The Ragtime Kid

by Larry Karp

  Just a few minutes later, he was pounding on John Stark’s door. He woke the entire household. There they all stood, the Starks, Mrs. Fitzgerald and little Frankie, holding his mother’s hand and sucking at his thumb. One look at Brun, and Sarah Stark hustled Mrs. Fitzgerald and Frankie back to their room. Nell disappeared down the stairway to the store.

  Stark considered the suitcase in the boy’s grip. “Well, Brun, before you choke that poor thing to death, perhaps you’d like to sit down and tell us what’s on your mind.”

  Brun set the suitcase on the sofa. “I thought you needed to see what I found, sir.” He opened the suitcase and passed some of the papers to Stark.

  Footsteps on the back stairway, then Nell appeared with Isaac. The colored man yawned and rubbed at his eyes. Brun gave each of them a handful of paper from the suitcase. “The pieces that have Saunders’ name on them,” he said. “I’ve played just about every one in my lessons with Mr. Joplin. They’re his.”

  Nell had hold of “The Entertainer,” and was reading the score, her hand beating time in the air, lips moving but making no sound. “Well, of course,” she finally said. “Nobody but Scott Joplin could have written this.”

  Stark asked, “Where did you get these, Brun?”

  “From Mr. Freitag’s room, at the Commercial Hotel, down on West Main.”

  “Would it be too much to ask just what you were doing in Mr. Freitag’s room?”

  “I was looking for the music Mr. Joplin said Freitag stole last night. I figured that was where it had to be.” Brun paused, judged it prudent not to mention who had helped him get into Freitag’s room. “That fool Jeb Johnson was at the night desk, and when I saw he was asleep, I snuck in, checked the register, took the key to Freitag’s room, and searched it. When I found the suitcase and saw the music in it, I scrammed in a hurry.”

  “I’m glad you came here, Brun. I really am. But what on earth possessed you to go off all on your own and pull a trick like that?”

  “I wanted to help Mr. Joplin. He’s been mighty good to me, and it made me sore to see a crumb-bun like Freitag steal his music.”

  “That was brave of you,” Stark said. “But sometimes bravery can be difficult to distinguish from folly. Freitag’s not right in his head, the man’s dangerous. Promise me you won’t take matters into your own hands again.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. It’s time to deal with him once and for all, and I have an idea. I’ll need help from both Mr. Higdon and you. But I’ll need to be able to count on you to do as I tell you, and only as I tell you. Otherwise, the plan may fail, and you may well endanger all of us. Oh, and by the way—you are to stay away from the Alteneders. Dr. Overstreet told me what you said the other night.”

  Brun felt as though he’d taken a punch under the ribs. “Henry? Is he…?”

  Stark shook his head. “He never woke up, probably just as well.” The boy’s eyes filled; Stark reached a hand to his shoulder. “I intend that we will deal with the Alteneders as well as Freitag. But I must have your full cooperation. I can’t have you rushing out and doing something foolish that might spoil the whole plan.”

  Brun looked at the three pairs of eyes trained on him. If Henry didn’t wake up, then he couldn’t have told anyone else about the plan to steal Joplin’s music, or that he had told Brun about it. Safe on that score. The boy promised solemnly to mind his behavior.

  Stark nodded. “All right, then. Here’s your first assignment. Tomorrow morning, as quickly as you can, find Saunders. Don’t come in to work until you’ve told him that I intend to publish Scott Joplin’s music under a royalties contract. Be sure to mention the royalties.”

  “But you said that yesterday. At the store, before Chief Love broke up the ruckus.”

  “No, I didn’t. I said only that I’d publish Joplin’s music. I purposely didn’t mention royalties. I gambled that Joplin was sufficiently upset that he wouldn’t press the point.”

  “Is that the truth, then? You really are going to give him royalties?”

  “Just do as I say, Brun. Then, go and find Joplin—”

  “I’m supposed to have a lesson at eleven.”

  “Not on the Maple Leaf Club piano, you won’t. Just you find Joplin, and give him these tunes with Saunders’ name on them. Tell him I gave them to you. And if Joplin asks, you have no idea how I got them.”

  “Yes, sir. Then, what?”

  “Then come to work, and we’ll proceed from there.”

  “One more thing, Mr. Stark—that suitcase.” Brun repeated Fitzgerald’s story about carrying a cheap cardboard suitcase up the stairs for Sallie Rudolph.

  Stark tugged at his beard. “First thing in the morning, I’ll stop by Mr. Higdon’s office, and give him the suitcase. I don’t want you to be the one to explain to him how you happened to find it.”

  “Are you going to tell him, sir?”

  “Yes, I will, so you should be prepared. But I think by the time I’m through talking to him, he won’t be angry with you.”

  ***

  Brun didn’t know just where he might find Otis Saunders, but since he did know most musicians are not early risers, he let himself sleep through the courthouse bell, the railway shop whistle, and the clatter of the milkman as he left the cans of milk on the back steps. When the boy came downstairs, a little past nine-thirty, the music sheets carefully folded into his shirt pocket, Belle asked whether he’d like some breakfast. He thanked her, said he had to run an errand for Mr. Stark, and would get something to eat in town.

  He walked slowly down Ohio, looking all along the way for Saunders. Bruno Sneath, the popcorn man, hadn’t seen him that day; neither had Luigi Vitale, playing his accordion on the corner of Ohio and Third, nor John Fischer, the rag-picker, pushing his cart across from the St. Louis Clothing Store. But as Brun came up on Main, he got lucky. Apple John nodded his head, and pointed west around the corner. “Saw him going into Lopp’s just a bit ago. Probably by now he’s behind a big stack of griddle cakes.”

  Lopp’s was a small hash house directly downstairs from the Black 400 Club, and across the street from the Maple Leaf Club. Brun charged through the open doorway and inside, wrinkled his nose at the thick bouquet of days-old frying grease, and looked around. Saunders sat at a table by the window; he spotted Brun as fast as Brun spotted him, and waved the boy over. “Hey, there, young piano genius, come on and sit down. You have your breakfast yet?”

  Brun thought of those chameleon lizards that actually change color depending on who and what are around them. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, took the chair opposite Saunders, and called for coffee and a stack of griddle cakes. He and Saunders talked of this and that, just banter, until Saunders asked how the boy’s piano lessons were going. Brun made haste to swallow his mouthful of pancake, then said, “Good enough, I think. But I hope Mr. Joplin will keep me on as a student after he gets famous.”

  Saunders laughed. “Well, now, Scott sure is a fine musician and a great composer. But I don’t think I’d worry too much about him getting famous this week or next.”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  The smile died as if Brun had shot it. “Heard what?”

  “About Mr. Stark. He’s going to publish Mr. Joplin’s music.”

  The smile revived itself. “’Less Scott gets royalties, he ain’t never gonna let no publisher have his stuff. Ask me, he just could die without ever seein’ another piece of his music for sale in a store.”

  “But Mr. Stark said he is going to give Mr. Joplin a royalties contract. When Mr. Joplin can get The Ragtime Dance down on paper again, Mr. Stark will publish it, but in the meantime, he’s going to publish ‘Maple Leaf.’” The boy told himself to shut up, that he’d said what Mr. Stark had told him to say, but what he had in mind was just too good to keep to himself. “And ‘The Entertainer,’ ‘Peacherine,’ and ‘Easy Winners.’”

  Now the mulatto’s smile was dead for good. He forced a lau
gh. “Well, I’ll be damn’. Mr. Stark ain’t even a music publisher, just has the store. You know why he’s doin’ that?”

  Some people just can’t resist telling stories. “I think maybe because of Freitag,” Brun said. “Mr. Stark was sore as a boil about how he stole Mr. Joplin’s music. But isn’t that the grandest thing for Mr. Joplin? Like I said, though, I hope he’ll keep giving me lessons.”

  “I wouldn’t worry, was I you.” Saunders’ heart was not in his words. He looked up at the clock over the counter, the glass so covered with grease Brun could barely see the hands. “Got an appointment.” He pushed away from the table. “Sorry to run off on you like this.”

  “See you later.” Brun shoveled in a forkful of pancake, and chewed hard to keep the grin from spreading across his face.

  ***

  As Brun crossed Main Street, he saw Joplin and Professor Weiss in front of the door to the Maple Leaf Club. Joplin didn’t even say hello, just pointed up at the building, and said, “We’ll have to go somewhere else for your lesson today. No one will ever play on that piano again.”

  “If you’d rather skip it—”

  “I didn’t say that. I said only that we need to go somewhere else where there’s a decent piano.”

  Brun suggested Boutell’s, then Miss Nellie’s place, but Joplin shook his head at both. “Do you think anyone at Higdon’s would mind? There, no one will disturb us.”

  When the three trooped in, Belle and Luella were in the kitchen, Luella scrubbing the floor and Belle wiping down the cabinets. Brun explained the situation; Belle smiled. “Go right ahead, we’ve already done the living room.” Luella gave Brun a look that said something very different.

  Once at the piano, Joplin wasted no time. “I’m going to have you practice ‘Original Rags’ and ‘Maple Leaf.’ We’ll go through them line by line, note by note. Then, as I told you yesterday, on Friday afternoon, you will play them at the Emancipation Day concert.”

  “You’re really going to let me play ‘Maple Leaf’ for a colored audience?”

  “I insist on it. And I also insist that you play it beautifully. I want them to see how well my student plays ragtime.”

  Was Joplin using him for a hustle? To show a bunch of colored that he could teach even a white boy how to play ragtime right? He’d have students lined up around the block.

  “Brun, are you listening to me?”

  Whatever Joplin had said, Brun missed it completely. “I’m sorry, Mr. Joplin. What you told me got me so sparked, I lost track of myself for a minute. But I’m with you now. Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.”

  Brun considered he was saying that a lot lately, and it was getting to be something of a heavy load.

  ***

  When they finished the hour, Brun was dripping wet. He thought his fingers might never straighten again. Weiss patted his shoulder. “You are doing very much better, Brunnie. You must just practice, not worry, and all will be fine.”

  Brun took a half-dollar from his pocket, handed it to Joplin, then said, “I’ve got something else I need to give you.”

  “What might that be?”

  Brun peered around the doorway, didn’t hear voices. He pulled the music from his pocket and put it into Joplin’s hand. To look at Joplin as he scanned the sheets of paper, you might’ve thought he was just giving a moment’s attention to the daily newspaper. But when he held the pages out for Weiss to see, Brun saw they shook.

  Weiss’ face bloomed like a rose bush. “Brunnie, where did you get these musics?”

  “Mr. Stark gave them to me. He said I should give them to Mr. Joplin.”

  “Well, then, thank you, Brun.” Joplin refolded the papers and slipped them into his own pocket. “I guess I need to have a talk with Crackerjack, don’t I? And with Mr. Stark.”

  ***

  When Brun got to work at one o’clock, Stark and Joplin were in the office with the door closed, and by appearances they were having themselves a spirited discussion. Brun set right to work, helping Isaac set up a shipment of brass in the back. By the time they finished, Joplin was gone, and Stark was behind the counter, ringing up a sale. He said nothing to Brun about Joplin, and Brun didn’t ask.

  The heat was past oppressive, air close to drinkable. Only a few customers came in, and they walked slowly and without clear aim, the women fanning themselves with such vigor as to generate more heat than they dispelled. Some time after three, Brun sold a beautiful S.S. Stewart banjo, inlaid all over with mother-of-pearl, to a dapper colored man passing through with an hour to kill between trains. The man mopped his face with a handkerchief as he put his money on the counter. “You got you’selfs some real heat, here,” he said. “Thermometer ’cross the street by the courthouse there say a hundred.”

  Brun whistled. “And that’s in the shade.”

  As the colored man walked out, two white men in overalls came in, working men by their looks, blue shirts and dirty overalls. One of them wanted guitar strings and a pick. While Brun punched the sale into the cash register, he heard one of the men say, “They sure did some job on her. Ask me, that kinda thing just shouldn’t happen to no woman, not even a whore.”

  Suddenly, Brun commenced to feel exceedingly uneasy. He asked the men what they were talking about. The one buying the goods, a walking beer barrel with a bald head, a week’s growth of whiskers, and arms thicker than Brun’s legs, shook his head. “They found one of Nellie Hall’s girls layin’ dead back of Lemp’s new plant there on Moniteau. She was beat up something awful, clothes tore offa her, bruises and cigarette burns all over her body, and carved up like a piece of meat. I don’t figure you’re supposed to treat a whore like a lady, but that…?” He shook his head.

  Brun gave the man his package. “Do they know who did it?”

  The man shook his head. “Just a whore, cops won’t waste much of their time. The guy did it’s probably a hundred miles down the railway tracks now, anyway.”

  The minute the men were out the door, Brun heard Stark call his name. The boy turned around. He didn’t care for the look on his boss’ face. “Brun! What do you know about that?”

  “You heard what they said?”

  “Every word. And you know something about it. Your face, when that man said it was one of Nellie’s girls… Now, you and I are going back into the office, and you’re going to tell me what’s going on. And don’t you dare lie to me.”

  Brun felt like those eyes might bore holes in his head if he told even the smallest fib. So he told it straight, how Rita and Marsha had helped him get into Freitag’s room the night before. By the time he finished, tears were streaming down both his cheeks. “I’ve got to go over there, sir,” he wailed. “If that was because of what I did—”

  Stark took hold of the boy by both shoulders. “If that was because of what you did, then you’re likely in danger yourself. We don’t know what that girl might have told them before they killed her. Now, promise me solemnly that you will not go anywhere near Nellie’s house. Not within a block of it in any direction.”

  Brun hesitated, just couldn’t speak. Stark loosened his grip a bit. “If this has anything to do with your adventure last night, whoever killed the girl may be watching the place. Who was it, Brun. What was her name?”

  “Rita or Marsha. They both helped me. They’re really nice girls, I don’t want it to be one of them.” Which started the tears up again.

  Stark squeezed Brun’s shoulder. “Get hold of yourself, then go back out there and work as if nothing ever happened. I’m going up to Nellie’s myself. If I’m not back by closing, put up the sign, but stay here. Do not leave before I get back, not under any circumstances. Do I make myself plain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, promise me you will go nowhere near Nellie’s until this business is finished. Not for any reason.”

  “I promise, sir.”

  Stark nodded, then reached into his desk, pulled out a pistol in a shoul
der holster, and strapped them on. Then he worked a handkerchief between his collar and the back of his neck, put on his jacket, grabbed his hat off the hook on the wall, and walked out of the office, pausing just long enough to say a few words to Isaac. Brun thought he looked like a soldier marching into battle.

  Isaac strolled into the office, and looked Brun up and down. “You don’t mind me askin’, what in hell is going on?”

  Brun took a deep breath, then told the story yet another time. When he finished, Isaac said, “That Freitag be one bodacious sackful of trouble. You be sure and do what Mr. Stark tell you, hear? Don’t even go thinkin’ about crossin’ him.”

  The idea of waiting until dark, then hopping a freight out of town to anywhere cut through Brun’s mind, but he said, “I won’t.”

  ***

  All the way down Ohio to West Main, people moved off to let John Stark pass. When he walked through the front door and into Nellie Hall’s parlor, a slovenly dark girl sprawled on the sofa across from the piano took one look at him and pulled her leg off the sofa arm, then sat straight as a schoolgirl after a severe tongue-lashing by the teacher. Self-consciously, she brushed a mop of hair back off her forehead and gathered it in behind her neck. “Yes sir?”

  “I need to speak to Miss Nellie. Please be so good as to get her for me.”

  The girl looked uncertain. “Well, sir, right now she’s kinda busy, and—”

  “Please tell her that John Stark is here and needs to talk to her immediately.”

  Without another word, the girl scrambled off the sofa, and fled up the stairs to the second story. A moment later, she returned. “Miss Nellie says if you’ll please come with me.”

  Stark followed the girl up the stairs, then to the right and half-way down the corridor, to where Nellie Hall stood outside a room. Nellie nodded to the girl, who turned on a dime and hustled back downstairs. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Stark said. “But I need to speak with you.”

  Nellie Hall nodded. She was an attractive woman, not yet forty, well-groomed and dressed. Passing her on the street, you’d never take her for a whoremarm. Stark often wondered how she’d gotten into the business. “I’ve paid regular on the piano, Mr. Stark,” she said. “Every Monday without fail.”