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We shook。 The man sat down behind a big desk and tapped a plate reading CAPITAN VASQUEZ。 〃How can I help you； Officer？〃
I grabbed my badge holder off the desk and put a picture of Lee down in its place。 〃That man is a Los Angeles police officer。 He's been missing since late January； and when he was last seen he was heading here。〃
Vasquez examined the snapshot。 The corners of his mouth twitched； he immediately tried to cover up the response by turning it into a negative head shake。 〃No； I haven't seen this man。 I will put out a bulletin to my officers and have them inquire in the American munity here。〃
I answered the lie。 〃He's a hard man to miss； Captain。 Blond； six feet； built like a brick shithouse。〃
〃Ensenada attracts rough trade； Officer。 That is why the police contingent here is so well armed and vigilant。 Will you be staying awhile？〃
〃At least overnight。 Maybe your men missed him； and I can get some leads。〃
Vasquez smiled。 〃I doubt that。 Are you alone？〃
〃I have two partners waiting for me in Tijuana。〃
〃And what division are you assigned to？〃
I lied big。 〃Metropolitan。〃
〃You are very young for such prestigious duty。〃
I picked up the photo。 〃Nepotism； Captain。 My dad's a deputy chief and my brother's with the consulate in Mexico City。 Good night。〃
〃And good luck； Bleichert。〃
* * *
I rented a room at a hotel within walking distance of the nightclub/red light strip。 For two dollars I got a ground…floor flop with an ocean view； a bed with a pancake…thin mattress； a sink and a key to the munity john outside。 I dumped my grip on the dresser； and as a precaution on the way out； yanked two hairs from my head and spit…glued them across the door…doorjamb juncture。 If the fascisti prowled the pad； I would know。
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。 Canned marimba music and catcalls made the joint a deafening pocket of noise； I stood on my tiptoes looking for someone with the air of proprietor。 At the back I saw an alcove papered with fight publicity stills。 It drew me like a magnet； and I threaded my way past a new shift of nudies slinking to the bar to get to it。
And there I was； in great light heavyweight pany； sandwiched between Gus Lesnevich and Billy Conn；
And there was Lee； right next to Joe Louis； who he could have fought if he'd dived for Benny Siegel。
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； winning fights and rutting with giveaway girls who looked like Betty Short。 And Lee was scoring knockouts and living with Kay…and； strangely； we were a family again。
〃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 skinny I've got。 I heard Blanchard caused a ruckus over at the Club Satan； had to bribe his way out big with Captain Vasquez。 You walk over five blocks to the beach； there's the Satan。 You talk to Ernie the cook。 He saw it。 You tell him I said to be kosher with you； and take a deep breath when you walk in； 'cause there ain't nothin' like that place where you're in' from。〃
* * *
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 ining 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 pinned to his ears stood by； eating hay out of a bowl on the floor。 To the right of the stage； a tuxedo…clad gringo was crooning into a microphone： 〃I've got a rich girl； her name's Roseanne； she uses a tortilla for a diaphragm！ Hey！ Hey！ I've got a girl； her name is Sue； she's a one…way ticket to the big fungoo！ Hey！ Hey！ I've got a girl her name's Corrine； she knows how to make my banana cream！ Hey！ Hey！ 。 。 。〃
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 dinner seats at the bar。 She led me to a curtained passageway beside the stage and down it to the kitchen。 A spicy aroma perked my tastebuds…until I saw the rear end of a dog carcass hanging out of a stewpot。 The woman spoke in Spanish to the chef…a strange…looking guy who