Читать книгу The Bessie Blue Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 12

CHAPTER SEVEN

Once they were outside the house, Reverend Johnson’s mien brightened. He stopped Lindsey before they reached the sidewalk. He put his hand on Lindsey’s elbow. He said, “What really happened to you?” He nodded at Lindsey’s torn trousers.

“Some kids.” Lindsey looked around. They were nowhere in sight. “Neighborhood kids. I thought they were going to kill me. Boy had an Intratec 9S.”

Johnson’s eyebrows bounced up. “You know your weapons.”

“At first I thought he was going to rob me. Then I thought he was going to kill me. But all he had was a toy. A water-gun. It looked real but it was just a water-gun.”

“Won’t be that much longer before he has a real Tec. Or something equally bad. Guns are flooding into the community, Mr. Lindsey. Who’s pumping them into the community and why, do you have any idea?” He cocked his head inquiringly. Lindsey wasn’t sure whether he was really asking a question, or making a hard point.

“I don’t know who’s doing it, Reverend.”

Johnson reached inside his clergy suit and extracted an old-fashioned cigar-case. It was either mother-of-pearl trimmed with gold or a good plastic-and-brass imitation. Johnson said, “Cigar, Mr. Lindsey?”

Lindsey shook his head.

Johnson extracted a nearly-black cigar from the case and a tiny device that looked like a miniature guillotine from his trousers pocket. He made a ceremony of clipping off the tip of the cigar and throwing the pellet of tobacco on the weed-run lawn. He returned the guillotine to his pocket, extracted a lighter from the pocket and ignited the cigar. He turned away briefly and sent a plume of gray smoke into the air.

“Come,” he said, “let’s stroll a bit. Maybe we’ll find the miscreants responsible for your misfortune. Maybe we can exchange a bit more information while we’re at it.”

They walked to the corner and rounded it onto Nevin. A bar and a pool room were in full action even though it was not yet noon. A cluster of young men standing outside the poolroom stirred at Lindsey and Johnson’s approach. The young men were passing something around. It disappeared and there were murmurs of “Rev, mornin’, Rev.” Lindsey felt hot stares on the back of his neck as he and Johnson passed the young men.

Lindsey said, “What about Latasha’s story, Reverend? The part about Mr. McKinney’s being a baseball player.”

Johnson drew on his cigar. Between puffs he didn’t keep it in his mouth. Lindsey had half expected that, expected Johnson to keep the cigar clenched in his teeth the way FDR kept his famous cigarette holder in old news photos. Instead, Johnson carried the cigar in his fingers, a cross between a baton and a scepter.

“I can only tell you that Leroy was very convincing. I wasn’t there, I didn’t see the things he claimed to have done. But he told the same stories year after year.”

He stood still, frowning. “Wait a minute. He once showed me some old baseball programs. He visited me at the church. He was sorting through a batch of old papers and he found some scorecards or programs. He was very proud of them and he was afraid they would be lost after he was gone, so I promised to keep them for him. I haven’t even thought about them in years, but they must still be where I stored them for Leroy.”

Johnson stood facing Lindsey. He said, “Come with me. The church is very nearby. Let’s see if we can find those scorecards.”

They crossed Nevin and walked past a row of abandoned storefronts. Lindsey was worried. Johnson read his mind. “Don’t be afraid, Mr. Lindsey. You are in no danger.”

Lindsey decided it was still a good idea to keep an eye out.

Johnson said, “Yes, I was quite a baseball enthusiast in my day. Are you a baseball fan, Mr. Lindsey?”

Lindsey admitted that he didn’t follow the sport closely. He’d had that dream about the bomber crashing at an A’s game, but he didn’t really follow the sport.

Johnson sent a plume of cigar smoke into the air. “Wonderful game, Mr. Lindsey. I was a shortstop once upon a time. You wouldn’t believe it, would you?” He patted his ample paunch. “That was before I received my calling, of course.”

He grinned ruefully. “But Leroy McKinney, now. He used to tell wonderful baseball stories. He played in the old Negro National League. I suppose you’ve never heard of that, but we used to have our own teams, our own National and American Leagues, a Negro World Series and our own All-Star Games. I saw the Negro East-West Classic in 1948, Mr. Lindsey. I was there, observed the game from the upper deck of old Comiskey Park in Chicago. I was a very young man then, but it was a day I shall never forget.”

They had reached Johnson’s church. It was better than a storefront but not much better. The building stood on a small lot between a weed-covered field and a Chinese take-out restaurant. There was a single stained-glass window in the front wall of the church. The glass of the announcement board had been broken out and the letters rearranged to spell obscenities.

Johnson hurried Lindsey inside the building. It was musty inside. Again Johnson said, “I shall never forget that day. Every team was represented. The Homestead Grays, the New York Cubans, the Philadelphia Stars, the Memphis Red Sox. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of those teams, have you Mr. Lindsey?”

Lindsey shook his head. “About Mr. McKinney,” he started, but Johnson was on a roll.

“Forty-two thousand fans were in attendance, and that was down from previous years. We’d started playing in the major leagues by then, Jackie Robinson and all that. I didn’t oppose the idea then. I still approve of it. But the fact is, integration spelled the death knell of the Negro Leagues.”

He smiled and drew on his cigar. “Bill Powell of the Birmingham Black Barons, pitching for the West, defeated Rufus Lewis of the Newark Eagles for the East, three runs to nothing. Three runs to nothing. It was quite a performance, although Powell was relieved by Jim LaMarque of the Kansas City Monarchs and Gentry Jessup of the Chicago American Giants. But it was Powell’s triumph, yes indeed.”

Lindsey 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 really doing all right, her confusion had been a minor lapse. The doctors had all said that her improvement, after all her years of disorientation, was remarkable but Lindsey had to expect setbacks from time to time.

He loved that phrase.

He thanked Mrs. Hernández and she left for the day.

Lindsey stood watching the TV screen. Mother was completely absorbed in her old movie. Lindsey recognized the film. Mother hadn’t even had to tinker with the TV controls, the movie was already in black-and-white. It was Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. Lindsey watched for several minutes. Davis and Crawford were either awfully wonderful or wonderfully awful, he couldn’t tell which. But the bloated, mincing Victor Buono stole the show as far as Lindsey was concerned.

Mother set her cup on its saucer with a clash. She turned toward Lindsey, pointing back at the screen, at the frightening image of an elderly Bette Davis costumed as Baby Jane, prancing and singing, obviously mad.

Lindsey started forward, reaching to switch off the image and calm his mother.

But she said, “You see, Hobart? It’s like that other one, like that one with Gloria Swanson. Only this one is different. Norma Desmond really thought it was long ago, but Baby Jane only wants it to be long ago. She wants to make it be long ago, but she can’t do it.”

Lindsey didn’t know what to make of it. What should he say?