The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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