The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

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