The Ragtime Kid (30 page)

Inside Freitag’s, it was hotter than Hades on Midsummer Day, and smelled like it does when you open an old leather suitcase that’s been locked shut since your last trip a year ago. Mrs. Evans marched the men across the living room, then made a grand gesture toward a photograph in a dime-store frame. “Well, there they are. Hope it’s worth your five bucks.”

There they were, all right. Big, florid Elmo Freitag, and a woman in her middle thirties, dark-haired, with a sweet smile. Except for the smile, she looked just the way she did the last time Brun had seen her, lying at the side of the road, her head wobbly on her neck. “That’s his wife?” Brun asked. “Mrs. Freitag?”

“One and the same. What’s the problem?”

Daniels had questions smeared all over his face. No way could Brun say he’d ever seen this woman before, and he commenced to think as hard and fast as he could. “Well, the woman we’ve been, uh, looking for, her first name
is
Sallie. But she called herself Sallie Rudolph.”

“Oh, pshaw.” Mrs. Evans let out a laugh to shame a horse. “She does, does she? Rudolph was her name before she married Freitag. Her ‘stage name,’ she calls it. She used to be a singer, got a beautiful voice, but he says no wife of his is gonna go on the stage or on the road. She just plain married trouble, the good-for-nothing bum! I bet he forced her to do that scam.”

Daniels put his hand back into his pocket; it reappeared clutching a gold coin. “That’s a really good picture, Mrs. Evans,” he said. “I’d like to have it.”

A crafty smile clawed one corner of the woman’s mouth. She snatched the coin, slid it into her pocket. “Guess if you want it that bad, it wouldn’t be nice of me to say no, now, would it?”

Brun and Daniels walked back to the Hoffman Building in silence, Daniels carrying the photograph. Inside, the rabbit-faced receptionist smiled at Daniels, but he didn’t come close to returning it. “I’ve got to go to Sedalia, Lucille,” he said. “I should be back tonight, but if I need to stay over, I’ll telephone.”

***

When Brun hopped aboard the train to Kansas City early that morning, it was like the beginning of most summer days in Sedalia, bright and clear, birds in full song, streets quiet. Too early for the hucksters and the oil man and the fresh fish peddler. Apple John would have been in Smithton, picking up his day’s supply of merchandise. Shops were closed, most children still in bed. But Dr. Walter Overstreet was up. He’d been up all night, fighting what he really had known all along was a losing battle. Now, he pulled the sheet up over High Henry’s battered face, trudged back into his office, and slumped in his chair, head down on the desk.

After some twenty minutes, he raised his head and blinked a couple of times. Short naps like these got him through the long days and longer nights. Short naps and… He took the bottle from the cabinet, poured himself a shot, knocked it down, then shook his head full-awake. He heard Emily Sewell’s voice from the night before: “He’d do better to go to Sunday vespers than go scratching around town looking for drunk niggers to treat.” There had been no smell of alcohol on High Henry, not a trace, but never mind. Emily Sewell also went around town telling people that men like Walter Overstreet who never do get married, well if you ask me, there’s something wrong with them, if you know what I mean. Imagine having to look at that face and hear that voice over the breakfast table every day. A bachelor’s life could be lonely, but Overstreet wouldn’t have traded places with Charlie Sewell for any consideration.

Now, he had to report the case to Ed Love, who would say thank you, I’ll take care of it, and then as soon as Overstreet was out the door, would give the report to the secretary and tell her to file it in the unsolved-cases drawer. Go chasing after a couple of thugs who’d beaten a colored man to death and dumped him in brambles, and the only living source of information was a runaway kid who hadn’t even witnessed the attack, and for good measure, bore a healthy grudge against the alleged strong-arms? The Sedalia police had better things to do.

Overstreet poured another glass of scotch, downed it in a swallow, then trudged upstairs to shave and get himself clean and presentable, so he could go up to Lincolnville, to Big Henry and Mattie Ramberg’s cottage on Morgan, and tell them why their son hadn’t come home last night.

And while he was at it, better stop by the music store and have a word with John Stark about his boy. The look on that puppy’s face when he said he was going to kill the Alteneders—he wasn’t just whistling down the wind. The doctor had already pulled one too many bodies out of brier bushes.

***

By the time Overstreet put his backside onto a rickety wooden chair in the Ramberg living room, it was obvious the reason for his visit was no mystery to Henry’s mother and father. They sat on a sofa opposite the doctor, Big Henry stone-faced, gripping his cane in his lap. Mattie cried into a red bandanna through the whole report. “I knew when he didn’t come in before midnight,” she wailed. “I jus’ knew in my heart. Who done it, Doctor? An’ why?”

“We’re not sure,” Overstreet said.

Now, Big Henry spoke. “Which mean, ain’t nobody ever gonna pay for killin’ my boy. That how it be when a white kill a colored. They never do have to pay.”

Fear pushed grief off Mattie’s face. She reached an arm to her husband. “Doctor didn’t say it was a white man kill Henry.”

Big Henry turned such a wicked eye on her, she moved away. “He didn’ have to say—what colored man in this town would kill Henry? They all love him. B’sides, if it was a colored, they’d have him in the jail now.” He looked back to Overstreet. “Henry was our onlies’ chil’, so what we got us now? Mattie and me was born slaves, and now we been set free, but I don’t see the leas’ difference. White men kill us on the plantation, they kill us now, an’ it’s no matter. They kill our chillun, take away our whole future, an’ no one say a word for us. I be a father, an’ I want me some justice. If the po-lice don’t get it for me, I get it myself. You jus’ tell me who kill my son, an’ I do the rest.”

“I can’t—”

Overstreet was going to explain that he couldn’t say because he didn’t have proof, only a second-hand report from a boy who had not seen the crime committed. But Big Henry didn’t want to hear any more. Up on his feet now, six feet six, waving his cane. “What good emancipation be for me, Doctor, huh? You tell me that. Friday, I suppose’ to go over by Liberty Park, and sing and dance ’cause Mr. Charlie an’ Miss Ann tell me I be free. ’Cept it still be all right they kill my son and jus’ walk away. You a doctor, you the mayor of this city, an’ you won’t tell me what white man it was killed my son! You ain’t worth shit.”

Mattie rose, shaking all over. She extended her arms toward Overstreet; for a terrible moment the doctor thought she was going to fall to her knees. “Please, Mist’ Doctor, don’ be mad at my husban’. He don’ really mean it, he jus’ so powerful upset. Please.” She took Big Henry by the arm, tried to persuade him back to his seat.

Overstreet stood, a little abruptly, said, “I’m sorry,” then turned and started toward the door. Big Henry raised his cane, moved forward. Mattie grabbed his arm. “Henry,
no
!”

Overstreet spun around. Mattie screamed again. Big Henry lowered his cane and staggered back a step, struck dumb and petrified by the face on Overstreet and the single tear working its way down the doctor’s cheek.

***

Daniels and Brun got off the Katy passenger train toward four o’clock. To avoid the late-Saturday afternoon crush of shoppers and hucksters on Ohio, they went along Washington Avenue to Fifth, and into Stark and Son—where they walked into a commotion of impressive proportions. Stark, Isaac, Joplin, Weiss, Freitag and the two Alteneders stood between the counter and the demonstration piano, all of them shouting, Emil Alteneder brandishing a fist. In the middle of the fuss stood Chief Love, a bear of a man with a face like a rough cut of raw beef. He looked like he was trying to bring some order, but without a whole lot of success. What surprised Brun most was Joplin, standing to the chief’s left. For almost two weeks now, the only emotion the boy had ever seen the composer show came when he didn’t like the way Brun played his music, and even that was mild enough. But now the composer was furious, his face twisted, body like a tight-wound spring. He aimed a finger at Freitag, and yelled, “You stole my music—you and your friends there.” Then, he turned to the chief. “I demand you search this man’s room.”

The worry on Stark’s face and Isaac’s frightened Brun. Love’s cheeks were scarlet; his hair seemed to bristle out from under his cap. “I’m chief of police here,” he bellowed into Joplin’s face. “Where’re you coming from, telling me what I got to do.”

“It’s your job—”

“Oh, it’s my job, is it? You’re tellin’ me what my job is? Now, you listen here, Scott, and listen good. You never been in any trouble, but keep this up, you’re gonna be in way over your head in a big hurry.”

Freitag and the Alteneders sported huge grins, but when Freitag looked at Brun and saw who was with him, his smile dissolved. He glanced back over his shoulder; Brun thought if there was any way he could’ve run, he’d have done it. Daniels held the photograph in one hand behind his back, and fixed a calm, level gaze on Freitag, who, for his part, made very sure to look anywhere but at Daniels.

Meanwhile, Joplin showed no sign of backing off. Weiss tried to pull him away from the chief, but Joplin yanked his arm free. “Are you telling me you are just going to let this thief get away with stealing my music?”

Chief Love stuck out his belly and roared into Joplin’s face, “You have no proof that Mr. Freitag stole your music, and I have no legal reason to search his rooms. That’s it, Scott. Now, you shut up your mouth, because if I hear any more, I’m gonna run you in for disturbing the peace. And if this stuff goes any further, I’ll have you for inciting a riot. Do you understand me?”

Weiss put an arm around Joplin, tried to lead him off.

Fritz and Emil Alteneder were laughing now, and Freitag had got back some of his composure. Brun felt frantic. How fast could he get to Higdon’s and back, give Joplin his music, and explain why he’d taken it? But right then, Daniels shouted, “Freitag, you scoundrel, you
are
a thief, and a liar to boot. You’ve never represented me, and you’re not doing it now. If I ever hear again that you’re saying you have any association with me or Carl Hoffman, I won’t bother with police or lawyers. I’ll take care of you myself. You’ll be hustling music from a hospital bed for a good long while.”

In the silence that followed this new development, Freitag seemed to rally his nerve. “You measly worm,” he shouted at Daniels. “You think I’d ever have anything to do with a pipsqueak nobody like you. I’ve never told anyone that. And if you don’t stop telling lies about me,
I’ll
see
you
in court.”

Brun didn’t think, just came out with it. “That’s all he
has
been doing. He told me lots of times how he was going to get Scott Joplin’s tunes, Mr. Daniels would publish them at Hoffman’s, and they’d be big hits in his road show. He even tried to sign up Blind Boone, I was right there and heard him. He said he could do better than any colored man at getting bookings and managing accounts, and the colored could just stick to writing music, singing and dancing. He’d take care of everything else for them, especially the money.”

Every face in the room but John Stark’s turned Brun’s way. During the boy’s speech, Stark’s eyes had focused on a scene forty years back in his memory, a December day in 1859. He was out behind the cabin, splitting wood, when Etilmon tramped up through the snow. “They hung John Brown,” Etilmon said. “And those who went with him and weren’t killed will shortly get the same. Good we didn’t go.” Johnny said nothing in reply, just picked up his hammer and gave the wedge a blow that sent a fair-sized chunk of wood whizzing past his brother’s ear. Etilmon quickly turned aside, took one look at Johnny’s face and without another word, beat a path back to the cabin.

Johnny swung and swung and swung. Wood flew in every direction, but the young man took no notice. All his attention had come to bear on a moment a year and a half earlier, late on an afternoon in June, sunny and mild. But inside the Starks’ little cabin, a fierce electrical storm bid fair to blow the place apart. The source of the wild weather was a skinny old coot with bristly white hair and the full beard of a biblical patriarch. He aimed a gnarled finger across the rough pine table at Etilmon Stark, then roared, “You’ve done good work, Mr. Stark. Many of our dark brethren owe you their lives. But it all comes to nothing so long as the abomination of slavery exists in our land. We must strike at the heart of the atrocity. I propose to carry out a bold attack on a major southern symbol, which will serve as a call to arms for all our countrymen now held in bonds. Negroes already free, here in the northern states and Canada, will rise in revolt as well. Then, when we have a goodly citizen base—”

“Mr. Brown!” Stark’s voice was even, but his face, deeply tanned by this time of year, looked drained of color. “You’d be facing the force of the entire United States Army.”

Brown leaned forward across the rough wooden table to bring his face within inches of his audience. Young Johnny Stark, seated to his brother’s right, edged back into his chair. “We will make our strike, then retreat into nearby mountains where even small numbers of men can hold out almost indefinitely,” Brown hissed. “And thanks to our good friends in New England, we will have arms a-plenty. But without capable soldiers, my weapons will be useless. I wish you to join with me.”

Etilmon Stark’s reply was quick and strong. “Sorry, Mr. Brown, but I can’t go along with that. We need to talk to people, get ’em to where they see for themselves what’s right and what’s not. When they do, that’ll be the end of slavery in this country.”

Brown’s face softened; Johnny breathed a little lighter. “You’re a good and a gentle man, Mr. Stark,” Brown said. “But I fear you are misguided. Peaceful emancipation is no longer possible. Daily, the southern heart gains resolve to oppose your counsel. What’s happened in Kansas is, I fear, only a beginning, and the longer we wait, the worse will be the carnage. The crimes of this guilty land can now be purged only with blood, but perhaps if we act quickly, the curative dose will be small. Can I not convince you to be my lieutenant?”