The Ragtime Fool

by Larry Karp

Sincerly yours

  Brun Campbell

  The old barber dropped the pencil into his lap, then looked over what he’d written, all the while absently massaging the fingers of his right hand. Then he nodded sharp satisfaction, and folded the three sheets of paper into the return envelope with the air mail stamp.

  ***

  At five o’clock, Brun locked the shop, walked to the corner, and dropped his letter into the mailbox. Then he backtracked along Venice Boulevard to the police station, paused a moment outside the door, set his chin, and walked inside.

  Across the lobby, the ruddy-faced desk sergeant looked up from a ledger. Brun walked over to the man. “Detective Bob Magnus in?”

  “What’s the problem?”

  Brun pulled a business card from his shirt pocket, laid it on the desk in front of the sergeant. “He said I should come by today. About a murder.”

  “Okay. What’d you say was your name?”

  “Brun Campbell.”

  The sergeant lifted himself out of his chair, and waddled off down a hall to the left. A couple of minutes later, he was back with the detective, who nodded hello to Brun. “What can I do for you, Mr. Campbell?”

  “You said come by today and you might have some information about Roscoe Spanner.”

  Magnus motioned for Brun to follow him. They walked silently along the hall to the detective’s office, a small room with an institutionally-gray metal desk and chair, and two matching file cabinets. The walls were painted bile-green. On the detective’s desk was a framed photo of a pretty, dark-haired woman with a little girl on her right, a boy on the left. The woman and the girl were smiling, but the boy’s face said he wasn’t giving anything away, smiles included. Brun glanced at Detective Magnus. Chip and block.

  The detective gestured with his head toward the chairs across the desk. Brun lit a cigarette, then blew a cloud of smoke as he sat.

  Magnus pushed an ashtray across the desk, and cleared his throat. “Not a lot I can tell you so far, Mr. Campbell. Your friend broke his neck, not to mention his shoulder and a leg, going down those stairs. He probably died instantly. Nothing anybody could have done for him.”

  “What about your tests for booze?” Brun asked. “In his blood and his stomach?”

  Magnus shrugged. “They don’t do those toxicology tests overnight. Probably be several more days.”

  Brun wondered whether the detective was feeding him a line, but couldn’t think of any way to ask that wouldn’t get him tossed out on his ear.

  “But I do have one thing to tell you.” Magnus leaned across the desk. “We’re trained to do our work, Mr. Campbell, and everything considered, I think we do a decent job. But it usually gets tougher when an amateur tries to give us some help. We got a complaint from a Mr. Horace Randall that you were snooping around there, asking questions. Bothering him.”

  “All I did was ask if he saw anybody—”

  “That was no help. It might even turn out to be a hindrance. Suppose Randall did see someone. By now, that someone could have a warning. You need to stay out of our way and let us do our job. Police know how to ask questions so as to have the best chance of getting useful answers. Go on home, now, have yourself a drink, and I’ll call you when I’ve got something to say. All right?”

  “I already told you, I ain’t got a phone.”

  The look on the old man’s face kept Magnus’ angry words in his throat. “That’s right,” the detective said. “Sorry. Why don’t you just come back sometime the middle of next week. Just don’t get your hopes up too high.”

  Brun got to his feet. “Mr. Detective, I’m sixty-seven years old, and I learned a long time ago not to have too much in the way of expectations. But damn, that hope is a bitch. I can’t seem to get rid of it altogether.”

  Magnus couldn’t keep from smiling.

  Chapter Seven

  Saturday, April 7

  Early evening

  From nearly a block away, Alan caught sight of his destination, and gulped. Miriam hadn’t told him she lived in a palace. He looked down at the small tear on the sleeve of his sweater, then glanced at his shoes. He’d meant to put a shine on them. He thought of running back home and setting his appearance right, but there wasn’t time. Better a little sloppy than a lot late.

  He turned into the circular drive directly opposite the entrance to Eastside Park, and walked up to the marble mansion, all arched windows like in a medieval castle. The boy hesitated, then pushed the button. A loud Westminster chime sounded, and when the door opened, Alan found himself facing, or better, looking up at, a massive Negro in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. The man was easily six and a half feet tall, and a good three hundred pounds; his shaved head reflected light from the crystal chandelier above him. The giant cracked a grin down at Alan. “You be Miriam’s young man, right?”

  Not quite the way Alan would have described himself. After their first meeting on Wednesday, Miriam had come to the music room Thursday and Friday to listen to Alan play and talk about ragtime and that barber in California he’d written to. Which, Alan thought, didn’t quite make him her young man. But he was not about to argue the point. He grinned back at the huge Negro. “Guess so.”

  The man shut the door. “Well, come on in, and I’ll let her know you be here.”

  He led Alan down a long hallway, paintings covering both walls. Alan wasn’t much on art, but he had the feeling these works were not cheap. He craned his neck to get a close look at one canvas with odd lines going every which way, and saw PICASSO written in bold strokes near the right lower corner.

  At the foot of a large circular stairway, the Negro told the boy to wait, then started up the stairs two at a time. Alan peered down the hall, to where it opened into a large room; he could see part of a massive wooden table surrounded by heavy chairs. At the far end of the room, a Negro woman in a white uniform and cap appeared briefly, then vanished.

  At the rapid click-click-click of shoes on stone, the boy looked up to see Miriam descending much faster than he thought anyone should come down that stairway. The Negro was well behind her. She waved, then ran down the rest of the stairs and up to Alan. “Hi.”

  It seemed as if she wanted to say more, but couldn’t get out the words. He smiled. “Hi. You look nice.”

  He’d never seen anyone blush that hard. The soda-bottle glasses didn’t do much for her, but she’d brushed out her long red hair so it covered her ears. He thought the white skirt with its pink poodle was stupid, but a lot of girls were wearing them, who could figure?

  The Negro came off the last stair and up to the couple. Alan saw him jab Miriam’s shoulder with his elbow. “Now, Miriam, I wouldn’t never’ve recognized this boy. From what you been tellin’ us, I was thinkin’ he was captain of the football team, got him muscles like that Charles Atlas guy. Never thought he’d be a skinny li’l thing like he is.”

  The sly smile on the man’s face set Alan to laughing. Miriam rained punches on the man’s chest and arms. “Slim, now you stop that.”

  ‘Slim’? Alan thought.

  The man broke into uproarious laughter, then threw both arms around Miriam, pinning her hands to her sides. She wiggled furiously, but got nowhere. “Okay, now.” Slim chuckled. “I’m just havin’ me some fun, you knows that.” He looked back to Alan. “But fact is, she ain’t stopped talkin’ about you since Wednesday. She say you plays jazz like nobody else in the world.” The big man let up on Miriam, who pulled away, straightened her blouse, then gave him a withering look, but couldn’t keep it up. They both laughed.

  “Well, not jazz,” Alan said. “Ragtime.”

  “Same thing, ain’t it?”

  Alan thought Slim might be pulling his leg. The man looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, and he was colored. How could he not have heard of ragtime? The boy shook his head. “Ragtime came before jazz. You’ve heard of Scott Joplin, haven’t you?”

  “Hmmm. Yeah. Old-time piana player,
right?”

  “And a composer. “‘Maple Leaf Rag?’”

  Slim looked like someone searching for an object hidden in a dark corner of a room. Finally, the Negro took the boy by the elbow, led him toward an open doorway down the hall. “You can play it for me, maybe I’ll recognize it.” Miriam started to object, but Slim silenced the girl by raising a huge hand. “On’y take a minute, now. Let the boy play me his music, then I’ll drive you on down to your dance.” He held out his free hand. “What be your name, boy?”

  “Alan. Alan Chandler.”

  Alan watched his hand disappear, but the big man’s grip wasn’t painful. “My real name be Millard,” he said. “But people calls me Slim.” He patted his huge paunch and grinned. “Ain’t that a laugh, now?”

  ***

  Eleven-thirty, night air warm and fragrant. Alan and Miriam walked slowly up the steep Park Avenue hill, toward Miriam’s house. She slipped her hand into his. “Thank you for taking me,” she said. “I really had a good time. And you’re not such a bad dancer at all.”

  “I’m not very good,” Alan said. “But if you don’t mind, I guess I don’t.” A thought took him by surprise: he’d had a good time. He paused, then added. “We can do it again, if you want.”

  In the light of the street lamp, she looked as if he’d just given her the moon and stars. “Oh, I’d love to…and it’s such a nice night, I’m glad we decided to walk back. Better than having Slim pick us up.”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked concerned. “Is something the matter?”

  “No, no. I’ve just been wondering how it could be that Slim didn’t know anything about Scott Joplin. And didn’t think he’d ever heard ‘Maple Leaf Rag?’”

  Back to ragtime. Miriam swallowed disappointment. “You mean because he’s colored?”

  “Well, yeah. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Slim and Sally—that’s his wife, she’s the cook—have worked for my parents for more than ten years, and I’ve never heard either one of them sing or play a song. Just because you’re Negro doesn’t mean you’re interested in music.”

  As they turned in at the circular driveway, Alan pointed toward the marble mansion. “You never told me you lived in a place like this.”

  “Why should I have? What difference does it make?”

  “Well, no difference. You just don’t seem like a girl who lives in a place like this.”

  She stopped short. “What should a girl who lives in a place like this be like.”

  “I didn’t mean…all right. I’d expect she’d be pretty snotty. Stuck on herself. Spend a lot of time looking in a mirror. Like that.”

  Miriam smiled. “Every Negro man doesn’t care for music, and every girl who’s got a rich father isn’t stuck on herself. Some of them get stuck on somebody else.”

  Before Alan could react, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his. He hesitated, then rested his hands on her shoulders. Her tongue moved into his mouth, and she tightened her hold on him. Finally, she pulled away, and flopped her head onto his chest. Her breath came in short gasps. “I like you, Alan,” she said. “I like you a lot.”

  “I like you too,” he said, which was true enough. But he wished he could like her in the same way she liked him.

  ***

  Inside the grand hall, Slim gave the young couple a cagey look. “I guess you both had yourselfs a nice time.”

  Sally, as slender as her husband was round, poked him in the ribs. “Don’t go teasin’ ’em now, Slim.”

  “It’s okay,” Alan said. “We did have a nice time.”

  Sally cleared her throat. “Your mother and father called and said they was gonna stay over in New York tonight.”

  Miriam nodded. “Thanks.” She looked at Alan. “They’re at a big charity function for the Metropolitan Opera. Sometimes on a weekend when it’s late, they just stay in a hotel there. Then, they do something or other the next day, and don’t come home till evening.”

  Something on her face and in her tone pulled at Alan’s heart. “Well, then, how about we go downtown tomorrow and see a movie? Sunset Boulevard’s at the Fabian, it just won the Oscar.”

  And it’s set in Los Angeles, she thought. Right near Venice and the ragtime barber. But she didn’t hesitate. “Oh, I’d love to. I was going to go see it with Ellen Ralston, but—” On the brink of embarrassment, she caught herself. “What time?”

  “Show starts at one. I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty, okay?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Alan thought she might start jumping up and down. “Great.” He took a step toward the door. “See you then.”

  “Hold on there, boy,” Slim boomed. “I’ll drive you on home.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Alan called over his shoulder. “I can walk.”

  “Well now, it’s after midnight, and we don’t want your mama and daddy gettin’ worried over you, do we? I think I best drive you.” Big grin. “Besides, then we can have us some man talk, y’know?”

  Sally clucked. “Slim, you are such a big tease, shame on you.”

  ***

  They rode in silence for a few blocks, then Slim said, “Boy, before we gets to your house and your mama see you, you want to take out your handkerchief and wipe off you’ mouth.”

  Alan grabbed at his pocket, did as he was told. The sight of Miriam’s bright red lipstick on the cloth ignited his cheeks. His hand shook as he shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  Slim rumbled a laugh. “That be better. Don’t want your mama seein’ you like that, I bet.”

  “No, I guess not. Thanks.”

  “You ever get a blowjob, boy?”

  Alan glanced sidewise at Slim, then looked the other way. The lock button on the door was up, good. If he had to, he’d open the door, wrap his arms around his head, and roll out. “No,” he said, as casually as he could manage. “Have you?”

  Slim’s laugh shook his huge belly. “I been gettin’ blowjobs since I was a whole lot younger’n you. They’s places downtown I can take you, we can both of us get one.”

  “Both of us? Wouldn’t Sally care?”

  Slim laughed again. Why’s she gonna care? If it wasn’t for me gettin’ blowjobs, I’d be every year puttin’ her in a family way.” The big man’s smile vanished, and he shifted to look squarely at Alan. “One good thing about blowjobs is there ain’t no babies ever come from it.”

  “But aren’t there…can’t you use—”

  “A rubber? Sheeit! Fuckin’ a woman through a rubber’s like eatin’ a good steak with the butcher paper still on it. B’sides, they’s too many guys out there, like to punch a li’l hole in rubbers, just to be mean.” Slim shook his head. “You remember that, an’ don’t you take no chances. Put a girl in a family way, you buys yourself a whole lifetime of the worst kinda trouble. I can get you a good blowjob any time you wants, just ask me. White girl or a colored, don’t make no never-mind.”

  Alan swallowed hard. “Thanks, Slim.”

  “Don’t you forget, now, boy. Don’t you dare forget.”

  ***

  The Saturday night crowd in the Aragon Ballroom whooped it up as the Lawrence Welk Orchestra finished “Twelfth Street Rag.” People at the little tables clapped; a shrill whistle cut through the room. Couples on the dance floor mopped at their faces. Welk, a stocky man with a ruddy face, smiling like a man selling food dicers on late-night TV, reached around his accordion to grab the mike. “Sounds as if you liked that.”

  The crowd made it clear they did.

  “Well, if it’s ragtime you like, you’ll love what’s coming now. The band’s going to take a little break, but you won’t be bored, I promise you that. You’re about to hear from a man who was there when ragtime started, back in Sedalia, Missouri, in 1899. Put your hands together, now, for the only white pupil of the great Scott Joplin. Mr. Brun Campbell.”

/>   The old man in the gray fedora set low on his forehead shambled out onto the stage. Applause was polite. A conversational buzz arose from the audience. Brun tipped his hat, then without a word, sat at the piano, turned a look onto the crowd that said, “Shut up and listen to this,” and began to play.

  There were a few snickers and murmurs, but the old man’s playing quickly silenced them. He assaulted the keyboard, banging out a double-handed attack, all the while keeping time with an exaggerated stomp of his left foot. The sound was raucous, visceral, and when Brun pulled his hands back from the keys and swiveled on the stool to face the audience, there was a moment of silence, followed immediately by an explosion of cheering, clapping, whistling. Brun gave his listeners a moment to show their appreciation, then stood and stepped over to the microphone. “Thank you, ladies and gentleman,” he rasped, as the applause faded. “That was a piece of my own, I call it the ‘Barber Shop Rag.’ Never did publish it, but that’s how it used to be, back fifty, sixty years ago. Piano men those days didn’t write down their music, they just listened to each other play a piece, and then went off and did it by their own style. But then along come Mr. Scott Joplin, and he was determined he was gonna make ragtime over into real classical music like they write in Europe, you know, where the piano man’s supposed to play it just like the composer put it on the paper. Now, I bet everybody here’s heard ‘Maple Leaf Rag,’ ain’t that right?”

  Mild applause and a few yeahs.

  “Okay, then. But ain’t none of you ever heard it played like what I’m gonna do for you now. This is exactly the way Scott Joplin taught it to me, back in the summer of eighteen and ninety-nine.”

  Brun repositioned himself on the stool, then began to play. His left foot still stomped hard enough to be heard at the back of the room, but the music, though lively and spirited, was considerably more measured than the previous piece, with none of that tune’s hectic velocity. Aside from the music, there was no sound in the room. Even the clinking of glasses stopped. But when the old man finished, applause was tremendous. Like they’re in a concert hall, Brun thought, and smiled to himself. He got to his feet and walked the few steps to the microphone. “Guess you can hear the difference, huh?”