The Ragtime Fool

by Larry Karp

  “Yes, dear. I know Mr. Barton.”

  And you don’t like him one bit, Brun thought.

  Tears started down Eileen’s cheeks. She tried to cough them away.

  Luella edged the girl farther off the sidewalk, away from the flow of teen-aged traffic. “You don’t have to cry,” the old woman said. “Mr. Campbell and I are concerned about Alan, the way he’s apparently disappeared. You seemed quite a little fond of him last night. Wouldn’t you like to help us?”

  She nodded vigorously, then blurted, “Yes, ‘course I would. He’s peachy…I mean, he’s really nice. He was so excited about having the journal and showing it to Mr. Campbell. On the way out to the supper last night, I asked him why Mr. Barton had brought him to our house, and he told me about how a big colored man had pulled a gun on him and tried to take away the journal, but Mr. Barton rescued him, and got him to check out of the hotel he was in. Then he brought him to our house so he’d be safe, away from the colored man.”

  Luella felt weary. Was the girl lying? Was the boy lying to her? Was Brun lying about the way the boy had taken it upon himself to get the journal and bring it out?

  Eileen went on. “I tried to sneak a look at the journal while Alan…” Her face went scarlet. “…while Alan wasn’t there. But he came in and caught me, and he seemed really upset. I told him I was just curious, and…and, oh, Mrs. Rohrbaugh, I don’t have any idea why my father and Mr. Barton would be having anything to do with that ceremony for the colored piano player. They don’t like colored people. I don’t understand this whole thing.”

  “Neither do I,” Luella said, her voice softer now. “But I’m going to find out. And you know, Eileen, when I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”

  The girl nodded vigorously. “I don’t want Alan to get hurt.”

  Luella put an arm around her. “Neither do we. Now, I’m going to ask you to help by not saying anything to anyone about our little talk.”

  Eileen looked relieved. “Thank you, Mrs. Rohrbaugh. I won’t say a word, I promise.”

  Brun looked across the street, at the large colored man lounging against a lamp-post, smoking a cigarette. Gave him the willies. He was starting to imagine things.

  ***

  As Luella and Brun watched Eileen walk off down Broadway, Brun asked, “You think she was telling the truth?”

  Luella gave him the fish eye. “I suppose I should be asking you that. Set a thief to catch a thief.”

  “Okay, you want it that way, yeah, I think I do believe her. I just hope she ain’t gonna go home and start blabbing to her parents. Girls that age…you know.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do. But I think her concern for the boy will keep her quiet. Considering what we know now, perhaps we ought to go back to the machine shop, and have another talk with Otto Klein.”

  He fell into step beside her.

  “Br…Brun?” she stammered.

  “What’s that?”

  “I need to apologize to you. For that nasty remark about setting a thief. It was uncalled for.”

  His laugh came through just a little hollow. “Naw, don’t worry about it. If a shoe fits, you gotta put it on and pay the piper.”

  ***

  As the door to his shop opened, sounding the bell, Otto Klein glanced up, then set down his calipers and gawked. Barton looked like he’d been through a war. Blood all down the right side of his shirt, a mouse just below his hairline on the right, face scratched and bruised. “Jesus, Jerry. What in hell happened to you?”

  “I got on the wrong end of a nigger’s stick,” Barton growled.

  Klein hustled to the other side of the counter, pulled Barton into a chair. “Sit down, sit down. You’re tellin’ me some nigger did this to you? He ain’t gonna see the light tomorrow, the black bastard.”

  Barton looked up at Klein, then winced as he absent-mindedly rubbed the knot on his head. “Otto, shut the fuck up for just a minute, would you? I don’t know who it was. Remember when you came tear-assin’ out back of Armstrong’s? Well, right after you left, I was getting set to persuade the kid to spill where he hid the book, but then all of a sudden, the lights went out. I got just this quick look, a great big nigger. I think the son of a bitch hit me twice.”

  “And the kid got away?”

  Barton sneered. “No, Otto. He hung around till I woke up, then he brought me a drink and helped me get up so I could start working him over again.”

  Klein backed off a step. “Hey, Jerry, no call to be snotty.”

  Barton sighed. “When I came to, I was face-down in sticker-bushes. My truck was gone, so I started hikin’ out. About half a mile down the Georgetown road, there’s my truck, off on the side with a flat. And no key.” Barton patted his right pants pocket. “Good thing I always carry an extry. I jacked up the truck, fixed the flat, and here I am. Oh yeah. I stopped home just long enough to pick up another gun.”

  Klein opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Barton shouted, “Yeah, Otto. The nigger took my gun, too.”

  Klein pounded the counter-top. “Hey, now, it ain’t my fault you screwed up an’ let the kid get away and all.” He pointed toward the back of the shop. “You want to yell at somebody, I got a mirror back in the crapper there.”

  Both men froze as the door bell tinkled, and Brun and Luella marched up to the counter. For a moment, everyone just stared. Then, Luella said, “Mr. Barton, you look as if you’ve had an accident.”

  Barton grimaced, swallowed hard, then did a half-way job on a smile. “You should see the other guy.”

  Klein leaned forward, across the counter. “Can I do something for the both of you? You find that kid all right?”

  “No, we didn’t, Mr. Klein, and that’s why we’re here. No one answered the door at your house. I’m quite concerned for the boy.”

  Klein shrugged. “Maybe he was sleepin’. Or he didn’t feel like answerin’ the bell. Could be he just took it in his head to run off, who knows? He was a funny kind of kid.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Luella said. “He couldn’t wait to find Mr. Campbell and give him that journal.”

  Ice water spread across Klein’s palms. He tried to keep his face calm, his voice level. “Maybe he was just sayin’ he had it. We don’t really know anything about that kid.”

  “I can’t help wondering how he happened to be staying at your house, Mr. Klein.”

  Barton reacted to the silence. “How he ‘happened to be stayin’ there’ is I took him there. Yesterday. When I came out from havin’ Sunday dinner at the Pacific Café, there was this great big colored guy, got hold of the kid and yellin’ how he better hand over all of his money. So I pulled my gun and ran the coon off. The kid told me he was in town for some kind of celebration or other, and now he was afraid the colored guy might catch him again. If I lived in town, I’d’a taken him home myself, but since I don’t, I stopped by Otto’s, and Otto said sure, the kid could stay there for a couple of days. Okay?”

  Klein jabbed a finger toward Luella. “Mrs. Rohrbaugh, that boy ran off from his own home. Jerry and me tried our best to look out for him, but if he took it in his head to run off from here too, we couldn’t help that. It ain’t right, you should talk to us like you’re doin’.”

  Butter would melt in his mouth, Luella thought. “Very well, Mr. Klein. If you happen to see the boy, please tell him Mr. Campbell is staying at the Milner. Or, he can come see me.”

  “I’ll do that, Mrs. Rohrbaugh. I surely will.”

  ***

  The door had barely closed behind Brun and Luella when Barton said, “Okay, Otto. The room the kid was staying in? That’s where he must’ve hidden the book. When you get home, tear that room apart. We find the book, it’s still gonna be money in our pocket.”

  “But how about the kid? If he opens his mouth—”

  “We’re dead, that’s what. So we’ve got to make sure he’s dead first. I’ll go on back to where I had him, an’ che
ck in the woods all around. I’ll look all along the Georgetown Road. We gotta get our hands on him before he shows up at the ceremony, that’s for damn sure.”

  ***

  Barton had barely stepped outside when he stopped in his tracks. Old Lady Rohrbaugh and the geezer from California were most of the way to the corner, and there behind them, walking close-in to the buildings, was that giant coon he’d chased off the kid the day before. Barton took off like a flash, ran up behind the big man, spun him around. “You the gutless nigger, snuck up behind me with a stick?” he shouted.

  Brun and Luella turned, watched.

  Slim gave Barton a steady up-and-down. “Mister, I don’t know what you talkin’ about,” he said. “But if somebody done laid into you with a stick, I sure wouldn’t mind shakin’ his hand.”

  Barton’s hand drifted toward his pocket. Slim tensed, clenched a fist.

  “Fight! Fight!”

  Six schoolboys charged across the street, then stood at the curb, laughing as they waited for the show. Barton glared at them, then lowered his hands. Slim uncocked his fist. “Next time you see me, you better pray there’s people around then, too,” Barton snarled.

  Slim did an abrupt about-face. All the way down the street, he felt the white man’s eyes on his back. Casual as he could manage, he nodded at Brun, tipped his hat to Luella. Guess that’s the end of me following after them, he thought. I’ll get me a drink, then go back to Mr. Ireland’s and wait for Alonzo.

  Brun squinched his eyes. “I swear I saw that guy out by the school, while we were talking to the girl. He was across the street, smoking a cigarette.”

  Luella shook her head. “There’s some very funny business going on here, and I am going to get to the bottom of it.” She set her jaw. “That boy will not get hurt, not if I can help it.”

  Brun wondered why she was so concerned about some kid she hardly knew, but he was not about to ask questions.

  ***

  Alan followed Samson Curd out of the little kitchen, into the living room. Almost six o’clock, early-spring sunlight fading. Curd struck a match, lit the coal-oil lamp, settled into a chair, then motioned Alan to sit beside him. Mrs. Curd and Susie, the daughter, stayed in the kitchen to clean up. Alan suspected they knew when the head of the family required privacy, and behaved accordingly.

  Curd patted his belly. “Hope you got your fill. I don’t like nobody leavin’ my table hungry.”

  “I’m stuffed, thank you,” Alan said. “I couldn’t eat another bite.” Or drink another mouthful of sassafras tea, he thought.

  “You ever have possum before?”

  Alan shook his head. “No. But I like trying new things. It was good.”

  Curd rolled a cigarette, offered it to Alan, who declined politely. Curd smiled, lit up, blew out smoke. “You a clean-living boy, ain’t gonna get no Tee-Bee in you’ lungs. You smarter’n me.”

  “I wasn’t so smart I could’ve gotten away from Mr. Barton. On my own, I’d have been dead a long time before you.”

  Curd laughed. “You got a pretty good mouth on you.”

  “People tell me that.”

  “So you come all the way out here ‘cause of Scott Joplin? How you know about Scott Joplin? Not many in Sedalia even do. But a white boy from New York? How you come to be playin’ nigger music?”

  “I heard Mr. Campbell play it on a radio program, but that’s not what he called it. I never heard anyone call it that.”

  Curd laughed, a real ho-ho-ho. “Must be real different back there. Out here, we got nigger crapper-cans, nigger drinking fountains, nigger movie seats, nigger restaurants, nigger music, nigger everything. You sayin’ that ain’t the way in New York?”

  Alan shook his head. “I thought it was only like that in the South.”

  “Better have yourself another think. There ain’t worse crackers in Mis’sippi an’ Alabam’ put together than Mr. Barton and Mr. Klein an’ their pals. They’d shoot down a colored man in the woods, then tell the cops they thought he was a deer. Like colored men got these big horns on toppa they heads.” Curd tapped ash into a metal tray. “So, tell me now. That book you carried out here? It’s in Mr. Joplin’s own hand?”

  “I guess. It came straight from his widow. It’s got a lot of stuff in it that’s not in They All Played Ragtime, which is supposed to be the last word.”

  Curd grinned. “There ain’t never no last word, boy, not about anything. Your Mr. Campbell must think that book’s pretty important.”

  “He said if he had it, he might be able to get a statue put up in the middle of downtown for Mr. Joplin.”

  Curd took a long draw at his cigarette. “Well, maybe he know something I don’t. Put a plaque up in Hubbard High School, nobody gonna complain. But I can’t see no statue for any colored man goin’ up south of Main Street.” Curd paused as he saw the puzzled expression on Alan’s face. “Main Street, that be the dividin’ line in Sedalia. North of Main, they calls Lincolnville. But south of Main, that be for the white. See what I be sayin’?”

  Alan felt his face go red. “Yes.”

  Curd looked off into the distance. “Not sayin’ Scott Joplin don’t deserve a statue. My daddy used to hear him play, down by the Maple Leaf Club, an’ he told us no matter how much was goin’ on in a room, when Scott Joplin sat down on the piana bench, you could hear a pin drop. Everybody used to say, he one day gonna be King of Ragtime.”

  “Did you ever hear him play?”

  Curd stubbed his cigarette in the metal tray. “No, to my eternal regret. I was born in oh-one, and by then, Mr. Joplin had moved off to St. Louie. But we all played his music.” Curd nodded in the direction of a battered mahogany upright piano in the far corner of the room. “Daddy never did learn how to play, but he made sure us kids did, not that any one of us was ever any good. We didn’t have much money, but Daddy bought all of Scott Joplin’s tunes, and Arthur Marshall’s and Scott Hayden’s, too, they was Mr. Joplin’s students here.” A sly smile came across Curd’s face; he waggled a finger toward the piano. “It’s all there, in that piana bench. Every piece of ragtime music Scott Joplin ever wrote.”

  Alan was halfway to the bench before he remembered his manners. “Could I look?”

  “Sure, go right ahead. Why you think I tol’ you? You can even play it if you wants, that is if you can stand for the piana bein’ bad outa tune. We just gotta leave us some time to get a li’l shuteye before we goes out to Mr. Ireland’s. Won’t do to start off tuckered.”

  The boy threw back the piano bench lid, and began to leaf, open-mouthed, through the four-inch-thick pile of sheet music. Curd laughed out loud. “Careful, now. Play too much of that nigger music, you just might find you own skin turnin’ black.”

  “I wouldn’t care,” Alan shot back.

  Curd’s face went grim. “Better watch, boy. Boots that don’t fit right ain’t gonna pinch when you first puts ’em on, but walk a couple miles in ’em and you’re gonna have you some serious pain.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Monday, April 16

  Early evening

  Eileen couldn’t concentrate on her homework. Across the living room, her mother knitted away at a sweater, but not in her usual calm way. Tonight, she jabbed the needles as if the wool had said something to rile her. Her face was a mask, deep grooves between her nose and the corners of her mouth. Eileen had learned long ago to step softly when those tight furrows appeared.

  The girl heard a noise on the stairs, turned to see her father coming down. He’d been up there for almost an hour. When Eileen had asked her mother why he was making the guest room a shambles, Mrs. Klein had snapped, “Don’t go looking into other peoples’ business. Nosy Parkers get into trouble.” Eileen was sure it had something to do with Alan and that book of his.

  As Klein stomped across the living room, Eileen saw her mother shoot him a silent question. He answered it with a barely-perceptible shake of his head, then walked on, into the kitchen.
>
  As Eileen started to speak, and her mother raised a warning finger, the front door flew open, and Jerry Barton burst into the room, firing wild glances in every direction. “Otto?” Barton bellowed, then even louder, “Otto!”

  Eileen screamed. Mrs. Klein dropped her knitting, and jumped from the couch.

  Klein tore back in from the kitchen with a bottle of Moerschel’s beer in a death grip. Four people stared at each other. Eileen thought Mr. Barton looked fit to bust. Finally, her father cleared his throat. “Jerry? What the hell’s goin’ on?”

  Barton seemed to draw himself together. He nodded toward Mrs. Klein. “Sorry to run in like this, Rowena, but I need to talk to Otto.”

  The woman picked up her knitting, then, without a word, started to the kitchen. Partway there, she looked over her shoulder. “Eileen!”

  The girl gathered up her book and papers, and followed her mother out. They’d barely gotten into the kitchen when Eileen hissed, “I’m surprised they don’t just snap their fingers and expect we’ll go out like whipped dogs.”

  Mrs. Klein set her knitting onto the table. “Hush up, Eileen.” Drawstrings seemed to pull her mouth tight. “Some goings-on, it’s better not to know about.”

  ***

  Klein watched his women disappear into the kitchen, then turned to Barton. “Something go wrong about tomorrow night?”

  Barton waved off Klein’s guess. “I was down by Andy’s Tavern, having myself a beer, and who comes in and walks right past me but Alton Whitaker.”

  Klein wondered if his friend had gone over the edge. “Yeah? So?”

  “Alton Whitaker,” Barton repeated. “With that big, floppy hat he’s always wearing. And then I remembered. I only got a real quick look before I went down, but that nigger who nailed me out by Melvin Armstrong’s had on the exact same kinda hat. All them sassafras trees out there? Hell, Otto, that was Samson Curd, hit me.”

  Klein slowly, carefully, set his bottle onto the top of the television set, next to the rabbit ears. “Well, okay, then. So maybe after tomorrow night we could—”

  “After tomorrow night, horseshit!” Barton brought a fist down on the TV, setting Klein’s beer into a little dance. “I’m bettin’ you didn’t find that book in the room where the kid was sleepin’, am I right?”