by Larry Karp
Alan looked all around.
“You gonna see it soon enough. But first, I thought we oughta talk a bit just between us. I got me a wife an’ a daughter back at the house, an’ no point them hearin’ what they don’t got to. Now, if I’m not bein’ too nosy, I would sure love to know how you got to be out in the woods there with Mr. Barton.”
Alan laughed. “I don’t mind telling you,” he said. “But it’s a pretty long story.”
Samson clapped his hat back onto his head, and settled onto the log next to the boy. “One thing I got plenty of is time, young mister. But say, I don’t believe you ever did tell me your name. Or if you did, it went right on past my ears.”
The boy reached a hand. “Alan Chandler. And I sure am glad to meet you.”
***
When Alan stopped talking, Samson said, “Well, that’s sure a-plenty. We got to get you away from here before Mr. Barton can go back out lookin’ for you. They’s trains to St. Lou pretty much all through the day. I can get you to the station…”
Samson’s speech ground to a halt as he saw how hard Alan was shaking his head. “No, I can’t do that. I’ve got to get the journal back and give it to Mr. Campbell.”
“You was lucky once, boy. You can’t count on me bein’ there the next time.”
Alan chewed at his lip. “What were you doing out there, anyway?”
The colored man laughed, showing wide gaps between yellowed teeth. He picked up his sack, reached inside, came out with a dirt-crusted, gnarled piece of wood; a dense, earthy odor rose up. “Sassafras,” the man said. “For to make sassafras tea, which is the best tonic you can take in the springtime. Keep you healthy all year. That no-good stuff in the drugstores they calls sassafras ain’t nothin’ but the old, dried-out bark. Only the roots can do the job right, and they gotta be dug up soon’s the sap starts runnin’. My daddy used to dig roots an’ sell ’em to the people in town. His name was Richard, like me, but ever’body called him Sassafras Sam, which is why I got to be called Samson. Daddy allus took me along an’ learned me how to tell which plants was good that year and which wasn’t. Then when Daddy got hit by a car and kilt, the people was all upset, didn’t know where they was gonna get their sassafras, so I figured I’d carry on. Lucky for you I was diggin’ out there. I heard Mr. Barton and Mr. Klein yellin’, so I come up real quiet to see what they was up to.” Samson cackled. “Don’t ever let nobody tell you sassafras ain’t good for your health. But I tell you, boy, even sassafras ain’t gonna be no help to you if Mr. Barton get anywheres near you again.”
“Mmmm.” Alan sighed. He stood, plucked a blade of grass, chewed at it. “I think I’ve got an idea.”
“What you thinkin’?”
“When I came into town…” Alan paused. “It was just Saturday, but it seems like a month ago. I met Mr. Tom Ireland and another man, a hundred years old.”
“Had to be Isaac Stark.”
“Right. They said they remembered Mr. Campbell from when he was here in 1899, and they were really interested in the journal. If you can tell me how to get from here to Mr. Ireland’s house, I’ll go there tonight and fill him in on what happened. I’ll bet he’d let me stay there till morning, then tomorrow, he could help me find Mr. Campbell. And after we do, I could go to the police about Mr. Barton.”
“Think the police gonna believe you when Mr. Barton tell them that what you say never happened? He a big shot here, and it be your word against his.”
“No it wouldn’t. You’re my witness. You can—”
“Hold on right there, boy.” Samson shook his head slowly, emphatically. “Colored who don’t know when to keep they mouth shut don’t get to be near as old as me. Mr. Barton be mean as they come, an’ he got himself a bunch of friends every bit as mean, so even if he do get put away, that still gonna be the end of me and probably my family too.”
“Sure.” Alan made a face. “I wouldn’t ever want you or anyone in your family to get hurt because you saved my life.”
Samson grinned. “Sometimes a man got no choice, he got to take a chance. Else, he don’t belong on this earth.”
“I won’t say anything to anybody,” Alan said. “Not even Mr. Ireland. I’ll tell him I got away from Mr. Barton on my own. Just show me the way from here to his house.”
“No sirree!” Samson stood, stretched his back. “I ain’t sending you off on your lonesome, not through these woods, and not along the big road either. And for sure, not while it be light out. Tonight, real late, I’ll walk you down to Mr. Ireland’s, an’ we both tell him what happened. I know he gonna help you.”
“You could just take me as far as his house. Then I’ll go in alone, and he won’t have to hear anything about you being involved.”
Samson smiled. “Not to give you offense, but Tom Ireland’s no man’s fool. You go in there and tell him you got yourself away from Mr. Barton, then found your way back all on your own, he ain’t gonna believe a single word outa your mouth. But don’t worry none. If I can’t trust Tom Ireland, there ain’t nobody nowhere I can trust.” Samson gestured: get up. “Gonna take you to my house now.” He smiled. “Bet my daughter Susie’s gonna love hearin’ a white boy, talks funny the way you do, tell her all about New York City. An’ I ‘spects a nice cup of sassafras tea gonna do you a world of good.”
Chapter Seventeen
Monday, April 16
Late afternoon
Elliot Radcliffe thought there must be a better way to make a living than as an editor in a major publishing company. Across his desk, Rudi Blesh barely sat in his chair, broadcasting fury. Blesh was the consummate gentleman, civil and civilized, but right then he appeared on the verge of flying from his chair, sailing over the desk and taking Radcliffe by the throat. The editor focused a pair of bloodshot eyes on the author. “Rudi, please. Calm down. I’ve never seen you in a state like this.”
Blesh’s fist pounded the desk. Papers shook; a small ashtray bounced off the edge and clattered to the floor. Blesh didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve never been in a situation like this,” he roared. “Finally, after almost two years of pleading, begging, cajoling…groveling, for heaven’s sake! Finally, I get Lottie Joplin to understand how important that journal might be. And then what happens? An entire publishing house sits on its collective rear end while the Big Boss has a nice little European vacation. And while the boss suns himself in Italy, that halfwit barber Campbell makes off with the journal. What I can’t understand is how in hell he even knew about it.”
“Maybe he’s not such a halfwit,” Radcliffe said, and immediately regretted it. Now, Blesh was on his feet, his face the color of marinara sauce, pumping his fists like a six-year-old who’d just been told he’d clean his room or else. “Rudi, all right, now, stop,” Radcliffe pleaded. “Maybe we can figure out what’s happened, and do something constructive. How do you know it was Campbell?”
Blesh took two exaggerated deep breaths. “Who else could it have been? Look, Ellie. You called me this morning, and told me Mr. Knopf gave his okay, so I went right over to Lottie’s and what did I find?” He began to tick off points on his fingers. One. Some Negro man came by two or three times last week, told Lottie he was a musician, working with me, and tried to get her to give him the journal. Two. Friday morning, a teen-aged kid came in, she thought his name might have been Alan. He said he was there for Mr. Blesh, paid her five thousand dollars, and went off with the journal.”
“Five thou—”
“Yes, Ellie. Five thousand dollars. Where did a teen-aged boy get that kind of money, and where did that particular number come from?”
The editor drummed fingers on the desk top, wondered whether he ought to say what he was thinking, decided he had to. “You are sure Mrs. Joplin said the boy told her he was there to pick up the journal for you?”
“Yes. And then the boy said he was going to take it to Sedalia for a ceremony honoring Joplin. There actually is going to be a ceremony there, tomorrow night,
in fact. And who’s been trying to work with the locals on that ceremony for more than half a year now? Campbell, that blasted fool. But that’s not all. Lottie told me another interesting story.”
Radcliffe willed calm. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“She said a little while after the boy left with the journal, that same Negro man came in and asked her again to give it to him. She said he got angry when she told him the boy had already picked it up. She has no idea who he is, and couldn’t say any more than he was a nice-looking young colored man. The poor woman was terribly upset. I told her not to worry, that I’d get it all straightened out, and damn it, Ellie, I will.” Blesh pushed up his sleeve, checked his watch. “If I leave right now, I can get to my travel agent before she closes, and have her book me on the first morning flight to Kansas City. I’ll have two hours in my favor, so I ought to be able to catch a train out of Kay Cee, to Sedalia and get there in time for that ceremony. If Campbell’s there and he has that book, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“Okay, Rudi.” To his own ear, Radcliffe’s words sounded weary to the point of being patronizing. “Just don’t forget, what’s happened might be underhanded, but it may not be illegal. You’ve got no claim on that journal. Mrs. Joplin was free to sell it to whomever she wanted. Don’t do anything stupid. Please.”
Blesh was halfway to the door. “I’m not a stupid man, Ellie.”
“No, you’re not,” Radcliffe said. “You’re one of the brightest men I know. But bright men can do some pretty goddamn stupid things when they get as worked up as you are.”
***
Brun helped Luella clear the lunch dishes off the table, then picked up a towel, and as she washed, he dried. He partially stifled a burp, excused himself. Luella half-smiled. “I’m pleased that you enjoyed the meal.”
“That I did. I guess I got a lot of reasons to be glad you found me. If you hadn’t, I’d be walking the streets in circles right now, getting noplace in a hurry.”
She turned a prim look his way, nose tilted upward. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Brun set down the dish he was drying, picked up another. “Guess I can’t argue with that,” he said, and thought, I ain’t that dumb.
“We should be able to leave for the school in about half an hour,” Luella said. “It’s a fair little walk, down Ohio to Broadway, then a couple of blocks east. I hope that won’t be too much for you.”
“No, it oughta be fine,” Brun said. Her solicitousness both moved and irritated him.
She hung the dishrag on the edge of the sink. “Well, you’ll let me know if you’re having a problem. I think the farther from her home we can catch the girl, the more likely she’ll be to talk to us.”
“You’re the doctor.”
***
They were on Ohio, approaching East Fourth, when Brun felt a tug at his arm. He turned, and found himself staring into the well-appointed but very angry face of a middle-aged, light-skinned colored woman. She smacked a hand onto each hip. “You look like you don’t even recognize me, Mr. Campbell. Bet you thought you were never going to see me again.”
A tall, muscular dark man beside her took in Brun and Luella from under the peak of a woolen tweed cap. He looked no more cordial than the woman.
“Well, sure I remember you,” Brun said. “You’re Miss Vinson. Scott Joplin’s daughter.”
“Yes,” a hiss. “And this is my brother-in-law, Mickey Thurman. From New York. The one who works at Knopf.”
Two colored men, one large, one smaller, who’d been walking down Ohio a half-block behind Brun and Luella, hustled to make up most of the distance, then turned into the sheltered doorway at Jack’s Clothing. Each lit a cigarette, then stood, ears bent toward the animated foursome.
Without changing expression, Thurman tipped his cap toward Luella. Brun picked up. “This here’s Mrs. Luella Rohrbaugh,” he said. “Friend from way back. She and I got to know each other back in ‘ninety-nine, when I was here taking lessons from Mr. Joplin.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Vinson, Mr. Thurman,” Luella said.
Bess nodded. Her face said she wasn’t pleased about anything right then. “I’m giving you fair warning;” a snarl. “You figured you were pretty smart, didn’t you, getting that kid to steal my father’s journal from Mrs. Joplin.”
Mickey Thurman began shuffling his feet. Brun thought he looked nervous. “What’re you talking about? I told you back in California, I didn’t get any kid—”
“How stupid do you think I am?” Bess’ anger seemed to grow with every exchange. She was shouting now. “Let me tell you something. Mr. Thurman and I are going to get that journal back, and then he’s going to take it to New York, and call Rudi Blesh. I didn’t want him to have it, but I’m not about to let a scumbag like you diddle me. If Mr. Blesh wants it, he can pay me five thousand dollars. And if not, someone else will.”
In the doorway, Green’s eyes bulged. Slim grinned.
Bess extended a hand toward Brun. “If you’re smart, you’ll give me that journal now, and save yourself a lot of trouble.”
“Can’t give you what I don’t have,” Brun said. “But even if I did have it, I wouldn’t give it to you. Beat it. Get outa here.”
Thurman took a heavy step toward the old man. Luella moved quickly to come between them. “Mr. Thurman, Miss Vinson!” The words could have cut through a steel plate. “You’ve said quite enough. Now, either you move along, or I will call a policeman and complain that you’re making a public nuisance and threatening us. And I will do the same if I see you following us around.”
Bess glanced toward Thurman, then locked eyes with Brun. “You’re going to be sorrier than you’ve ever been in your whole damn life,” she snapped. “We’ll be around, all right, and we’ll be watching. And for sure, we’ll be at the ceremony. Just try and show anybody that journal, and it’s going to be me who calls a cop. Then you can explain how you happened to get your greasy hands on a journal that belonged to my father.”
She glared at Luella, but she might as well have tried to intimidate a stone statue. “Get away from here,” Luella ordered, then wheeled around and started walking down the sidewalk. Brun stepped along to keep up with her pace.
Thurman grabbed Bess by the arm. “Woman, you better quit that stuff before you get us time in the workhouse. Hell’s bells, we ain’t just colored. We’re colored from New York.”
Bess pounded one fist into the other palm, spat on the sidewalk, and stomped away, Thurman trailing in her wake.
In the doorway, Slim whistled softly. “Whoo-whee. Something new every minute. Looks like we got us even more competition.”
Green nudged him toward Brun and Luella. “Go see what they be up to. Maybe they’ll take you to the kid.” He inclined his head ever so slightly toward Bess and Mickey. “I’ll try an’ find out more about them.”
Slim strolled out of the shelter and along the sidewalk, taking care to stay a block behind Brun and Luella.
***
Brun felt like he’d wandered back into Cal’s time machine. So many buildings on Ohio looked just the same as they had in 1899. That damn Vinson woman had stopped them right outside what used to be Doc Overstreet’s office. The barber craned his neck to look down West Fifth, to where he’d worked in Mr. Stark’s music shop. The Starks had been so very good to him. Back in 1910, in Tulsa, Brun heard that Mr. Stark had brought his wife back from New York, to die in St. Louis. He could have gone and visited, but never did. Why the hell not?”
Luella nearly asked whether he was having heart pain again, but caught herself. They walked the rest of the way to Broadway in silence.
***
Teen-agers poured out of the Smith-Cotton Junior-Senior High School. Luella led Brun to the corner of Broadway and Lamine. “We’ll wait here,” she said. “Whether the girl’s going directly home or is going to stop with friends for ice cream or soda pop, she’ll pass this w
ay.”
The kids scrambled by, a sea of youth, their chatter white noise to Brun’s ears. Luella scanned the crowd. Every now and then, one of the girls said hello or good afternoon, and Luella answered each one by name. Knows everyone in town, and probably all of their business, too, Brun thought. But if it takes a busybody to find the kid and the journal, okay.
A girl with lots of dark, curly hair, brown eyes, and a look about her that Brun thought oughtn’t to be on any girl under eighteen said, “Hello, Mrs. Rohrbaugh. What’re you doing here?”
“We’re waiting for you, Eileen.” Luella reached bony fingers to take the girl by the arm, then worked her off the sidewalk, out of the crowd, and said, “This is Mr. Brun Campbell. He’s come all the way from California to find the young man who escorted you to the supper last night.”
The girl flushed.
She got to know him pretty well, Brun thought.
Luella stepped closer to Eileen. “Do you know where we can find him?”
The girl looked puzzled. “He’s at our house. He told me he was supposed to wait there and see if the ceremony committee wanted to put him on the program for tomorrow night.”
Brun started to say something, but stopped when Luella kicked his shin. “We’ve already been to your home, and there’s no one there. Do you have any idea where we might find him? It’s very important.”
The girl moved her head slowly, side to side. “I don’t know where he could have gone.”
“Eileen, just how long have you known Alan? Have you ever visited his family back east?”
“No. I just yesterday met him for the first time. I think there’s a big misunderstanding. I didn’t say last night that he’s a friend of our family, I just said he’s a friend and he was staying at our house. Actually, Mr. Barton brought him over to stay with us. Mr. Barton’s one of Daddy’s friends.”