Ellroy, James - Black Dahlia, The

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THE BLACK DAHLIA

by James Ellroy

Flyleaf:

_The Black Dahlia_ is a police novel on an epic scale; a classic period

piece that provides a startling conclusion to America's most infamous unsolved

murder mystery. Already hailed as a masterpiece, it establishes James Ellroy as

this country's most powerful living writer of _noir_ fiction.

On January 15, 1947, the torture-ravished body of a beautiful young

woman is found in a vacant lot in Los Angeles. The victim makes headlines as the

Black Dahlia, and her murder sparks the greatest manhunt in California history.

Caught up in the investigation are Bucky Bleichert and Lee Blanchard:

Warrants Squad cops, friends, and adversaries in love with the same woman. But

both are obsessed with the Dahlia--driven by dark needs to know everything about

her life, to capture her killer, to possess the woman even in death. Their quest

will take them on a hellish journey through the underbelly of post-war

Hollywood, to the core of the dead girl's twisted life, past the extremes of

their own psyches--into a region of total madness.

With the no-punches-held style that has become the trademark of a James

Ellroy novel, this brilliant and savagely original author launches the reader on

a roller-coaster ride through the violent world of the '40's L.A. cop.

The Mysterious Press, 129 West 56th Street, New York, N.Y. 10019

First Printing: September 1987

ISBN 0-89296-206-2

To Geneva Hilliker Ellroy 1915--1958

Mother: Twenty-nine Years Later, This Valediction in Blood

Now I fold you down, my drunkard, my navigator,

My first lost keeper, to love or look at later.

-- Anne Sexton

Prologue

I never knew her in life. She exists for me through others, in evidence

of the ways her death drove them. Working backward, seeking only facts, I

reconstructed her as a sad little girl and a whore, at best a

could-have-been---a tag that might equally apply to me. I wish I could have

granted her an anonymous end, relegated her to a few terse words on a homicide

dick's summary report, carbon to the coroner's office, more paperwork to take

her to potter's field. The only thing wrong with the wish is that she wouldn't

have wanted it that way. As brutal as the facts were, she would have wanted all

of them known. And since I owe her a great deal and am the only one who does

know the entire story, I have undertaken the writing of this memoir.

But before the Dahlia there was the partnership, and before that there

was the war and military regulations and manuevers at Central Division,

reminding us that cops were also soldiers, even though we were a whole lot less

popular than the ones battling the Germans and Japs. After duty every day,

patrolmen were subjected to participation in air raid drills, blackout drills

and fire evacuation drills that had us standing at attention on Los Angeles

Street, hoping for a Messerschmitt attack to make us feel less like fools.

Daywatch roll call featured alphabetical formations, and shortly after

graduating the Academy in August of '42, that was where I met Lee.

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I already knew him by reputation, and had our respective records down

pat: Lee Blanchard, 43-4-2 as a heavyweight, formerly a regular attraction at

the Hollywood Legion Stadium; and me: Bucky Bleichert, light-heavy, 36-0-0, once

ranked tenth by _Ring_ magazine, probably because Nat Fleisher was amused by the

way I taunted opponents with my big buck teeth. The statistics didn't tell the

whole story, though. Blanchard hit hard, taking six to give one, a classic

headhunter; I danced and counterpunched and hooked to the liver, always keeping

my guard up, afraid that catching too many head shots would ruin my looks worse

than my teeth already had. Stylewise, Lee and I were like oil and water, and

every time our shoulders brushed at roll call, I would wonder: who would win?

For close to a year we measured each other. We never talked boxing or

police work, limiting our conversation to a few words about the weather.

Physically, we looked as antithetical as two big men could: Blanchard was blond

and ruddy, six feet tall and huge in the chest and shoulders, with stunted

bowlegs and the beginning of a hard, distended gut; I was pale and dark-haired,

all lanky muscularity at 6 foot 3. Who would win?

I finally quit trying to predict a winner. But other cops had taken up

the question, and during that first year at Central I heard dozens of opinions:

Blanchard by early KO; Bleichert by decision; Blanchard stopped/stopping on

cuts--everything but Bleichert by knockout.

When I was out of eye shot, I heard whispers of our non-ring stories:

Lee coming on the LAPD, assured of rapid promotion for fighting private smokers

attended by the high brass and their political buddies, cracking the

Boulevard-Citizens bank heist back in '39 and falling in love with one of the

heisters' girlfriends, blowing a certain transfer to the Detective Bureau when

the skirt moved in with him--in violation of departmental regs on shack

jobs--and begged him to quit boxing. The Blanchard rumors hit me like little

feint-jabs, and I wondered how true they were. The bits of my own story felt

like body blows, because they were 100 percent straight dope: Dwight Bleichert

joining the Department in flight from tougher main events, threatened with

expulsion from the Academy when his father's German-American Bund membership

came to light, pressured into snitching the Japanese guys he grew up with to the

Alien Squad in order to secure his LAPD appointment. Not asked to fight smokers,

because he wasn't a knockout puncher.

Blanchard and Bleichert: a hero and a snitch.

Remembering Sam Murakami and Hideo Ashida manacled en route to Manzanar

made it easy to simplify the two of us--at first. Then we went into action side

by side, and my early notions about Lee--and myself--went blooey.

It was early June of '43. The week before, sailors had brawled with zoot

suit wearing Mexicans at the Lick Pier in Venice. Rumor had it that one of the

gobs lost an eye. Skirmishing broke out inland: navy personnel from the Chavez

Ravine naval base versus pachucos in Alpine and Palo Verde. Word hit the papers

that the zooters were packing Nazi regalia along with their switchblades, and

hundreds of in-uniform soldiers, sailors and marines descended on downtown LA,

armed with two-by-fours and baseball bats. An equal number of pachucos were

supposed to be forming by the Brew 102 Brewery in Boyle Heights, supplied with

similar weaponry. Every Central Division patrolman was called in to duty, then

issued a World War I tin hat and an oversize billy club known as a nigger

knocker.

At dusk, we were driven to the battleground in personnel carriers

borrowed from the army, and given one order: restore order. Our service

revolvers had been taken from us at the station; the brass did not want .38's

falling into the hands of reet pleat, stuff cuff, drape shape, Argentine

ducktail Mexican gangsters. When I jumped out of the carrier at Evergreen and

Wabash holding only a three-pound stick with a friction-taped handle, I got ten

times as frightened as I had ever been in the ring, and not because chaos was

coming down from all sides.

I was terrified because the good guys were really the bad guys.

Sailors were kicking in windows all along Evergreen; marines in dress

blues were systematically smashing streetlights, giving themselves more and more

darkness to work in. Eschewing inter-service rivalry, soldiers and jarheads

overturned cars parked in front of a bodega while navy youths in skivvies and

white bell-bottoms truncheoned the shit out of an outnumbered bunch of zooters

on the sidewalk next door. At the periphery of the action I could see knots of

my fellow officers hobnobbing with Shore Patrol goons and MPs.

I don't know how long I stood there, numbed, wondering what to do.

Finally I looked down Wabash toward 1st Street, saw small houses, trees and no

pachucos, cops or blood-hungry GIs. Before I knew what I was doing, I ran there

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full speed. I would have kept running until I dropped, but a high-pitched laugh

issuing from a front porch stopped me dead.

I walked toward the sound. A high-pitched voice called out, "You're the

second young copper to take a powder from the commotion. I don't blame you.

Kinda hard to tell who to put the cuffs on, ain't it?"

I stood on the porch and looked at the old man. He said, "Radio says

cabdrivers been makin' runs to the USO up in Hollywood, then bringin' the sailor

boys down here. KFI called it a naval assault, been playin' 'Anchors Aweigh'

every hour on the half hour. I saw some gyrenes down the street. You think this

is what you call an amphibious attack?"

"I don't know what it is, but I'm going back."

"You ain't the only one turned tail, you know. 'Nuther big fella came

runnin' this way pronto."

Pops was starting to look like a wily version of my father.

"There's some pachucos who need their order restored."

"Think it's that simple, laddy?"

"I'll make it that simple."

The old man cackled with delight. I stepped off the porch and headed

back to duty, tapping the knocker against my leg. The streetlights were now all

dead; it was almost impossible to distinguish zooters from GIs. Knowing that

gave me an easy way out of my dilemma, and I got ready to charge. Then I heard

"_Bleichert!_" behind me, and knew who the other runner had been.

I ran back. There was Lee Blanchard, "The Southland's good but not great

white hope," facing down three marines in dress blues and a pachuco in a

full-drape zoot suit. He had them cornered in the center walkway of a ratty

bungalow court and was holding them off with parries from his nigger knocker.

The jarheads were taking roundhouse swipes at him with their two-by-fours,

missing as Blanchard moved sideways and back and forth on the balls of his feet.

The pachuco fondled the religious medals around his neck, looking bewildered.

"Bleichert code three!"

I waded in, jabbing with my stick, the weapon hitting shiny brass

buttons and campaign ribbons. I caught clumsy truncheon blows on my arms and

shoulders and pressed forward so the marines would be denied swinging room. It

was like being in a clinch with an octopus, and no referee or three-minute bell,

and on instinct I dropped my baton, lowered my head and started winging body

punches, making contact with soft gabardine midsections. Then I heard,

"Bleichert step back!"

I did, and there was Lee Blanchard, the nigger knocker held high above

his head. The marines, dazed, froze; the club descended: once, twice, three

times, clean shots to the shoulders. When the trio was reduced to a dress blue

rubble heap, Blanchard said, "To the halls of Tripoli, shitbirds," and turned to

the pachuco. "Hola, Tomas."

I shook my head and stretched. My arms and back ached; my right knuckles

throbbed. Blanchard was cuffing the zooter, and all I could think to say was,

"What was that all about?"

Blanchard smiled. "Forgive my bad manners. Officer Bucky Bleichert, may

I present Señor Tomas Dos Santos, the subject of an all-points fugitive warrant

for manslaughter committed during the commission of a Class B Felony. Tomas

snatched a purse off a hairbag on 6th and Alvarado, she keeled of a heart attack

and croaked, Tomas dropped the purse, ran like hell. Left a big fat juicy set of

prints on the purse, eyeball witnesses to boot." Blanchard nudged the man.

"Habla Ingles, Tomas?"

Dos Santos shook his head no; Blanchard shook his head sadly. "He's dead

meat. Manslaughter Two's a gas chamber jolt for spics. Hepcat here's about six

weeks away from the Big Adios."

I heard shots coming from the direction of Evergreen and Wabash.

Standing on my toes, I saw flames shooting out of a row of broken windows,

crackling into blue and white flak when they hit streetcar wires and phone

lines. I looked down at the marines, and one of them gave me the finger. I said,

"I hope those guys didn't get your badge number."

"Fuck them sideways if they did."

I pointed to a clump of palm trees igniting into fireballs. "We'll never

be able to get him booked tonight. You ran down here to roust them? You

thought--"

Blanchard silenced me with a playful jab that stopped just short of my

badge. "I ran down here because I knew there wasn't a goddamn thing I could do

about restoring order, and if I just stood around I might have gotten killed.

Sound familiar?"

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I laughed. "Yeah. Then you--"

"Then I saw the shitbirds chasing hepcat, who looked suspiciously like

the subject of felony warrant number four eleven dash forty-three. They cornered

me here, and I saw you walking back looking to get hurt, so I thought I'd let

you get hurt for a reason. Sound reasonable?"

"It worked."

Two of the marines had managed to get to their feet, and were helping

the other one up. When they started for the sidewalk three abreast, Tomas Dos

Santos sent a hard right foot at the biggest of the three asses. The fat PFC it

belonged to turned to face his attacker; I stepped forward. Surrendering their

East LA campaign, the three hobbled out to the street, gunshots and flaming palm

trees. Blanchard ruffled Dos Santos' hair. "You cute little shit, you're a dead

man. Come on, Bleichert, let's find a place to sit this thing out."

ooo

We found a house with a stack of daily papers on the porch a few blocks

away and broke in. There were two fifths of Cutty Sark in the kitchen cupboard,

and Blanchard switched the cuffs from Dos Santos' wrists to his ankles so he

could have his hands free to booze. By the time I made ham sandwiches and

highballs, the pachuco had killed half the jug and was belting "Cielito Lindo"

and a Mex rendition of "Chattanooga Choo Choo." An hour later the bottle was

dead and Tomas was passed out. I lifted him onto the couch and threw a quilt

over him, and Blanchard said, "He's my ninth hard felon for 1943. He'll be

sucking gas inside of six weeks, and I'll be working Northeast or Central

Warrants inside of three years."

His certainty rankled me. "Ixnay. You're too young, you haven't made

sergeant, you're shacking with a woman, you lost your high brass buddies when

you quit fighting smokers and you haven't done a plainsclothes tour. You--"

I stopped when Blanchard grinned, then walked to the living room window

and looked out. "Fires over on Michigan and Soto. Pretty."

"Pretty?"

"Yeah, pretty. You know a lot about me, Bleichert."

"People talk about you."

"They talk about you, too."

"What do they say?"

"That your old man's some sort of Nazi drool case. That you ratted off

your best friend to the feds to get on the Department. That you padded your

record fighting built-up middleweights."

The words hung in the air like a three-count indictment. "Is that it?"

Blanchard turned to face me. "No. They say you never chase cooze and

they say you think you can take me."

I took the challenge. "All those things are true."

"Yeah? So was what you heard about me. Except I'm on the Sergeants List,

I'm transferring to Highland Park Vice in August and there's a Jewboy deputy DA

who wets his pants for boxers. He's promised me the next Warrants spot he can

wangle."

"I'm impressed."

"Yeah? You want to hear something even more impressive?"

"Hit me."

"My first twenty knockouts were stumblebums handpicked by my manager. My

girlfriend saw you fight at the Olympic and said you'd be handsome if you got

your teeth fixed, and maybe you _could_ take me."

I couldn't tell if the man was looking for a brawl then and there or a

friend; if he was testing me or taunting me or pumping me for information. I

pointed to Tomas Dos Santos, twitching in his booze sleep. "What about the Mex?"

"We'll take him in tomorrow morning."

"You'll take him in."

"The collar's half yours."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Okay, partner."

"I'm not your partner."

"Maybe someday."

"Maybe never, Blanchard. Maybe you work Warrants and pull in repos and

serve papers for the shysters downtown, maybe I put in my twenty, take my

pension and get a soft job somewhere."

"You could go on the feds. I know you've got pals on the Alien Squad."

"Don't push me on that."

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Blanchard looked out the window again. "Pretty. Make a good picture

postcard. 'Dear Mom, wish you were here at the colorful East LA race riot.'"

Tomas Dos Santos stirred, mumbling, "Inez? Inez? Qué? Inez?" Blanchard

walked to a hall closet and found an old wool overcoat and tossed it on top of

him. The added warmth seemed to calm him down; the mumbles died off. Blanchard

said, "Cherchez la femme. Huh, Bucky?"

"What?"

"Look for the woman. Even with a snootful of juice, old Tomas can't let

Inez go. I'll lay you ten to one that when he hits the gas chamber she'll be

right there with him."

"Maybe he'll cop a plea. Fifteen to life, out in twenty."

"No. He's a dead man. Cherchez la femme, Bucky. Remember that."

I walked through the house looking for a place to sleep, finally

settling on a downstairs bedroom with a lumpy bed way too short for my legs.

Lying down, I listening to sirens and gunshots in the distance. Gradually I

dozed off, and dreamed of my own few and far between women.

ooo

By the morning the riot had cooled off, leaving the sky hung with soot

and the streets littered with broken liquor bottles and discarded two-by-fours

and baseball bats. Blanchard called Hollenbeck Station for a black-and-white to

transport his ninth hard felon of 1943 to the Hall of Justice jail, and Tomas

Dos Santos wept when the patrolmen took him away from us. Blanchard and I shook

hands on the sidewalk and walked separate routes downtown, him to the DA's

office to write up his report on the capture of the purse snatcher, me to

Central Station and another tour of duty.

The LA City Council outlawed the wearing of the zoot suit, and Blanchard

and I went back to polite conversation at roll call. And everything he stated

with such rankling certainty that night in the empty house came true.

Blanchard was promoted to Sergeant and transferred to Highland Park Vice

early in August, and Tomas Dos Santos went to the gas chamber a week later.

Three years passed, and I continued to work a radio car beat in Central

Division. Then one morning I looked at the transfer and promotion board and saw

at the top of the list: Blanchard, Leland C., Sergeant; Highland Park Vice to

Central Warrants, effective 9/15/46.

And, of course, we became partners. Looking back, I know that the man

possessed no gift of prophecy; he simply worked to assure his own future, while

I skated uncertainly toward mine. It was his flat-voiced "Cherchez la femme"

that still haunts me. Because our partnership was nothing but a bungling road to

the Dahlia. And in the end, she was to own the two of us completely.

Fire and Ice

CHAPTER ONE

The road to the partnership began without my knowing it, and it was a

revival of the Blanchard-Bleichert fight brouhaha that brought me the word.

I was coming off a long tour of duty spent in a speed trap on Bunker

Hill, preying on traffic violators. My ticket book was full and my brain was

numb from eight hours of following my eyes across the intersection of 2nd and

Beaudry. Walking through the Central muster room and a crowd of blues waiting to

hear the P.M. crime sheet, I almost missed Johnny Vogel's, "They ain't fought in

years, and Horrall outlawed smokers, so I don't think that's it. My dad's thick

with the Jewboy, and he says he'd try for Joe Louis if he was white."

Then Tom Joslin elbowed me. "They're talking about you, Bleichert."

I looked over at Vogel, standing a few yards away, talking to another

cop. "Hit me, Tommy."

Joslin smiled. "You know Lee Blanchard?"

"The Pope know Jesus?"

"Ha! He's working Central Warrants."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"How's this? Blanchard's partner's topping out his twenty. Nobody

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thought he'd pull the pin, but he's gonna. The Warrants boss is this felony

court DA, Ellis Loew. He got Blanchard his appointment, now he's looking for a

bright boy to take over the partner's spot. Word is he creams for fighters and

wants you. Vogel's old man's in the Detective Bureau. He's simpatico with Loew

and pushing for his kid to get the job. Frankly, I don't think either of you got

the qualifications. Me, on the other hand . . ."

I tingled, but still managed to come up with a crack to show Joslin I

didn't care. "Your teeth are too small. No good for biting in the clinches. Lots

of clinches working Warrants."

ooo

But I did care.

That night I sat on the steps outside my apartment and looked at the

garage that held my heavy bag and speed bag, my scrapbook of press clippings,

fight programs and publicity stills. I thought about being good but not really

good, about keeping my weight down when I could have put on an extra ten pounds

and fought heavyweight, about fighting tortilla-stuffed Mexican middleweights at

the Eagle Rock Legion Hall where my old man went to his Bund meetings. Light

heavyweight was a no-man's-land division, and early on I pegged it as being

tailor-made for me. I could dance on my toes all night at 175 pounds, I could

hook accurately to the body from way outside and only a bulldozer could work in

off my left jab.

But there were no light heavyweight bulldozers, because any hungry

fighter pushing 175 slopped up spuds until he made heavyweight, even if he

sacrificed half his speed and most of his punch. Light heavyweight was safe.

Light heavyweight was guaranteed fifty-dollar purses without getting hurt. Light

heavyweight was plugs in the _Times_ from Braven Dyer, adulation from the old

man and his Jew-baiting cronies and being a big cheese as long as I didn't leave

Glassell Park and Lincoln Heights. It was going as far as I could as a

natural--without having to test my guts.

Then Ronnie Cordero came along.

He was a Mex middleweight out of El Monte, fast, with knockout power in

both hands and a crablike defense, guard high, elbows pressed to his sides to

deflect body blows. Only nineteen, he had huge bones for his weight, with the

growth potential to jump him up two divisions to heavyweight and the big money.

He racked up a string of fourteen straight early-round KOs at the Olympic,

blitzing all the top LA middles. Still growing and anxious to jack up the

quality of his opponents, Cordero issued me a challenge through the Herald

sports page.

I knew that he would eat me alive. I knew that losing to a taco bender

would ruin my local celebrity. I knew that running from the fight would hurt me,

but fighting it would kill me. I started looking for a place to run to. The

army, navy and marines looked good, then Pearl Harbor got bombed and made them

look great. Then the old man had a stroke, lost his job and pension and started

sucking baby food through a straw. I got a hardship deferment and joined the Los

Angeles Police Department.

I saw where my thoughts were going. FBI goons were asking me if I

considered myself a German or an American, and would I be willing to prove my

patriotism by helping them out. I fought what was next by concentrating on my

landlady's cat stalking a bluejay across the garage roof. When he pounced, I

admitted to myself how bad I wanted Johnny Vogel's rumor to be true.

Warrants was local celebrity as a cop. Warrants was plainclothes without

a coat and tie, romance and a mileage per diem on your civilian car. Warrants

was going after the real bad guys and not rousting winos and wienie waggers in

front of the Midnight Mission. Warrants was working in the DA's office with one

foot in the Detective Bureau, and late dinners with Mayor Bowron when he was

waxing effusive and wanted to hear war stories.

Thinking about it started to hurt. I went down to the garage and hit the

speed bag until my arms cramped.

ooo

Over the next few weeks I worked a radio car beat near the northern

border of the division. I was breaking in a fat-mouthed rookie named Sidwell, a

kid just off a three-year MP stint in the Canal Zone. He hung on my every word

with the slavish tenacity of a lapdog, and was so enamored of civilian police

work that he took to sticking around the station after our end of tour,

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bullshitting with the jailers, snapping towels at the wanted posters in the

locker room, generally creating a nuisance until someone told him to go home.

He had no sense of decorum, and would talk to anybody about anything. I

was one of his favorite subjects, and he passed station house scuttlebutt

straight back to me.

I discounted most of the rumors: Chief Horrall was going to start up an

interdivisional boxing team, and was shooting me Warrants to assure that I

signed on along with Blanchard; Ellis Loew, the felony court comer, was supposed

to have won a bundle betting on me before the war and was now handing me a

belated reward; Horrall had rescinded his order banning smokers, and some high

brass string puller wanted me happy so he could line his pockets betting on me.

Those tales sounded too farfetched, although I knew boxing was somehow behind my

front-runner status. What I credited was that the Warrants opening was narrowing

down to either Johnny Vogel or me.

Vogel had a father working Central dicks; I was a padded 36-0-0 in the

no-man's-land division five years before. Knowing the only way to compete with

nepotism was to make the weight, I punched bags, skipped meals and skipped rope

until I was a nice, safe light heavyweight again. Then I waited.

CHAPTER TWO

I was a week at the 175-pound limit, tired of training and dreaming

every night of steaks, chili burgers and coconut cream pies. My hopes for the

Warrants job had waned to the point where I would have sold them down the river

for pork chops at the Pacific Dining Car, and the neighbor who looked after the

old man for a double sawbuck a month had called me to say that he was acting up

again, taking BB potshots at the neighborhood dogs and blowing his Social

Security check on girlie magazines and model airplanes. It was reaching the

point where I would have to _do_ something about him, and every toothless geezer

I saw on the beat hit my eyes as a gargoyle version of Crazy Dolph Bleichert. I

was watching one stagger across 3rd and Hill when I got the radio call that

changed my life forever.

"11-A-23, call the station. Repeat: 11-A-23, call the station."

Sidwell nudged me. "We got a call, Bucky."

"Roger it."

"The dispatcher said to call the station."

I hung a left and parked, then pointed to the call box on the corner.

"Use the gamewell. The little key next to your handcuffs."

Sidwell obeyed, trotting back to the cruiser moments later, looking

grave. "You're supposed to report to the Chief of Detectives immediately," he

said.

My first thoughts were of the old man. I leadfooted the six blocks to

City Hall and turned the black-and-white over to Sidwell, then took the elevator

up to Chief Thad Green's fourth-floor offices. A secretary admitted me to the

Chief's inner sanctum, and sitting in matched leather chairs were Lee Blanchard,

more high brass than I had ever seen in one place and a spider-thin man in a

three-piece tweed suit.

The secretary said, "Officer Bleichert," and left me standing there,

aware that my uniform hung on my depleted body like a tent. Then Blanchard,

wearing cord slacks and a maroon letterman's jacket, got to his feet and played

MC.

"Gentlemen, Bucky Bleichert. Bucky, left to right in uniform, we have

Inspector Malloy, Inspector Stensland and Chief Green. The gentleman in mufti is

Deputy DA Ellis Loew."

I nodded, and Thad Green pointed me to an empty chair facing the

assembly. I settled into it; Stensland handed me a sheaf of papers. "Read this,

Officer. It's Braven Dyer's editorial for this coming Saturday's _Times_."

The top page was dated 10/14/46, with a block printed title-- "Fire and

Ice Among LA's Finest"--directly below it. Below that, the typed text began:

Before the war, the City of the Angels was graced with two local

fighters, born and raised a scant five miles apart, pugilists with styles as

different as fire and ice. Lee Blanchard was a bowlegged windmill of a leather

slinger, and sparks covered the ringside seats when he threw punches. Bucky

Bleichert entered the ring so cool and collected that it was easy to believe he

was immune to sweat. He could dance on his toes better than Bojangles Robinson,

and his rapier jabs peppered his opponents' faces until they looked like the

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steak tartare at Mike Lyman's Grill. Both men were poets: Blanchard the poet of

brute strength, Bleichert the counter poet of speed and guile. Collectively they

won 79 bouts and lost only four. In the ring as in the table of elements, fire

and ice are tough to beat.

Mr. Fire and Mr. Ice never fought each other. Divisional boundaries kept

them apart. But a sense of duty brought them together in spirit, and both men

joined the Los Angeles Police Department and continued fighting out of the

ring--this time in the war against crime. Blanchard cracked the baffling

Boulevard-Citizens bank robbery case in 1939, and captured thrill-killer Tomas

Dos Santos; Bleichert served with distinction during the '43 Zoot Suit Wars. And

now they are both officers in Central Division: Mr. Fire, 32, a sergeant in the

prestigious Warrants Squad; Mr. Ice, 29, a patrolman working a dangerous beat in

downtown LA. I recently asked both Fire and Ice why they gave up their best ring

years to become cops. Their responses are indicative of the fine men they are:

Sergeant Blanchard: "A fighter's career doesn't last forever, but the

satisfaction of serving your community does."

Officer Bleichert: "I wanted to fight more dangerous opponents, namely

criminals and Communists."

Lee Blanchard and Bucky Bleichert made great sacrifices to serve their

city, and on Election Day, November 5, Los Angeles voters are going to be asked

to do the same thing--vote in a five-million-dollar bond proposal to upgrade the

LAPD's equipment and provide for an 8 percent pay raise for all personnel. Keep

in mind the examples of Mr. Fire and Mr. Ice. Vote "Yes" on Proposition B on

Election Day.

Finishing, I handed the pages back to Inspector Stensland. He started to

speak, but Thad Green shushed him with a hand on his shoulder. "Tell us what you

thought of it, Officer. Be candid."

I swallowed to keep my voice steady. "It's subtle."

Stensland flushed, Green and Malloy grinned, Blanchard hooted outright.

Ellis Loew said, "Proposition B is going to lose hands down, but there's a

chance to reintroduce it in the off-year election next spring. What we had in--"

Green said, "Ellis, please," and turned his attention to me. "One of the

reasons the bond is going to fail is that the public is less than pleased with

the service we've been giving them. We were shorthanded during the war, and some

of the men we hired to remedy that turned out to be rotten apples and made us

look bad. Also, we're top-heavy with rookies since the war ended, and a lot of

good men have retired. Two station houses need to be rebuilt and we need to

offer higher starting salaries to attract better men. All this takes money, and

the voters aren't going to give it to us in November."

I was beginning to get the picture. Malloy said, "It was your idea,

counselor. You tell him."

Loew said, "I'm laying dollars to doughnuts we can pass the proposal in

the '47 Special. But we need to drum up enthusiasm for the Department to do it.

We need to build up morale within the Department, and we need to impress the

voters with the quality of our men. Wholesome white boxers are a big draw,

Bleichert. You know that."

I looked at Blanchard. "You and me, huh?"

Blanchard winked. "Fire and Ice. Tell him the rest of it, Ellis."

Loew winced at his first name, then continued. "A ten-round bout three

weeks from now at the Academy gym. Braven Dyer is a close personal friend of

mine, and he'll be building it up in his column. Tickets will go for two dollars

apiece, with half allotted for policemen and their families, half for civilians.

The gate goes to the police charity program. From there we build up an

interdivisional boxing team. All good wholesome white boys. The team members get

one duty day off a week to teach underprivileged kids the art of self-defense.

Publicity all the way, straight to the '47 Special Election."

All eyes were on me now. I held my breath, waiting for the offer of the

Warrants spot. When no one said a word, I glanced sidelong at Blanchard. His

upper body looked brutally powerful, but his stomach had gone to flab and I was

younger, taller and probably a whole lot faster. Before I could give myself

reasons to back down, I said, "I'm in."

The brass gave my decision a round of applause; Ellis Loew smiled,

exposing teeth that looked like they belonged on a baby shark. "The date is

October 29, a week before the election," he said. "And both of you will have

unlimited use of the Academy gym for training. Ten rounds is a lot to ask of men

as inactive as you two have been, but anything else would look sissy. Don't you

agree?"

Side 8

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Ellroy, James - Black Dahlia, TheTHE BLACK DAHLIA by James EllroyFlyleaf:_The Black Dahlia_ is a police novel on an epic scale; a classic period piece that provides a startling conclusion to America's most infamous unsolved murder mystery. Already hailed as a masterpiece, it establishes James Ellroy...

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