The Ragtime Kid

by Larry Karp

  With some reluctance, Brun admitted to himself that the bath actually did feel good, cold though it was at that hour. And the bed was far more comfortable than the floors of the freight cars he’d stretched out on for the past couple of nights. He fell directly into a heavy sleep, so satisfying that when a bell commenced a terrible clanging, he managed to bury his head under the pillow and put the noise aside. But a while later, a steam whistle showed no mercy whatever, just blasted the boy up and out of bed. The clanging, as Brun shortly found out, was the courthouse bell, which rang six days a week at six in the morning. The whistle came from the MoPac railroad shop, and blew seven.

  Brun yawned and stretched, then pulled the chamber pot from under the bed and relieved himself. Too early to go talk to Mr. John Stark, so the boy wandered down to the communal room and sat through morning prayer service, not out of piety or anything resembling sincere interest, but because it was the price of the Y’s egg and pancake breakfast, payment in advance. The boy’s attention wandered; he gazed out the open window at the growing crowd along Ohio Avenue. A man working a slow route on a horse cart called out, “Rags! Old iron! Bottles!” The junkman stopped long enough to say a word to a colored man playing an accordion on a street corner, then dropped a coin in the musician’s cup. Which set Brun to thinking about the change he’d gotten in tips the night before at Boutell’s. He’d never counted it. He reached into his pocket, his fingers touched a little metal object—and his empty stomach lurched. Sitting there on a hardwood bench, half-heartedly joining in “Abide With Me,” he remembered the locket and the money-clip. What with the excitement of playing his way into a meal, hearing about the possibility of a good steady job, and meeting Mr. Fitzgerald and getting the room at the Y, he’d forgotten that strangled woman at the side of the road and her possessions he’d made off with. Now, they burned in his pocket like they’d been heated red-hot in an oven.

  He downed his breakfast considerably faster than he’d planned, then ran back to his room, locked the door, and laid his booty on the bed. The money in the clip looked like found treasure, two tens, a five, and three singles. Twenty-eight dollars, not a fortune, but a comfortable cushion until his first payday. He heard his mother’s voice: “A thief never profits from his ill-gotten gains,” but as Brun studied the money-clip, the voice faded. That piece of jewelry interested him no end. It was shaped like a musical lyre, a clever piece of work, about three inches long, half an inch thick. A bit of delicate blue enamel work decorated its base. At first, Brun thought it was gold, but then took notice of the few flecks of gold plating still remaining on the brass body. The boy’s fingers picked up on a small irregularity on the back; he turned the clip over, and saw a tiny winding key, like for a watch. He gave it a tentative turn, and felt the pressure of a spring winding; then he pushed a metal button next to the winding key. A simple little tune began to play.

  He’d never seen such a thing. He listened until the music stopped, then turned the key and pushed the button again. His first notion had been what the money-clip might bring from a pawnbroker, but now the possibility of pawning his find went altogether out of his thoughts. Women didn’t carry money-clips, men did. That poor woman must have struggled, and in the fight, the money-clip probably fell out of her killer’s pocket. As musical a city as Sedalia was said to be, the clip could have belonged to any number of people, but since the item would indict its owner as a killer, Brun knew he’d be foolish to pawn it, then have to worry that the wrong person might trace it back to him.

  His attention turned to the little gold square, the locket. Brun flipped it open, found himself staring into the wide-set eyes of a blond man with a big round face and a smile that looked forced. The woman’s husband? Brun closed his eyes, tried to remember. Yes, there was a plain gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand, the hand he’d been massaging like a fool. Did her own husband kill her?

  It occurred to Brun that he should go directly to the police station and turn in the money-clip and the locket. He could say he’d been scared the night before, didn’t know what to do. But he shook his head. A kid from out of town, a runaway, just arrived on a freight? The cops would give him the third degree, and like as not, by the time they were done, he’d be getting free lodging, courtesy of the county jail, for stealing valuable property off a dead person, maybe even for killing that dead person.

  But the money in the clip was no problem. Twenty-eight dollars, not a fortune, but add in the three dollars from Mr. Fitzgerald, and he was close to what he’d left home with a few days before. Didn’t his Ma always tell him a person should trust in the providence of the Lord?

  Brun thought about stashing the locket and clip somewhere in his room, but the idea made him uneasy, so he put them back into his pocket. Then he washed his face in the basin, went out, locked the door, marched past the communal room and out into the street. While he was going about his business, he’d keep his eyes and ears open, see what he might learn about the murdered woman.

  Chapter Four

  Sedalia

  Wednesday, July 19, 1899

  Morning

  They say the devil once spent a week in Missouri in July, then went back and set up hell to specifications. Only ten in the morning, but the air was already a sopping blanket as Brun worked his way across Ohio Avenue through a steady parade of one- and two-horse wagons, then walked half a block down Fifth, and stopped under a black sign with squared white letters: JOHN STARK AND SON. He took a moment to stare at the window display, then put a swagger into his step and went inside.

  Not very different from the Armstrong-Byrd store in Oklahoma City where he’d met Otis Saunders. To his left, racks of music sheets and books ran the length of the store. Two pianos stood toward the rear, flanked by a cabinet organ in a fancy walnut case inscribed with gold designs, and a little pump organ that could be folded up into its own wooden carrying case, like a street preacher might use. The right side of the shop was all instruments. Guitars, mandolins, banjos hung on the wall, brass of every description, a piano-accordion and one with buttons, New Orleans style. All the way in back, behind and to the right of the pianos and organs, a stairway took off and vanished through the ceiling, likely into Mr. Stark’s living quarters. Brun’s attention quickly focused on a beautiful mahogany grand piano, its lid open, standing just inside the doorway so that any tune an employee or a customer might play would carry out to the street.

  A man looked up from behind the counter, greeted Brun with a polite hello, and asked how might he be of help. “I’m looking for Mr. Stark,” Brun said.

  “You’re looking at Mr. Stark,” said the man.

  Brun figured him to be pretty old, about sixty, with the appearance of a successful businessman of that day, neatly groomed hair going gray, and a full, bushy beard that took off southward from the edges of an equally bushy mustache. He wore a dark vest and proper dark bow tie. Deep lines at the corners of his eyes, but those light-blue eyes fixed so intensely on Brun that the boy had the uncomfortable feeling Stark might be able to see inside of him, maybe even right through him, like with those X-rays some German doctor had discovered a few years before.

  “What can I do for you, young man?” Stark asked.

  Brun thought Stark’s voice, a full, deep baritone, was most agreeable. “My name is Brun Campbell, sir,” the boy said, smartly as he could. “I’m newly arrived in town, and I met Mr. Boutell last evening. He recommended me to you for a job.”

  “Oh, he did?” Stark looked amused, ran fingers over the thick hair at the corners of his mouth. “Where do you come from…Brun, is it?”

  “Yes, sir. Short for my middle name, Brunson, it’s a family name. Brun is what everyone’s always called me. Pop once told me I got Sanford for a first name because Ma thought Sanford Brunson Campbell sounded like a justice of the Supreme Court. But truth, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.”

  Stark stifled a grin. Fresh kid, but he had a way. “Well, you never kn
ow, Brun. Life’s a funny proposition, and you’ve got plenty of time. How old are you?”

  “Sixteen, sir.”

  “And you are from?”

  “Arkansas City.”

  Brun’s heart whacked against his ribs. Those eyes… Quickly, the boy added, “Actually, my family has lived in a lot of places, mostly in Kansas and Oklahoma. We were even in St. Joe for a while, Missouri.”

  “That’s all right, Brun. It really isn’t my business, is it? What makes you think you’re suited to work in a music store?”

  “Music’s what I’ve always liked the most, sir. I play a pretty mean piano, and one day I hope to play piano for my living. And I do get on with people pretty well.”

  Which clearly tickled Stark. “Yes, I’ll own you do. And I’ll bet you do play a pretty mean piano. What kind of music can you play?”

  “Anything you like.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stark laughed, then pointed toward the piano and stool behind Brun. “All right. Let’s hear you play something.”

  Brun sat himself at the piano, rolled his sleeves, and commenced to play “Maple Leaf.” By the time he finished with his customary flourish, hands high above the keyboard, three men and a couple of women who’d wandered inside to listen, clapped and made complimentary remarks to Stark. Which, naturally, Brun appreciated no end. One of the men was colored, an older fellow with a great deal of white wool up top, and a raggedy plaid shirt and overalls. “Hey, Young Mister,” the colored man called. “Where you learn jig-music from?”

  Brun smiled at the old man. He was getting used to that sort of question, and didn’t mind in the least. “That is ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’ Taught to me by Otis Saunders, and composed by Mr. Scott Joplin. Right here in Sedalia.”

  “My, my, my.” The old man raised his eyebrows, protruded his lower lip, and nodded vigorously. “You play as good as any colored I ever did hear.”

  “Do you have the music for that?” one of the women asked Mr. Stark.

  Stark shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

  Brun slid off the stool; the little crowd drifted out the door. Stark stared at Brun, then finally said, “You say Scott Joplin composed that piece?”

  “‘Maple Leaf Rag’? Yes, sir. At least, according to Otis Saunders.” The boy noticed Stark’s hands shook. “Did you like it okay?”

  “Okay? I should say so, and then some. It’s extraordinary. But tell me now, Brun, do you have any experience selling music?”

  On the point of lying, the boy stopped himself. Those eyes would pick him right up. “No, sir,” Brun said. “But I am a quick learner.”

  “You are, you say?” Stark pulled at his beard. “Yes, I’ll wager you are. You seem a clever young man…perhaps even a little sly? But you’ve got to be reliable. If you’re not, don’t waste your time and mine. If you are, I guess I can use you.”

  “I can be as reliable as required, sir.”

  Again, Stark tugged his beard. The corners of his mouth bent upward. “Very well, then. If you are both reliable and responsible, I’ll employ you part-time, at least to start. One o’clock to five, six days, twelve dollars a week. You’ll wait on customers and play piano as needed. If you work out well, we’ll talk about full-time employment. How does that sound to you?”

  It sounded so good to Brun, it took him a moment to answer. He remembered the way his friends in El Reno fought with each other over jobs in penny-candy stores and bakeries, but picturing himself working in this music shop, he felt envy of no boy or man. “It sounds very good, sir,” he said. “Thank you. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “I trust not. And I also trust that since this is a music store, not a music hall, you can play songs I have on sheets to sell.”

  “I can play whatever you like, sir. And I can play it so people won’t be able to take a step out the door without carrying away a sheet.”

  Stark’s eyes opened wide. He laughed aloud. Then he pointed toward the piano and stool. “Let’s see.”

  Brun quickly sat back at the piano and by way of a warmup, knocked out a medley of Stephen Foster tunes, “Old Folks at Home,” “Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair,” and “Camptown Races.” Then he did a real barnburner of “The Glendy Burk,” and, without stopping, turned it up a notch for “Daisy Bell.” People walked in off the street, one at a time and in pairs. Brun swung into a lively cakewalk he’d learned a few months before off sheet music from the music store in El Reno. The crowd around the piano buzzed and pointed, and a young woman asked the name of that tune. “It’s called ‘At a Georgia Camp Meeting,’ ma’am,” Brun said. “By Mr. Kerry Mills, and it’s the hottest new tune around. You can’t walk down a street in St. Louis or Kansas City, and not hear it.”

  The woman turned to Stark and asked him for a copy of the music. Two men said they wanted sheets as well.

  After the audience wandered back outside, Stark turned a look on Brun that told the boy he’d sold more than three copies of sheet music. “You’ve got a mouth on you, but you can deliver the goods. You’ll do. But you can’t work in my shop looking like you just walked off the last freight into town. Go back to Ohio, turn right, then go three blocks to the corner of Second, the St. Louis Clothing Store. Tell them to fix you up with a decent suit, shirts and a tie. Put it on my account.”

  Brun was two steps to the door when Stark called after him. “One more thing—where are you lodging?”

  “I’ve got a room at the Y,” Brun called over his shoulder.

  Stark nodded. “All right, go on, then. Get yourself suited up. I’ll see you at one o’clock.”

  At five minutes to one, Brun walked back through the door and up to Stark, who stood beside the piano, talking to a slim dark colored man in a worn, but clean, white shirt and black trousers. The two men caught sight of Brun at the same time, and the way they suddenly stopped talking and gapped the boy, he knew he had trouble. Stark made that plain in a hurry. “This is a music store, Brun. A respectable establishment.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Brun said. “I thought I looked pretty sharp.”

  The colored man laughed, which did not appear to do anything favorable for Stark’s frame of mind. “Sharp, is it, eh? Pink silk shirt? Patterned necktie so loud it could make me hard of hearing? Yellow and black checkered suit bright enough to blind me? Patent-leather shoes with pearl buttons? I guess you’d be just fine if you were going to work in a house of ill-repute, but you’re not going to work in my store looking like a pimp. Now, get yourself out of here. Go on back to St. Louis Clothing, and…who the hell waited on you, anyway? I’ll bet it was Felix, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” Brun’s voice quavered like an organ pipe. “Mr. Felix Kahn. Big man, tall, very fine manners. Talks like a Frenchman—”

  “Blast it, he is a Frenchman,” Stark shouted. “So are his brothers, but they’ve got more sense than to sell an outfit like this to one of my employees. Get yourself back there PDQ, and tell Felix to take back these bordello duds and give you a proper outfit to work in my store.” He pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “If you’re back here and looking decent by one-thirty, you’ll still have a job.”

  In less than two minutes, Brun was inside the St. Louis Clothing Store. Felix Kahn laughed when he heard the problem. “Ah, Meestair Stark, he is so vairy tradeetional, yes? Well, come, come, young man. It would not do to have you lose your new job.” He pushed Brun back into the try-on room, and while the boy got himself out of his unrespectable threads, Kahn went off, then came back with two armfuls of dark cloth that Brun thought could in no way have given offense to an undertaker. “Put them on, young man, hurry,” Kahn said. “If you or Meestair Stark is not hoppy with ze fit, just come back and we will make adjustments.”

  The fit was fine, though the dark English worsted suit was heavier than Brun would have cared to wear in the Missouri summer. He tugged at the celluloid collar, then caught himself. For
four hours a day, he could handle it. He’d wear his old clothes whenever he could, though it might be a good idea to get the dirt and hay out of them, and have a tailor stitch the holes.

  When Brun hustled back into Stark and Son, the clock on the wall behind the counter said one twenty-eight, but John Stark neither looked at it, nor did he check his watch. Just nodded at the colored man, and said, “Well, that’s a little better, isn’t it?”

  “Um-hmmm.” The colored man was grinning, clearly enjoying the situation. “Looks like a proper young gentleman now, don’t he?” He extended a hand to Brun, who gripped it. “I be Isaac, I work for Mr. Stark too.”

  “Brun Campbell.”

  Stark raised his eyebrows. “You cleaned up pretty good, Brun. Now, let’s get you to work.”

  Even with the door open, the mid-afternoon temperature and humidity in the store were both well up into the nineties. Still, Brun always remembered that day as one of his happiest ever. He waited on customers, sold some guitar and mandolin strings, a couple of picks, and several pieces of sheet music. He showed a pretty little girl of about nine or ten how to work her way through a Beethoven piano sonata, then said, “Here’s what you can play when you finish your regular practice time,” and got her and her mother laughing to beat all through a lively “Buffalo Gals.” Afterward, Stark patted the boy on the back and said, “You’re a natural salesman, Brun. I’m bound to admit, you’ve got me sold.”

  Toward closing time, Stark gave his new clerk an eye-opener. The boy was showing a low-priced parlor guitar to a young woman of Raphaelitic proportions, when all of a sudden, Stark strode up, took the guitar from his clerk’s hands, and commenced to play a very creditable medley of “Old Dan Tucker” and “Weevily Wheat.” The old man sang along in that fine baritone voice, “I won’t have none of your weevily wheat, I won’t have none of your bar-ley.” Then he took a second guitar off the wall, and played the same tunes. “You hear the difference?” he asked the woman. “This guitar was made by the C. F. Martin Company, back in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, and it’s the best, bar none. For just an extra few dollars, your investment will come back to you many times over in musical pleasure and satisfaction.” The Martin guitar went out the door with the woman.