The Ragtime Kid

by Larry Karp

  Stark nodded. “You’re right. Better for us to go out on Ohio with plenty of people around. We’ll just finish our beer.”

  ***

  On their way back to Stark’s there was no trouble, though Brun did see people pointing fingers at them and whispering to each other. He glanced sidewise at Stark, but if the old man noticed anything, he didn’t let on. In front of the shop, Brun said good-bye and started off toward Higdon’s. But Stark called him back. “Hold on, Brun. Come inside for a minute.”

  He unlocked the shop door, and led his clerk behind the counter and into his office, where he took off his jacket, unbuckled the holster, wriggled it off his shoulder, and handed it to Brun. “I trust you know how to handle one of these.”

  “I’ve done my share of shooting, sir. Mostly varmints, and tin cans on a fence post, and if I do say so myself, I’m not a bad shot.”

  “I’m sure of that.”

  “Just that you took me by surprise.”

  “That’s why I want you to have this—in case someone else tries taking you by surprise. From now on, you stay where there are people around. Don’t go any place they could bushwhack you. And though I regret imposing upon your freedom, I want you to go straight to Mr. Higdon’s from here, and stay there tonight, all night. Do not go out. If I can’t trust you, I’ll have to take you upstairs with me and turn Mrs. Stark loose on you.”

  “I can’t say I’d mind that, sir. But you can trust me. I promise.”

  “Good. We’ll hope you have no problems between now and tomorrow evening, but Freitag and his boys just might pull something nasty out of their sleeves. You’ll have the gun in case that happens, but I don’t want you to use it unless it’s absolutely necessary. The last thing we need right now is to have one of those vermin get shot dead in the street, and you end up in the jailhouse with your friend Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Good. If your feet or your fists will do the job, you are to use them. And, Brun…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Keep that weapon out of sight at all times. I don’t want it to end up in anyone else’s hand.”

  ***

  Sometimes Walter Overstreet thought the weariness would just swamp him, send him down to the bottom of the world and keep him there forever. Dealing with human diseases was no walk in the park, but this endless political wrangling, getting maneuvered into doing what was expedient rather than what was right, would yet be the death of him. Knowing he’d be set free on the first of January, 1900, gave him a boost, the thought of a new start, almost like being reborn.

  He poured another dose of whiskey into his glass, his third? Fourth? He’d lost count, no matter. As he lifted the glass to his mouth, Bud Hastain said, “All right, Walter? Are you on board?”

  He hadn’t been listening. Ed Love had gone on and on about John Stark and his plan to get to the bottom of that murder, the young woman from a couple of weeks ago. Decent man, Stark, but let him get his teeth into a notion and it was easier to separate a bulldog from a bone. Stark thought he had something on Freitag and those Alteneder thugs, but not enough to nail down the case, so he had asked Ed Love to help him set a trap that night. But Bud was concerned, didn’t want to risk a major public scene, possibly a violent one. The shadow of Senator Bothwell hung heavy over anything that might embarrass his city, lose it the State Fair, reverse the growing influx of businesses. Hastain thought it would be better to just quietly get Freitag out of town.

  Overstreet rubbed his chin and willed his eyes to focus on Hastain. “I don’t know, Bud,” the doctor said, taking a flyer. “What about that poor fish, Fitzgerald? I don’t like the idea of condemning a man who’s likely innocent, just to make sure the city doesn’t get dirt on its face.”

  Hastain smiled benevolently, which set Overstreet on guard. “But you’re the mayor. It’s your job to see that Sedalia does not get dirt on its face.”

  “God damn it, Bud. Not by sending innocent men to the gallows. Why don’t we try to talk some sense into John Stark, and get him to turn over his evidence. Isn’t withholding evidence a crime?”

  Ed Love shifted slightly in his seat. Overstreet looked at the man’s paunch and smoldering cheeks, and thought ahead to the day he’d be treating Ed’s stroke. “He didn’t say he had evidence, just an idea. I can’t do anything to a man who won’t turn over an idea to the police.”

  “Besides,” Hastain chirped. “We wouldn’t be condemning Fitzgerald. Bob Higdon’s a sharp young lawyer. I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut he gets Fitzgerald off.”

  Overstreet downed the rest of the whiskey. “You mean after the senator has a little talk with the prosecuting attorney.”

  Hastain’s benign smile came back. “It’s the way things work, Walter, you know that. Now, come on. You’re the mayor. It’s your obligation to go along with Ed here, and tell Freitag to get himself out of Sedalia. Fast.”

  Midway through pouring his next glass of anesthetic, Overstreet paused. That’s what Bud wanted? For him to go with Love to chase Freitag out of town? Overstreet almost smiled. When it came to playing God, doctors had nothing on politicians. Did Bud really think men like Freitag stick their tails between their legs and take themselves off to their next happy hunting ground, just because a cop and a mayor tell them to? What could be a better way to make sure a belligerent loudmouth like Freitag would step into a trap, and the Alteneders right along with him? Stark’s boy’s threat had shamed Overstreet, Big Henry’s speech had mortified him. The doctor wanted to see the Alteneders properly rewarded, and if John Stark carried out his plan, they would be, in spades. Overstreet lowered his glass to the desk. “All right, Bud. When do you want us to go?”

  The look of puzzlement on Hastain’s face almost made Overstreet laugh out loud. “The sooner the better.”

  “Sorry.” Overstreet shook his head. “It’s after midnight. I’m not about to go tramping around town until dawn, turning every bar and brothel upside-down. Morning will be soon enough.”

  Hastain nodded grudgingly. “That’s another thing, the brothels. When the senator hears about that murdered prostitute, he’ll have a fit. Especially after the Main Street merchants’ meeting last Thursday. They’re bound and determined to close down Battle Row, or at least move it north of the tracks into Lincolnville.”

  “I heard.” Overstreet sounded played out. “Where it ‘won’t flaunt insult in the faces of reputable and religious people.’ As if colored aren’t respectable or religious…or people. What those pious hypocrites are really worried about is their property values.”

  Ed Love coughed, then smiled a bland apology. Hastain slammed his glass onto Overstreet’s desk. “Damn, Walter! Even if you would run for a second term, I’d shoot you before I’d let it happen. Everything you say is right, and John Bothwell would tell you the same, but we’ve got a city to run, and one thing the colored are not is flush. We’re between a rock and a hard place. If a bunch of Pecksniffs are worried about their property values, they’re not going to pony up for a street fair, now, are they? And it only makes matters worse that a prostitute was murdered in broad daylight just a block away.”

  “Inconsiderate of her.” Overstreet’s tone was scathing, but the greatest part of his contempt was directed at himself. He probably would have been too late to help her, but he didn’t even try, did he? Too many patients waiting in his office.

  Hastain held up both hands, peace. “All right, Walter, enough. First thing in the morning.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sedalia

  Wednesday, August 2, 1899

  At six-thirty the next morning, a nurse at the Katy Hospital called Overstreet to attend to a yard man who’d fallen across a track in front of an oncoming freight train, and lost a hand and part of his forearm. The doctor could hear the man’s screams from out in front of the hospital. Once at the bedside, his first impression came by way of his nose: alcohol didn’t go well with haza
rdous work. But he was hardly the one to cast the first stone, and set himself to the job. By nine o’clock he’d finished, got the bleeding stopped and the wound debrided and dressed.

  When he walked into the police station, Ed Love was pacing. Before the chief could open his mouth, Overstreet said, “Didn’t they call you from the hospital?”

  “Well, yeah. But…”

  But you don’t want any visits from Bud and the senator, Overstreet thought. Already, he was late for his house calls, but nothing new or different about that. By the time he was through singing his duet with Ed to Freitag, he’d be a whole lot later. And no telling what might come up in the meanwhile.

  ***

  How Apple John seemed to know the whereabouts of every person in Sedalia at any moment was beyond Overstreet, but the mayor knew, as did Chief Love, the best way to find Elmo Freitag. They spotted John in front of the courthouse; the skinny fruit peddler didn’t hesitate. “Just seen him, over to the Boston there.” He pointed across the street, then took off his hat and wiped a sleeve over his brow. “Gonna be hotter today’n it was yesterday.”

  Love nodded grudgingly. “Heat like this, there’s always trouble. People get crazy.”

  Overstreet tried not to think of how many cases of heat prostration he’d be called to see that day. He gave John a nickel, took an apple, bit into it. Breakfast.

  As the police chief and the mayor came up to the Boston Café, Freitag walked out. Good, Overstreet thought, no one with him. And better than making a scene inside. Freitag flashed his toad-eating grin, special for the occasion. “Gentlemen,” he said, tipped his boater, and started off down the street.

  “Mr. Freitag…” Ed Love called after him.

  Freitag turned. “Yes, Chief. What can I do for you?” The smile slowly twisted into a grimace. He smells it, Overstreet thought. Like a cornered animal.

  “You can get yourself out of town,” Love said. “Now.”

  Freitag shammed shock. “Now, Chief, that surprises me no end. What on earth would make you—”

  Overstreet’s tiny store of forbearance ran out. “What would make him is that ever since you’ve been here, you’ve done nothing but stir up trouble. Now, as mayor—”

  “Mr. Mayor, this is an outrage. I’m an honest businessman, trying to make a living publishing music. I’ve got more than half a mind to go talk to a lawyer. Or maybe the editor of the Democrat.”

  The chief made a brave attempt to pull in his gut and stand tall. “Okay, Mr. Freitag. I’ll tell you something. A prostitute got killed over by Lemp’s yesterday, and one of our citizens—”

  “Mr. John Stark, by name,” said Overstreet.

  From Love’s face, you’d have thought the doctor had sprouted a pair of horns. Love fired him a shut-up-and-let-me-handle-this look. “Like I was saying, Mr. Freitag. This citizen has got some evidence that wouldn’t make you feel very good to hear. But we’d just as soon not have a big deal over it. So, sure, stay if you want, but if I see you in Sedalia after twelve o’clock today, I’ll pick you up for murder. Then you can talk to a lawyer.”

  Freitag’s reaction was surprisingly mild. “Well, now, Chief, be reasonable. You’ve got to give me just a little time. At least enough to wrap up my business.”

  Overstreet wanted to smile, both at the man’s preposterous gall and his own sense of relief. The doctor spoke quickly, before Love could react. “All right. Wrap up your business today, then get on a train. If I see you here tomorrow, I’ll have the Chief pick you up.”

  Chief Love stared at Overstreet as if the doctor had taken leave of his senses. But nothing he could say, not now.

  “Very well.” Freitag had his sense of dignity back in hand. “Rest assured, I’ll be gone by morning. And when you read about Freitag Enterprises in the papers, and see how much money and attention it’s bringing to some other city, I hope you’ll remember this meeting, and realize that it all could have been yours.”

  “We’ll try to survive the disappointment.” Overstreet tipped his hat, then motioned Chief Love away with him. Love could barely contain himself; they’d barely cleared the first corner when he blew. “Jeez Almighty, Doc, why’d you do that?”

  Overstreet shrugged. “Just a few hours one way or the other shouldn’t make a big difference. But maybe you’d better stop by Stark’s tonight, the way you were going to. Just in case.”

  Love dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “If there’s trouble, it ain’t gonna be on my head.”

  He sounded so like a sulky child, Overstreet smiled. “I guess you’d better make sure there is no trouble, Ed.”

  ***

  A little before ten that night, Stark, Joplin and Higdon clustered around Stark’s desk in the office, while Brun jockeyed with Isaac and Weiss to peer over shoulders at the piece of paper Higdon’s receptionist had typed out that afternoon. Brun understood that once signed, the agreement would give John Stark and Son the exclusive right to publish “Maple Leaf Rag,” with Scott Joplin, the composer, to receive royalties of a penny a copy, and ten free copies of the music. The signatures were done in a moment. Stark and Joplin shook hands.

  Then there was nothing to do but wait, a tough assignment late in the evening of a day when the thermometer had hit a hundred and two, and people had dragged themselves around like overtired children, cranky and out of sorts. Isaac couldn’t seem to hold still, got up, walked across the room, came back, sat down again. Higdon chewed at a fingernail, then looked up. “Did you hear? Governor Stanley got back to Topeka yesterday, and when he found out about the Embree lynching, he severed all official relations with Lon Stephens. Won’t even mention Stephens’ name.”

  Stark drummed rhythms with his fingers on the top of his desk. “Good for Stanley, I hope he makes it stick. Though I don’t imagine it’s much comfort to Embree.”

  Only Joplin seemed at all at ease. Brun figured he was working through a stubborn passage of music. For his own part, the boy worked hard to not look back at the doorway. Stark had thought to leave the outside door open, but Chief Love told him better to shut it, so there wouldn’t be anything that looked at all out of the usual. The chief’s presence was a comfort to Brun. With every man in the room armed, and Love crouched behind the big display case for harmonicas and jews’ harps, the boy figured they were well covered. Still, he couldn’t keep from rubbing his hand against the pistol Stark had given him the day before.

  The big clock on the wall behind the counter chimed ten. Isaac coughed. Higdon cracked his knuckles. Then, Brun heard glass breaking. “Fools,” Stark muttered. “Idiots.” All they had to do was turn the knob.

  “Some people ain’t got the sense to turn a doorknob,” said Isaac, and Brun noticed the colored man’s hand moving toward his pocket. The boy followed suit.

  Then four men wearing white hoods with cutouts for their eyes were around the counter and into the office. Two carried shotguns, the third a pistol. The man without a weapon held a pile of blankets, wrapped in a length of sturdy rope. He dropped the blanket pack, pushed his way to the desk, grabbed the contract, and laughed. Brun recognized the crazy hee-haw. The boy’s hand itched to pull the gun from his pocket and let fire, but he’d been warned not to pull his weapon unless he absolutely had to. Better if Chief Love could handle the whole situation.

  Freitag, still hooded, pulled a lighter out of a pocket, flipped it into flame, then held up the contract and set fire to the bottom edge. As he looked around to make sure everyone was enjoying his performance, he caught sight of Chief Love, blocking the only escape route, a pistol the size of Texas in each of his hands. “Police,” Love said, calm and quiet. “Drop your weapons and put your hands over your heads. Now.”

  Two shotguns clattered to the floor. The man with the pistol made as if to take a stand, but when the chief turned his right-hand gun on the man, he dropped his firearm in a hurry. Stark pulled the hood off his head, then grunted with disgust.

  “Crikey,” Brun shou
ted. “Otis Saunders!”

  Saunders looked away. From behind him, Brun heard, “Crackerjack…” as if spoken by a strangling man, followed by a screamed, “No!” from Saunders. Brun turned and saw Joplin aiming a pistol straight at Saunders’ heart, a look on the composer’s face that would have cleared the streets of hell. “Scott, don’t shoot,” Saunders shouted.

  Weiss moved toward Joplin. “Scott, no!”

  “You’re trash,” Joplin shouted. “Wearing a white hood. Giving my music to that man, and telling him you wrote it—”

  Love shouldered Weiss aside to push downward on the barrel of Joplin’s gun. The chief said one word. “Don’t.”

  The minute Saunders was no longer staring into a gun barrel, he got brave. “Stole your music? Bool sheet! You ’n’ me both know it was me wrote ‘Maple Leaf’—an’ it was a proper colored rag then, not one o’ them pretty little fay tunes you write.” He was spitting mad now, barking words like a Gatling gun. “Why you think I show it to this boy here when I see him playin’ piano in Oklahoma City? ’Cause I figured even a li’l white boy could play the kinda pussy ragtime you write, an’ he did. Your music ain’t worth the paper you write it on.”

  Joplin shouted, “Where’s my Ragtime Dance?” and took a step toward Saunders, but Weiss held him back. “Leave him be, Scott. They’ll take care of him now.”

  Chief Love had collected the lynchers’ guns and stacked them in the corner. Now, he yanked off the remaining three hoods, first Freitag’s, then Fritz Alteneder’s, finally Emil’s. “Emil Alteneder,” said Stark, as the man’s piggy eyes blinked in the full light of the room. “Filth of the earth!”

  Just like that, Alteneder pulled a knife and went for Stark, and then all Niagara broke loose. Isaac blasted a hole in Alteneder’s chest from close range. Emil dropped the knife, stood in place for a moment, a look of wonder on his face, then folded, slow-motion, to the ground. Joplin stared like a man watching a play in a theater. Fritz shouted, “Pa!” then delivered a shot to Joplin’s jaw that knocked him to the ground, and scrambled past the composer to get to the knife. But Weiss was quicker. The instant he saw Fritz swing, he went for the knife himself, and in the same motion, moved under Fritz’s arm and drove the blade into the young man’s chest. Fritz screamed with pain, but Weiss kept stabbing, shouting “Schwein! Schwein!” with every thrust, until Chief Love wrested the knife from his hand. Fritz, both hands to the side of his chest like he was trying to keep what was inside from leaking out, crumpled to the floor beside his father.