The Ragtime Fool (24 page)

A flashlight beam scanned the yard. The back door slammed. Alan tried to will away both the men in the house and the wildlife sharing his hideout. Finally, he heard a car engine turn over, but he lay still. No idea how many cars they came in.

Once the sound of the motor faded, Alan moved an arm. It was stiff to the point of being painful. He stretched, then began to crawl toward the edge of the house. His hand touched something cold and slimy; he shrieked disgust, then scuttled the rest of the way out, and without looking, wiped his hand on the seat of his trousers. He tiptoed to the back door, edged it open, listened. Silence. He went inside.

The bastards had done some job. The kitchen table lay on its side, one leg broken. Four chairs were strewn among shards of glass and pottery. The living room was worse. Overturned furniture created an obstacle course. The piano bench, resting against a wall, sent Alan sprawling into a mess of shredded paper, every piece of music Scott Joplin ever wrote.

Moonlight through the window reflected off something white near the boy’s hand. He picked it up, turned it over. A photograph, the one picture in the house, two generations of Sassafras Sams and their families. It had been pulled from the wall, ripped out of its wooden frame, torn, and tossed onto the floor.

‘Way these goddamn people live.’

Alan sank onto the sofa, wept quietly. This can of worms, every bit of it, was on his account. A week ago, he’d been a high school student in New Jersey, playing ragtime over his lunch hour, and now look at him. Out in the middle of nowhere, hiding in a Negro family’s shack, hands covered with filth, slime, and blood. Half of Sedalia hot on his tail, and five thousand dollars worth of journal under Eileen Klein’s mattress. He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. Maybe he ought to follow Samson’s map into Lincolnville, but instead of going to Mr. Ireland’s house, go to the railway station and catch the first train to St. Louis, then on to New York.

And leave the journal where he’d hidden it? After he’d caused all this trouble for the Curds, after he’d spent the five thousand dollars Miriam had stolen for him, after he’d killed a man, did he really think he could just forget about the journal and go back home. Pretend nothing ever happened? The boy shook his head. He had to see it through. It might not come out well, but that couldn’t be as bad as spending the rest of his life wondering what if. He pushed himself up off the floor, stretched, took the pencil-drawn map from his pocket, then started walking, out the door, onto the dirt road.

***

A few minutes past three, Johnny Farnsworth walked through the back door of the little frame house on Moniteau Avenue. Klein took his cigar from the corner of his mouth, flicked ash on the floor. “Y’ done already?”

Farnsworth laughed. “Piece of cake. When that stuff goes off, it’ll take out every bit of support under the auditorium, and down she’ll go. Good bet the whole stinkin’ place’ll come down right on top of it.”

Clay Clayton pointed out the window. “Damn, it’s dark out there, Johnny. I never even saw you comin’ back.”

“Dark as a nigger’s asshole,” Farnsworth said.

All the men laughed.

“But that’s just fine,” Farnsworth added. “It’s gonna look like the biggest Fourth of July fireworks anyone ever saw. Nice of Lincolnville to put up a grandstand for us. Right straight across open land from the school, empty lots on both sides.”

“Huh.” Rafe Anderson didn’t sound amused. “What all them empty lots and vacant houses means is that the niggers’re movin’ into town. Livin’ on the same streets as you and me.”

“Maybe this’ll make ’em think twice. Might even get ’em movin’ back with their own kind.” Luther Cartwright sounded like a schoolmarm, warning what was going to happen to the bad boys who’d been throwing spitballs. “But I think we got a problem. We’ve been figuring to go out to Jerry’s after the school blows, but it looks like Jerry bailed out on us.”

“Something’s wrong,” said Klein. “Jerry wouldn’t just go off like that.”

“Oh, sure.” Anderson sounded even more aggrieved than he had after Farnsworth’s comment. “If I saw Jerry Barton pissing on a hydrant, you’d tell me I was wrong, it musta been a dog. Maybe you don’t remember we took a blood oath, but I do, and if Jerry ever shows his face to me again, I’ll spit right in it. And if you don’t spit with me, I’ll give you a dose, too.”

“Rafe, we can’t be worryin’ about Jerry right now,” said Klein. “Luther’s right, we got a problem. But I think I know what we can do. If Jerry don’t show up tomorrow and have a good reason for tonight, we’ll go over to my place instead of his. I’ll set up a card table in the cellar, put some half-smoked cigars and drinks around, and leave the outside cellar door unlatched. Then, after the school blows, we’ll go on down there, real quiet, and far as anyone’s concerned, we been there all evening, minding our business.”

Cartwright raised a hand. “We were gonna go over to Jerry’s ‘cause he’s the only one of us doesn’t have a wife and kids. What about Rowena? And your daughter?”

Klein made a thick disparaging sound in his throat. “I’ll tell Rowena to stay upstairs from suppertime on. What I tell her to do, she does.”

“And Eileen?”

“Christ, Luther. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl. She ain’t gonna notice a thing, and even if she did, who the hell’s gonna listen to her?”

***

Alan couldn’t have said how far he’d walked, but every step now was an effort. He tripped over roots; low-hanging branches stung and scratched his face. Mr. Barton’s head seemed to float in the air before him, eyes bulging, mouth agape, wildly trying to escape from the ax blade a split-second from splintering his skull. Alan knew what he’d done was justified, he’d had no choice, but still, he’d killed a man. He was a murderer. His father, always so goddamn certain about what was right and what was wrong—what would The Professor say right now? A wave of contempt burned the boy’s cheeks and squeezed his throat, but then he was surprised by the realization that he had to feel sorry for a man who’d condemned himself to plod through life like a blindered horse, struggling at every step to keep the least bit of color from invading his tight little black-and-white world.

***

He came into a clearing at the Georgetown Road, trudged a short distance south, then followed Curd’s map along a footpath to Clay Street. Two short blocks along Clay took him to the corner of Osage, just across from Tom Ireland’s cottage. The boy checked his watch, nearly four o’clock. He quickened his step, trotted up the walk to the door, knocked.

No answer. He knocked harder, still no response.

He turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Mr. Ireland,” he called. “Mr. Ireland. It’s Alan Chandler. I need…”

His voice trailed off as Ireland shuffled into the room, a coal-oil lamp in his hand. Under other conditions, Alan would have laughed. In his long, white nightshirt and white cap, the old man looked exactly like an illustration of Mr. Barkis that Alan had once seen in a copy of
David Copperfield
. Ireland walked up to the boy, cocked his head, scrutinized him.

“Mr. Ireland, I need your help,” Alan said, as evenly as he could manage.

“From the looks of you, I’d say you need somebody’s help.” Ireland waved the boy into the kitchen. “Come on, sit down. I’ll make up some coffee, and you can tell me about it.”

***

Ireland listened without saying a word. When Alan finished, the old man drummed fingernails on the table, and sighed. “Got ourselves a real mess, don’t we? But there’s nothing we can do right now. I’ll draw you some water, you can clean up, then get yourself some sleep.”

“What are we going to do, though? We can’t go to the police.”

“I know what we can’t do, boy. What I don’t know yet is what we can do. I hope by the time you get up, I’ll have some idea of that.”

Chapter Nineteen

Tuesday, April 17
Morning

The sun was just coming up when Ireland padded past Alan, sound asleep on the living-room couch. The old man paused long enough to drop a note on the boy’s shoes: HAD TO GO OUT, BACK SOON. DON’T YOU DARE SET A FOOT OUT OF THIS HOUSE.

Once outside, Ireland walked the few blocks to Lamine, strolled up to Alonzo Green’s house, eased the door open, slipped inside. The sound of wood being sawed came from Slim, on Green’s couch, a mountain of flesh under a light blanket. Ireland walked past the sleeper, into the back bedroom, and immediately found himself on the business end of a pistol. “Lonzo, put that damn gun away,” Ireland whispered, and closed the bedroom door. “Got to talk to you.”

Green lowered the pistol, set it back onto the little nightstand next to the bed.

Ireland walked up to the bedside. “You’re a hell of a light sleeper.”

“In my business, I better be. Damn, Tom, why you come sneakin’ in like that?”

Ireland pointed toward the living room. “I wanted a private audience.”

Green’s eyes opened wide. “Something happening?”

Ireland nodded. “The boy’s had himself quite a little time with Klein and Barton. He managed to get away, but he doesn’t have the journal now. Says he hid it in Klein’s house. Once I’m sure Klein’s off to work, the boy and I will go get it back, but I don’t want to take any chance that our friend out there might see him and upset our apple cart. Here’s what I need you to do. Tell Slim you’re going to have a talk with Barton about the journal, and you want him along in case things get nasty. Be careful no one sees you going up to the house, and if the door’s locked, break it in. Then go through the place, room by room. Take all morning. By then, the boy and I should have had enough time to get the journal back.”

Green looked toward the living room. The sound of Slim’s snoring went on without pause. “But what if Barton’s there? Or if he comes back and catches us going through the house?”

“He won’t be there, Lonzo.”

“But what if he—”

“He won’t be there.”

Green nodded slowly. “Okay, Tom. You say I ain’t gotta worry, I won’t.”

“That’s right, Lonzo. Don’t worry. Just keep that hothead out of my way.” Ireland started toward the door. “People with more temper than brains can be a real pain in the ass.”

***

Detective Magnus looked across the desk at Samuel J. Pepper. “I appreciate your coming in early for me, Mr. Pepper.”

The attorney waved off the thanks. “Only way I could talk to you today. I’ve got to be in court from nine o’clock on. What can I do for you?”

Right to the point. Magnus liked that. “It’s about your client, Roscoe Spanner, and his inheritance. I understand Mr. Brun Campbell is the sole beneficiary.”

“That’s correct. They’ve been friends since forever. Mr. Spanner had no heirs, and he left everything to Mr. Campbell.”

“Can you tell me when the will was written? Was it recent?”

“No, we did it at least ten years ago. If you want, I can check the date.”

“That’s all right. Do you know whether Mr. Campbell had any prior knowledge of the inheritance?”

Pepper pursed his lips, then shook his head slowly. “Not that I could say. I guess Mr. Spanner might’ve clued him in, but from the way he looked the first time I talked to him, I’d say if he did know, he ought to be on the stage.” Pepper frowned. “One thing, though. As soon as I told him about his inheritance, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on it. He said he’d been trying to buy a diary of some sort that Scott Joplin wrote. He wanted to take it to Sedalia to present it at a ceremony they’re having there, I think tonight, actually, to honor Joplin. So I arranged an advance for him…Detective, are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah, sure. Just haven’t had my morning coffee yet. Where is it again you said Mr. Campbell was going?”

“Sedalia. In Missouri.” Pepper chuckled. “I don’t think wild horses or the National Guard could’ve stopped him.”

Magnus thanked Pepper as politely as he could manage, then tore back to the station, ran inside, thrust his head into the switchboard operator’s cubicle, and bellowed, “Get me the chief of police in Sedalia, Missouri.” He slammed the door, and stormed down the hall to his office. He’d have that goddamn barber back and in front of a grand jury in record time, and he wasn’t going to be satisfied till he saw the son of a bitch swaying on the end of a rope.

***

Brun sat in an armchair in the corner of the Hotel Milner lobby, his nose buried in a newspaper. He never noticed Luella walk in, and up to his chair.

“Brun?”

He lowered the paper. “Oh, Luella. Say, did you see the papers today?” He held up the one he’d been reading. “This here ceremony’s getting big-time attention. Look, on the first page of the
Democrat
. ‘Today’s leading authority on Joplin and his music is Brunson Campbell, of Kenice, California.’ They spelled Venice wrong, but still. And then they go on and say that except for Mr. Joplin, I’m the greatest ragtime player ever. How about that?”

“I’m impressed. I trust they didn’t misspell your name.”

The irony in Luella’s voice went right past Brun’s ears. He folded the newspaper, slipped it under his arm, then got to his feet. “Guess we better get movin’, huh? I can’t wait to hear what Mr. Rosenthal’s got to say.”

***

Ireland couldn’t remember feeling more nervous. An eighty-five-year-old man, and a colored man at that, being the only protection for the boy? Dicey. If Klein happened to be at home, things could get ugly in a hurry. I ought to have a white man along, Ireland thought, but the only possibility that came to his mind was Brun Campbell. He shook his head. Do better to pray for good luck.

“Mr. Ireland?”

Ireland snapped out of his thoughts. The boy looked pale, skin taut over his cheekbones. “What is it, Alan?”

“I’m thinking about Mr. Klein and those other guys who were out at Curds’ last night. After I’ve got the journal, how am I going to get it to Mr. Campbell without having them come after me again?”

Ireland draped an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Just as soon as you have that book in your hands, we’re going back to my house, and we’re going to stay there. I’ve got someone I can send out to find Mr. Campbell and bring him by, and then we’ll all sit down and decide what to do with the journal. And if those idiots try anything funny, I’ll call the police. Chief Neighbors and I have known each other a long time, and if I tell him a gang of yahoos is bothering me, he’ll have officers out there before I’ve hung up the phone. We won’t have to say anything about what happened last night. Don’t worry. Let’s just get hold of that journal.”

Alan smiled. “You’re okay, Mr. Ireland. If it wasn’t for you and Mr. Curd, I’d probably be dead three times over.”

“Best not to talk about Mr. You-know-who,” Ireland said. “Sometimes there’s ears where you never see them or suspect they’re there.”

“Mr. Who?”

“Mr. Cu—” The look of mischief on Alan’s face stopped Ireland midway through the word. He laughed, tousled Alan’s hair. “All right, wise guy. Let’s get done what we came here to do.”

They walked up the steps to Kleins’ porch. Ireland rang the bell, got no response, rang a second time. The old man peered through the glass panel in the door. “Looks clear. How long will you need to get the journal?”

“Just as long as it takes to run up the stairs, into the room where I left it, and back down. I bet less than a minute.”

Ireland squeezed the door handle and pushed. “Go.” His voice was hoarse. “Before you come out, look through the glass here. If I’m scratching my nose, turn around and go out the back door, and through the yard to Fourth Street. Wait for me there.”

Alan shot into the house. Ireland closed the door, then walked as slowly as a man could walk to the edge of the porch. Then he seemed to recall something, trudged back, pretended to ring the bell again, and shaded his eyes to peer through the little glass panel in the door. There was Alan, bouncing down the stairs two at a time. Lordy, Ireland thought. Don’t fall.

The boy’s eyes met his through the glass. Ireland opened the door just enough for Alan to squeeze through. “Good job,” the old man said. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

“Mr. Ireland.” Alan looked to be on the point of flying out of control.

“What?”

“The journal. It’s not there.”

Ireland edged the boy toward the street. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. I looked all around where I left it. It’s just not there.”

Ireland tried to keep his exasperation to himself. “All right. If it isn’t there, Klein must have found it, and he’s not going to be an easy nut to crack. Let’s go back to my house, and do some thinking.” He gave Alan a quick once-over. “We’ll stop by Jack’s Mens Wear on the way. You’re going to attract way too much attention in those dirty rags.”

***

Luella led Brun through the halls of Hubbard High School, past small groups of Negro children who turned curious looks on the old white couple. They went past the Administration Room and the principal’s office, then turned a corner and walked down a long hallway, classrooms on either side. Brun heard piano music. “‘Maple Leaf Rag,’” he said. “And I’ll warrant that’s a white man playing it. I’ll show him how it oughta be done.”

The double doors at the end of the hall sported gold capital letters: AUDITORIUM. Luella pushed past the door on the right; Brun followed her inside. From the back of the room, he saw a woman at the piano up on the stage. Another woman and a man stood behind her.

Luella and Brun walked up the aisle, climbed the stairs at the side of the stage, then made their way to the piano. The pianist and her companions turned to face the newcomers, then the man stepped forward. “Mrs. Rohrbaugh, how do you do? What brings you here this morning?”

Brun thought he looked and sounded like some kind of college professor. He was well-groomed, with a high forehead, black hair graying at the temples, dark-complexioned, with a prominent beak of a nose. He wore a sharply-cut dark suit, with a dark tie straight up and down over a white shirt.

Luella nodded in Brun’s direction. “Mr. Rosenthal, this is Mr. Brun Campbell, from California. He wants to speak with you about the program for tonight.”

Recognition lit Rosenthal’s eyes, but Brun saw his body stiffen. “Well, Mr. Campbell, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He extended a hand, which Brun gripped firmly. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, and I’m delighted you were able to come out for the ceremony.” Rosenthal half-turned toward the small woman at his side. “This is Miss Lillian Fox, our marvelous accompanist for the Choral Club. And that’s Mrs. Blanche Ross, a fine pianist. Ladies, Mr. Brun Campbell. He was a student of Scott Joplin’s.”

The ladies smiled. “Not just a student,” Brun said. “I was Scott Joplin’s only white pupil. And I was also the first white pianist to ever play ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’”

Which seemed to impress the women. Rosenthal, however, looked as if his trousers had begun to itch. “Well, Mr. Campbell, as I said, I’m very glad to meet you, and I hope you’ll be favorably impressed with our ceremony.” He pointed toward the front row of seats in the auditorium. “Miss Fox, Mrs. Ross and I are going through our final preparations. If you’d like, you and Mrs. Rohrbaugh would be welcome to listen.”

The message came through to Brun, loud and very clear. “Actually, Mr. Rosenthal, I came over to talk to you about my part, like I wrote in my letter. You did get my letter, right? About a month ago?”

Rosenthal went into a stance of deep thought, lids slitted, one hand on his chin. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Okay, then. What did you think about what I said I wanted to do?”

By now, the women looked at least as itchy as Rosenthal. Mrs. Ross stood, and mumbled something to the effect of taking this opportunity to visit the powder room. Miss Fox said she’d go along. Brun watched them walk backstage, thought they’d better get there in a hurry or they’ll piss their pants.

Rosenthal forced a smile. “Well, Mr. Campbell, you see, this is going to be a Sedalia effort, all local talent. We decided it would be better not to involve, uh, outsiders.”

“Outsiders? What the…Mr. Rosenthal, what’re you talking about? Scott Joplin taught me piano right here in Sedalia, and I can play ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ just exactly the way he showed me. You sayin’ people wouldn’t want to hear that?”

“I’m sure they would, Mr. Campbell. But Mrs. Ross is perhaps the best pianist in Sedalia, and I’m sure she’ll do credit to the piece. And in any case, the arrangements have been finalized, and the program is printed.”

“So I guess you’re telling me you also don’t have space for me to say a few words about Scott Joplin, huh?”

“Mr. Studer, our mayor, is going to give a fine talk about Joplin and Sedalia and the birth of ragtime music.” Rosenthal’s growing irritation showed in his clipped, staccato speech. “And Mr. Brown, the president of the Choral Club, will say a few words, as will Dr. Hylick, the school principal. I’m sorry, Mr. Campbell, but our program is set, and it’s too late to make any changes.”

Brun felt the world slipping away from him. “There’s something else.” He tried to keep from sounding frantic. “I’m gonna have a journal, Scott Joplin’s own diary, and after Mrs. Joplin says her piece over the radio, I can show that book to the audience. Then, people in Sedalia just might start thinkin’ Scott Joplin oughta have more than just a plaque on a high-school wall. Like, say, there should be a ragtime museum, right in the middle of downtown.”

Luella Rohrbaugh had never cried in public before, and was detemined not to start now. She worked a full package of starch into her face.

“Mr. Campbell…” Rosenthal spoke softly, but his tone was ominous. “We’ve had to cancel the simultaneous broadcast with New York.”

“You
what
? What in hell’s going on here?”

Rosenthal glanced toward stone-faced Luella Rohrbaugh, then said, “We had to cancel the broadcast because Mrs. Joplin isn’t well. Apparently, there was some sort of commotion over that diary, and she got quite upset and had to be hospitalized.”

Brun’s sails sagged. “She’s not…”