The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

know the picture,” Marvia said. “Gloria Swanson and William Holden and Erich von Stroheim.”

      “Yes.” Mother’s eyes were shining. Her expression was gleeful. “Gloria Swanson. And Norma Desmond, don’t you see? And this other picture I’ve seen, where Janet Gaynor is Esther Blodgett but then she’s Vicki Lester. But who is she really?”

      She held her hands to her cheeks. She was growing agitated. Marvia started to move toward her, but Lindsey stopped her, put his hand on her wrist. “She’s all right. She’s—” He stopped.

      Mother went on.

      “But Norma Desmond. She was an old-time movie star, but she was Gloria Swanson but she was really an old-time movie star. An actress playing an actress. A silent star. But she couldn’t bear it. Everything changed and she couldn’t bear it. She lived in this huge mansion and she had a butler and she just pretended it was the old days. But it wasn’t, don’t you see? Everything was changed. Everything was changed. Everything was changed.”

      She took a paper napkin from the table and wiped her eyes. She buried her face in the napkin, in her hands. Lindsey held her by the shoulders. She looked up, looked at him, looked at Marvia, said, “Everything was changed.”

      After a few minutes she said, “Well, if everyone is finished with their coffee, I’ll clear these cups and saucers away.”

      A little later she said, “Hobart, if you and your friend want to go on, I’ll just clean up a little and go to bed. I’m so glad that you’re back. I’m a little tired, though.”

      Lindsey stood holding her hands, studying her face. “You’re all right, then, Mother. Is Mrs. Hernández coming in tomorrow?”

      She said, yes.

      “Then I may stay over in Berkeley. I’ll phone you in the morning. And Joanie Schorr is right next door, if you need her. You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

      She said, yes.

      When they reached Marvia’s home and climbed to her apartment, Marvia put on a CD and knelt to light the fire. She had worn a loose shirt and dark jeans for dinner at the Lindsey house. She had not changed her clothing since.

      Lindsey sat in an easy chair, watching Marvia and listening to the music. A woman sang to a judge, pleading guilty as charged. The fire flared up with a crackle, sending a huge shadow of Marvia dancing around the circular room. She stood up, fetched a bottle of wine and two glasses, filled the glasses. She gave one to Lindsey and raised the other. “Welcome home,” she said.

      She settled onto his lap. He put his free hand on her back, at first gingerly. Then he tugged the tail of her shirt loose and ran his hand up her naked back. She rubbed her head against his, like a cat claiming ownership of a human.

      Lindsey said, “That’s a blood-curdling song. That’s a murder song. Who’s singing it? Is that new?”

      Marvia laughed. “That’s Bessie Smith. She’s been dead since 1937. That’s a great song. ‘Send me to the Lectric Chair’.”

      I caught him with a trifling Jane

      I warned him ’bout befo’

      I had my knife and went insane

      And the rest you ought to know.

      Lindsey swallowed wine. It was red and dry. He rubbed his cheek on Marvia’s and ran his free hand around her waist, underneath her shirt.

      Bessie Smith sang,

      I cut him with my bilo

      I piqued him in the side

      I stood there laughing over him

      While he wallowed ’round and died.

      Lindsey said, “What’s a bilo?”

      Marvia opened Lindsey’s belt and slipped her hand in the top of his trousers. “It’s a corruption of ‘Barlow.’ It’s a kind of knife, something like a Bowie knife. It’s a kind of double-bladed dagger, very nice. Some people say it wasn’t really named for Barlow, that bilo comes from bilobated. I found that in the dictionary myself. Cops know everything.”

      Lindsey said, “What happened to Bessie Smith? That was a great song. I like this next one, too. How did she die?”

      Marvia said, “She was hit by a cab. They rushed her to the nearest hospital. She might have survived, but they refused to treat her there. It was a white hospital, you see. So they took her to a black hospital, but then it was too late. She was forty-two years old.”

      Bessie Smith was still singing. She sounded happy. The song was “Take me for a Buggy Ride.”

      Lindsey and Marvia finished their wine and climbed into bed. The fire cast moving shadows on the walls and ceiling. It was a turret room in a restored Victorian, the kind of room where you’d keep a crazy aunt.

      Lindsey held Marvia’s hand in his own and brought it to his face. He closed his eyes and used his face as an organ of touch, feeling Marvia’s palm and fingers. He ran his tongue down the vee between her fingers, feeling and tasting her flesh.

      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