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； and she just needed me to finger him。〃
I said； 〃You know the Black Dahlia thing up in LA？〃
〃The Pope a guinea？〃
〃Lee was working on the case right before he came down here； and in late January there was a Tijuana angle on it。 Did you hear of him asking questions about the Dahlia？〃
Dolphine said； 〃Nada。 You want the rest of it？〃
〃Rapidamente。〃
〃Okay。 I went back to Dago； and my partner told me that the Mex dame got the message I left。 I took off for Reno and a little vacation； and I blew the money she paid me at the crap table。 I started thinking of Blanchard and all that money he had； wondering what the Mex dame had in mind for him。 It really got to be a bug up my ass； and I went back to Dago； worked some missing persons jobs and came back to Ensenada about two weeks later。 And you know whatt？ There was no fucking Blanchard。
〃Only a fool would've asked Vasquez or the troopers about him； so I hung around town picking up skinny。 I saw this punk wearing Blanchard's old letterman's jacket； and this other punk with that Legion Stadium sweatshirt of his。 I get word that two guys got hanged in Juarez for the De Witt…Chasco job； and I think； Rurale railroad all the way。 I stay in town sucking up to Vasquez； snitching hopheads to him to stay on his good side。 Finally I piece the Blanchard thing together。 So if he was your buddy； get ready。〃
At 〃was；〃 my hands broke off the chair slat I was grabbing。 Dolphine said； 〃Whoa； boy。〃
I gasped； 〃Finish it。〃
The PI spoke slowly and calmly； like he was addressing a hand grenade。 〃He's dead。 Chopped up with an axe。 Some punks found him。 They broke into the house he was staying in； and one of them blabbed to the troopers； so they wouldn't get tagged for it。 Vasquez bought them off with pesos and some of Blanchard's belongings； and the Rurales buried the body outside town。 I heard rumors that none of the money was found； and I stuck around because I figured Blanchard was rogue and sooner or later some American cop would e looking for him。 When you showed up at the station with that horseshit about working Metropolitan； I knew it was you。〃
I tried to say no； but my lips wouldn't move； Dolphine speedballed the rest of his pitch： 〃Maybe the Rurales did it； maybe it was the woman or friends of hers。 Maybe one of them got the money and maybe they didn't； and we can。 You knew Blanchard； you could get a grip on who…〃
I leaped up and roundhoused Dolphine with the chair slat； he caught the blow on the neck； hit the floor and sucked carpet again。 I aimed my gun at the back of his head； the shitbird private eye whimpered； then double…speeded a mercy plea： 〃Look； I didn't know it was so personal with you。 I didn't kill him； and I'll back off if you want to get whoever did it。 Please； Bleichert； goddamn it。〃
I whimpered myself。 〃How do I know it's true？〃
〃There's a sand pit by the beach。 The Rurales dump stiffs there。 A kid told me he saw a bunch of troopers burying a big white man right around the time that Blanchard got it。 Goddamn you； it's true！〃
I eased down the 。38's hammer。 〃Then show me。〃
* * *
The burial ground was ten miles south of Ensenada； just off the coast road on a bluff overlooking the ocean。 A big； burning cross marked the spot。 Dolphine pulled up next to it and killed the engine。 〃It's not what you think。 The locals keep the damn thing lit up because they don't know who's buried there； and lots of them have got missing loved ones。 It's a ritual with them。 They burn the crosses； and the Rurales tolerate it； like it's some kind of panacea to keep the great unwashed gun…shy。 Speaking of which； you want to put that thing away？〃
My service revolver was pointed at Dolphine's midsection； I wondered how long I'd been holding the bead。 〃No。 Have you got tools？〃
Dolphine swallowed。 〃Gardening stuff。 Listen…〃
〃No。 You take me to the spot the kid told you about； and we dig。〃
Dolphine got out of the car； walked around and popped open the trunk。 I followed； watching him remove a large earth spade。 Flame glow illuminated the PI's old Dodge coupe； I noticed a pile of fence pickets and rags next to the spare tire。 Tucking the 。38 into my waistband； I fashioned two torches out of them； wrapping the rags around the ends of the posts； then igniting them in the cross。 Handing one to Dolphine； I said； 〃Walk ahead of me。〃
We strode into the sand pit； outlaws holding fireballs on a stick。 The softness made the going slow； torchlight let me pick out grave offerings…little bouquets and religious statues placed atop dunes here and there。 Dolphine kept muttering how gringos got dumped on the far side； I felt bones cracking beneath my feet。 We reached an especially high drift； and Dolphine waved his torch at a tattered American flag spread out on the sand。 〃Here。 The punk said by el bannero。〃
I kicked the flag away； a swarm of insects buzzed up。 Dolphine screeched； 〃Cocksuckers；〃 and swatted them with his torch。
A putrid smell rose from a big crater at our feet。 〃Dig；〃 I said。 Dolphine went at it； I thought of ghosts…Betty Short and Laurie Blanchard…waiting for the shovel to hit bones。 The first time it did I recited a psalm the old man had force…fed me； the second time； it was the 〃Our Fathers〃 that Danny Boylan used to chant before our sparring sessions。 When Dolphine said； 〃Sailor。 I can see his jumper；〃 I didn't know if I wanted Lee alive and in grief or dead and nowhere…so I pushed Dolphine aside and shoveled myself。
My first blow sheared off the sailor's skull； my second tore into the front of his tunic； pulling the torso free from the rest of the skeleton。 The legs were in crumbled pieces； I shoveled past them into plain sand glinting with mica。 Then it was maggot nests and entrails and a blood…mattted crinoline dress and sand and odd bones and nothing…and then it was sunburned pink skin and blond eyebrows covered with stitch scars that looked familiar。 Then Lee was smiling like the Dahlia； with worms creeping out of his mouth and the holes where his eyes used to be。
I dropped the shovel and ran。 Dolphine shouted； 〃The money！〃 behind me； I tore for the burning cross thinking that I put those scars on Lee； I did it to him。 Reaching the car； I got in； gunned it in reverse； plowed the crucifix into the sand； then gnashed through the gears one…two…three going forward。 I heard； 〃My car！ The money！〃 as I fishtailed onto the coast road northbound； reaching for the siren switch； slamming the dashboard when it hit me that civilian vehicles didn't have them。
I made it to Ensenada； highballing at double the speed limit。 I ditched the Dodge on the street by the hotel； then ran for my car…slowing when I saw three men approaching me in a flanking movement； their hands inside their jackets。
My Chevy ten yards away； the middle man ing into focus as Captain Vasquez； the other two fanning out to close me in from the sides。 The only shelter a phone booth near the first door on the left U of the courtyard。 Bucky Bleichert about to be DOA in a Mexican sand pit； his best friend along for the ride。 I decided to let Vasquez get right up next to me and blow his brains out point…blank。 Then