The Ragtime Kid

by Larry Karp

  “That’s not why I’m here, Nellie. I wish it were. There’s been some trouble, and I need information. I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but it sounds as if one of your girls has been murdered, and I’m concerned there might be another one in danger.”

  Understanding dawned in Nellie’s eyes. “The kid, Brun—he works for you.”

  “He told me what he did last night, with help from two of your girls. By the way, you need to know that he wanted to come by himself and tell you how sorry he is, but I wouldn’t let him.”

  “He’s a decent kid,” said Nellie. “Maybe just a little big for his britches.”

  “We all were at his age, weren’t we? We learn, but it’s too bad somebody else often has to pay for our lessons. I think I know who killed the girl, and if I’m right, they’re not going to let the other one get away alive.”

  Nellie began to cry quietly. “It was a lark,” she said. “The kid wanted to get into a room at the Commercial Hotel, and figured a girl could get that saphead Jeb Johnson away from the desk long enough for him to grab the key and get upstairs. He asked Rita Hodges, but Marsha Gordon heard what was coming off, and told Brun if he’d pay her and Rita, they’d keep Jeb busy plenty long enough. They did ask me.” Nellie choked on a sob. “And I told them sure, it wasn’t busy, go ahead, make some money and have a little fun. I should have known better.”

  Stark tried to think of something comforting he might say. Nellie wiped at her eyes, then opened the door to the room she’d been standing in front of, and motioned Stark into the room. The only light came from around the pulled window shade. Stark heard crying. He followed the sound to the bed, where a fully dressed girl lay, sobbing hysterically. Nellie pulled the shade half-way up. “This is Rita,” the madam said. “She’s been like this since she got back a few hours ago. Rita, honey, you know Mr. Stark, he owns the music store. Can you tell him what happened?”

  The girl looked up. Stark was appalled. Her hair was a mess, eyes swollen, face streaked with tears and mucus. “Hello,” he said, a little roughly. “We heard in the store what happened to your friend, and—”

  “Is she all right? Marsha?”

  Stark glanced at Nellie, but got no more than a little shrug by way of reply. A mallet commenced to whack just below the crown of his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “She was murdered.”

  Rita shrieked. Nellie moved forward to sit on the edge of the bed and take the girl’s head in her arms, but Rita pulled herself free. “Those goddamn coppers, fucking coppers! I hope some day they see their wives and daughters get the same.”

  “Rita, what do you mean?” Nellie looked at sea. “Was it cops who grabbed you? I thought you told me—”

  “No, it was them Alteneders, Emil and his ugly kid. We went out, Marsha and me, to get some makeup, but they caught us right at the first corner, Moniteau.”

  Stark wondered why the girls had walked west from Nellie’s, toward Moniteau, rather than east to Ohio, where most of the drugstores were. Then he realized: prostitutes generally kept to the quieter streets when they went out during the day, so as to lower the odds they’d get insulted or even spat upon by the respectable women of the town. “What happened then?”

  “The kid started draggin’ Marsha back behind the building, had his hand over her mouth. The old man had me the same way, but I wiggled my head loose to where I could bite his hand. That made him let up enough so I could give him a good kick where he’d know about it. While he was bent over, I ran fast as I could to the coppers, told ’em they had to come quick, before Marsha got hurt bad. But they just laughed at me, the son of a bitches. Said that everybody else in town gives to charity, so why not a whore? I told them it wasn’t like that, and I was afraid Marsha was gonna get killed. But the coppers just kept on laughing. One of ’em said that Jews and whores are all the same, neither one ever gives something for free without a fight. Finally, they told me to get the hell out or else they’d put me in the cooler for makin’ a public nuisance. I didn’t know what to do then, so I ran over to the mayor’s office, but he had a room full of patients, and said I should go back to the cops and tell ’em he said to help me. Some goddamn joke. I figured I’d better just come back here before those Alteneder creeps caught me again.” She grabbed the pillow from the bed, threw it across the room. “Bastards!”

  Stark’s headache was now a full-grown plant with roots down into his shoulders and branches reaching forward to his temples. If he went to the police with Rita’s story, they might bring in the Alteneders, but then what? Freitag would have an alibi for them, and it would be his word against Rita’s. Emil and Fritz might say that Rita had tried to solicit them, that they’d turned her down, and she’d threatened to “fix them.” A jury would have to choose whether to believe Rita Hodges or Freitag and the Alteneders, but more likely, Rita would never even get to the witness stand. She’d disappear before the trial ever started, and who was going to go digging around town for a missing prostitute?

  Stark said to Nellie, “Clean up her face and get her into some proper clothes. I’ll take care of it from there.”

  ***

  An hour later, Stark and Rita stood on the platform at the train depot. They could have been a father seeing his daughter off on a trip to visit Grandma in St. Louis. Rita wore a plain black skirt and jacket over a white silk blouse, and a modest black felt hat, simply and tastefully trimmed with a drape of black velveteen and black curled quills to the side. Her eyes were red, but Stark thought she could still easily enchant a drummer, or perhaps even a respectable young man, on the train. He kept the girl close by his side, until the conductor called all aboard, then handed her the ticket, along with a ten-dollar bill. Rita’s eyes bulged at the sight of the money. “Oh, Mr. Stark…” She couldn’t get further.

  He patted her arm. “St. Louis is a big city, and there will be opportunities for you. I hope you’ll use the money to get yourself a room in a proper boarding house, while you look for a job that might not be quite so dangerous.”

  To his surprise and dismay, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I ain’t ever gonna forget how kind you’ve been.”

  To try to hide his embarrassment, Stark said, “I’ll say good-bye to Brun for you.”

  A step away, she stopped long enough to fire back, “That goddamned little pipsqueak. Tell him I hope he burns in hell for what he done.” Then, she marched onto the train. Stark’s headache pounded away like a water hammer.

  He stood on the platform until the train disappeared ’round the bend, then walked to Third Street and turned eastward. Five blocks along, he stopped in front of a tumbledown house with a sagging roof, and siding that hadn’t seen paint in more years than he’d lived in Sedalia. A man sat on a broken-down sofa on the front porch, a woman beside him. Stark took a deep breath, then walked through the weeds up to the porch. From the neighbor’s back yard, a rooster moved away from the coop and started in his direction, screeching at every step. To Stark, exasperated by the events of the afternoon, his patience cooked to a crisp in the blazing sun, it seemed the bird was cursing him. He picked up a stone and threw it. The rooster beat a quick retreat.

  Jeb Johnson watched Stark every step of the way, as did the woman, a scrawny thing with scraggly dishwater hair and no teeth. Stark didn’t think Jeb was married, but then realized the woman was some fifteen or twenty years older than the young man. His mother, Lord! Sickly trees do bear rotten fruit. Stark removed his hat and said hello.

  The woman gave her son a curious glance. “Y’re gettin’ more visitors today than y’ usually get in a year.”

  Jeb grunted. His mother stood. “I s’pose you want me to go on inside, like when that big talker in the ice cream suit came ’long.” She looked at Stark. “I sure hope he ain’t got himself in some kinda trouble.”

  “No, ma’am,” Stark said. “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.”

  It took only a few minutes f
or Stark to confirm that yes, Freitag had come by a little past noon, asked whether Jeb had any idea how his room could have been gotten into and ransacked the night before, and Jeb, poor idiot, hadn’t the sense to lie. Freitag had been real nice about it, Jeb said, even promised not to say anything to the hotel owner. Stark thanked him and left, maybe a little more abruptly than was polite.

  ***

  Ed Love looked up as Stark entered his office. The police chief was no slouch, and Stark’s bearing made no secret of the fact that there was trouble in the air. He motioned his visitor to a chair. “Have a seat, John. What’s the problem?”

  Stark wanted to tell him that the problem was the way his officers had behaved toward a frightened woman, but knew he’d get nowhere, no point riding that particular hobby. “We’ve been lucky so far with this Freitag nut,” Stark said. “But before our luck runs out, I’m going to make sure his does. I can do it myself, but I’d rather have your help. I don’t think you’d want to find yourself trying to explain to Senator Bothwell, Mayor Oversteet and Bud Hastain why you just sat around and let a lynching and a riot happen when you could’ve stopped them.”

  Love leaned forward in his chair. “Listen, John. I’m chief of police here, and I’m not going to have you talk to me like that.”

  “Fine. Have it your way.” Stark sprang to his feet and started toward the door.

  Love called him back. “All right, all right. Sit back down and talk, if you want. I’ll listen, but I’m not making any promises.”

  ***

  Almost closing time when Stark marched back into the room and up to Brun and Isaac. Brun saw the news written across his boss’ face. “Rita’s on her way to St. Louis,” Stark said. “I gave her and Nellie your condolences, and made certain they knew that only my order had prevented you from delivering them yourself.”

  To Brun’s intense embarrassment, he started crying again. He tried wiping his face on his sleeve, but as fast as he dried, it was wet again. “Was Rita sore at me?” he asked.

  Stark put an arm around the boy, and patted his back. “I don’t think so. She told me to wish you well.” As baldfaced a lie as Stark had ever told, but he felt no regret. “What you did was both right and brave, but you didn’t think about the consequences of your actions, and that was a serious error. I never fault a man for making a mistake, but when he makes the same one twice, that’s another story.”

  Brun pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “I’ll attend to what you say, sir.”

  “Good,” Stark said. “We’re going to set a trap for our Mr. Freitag, but we’ve got to be careful.” Stark glanced up at the clock. “Close enough to five. Let’s go to Boutell’s and get ourselves a table in the corner. I think a cold beer right now would do us both good. I’ll tell you about my idea.”

  Brun looked at Isaac, who laughed. “Don’t be worryin’, Brun. I can’t go and sit with you in Boutell’s, but Mr. Stark’s already talked to me.”

  ***

  Stark and Brun got to Boutell’s a little before the after-work crowd. They stopped at the bar, then carried their beer to a table all the way in back, and sat so they faced the wall. For a few minutes, silence; then Stark spoke. “Except for involving those poor girls, you did well to steal the music, Brun. You fired the first shot, square across Freitag’s bow. Scott Joplin’s fired the second, he’s had it out with Saunders. And by now, Saunders will have gotten back to Freitag.”

  Brun thought back to the conversation he’d seen in Stark’s office earlier that afternoon.

  “I want to give Freitag and his thugs what looks like an easy shot at getting rid of all three of us—Isaac, Joplin and me—in one fell swoop. Do you know Walker Williams?”

  “The owner of the Maple Leaf Club? I met him once. He was behind the bar while I took a lesson.”

  “Then you can imagine he’s not terribly happy with Freitag, knowing who wrecked his piano. Williams will make certain someone tells Freitag that Bob Higdon’s going to draw up a royalties contract, and Joplin and I are going to meet at my shop to sign it about ten tomorrow night, with Isaac as witness. I suspect that will bring the vermin out from behind the woodwork. And I promise, they’ll find more than they will have bargained for.”

  “Why at ten o’clock?” Brun asked. “Seems late to be signing a contract.”

  “Freitag will hear that it’s because Joplin has a band rehearsal until nine-thirty.” Stark ran a finger up and down the frost on the outside of his mug. “Scum such as Freitag likes to work under cover of darkness. Now, listen carefully. You’ll need to know the rest.”

  Stark was still talking when from the corner of his eye, Brun saw Freitag come up behind Stark. The boy jumped from his chair, looking for a gun or a knife. But as usual, Freitag had brought only his mouth and the Alteneders. Emil stood at Stark’s left, young Fritz at his right. Fritz glared at Brun, who gave back as good as he got. “Well, Mr. Stark,” Freitag said, with a grand gesture. “How do you do, sir?”

  Men drifted away from the bar to gather behind Freitag and the Alteneders, coyotes waiting for blood to flow. Stark half-turned in his chair, stared at Freitag, didn’t say a word. “Cat got your tongue?” Freitag mocked him. “Or maybe just a little pussy? Guess it’s easier to go stop by Nellie Hall’s in the middle of the afternoon than tryin’ to get around the Missus at night, hey, Mr. Stark?”

  Stark jumped to his feet. The Alteneders closed ranks around Freitag. “There’s a strange thing, Stark,” Freitag shouted into the small crowd. “I hear tell you’re going to publish Scott Joplin’s music, and give him royalties.”

  “Scott Joplin’s business and mine are not your business,” snapped Stark.

  “Maybe not, but maybe so. Who ever heard of giving royalties to a nigger? Sounds mighty damn fishy to me. Here I offer him the chance to write and play all the music he wants, no worries about money, but he says he’d rather publish with a man who ain’t even a music publisher, and is gonna give him a contract he probably can’t even read, let alone understand. You’re gonna squeeze that poor nigger dry, is what you’re going to do, then when you’ve got all you can out of him, you’ll dump him in the gutter. What else did you promise him, huh? What kind of lies did you tell him?”

  Brun heard a couple of nervous little laughs from back in the crowd. He wondered how Stark managed to just stand there, cool as ice. “I’m doing more than publishing his music,” Stark said. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to put another piano into the Maple Leaf Club, to replace the one you hooligans destroyed when you stole his music. Then, they can practice for Emancipation Day. Joplin won’t be able to get his Ragtime Dance manuscript back down on paper in time, but he’s got a good replacement program; he’s calling it The School of Ragtime. All his students will play rags. His colored students…” Stark looked at Brun, and one corner of his mouth turned upward, though not a bit of the ice in those clear blue eyes had melted. “And his white student.”

  Freitag looked like Stark had just said the world was going to end in twenty-four hours. “What’re you saying? That there’s gonna be white and colored on the same stage?”

  “For some tunes, even on the same piano.” Stark’s tone was as level as if he were talking about the weather. “Four hands, two colored, two white.”

  “Ain’t gonna be no such,” said Emil Alteneder.

  “No reason why not.”

  “Reason is, people don’t play piano with monkeys.”

  Stark’s little smile spread across his face. “I don’t see any problem. You’re not planning to be up on that stage, are you?”

  Alteneder let out a growl like a junkyard watchdog, and leaped at Stark. Fritz, of course, went straight for Brun, who took hold of both his attacker’s arms and tried to butt his head on the edge of the table. But Fritz was too strong. The boys wrestled and tugged at each other until Fritz hooked a foot behind Brun’s leg and they both fell to the floor, neither boy able to get an advantage. Then, Br
un felt a hand on his collar, pulling him up, away from Fritz. As he got to his feet, he saw it was Boutell. “Hold still,” the barkeep whispered.

  Brun did as he was told.

  Another man held Fritz by the shirt collar, and across the table, a third man stood in front of Stark. A huge farmer held Emil Alteneder in a hammerlock. “That’s enough,” Boutell shouted. “Get ’em the hell out of here.” The two men wrestled the Alteneders toward the door. Boutell gave Freitag a look you might turn on a worm you found in an apple you were eating. “You too,” he said, and jerked his thumb like a hitchhiker. “Get out and stay out. Take your business someplace else.”

  Freitag didn’t move. His face darkened and twisted. “You heard all that, what they’re gonna do? And it’s just fine with you, huh?”

  “None of it’s any of my business.” Boutell’s voice was dead-level. He clutched Freitag by an arm and his shirt collar, and hauled him through the crowd toward the street. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Hey, Gaylord, that ain’t right. Only throwin’ out the half of them.”

  “It’s my place, Clem,” Boutell yelled over his shoulder. “And I’ll manage it just fine without your help, thanks. You don’t like it, you can take your business someplace else too. Now, let’s break this up. Move.”

  Some of the crowd moved toward the door and outside, others drifted toward the bar. The muttering died out. When Boutell came back, wiping his hands on his apron like they were filthy with soot, Stark said, “Sorry, Gaylord. I guess I shouldn’t have started a fracas in your place, but he pushed harder than I could sit still for.”

  “It’s okay,” said Boutell. “You and the boy was minding your business, faces to the wall. It was all that tinhorn and his pet animals.” He looked around. “I’d let you out the back way but I don’t want them to catch you in the alley.”