The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

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СКАЧАТЬ said, “I’m sure it was.”

      Johnson shook his head. “I could not tell you who won last year’s World Series. Followed it like a hawk, but I’ve forgotten already. A sign of advancing years, Mr. Lindsey. You can conjure the distant past in every detail but you cannot recall what you had for breakfast. Now.” He ground his cigar in a standing smoking stand like the ones William Powell used in the old Thin Man movies. “Let’s see about those scorecards of Mr. McKinney’s.”

      Lindsey said, “Yes, please.” He checked his Seiko. It was after two o’clock. Now that he was in SPUDS it might be worth his while to look into an even better timepiece.

      The sacristy of the Reverend Johnson’s church was a musty storeroom containing choir robes, battered hymnals, a stack of collection plates, stacked corrugated boxes of files.

      Johnson riffled through the boxes, muttering and shoving cartons aside. Lindsey checked his watch again. Four minutes had passed. He said, “Maybe you’d send them to me.”

      Johnson looked up. He was perspiring, his dome shining beneath the fluorescent light. “I’m sure they’re here. Just a minute.”

      Lindsey shifted his weight from foot to foot. He checked his watch again. Six minutes had passed.

      Johnson said, “Here they are!” There was a note of triumph in his voice. He waved a couple of five-by-seven sheets of light cardboard at Lindsey. “Nineteen forty-two,” Johnson said. “That was Leroy McKinney’s last year as a ballplayer. After that he went into the service, and after the war, of course, he couldn’t pitch any more. Not with his injured hand.”

      He spread the scorecards on the top of a cardboard file box. Someone had marked the scorecards with an old-style fountain pen and the ink had run and faded, but Lindsey could see the lineup printed in splotchy black ink. The team was the Cincinnati Buckeyes and Leroy Mickinney was listed as a pitcher.

      Mickinney. Not McKinney. Someone in 1942 had made a typographical error.

      Lindsey found a folding chair and started to sit down. The chair was covered with dust. He looked at it, began to clean it, then realized that it didn’t matter. Not with his trousers in the condition they were in.

      He opened his attaché case and slipped the programs into the Bessie Blue International Surety folder. He said, “It’s really hard to understand, Reverend Johnson. I mean, with all the advocacy groups, veterans’ organizations, civil rights organizations, that Mr. McKinney never received any benefits.”

      Johnson shook his head sadly. “No benefits. No recognition. No appreciation. I don’t think you quite understand what conditions were like, Mr. Lindsey.” He changed his direction. “If you can do anything with those old documents—the newspaper, the photos, the baseball scorecards—please do so. But in any case, once you have made your copies, please make sure to return them. I’m certain that they will be precious mementos.”

      Lindsey said, “Sure.”

      Reverend Johnson said, “If we were a wealthier congregation we’d have our own office facilities including copying machines, but you can see that we serve the needy not the greedy.”

      Lindsey said, “Sure.”

      * * * *

      Ms. Wilbur gaped. “Bart, what happened to you? You look as if you’d been mugged.”

      Lindsey managed a painful grin. He’d thought of going home from Richmond and cleaning up, but instead he’d come to the office to catch up on paperwork. And he could phone Mother, too, and make a joke about falling so she wouldn’t scream when she got a look at him.

      He explained about the twelve-year-old bandits and the water pistol.

      Ms. Wilbur clucked sympathetically.

      Elmer Mueller had observed the exchange between Lindsey and Ms. Wilbur. He said, “Harden and Richelieu have both been on the horn. I don’t know which one is having a bigger fit. You better get back to ’em fast. You’re really going to have your tail in the grinder after this fiasco, Hobie-boy.”

      Lindsey ignored the name. He dialed out to SPUDS in Denver. Mrs. Blomquist put him through to Richelieu fast. Lindsey got as far as Mi- before Richelieu cut him off. “Welcome to the hardball game. What have you done to contain this Bessie Blue matter?”

      Lindsey started to tell him about visiting the airport, working with Doc High, interviewing Latasha Greene and Reverend Johnson.

      Richelieu said, “Are those airplanes in California yet?”

      Lindsey said, “I don’t know. They were flying in today. Going to fly in today. I’ve been in Richmond all afternoon and—”

      “I don’t want an opera in five acts with full orchestra and chorus. Where are the airplanes? What’s the status of that movie? We’re standing in as de facto completion bond guarantor and frankly my dear I don’t give a damn if somebody whacks a damned janitor on the bean. I care about that movie getting made so we don’t have to shell out millions of dollars.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Well, where are the airplanes?”

      Lindsey swallowed hard. “I don’t know for sure.”

      “You mean you don’t know, period!” Lindsey could see Richelieu twisting his moustache, the high Colorado sunlight glancing off his rimless glasses. “Get into gear and report back to me in twenty-four hours, Lindsey. Good heavens, man, what do you think we spent all the money to train you for? What do you think we’re paying you for?”

      Lindsey held the receiver away from his ear, waiting for Richelieu to slam the telephone down in Denver. All that came over the line was a gentle click.

      Lindsey laid the receiver in its cradle.

      Elmer Mueller was grinning at him. “Sounded like you handled that gink pretty well, Hobie. Now it’s time to chat with Harden at Regional, right?”

      Lindsey said, “Harden at Regional can—” He stopped. He was not going to lower himself to Elmer Mueller’s level. He breathed deeply until he’d calmed himself, then he called home and told Mother that a funny thing had happened today, and not to be upset when he got home looking messy.

      Mother said, “Did you fall in the playground? Did the nurse look at you? Maybe I ought to come to school and bring you home.”

      Lindsey said, “Is Mrs. Hernández there?”

      Mother said, “Yes, dear, we were just shopping. Is there something you don’t want to say to me? All right, dear, I’ll put her on.”

      Before Lindsey could say a word, Mrs. Hernández said, “She’s just a little confused, Mr. Lindsey. She’s really all right. You can come home now. She’ll be all right.”

      When Lindsey got home, Mother was settled in front of the TV set watching one of her old movies, a cup of hot chocolate in her hand. She hardly noticed his arrival. He made his way to his room, showered and put on fresh clothing. He looked at the suit he’d worn to Richmond. A total loss. He hoped SPUDS was prepared to replace it for him.

      Mrs. Hernández reassured him that Mother was СКАЧАТЬ