by Larry Karp
Overstreet grunted. “If I have anything to say about it. But even if he does, he’s never going to dance again.”
“I’m going to kill them.” Brun’s rage tore out of his mouth without ever passing through his mind.
Overstreet half-turned, raised a finger to the boy and snapped, “You stay away from them.”
“But what they did—”
“You heard me. Don’t you go near those thugs, not for anything.”
Without another word, Brun whirled and ran out of the room. A couple of seconds later, Overstreet heard the office door slam. He sighed, then turned back to his work.
Outside, Brun ran a few steps in the direction of Stark’s, but then pulled up. Nearly eleven, and he had no idea, did he, just when the Alteneders and Freitag would be going in at the Maple Leaf Club. And once they’d made off with Joplin’s music, he’d never get it back. Freitag would publish it all, probably with a phony name as composer, and what court could Joplin go to for help? Brun had no time to wake Mr. Stark, even less to try to convince the cops what was about to happen. Like Dr. Overstreet was doing his best to save Henry’s life, it was up to Brun to do the same to try and save Joplin’s music.
He took off on the run along Ohio, down to Main, up to the Maple Leaf Club. Any other night of the week, the street would be alive, all the customary activities of the sporting district in full swing. But this was the Lord’s Day, or at least His Night. The sports had gone to church, enjoyed a good dinner, then hit the rack early to enjoy dreams about the week past and the week before them. Only an occasional reprobate went weaving along the side of the road, and Brun took care none of them saw him slip up to the door of the club and inside.
Dead quiet. Brun went up the stairs on tiptoes, stopping to listen every time he made a stairboard creak. Once in the club, he went directly to the piano, scooped all the music off the rack, set it on the bench. By the light of a lucifer, he spotted several more papers on the top of the piano, others on the floor to the left of the bench; he added them to the pile. Then back downstairs, a quick glance both ways at the door to be sure the Alteneders weren’t on their way in, and down Lamine he flew, taking caution not to lose a single page of music to the wind.
Dark at Higdon’s. Brun muttered a quiet thanks, then ran in through the living room, and up the stairs. But as he scurried along the corridor toward his room, he noticed something odd. All the other bedroom doors were open, Higdon’s, Belle’s, Luella’s. He reversed course, went back downstairs, turned on a lamp in the living room, and looked around. Nothing unusual. But in the kitchen, he found a note on the little pine table across from the stove. “Dear Brun,” it said. “Our mother was taken ill this morning, and we are going out to the farm to see her. It’s coming on four in the afternoon, and I doubt we’ll be back tonight. There is cold chicken in the icebox, and some salad and fruit, and half a berry pie on the window sill. Just help yourself.” The note was signed “Belle.”
He set the music next to the note, and took a moment to catch his breath. He felt dizzy, and, suddenly, hungry, so he set up at the kitchen table, and while he made short work of the cold chicken, salad, fruit, and a hefty slice of berry pie, he thumbed through the sheets of music.
What a treasure of ragtime in a small pile of paper. Best Brun could tell, he had the entire score of The Ragtime Dance, and full copies of “Maple Leaf Rag,” “Swipesey Cake Walk,” and “Sunflower Slow Drag.” Beyond that were partials on pieces called “Peacherine Rag” and “Easy Winners.” He recognized an untitled partial as “The Entertainer.” Several unnamed fragments, he’d never seen before. He wiped his hands on his pants, then took the music, all of it, to the piano, and commenced to play.
No churchgoer ever found in any Lord’s Day worship what Brun Campbell discovered that Sunday night at Higdon’s piano, playing his way through every note of that music by Scott Joplin. It occurred to Brun that if by some strange chance he eventually found his way to heaven, he would never be happier than he was right then. He didn’t think to look at a clock until he’d played through the entire pile, and then he saw it was nearly one in the morning.
Now, what was he supposed to do with that music? Scott Joplin lived in Lincolnville, but Brun had no idea just where. Besides, he had to be on a train to Kansas City in not that many hours, and right now he was bushed. Maybe best to hide the music somewhere safe, grab a few hours of sleep, then as soon as he got back from Kay Cee, take the music directly to Joplin and explain.
He cleaned up his dishes, then went to his room and looked around. The cubby where he’d put Joplin’s money-clip and the gold locket was nowhere near big enough for a pile of music manuscripts. He thought of putting them under his shirts and underwear in the dresser drawer, but in the end decided to slip them under his mattress, all the way to the middle. Once that was done, he got undressed and lay on top of the bed, and until the bell atop the courthouse clanged out six a.m., Brun played Scott Joplin’s ragtime music over and over in his sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Sedalia
Monday, July 31, 1899
Brun’s feet hit the floor before the courthouse bell was done ringing. He washed and dressed at double-time, and before the railroad shop whistle blasted out seven, Mr. S. Brun Campbell, decked out in his business suit and tie, hair pomaded to the nines, was sitting like a swell in the dining car of a Katy passenger train, white linen and nice silver on the table, shoveling down a hefty plate of ham, biscuits and gravy. Before eight-thirty, he was on the platform in Kansas City, asking a redcap for directions to 1012 Walnut Street.
By the time he walked up to the great white-stone Hoffman Building, the day had warmed considerably. Sweat poured off the boy’s forehead, into his eyes, and down from under both arms. Mr. Stark had said Daniels would be in the office Monday morning, reviewing the past week’s sales. But would Daniels see him, what with him not having an appointment?
“Yes,” Brun said out loud. By hook or crook, Daniels would see him. He walked inside like he owned the place, then swaggered up to the receptionist, not a looker by any stretch, big buck teeth, and forty if she was a day. He gave the woman his best smile, and told her he was looking for Mr. Charles Daniels.
She didn’t smile back. “Is he expecting you?”
“Well, if he’s not, he ought to be.”
The receptionist’s face said she knew his type, and didn’t think a whole lot of it. But she pointed down the hallway and said, “Take the first left, and go as far as you can.”
The glass-paneled door at the end of the corridor stood half-open. Brun peered around the edge. A man sat at an upright piano, his back to the door. Brun knocked. “Mr. Daniels?”
Charles Daniels wheeled around on the stool and stared at the boy with a smile more confused than friendly. He waved Brun inside. “Yes?”
Brun hadn’t imagined Daniels would look so young. The cuffs of his blue-pinstriped shirt lay open, sleeves rolled up to near his elbows. Collar unbuttoned, dark tie knotted loosely, flapping free. Brun took a second to get himself in hand, then announced, “I need to talk to you for a few minutes, Mr. Daniels.”
Daniels swung all the way around on the piano stool and leveled a heavy fish eye on Brun.
The boy took a deep breath, then spoke the lines Stark had told him to use. “My name’s Brun Campbell, I study piano with Scott Joplin. I’m his only white pupil. He calls me The Ragtime Kid.”
Daniels laughed out loud, but not like he was making fun. “The Ragtime Kid, huh? How old are you, Kid?”
“I guess not more’n three years younger than you.”
Now Daniels laughed to beat the band. “More like five or six, I’d guess, but all right. What is it Joplin sent you about? The man’s a damned fine composer, but he’s got some ideas that’re just plain crazy. There’s no way he’s going to get a royalties contract from anybody until he gets a whole lot more famous or a whole lot more white…but okay, let me shut up a minute and lis
ten. What is it you and Joplin want?”
“Mr. Joplin didn’t send me. I’m here on my own screw, and it’s important. I want to talk to you about Mr. Freitag—”
“Freitag? What about Freitag?”
Daniels wasn’t laughing now, not even smiling. “I’m sorry, Mr. Daniels,” Brun said. “There’s a lot happening in Sedalia on his account, and I’m hoping you can help. Mr. Freitag is trying to get his hands on all the colored ragtime he can, but especially Mr. Joplin’s. He says he’s going to publish it and also set up a road company to perform it.”
Daniels shrugged. “Freitag hasn’t been with Hoffman for more than a month now, so I can’t see where whatever he does is any concern of mine.”
Brun thought the man was trying to look a lot less interested than he really was. “Well, for one thing, there’s talk that Freitag’s actually fronting for you. I heard him say such myself—that with a big company like Hoffman behind him, he can’t miss.”
Pure fabrication, and Brun was the boy to carry it off. A blood vessel at Daniels’ temple swelled up, thick and blue. “Well, there’s nothing to that, absolutely nothing. I haven’t seen Freitag since last month, and I don’t care if I never see him again. Go back to Sedalia and tell people that. And while you’re at it, tell your piano teacher that if Hoffman wants his music, I’ll be talking to him. No one else.”
Daniels started to swing back to face the piano, but Brun stopped him with, “That’s not all. Mr. Freitag’s got himself a couple of yahoos to scare the colored and beat them up, and steal their music. I work in Mr. John Stark’s store—”
Daniels jumped off the stool to face Brun directly. “So Stark sent you. I should’ve figured.”
“No sir, that’s wrong.” With a face that could melt butter. “I told you I’m here on my own screw, and I am. What I’m trying to say is that for some reason, Mr. Freitag’s got it in for Mr. Stark and Isaac. You know Isaac, don’t you?”
“The colored man, works in Stark’s store.”
Brun nodded. “The same. Freitag’s telling people that Isaac and Mr. Stark are actually brothers. That their father…you know.”
“Damn that Freitag.” Daniels’ voice was soft, but there was no missing the anger. “He’s still fighting the Civil War, always will be.”
“There’s more.”
Brun thought Daniels looked like he was sorry he hadn’t just stood in bed that morning.
“Mr. Freitag’s yahoos went and picked on Isaac’s little girl, just for fun. They rubbed horse shit all over her dress, and then, afterward, they burned down Isaac’s house.”
“Oh, no. You’re not going to tell me he was inside. He and the girl?”
“No, they’re both all right. But Freitag’s bashers tied up Isaac’s dog in the house before they set the fire.” Talking faster now. “And about two weeks ago, a woman was murdered in Sedalia, strangled. I think Freitag had something to do with it.”
Daniels shot a look behind Brun, then charged to the door and pushed it firmly closed. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Campbell. Brun Campbell.”
Daniels wiped his hand over his mouth, as if what was about to come out was not to his liking. Then he walked to the side of his desk and brought his fist down, slam! Papers shook, piles rearranged themselves. “God damn Elmo Freitag. I should’ve fired him a year ago. Only salesman at Hoffman with expense accounts bigger than his sales. He spent more time pitching girls than music store owners. I wouldn’t trust him to hold my dog’s leash while I went to piss. That scene he made in Stark’s store last month was the last straw. I didn’t see you there, but I’m guessing you heard about it.”
If someone gives you a gift, Brun thought, take it. “Oh, you bet. Mr. Stark told me all about it. He was really in a state.”
“I figured. Stark’s a damned good customer, and Freitag was out of a job before we ever got back to Kansas City. But my God, Campbell, you’re saying you think he’s involved in murdering a woman?”
Stark had warned Brun not to mention the locket on any account, so he said, “Somebody heard Freitag yelling at her, making threats. Telling her she better get the hell out of town and quit bothering him. But the dead woman’s name wasn’t Freitag. Maybe she could have been his sweetheart.”
Daniels picked up a pencil, tapped it on the desk top while he thought. “Freitag does have a wife, but that wouldn’t stop him having a hotel full of sweethearts. All right. I want it to be good and goddamn clear to everyone in Sedalia that he has no connection with Hoffman or me. I’ll get his address from the receptionist, and then you and I will go and have a talk with Mrs. Freitag, make sure she understands that if her husband causes me any problems, Hoffman and I will file a suit that he and his family will never recover from. You’ll be my witness, someone who heard Freitag claim he’s acting as my right-hand man. Two dollars for your time and help. What do you say?”
To the chance to meet Mrs. Freitag, hear what she’d have to say, and get a couple of bucks in the bargain? Brun laughed. “What are we waiting for?”
Daniels extended a hand. “I’m sorry I was short with you before. Looks as if we both need to deal with that jackass, and I think we can do it better together than separately.”
As he talked, Daniels rolled down his sleeves, fastened his cuffs, straightened his tie. Then he grabbed a slick boater off a hook behind the door, and slapped the hat onto his head at an angle that made him look natty and sharp, especially when he smiled like he did right then. “Okay, Campbell,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”
***
Freitag’s neighborhood was not one Brun thought he’d have cared to find himself alone in at night. Once he and Daniels left the industrial area, they walked along dirt roads, no paving, no sidewalks. The houses looked ashamed to be located there, like once-respectable men now in old age, slumped and crippled by disabilities they know will never be set right, and likely will get worse.
Half a block along Arden Street, Daniels pointed at a small frame house, surrounded by scrub grass and weeds. The roof sagged. Separating the house from the road was a picket fence, which, like the siding on the house, had once been painted a pale peach color, but now was near-bare wood, paint peelings lying on the ground like shed snakeskin.
Daniels opened the gate. He and Brun walked into the yard, and up three creaking stairs to the small front porch. At other houses in the neighborhood, children played in yards, and most doors were open for ventilation. No children at Freitag’s, though, and the door was shut. Daniels rapped hard, no answer. He rapped again, harder, but with the same result.
“Sure this is it?” Brun asked.
Daniels pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “This is the address we’ve got at Hoffman’s, but I wouldn’t put it past Freitag to leave a fake address.” He shaded his eyes to peer through the glass panels on the door, then muttered, “No one.”
“She could be out shopping,” Brun said.
Daniels nodded, then pointed to the front yard next door, where two small children, a boy and a girl, sat in a sandbox, playing with little pails, shovels, and sifters. “Let’s go ask.”
As the men walked by, the children regarded them with open-mouthed kid-curiosity. “Hello,” Daniels called through the open front door. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called louder.
“Yeah, hold your horses.” A woman’s voice.
A moment later, the owner of the voice appeared at the door. Pale, thin, eyes red and watery, shoulders slumped as if in defeat, final and permanent. Sandy hair hung stringy and lank. Brun doubted she was thirty, but she looked used up. She glanced at Daniels, then at Brun, then back to Daniels, all suspicion. Then she snapped, “What do you want?”
Brun noticed she had one hand on the edge of the open door.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Daniels said, smooth as silk. “We’re looking for the Freitags, but there’s no one there.”
Which seemed to annoy the woman. “Ha! You think you’re telling me something? I know nobody’s there, and that’s just fine with me. Mrs., I feel sorry for, but him? A first-class bum, if there ever was one. One thing for a man to go with hoors, ’least they’re grown-up women mostly, and they can do it or not as they please. But men who go lookin’ for little boys, that’s different. If I wasn’t a lady, I’d tell you what I think they ought to do with men like that.”
Brun looked at Daniels, who shook his head. “Had no idea.”
The woman picked up. “Yeah, well I got more than an idea. Last month, he lost his job, so what does he go and do? Gets himself good and stinko, that’s what. Next day, his wife’s off at work up by the meat packers, and I’m standing inside by an open window, and I hear him telling my little Arnold he’ll give him a nickel to come over to his house and play with him. So I run out in the yard and grab Arnold away, and I tell that creep if I ever see him near Arnold again, he’s going to be dealing with my husband.” She smiled, not an attractive sight. “Charlie’s six-four and two-thirty, slaughters cattle in the stockyards. ‘Oh, now, Mrs. Evans,’ the bum has the crust to say to me, ‘it’s all a misunderstanding.’ In a pig’s eye, misunderstanding. ‘I didn’t misunderstand nothing,’ I told him. When his wife got home that night, I told her, figured she had a right to know. But it was like talking to a wall. ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘Poor Elmo. When he gets to feeling bad, he finds himself some little boys to play with, ’cause it makes him feel like when he was a boy himself, and takes his mind off his troubles.’ Can you believe that? Well anyways, a couple of weeks ago, off he goes, his wife tells me he’s got himself a job with some other music outfit, and he’ll be on the road for a while. I say to myself the longer the better. But then, let’s see, a week last Monday, here comes Mrs. F, and she’s pretty upset. Says she’s got to go see her husband, she lost her job at the meat packers, ’count of being sick every morning.” Mrs. Evans snickered. “Didn’t need to have a real big brain to figure that out, did I? She said she thought she’d be gone only a day or two, but just in case, she asked me would I water her plants.” The woman shook her head. “Sallie and her plants, jeez!”
