Читать книгу The Bessie Blue Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 11

CHAPTER SIX

The Oakland Tribune and the San Francisco Chronicle both ran stories on the Leroy McKinney murder. The Chron gave it a couple of paragraphs on an inside page. To the San Francisco papers events in Oakland were by definition minor stories. The Trib gave it a banner above the logo and a top position on page 3.

There were a pair of photos of the crime site. The body had been removed and the photo centered on the taped outline on the hangar floor. The monkey wrench was still in place, and it could still be seen, surrounded by its own outline of tape, in a corner of the picture.

The Trib photographer had got a picture of the body, and in fact he must have gone back to the hangar for a second shoot to get the tape after the body was gone. And he’d somehow managed to shoot a close-up of McKinney’s ID badge photo, and the Trib had blown that up to column width.

Leroy McKinney in life had looked little different than he had when Lindsey saw him in death. The pool of jellied blood and brains was missing from his forehead, and his eyes had the look of life to them. But there was no mistaking the man.

The story in the Trib gave McKinney’s address in Richmond and quoted the usual reactions of family and neighbors. McKinney had been friendly and outgoing, had kept strictly to himself, he’d been a wonderful man, nobody knew much about him, he was a pillar of the community, everyone loved him, he was a victim of society.

And so he was.

Next of kin seemed to be a young woman named Latasha Greene. After reading the story, Lindsey wasn’t quite sure whether she was McKinney’s daughter or granddaughter or niece. She was described as distraught but calm, prostrate with grief and bearing up courageously.

A memorial service was planned.

Marvia’s Toshiba clock-radio had popped into action with an early-morning show on KJAZ and the news that a popular and innovative trumpeter was hospitalized but making good progress. Marvia made a pot of coffee. She was on the day shift and left Oxford Street early for police headquarters. She had her own case-load. Lindsey hadn’t burdened her with the Leroy McKinney killing and she hadn’t unloaded any of hers onto him.

He read the newspapers over a second cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant on Shattuck Avenue. This was the older downtown Berkeley. It survived but barely so in the shadow of Telegraph Avenue with its frequent riots and demonstrations and its monopoly on the trade of 30,000 University of California students.

Lindsey phoned Mother and assured her that he was all right, that he would probably be home for dinner. Mother was expecting Mrs. Hernández.

He borrowed a pair of scissors from a waitress decked out in army fatigue pants, a blue denim shirt and a 1940s style waitress cap. He clipped the Trib and Chron stories on the hangar killing. The Trib ran a jump that butted against an aerial photo of the Abraham Lincoln at sea. It didn’t look like the Love Boat but Lindsey could think of worse ways to spend a few weeks. When Lindsey finished his breakfast he walked to an instant printing service and made copies of the stories on the killing and extra blowups of the ID photo of Leroy McKinney. The dot-pattern of the newspaper photo didn’t enlarge too well, but the pictures were recognizable.

The instant printer was called the Gandharva/Ganesa Copy Center.

The Gandharva/Ganesa Copy Center. He looked around for the Amon-Ra Laundromat or Jesus’ Jive Computer Store but they must have been on another street somewhere.

* * * *

Latasha Greene’s address was on 23rd Street in Richmond, just off Nevin Avenue. Lindsey had spent some time in Point Richmond, a hilly spur of land stretching into San Francisco Bay, populated by a mix of wealthy recluses and executives from a nearby oil refinery. But downtown Richmond was a very different kind of place.

He found a parking spot between a rusted-out Corolla and an ancient Buick the size of a gymnasium. He’d driven home, checked on Mother and Mrs. Hernández, showered and changed his clothing. Working for Ducky Richelieu certainly had its compensations.

He’d passed kids skateboarding on the sidewalk, groups gathered around ghetto blasters practicing their rap moves, some derelicts slumped in vacant doorways, paper bags in their laps, their eyes as vacant as the doorways they made their homes.

Latasha Greene lived in a 1930’s frame-and-stucco bungalow. It might once have been a pleasant little house, but it had not seen a paintbrush or received the attention of a carpenter in decades. The paint had faded to a nondescript tan, the wood was cracked and there were holes—they looked like bullet holes—in the stucco. Several windows were cracked and patched with cardboard.

Well, at least they were patched, although it looked as if the cardboard had been in place for months if not years.

The lawn was spotty and strewn with litter. On either side of Latasha’s house were vacant lots, overgrown with weeds and scattered with old tires and miscellaneous trash.

The kid pointed his weapon as Lindsey turned from the Hyundai and started to slip his keys into his pocket. He said, “Drop the tachy-case, gringo, and reach.”

He had pale, almost albino features marked with blotchy freckles and crinkly blond hair. He wore a baseball cap with the visor turned sideways. He must have been wearing some kind of clothes, but all Lindsey could focus on was the gun in his hands. He couldn’t tell whether it was an Uzi or a Raven or an Intratec. He didn’t really know anything about guns but they were so much in the news of late that he’d picked up a few names, almost against his will.

He gasped. His hands started to shake. He dropped his attaché case as the kid had ordered.

“Too slow, gringo!”

Time froze. Lindsey could see the gun clearly in the kid’s hands. He identified it. That would be a big help. He could see three or four more kids behind the one with the gun. They couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. They all wore baseball caps with the visors over their ears and plastic straps hanging onto their cheeks. One wore a Chicago Bulls jacket. One wore a Georgetown Hoyas jacket. Lindsey’s eyes moved back to the kid with the gun. He wore a Los Angeles Raiders jacket.

In his last moment of awareness, Lindsey thought, What a pity the Raiders moved away from Oakland. They were always a source of civic pride.

The kids behind the one with the gun were all grinning, all baring white teeth in black faces.

The kid with the gun repeated himself, or maybe his words just hung in the air, maybe Lindsey’s brain was stretching them. “…s-l-o-w, g-r-i-n-g-o!”

The kid’s finger tightened on the trigger. Lindsey felt his knees buckle. He saw the stream of water coming from the muzzle of the gun. He heard the kids bursting into hysterical laughter.

He hit the ground, tearing the knee out of his trousers and scraping the flesh beneath. He saw the kids running away, all except the one with the gun in his hands. The kid stood over Lindsey looking terrified. Lindsey thought the kid was ready to cry. The kid said, “I was only joking, mister. It’s only a water-gun, see?”

He held the gun in front of Lindsey. He pulled the trigger again. A stream of water squirted from the muzzle and splashed onto the lawn in front of Latasha Greene’s house.

“I didn’t mean to tear your pants,” the kid said. “I don’t got any money. I don’t know how to.… Don’t tell my Grandma. She’s kill me if you tell her. Don’t tell.…”

Lindsey said, “No, it’s all right. It was just a joke, right?”

“That’s right,” the kid said.

“I won’t tell,” Lindsey said. He grasped the attaché case with one hand and braced the other against the passenger’s door of the Hyundai. He rose to his feet and managed to steady himself. “Do you know Latasha Greene?” he asked the kid. “Is this her house?”

The kid nodded three or four times. “That’s her house all right. You gonna visit her? She’s all broken up. Mr. McKinney, he got offed. Wham, some sucker got him with a monkey-wrench. I saw it all on TV. Wham! Right in the face! Must have been some sucker he knowed. Right in the face!”

The kid grinned, turned around, ran off in the direction his friends had gone.

Lindsey climbed three rickety steps and knocked on the door. After a while he heard the latches opening. There were a lot of them.

The short man who opened the door had the blackest skin Lindsey had ever seen. His hair was cropped short around his ears; the dome of his head was hairless and shone as if it had been polished. A pot belly pushed out the front of a vest beneath a dove-gray clergy suit. He said, “I’m the Reverend Johnson. Did something happen to you?” He was looking at Lindsey’s soaked jacket and his wrecked trousers. Lindsey realized that he’d got his face dirty as well.

Lindsey said, “I ran into some kids outside. They didn’t mean any harm, but.…” He felt more embarrassed than anything else.

“That’s too bad,” Reverent Johnson said. “But why are you here? This is a house of grief today.”

Lindsey pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “I know. I’m very sorry. I hoped I could talk with Miss Greene. I represent International Surety.” He fumbled for a business card, handed it to Johnson.

Johnson took the card. He studied it for a long time, then slipped it into a pocket. “An insurance man.”

“Yes, sir.” Johnson seemed to think that Lindsey was here to arrange a payment. Let him think it. People talk to you when they think you’re going to give them money. “It’s about Mr. McKinney.” He managed a note of detached sympathy. If he hadn’t been an insurance man he’d have made a good undertaker.

Johnson said, “Come in, young man. I expect that Miss Greene will receive you in the parlor.”

The furnishings were shabby and the air was musty inside, as if the house hadn’t been aired thoroughly in years. The front room contained a huge television set with a round screen that reflected a dead-pale olive image of the room. It must have been built in the Truman era. On top of it stood a portable color set. Images of angry black faces alternated with those of violent gestures and sexual posturing. The sound was turned off.

Johnson disappeared through a dusty, rust-colored curtain. Lindsey heard him speak softly. “Latasha dear, there’s a man to see you. It’s about Grandfather’s life insurance.”

Latasha Greene was tall and brown. She wore a tee shirt with a picture of a brown-skinned Bart Simpson brandishing an assault pistol, faded jeans and wooden clogs. She balanced a baby on her hip.

She said to Lindsey, “What happened to your suit?”

“Some kids outside. It was just an accident.”

Latasha said, “What kids?” She seemed distracted, only partially present, asking her questions in a remote voice. Lindsey described the kids in their baseball caps and team jackets. Latasha said, “Oh, that’s just Ahmad. That little pale-skin nigger. Mrs. Hope’s grandson.” She blinked. Then, as if she’d just wakened, she said, “What about my Grandpa?”

Lindsey extended another business card. Latasha looked at it for a long time. Then she sat on the couch. Lindsey slipped the card back into his pocket. The Reverend Johnson sat on a reversed, chrome-and-plastic kitchen chair. Lindsey looked around, found a faded, overstuffed easy chair and settled uneasily on it.

He said, “I was very sorry to learn of Mr. McKinney’s demise. He was your grandfather, then, Miss Greene? By ‘Grandpa’ you didn’t just mean—?”

“He was my Grandpa.” Latasha nodded. “What happened to you?”

Lindsey said, “I fell. Nothing serious.”

Latasha said, “Grandpa had insurance?”

Lindsey said, “We have to find out. Under the circumstances of his death, I don’t know whether he was covered or not.”

Reverend Johnson said, “Now wait a minute, mister! You mean you’re trying to weasel out of paying off?”

Lindsey said, “Not at all. We just have to ascertain.… You see, Mr. McKinney was not directly covered. But there’s an umbrella policy, we may be able to.…” He let it go at that. He hated to mislead them. It wasn’t his job to pour out International Surety’s funds, but to preserve them. He clenched his jaw to keep from saying the wrong thing.

Johnson said, “Just what do you need to know?”

Lindsey turned to Latasha. She had lifted the bottom of her Black Bart tee shirt and was nursing her baby, watching the baby with a look of unreadable concentration. Lindsey said, “I’m trying to find out something about Mr. McKinney. What kind of person he was. What kind of life he led.”

Johnson said, “I don’t see why you need to know that to pay off his insurance.”

Lindsey said, “I’m sorry. He didn’t have any insurance. At least, not with our company. I thought I’d made that clear. But if we can find some way to get benefits under the umbrella.…”

Johnson frowned.

Lindsey turned back to Latasha. He managed to catch a portion of her attention and smiled encouragingly, willing her to talk to him.

She said, “My Grandpa was a great man. He was a hero.” She looked away from Lindsey, back at her baby. She smiled at the baby. The baby’s eyes were closed but it was making little smacking sounds with its mouth. Lindsey lowered his eyes to his notepad.

“He was a war hero. He killed a whole machine-gun nest of Japs in the Philippines. And he saved two Americans. He was a pitcher, too. He should have been in the major leagues but he never got a chance. And he ran a nightclub. He made people famous and rich and he never got nothin’ for it.”

Lindsey was trying to keep track, jotting notes as fast as Latasha spoke. He wished he had a tape recorder. Maybe he’d buy one of those little portables, charge it to SPUDS. Richelieu was going to buy him a new pair of pants after today, he might as well spring for a piece of necessary field equipment. He said, “Pardon me, please slow down. You say your grandfather was a war hero?”

She nodded.

He jotted, “Verify military service record—Dept. Veterans Affairs.”

She carried her baby out of the room. While she was gone, Lindsey looked over his notes. Reverend Johnson said, “How much is your company going to pay?”

Lindsey said, “I don’t know that we’re going to pay anything. That’s why I have to get all the facts.”

Johnson said, “This is a very needy family. I should think that a certain humane consideration would be involved.”

Lindsey said, “Insurance companies don’t work that way.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Latasha Greene came back into the room. She’d left her baby elsewhere. She resumed her seat on the couch. She looked past Lindsey and fixed her eyes on the TV screen.

Lindsey said, “About Mr. McKinney’s military service.…”

Latasha said, “He was in the Marines. He fought all over the Pacific. He was on Iwo Jima. He hurt his hand there. He was working in an ammunition bunker, and a Jap fire-grenade landed and it would have blown up the ammunition and killed everybody. Grandpa grabbed the grenade and threw it back at the Japs and it wiped out a whole machine-gun nest of Japs but it burned up his hand so bad, it was never any good again. It was so ugly, it was like a claw. I used to be afraid of it when I was little and I always made him cover it up when he came on my bed or I’d start to scream.”

Lindsey said, “I never heard of fire-grenades.”

Latasha said, “You don’t know anything about it. My grandpa told me. He used to sit on my bed at night and tell me stories. After he hurt his hand he still dragged two men to safety who would have died. He saved their lives. He was a hero.”

She set her jaw angrily but her mouth was quivering and her eyes looked wet.

Reverend Johnson said, “I heard those same stories, Mr. Lindsey. I knew Leroy McKinney for many years. Latasha isn’t making them up.”

Lindsey said, “I wasn’t suggesting—”

Latasha said, “I even have a picture of him. And a newspaper.”

She brought a tattered San Francisco Call-Bulletin from the other room, and a yellowed snapshot with edges that looked as if they’d been made with a pair of pinking shears.

Lindsey said, “May I take these with me? I’ll photocopy them and return them to you.” He waited until she nodded absently and then he put the newspaper and the photograph in his attaché case. Latasha’s eyes were fixed on the silent TV set. Lindsey said, “Do you have his Marine Corps discharge papers? Or any of his military records? Did he go to a Veterans’ hospital at any time? Was he receiving a disability pension?”

Latasha was staring at the TV screen. Even though there was no sound, she must have recognized the video they were showing because she was moving her lips silently to the unheard lyrics and swaying to the silent beat.

Lindsey looked questioningly at Reverend Johnson.

Reverend Johnson said, “I asked Leroy about that. Many times. He never got anything from the government. There was some mix-up with his records. He never did get his discharge papers, disability payments, anything. He never got anything at all. I urged him to take it up with our Congressman but I could never get him to do it. He was a very embittered man. He’s in his glory now. Even if there’s no justice in this world, there surely must be in the next, and Leroy is in his glory now.”

Latasha Greene was involved with her TV. Lindsey said, “I guess I’ll be going now. I’ll send back the newspaper and the photograph. Or maybe bring them.” He started for the door.

Reverend Johnson said, “I was just leaving myself.”