by Larry Karp
“Bah.” Scorn covered the doctor’s face. “My poor little stick of a daughter would never have the brass to do something like that. I’m sorry, but there’s only one person in this house I can suspect.”
“So, how did I know about your goddamn suitcase. Tell me that.”
Dr. Broaca shrugged. “You just told me you eavesdropped on Miriam and her friend. Maybe you sneaked up to the attic after me.”
Slim leaned across the table. “If you think somebody went and stole your money, why don’t you call the cops? In fact, why don’t you go and tell them I done it and they should arrest me?”
The doctor’s smile set a new standard for condescension. “I think you know full well why I’m not going to do that. And if you ever say anything to anyone about this matter, I will pursue legal action against you for slander. You’re being fired for incompetence and insubordination, period. The rest of the money is now where no one will find it, not if they tear the house apart.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late, and I have an appointment.”
With a golf ball, Slim thought. Motherfucker, you.
“If you can prove to me that someone else took the money, I will apologize,” said the doctor. “And you can keep your job. Otherwise, I want you out of here by the end of the day. Do you understand me?”
“Clear enough.” Slim worked himself to his feet. “Plenty clear enough. Doctor.”
***
The valet watched from the living room window as Dr. Broaca’s car rolled down the driveway, turned right onto Park Avenue, and vanished. “Bastard!” Slim stomped back and forth across the room, shaking both fists over his head. “Son of a bitch honky asshole! Sally’s gonna throw a cat fit when she get back from her grocery shopping. An’ I can’t say a word to Mrs. Broaca. Nothin’ she’d do except tell her husband, and then I got his pissant lawyers all over me, and I’m fucked both ways to China. If I find out who really took that money, I can keep my job, huh? Well, he can shove that job straight up…”
Midway across the room, Slim stopped pacing, slapped a hand against his thigh, laughed out loud. “Well, now, maybe that be just the thing. I can go find that li’l son of a bitch cabbage-picker, get me back the money, an’ keep it for myself. Man want me to be a thief, he can just pay me for the honor.”
He went by giant steps into the hall, up the stairs, to the open doorway of the first room on the left. Miriam lay on her stomach on the bed, reading a book, The Economics of Something or Other. The big man cleared his throat; the girl looked up. “Oh, hi, Slim. What’s happening?”
He showed all the teeth he could squeeze into a smile. “I’m hopin’ you and me could talk for a minute.”
She set down the book, swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Sure. What about?”
Slim took care not to venture a step into the room, but if she tried to run, there was no way she’d get past him. “Well, it’s like this, Miriam. You’ daddy think I stole some of his money.”
He saw it in her eyes, just for an instant. Her hand went to her mouth. “Why would he ever think that?”
Slim eyed the girl carefully. “He done kep’ a suitcase up to the attic, all fulla money.”
She didn’t bite. Nothing after that one passing look in her eyes. “My father hid money up in the attic? Why?”
“Well, I only can tell you what I think. A man get paid with cash money, if he hide it away, he don’t never pay no tax on it.”
“And some of it was missing?”
Slim nodded gravely. “He always tie a tiny li’l string so if somebody open the suitcase, the string gonna break.”
There it was again, in her eyes, a flash, then gone. Now, Slim was sure. “He found the string broke when he go up this morning, and he think I done it.”
“But you didn’t,” Miriam said.
“’Course I didn’t. But he think I did, and he fire me.”
“But why did he blame you?”
Slim opened his eyes wide. “Well, he say he didn’t do it, or your mama, or Sally, or you. So, it had to be me, there wasn’t nobody else. He say if I can show him it was somebody else, I could keep my job. Otherwise, I gotta be outa here by tonight.”
The girl started to cry, then jumped off the bed, ran over, and threw her arms around the big man. “He can’t do that. You and Sally are part of our family. When he gets home after his dumb golf game, I’m going to talk to him. Someone’s supposed to be innocent till proved guilty, not the other way around.”
She ain’t gonna ‘fess, Slim thought. Not ‘less I tell her what I heard the other night, but if I do, she just could know how to get hold of that boy and give him a tip-off. He patted the girl’s head. “Now, don’t you be sayin’ nothing to him, Miriam. You ain’t gonna change his mind, and anyway, even if he did listen, you think I’d come and work for him any more? But you been like my own li’l girl, and I didn’t want to just walk outa the door without sayin’ goodbye to you. I’s gonna be just fine, don’t you worry.”
As Slim started down the stairs, Miriam threw herself face down on the bed, and bawled. I should have told him, she thought. Now I’ve got to tell my father…but if I do, there’ll be police out in Sedalia, waiting for Alan to get off the train…oh, damn. Why do things have to get so complicated? She pounded her pillow with both fists, then flung the pillow across the room. It bounced off the wall, sending a photograph of her and her father at the New York Stock Exchange clattering to the floor.
***
Slim drove up to a well-kept one-story brick house on East Twenty-ninth Street between Fourteenth Avenue and Roosevelt. He parked at the curb, then walked up to the door and rang the bell. Not half a minute passed before the door swung open. One glance at the woman who stood there told Slim he was too late. “Yes?” the woman said. “What can I do for you?”
Slim slumped his shoulders, and pasted on a big Stepin Fetchit smile. “I come here to pick up Alan, ma’am. I’m supposed to drive him and my boss’ daughter into New York, to go to some kinda show.”
A man walked up behind the woman; she turned to him, then pointed at Slim. “He says he’s supposed to drive Alan into New York.”
“With my boss’ daughter,” Slim said. “Ask me, I think they gettin’ real friendly lately.”
“Alan’s not here. Who is your boss?” The man talked as if he kept a cigar cutter in his throat.
“Dr. Martin Broaca. But if Alan be someplace else, I can go get him.”
The woman began to cry.
“Something the matter?” Slim asked.
“We haven’t seen Alan since yesterday morning,” the man snapped. We thought he was going to school, but he took off for New Orleans, to learn some of the ‘music’ they play there.”
Slim feigned surprise. “My, my.” He shook his head. “Kids these days.”
“He left a note in the mailbox,” the woman said. “I found it when I picked up the mail, late in the afternoon. Oh, that boy is going to be the death of me.” She started to cry again.
Slim tipped his cap. “Well, I guess I better just go back, then. I sure hope it all work out okay.”
The woman snuffled. “Thank you, I’m sure it will. The police say they’ll be watching the bus and train stations down there, and they’ll have him back home in no time.”
“I’ll kill him,” said the man, through clenched teeth.”
Back in the car, Slim allowed himself a long, low laugh. New Orleans, huh? He turned the ignition key. Sally’d be back by now. Take her down to her sister’s in Newark, then go into New York and get himself on the first train to this Sedalia, Missoura place. He’d have his hands on that boy before the cops in New Orleans knew a thing. Grab the five thousand, then go an’ spit square in Dr. Broaca’s face. No, fuck Dr. Broaca. Just take the money, start up a li’l store with Sally, sell radios and TVs. Never have to say, “Yas’r” again to any shitface ofay doctor.
***
A thousand miles down the line,
the train slowed, coming into the station at Sedalia. Alan pulled his book bag from the vacant seat beside him, swung it into his lap, held the handle in a death grip. That bag had not been out of his reach for an instant since Scott Joplin’s journal first went into it. It had spent the night in Alan’s bed, under the sheet, and it would not be out of his sight until the journal was safely in Brun Campbell’s hands. But then what? Go back to Hobart, back to school, take piano lessons from Mr. Bletter, practice classical music till it came out of his ears, finish the school year, graduate, go to Juilliard, get a job teaching music in some crappy high school, get married, have kids, die? Alan swallowed hard.
The train ground and wheezed to a halt; the boy’s mind lightened. Wednesday would be time enough to think about what to do after Tuesday. Meanwhile, he had plenty to keep him busy.
But where and how to start? He couldn’t very well stand around in the train station and wait for a man he’d never set eyes on. For all he knew, Mr. Campbell could be here already. Should have set a place and a time to meet him, Alan told himself, but it had all happened so fast, he hadn’t been able to think beyond getting his hands on the journal, then getting himself and it onto the train.
He ambled through the dingy station and out the door, then looked around. What he could see of Sedalia looked a lot like the fringe areas of downtown Hobart, small businesses elbow to elbow with little houses, and an occasional weed-grown empty lot. Which way should he go to get into town? Did he need to take a bus, or a cab? Did they have buses and taxicabs here?
He walked back into the station and up to the ticket window, then shifted from one foot to the other while a young man and woman paid their fares to Kansas City. As the couple moved away, the clerk adjusted his spectacles and acknowledged Alan with a nod. “Where you goin’, Sonny.”
“I just got in from St. Louis,” Alan said. “Which way is it to downtown?”
The clerk made a odd sound in his throat, somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. “Never been to Sedalia, huh?”
“No, sir. I’m supposed to meet my grandpa, he’s coming in from Los Angeles, and taking me to the big ceremony on Tuesday for Scott Joplin.”
The clerk screwed his face into a question mark. “Big ceremony, you say? For who?”
“Scott Joplin. You know, the ragtime composer. ‘Maple Leaf Rag?’ They’re having a ceremony to honor him at the colored high school, Tuesday evening.”
The clerk shrugged. “I don’t keep up with the colored.” He squinted at Alan, blinked. “Your grandpa’s not colored, is he?”
“No, sir.” Alan struggled to keep his voice even. “He was Scott Joplin’s only white pupil. Took piano lessons from him here in Sedalia, back in 1899.”
The clerk seemed to lose interest. “Okay. Where is it downtown you’re supposed to meet your grandpa?”
“He said in front of City Hall.”
“That’s easy.” The clerk pointed out the window. “Take Ohio Street there, across the tracks into downtown. Then turn right at Second and go one block more. Municipal Building’s on the corner, Second and Osage. Think you can remember that?”
“Yes, sir.” Alan waved. “Thank you.”
In less than ten minutes, he stood on the corner of Ohio and Second. Wind whipped his pants legs into a flutter. The buildings looked old enough, most of them, to have been standing when Brun Campbell was taking lessons from Scott Joplin. Not many people around, especially considering it was Saturday afternoon. This Sedalia looked nothing like the bustling, exciting city Alan had read about in They All Played Ragtime. It put the boy in mind of an old man in faded clothes with frayed cuffs, shoes long past their retirement day.
Ohio looked like the main drag, so Alan strolled on, taking it all in. Really did look a lot like downtown Hobart. St. Louis Clothing Store. Heuer’s Shoe Store. Andy’s Tavern, a Firestone’s, a B. F. Goodrich. In front of Bichsel’s Jewelry, he stopped to gape at a monster clock atop a tall iron column, then moved on past C. W. Flower Dry Goods, disorderly piles of fabric filling its window. Uptown Theatre…well, look at that, Sunset Boulevard. He thought of Miriam, smiled.
The girl selling tickets in the glass-enclosed booth gave him the eye, then leaned forward to call through the round hole in front, “That’s a real good movie. I saw it three times already.”
Pretty girl, about his age. Lots of dark, curly hair, and big brown eyes. Lipstick perfectly applied, just a touch of eye shadow. Probably one of those popular girls, maybe a cheerleader, loves doing cartwheels to get the boys smirking and pointing at her legs. But those girls make a point of knowing everything that’s going on. Alan walked over to the booth.
The girl’s eyelashes fluttered. “Next full show’s at seven,” she said. “Saturday afternoon, they’ve got cartoons and serials for the kids, besides the two features and the newsreels.”
Alan smiled politely. “Thanks. I’ve seen the movie.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, wasn’t Gloria Swanson marvy? I just cried and cried.” She flicked the tip of her tongue against her upper lip. “Bet you didn’t cry.”
Miriam had sopped through a dozen tissues. Alan smiled again.
The girl smiled back. “Strong, silent type, huh? Hey, you don’t live in Sedalia, do you? I haven’t ever seen you around.”
“No, I’m in from New Jersey.”
“Wow. That’s a long way.”
“More than twenty-four hours on two trains.”
“Why’re you here?”
I came for the ceremony to honor Scott Joplin Tuesday night.”
She cocked her head and shrugged. “I haven’t heard about any ceremony…to honor who?”
Doubt surged in the pit of Alan’s stomach. He’d thought the whole town would be gaga, but it seemed no one here had even heard of Scott Joplin, never mind the ceremony. “He wrote ragtime music, played piano. The ceremony’s at the colored high school.”
“Hubbard?”
Now it was his turn to shrug. “I guess.”
“But you’re not colored.”
“Not the last time I looked.”
The girl’s laugh fell short of wholehearted amusement. “What’s your name, wise guy?”
“Alan. Alan Chandler.”
Big smile. “That’s a nice name.”
It’s a name, Alan thought. What’s she getting at?
“My name’s Eileen.”
“Glad to meet you, Eileen.”
“I get off at six, and I don’t have a date tonight.” Her mother would have a cow, Eileen thought, but her mother wasn’t here, and this boy was really cute.
“Well…” Alan scratched at his head. “I just got here, and I’m not sure I’m going to be free.” He saw disappointment cover the girl’s face, and told himself not to cut off any possibilities. “But in case I am, why don’t you give me your phone number.”
She brightened. “Sure.” She scribbled on a pad, then passed the paper through the hole in the glass. “I hope you can make it.”
“Me too…oh, hold on a minute. Can you tell me how to get to the Maple Leaf Club?”
“The Maple Leaf Club? Is that in Sedalia?”
“On Main Street. I think East Main, actually.”
Eileen looked like a student being asked a question on the math homework she hadn’t done the night before. “Main’s just a block and a half down, the way you came from. Didn’t you see it?”
Alan shook his head. “I didn’t notice any sign. I thought it was probably First, since the next street was Second.”
“No, what ought to be First is Main.” The girl hesitated. “But I don’t think you really want to go there.”
“Why not?”
“The wrong kind of people hang around on East Main. It’s not a safe place.”
“I’ll be careful,” Alan said. “Thanks. I’ll try to make it later.”
“Neat-o. We could go out to the Wheel-Inn and have a Guber-burger. Bet you never had a Guber-b
urger.”
Alan couldn’t help laughing. “I’ve never heard of a Guber-burger.”
“And they’ve got all the good songs on their jukebox. You can dance, right?”
“A little.”
“I’ll show you all the new steps. Oh, we’d have just a great time. All the kids go there Saturday night.”
And all the kids would see her walking in on the arm of the mysterious stranger from New Jersey, Alan thought. He waved, then walked away.
***
He’d no sooner turned onto East Main Street than he realized what Eileen had been trying to tell him. All along Ohio, almost everyone was white, but the faces on East Main were entirely black. Well, so what? Alan’s friend Tony Moseley lived on Hamilton Avenue, right in the heart of the Negro section of Hobart, and Alan never gave a thought to walking down to Tony’s, any time of day or night.
Two old Negro men sat, smoking corncob pipes and talking, on a bench in front of the Archias Seed Store, a large brick building that Alan thought could have been standing at the time of the Revolutionary War. He remembered Huck and Jim had smoked corncob pipes on their raft as they drifted down the Mississippi, but he’d never seen a real live person puffing away at a hollowed-out cob. One of the men, a wrinkled ancient with an impressive top-mop of white wool, caught Alan staring. He pulled his pipe from his mouth, jabbed it in the boy’s direction. “Help you with somethin’, young mister?”
He looked old as Sedalia, but in considerably better repair. Blue suit clean and pressed, high button shoes polished to a fare-thee-well. He was clean-shaved, and his eyes shone bright and clear. “Where’s the Maple Leaf Club? I’ve read about it, and now I’d like to see it,” Alan said.
The man glanced at his friend on the bench, then turned back to Alan, and pointed at a two-story building across the street. A large sign covered the space between its two floors: CARL ABBOTT’S RECREATION CENTER. “Well, there be the building it was in, but the club’s gone fifty years and more. See them long windows with the curvy tops, up to the second floor? That was where it was. I spent many a good hour there, and oh, how them boys could play piana.”
Alan’s heart raced. “So you must have seen Scott Joplin, and heard him play.”