The Ragtime Fool (27 page)

“But they’re all still set,” Alan said. “Aren’t you going to disconnect the wires?”

By the flashlight’s beam, Alan saw a tight smile bend Green’s lips. “Boy, you better learn, sometimes it ain’t the smartest idea to try an’ do somethin’ in a big hurry. Won’t take me but a minute to disarm them Dinah sticks, but it can be just a li’l tricky. So I’m gonna sit down here an’ have me a smoke, make my fingers nice and calm. An’ you’s gonna go up there, find Mr. Ireland, an’ tell him it’s all under control.”

“But don’t you need help? I can hold the flashlight for you.”

While Alan talked, Green lit a cigarette, drew deeply, blew smoke toward the boy. “I be fine now,” the colored man said. “I can put the light on the floor an’ see all I got to.”

“But—”

Green jumped to his feet. “Damn you, boy! Here I am, tryin’ to get myself cool in the head, and you just go on and on at me like an ol’ woman. What I got to do to get you to shut up your mouth an’ go tell Mr. Ireland he ain’t got no worries no more? Go on, now. Git!”

Alan was off, up the stairs like a shot. Green, a grin all over his face, watched him the whole way. As the boy reached for the bar to open the basement door, the colored man called, “
Move
, kid.” Alan stumbled, fell forward into the hall, then scrambled to his feet, and took off running. The door slammed shut.

Green chuckled, sat back on the step, took a couple of puffs at his cigarette, then dropped the butt to the ground near his foot, and carefully ground it out. “Okay,” he told himself. “Time to get this job done.”

He was on the floor in front of the first column, flashlight perfectly adjusted, when he heard, “Go down flat on your face, quick, else I gonna crease your head with this tire iron I got in my hand.”

Green followed the order. “There be dynamite down here,” he called out of the corner of his mouth.”

“Well, I ain’t got no trouble seein’ that. Good thing I heared the door to down here slam and figured I better take me a look.”

“You the janitor?”

“Uh-huh. Bad luck for you.”

“Listen, it’s gonna be bad luck for a lot of people, you and me included, if you don’t let me get the wires off this stuff. It’s gonna go off—”

“Mister, stop flappin’ your lip. Just keep your hands out front of you, an’ get up on your knees. Slow-like.”

Green did as he was told. “Listen, janitor. You gotta listen at me—”

“Long as I be holdin’ this tire iron, you gotta listen at me.” Now. Put your hands up toppa your head, then stand on up. We goin’ to take a walk upstairs, you can tell your story to the coppers in the lobby there. I bet they be real interested.”

“But—”

“Mister, one more word outa you, and you won’t be talkin’ no more, maybe not ever. Hear?”

Shit, Green thought. He glanced at the explosive in the column, then started to work his way to his feet. The man behind him scooped up the flashlight, and directed its beam toward the stairs.

Chapter Twenty

Tuesday, April 17
Evening

They opened the doors to the Hubbard High auditorium just before seven. Abe Rosenthal watched people file in and start taking seats. Whites came through the left door, blacks through the right, and seats filled progressively from both sides inward. A Sedalia police officer stood at each door, and every person who entered the room got a careful up-and-down. “Looks as if we could have a full house,” Rosenthal said to Lillian Fox, who was making a final tuning check on the piano. “And there are as many whites as colored.”

Miss Fox considered that since whites in Sedalia outnumbered colored ten to one, Mr. Rosenthal’s observation didn’t mean very much. But she just nodded and smiled.

Rosenthal’s eye caught a mixed group, four whites and two colored, walking in together and seating themselves as a virtual island near the center of the room. Old Isaac Stark and Tom Ireland entered the pew first, followed by Luella Rohrbaugh and that Campbell character from California. Rosenthal again wondered what their connection could possibly be. At Campbell’s left, the Klein girl pushed her body against a boy Rosenthal had never seen. The conductor shook his head. “I’m going back to make sure the chorus is all set,” he said to Miss Fox.

She smiled again. No amount of preparation was ever too much for Mr. Rosenthal.

Bess Vinson strolled in on Mickey Thurman’s arm. They started toward the
de facto
colored section, but as she swept the room with her eyes, she caught side of Brun in the tiny patch of integrated seats, and changed direction on a dime. Thurman muttered a useless protest, then followed after her.

Bess leaned into the pew to jab a finger into Brun’s shoulder. “Just so you know,” a snarl. “I’ll be watching you, every minute. And if you so much as show that journal or even mention it, I’ll be up there right next to you. I’ll tell them who I am, and how you clipped that journal out of my stepmother’s hand. And then I’ll call in those cops from out in the hall.”

Brun turned his head away from her. Bess put her hands on her hips. “Think I’m kidding, don’tcha?” When that brought only silence, she added, “Mess with me, you gonna be mighty sorry.” Without taking her eyes off Brun, she wheeled around, led Thurman across the aisle and settled into a seat.

***

Otto Klein heard the front door open, peered over the top of his newspaper. Rowena? What the hell was she doing here this early? The paper fluttered to the floor.

Mrs. Klein gave him a quick up-and-down. “Otto, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Bah. Just wasn’t expecting you so soon, that’s all.”

She heard his voice quaver, wondered why.

“So many of the Ladies Auxiliary are going to that ceremony at Hubbard, we finished up our meeting early…Otto, you’ve gone so pale.
Are
you all right.”

“He grabbed at the newspaper. “Damn, woman, yes. I’m fine. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I was just concerned for you. Where’s Eileen?”

“I haven’t seen her. I thought…”

You didn’t think anything, Mrs. Klein said to herself. It didn’t even occur to you to wonder where your daughter was. She walked to the closet, hung up her jacket, then started toward the kitchen.

“Rowena…”

He sounded like he was choking on the word. She turned. “What? Otto, what
is
it?”

“Listen, if anybody asks you, I been down in the basement since six o’clock. Playing poker.”

Her hands went to her hips. “Playing poker since six o’clock? What ever are you talking about? Who’s going to ask where you—”

“Shut up, and do like I say. I been down there since six o’clock, playing poker with Rafe Anderson, Luther Cartwright, Johnny Farnsworth, and Clay. You got that?”

She started to ask another question, but the look on his face stopped her. She wheeled around, then took off into the kitchen, heels clicking on the linoleum.

A moment later, she was back, waving a slip of paper. “Eileen left us a note. I guess you didn’t see it.”

“Nah.” A grunt.

“She says Mrs. Rohrbaugh offered to stand her to dinner, then they’re going to the ceremony at Hubbard. Isn’t that nice of Mrs. Rohrbaugh to take such an interest—”

“She’s going
where
?” Eyes bulging, body poised like a snake ready to spring.

Mrs. Klein took a step backward.

“Eileen’s at that ceremony? Is that what you said?”

“Well, yes. But really, Otto. I know you don’t care for the colored, but a lot of very fine people are going to be there.”

All color drained from his face. His mouth twisted, lips quivered.

“Otto!” She ran to him, grabbed his shirt-front. “You’ve done something, haven’t you, you and those friends of yours? What’s going to happen at that ceremony?”

Klein tried to pull away, but she held fast. “Otto, what have you done?”

“That school is going up in pieces,” he howled, then shot a glance toward his wrist. “In just about twenty minutes.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, two white masks with gaping mouths. Klein gave his wife a savage shove; she fell, half her husband’s shirt clutched in her fist. Klein flew to the front door, threw it open, tore outside. The door banged against the wall, knocking the picture of Christ to the floor.

Mrs. Klein flung the rag to the floor as if it were contaminated. Then she scrambled to her feet, trying not to scream. She’d need all her breath to get to Hubbard High School in time. And if she didn’t make it, she’d kill Otto, stab him with a kitchen knife, again and again and again, wouldn’t stop until they came and carried her off.

***

By seven twenty-five, only scattered empty seats remained in the Hubbard auditorium. Brun glanced at the program, forced himself not to curse aloud. “Stout-Hearted Men.” “Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes.” “The Lost Chord.” “The Green Cathedral.” Scott Joplin would have puked. How the hell do these jays figure they’re honoring the greatest colored composer in American history by having a chorus of white businessmen sing a bunch of the sappiest snow-white tunes ever written? And how about a middle-aged lady pianist playing “Maple Leaf Rag,” when they could have had Scott Joplin’s only white pupil?

A hum through the audience brought him back. A big man in a police uniform, built like a tree trunk, with a no-nonsense look on his round face, walked down the middle aisle to the stage. He took the microphone from its stand, scanned the crowd through horn-rimmed spectacles. Luella leaned toward Brun. “Ed Neighbors,” she said. “The chief of police. I wonder what’s going on.”

Neighbors cleared his throat. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll only take a moment of your time. Is there a Mr. Sanford Brunson Campbell in the audience?”

“He must have known you’d be here,” Luella whispered.

Brun got to his feet, waved a hand. “Over here.”

Neighbors caught his eye. “Okay. Mr. Campbell, would you be so good as to step outside for a moment. I need a word with you.”

Brun shrugged at Luella. She stood to let him pass. Ireland scrambled after him. “I’ll go with you.”

“I’m coming, too.” Luella gripped her purse in both hands. “I’ve seen this matter through so far, and I’m not going to stop now.”

As the three started up the aisle, Bess Vinson glared at Brun. “Bastard!” she hissed at Thurman. “He probably called in the cops on me. If they try and make me leave, they’re gonna have themselves one holy fuss, I promise you that.”

A blood vessel on Thurman’s temple began to pulsate. “You know what, Bess? I’m gettin’ a little sorry I went in on this business with you.”

Like pouring gasoline on a fire. “Oh, you are, huh? Well then, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take care of the rest by myself, and when I get my hands on that money, I’ll just keep it all. How do you like that, Chicken Liver?”

Without waiting for a reply, she was on her feet, stalking up the aisle toward the door. Thurman sighed long and hard. She just
would
walk away with that five grand, wouldn’t she? But the idea had been his, and he wasn’t about to turn his back on twenty-five hundred dollars. He jumped up, followed after her.

From his aisle seat in the back row, Rudi Blesh watched Campbell, Ireland, and an old woman go through the doorway, with a colored woman and man on their heels…wait a minute. One reason Blesh did so well at interviews was his knack for remembering names and faces. He couldn’t put a name to that man, but he’d seen him, all right, vacuuming the floor in Ellie Radcliffe’s reception room. What was he doing here at this ceremony, with a woman who looked like she was going to blow fire through her nostrils? Something was very rotten in Denmark. Blesh got up and walked to the door.

***

Klein burst into the dilapidated shack on Moniteau, arms flailing, eyes wild. “Listen, we gotta call this off.”

Clayton looked at him as if he’d said they all had flap their arms and go flying out the window. “Call it off? Otto, what the hell you talking about? We can’t call it off now, it’s too late.”

“My daughter,” Klein screamed. “Eileen. She’s in there. Johnny, you gotta disconnect the timer, quick.”

Farnsworth shook his head. “I ain’t got long enough now to even get in there, let alone shut off the charge. Christ Almighty, Otto, wasn’t your daughter supposed to be watchin’ Milton Berle? Ain’t that what you said? You’re nuts if you think I’m gonna get myself blown into pieces because you were too fuckin’ dumb to keep your eye on your daughter.”

He staggered back as Klein punched his face. “Damn you, Johnny. I’ll go do it myself.”

Klein took a step toward the door, but Anderson, standing to his left, put everything he had into a sockdolager to the side of Klein’s jaw. Klein went down in a heap.

Anderson shook his head. “I hate to see his kid get blown up, but what we gonna do, huh?”

“I got another question,” said Cartwright. “What happens when he wakes up? Think we oughta shoot him?”

“No,” Anderson said. “Let the cops find him here with a bullet in his head, and they’ll start askin’ questions we ain’t got answers for. I mean, what’s he gonna do, turn us all in? He screwed it up, he’ll have to live with it. It ain’t our fault he let that girl run around like the goddamn whore of Babylon. Least now, she ain’t gonna shame him by gettin’ herself pregnant.”

***

The hall outside the auditorium was a circus. Brun stood with Chief Neighbors, another policeman, Ireland, and Luella, while just a few feet away, Bess Vinson pretended to chat amiably with Thurman as she tried to keep up with the conversation to their left. Brun leaned toward Neighbors as if the chief had spoken indistinctly. “You’re gonna hold me for
what
?”

“Suspicion of murder. Flight to avoid prosecution. I’m acting on the request of Detective Robert Magnus in Los Angeles. He warned you to stay in the city, but you ignored that order. We’ll have to return you to him under guard.”

Before Brun could reply, a smallish man with blazing eyes and a Van Dyke beard rushed up to Bess and Thurman. He paused just long enough to nod toward Ireland, then pointed a finger at Thurman, and announced, “Is Knopf using janitors now to pursue acquisitions?”

Brun forgot what he was going to say. He and his companions turned, and became an audience for the little drama going on next to them. Clear from the look on Thurman’s face, he was checking exit routes. “I…I don’t know what you’re…who the hell are you, anyway, Mister?”

“Yes,” Bess snapped. “Just who do you think you are, busting in like that? My friend and I are having a private conversation.”

Blesh drew himself to full-height. “My name is Rudi Blesh, and not that long ago, I was having what was supposed to be a private conversation with Mr. Elliot Radcliffe, at Knopf. And your friend here was in the outer office, with the door open between us. Next thing I knew, the manuscript I had interest in was stolen from its owner, who’d promised it to me, and according to the owner, the thief was going to bring it here to give it to him.” Blesh directed a finger toward Brun.

Neighbors scratched at an ear. “You do get around, Mr. Campbell.”

“That woman’s been after me for damn near two weeks, now,” Brun shouted. “She said she was Scott Joplin’s daughter, the one who was supposed to have died in St. Lou in oh-two. She told me she had the journal, and wanted to sell it to me for five thousand dollars.”

“Scott Joplin’s daughter? Hah!” Blesh was furious. “She’s no more Scott Joplin’s daughter than I am. I interviewed a man, Roscoe Spanner, who was a bartender in Tom Turpin’s saloon. He was a good friend of Joplin’s, and made all the funeral arrangements for the baby.” Blesh turned toward Bess. “Whoever you are, you’re not only unpleasant, you’re an unmitigated liar.”

Brun walked the few steps to come face to face with Blesh. “You interviewed Roscoe Spanner?” Brun said. “In L. A.?”

“Yes.” You could have cut Blesh’s sarcasm into slices and put it on bread. “Don’t you remember, he was in your barber shop when I came to interview you, so I talked to him as well. I didn’t put his information into the book, because frankly, it didn’t seem that important.” Blesh paused. Creases deepened across his forehead; his eyebrows drew together. “Actually, the interview
was
in the manuscript, but I took it out in the first galleys.” He glared at Thurman. “And those galleys are still in the book’s working folder, in Mr. Radcliffe’s office.”

‘He had his booze and his skirts.’ The comment from Roscoe’s neighbor echoed in Brun’s mind. He sidestepped, so as to push Bess against the wall. “Now, I get it,” he barked. “Your pal there went in the files and found out about Roscoe and the baby in St. Louie, and how him and me were friends. Was it your idea or his to shove the old man down the stairs so he couldn’t queer your con?” Brun paused just long enough to decide he’d maneuvered the game onto his own turf, and he ought to go on. “But the guy lives next door saw you. He told me a woman went in Roscoe’s house, then came out just a little later and ran off in one big hurry. I bet he can give the cops a pretty good description of you.”

Any further argument was forestalled by Thurman, making a break for the door down the corridor. The policeman with Neighbors grabbed him, wrestled him to the wall, spun him around, cuffed him. “You told me not to worry, the old man wasn’t going to talk,” Thurman howled at Bess. “But you didn’t say why.” He looked at the chief. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”