by Larry Karp
“Oh, yes, sure ‘nough. Not that he was the fanciest player, mind you. I don’t think he ever did win a single cuttin’ contest. But when Scott Joplin was in the right frame of mind, he could play ragtime fit to tear out your heart. I used to think how the angels was puttin’ down their harps to listen.”
The second old man nodded emphatic agreement. “Never heard nothin’ like that before or since.”
“Did you know Brun Campbell, too?” Alan could barely speak the words.
The wool-haired man stared into the distance, then slowly shook his head. “Name does ring a li’l bell, but I can’t say I do recall him. He play ragtime too?”
“Oh, yes. He was Scott Joplin’s only white pupil. Took lessons from him here in Sedalia, back in 1899.”
Again, the old man shook his head. “No, afraid that don’t help. Scott Joplin, I sure do recall, and many others too. But not no white pupils, sorry.”
Alan felt disappointed, but told himself it didn’t really matter. “Have you heard about the ceremony at the Negro high school Tuesday in honor of Scott Joplin?”
“I surely have,” the old man said. “I figure to go and see it.”
“Well, Mr. Campbell’s going to be there,” said Alan. “He’s going to play piano. And make a speech—”
He stopped abruptly as the old man’s body stiffened. Alan bent to touch his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes, sure, I be fine. Get to be a hundred years old, sometimes your body plays you tricks.”
“That’s how old you are?” Alan asked. A hundred?”
“Be a hundred and one later this year. And I expect it’s been close to half them years since anybody done walked up and asked me about Scott Joplin or the Maple Leaf Club. I’m thinkin’ maybe you oughta go and see Mr. Tom Ireland, he live up the road a bit. Got a mem’ry like nobody’s business about the ol’ ragtime folk, and he’ll talk your ear off all night, you give him half a chance.” The old man pushed himself up off the bench, stretched, rubbed at his lower back. “Matter of fact, as you can see, I ain’t got no pressin’ business to hand, so I will take you to Tom’s myself, if you like. That is, if you got no objection to goin’ slow. I do walk a li’l lame these days.” He waved at his friend on the bench.
The man returned the gesture. “See you later.”
Tom Ireland! Alan’s heart leaped. He remembered that name from They All Played Ragtime. And Brun Campbell, in his letter, had called Tom Ireland an old friend. “That sounds great.” The boy extended a hand. “My name’s Alan Chandler, and I came out from New Jersey for the ceremony. I love Scott Joplin’s music, and I’m determined to get Mr. Campbell to give me some tips on how to play it right.”
Again, the old man’s muscles tightened, but only for a moment. He gripped Alan’s hand. “Isaac Stark. Most pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Another familiar name.
But before Alan could say anything, the old man took him by the elbow. “Let’s be on our way, then.”
***
Isaac led Alan back to Ohio and across the railroad tracks. At the first intersection, they turned left, walked a block to Osage, then turned right and continued on, past small houses, most with little gardens in front and to the sides. Isaac smiled at the boy. “Look a li’l different here, hey? This place, they call it Lincolnville.”
Pretty clear why, Alan thought. Everyone they passed was Negro. And not a single person who caught sight of them failed to wave at Isaac, or call a greeting. “Looks like you know everybody,” Alan said.
“Live in a place some sixty-seven years, that happens. It was 1884, I come here. Mr. Arthur was president, after they shot Mr. Garfield. Long time ago.”
Alan tried to get his mind around the idea that this old man at his side was actually around and could recall what to him were no more than lines in a history book. “Then you must be able to remember when Lincoln was shot,” the boy said.
Isaac’s face went grave. “Saddest day in the life of a colored man,” he said. “We was all ‘fraid they was gonna put us back on the plantations… Well, there, yonder, that’s Tom Ireland’s house.”
Alan’s eyes followed the bony, knobbed finger. A man sat on the porch of what Alan would have called a small cabin, rocking slowly. As he saw his visitors come up the concrete walk to the porch, he stood, then shaded his eyes.
“’Afternoon, Tom,” Isaac called. “I brung you a caller.” He stepped onto the porch, Alan a half-step behind.
“I see that,” said Ireland.
“He want to talk about Scott Joplin.”
Ireland’s bony face relaxed into a smile. “Well, I guess you knew where to bring him.” He put out a hand to Alan. “Tom Ireland.”
“Alan Chandler. I read about you in They All Played Ragtime. I’m really glad to meet you.”
Ireland was slim, a light-skinned Negro with a prominent forehead and scooped-out cheeks. Alan figured him to be about seventy.
“Except for Mr. Rudi Blesh a couple of years ago, it’s been a good while since anyone’s come to talk to me about Scott Joplin,” Ireland said.
“Well, this boy come all the way from New Jersey,” Isaac said. “He’s going to the ceremony Tuesday night, and get a man called Brun Campbell to teach him how to play piana like Joplin.”
Ireland’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know Brun was coming out. I hear from him now and again. He was a wild kid, rode a train to Sedalia from Oklahoma, the summer of ‘ninety-nine, just about the time Joplin and John Stark signed their contract to publish ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’ As I recall, there was a good deal of commotion, and Brun was square in the middle of it somehow. He left town right after, pretty sudden.”
Alan patted his book bag. “Mr. Joplin wrote all about that commotion in his journal. I read it on my way out here.”
Ireland chewed his upper lip, just below the thin, gray mustache. “You’re telling me you’ve got a journal of Scott Joplin’s with you? How did you—”
“It’s a long story, Mr. Ireland.”
“I’ve got plenty of time.”
Ireland and Isaac exchanged glances, then Ireland stepped toward the front door. “Come on in,” he said. I’ll start a pot of coffee, and you can tell me all about it. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. And you can tell me what you know about Scott Joplin.”
Isaac laughed. “Boy, I don’t think any one of us got enough time on earth for that.”
***
Alan thought the whole of Ireland’s house would fit into his parents’ living room. The boy sat on a scarred, straight-backed pine chair, balancing a coffee cup on a knee. Ireland and Isaac, side by side on similar chairs, listened as Alan told them how he happened to have Scott Joplin’s journal, and why he’d brought it to Sedalia. He didn’t tell the exact truth about where the five thousand dollars had come from; it seemed better to say Brun had wired it to him. But all the rest was the straight scoop.
When the boy finished, Ireland smiled genially. “Well, Alan that is some story. Hard to believe you beat out Rudi Blesh. That man’s a demon, chasing down material he can write about. I’d say you did Brun Campbell proud.”
Alan beamed. “Thank you.”
“Where are you supposed to meet Mr. Campbell and give him the book?”
Alan shook his head. “He never did set a time and a place with me. Just told me he’d be out here for the ceremony.”
Ireland laughed. “Well, that does sound like Brun. He never was what you’d call a planner. But you’ve got me curious. Would you let me have a look at the journal?”
“Sure, if you’re interested.” The boy picked up the book bag from the floor between his feet, opened it, pulled out the journal. “Here.”
Ireland took the book, then looked back to Alan. “I’d be most interested in seeing what he said about the commotion in Sedalia.”
“I can find t
hat part for you, if you’d like.” Alan reached for the journal.
“I would,” Ireland said. “I’d like that very much.”
***
The two Negroes worked their way slowly through three and a half handwritten pages, then looked at Alan.
“I was really surprised when I read that,” the boy said. “There was nothing at all about it in They All Played Ragtime. And Mr. Stark, when you introduced yourself, back on Main Street, I recognized your name from in the journal. You worked for John Stark, Scott Joplin’s publisher. Funny, you and he have the same last name.”
“Nothing funny about it,” Isaac said. “I took Mr. John Stark’s name because of he did me a great kindness back in ‘sixty-five.”
Ireland held up the journal. “Okay if we look through this a little more?”
“You bet. Take your time. Then, will you tell me some of what you know about Scott Joplin?”
“I’ll be glad to. Though I’m not sure I have anything as interesting as what you’re showing me.”
***
The sun was low in the west when Ireland, Isaac, and Alan came out onto the little porch. Alan pulled his jacket closed, set the book bag between his legs, zipped the jacket. “I just can’t thank you enough,” he said to the two older men. “I feel almost like I know Scott Joplin personally. Maybe it’ll help me play his music better.”
Ireland raised a finger. “Just remember, ‘Do not play this piece fast. It is never right to play ragtime fast.’ If I heard him say that once, I heard it a hundred times.”
“I’ll remember. And I guess I’ll see you at the ceremony Tuesday.”
“Oh, yes. You can be sure of that.”
The Negroes watched the white boy trot down the path, turn onto Osage, and march off in the direction of downtown. Then they walked back into the house. Ireland reloaded the coffee pot, put it onto the stovetop, and reached into the belly to stir up the fire.
Finally, Isaac said, “A man ain’t never safe in this world, is he?”
Ireland shook his head sadly. “I never knew…was that really what happened?”
“Every word. We all swore never to talk about it to anybody. Poor Scott musta been bad-sick in his head that he’d even think about writin’ down that stuff. But the business with Brun and the girl is news to me. No wonder he got himself outa town in such a hurry.”
Ireland’s brow wrinkled. “That girl still lives here. And Brun’s coming to town for the ceremony? Oh, my.”
“Tom, what on earth we gonna do?”
“I don’t know. When the boy went out to the privy, I thought about ripping out those pages, but then he’d have known, and we’d be even worse off. We’ve got to get the journal away from him, the sooner, the better. Let him show that stuff around Sedalia, and they’ll have those bodies dug up in nothing flat. And then what?”
“’Fraid I can imagine. Only thing worse’d be if Rudi Blesh got it, and put it in a book for the whole world to see.”
Ireland poured coffee. He and Isaac sat across the kitchen table from each other, sipping, thinking.
They were on their second cups when Isaac said, “Best thing I can come up with, we keep a good eye on the boy, and just as soon as ever we can, we grab the book.”
Ireland frowned. “Couple of problems there. For one thing, I’m eighty-five, and you’re over a hundred. We’re not going to outrun a teen-age boy. And for another thing, now that he knows us, it’d be tough to sneak up on him.”
“Well, of course.” Isaac was indignant. “You didn’t let me finish up. How about we get Alonzo Green? All the stuff he used to do on the Q.T. all them years for the cops in Kans’ City, he oughta be able to snatch a li’l book off a green kid. And I don’t expect he’d mind makin’ a few dollars for himself.”
Ireland set down his cup, deliberated a moment. “I can’t think of anything better.” He pulled his watch from his pocket. “Six-thirty, Lonzo’ll be home by now. Let’s go have a word with him.”
Chapter Fourteen
Saturday, April 14
Evening
This kind of job was why Alonzo Green gave up working for the police in Kay Cee. If an operation was a pebble in a cop’s shoe or likely to turn messy, all he had to do to keep his nose clean and his ass warm was slip the colored guy a few bills under the table. Alonzo had wiggled himself into a gang setting up to knock off a bank. He’d stood out-of-doors for hours in twenty-degree weather, watching for some stud who’d been too handy with a knife. Corraled a girl who’d run off from a farm to have a little fun in the big city. Tailed a newspaperman who was working on a story of police corruption, took pictures of the bozo in a cathouse. No wonder he got to deciding he’d do better to run a little farm, raise a few chickens, grow vegetables. But there were no better men on earth than Tom Ireland and Isaac Stark, and if they said it was important to get their hands on a journal some white kid was carrying around, then Alonzo would find them that journal. He’d made off with a whole lot more in his time than some dead musician’s diary.
The kid was brand-new in town, so likely he was either laying low, waiting for that old guy to come in from The Coast, or walking around, trying to find some other people connected with the ceremony. Green figured to start with the streets. A man with coal-black skin and hair like steel wool couldn’t exactly walk through white hotel lobbies and ask clerks if they had a white boy staying there, name of Alan Chandler, he was carrying a dark blue book bag you couldn’t get off him with pliers.
Green strolled up Ohio, looking both ways, seeing no one who fit the kid’s description. At Fifth, he turned right, walked the half-block to the Liberty Theatre, went inside and scanned the square-dance crowd. No luck. Back out to Ohio, across the street, and into the doorway of Beverly’s Snack Shop. He shaded his eyes. Fair bunch of kids in the booths, but no one he hadn’t seen before. A pretty young waitress came up to him, little white hat perched to the right side of her head. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “We aren’t allowed to serve colored here.”
Green bit on his tongue, nodded, turned away. Outside, he took a moment to cool down and get his mind back onto his work. Saturday nights, a lot of kids went to the Wheel Inn, over on Broadway, to dance to the jukebox. The detective walked back through the thinning crowds along Ohio to the corner of Main, where he got into his ‘thirty-six Ford, drove to Broadway and into the Wheel Inn lot.
The instant he was out of the car, music enveloped him. Glenn Miller, “In the Mood.” Vanilla ice cream crap. He strolled up to the round building, topped by an oversized wagon wheel, then peered through the plate glass. All the tables were filled; kids covered every inch of the dance floor. Green saw the Klein girl, jitterbugging with the Gardiner boy, big-shot high-school football player. The dark man shook his head. When a man’s wife cheats on him, or his daughter goes whoring around, he’s the last person to ever find out. God’s mercy, Green thought. If Otto Klein ever found out what his daughter did nights, he’d beat her to jelly.
But there was no sign of the person he’d come for. Green checked his watch, near eleven. Time to pack it in. Get some sleep, start fresh in the morning.
***
After Alan left Tom Ireland’s house, he walked back across the railroad tracks into downtown. Coming up on Main Street, he got a heavy whiff of good cooking, so he followed his nose to the red-brick Pacific Café, went inside, sat at an empty table. He slid his book bag across the table top, then looked around. Every wall was covered with framed photographs of major-league baseball players. Some, Alan had no trouble recognizing from his seat, Joe DiMaggio, Babe Ruth, Pee Wee Reese. Stan Musial, bat cocked, seemed to have a place of honor, occupying an entire wall panel at eye level. Well, sure, this was St. Louis territory.
The waitress, a thin, gray-haired woman in a flowered apron, flashed him a motherly smile as she handed him the menu. “You from out of town, young man?”
Alan nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I just got in from New Jersey.” T
he boy’s gut punctuated his sentence with a gurgle.
The woman laughed. “Sounds like you could use some of our chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes. We make our own white gravy from scratch, and it’s the best in Missoura. Tastes even better than it smells.”
When Alan finished the heap of food, the waitress told him he wouldn’t be sorry if he topped off his meal with a piece of their own apple pie, a la mode, the only way to have it, and no, he wasn’t sorry. As he paid the bill, he asked the cashier if there was a good hotel nearby, nothing fancy, just clean. “Sure is,” she told him. “The Milner’ll do you. Outside the door, you go left, cross Ohio, then go another block to Lamine, and you’re right there.”
Alan thanked her, followed her directions, and was up in his room a quarter-hour before Alonzo Green began to look for him. He considered going back down to the lobby to watch the western movie they had on the TV, but once in the room, all the excitement of the past two days hit him. The boy took off his clothes, stood under a warm shower, then hit the bed and didn’t see the world again until almost nine o’clock next morning.
***
As the boy left his room to hunt up breakfast, it occurred to him to stash his book bag in the dresser drawer, but he shook his head, no. He’d heard about maids going through peoples’ stuff in hotel rooms.
The Pacific Café’s pancakes and eggs sounded really good, but so did the biscuits and gravy; he resolved the dilemma by ordering the first with a side of the second. Smart choice. They sure did know how to cook in Sedalia, and they weren’t skimpy with their servings. He paid his bill, then walked out. and up West Main, past the entrance to the Main Street Cigar Store, where a dark man in a bashed tan fedora idly thumbed through magazines in a wire rack.
Now what? The streets and sidewalks were deserted, and from every direction came the sound of church bells. Alan wished he had at least some idea of when Mr. Campbell was due in. Maybe there’d be a reception for him, a bunch of people at the railroad station, rolling out a long red carpet and cheering as he stepped off the train.