Vogel had a father working Central dicks; I was a padded6-0-0 in the no-man’s-land division five years before. Knowing the only way to compete with nepotism was to make the weight, I punched bags, skipped meals and skipped rope until I was a nice, safe light heavyweight again. Then I waited.

I was a week at the 175-pound limit, tired of training and dreaming every night of steaks, chili burgers and coconut cream pies. My hopes for the Warrants job had waned to the point where I would have sold them down the river for pork chops at the Pacific Dining Car, and the neighbor who looked after the old man for a double sawbuck a month had called me to say that he was acting up again, taking BB potshots at the neighborhood dogs and blowing his Social Security check on girlie magazines and model airplanes. It was reaching the point where I would have to do something about him, and every toothless geezer I saw on the beat hit my eyes as a gargoyle version of Crazy Dolph Bleichert. I was watching one stagger acrossrd and Hill when I got the radio call that changed my life forever.

“11-A-23, call the station. Repeat: 11-A-23, call the station.”

Sidwell nudged me. “We got a call, Bucky.”

“Roger it.”

“The dispatcher said to call the station.”

I hung a left and parked, then pointed to the call box on the corner. “Use the gamewell. The little key next to your handcuffs.”

Sidwell obeyed, trotting back to the cruiser moments later, looking grave. “You’re supposed to report to the Chief of Detectives immediately,” he said.

My first thoughts were of the old man. I leadfooted the six blocks to City Hall and turned the black-and-white over to Sidwell, then took the elevator up to Chief Thad Green’s fourth-floor offices. A secretary admitted me to the Chief’s inner sanctum, and sitting in matched leather chairs were Lee Blanchard, more high brass than I had ever seen in one place and a spider-thin man in a three-piece tweed suit.

The secretary said, “Officer Bleichert,” and left me standing there, aware that my uniform hung on my depleted body like a tent. Then Blanchard, wearing cord slacks and a maroon letterman’s jacket, got to his feet and played MC.

“Gentlemen, Bucky Bleichert. Bucky, left to right in uniform, we have Inspector Malloy, Inspector Stensland and Chief Green. The gentleman in mufti is Deputy DA Ellis Loew.”

I nodded, and Thad Green pointed me to an empty chair facing the assembly. I settled into it; Stensland handed me a sheaf of papers. “Read this, Officer. It’s Braven Dyer’s editorial for this coming Saturday’s Times.”

The top page was dated 10/14/46, with a block printed title—”Fire and Ice Among LA’s Finest”—directly below it. Below that, the typed text began:

Before the war, the City of the Angels was graced with two local fighters, born and raised a scant five miles apart, pugilists with styles as different as fire and ice. Lee Blanchard was a bowlegged windmill of a leather slinger, and sparks covered the ringside seats when he threw punches. Bucky Bleichert entered the ring so cool and collected that it was easy to believe he was immune to sweat. He could dance on his toes better than Bojangles Robinson, and his rapier jabs peppered his opponents’ faces until they looked like the steak tartare at Mike Lyman’s Grill. Both men were poets: Blanchard the poet of brute strength, Bleichert the counter poet of speed and guile. Collectively they won 79 bouts and lost only four. In the ring as in the table of elements, fire and ice are tough to beat.

Mr. Fire and Mr. Ice never fought each other. Divisional boundaries kept them apart. But a sense of duty brought them together in spirit, and both men joined the Los Angeles Police Department and continued fighting out of the ring—this time in the war against crime. Blanchard cracked the baffling Boulevard-Citizens bank robbery case in 1939, and captured thrill-killer Tomas Dos Santos; Bleichert served with distinction during the ‘43 Zoot Suit Wars. And now they are both officers in Central Division: Mr. Fire,2, a sergeant in the prestigious Warrants Squad; Mr. Ice, 29, a patrolman working a dangerous beat in downtown LA. I recently asked both Fire and Ice why they gave up their best ring years to become cops. Their responses are indicative of the fine men they are:

Sergeant Blanchard: “A fighter’s career doesn’t last forever, but the satisfaction of serving your community does.”

Officer Bleichert: “I wanted to fight more dangerous opponents, namely criminals and Communists.”

Lee Blanchard and Bucky Bleichert made great sacrifices to serve their city, and on Election Day, November 5, Los Angeles voters are going to be asked to do the same thing—vote in a five-million-dollar bond proposal to upgrade the LAPD’s equipment and provide for an 8 percent pay raise for all personnel. Keep in mind the examples of Mr. Fire and Mr. Ice. Vote “Yes” on Proposition B on Election Day.

Finishing, I handed the pages back to Inspector Stensland. He started to speak, but Thad Green shushed him with a hand on his shoulder. “Tell us what you thought of it, Officer. Be candid.”

I swallowed to keep my voice steady. “It’s subtle.”

Stensland flushed, Green and Malloy grinned, Blanchard hooted outright. Ellis Loew said, “Proposition B is going to lose hands down, but there’s a chance to reintroduce it in the off-year election next spring. What we had in—”

Green said, “Ellis, please,” and turned his attention to me. “One of the reasons the bond is going to fail is that the public is less than pleased with the service we’ve been giving them. We were shorthanded during the war, and some of the men we hired to remedy that turned out to be rotten apples and made us look bad. Also, we’re top-heavy with rookies since the war ended, and a lot of good men have retired. Two station houses need to be rebuilt and we need to offer higher starting salaries to attract better men. All this takes money, and the voters aren’t going to give it to us in November.”

I was beginning to get the picture. Malloy said, “It was your idea, counselor. You tell him.”

Loew said, “I’m laying dollars to doughnuts we can pass the proposal in the ‘47 Special. But we need to drum up enthusiasm for the Department to do it. We need to build up morale within the Department, and we need to impress the voters with the quality of our men. Wholesome white boxers are a big draw, Bleichert. You know that.”

I looked at Blanchard. “You and me, huh?”

Blanchard winked. “Fire and Ice. Tell him the rest of it, Ellis.”

Loew winced at his first name, then continued. “A ten-round bout three weeks from now at the Academy gym. Braven Dyer is a close personal friend of mine, and he’ll be building it up in his column. Tickets will go for two dollars apiece, with half allotted for policemen and their families, half for civilians. The gate goes to the police charity program. From there we build up an interdivisional boxing team. All good wholesome white boys. The team members get one duty day off a week to teach underprivileged kids the art of self-defense. Publicity all the way, straight to the ‘47 Special Election.”

All eyes were on me now. I held my breath, waiting for the offer of the Warrants spot. When no one said a word, I glanced sidelong at Blanchard. His upper body looked brutally powerful, but his stomach had gone to flab and I was younger, taller and probably a whole lot faster. Before I could give myself reasons to back down, I said, “I’m in.”

The brass gave my decision a round of applause; Ellis Loew smiled, exposing teeth that looked like they belonged on a baby shark. “The date is October 29, a week before the election,” he said. “And both of you will have unlimited use of the Academy gym for training. Ten rounds is a lot to ask of men as inactive as you two have been, but anything else would look sissy. Don’t you agree?”