked into a garishly lit room crowded with sailors. Mexican girls danced half naked on top of a long bar, dollar bills tucked into their G-strings. Ca

And there I was, in great light heavyweight company, sandwiched between Gus Lesnevich and Billy Co

And there was Lee, right next to Joe Louis, who he could have fought if he’d dived for Be

Bleichert and Blanchard. Two white hopes gone wrong.

I stared at the pictures for a long time, until the raucousness around me dissipated and I wasn’t in some upholstered sewer, I was back in ‘40 and ‘41, wi

“First Blanchard, now you. Who’s next? Willie Pep?”

I was back in the sewer immediately, blurting, “When? When did you see him?”

Whirling around, I saw a hulking old man. His face was cracked leather and broken bones—a punching bag—but his voice was nothing like a stumblebum’s: “A couple of months ago. The heavy rains in February. We musta talked fights for ten hours straight.”

“Where is he now?”

“I ain’t seen him since that one time, and maybe he don’t want to see you. I tried to talk about that fight you guys had, but Big Lee won’t have any. Says ‘We ain’t partners no more’ and starts tellin’ me the featherweights are the best division pound for pound. I tell him, nix—it’s the middles. Zale, Graziano, La Motta, Cerdan, who you kiddin’?”

“Is he still in town?”

“I don’t think so. I own this place, and he ain’t been back here. You lookin’ to settle a grudge? A rematch maybe?”

“I’m looking to get him out of a shitload of trouble he’s in.”

The old pug measured my words, then said, “I’m a sucker for dancemasters like you, so I’ll give you the only piece of ski

The Club Satan was a slate-roofed adobe hut sporting an ingenious neon sign: a little red devil poking the air with a trident-headed hard-on. It had its very own brownshirt doorman, a little Mex who scrutinized incoming patrons while fondling the trigger housing of a tripod BAR. His epaulet flaps were stuffed with yankee singles; I added one to the collection as I walked in, bracing myself.

From the sewer to the shitstorm.

The bar was a urinal trough. Marines and sailors masturbated into it while they gash dived the nudie girls squatting on top. Blow jobs were being dispensed underneath tables facing the front of the room and a large bandstand. A guy in a Satan costume was dicking a fat woman on a mattress. A burro with red velvet devil horns pi

The “music” was drowned out by chants from the tables—”Donkey! Donkey!” I stood there getting sideswiped by revelers, then garlicky breath smothered me. “Joo want the bar, handsome? Breakfast of champions, one dollar. Joo want me? Roun’ the world, two dollar.”

I got up the guts to look at her. She was old, fat, her lips crusted with chancre sores. I pulled bills from my pocket and shoved them at her, not caring what denomination they were. The whore genuflected before her nightclub Jesus; I shouted, “Ernie. I have to see him now. The guy at Club Boxeo sent me over.”

Mamacita exclaimed, “Vamanos!” and ran interference for me, pushing through a line of jarheads waiting for di

I had the snapshot of Lee out. “I heard this man gave you some trouble a while back.”

The guy gave the photo a cursory eyeball. “Who wants to know?”

I flashed my badge, giving the breed a glimpse of hardware. He said, “He your friend?”

“My best friend.”

The breed tucked his hands under his apron; I knew one of them was holding a knife. “Your friend drink fourteen shots of my best Mescal, house record. That I like. He make lots of toasts to dead women. That I don’t mind. But he try to fuck with my donkey show, and that I don’t take.”

“What happened?”

“Four of my guys he take, fifth he don’t. Rurales take him home to sleep it off.”

“Thats it?”

The breed pulled out a stiletto, popped the button and scratched his neck with the dull side of the blade. “Finito.”

I walked out the backdoor into an alley, scared for Lee. Two men in shiny suits were lounging by a streetlight; when they saw me they picked up the tempo of their foot shuffling and studied the ground like dirt was suddenly fascinating. I took off ru

The alley ended at a co

I was half a block off—in my favor.

The dump was about a hundred yards away. Catching my breath, I strolled there, Mr. Square American slumming. The courtyard was empty; I reached for my room key. Then light from the second floor fluttered across the door—now minus my spit hair warning trap.

I drew my .38 and kicked the door in. A white man sitting in the chair by the bed already had his hands up and a peace offering on his lips: “Whoa, boy. I’m a friend. I’m not heeled, and if you don’t believe me then I’ll stand a frisk right now.”

I pointed my gun at the wall. The man got up and placed his palms on it, hands over head, legs spread. I patted him down, .38 at his spine, finding a billfold, keys and a greasy comb. Digging the muzzle in, I examined the billfold. It was stuffed with American cash; there was a California private investigator’s license in a laminated holder. It gave the man’s name as Milton Dolphine, his business address as 986 Copa De Oro in San Diego.