The Frenchman said, “Johnnie Red don’t like me to smoke ‘cept in his company. You bring Johnnie in, I’ll smoke. I confess better in Johnnie’s company, too. Ask the Catholic chaplain at North Post. He told me he always smells Johnnie when I go to confession.”
I started smelling Corporal Joseph Dulange as an attention-seeking drool case. Russ said, “Booze confessions aren’t valid in court, Joe. But I’ll tell you what. You convince me you killed Betty Short, and I’ll make sure Johnnie comes back to LA with us. A nice eight-hour flight would give you plenty of time to renew your acquaintance with him. What do you say?”
“I say I chopped the Dahlia.”
“I say you didn’t. I say you and Johnnie are going to stay parted for a while.”
“I chopped her.”
“How?”
“On her titties, ear to ear and in half. Chop. Chop. Chop.” Russ sighed. “Let’s backtrack, Joe. You flew out of Dix on Wednesday, January eighth, you landed at Camp MacArthur that night. You and Johnnie are in LA, anxious to sow some wild oats. Where did you go first? Hollywood Boulevard? Sunset Strip? The beach? Where?”
Dulange cracked his knuckles. “Nathan’s Tattoo Parlor, 463 North Alvarado.”
“What did you do there?”
Crazy Joe rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a forked snake’s tongue with “Frenchy” emblazoned below it. Flexing his bicep, the tattoo stretched. Dulange said, “I’m a Frenchman.”
Millard pulled his patented reversal. “I’m a cop, and I’m getting bored. When I get bored, Detective Bleichert takes over. Detective Bleichert was once the tenth-ranked light heavyweight in the world, and he is not a nice man. Right, partner?”
I balled my fists. “I’m a German.”
Dulange laughed. “No tickee, no washee. No Johnnie, no story.”
I almost leaped across the table at him. Russ grabbed my elbow and held it, viselike, while he bargained. “Joe, I’ll make you a deal. First you convince us you knew Betty Short. Give us some facts. Names, dates, descriptions. You do that, and when we take our first break, you and Johnnie can go back to your cell and get reacquainted. What do you say?”
“Johnnie pint?”
“No, his big brother Johnnie fifth.”
The Frenchman grabbed the pack of butts and shook one loose; Russ had his lighter out and extended. Dulange took a monumental drag, exhaling a rush of words along with the smoke:
“After the tattoo joint, me and Johnnie got a cab downtown and got a room. Havana Hotel, Ninth and Olive, deucesky a night, big cockroaches. They started makin’ a ruckus, so I put out mousetraps. That killed ’em. Me and Johnnie slept it off, then the next day we went cunt chasin’. No luck. Next day I get me this Filipino cunt at the bus depot. She says she needs bus fare to Frisco, so I offer her a fivesky to take on me and Johnnie. She says tensky minumum for two guys. I say Johnnie’s hung like Jesus, she should pay me. We go back to the hotel, all the cockroaches got loose from the traps. I introduce her to Johnnie, tell her he goes first. She gets scared, says, ‘You think you’re Fatty Arbuckle?’ I tell her I’m a Frenchman, who does she think she is, thinks she can high-hat Johnnie Red?
“Cockroaches start howlin’ like niggers. The Filipino says Johnnie’s got sharp teeth, no sir. She runs like sixty, me and Johnnie hole up till late Saturday. We want cunt bad. We go by this army-navy on Broadway, and I get me some ribbons for my Ike jacket. DSC with oak leaf, silver star, bronze star, ribbons for all the Jap campaigns. I look like George S. Patton, only hung bigger. Me and Johnnie go to this bar called the Night Owl. Dahlia sashays in, Johnnie says, ‘Yes sir, that’s my baby, no sir, don’t mean maybe, yes sir, that’s my baby now.'”
Dulange stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the pack. Russ jotted notes; I figured time and location, remembering the Night Owl from my days working Central Patrol. It was on 6th and Hill–two blocks from the Biltmore Hotel, where Red Manley dropped Betty Short on Friday, January tenth. The Frenchman, DT recollections notwithstanding, had gained another notch of credibility.