The Ragtime Fool (11 page)

The clerk glanced at the form, then at the boy. “You want a night letter? That’s the cheapest.”

Alan shook his head. “I want to get it there soon as possible.” He slid one of Dr. Broaca’s twenty-dollar bills across the counter.

The clerk counted out his change. “Hope Mr. Campbell’s got a good heart.”

Alan gave him a blank look.

“It scares people, getting a telegram on Friday the thirteenth.” The clerk loosed a phlegmy laugh, showing two lines of smooth, pink gums.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be glad to get this one.” Alan hoisted his blue book bag, stuffed with the Joplin journal, fresh underwear, socks and shirts, and a toothbrush. He had eighteen minutes to get onto the
St. Louisan
. Change in St. Louis, and he’d be in Sedalia by nightfall tomorrow.

***

Friday was always a big day for haircuts, the men and boys of Venice preparing to pass muster at weekend frolics. Brun started cutting the minute he returned from Samuel Pepper’s office, and didn’t stop all day, not even for lunch. A little after four, he was finishing up a butch-cut on a fourteen-year-old boy, while two men waited their turn, side-by-side on the piano bench. All of a sudden, the door to the shop slammed open. Bess Vinson blasted through the doorway, stomped up to the barber, hissed into his ear, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

Brun snapped the striped cloth off the boy’s neck, shook the cut hair onto the floor. One of the men on the piano bench stood, and started to walk toward the chair. “Didn’t you get my message yesterday?” Brun asked Bess. “From the guy in the drug store?”

He thought she might swing her purse and clout him on the ear. “Oh yes. I got it all right.”

The boy gave Brun two quarters and ran out. The man from the piano bench settled into the barber chair. Brun pushed the fifty cents into his pocket. “Well, okay, then. We’re all set.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’re all set?’ You may think
you’re
all set, Buster, but you’ve got another think coming.”

Brun gestured toward the man still on the piano bench. “Look, Miss Vinson, I can’t talk to you right now, I got customers waiting. I close at five, that’s less’n an hour. I don’t know what’s eatin’ you, but come back then and we’ll get it square, okay?”

The woman shot a furious glance at each customer, then at Brun. “Okay! I’ll be here at five. And you’d better be too, if you know what’s good for you.” She executed a military about-face, and stormed out the door.

A nervous laugh snaked through the room. The man in the barber chair craned his neck to look at Brun. “Hey, there, now what’s going on? You got some secret you want to tell us, like how an old goat like you gets a woman half your age into a state?”

Brun fastened the cloth around the man’s neck, just a little more tightly than usual. “I don’t go tellin’ people my trade secrets.”

***

He was nearly finished with the last customer when the door opened again. “Western Union. Mr. Brun Campbell?”

Brun looked over his shoulder. Skinny kid, six feet-plus, uniform trousers easily three inches too short. The barber nodded. “That’s me.”

“Got a telegram for you.”

As Brun half-turned to reach a hand for the message, the man in the chair let out a howl of pain and grabbed at the side of his head. “Blast it Brun, pay your mind to your business. I’m gettin’ to where I’d as soon go to the dentist as come here.”

Brun mumbled, “Sorry,” then jerked his head toward the counter. “Leave it there.” He plucked a quarter from his pocket, flipped it to the delivery boy, who caught it neatly. “Thanks, Mr. Campbell.” He laid the telegram next to the cash register, and ran out.

“Christ Almighty, Friday afternoons,” Brun mumbled. He brandished his scissors and comb, and went back to work.

***

Five o’clock, customers gone. Brun turned the CLOSED sign outward, limped to the sink, pulled a bottle of aspirin out of the cabinet. He shook two pills into his hand, threw them into his mouth, and swallowed them with a mouthful of water straight from the tap. Then he lowered himself into the barber chair, put up his feet, and waited.

She arrived five minutes later, by all appearances even hotter than she’d been an hour earlier. Brun started out of the chair, but thought the hell with it, he’d just stay where he was. Bess slammed the door behind her, and marched over to the barber. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

Brun cocked his head. “Lady, I don’t got the least idea what you’re talking about. I called you yesterday, and told you I’d—”

“Yes, I know. That you’d have the money for me today. Very cute. How did you manage to get somebody back there to steal my father’s journal?”

Brun sat straight up in the chair. “Steal?”

“Stop it,” a screech. “God damn you, you lying, bunko-chiseler son of a bitch! Don’t you just sit there and look innocent. If you know what’s good for you, you’re going to come across with the money. Now.”

A woman gets sore at a man, Brun thought, she talks to him like he was her kid, just turned the outhouse over. Slowly, he worked himself out of the chair and to his feet. “Now,
you
listen,” he said. “I’m telling you, and I’m telling you true. If that journal’s missing, it ain’t me that snagged it, and if you think you can feed me some cockamamie story and then I’m gonna hand over five grand, you’re out of your mind. If I don’t see that book in the flesh, you don’t get a plugged nickel out of me.”

“Cockamamie story? You old bastard! Some kid went to see Mrs. Joplin this morning, told her he was there to pick up the journal, and it was going to be a big deal at a ceremony in Sedalia. He told her the journal would make people want to put up a statue of my father, and build a museum in his honor. Does that sound just the least little bit familiar to you?”

Face to face now, both angry past reason. “Yeah, sure it does. First time you came here, I told you—”

“In a pig’s eye, you did. You never said boo about any statues or museums.”

“Well, if I didn’t, how is it you know now? And for that matter, how do you even know some kid stole the journal in the first place?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Oh yeah? I’d say if I’m putting up five thousand dollars, it sure as hell makes it my business.” He pointed to the door. “Get yourself outa here before I call the cops.”

“
You’re
going to call the cops?” Hands on hips, mocking him fiercely. “What for?”

“Last I heard, selling stuff that don’t exist is not exactly legal. Be interesting to see you try and explain about your little con game to the cops.”

She aimed a finger at his chest. “If you think for one minute you’re going to get away with this, you’re a bigger damn fool than I thought you were. You’re going to be sorry about this, Mister. Real sorry.”

“Go on,” Brun growled, and again pointed to the door. “Get outa my barber shop.”

She turned a look on him that could have stopped a train, then marched out, slamming the door so hard, the bottles of tonics on the shelf in front of the mirror shivered.

Brun followed her, threw the lock, then trudged back to the barber chair and collapsed into it. Maybe May was right. Maybe he
was
a fool. There he’d been, ready and eager to hand over five thousand dollars to some mush worker who’d probably read about him someplace or been to one of his nightclub sessions, and seen a quick five thousand in her purse. So she wrote a page from out of her head, got a fake birth certificate, and played Brun like a violin. He swiveled the chair so as not to be able to see his reflection in the mirror.

Well, at least May didn’t know about it, and she wouldn’t. And he hadn’t lost his inheritance. Monday, he’d go back to Samuel Pepper, thank him for his kindness, and give him back the money. Three days of five percent interest wouldn’t break the bank. But thinking about the Sedalia ceremony now was painful. He’d play “Maple Leaf,” big deal, hello and goodbye. Hardly seemed worth making the trip.

He blew out a deep sigh, then shuffled toward the door, but as he passed the counter, he caught sight of the yellow Western Union envelope. The telegram, he’d forgotten all about it. Crap, what now? He took a deep breath, picked up the envelope, ripped it open, unfolded the yellow page, and focused on the block letters below the WESTERN UNION logo. “Got Joplin journal STOP,” he read aloud. “Bringing it to Sedalia STOP Be there tomorrow STOP. Alan Chandler.”

He read it again, then a third time. Who in hell was Alan Chand…wait a minute. That kid, the one in New Jersey, who wrote to him and wanted tips on how to play ragtime? How did he know about the journal…“Oh, Lord!” Brun recalled the last part of his reply to the boy. Joplin’s journal, five thousand dollars, Sedalia, statue, museum…

He snatched the pillholder from his pocket, quickly slid a nitro tablet under his tongue, slumped on the piano bench, lowered his head, took deep, slow breaths. Finally, as the pain wore off, he sat up, re-read the telegram. “How in thunder did that kid know how to find Lottie?” he asked the room, then thought, well, I guess it ain’t hard, not these days. Phone book. City Directory.

Again, Brun read the telegram. The kid was going to get to Sedalia the next evening. Brun had figured to take a train early on Monday, which would get him to Sedalia Tuesday, but now he’d have to change his plan. Leave that kid walking around Sedalia with Scott Joplin’s journal for a couple of days? Not on Brun’s life.

The old man felt like a flat tire suddenly patched and pumped full of air. He crammed the telegram into his pocket, went out, locked the door, and started home.

***

Two blocks from his destination, Brun felt a hand on his arm. He wheeled around.

Detective Magnus grinned into his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Okay with me. What about?”

“You had a visitor today, at the barber shop.”

“I had a lot of visitors at the barber shop. Friday’s the biggest days for haircuts.”

Magnus’ face tightened. “Mr. Campbell, please don’t play games with me. I think you know I’m talking about that woman who came in right after you closed, and left with blood in her eye.”

“You been staking out my shop?”

Magnus couldn’t hold back a smile. “Not quite ‘staking it out.’ I was just coming by to see you, and she beat me to the door, so I decided to wait. Let’s stop beating around the bush, Mr. Campbell. I’m having second thoughts about whether or not your friend Mr. Spanner’s death was accidental. The toxicology reports showed there was no alcohol in his stomach or his blood stream, so it does seem a little odd he was holding a bottle of whiskey.”

“Maybe he was gonna pour himself a drink when he got downstairs.”

Magnus scratched at his ear. “Why would he have been going downstairs?”

“That’s where he worked, fixing stuff. Kept his tools and all in the basement.”

Magnus nodded. “Do you drink whiskey, Mr. Campbell?”

Brun went on full alert. No sense lying; his own wife would tell the cops her husband liked his booze at least as well as any man. “Yeah, well, sure. What about it? Plenty people have a drink now and again.”

“But plenty of people aren’t the sole beneficiary of a man who broke his neck falling down a flight of stairs, grabbing at the neck of a whiskey bottle like it was a life saver. And not every whiskey drinker favors Jack Daniels.”

“How do you know I—”

“My job. It’s not quite a state secret.”

“What’re you saying? You think I killed Roscoe?”

Magnus shook his head. “Relax, Mr. Campbell. Remember, I did say if we ended up suspecting foul play, you’d be the first person we’d have to look at. You reported the body. You drink the brand of whiskey Mr. Spanner was holding when he fell. And now it comes out that you’ve inherited Mr. Spanner’s entire estate.”

“Six thousand and some?” Brun spat. “You think I’d kill my best friend for six thousand dollars?”

“Mr. Campbell, I’ve been involved in cases where people were killed for a dollar and a quarter. Where money comes in, friendship can go out in a hurry.” The detective held up a hand to stop the response he saw coming. “I’m not accusing you. I’m just telling you where we stand right now. And I have to admit, I’m curious about that woman who came into your shop and left in such a huff.”

Brun coughed. If he lied, and then Magnus found her… “She says her name’s Bess Vinson. First time I saw her was last Monday when she walked in my barber shop and told me she’s Scott Joplin’s daughter. You know who Scott Joplin is?”

Magnus nodded tolerantly. “I suspect thanks to you, everybody in Venice knows who Scott Joplin is. Or was.”

“Okay then. Scott Joplin’s wife had a baby in St. Lou, back in oh-two. It died, at least that’s what everybody said. But this woman told me she was that baby, and Joplin’s wife gave her away because she wanted out of the marriage and didn’t feature being loaded down with a kid. Later on, the couple who adopted her told her the truth. She said she could get her hands on some kind of journal her father wrote, and she’d sell it to me, but I wasn’t about to hand her over a bag of dough without even seeing the goods.”

“How heavy a bag?”

Brun paused. “Five thousand.”

Magnus’ eyebrows went all the way up.

“Yeah, well, you see what I mean? How do I know for sure she’s Scott Joplin’s daughter, never mind whether she really has got his personal journal? And where am I gonna get five thousand bucks?”

Magnus grinned. “From an inheritance?”

Brun shook his head. “My wife’d kill me.”

“If she knew.”

Brun told himself to stay cool. “Look, Detective. You asked me who the woman is, and I told you. She got sore because I said I didn’t trust her enough that I was going to give her five grand for some book that might be the McCoy or it might not. Now, that’s the way it is, and I can’t say no more. If you want, why don’t you go find the woman and ask
her
what’s what. She says she lives in Santa Monica, runs a beauty shop there.”

“I will. But first, let me ask you again why you were over there last Wednesday, trying to pump Mr. Randall for information.”

“I already told you, over at your office. I wanted to find out if maybe he saw somebody…”