The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

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?