The Ragtime Fool (12 page)
Brun’s voice faded as he saw solemnity take over the detective’s face. “Anyone in particular, Mr. Campbell? Someone you see in the mirror every morning?”
“Hey, wait. I didn’t never—”
Magnus’ hand went up. “That’s it for now. But I don’t want you to go anywhere I can’t find you. Is that clear?”
Brun caught himself about to tell Magnus he had to get to Sedalia for the ceremony. Instead, he said softly, “I ain’t deaf.”
“Good.” Magnus’ lips drew tight. “Don’t be dumb, either.”
Magnus tipped his fedora; Brun returned the gesture, then watched the detective walk off. Did Magnus know about the telegram? He didn’t say anything about Miss Vinson’s first drop-by or seeing a Western Union boy, so probably not. Caught a break, Brun thought, but now what? That crazy kid’s going to be in Sedalia tomorrow night, with Scott Joplin’s journal.
Magnus vanished around a street corner. Brun set his jaw, and walked away, toward Amoroso Court.
***
“Cal…
Cal
.” Brun banged on the door. “Damn it all, Cal, come on, open up.”
The door swung open. Brun looked into Cal’s blinking eyes. “You were writin’, right?” the old man said.
“Yeah, I
was
.”
“Well, I beg pardon for interrupting you, but I got something really important going. Can I come in and tell you?”
“As if I could stop you.” Cal stepped aside and ushered Brun into the little living room. “Want a beer?”
“Sounds good right now.”
***
When Brun finished his story, Cal said quietly, “That it?”
“Well, yeah. Ain’t that enough? Talk about stepping in dog shit. I get my hands on the dough to buy Joplin’s book, then some kid back in Jersey goes and queers the whole thing.”
Which he never would have done if you hadn’t shot off your mouth and gone bragging to him in that letter, Cal thought.
“So now I’ve got to get there before he does something stupid.”
“Like giving it to the mayor or the chairman of the ceremony committee, and getting the credit himself?”
“Aw, Cal, come on. How the hell could the cops be thinking I might’ve shoved Roscoe? You ever in your life hear anything so stupid?”
Give me a break, Cal thought. With more than six thousand dollars at stake? But he said, “No,” and meant it. Brun was a windbag, and at times, a world-class pain in the ass, but Cal couldn’t picture him killing anyone, let alone a friend of fifty years’ standing. “Brun, tell me this. Where in hell did that kid get five thousand dollars?”
“You tell me. I don’t know a damn thing about him, except he says he wants to learn how to play ragtime right. But I’ve got to figure he’ll want to be paid back.” Brun patted his chest; Cal noticed a slight bulge he’d missed till then. “So, what am I supposed to do now? What would you do with a guy in one of your books who’s in my kind of a spot?”
Probably get another character to kill him, Cal thought. Or smuggle him onto a spaceship that goes off course and crash-lands on a planet where no one has ever heard of ragtime music or Scott Joplin.
The silence set Brun to squirming. “Hey, Cal, you gotta gimme some help. I can’t just sit around Venice because some cop might want to talk to me, and I sure as hell can’t let him pick me up and put me away. How would you go about getting a character like me out of town in one of your books?”
Cal took a swallow of beer, then pursed his lips, and thought about what he could say to an angry detective who accused him of aiding and abetting a felon in an escape. On the other hand, what would he tell his conscience if he walked into the barber shop next week and found Brun on the floor? The old son of a gun could make you tear out your hair, but you had to admire him. How many people are there who won’t give up on a dream, won’t budge an inch, when any normal person would be too discouraged to take another step?
Cal sighed. “Well…” Sly glance. “I guess that would depend on whether the character was a good liar.”
Brun laughed out loud. “Well, say he is. Or he could be if he’s got to.”
“All right. Here’s the story. After he gets an earful from the detective, my character goes home and tells his wife that one of the movie producers he’s been chasing is suddenly very interested in putting out
The Scott Joplin Story
. The producer’s in San Francisco, talking to some money people, and he wants my character to come right up. In fact, there’s a meeting set for the next afternoon, so the character has to catch the first train north. His wife makes a big fuss, but he’s used to that. After dinner, he goes upstairs, packs a suitcase—”
“I get it. Then, if the cops ask my…the guy’s wife where he is, she says he’s in Frisco. Hey, Cal, that’s great. I knew you could help me. I’ll—”
“Hold on a minute. I’m not done.”
The barber narrowed his eyes, then eased back into the chair. “Okay, sorry. I’m listening.”
“My character’s not sure how interested the cops really are in him. No way to tell whether they’ve got his house under watch. Fortunately, it’ll be dark by the time he leaves, so he goes out the back way, down the alley and past the garage to the street, then straight to the station. That’s it. Now, I’m done.”
To Cal’s surprise, Brun didn’t make a rush to his feet. The old barber frowned; the pain in his eyes startled Cal. “I keep thinking about Sedalia,” Brun said softly. After I left, the town got itself all respectable, tryin’ to play to business owners and get ’em to move in. They closed down all the joints and houses on West Main, and after that, the only music was in churches and concert halls. It’s been fifty-two years, Cal, and truth, I’m afraid of what I’m gonna see there.”
The young man laughed. “I didn’t know you were scared of ghosts.”
“Go laugh,” Brun said. “But get to be my age, you’ll have more friends in the cemetery than walking around, and then you can see what side of your mouth you’re laughing outa. If it wasn’t for this ceremony, I wouldn’t set foot back there the rest of my life. I don’t want to see—”
Cal knew what Brun didn’t want to see, and quickly shifted the conversational direction. “I’ll bet there’re people still in town who were alive back then…when you
say
you were there.
“Oh. When I
say
I was there, huh?”
Cal smiled privately. “Go on home, Brun, get ready. I guess I’ll be listening to you go on about this caper for the next ten years.”
Brun’s reply surprised him. Just a quiet, “Ten years, huh? Yeah, I guess I’d settle for that.”
***
Alan Chandler, who’d never been west of Philadelphia, decided that riding a train across the country was something else. He watched the scenery fly by, cities gradually giving way to farms and towns, and he met some interesting people. An encyclopedia salesman. A pretty young woman going back home from New York to St. Louis to marry her high-school sweetheart. A middle-aged couple and their son, Alan’s age, on their way to California, for the man to take a new job. Alan told them he’d been to New York to visit his father, who’d moved there from Missouri when he and Alan’s mother had divorced. The couple exchanged one of those looks long-married couples use in place of speech, and the upshot was, they stood Alan to dinner, which helped make up for the fact he’d booked a sleeping compartment.
About ten o’clock, the boy stretched across his bunk, drew the curtain, opened his book bag, and pulled out Scott Joplin’s journal. He’d go through some of it, then finish the next morning.
But it was after midnight when he turned the last page, and closed the journal. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Mr. Campbell was going to say when he read that stuff. It was nearly two o’clock before the boy’s mind yielded to the regular clickety-clack of the train’s wheels, and he dropped into sleep.
Saturday, April 14
Morning
Dr. Martin Broaca, spiffy in his yellow golf shirt and green-and-white plaid slacks, glared across the kitchen table at Slim. The huge colored man returned the look with interest. “Dr. Broaca, you’ insultin’ me. If you’ gonna accuse me of stealin’ your money, you oughta have
somethin’
to back it up. An’ you ain’t got nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”
The doctor sighed luxuriantly. Give them half a chance, and they’ll rob you blind, but where do you find a white couple to do that kind of work for that kind of money? “Slim, please. I wasn’t born yesterday. Somebody in this household thought they could take a few handfuls out of the suitcase, and I’d never be the wiser. A thief from outside would’ve run off with the whole kit and caboodle.”
“So, how much money was gone?”
“Several thousand. There was clearly less in that suitcase than the last time I looked.”
Slim turned a fish eye onto the doctor. “Let me understand this now. You sayin’ you ain’t even sure how much is gone, and that’s enough for you to accuse me of stealin’ from you? Could be you was just misrememberin’ from the last time you done looked.”
Broaca paused, then said, “I’m not ‘misremembering.’ And I know the suitcase was opened because I always tie a thin thread between the two parts of the latch. With the light as bad as it is up there, no one would see it, and this morning, that thread was broken.”
“And you know it was me. Dr. Broaca, how can you know that?”
“Because it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t Mrs. Broaca. She gets all the money she wants above board. Should I suspect Sally? Or Miriam?”
“How about that boy, was here for dinner the other night? I heard him and Miriam talkin’ afterward. He said he could use money to pay somebody for a journal he wanted to take to some kinda ceremony in Missouri.”
“How would the boy know about the suitcase?”
“Maybe Miriam tol’ him.”
“Bah.” Scorn covered the doctor’s face. “My poor little stick of a daughter would never have the brass to do something like that. I’m sorry, but there’s only one person in this house I can suspect.”
“So, how did
I
know about your goddamn suitcase. Tell me that.”
Dr. Broaca shrugged. “You just told me you eavesdropped on Miriam and her friend. Maybe you sneaked up to the attic after me.”
Slim leaned across the table. “If you think somebody went and stole your money, why don’t you call the cops? In fact, why don’t you go and tell them I done it and they should arrest me?”
The doctor’s smile set a new standard for condescension. “I think you know full well why I’m not going to do that. And if you ever say anything to anyone about this matter, I will pursue legal action against you for slander. You’re being fired for incompetence and insubordination, period. The rest of the money is now where no one will find it, not if they tear the house apart.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late, and I have an appointment.”
With a golf ball, Slim thought. Motherfucker, you.
“If you can prove to me that someone else took the money, I will apologize,” said the doctor. “And you can keep your job. Otherwise, I want you out of here by the end of the day. Do you understand me?”
“Clear enough.” Slim worked himself to his feet. “Plenty clear enough. Doctor.”
***
The valet watched from the living room window as Dr. Broaca’s car rolled down the driveway, turned right onto Park Avenue, and vanished. “Bastard!” Slim stomped back and forth across the room, shaking both fists over his head. “Son of a bitch honky asshole! Sally’s gonna throw a cat fit when she get back from her grocery shopping. An’ I can’t say a word to Mrs. Broaca. Nothin’ she’d do except tell her husband, and then I got his pissant lawyers all over me, and I’m fucked both ways to China. If I find out who really took that money, I can keep my job, huh? Well, he can shove that job straight up…”
Midway across the room, Slim stopped pacing, slapped a hand against his thigh, laughed out loud. “Well, now, maybe that be just the thing. I can go find that li’l son of a bitch cabbage-picker, get me back the money, an’ keep it for myself. Man want me to be a thief, he can just pay me for the honor.”
He went by giant steps into the hall, up the stairs, to the open doorway of the first room on the left. Miriam lay on her stomach on the bed, reading a book,
The Economics of Something or Other
. The big man cleared his throat; the girl looked up. “Oh, hi, Slim. What’s happening?”
He showed all the teeth he could squeeze into a smile. “I’m hopin’ you and me could talk for a minute.”
She set down the book, swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Sure. What about?”
Slim took care not to venture a step into the room, but if she tried to run, there was no way she’d get past him. “Well, it’s like this, Miriam. You’ daddy think I stole some of his money.”
He saw it in her eyes, just for an instant. Her hand went to her mouth. “Why would he ever think that?”
Slim eyed the girl carefully. “He done kep’ a suitcase up to the attic, all fulla money.”
She didn’t bite. Nothing after that one passing look in her eyes. “My father hid money up in the attic? Why?”
“Well, I only can tell you what I think. A man get paid with cash money, if he hide it away, he don’t never pay no tax on it.”
“And some of it was missing?”
Slim nodded gravely. “He always tie a tiny li’l string so if somebody open the suitcase, the string gonna break.”
There it was again, in her eyes, a flash, then gone. Now, Slim was sure. “He found the string broke when he go up this morning, and he think I done it.”
“But you didn’t,” Miriam said.
“’Course I didn’t. But he think I did, and he fire me.”
“But why did he blame you?”
Slim opened his eyes wide. “Well, he say
he
didn’t do it, or your mama, or Sally, or you. So, it had to be me, there wasn’t nobody else. He say if I can show him it was somebody else, I could keep my job. Otherwise, I gotta be outa here by tonight.”
The girl started to cry, then jumped off the bed, ran over, and threw her arms around the big man. “He can’t do that. You and Sally are part of our family. When he gets home after his dumb golf game, I’m going to talk to him. Someone’s supposed to be innocent till proved guilty, not the other way around.”
She ain’t gonna ‘fess, Slim thought. Not ‘less I tell her what I heard the other night, but if I do, she just could know how to get hold of that boy and give him a tip-off. He patted the girl’s head. “Now, don’t you be sayin’ nothing to him, Miriam. You ain’t gonna change his mind, and anyway, even if he did listen, you think I’d come and work for him any more? But you been like my own li’l girl, and I didn’t want to just walk outa the door without sayin’ goodbye to you. I’s gonna be just fine, don’t you worry.”
As Slim started down the stairs, Miriam threw herself face down on the bed, and bawled. I should have told him, she thought. Now I’ve got to tell my father…but if I do, there’ll be police out in Sedalia, waiting for Alan to get off the train…oh, damn. Why do things have to get so complicated? She pounded her pillow with both fists, then flung the pillow across the room. It bounced off the wall, sending a photograph of her and her father at the New York Stock Exchange clattering to the floor.
***
Slim drove up to a well-kept one-story brick house on East Twenty-ninth Street between Fourteenth Avenue and Roosevelt. He parked at the curb, then walked up to the door and rang the bell. Not half a minute passed before the door swung open. One glance at the woman who stood there told Slim he was too late. “Yes?” the woman said. “What can I do for you?”
Slim slumped his shoulders, and pasted on a big Stepin Fetchit smile. “I come here to pick up Alan, ma’am. I’m supposed to drive him and my boss’ daughter into New York, to go to some kinda show.”
A man walked up behind the woman; she turned to him, then pointed at Slim. “He says he’s supposed to drive Alan into New York.”
“With my boss’ daughter,” Slim said. “Ask me, I think they gettin’ real friendly lately.”
“Alan’s not here. Who is your boss?” The man talked as if he kept a cigar cutter in his throat.
“Dr. Martin Broaca. But if Alan be someplace else, I can go get him.”
The woman began to cry.
“Something the matter?” Slim asked.
“We haven’t seen Alan since yesterday morning,” the man snapped. We thought he was going to school, but he took off for New Orleans, to learn some of the ‘music’ they play there.”
Slim feigned surprise. “My, my.” He shook his head. “Kids these days.”
“He left a note in the mailbox,” the woman said. “I found it when I picked up the mail, late in the afternoon. Oh, that boy is going to be the death of me.” She started to cry again.
Slim tipped his cap. “Well, I guess I better just go back, then. I sure hope it all work out okay.”
The woman snuffled. “Thank you, I’m sure it will. The police say they’ll be watching the bus and train stations down there, and they’ll have him back home in no time.”
“I’ll kill him,” said the man, through clenched teeth.”
Back in the car, Slim allowed himself a long, low laugh. New Orleans, huh? He turned the ignition key. Sally’d be back by now. Take her down to her sister’s in Newark, then go into New York and get himself on the first train to this Sedalia, Missoura place. He’d have his hands on that boy before the cops in New Orleans knew a thing. Grab the five thousand, then go an’ spit square in Dr. Broaca’s face. No, fuck Dr. Broaca. Just take the money, start up a li’l store with Sally, sell radios and TVs. Never have to say, “Yas’r” again to any shitface ofay doctor.
***
A thousand miles down the line, the train slowed, coming into the station at Sedalia. Alan pulled his book bag from the vacant seat beside him, swung it into his lap, held the handle in a death grip. That bag had not been out of his reach for an instant since Scott Joplin’s journal first went into it. It had spent the night in Alan’s bed, under the sheet, and it would not be out of his sight until the journal was safely in Brun Campbell’s hands. But then what? Go back to Hobart, back to school, take piano lessons from Mr. Bletter, practice classical music till it came out of his ears, finish the school year, graduate, go to Juilliard, get a job teaching music in some crappy high school, get married, have kids, die? Alan swallowed hard.
The train ground and wheezed to a halt; the boy’s mind lightened. Wednesday would be time enough to think about what to do after Tuesday. Meanwhile, he had plenty to keep him busy.
But where and how to start? He couldn’t very well stand around in the train station and wait for a man he’d never set eyes on. For all he knew, Mr. Campbell could be here already. Should have set a place and a time to meet him, Alan told himself, but it had all happened so fast, he hadn’t been able to think beyond getting his hands on the journal, then getting himself and it onto the train.
He ambled through the dingy station and out the door, then looked around. What he could see of Sedalia looked a lot like the fringe areas of downtown Hobart, small businesses elbow to elbow with little houses, and an occasional weed-grown empty lot. Which way should he go to get into town? Did he need to take a bus, or a cab? Did they
have
buses and taxicabs here?
He walked back into the station and up to the ticket window, then shifted from one foot to the other while a young man and woman paid their fares to Kansas City. As the couple moved away, the clerk adjusted his spectacles and acknowledged Alan with a nod. “Where you goin’, Sonny.”
“I just got in from St. Louis,” Alan said. “Which way is it to downtown?”
The clerk made a odd sound in his throat, somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. “Never been to Sedalia, huh?”
“No, sir. I’m supposed to meet my grandpa, he’s coming in from Los Angeles, and taking me to the big ceremony on Tuesday for Scott Joplin.”
The clerk screwed his face into a question mark. “Big ceremony, you say? For who?”
“Scott Joplin. You know, the ragtime composer. ‘Maple Leaf Rag?’ They’re having a ceremony to honor him at the colored high school, Tuesday evening.”
The clerk shrugged. “I don’t keep up with the colored.” He squinted at Alan, blinked. “Your grandpa’s not colored, is he?”
“No, sir.” Alan struggled to keep his voice even. “He was Scott Joplin’s only white pupil. Took piano lessons from him here in Sedalia, back in 1899.”
The clerk seemed to lose interest. “Okay. Where is it downtown you’re supposed to meet your grandpa?”
“He said in front of City Hall.”
“That’s easy.” The clerk pointed out the window. “Take Ohio Street there, across the tracks into downtown. Then turn right at Second and go one block more. Municipal Building’s on the corner, Second and Osage. Think you can remember that?”
“Yes, sir.” Alan waved. “Thank you.”
In less than ten minutes, he stood on the corner of Ohio and Second. Wind whipped his pants legs into a flutter. The buildings looked old enough, most of them, to have been standing when Brun Campbell was taking lessons from Scott Joplin. Not many people around, especially considering it was Saturday afternoon. This Sedalia looked nothing like the bustling, exciting city Alan had read about in
They All Played Ragtime
. It put the boy in mind of an old man in faded clothes with frayed cuffs, shoes long past their retirement day.
Ohio looked like the main drag, so Alan strolled on, taking it all in. Really did look a lot like downtown Hobart. St. Louis Clothing Store. Heuer’s Shoe Store. Andy’s Tavern, a Firestone’s, a B. F. Goodrich. In front of Bichsel’s Jewelry, he stopped to gape at a monster clock atop a tall iron column, then moved on past C. W. Flower Dry Goods, disorderly piles of fabric filling its window. Uptown Theatre…well, look at that,
Sunset Boulevard
. He thought of Miriam, smiled.
The girl selling tickets in the glass-enclosed booth gave him the eye, then leaned forward to call through the round hole in front, “That’s a real good movie. I saw it three times already.”
Pretty girl, about his age. Lots of dark, curly hair, and big brown eyes. Lipstick perfectly applied, just a touch of eye shadow. Probably one of those popular girls, maybe a cheerleader, loves doing cartwheels to get the boys smirking and pointing at her legs. But those girls make a point of knowing everything that’s going on. Alan walked over to the booth.
