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.
I tossed the billfold on the bed and eased the pressure on my gun; Dolphine squirmed. “That money’s jackshit compared to what Blanchard was holding. You go partners with me and it’s easy street.”
I kicked his legs out from under him. Dolphine hit the floor and sucked dust off the carpet. “You tell me all of it, and you watch what you say about my partner, or it’s a B&E roust and the Ensenada jail.”
Dolphine pushed himself up onto his knees. He gasped, “Bleichert, how the fuck did you figure I knew to come here? It occur to you that maybe I was nearby when you did your gringo cop routine with Vasquez?”
I sized the man up. He was past forty, fat and balding, but probably tough–like an ex-athlete whose hardness reverted to smarts when his body went. I said, “Somebody else is tailing me. Who is it?”
Dolphine spat cobwebs. “The Rurales. Vasquez has got a vested interest in you not finding out about Blanchard.”
“Do they know I’m staying here?”
“No. I told Cap I’d start the tail. His other boys must have picked you up. You lose them?”
I nodded and flicked Dolphine’s necktie with my gun. “How come you’re so cooperative?”
Dolphine put a light hand on the muzzle and eased it away from him. “I got my own vested interest, and I am damn good at playing both ends against the middle. I also talk a sight better sitting down. You think that’s possible?”
I grabbed the chair and placed it in front of him. Dolphine got to his feet, brushed off his suit and plopped himself into it. I reholstered my piece. “Slow and from the beginning.”
Dolphine breathed on his nails and buffed them on his shirt. I took the only other chair in the flop and sat down facing the slats so that I’d have something to grab. “Talk, goddamnit.”
Dolphine obliged. “About a month ago, this Mexican woman walked into my office in Dago. Chubby, wearing ten tons of makeup, but dressed to the nines. She offered me five hundred to locate Blanchard, and she told me she thought he was somewhere down around TJ or Ensenada. She said he was an LA cop, some kind of lamster. Knowing the LA cops love that green stuff, I started thinking money pronto.
“I asked my TJ snitches about him, showed around this newspaper picture the woman gave me. I heard that Blanchard was in TJ around late January, getting in fights, boozing, spending lots of dough. Then a pal on the Border Patrol tells me he’s hiding out in Ensenada, paying protection to the Rurales–who are actually letting him booze and brawl in their town–something Vasquez just about never tolerates.
“Okay, so I came down here and started tailing Blanchard, who’s playing the rich gringo to the hilt. I see him beat up these two spics who insult this señorita, with Rurale troopers standing by doing nothing. That means the protection tip is straight dope, and I start thinking money, money, money.”
Dolphine traced a dollar sign in the air; I grabbed the chair slats so hard that I could feel the wood start to give. “Here’s where it gets interesting. This one pissed-off Rurale who’s not on the Blanchard payroll tells me that he heard Blanchard hired a couple of Rurale plainclothesmen to kill two enemies of his in Tijuana in late January. I drive back to TJ, pay out some bribe money to the TJ cops and learn that two guys named Robert De Witt and Felix Chasco were bumped off in TJ on January twenty-third. De Witt’s name sounded familiar, so I called a friend working San Diego PD. He checked around and called me back. Now get this, if you didn’t already know. Blanchard sent De Witt up to Big Q in ’39, and De Witt vowed to get even. I figure that De Witt got early parole, and Blanchard had him snuffed to protect his own ass. I called my partner in Dago, and left a message with him for the Mexican woman. Blanchard is in Ensenada, protected by the Rurales, who probably snuffed De Witt and Chasco for him.”