Blanchard caught sight of me and nudged her. Letting out a lungful of smoke, she turned. Up close, I saw a strong-pretty face, all mismatched parts: high forehead that made her hairdo look incongruous, crooked nose, full lips and big black-brown eyes.
Blanchard made the introductions. “Kay, this is Bucky Bleichert. Bucky, Kay Lake.”
The woman ground out her cigarette. I said, “Hello,” wondering if this was the girlfriend that Blanchard met at the Boulevard-Citizens robbery trial. She didn’t play as a heister’s quail, even if she had been shacking with a cop for years.
Her voice had a slight prairie twang. “I saw you box several times. You won.”
“I always won. Are you a fight fan?”
Kay Lake shook her head. “Lee used to drag me. I was taking art classes back before the war, so I brought my sketch pad and drew the boxers.”
Blanchard put an arm around her shoulders. “Made me quit fighting smokers. Said she didn’t want me doing the vegetable shuffle.” He went into an imitation of a punch-drunk fighter sparring, and Kay Lake flinched away from him. Blanchard shot a quick look at her, then fired off some left jabs and right crosses at the air. The punches were telegraphed, and in my mind I countered a one-two at his jaw and midsection.
I said, “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
Kay smoldered at the remark; Blanchard grinned. “It took weeks to talk her into letting me do it. I promised her a new car if she didn’t pout too much.”
“Don’t make any bets you can’t cover.”
Blanchard laughed, then moved into a side-by-side drape with Kay. I said, “Who thought this thing up?”
“Ellis Loew. He got me Warrants, then my partner put in his papers and Loew started thinking about you to replace him. He got Braven Dyer to write that Fire and Ice horseshit, then he took the whole pie to Horrall. He never would have gone for it, but all the polls said the bond issue was heading for the deep six, so he said okay.”
“And he’s got money on me? And if I win I get Warrants?”
“Something like that. The DA himself don’t like the idea, thinks the two of us wouldn’t work as partners. But he’s going along–Horrall and Thad Green convinced him. Personally, I almost hope you do win. If you don’t, I get Johnny Vogel. He’s fat, he farts, his breath stinks and his daddy’s the biggest nosebleed in Central dicks, always running errands for the Jewboy. Besides–”
I tapped Blanchard’s chest with a soft forefinger. “What’s in it for you?”
“Betting works both ways. My girl’s got a taste for nice things, and I can’t afford to let her down. Right, babe?”
Kay said, “Keep talking about me in the third person. It sends me.”
Blanchard put up his hands in mock surrender; Kay’s dark eyes burned. Curious about the woman, I said, “What do you think about the whole thing, Miss Lake?”
Now her eyes danced. “For aesthetic reasons, I hope you both look good with your shirts off. For moral reasons, I hope the Los Angeles Police Department gets ridiculed for perpetrating this farce. For financial reasons, I hope Lee wins.”
Blanchard laughed and slapped the hood of the cruiser; I forgot vanity and smiled with my mouth open. Kay Lake stared me straight in the eye, and for the first time–strangely but surely–I sensed that Mr. Fire and I were becoming friends. Sticking out my hand, I said, “Luck short of winning”; Lee grabbed it and said, “The same.”
Kay took in the two of us with a look that said we were idiot children. I tipped my hat to her, then started to walk away. Kay called out “Dwight,” and I wondered how she knew my real name. When I turned around, she said, “You’d be very handsome if you got your teeth fixed.”
CHAPTER THREE
The fight became the rage of the Department, then LA, and the Academy gym was sold out within twenty-four hours of Braven Dyer’s announcement of it in the _Times_ sports page. The 77th Street lieutenant tapped as official LAPD oddsmaker installed Blanchard as an early 3 to 1 favorite, while the real bookie line had Mr. Fire favored by knockout at 2½ to 1 and decision by 5 to 3. Interdepartmental betting was rampant, and wager pools were set up at all station houses. Dyer and Morrie Ryskind of the _Mirror_ fed the craze in their columns, and a KMPC disc jockey composed a ditty called the “Fire and Ice Tango.” Backed by a jazz combo, a sultry soprano warbled, “Fire and Ice ain’t sugar and spice; four hundred pounds tradin’ leather, that sure ain’t nice. But Mr. Fire light my torch and Mr. Ice cool my brow, to me that’s all-night service with a capital wow!”