The Ragtime Kid

by Larry Karp

  Brown drew a deep breath, sprang to his feet, stepped in the direction of the open doorway. “Mr. Stark, since I cannot enlist your active assistance, I thank you most sincerely for your sympathy and your hospitality. Now, I must be on my way.” He chuckled. “Our Mr. Buchanan has put a price on my head, so shorter visits are best for us all. Besides, I need to get to Kansas. There is much to do.”

  “Go in peace, Mr. Brown,” said Etilmon. “I’ll see you to your horse.”

  Brown’s eyes flared, as if he might’ve considered Etilmon’s benediction an insult. From the doorway, he stopped just long enough to look at Johnny. To the young man, it seemed as though Brown were taking his measure and finding he’d fallen short.

  Ed Love’s bellowing, as he tried to restore order, brought Stark back. For just an instant he stared at the small mob, then stepped forward and marched directly up to Joplin, who looked like a man with a bad case of St. Vitus’ Dance. Stark rested a hand on Joplin’s shoulder. “Forget about this nonsense,” he roared for all to hear. “I am going to publish your music.”

  “But…but…” Joplin jabbed a spastic finger toward Freitag. “That man has stolen my music. How—”

  Stark took just long enough to shoot Freitag a glance of pure contempt. “There won’t be any problem. You’ll sit down and copy out the music from memory, and I’ll publish it.”

  “But The Ragtime Dance has thirteen tunes—”

  “We’ll start with your ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’ One tune’s probably better anyway for a new publisher and a composer just getting started. For as long as you’ve been playing it, you ought to be able to get me a copy in a day, maybe less. After that, you can take your time with the rest of the music.” Stark’s eyes shot flames at Freitag. “And if that man ever tries to publish even one piece of your music, I will go to court on your behalf.”

  Freitag let out a howl, lowered his head and charged, but before he got halfway to Stark, the police chief had him in a hammerlock. “All right, that’s it,” he shouted. “Whoever don’t belong in this store, out.” He directed a very hairy eye toward the Alteneders, who backed up a step; then the chief gave Freitag a shove that sent the big man staggering toward the doorway. “Out,” Love yelled. “All of you.” He looked at John Stark, still standing with a hand on Scott Joplin’s shoulder. “I’m gonna get those characters a couple of blocks away. Then I’ll be back. And Scott, I’m gonna escort you to your house myself, and I want you to stay there. I’m confining you to Lincolnville ’til this business blows over.” His voice softened. “For your own safety.”

  Julius Weiss pulled himself up straight. “I must be allowed to go with him.”

  Brun thought the chief was going to say no, but he nodded and said, “Suit yourself.” Then he straightened his cap, went outdoors, and Brun heard him yell, “All right, the three of you, get moving. I see you on Fifth Street again today, you get a free room for the night.”

  Weiss said, “Brunnie, go get some music paper, yes? A lot. That way, Scott can start writing down his music as soon as we get back to his house. Is that all right with you, Mr. Stark?”

  Stark motioned with his head toward the rack of manuscript paper. “I don’t think you should go back to your own place, Joplin. Too easy for someone to find you. Is there another place you could stay, where you’d have someone to stand by you? Just in case?”

  “Marshalls,” Joplin murmured. “I once lived with them. They’re good people.”

  During the exchange, Brun ran to the paper rack and quickly counted out five pads, then ran back with the pads and put them into Weiss’ hand. Weiss smiled like a benevolent uncle.

  In a few minutes, Chief Love was back. Brun ached to tell Joplin right there and then that it had all been a mistake about his music. But after what had just happened, the boy was not sure how Joplin and Stark, never mind the police chief, would take that information.

  Halfway to the door with Joplin at his left, Weiss on his right, the chief turned around. “Better close up for today, John. Probably by tomorrow this’ll all be blown over.”

  Stark shut and locked the door behind Love, then hung out the CLOSED sign. “Tangle with a pig in his trough, you’re going to get filthy.” He waved toward the stairway in back. “Let’s go take a load off. Sounds like we need to do some talking.”

  ***

  Stark’s back porch was shady and cool, if a bit crowded. Isaac, Daniels and Brun sat with Stark in a circle of chairs. After making sure everyone had a glass of lemonade, Mrs. Stark and Nell sat off to one side with Mrs. Fitzgerald, odd-looking as ever in her mismatched shoes. Little Frankie curled in his mother’s lap, tried to play patty-cake with her.

  Stark looked at Brun and Daniels. “We’ve had quite a day. Somebody—I don’t have much doubt it was Freitag and his pair of halfwits—broke into the Maple Leaf Club during the night. When Joplin got there this morning, all his music was gone, and the place was pretty badly worked over. Chairs broken, top of the piano smashed, all the strings cut and the sounding board a mess of splinters. Maybe with all that’s been happening, Joplin shouldn’t have left that music sitting there in the club, but the way he worked at it, coming in at all hours whenever he was free, I can’t rightly fault him. In any case, he went clear off his head, ran all around town yelling about how Freitag had stolen his music. Freitag heard and decided to beard Joplin, told him he was being pretty loose with his tongue, and he’d better mind his manners, starting with an apology right then. From down on his knees.”

  Brun closed his eyes.

  “The only thing that saved Joplin was that Mr. Weiss was along.” Stark chuckled, not humorously. “He let Freitag know that Joplin was not going to do any such thing, and then he got Joplin away and over here. I thought we had matters in hand, but then Freitag and his bully-boys showed up. Fortunately, there was a policeman up at the corner. He sent Ben Helminck’s boy running up to the station, and kept things under control here until the chief got himself over.”

  “Mr. Daniels and I went to Freitag’s house in Kay Cee,” Brun said. “And the lady next door told us what a bad egg he is. He’s a lush, and besides that, he…” Brun glanced backward at the women, decided to go on, but carefully. “Well, he likes to play with little boys.”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald’s black umbrella clattered to the floor; she didn’t make a move to pick it up. Mrs. Stark looked like she’d tasted curdled milk.

  “And that woman who was killed here week before last? Freitag’s neighbor said she was Mrs. Freitag, but she used to be a singer, and Sallie Rudolph was her stage name. The neighbor said she came to Sedalia because she was getting sick from being in the family way, and lost her job.”

  Daniels, who hadn’t said a word to that point, bent to pick up the photograph he’d set on the floor, and handed it to Stark. Mrs. Stark peered over his shoulder. “Oh, my, what a lovely woman. Johnny, dear, is she the one?”

  Brun bit down hard on his tongue.

  “I can’t know that, Sarah, but I’ll bet Bob Higdon will. He’d give a lot to see this picture, and he will see it.”

  “If I’m stepping out of bounds, I apologize,” said Daniels. “But do you really intend to publish Joplin’s music?”

  “I’m not in the habit of dealing in taradiddle.” Stark’s tone and face said that was the end of the discussion.

  But Daniels persisted. “Joplin won’t agree to anything unless it includes royalties.”

  “I know that,” Stark said. “And not to be impertinent, but I don’t believe I ought to discuss Joplin’s business and mine with you.”

  Daniels gulped loud enough for Brun to hear. Then he said, “I apologize if you think I was trying to impugn your honesty. That wasn’t my intent.”

  “Your intent, I’m sure, was to find out whether you still had any chance of getting that music for yourself, though I don’t doubt through honest means,” said Stark. “And if you can convince Joplin he’d be better off publishing with you, then I would
have no objection. But I do mean what I say.”

  “I hope you believe I’ve had nothing to do with Freitag, though.”

  Stark nodded. “I don’t think you or Mr. Hoffman would ever stoop to such behavior.”

  Daniels chewed at his upper lip. “I’ve had no dealings with Freitag since he left Hoffman, and I never will.”

  “Good,” Stark said. “Now, then. I’ll warrant Freitag stole Joplin’s music just so what happened did happen. He knew Joplin would accuse him, probably in public, a dangerous thing for a colored man to do. And unfortunately, I don’t think Ed Love is right. This is not all going to cool off overnight, Freitag will see to that. But if that murdered woman really was Freitag’s wife, it puts a whole new light on the case.”

  “But it wouldn’t prove he killed her.”

  Everyone turned to Nell.

  Stark said, “That’s correct. The information would open up a whole new line of inquiry for Bob Higdon, as well as for the police, but that line wouldn’t necessarily weaken the case against Mr. Fitzgerald. In fact, there’s a possibility it might strengthen that case.”

  “Mr. Stark!” Mrs. Fitzgerald was on her feet, holding Frankie by the hand. The little boy jammed his free thumb into his mouth. “My husband does not have dealings with strange women while he’s on the road.”

  He sure does when he’s at home, Brun thought, and judging from the looks on most faces right then, he was not alone in that idea.

  Mrs. Stark took Mrs. Fitzgerald by the hand, murmured to her, eased her back into her chair. Then came a call, “Yoo-hoo. Mr. Stark?”

  In the alley below, Professor Weiss waved a hand. Stark called down to him to go around front, and he’d open the door.

  By the time the two men came back up, there was a chair set for Weiss. When Sarah Stark handed him a glass of lemonade, he thanked her with a great profusion of words and bows, then took a long swallow. “Ach!” He looked around the group. “Such a time.”

  “Is he all right?” Brun asked. “Mr. Joplin?”

  “Ja. He is at Marshalls’, they will make sure he stays the night. But why I come—Brunnie, he wants for you to go there before dark and tell him what happened in Kansas City.”

  Stark nodded toward Brun. “I told Joplin you went to try to find out why Freitag was here.” He pulled his pocket watch. “After five already. Brun, go ahead, why don’t you. If it’ll make Joplin feel any better, it’s worth it.”

  Brun wondered whether High Henry had told anyone else what had happened to him, and about the plan to steal Joplin’s music. For that matter, was Henry still alive? Brun was this close to asking whether Stark or Isaac knew how Henry was doing, but figured better not to open another door; Stark would be through and inside instantly. And then Brun likely would be on the receiving end of some harsh judgments. So he kept shut, and followed Weiss toward the door.

  As Weiss led Brun out, Stark said to Daniels, “Would you be kind enough to give me the photograph? And by the way, I hope you’ll join us for dinner this evening.”

  “I’d be pleased, thank you,” said Daniels.

  “We’d be glad to have you stay the night,” said Mrs. Stark. “But I fear we are full right now.”

  “That’s all right.” Daniels cast a sidelong glance at Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Once we have everything sorted out, I’ll take an evening train back to Kansas City. And since you’re determined to publish Joplin’s music, I’ll stay out of the way.”

  “I am not just determined to publish that music,” said Stark. “I am fully determined.”

  Daniel smiled. “I’ll be interested to hear how your negotiations come out.”

  ***

  The Marshall house, on Henry Street, six blocks past the railroad tracks into Lincolnville, was a small white frame building with a neat front yard and flowers all along the front and sides. Joplin had the door open for his visitors before they’d covered half the cement path from the street.

  The living room put Brun at ease. Comfortable. The rug on the floor was threadbare, but not dirty; the chairs were the overstuffed kind that a person could sink into and get lost. Arthur Marshall and Scott Hayden sat at an upright piano against the far wall, looking like they were working at writing music. Joplin introduced Brun to the elder Marshall, a dark brown burl about fifty years old, with a shaved head and an easy smile. “Wife’s in the kitchen,” he said. “And my daughter.”

  “I can tell,” Brun said. “Pork chops, if I’m not wrong.”

  Marshall laughed. “You be welcome to stay to dinner. Mr. Weiss, there, he eat with us all the time.”

  “I’d like that,” Brun said. “But truth, after I talk to Mr. Joplin, I need to get back and see Mr. Higdon. But I do thank you.”

  “Some other time. Well, you go right ahead, Scott, Mr. Campbell. I just sit here and be a bump on a log.”

  Joplin and Brun sat face-to-face on the brown horsehair sofa, and Brun repeated what he’d learned from Daniels and Freitag’s next-door neighbor, including the information about Freitag’s wife. Joplin sighed. “She must be the one who came by Cleary’s that day, looking for Freitag. I really do wonder whether that man might have killed his wife. He’s got a vicious temper.”

  Brun pictured Joplin, just an hour before, blind with rage.

  Marshall, across the room, was doing his best to be a bump on a log, but pretty clearly, a bump with ears. Well, if Mr. Joplin doesn’t care, Brun thought, why should I?

  “We may need to change the program for the Emancipation Day Concert,” Joplin said. “Mr. Weiss is generous, but I’m not at all sure I can have The Ragtime Dance back down on paper inside three days, let alone have time to practice it.”

  Always right back to his music. Brun had never seen such a one-track mind. Again, the boy came inside a hair’s-breadth of telling Joplin his music was safe, but he reminded himself that after the day’s commotion, he was going to have to cobble an awfully good story to explain how he’d gotten his hands on the manuscripts. So he just said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I would like for you to play some ragtime.”

  Brun gave Joplin a curious look. The man didn’t have a shred of a sense of humor, but was he pulling Brun’s leg? “Now?” the boy asked. “Here?”

  “No, no. At Emancipation Day. Scott and Arthur there will play, too, so I’ll have all three of my students.”

  “But, Mr. Joplin. A white stu—”

  “At an Emancipation Day concert? Is that what you’re asking? But yes, that’s exactly what I have in mind. Does it bother you?”

  “No, sir. Just, well, it’s so different. What tunes you got in mind?”

  “I’ll think about that. Tomorrow, at your lesson, we can decide.”

  Brun didn’t tell him he’d forgotten about the lesson, and vowed he’d do some heavy practicing in the morning.

  ***

  All the way back to Higdon’s, Brun could think only of how to get Joplin’s music back to him. The truth was just too awkward. Maybe tomorrow he’d tell Joplin that earlier in the morning, he’d waited until he was sure Freitag was out, then broke into his room and found the music. He could tell Mr. Stark the same. And if that made Brun look something of a hero, he guessed he wouldn’t much mind.

  He pulled in at Higdon’s just as they were making ready to eat, and quickly asked how Mr. Higdon’s mother was coming along. “Well enough, Brun, and thanks for asking,” Higdon said. “It seems to be just a summer catarrh, but for a while yesterday she was having a little breathing trouble. So we thought we ought to stay over, and help look after her.”

  “Do we have long enough before dinner, I can tell you what I found out today? It’s got to do with Freitag and that murdered woman.”

  “Can it be discussed over dinner?”

  So as they ate, Brun told his story for the third time in as many hours. Considering the presence of the young women at table, he considered leaving out the part about Freitag and young boys, but decided best to te
ll it straight. Belle’s eyes opened wide, and Luella dropped her fork onto the floor. Brun picked it up and passed it to her. Her thank-you was as icy as her hand.

  Higdon cracked his knuckles. “Sallie Rudolph, eh? And she came to town to talk to her husband because she was expecting and feeling sick. That does put a new light on the situation. Now, Brun, just so we’re all above board here, while you were at Joplin’s, John Stark came by to show me that photograph. We talked a good while, about that and the locket you found.” Brun felt his face color. Higdon smiled. “Neither of us feels comfortable about what might happen to Mr. Fitzgerald or you if Ed Love should get hold of the information. So, at least for now, we’ll keep quiet.” He looked around the table. “We’ll all keep quiet.”

  “What are you going to do?” Brun asked.

  “We’re still thinking.”

  That was as far as Higdon went. The rest of dinner, Brun, Higdon and Belle chatted. Luella didn’t say a word, nor did she eat a whole lot. Then, afterward, while they carried the dishes into the kitchen, Belle said, “Oh, Brun…”

  The boy juggled a water tumbler, caught it just in time. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I almost forgot, you had someone looking for you this afternoon. Miss McAllister.”

  Luella burst into tears and ran out of the room.

  Higdon worked at keeping a straight face.

  “Did she say what she wanted?” Brun asked.

  Belle shook her head. “She said you weren’t at Stark’s today, so she thought you might be here and maybe not feeling well. She said she’d look in on you later.”

  A bad notion popped into Brun’s head. “And then she just left?”

  Belle pursed her lips. “I guess so. Luella and I were on our way to do the grocery shopping, and Miss McAllister caught us out front. Then we went our way, and I suppose she went hers.”

  Brun had to fight himself to not just tear off upstairs and rip the mattress from his bed. He thanked Belle, then helped finish clearing the table. Before they were through, Luella came back, red-eyed, and the look she gave Brun would’ve frozen a runaway train.