by Larry Karp
“Oh yeah? I’d say if I’m putting up five thousand dollars, it sure as hell makes it my business.” He pointed to the door. “Get yourself outa here before I call the cops.”
“You’re going to call the cops?” Hands on hips, mocking him fiercely. “What for?”
“Last I heard, selling stuff that don’t exist is not exactly legal. Be interesting to see you try and explain about your little con game to the cops.”
She aimed a finger at his chest. “If you think for one minute you’re going to get away with this, you’re a bigger damn fool than I thought you were. You’re going to be sorry about this, Mister. Real sorry.”
“Go on,” Brun growled, and again pointed to the door. “Get outa my barber shop.”
She turned a look on him that could have stopped a train, then marched out, slamming the door so hard, the bottles of tonics on the shelf in front of the mirror shivered.
Brun followed her, threw the lock, then trudged back to the barber chair and collapsed into it. Maybe May was right. Maybe he was a fool. There he’d been, ready and eager to hand over five thousand dollars to some mush worker who’d probably read about him someplace or been to one of his nightclub sessions, and seen a quick five thousand in her purse. So she wrote a page from out of her head, got a fake birth certificate, and played Brun like a violin. He swiveled the chair so as not to be able to see his reflection in the mirror.
Well, at least May didn’t know about it, and she wouldn’t. And he hadn’t lost his inheritance. Monday, he’d go back to Samuel Pepper, thank him for his kindness, and give him back the money. Three days of five percent interest wouldn’t break the bank. But thinking about the Sedalia ceremony now was painful. He’d play “Maple Leaf,” big deal, hello and goodbye. Hardly seemed worth making the trip.
He blew out a deep sigh, then shuffled toward the door, but as he passed the counter, he caught sight of the yellow Western Union envelope. The telegram, he’d forgotten all about it. Crap, what now? He took a deep breath, picked up the envelope, ripped it open, unfolded the yellow page, and focused on the block letters below the WESTERN UNION logo. “Got Joplin journal STOP,” he read aloud. “Bringing it to Sedalia STOP Be there tomorrow STOP. Alan Chandler.”
He read it again, then a third time. Who in hell was Alan Chand…wait a minute. That kid, the one in New Jersey, who wrote to him and wanted tips on how to play ragtime? How did he know about the journal…“Oh, Lord!” Brun recalled the last part of his reply to the boy. Joplin’s journal, five thousand dollars, Sedalia, statue, museum…
He snatched the pillholder from his pocket, quickly slid a nitro tablet under his tongue, slumped on the piano bench, lowered his head, took deep, slow breaths. Finally, as the pain wore off, he sat up, re-read the telegram. “How in thunder did that kid know how to find Lottie?” he asked the room, then thought, well, I guess it ain’t hard, not these days. Phone book. City Directory.
Again, Brun read the telegram. The kid was going to get to Sedalia the next evening. Brun had figured to take a train early on Monday, which would get him to Sedalia Tuesday, but now he’d have to change his plan. Leave that kid walking around Sedalia with Scott Joplin’s journal for a couple of days? Not on Brun’s life.
The old man felt like a flat tire suddenly patched and pumped full of air. He crammed the telegram into his pocket, went out, locked the door, and started home.
***
Two blocks from his destination, Brun felt a hand on his arm. He wheeled around.
Detective Magnus grinned into his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay with me. What about?”
“You had a visitor today, at the barber shop.”
“I had a lot of visitors at the barber shop. Friday’s the biggest days for haircuts.”
Magnus’ face tightened. “Mr. Campbell, please don’t play games with me. I think you know I’m talking about that woman who came in right after you closed, and left with blood in her eye.”
“You been staking out my shop?”
Magnus couldn’t hold back a smile. “Not quite ‘staking it out.’ I was just coming by to see you, and she beat me to the door, so I decided to wait. Let’s stop beating around the bush, Mr. Campbell. I’m having second thoughts about whether or not your friend Mr. Spanner’s death was accidental. The toxicology reports showed there was no alcohol in his stomach or his blood stream, so it does seem a little odd he was holding a bottle of whiskey.”
“Maybe he was gonna pour himself a drink when he got downstairs.”
Magnus scratched at his ear. “Why would he have been going downstairs?”
“That’s where he worked, fixing stuff. Kept his tools and all in the basement.”
Magnus nodded. “Do you drink whiskey, Mr. Campbell?”
Brun went on full alert. No sense lying; his own wife would tell the cops her husband liked his booze at least as well as any man. “Yeah, well, sure. What about it? Plenty people have a drink now and again.”
“But plenty of people aren’t the sole beneficiary of a man who broke his neck falling down a flight of stairs, grabbing at the neck of a whiskey bottle like it was a life saver. And not every whiskey drinker favors Jack Daniels.”
“How do you know I—”
“My job. It’s not quite a state secret.”
“What’re you saying? You think I killed Roscoe?”
Magnus shook his head. “Relax, Mr. Campbell. Remember, I did say if we ended up suspecting foul play, you’d be the first person we’d have to look at. You reported the body. You drink the brand of whiskey Mr. Spanner was holding when he fell. And now it comes out that you’ve inherited Mr. Spanner’s entire estate.”
“Six thousand and some?” Brun spat. “You think I’d kill my best friend for six thousand dollars?”
“Mr. Campbell, I’ve been involved in cases where people were killed for a dollar and a quarter. Where money comes in, friendship can go out in a hurry.” The detective held up a hand to stop the response he saw coming. “I’m not accusing you. I’m just telling you where we stand right now. And I have to admit, I’m curious about that woman who came into your shop and left in such a huff.”
Brun coughed. If he lied, and then Magnus found her… “She says her name’s Bess Vinson. First time I saw her was last Monday when she walked in my barber shop and told me she’s Scott Joplin’s daughter. You know who Scott Joplin is?”
Magnus nodded tolerantly. “I suspect thanks to you, everybody in Venice knows who Scott Joplin is. Or was.”
“Okay then. Scott Joplin’s wife had a baby in St. Lou, back in oh-two. It died, at least that’s what everybody said. But this woman told me she was that baby, and Joplin’s wife gave her away because she wanted out of the marriage and didn’t feature being loaded down with a kid. Later on, the couple who adopted her told her the truth. She said she could get her hands on some kind of journal her father wrote, and she’d sell it to me, but I wasn’t about to hand her over a bag of dough without even seeing the goods.”
“How heavy a bag?”
Brun paused. “Five thousand.”
Magnus’ eyebrows went all the way up.
“Yeah, well, you see what I mean? How do I know for sure she’s Scott Joplin’s daughter, never mind whether she really has got his personal journal? And where am I gonna get five thousand bucks?”
Magnus grinned. “From an inheritance?”
Brun shook his head. “My wife’d kill me.”
“If she knew.”
Brun told himself to stay cool. “Look, Detective. You asked me who the woman is, and I told you. She got sore because I said I didn’t trust her enough that I was going to give her five grand for some book that might be the McCoy or it might not. Now, that’s the way it is, and I can’t say no more. If you want, why don’t you go find the woman and ask her what’s what. She says she lives in Santa Monica, runs a beauty shop there.”
“I already told you, over at your office. I wanted to find out if maybe he saw somebody…”
Brun’s voice faded as he saw solemnity take over the detective’s face. “Anyone in particular, Mr. Campbell? Someone you see in the mirror every morning?”
“Hey, wait. I didn’t never—”
Magnus’ hand went up. “That’s it for now. But I don’t want you to go anywhere I can’t find you. Is that clear?”
Brun caught himself about to tell Magnus he had to get to Sedalia for the ceremony. Instead, he said softly, “I ain’t deaf.”
“Good.” Magnus’ lips drew tight. “Don’t be dumb, either.”
Magnus tipped his fedora; Brun returned the gesture, then watched the detective walk off. Did Magnus know about the telegram? He didn’t say anything about Miss Vinson’s first drop-by or seeing a Western Union boy, so probably not. Caught a break, Brun thought, but now what? That crazy kid’s going to be in Sedalia tomorrow night, with Scott Joplin’s journal.
Magnus vanished around a street corner. Brun set his jaw, and walked away, toward Amoroso Court.
***
“Cal…Cal.” Brun banged on the door. “Damn it all, Cal, come on, open up.”
The door swung open. Brun looked into Cal’s blinking eyes. “You were writin’, right?” the old man said.
“Yeah, I was.”
“Well, I beg pardon for interrupting you, but I got something really important going. Can I come in and tell you?”
“As if I could stop you.” Cal stepped aside and ushered Brun into the little living room. “Want a beer?”
“Sounds good right now.”
***
When Brun finished his story, Cal said quietly, “That it?”
“Well, yeah. Ain’t that enough? Talk about stepping in dog shit. I get my hands on the dough to buy Joplin’s book, then some kid back in Jersey goes and queers the whole thing.”
Which he never would have done if you hadn’t shot off your mouth and gone bragging to him in that letter, Cal thought.
“So now I’ve got to get there before he does something stupid.”
“Like giving it to the mayor or the chairman of the ceremony committee, and getting the credit himself?”
“Aw, Cal, come on. How the hell could the cops be thinking I might’ve shoved Roscoe? You ever in your life hear anything so stupid?”
Give me a break, Cal thought. With more than six thousand dollars at stake? But he said, “No,” and meant it. Brun was a windbag, and at times, a world-class pain in the ass, but Cal couldn’t picture him killing anyone, let alone a friend of fifty years’ standing. “Brun, tell me this. Where in hell did that kid get five thousand dollars?”
“You tell me. I don’t know a damn thing about him, except he says he wants to learn how to play ragtime right. But I’ve got to figure he’ll want to be paid back.” Brun patted his chest; Cal noticed a slight bulge he’d missed till then. “So, what am I supposed to do now? What would you do with a guy in one of your books who’s in my kind of a spot?”
Probably get another character to kill him, Cal thought. Or smuggle him onto a spaceship that goes off course and crash-lands on a planet where no one has ever heard of ragtime music or Scott Joplin.
The silence set Brun to squirming. “Hey, Cal, you gotta gimme some help. I can’t just sit around Venice because some cop might want to talk to me, and I sure as hell can’t let him pick me up and put me away. How would you go about getting a character like me out of town in one of your books?”
Cal took a swallow of beer, then pursed his lips, and thought about what he could say to an angry detective who accused him of aiding and abetting a felon in an escape. On the other hand, what would he tell his conscience if he walked into the barber shop next week and found Brun on the floor? The old son of a gun could make you tear out your hair, but you had to admire him. How many people are there who won’t give up on a dream, won’t budge an inch, when any normal person would be too discouraged to take another step?
Cal sighed. “Well…” Sly glance. “I guess that would depend on whether the character was a good liar.”
Brun laughed out loud. “Well, say he is. Or he could be if he’s got to.”
“All right. Here’s the story. After he gets an earful from the detective, my character goes home and tells his wife that one of the movie producers he’s been chasing is suddenly very interested in putting out The Scott Joplin Story. The producer’s in San Francisco, talking to some money people, and he wants my character to come right up. In fact, there’s a meeting set for the next afternoon, so the character has to catch the first train north. His wife makes a big fuss, but he’s used to that. After dinner, he goes upstairs, packs a suitcase—”
“I get it. Then, if the cops ask my…the guy’s wife where he is, she says he’s in Frisco. Hey, Cal, that’s great. I knew you could help me. I’ll—”
“Hold on a minute. I’m not done.”
The barber narrowed his eyes, then eased back into the chair. “Okay, sorry. I’m listening.”
“My character’s not sure how interested the cops really are in him. No way to tell whether they’ve got his house under watch. Fortunately, it’ll be dark by the time he leaves, so he goes out the back way, down the alley and past the garage to the street, then straight to the station. That’s it. Now, I’m done.”
To Cal’s surprise, Brun didn’t make a rush to his feet. The old barber frowned; the pain in his eyes startled Cal. “I keep thinking about Sedalia,” Brun said softly. After I left, the town got itself all respectable, tryin’ to play to business owners and get ’em to move in. They closed down all the joints and houses on West Main, and after that, the only music was in churches and concert halls. It’s been fifty-two years, Cal, and truth, I’m afraid of what I’m gonna see there.”
The young man laughed. “I didn’t know you were scared of ghosts.”
“Go laugh,” Brun said. “But get to be my age, you’ll have more friends in the cemetery than walking around, and then you can see what side of your mouth you’re laughing outa. If it wasn’t for this ceremony, I wouldn’t set foot back there the rest of my life. I don’t want to see—”
Cal knew what Brun didn’t want to see, and quickly shifted the conversational direction. “I’ll bet there’re people still in town who were alive back then…when you say you were there.
“Oh. When I say I was there, huh?”
Cal smiled privately. “Go on home, Brun, get ready. I guess I’ll be listening to you go on about this caper for the next ten years.”
Brun’s reply surprised him. Just a quiet, “Ten years, huh? Yeah, I guess I’d settle for that.”
***
Alan Chandler, who’d never been west of Philadelphia, decided that riding a train across the country was something else. He watched the scenery fly by, cities gradually giving way to farms and towns, and he met some interesting people. An encyclopedia salesman. A pretty young woman going back home from New York to St. Louis to marry her high-school sweetheart. A middle-aged couple and their son, Alan’s age, on their way to California, for the man to take a new job. Alan told them he’d been to New York to visit his father, who’d moved there from Missouri when he and Alan’s mother had divorced. The couple exchanged one of those looks long-married couples use in place of speech, and the upshot was, they stood Alan to dinner, which helped make up for the fact he’d booked a sleeping compartment.
About ten o’clock, the boy stretched across his bunk, drew the curtain, opened his book bag, and pulled out Scott Joplin’s journal. He’d go through some of it, then finish the next morning.
But it was after midnight when he turned the last page, and closed the journal. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Mr. Campbell was going to say when he read that stuff. It was nearly two o’clock befor
e the boy’s mind yielded to the regular clickety-clack of the train’s wheels, and he dropped into sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday, April 14
Morning
Dr. Martin Broaca, spiffy in his yellow golf shirt and green-and-white plaid slacks, glared across the kitchen table at Slim. The huge colored man returned the look with interest. “Dr. Broaca, you’ insultin’ me. If you’ gonna accuse me of stealin’ your money, you oughta have somethin’ to back it up. An’ you ain’t got nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”
The doctor sighed luxuriantly. Give them half a chance, and they’ll rob you blind, but where do you find a white couple to do that kind of work for that kind of money? “Slim, please. I wasn’t born yesterday. Somebody in this household thought they could take a few handfuls out of the suitcase, and I’d never be the wiser. A thief from outside would’ve run off with the whole kit and caboodle.”
“So, how much money was gone?”
“Several thousand. There was clearly less in that suitcase than the last time I looked.”
Slim turned a fish eye onto the doctor. “Let me understand this now. You sayin’ you ain’t even sure how much is gone, and that’s enough for you to accuse me of stealin’ from you? Could be you was just misrememberin’ from the last time you done looked.”
Broaca paused, then said, “I’m not ‘misremembering.’ And I know the suitcase was opened because I always tie a thin thread between the two parts of the latch. With the light as bad as it is up there, no one would see it, and this morning, that thread was broken.”
“And you know it was me. Dr. Broaca, how can you know that?”
“Because it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t Mrs. Broaca. She gets all the money she wants above board. Should I suspect Sally? Or Miriam?”
“How about that boy, was here for dinner the other night? I heard him and Miriam talkin’ afterward. He said he could use money to pay somebody for a journal he wanted to take to some kinda ceremony in Missouri.”
“How would the boy know about the suitcase?”
“Maybe Miriam tol’ him.”