The RagTime Traveler

by Larry Karp

  “Fine. I’ll make my nap short and come over as soon as I can. When Mickey shows up, tell him I’ll be there about 10:30.”

  “Okay. Feel better.”

  Tom disconnected the call and walked inside. The living room was too crowded with battered furniture for easy pacing, but he made do, walking in circles around the dilapidated sofa. Partway through his fifth lap, he stopped and stared at a patch of considerably less-faded wallpaper, roughly eight by ten. A nail head protruded from the top of the rectangle.

  “The picture of Joplin and Ernst,” Tom murmured. “Mickey’s prized possession…gone. I remember seeing it in June, but was it here yesterday?”

  The missing photograph, open door, Mickey’s absence when he knew Alan and Tom were coming over…it all made him nervous. Should he wait for Mickey to return? Or maybe snoop around a bit? Just to make sure the music was safe.

  Who was going to stop him?

  Once Tom stopped pacing, his bladder reminded him he hadn’t used the bathroom in the hotel before he rushed out to find Alan. The toilet’s at the end of the hall. Mickey won’t mind if I use it, and if I happen to peek into his practice room on the way and see the duffel bag, he’ll never know the difference.

  The door to the practice room was closed. Tom gave a pro forma knock, and opened it almost before the hollow tap faded. Except for a carefully maintained path from the door to the piano, the floor was hidden under stacks of sheet music, overflow from the bank of filing cabinets along one wall. He could hide an elephant in here. Tom glanced around, figuring the bag couldn’t be buried too deeply, since Mickey had brought it out quickly enough the previous night. He didn’t see it, but there was a duffel-sized clear patch in the dust on top of the piano.

  Tom circled around to the piano bench, careful not to brush against any of the stacks of music. No duffel bag on that side of the piano either, but on the bench lay a single sheet of music paper. His grandfather’s name and the phrase “in case of trouble” leapt out at him from the space normally reserved for a title.

  He scanned the page. First, four bars of music. It looked familiar, but Tom couldn’t quite recognize it…“No, wait a sec,” he muttered. “Swipesy Cakewalk!”

  Below the music was written, in Mickey’s shaky hand, “Hey Fats, you ain’t exactly keepin’ out of mischief now, is you? And you think I’se gonna b’lieve you ain’t misbehavin’? Well, one just never knows…do one?”

  Tom scratched his head. “What the hell? ‘Swipesy’ is Arthur Marshall with a bit of Scott Joplin, but then Mickey goes off quoting Fats Waller. Even for Mickey, that’s pretty weird.” The boy folded the note and shoved it into his pocket.

  He edged out through the stacks of music, pulled the door shut behind himself, and continued toward the rear of the house. On his right was a door that had been held closed by a small padlock. The hasp had been torn from the wall and dangled from the lock, its screws on the floor, powdered with plaster dust. Tom’s heart quickened. He turned the knob, opened the door, and flipped the light switch on.

  Just a small closet. A few pairs of pants, a dark suit, and a topcoat hung on the wooden rail. The floor was empty.

  A padlock on a coat closet? That’s just so Mickey. Tom laughed out loud, then sobered. Shit. If that’s where the duffel was…nah, Mickey would’ve put it someplace he could get to it quickly. He turned off the light, closed the door, and continued down the hall.

  Mickey’s bedroom was further down the passageway, on the other side; Tom could see that the door was open. But reaching the bathroom was becoming increasingly urgent, so he just glanced in as he hurried past. Nothing seemed obviously out of place.

  Hydraulic pressure relieved, Tom returned to the bedroom door. He’d want to keep the music close. Under the bed?

  Tom stepped inside, looked to his left around the door, and froze at the Halloween sight in the room.

  Mickey Potash sat in the bed, his head lolling against the wall behind him. His swollen, purple tongue hung from the right corner of an open, gaping mouth; two hideously bulging eyes seemed to accuse Tom of all sorts of malfeasance. Thin streams of blood decorated Mickey’s neck and stained the portion of his chest that was visible above the rumpled blanket. Round, purplish-black stigmata dotted his chest and face. A scream sent every hair on the boy’s neck to attention; it was a moment before he realized that the sound came from his own throat.

  Tom found himself on the front porch with no memory of how he got there. He still felt Mickey’s accusing eyes on him. His stomach heaved, and he deposited some nasty-tasting mucus on the porch flooring. Quickly, clumsily, he wiped at his mouth, then leaped down the steps and sprinted for the hotel.

  Alan’ll know what to do!

  Chapter Five

  The hotel room door bounced off its stopper and slammed shut. The crash sent Alan into an awkward sitting position on the bed. Nasty electric shocks flew down the outer sides of his legs, crossed over below the knees, then continued downward to curl his big toes into painful upward spasms.

  “Christ on a crutch, Tom,” he barked. “Didn’t I tell you I’m exhausted, I was going to take a nap? Couldn’t you have been just a little considerate…” His voice faded as he looked at the intruder and he worked himself to the edge of the bed. “Tom? What…what’s the matter? You’re white as a ghost.”

  The boy jabbed a finger toward the door. “Alan…He’s…Mickey…dead. Murdered.” Tom ran the few steps to the bed, then threw himself against his grandfather and began to sob.

  Alan let him go on for a minute or two, then gently pulled free of the embrace, hobbled to the bathroom, and filled a glass with water. He used the first sip to swallow a Vicodin, then returned to the bedroom and pressed the glass into Tom’s hand. “Here, drink,” he said softly.

  Tom drained the glass in a few swallows.

  Alan nodded. “Good. Take some deep breaths.”

  Tom did as he was told. His body relaxed; he sank to the edge of the bed, then looked up, haggard, at Alan.

  “Now tell me what happened. You said Mickey was—”

  “Dead.” The boy groaned. “Alan, someone killed him.”

  “How? Gun? Knife?”

  Tom shook his head, then raised his shoulders in a shrug. “Not those…I’m not sure…but he looked awful.”

  Alan sighed out a chestful of air. “All right. Tom, you didn’t see the duffel bag, did you?”

  “No. I looked…at least until…”

  The old man took the boy by the arm. “All right, don’t worry about it. Come on.”

  “What? Back there?”

  Alan started to suppress a smile, then let it spread across his face. “I think we ought to find out what’s going on.”

  “Shouldn’t we maybe call the cops?”

  “Eventually, yes. But first we’ll get a little more information ourselves, and decide how much of it to give them. Come on, Tom. We need to get cracking.”

  ***

  Alan pulled the rental car to the side of the road in front of Mickey’s house. “What if someone sees the car here?” Tom asked. “And then they trace it to us?”

  “No problem.” The boy’s concern brought another smile to Alan’s face. “We’re keeping our appointment with Mickey from last night, correct? Once we see what’s the story, of course we’ll be calling the police.”

  Inside, in the living room, Alan turned to Tom. “Which way?”

  The boy pointed toward the back. “Aren’t you worried about leaving our fingerprints all over the place?”

  The old man shook his head. “We already did that, yesterday.” He set off toward the back, Tom following at a cautious distance.

  In the bedroom, Alan moved quickly toward his friend’s body, then bent slowly over the corpse. “Well, Mickey, you got somebody pretty upset, didn’t you?” He shook his head, then looked back to Tom, who hung back ha
lfway across the room. “We’ll take a look around, but I don’t think we’re going to find the music, God damn it.” He pointed toward Mickey. “This isn’t just a robbery that got out of hand. Cigarette burns. Torture. Unless somebody had a whole ’nother agenda to settle, I’ve got to think they were after that bag, and Mickey wasn’t about to hand it over.” He sighed. “Poor guy didn’t just buy a bag of music, he bought a big bag of trouble.”

  Trouble! Tom’s head jerked up. “Oh!”

  He pulled the folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and passed it to Alan, who scanned it quickly, then half-whispered, “Yeah. I guess he was afraid something might be going to happen to him. But something as awful as this? Whew.”

  Alan handed the note back to his grandson before he bent over the body, taking care to not touch the bedding or the corpse with his fingers. “Hmm. Well, that’s interesting—look, Tom.”

  The boy came up to the edge of the bed.

  “Unless I really miss my guess, he was strangled with piano wire.”

  Tom whistled. “Jesus.”

  “Not only that—look close, Tom. That wire’s corroded all to hell. It’s got to be really old—either that or it was seriously mishandled, maybe left out in the rain. Or both.”

  Alan straightened, reached into his pocket, pulled out his Leatherman—a recent upgrade from the Swiss Army knife he had always carried for emergencies. Tom’s eyes widened. “Alan, what are you doing?”

  “There’s a lot of wire hanging free there. I’m going to cut off a piece. It might come in handy.”

  “That’s illegal isn’t it? Tampering with evidence, or something.”

  “Murder is illegal. Not to mention grand larceny: stealing a duffel bag full of valuable music. Which, if it falls into the hands of the police—or if it’s never found at all—we’ll never see.” He fixed a hard eye on his grandson. “Sixty-five years of playing and studying ragtime, and how much time do I have going forward? Somebody didn’t exactly observe the niceties with Mickey, and I don’t feel any obligation to follow the usual rules and procedures. How often do you think the Sedalia police get a case like this? I’m going to make sure whoever did this gets his wagon fixed good. And get back the duffel bag. But if you don’t feel right about it, I’ll understand, and go it myself.”

  Tom drew a shaky breath. “I’ve got your back, Alan. Whatever you do.”

  The old man fought back tears. “I hoped so. Good.”

  Tom managed a shaky smile. “Just be real glad Gramma couldn’t come.”

  They both laughed. “Saints be praised,” said Alan. He wrapped his handkerchief around the wire—it was already thoroughly corroded, but years of habit as a pianist prevented him from getting oils from his skin on it—and snipped off about four inches. He started to roll it up, then changed his mind and handed it to Tom.

  “Tuck this into your deepest pocket, Thomas. Mickey’s message too.” He closed the Leatherman and dropped it back into his pants pocket. “Okay. Let’s take a few minutes and see if by any chance the duffel bag is still here. And then we’d better call the cops.”

  ***

  Alan thought Detective David Parks seemed like a decent enough guy; given the circumstances, a certain amount of official grumpiness was understandable. Parks grimaced and shook his head when he saw Mickey’s body, then turned to face Alan and Tom.

  “Must have been a shock to find him like this, huh?”

  The two conspirators nodded.

  “Lemme see.” The detective paused, then addressed Tom. “You found him first, and then you went and got your grandpa, right?

  Tom nodded vigorously. “Right.”

  “Why didn’t you call us then?”

  Tom shook his head. “I guess I just panicked. I don’t even remember going back to the hotel. All I could think was to get away and find Alan.”

  Parks turned to Alan. “And you didn’t think of calling us then?”

  “The boy was hysterical,” Alan said softly. “I couldn’t make out what he’d actually seen, so I drove us back here, we came in, found…” He gestured toward Mickey. “…and called you.”

  “You said you and Mr. Potash were going to talk about this duffel bag full of music. Did you find that?”

  “We didn’t really look,” Alan said. “Yes, we checked around a little, didn’t see it, and then we called you.”

  “Mind if I have a look out in your car?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Alan dug into his left pants pocket, pulled out the car key, and gave it to Parks, who waved an officer over. “Duffel bag, music, anything like that,” he said, jerking a thumb at the car. Then the detective turned back to Alan. “I’ll need you both to come down to the station and make an official statement. You said you were staying at the Bothwell?”

  Alan nodded. “Yes.”

  “Were you planning to leave town, now that this has happened? Because I have to ask you to stay, at least until—”

  “We’ll stay as long as you wish,” Alan said.

  Parks smiled with pursed lips. “Good. I appreciate that. But just for the record, let me get your home address. Can I see your driver’s license, please?”

  Alan took his wallet from his left pants pocket, extracted the driver’s license, handed it to Parks. “I’m glad to do whatever I can to help. Mickey was a good friend for a lot of years. I want to see whoever did this to him brought to justice.”

  Parks’ grin widened. “Not to mention you wouldn’t mind locating that duffel bag, huh?” He finished copying Alan’s license information and handed the card back.

  “I won’t deny it. This is the most important discovery in the history of music scholarship.” Alan worked to pull himself to full height. “Scott Joplin was the king of ragtime composers. I’ve been studying his music for sixty-five years, I have Stage Four prostate cancer, and before I die, I want to have the chance to validate this music and be sure it enters the general repertoire.”

  “I can’t stop you from looking for it,” Parks said grudgingly.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my doing that, is there?”

  “Not as long as you don’t get in our way. Or do anything illegal yourself.”

  The men shook hands. “I’ll get back to you very shortly,” said Parks. “Today. About the statement.”

  “I’ll be available.”

  ***

  Back in their hotel room, Alan collapsed onto the bed. Tom dropped his backpack onto the desk. “When that detective searched my pack, I thought for sure he was going to keep the music you took last night.”

  “He’ll probably make more of a fuss about it when he takes our statements. Time enough to worry about it later.” Alan sighed, deeply and heartfelt. “I still need that rest, but I know you’re worried about where I was this morning. It’s not going to be easy to explain, but…”

  He gestured toward the chair at the desk across the room. “Pull it over and have a seat.”

  Tom’s eyes asked questions, but he dragged the chair to the bedside and sat.

  Alan winced a couple of times as he kicked off his shoes and hauled his feet onto the bed. “All right. If this sounds funny—peculiar—in spots, bear with me. I was talking to Scott Joplin.”

  “Alan!”

  The old pianist raised a hand in the classic stop signal. “I said, please bear with me. I’m not kidding around. Every word I’m going to tell you is true.”

  “Sorry. I’ll do my best.”

  “Okay. Here’s the way it was. I was studying the passage on that invitation, and I began to imagine I was listening to Joplin in the Maple Leaf Club…and the next thing I knew, I was in the Maple Leaf Club. I mean, really in the Maple Leaf Club. Joplin was at the piano, working on that piece. Arthur Marshall was standing to one side, Scott Hayden and Otis Saunders on the other side. They were as surprised to see me as I w
as to see them, and at first, things were a little tight. But after a bit, we got to talking about music, and then everything was copacetic. Funny thing, Joplin spoke very good Standard English, almost like formal speech. That’s what all the sources say, and that it was supposedly because of the influence of the German music professor he studied with when he was a boy. I admit, I always took it with a grain of salt, but…

  “I stayed until I started to run down and had to leave. I walked from the club back here. Not the hotel…there was a dry goods store on the corner of Ohio and Fourth. Tom, I swear, this is God’s truth. I walked inside, and I was in the Bothwell lobby, exhausted and hurting all over. I flopped into a chair in the lobby for a little while, then came up to the room and hit the bed. Which is where I was when you came barreling in—no, not that I blame you. That’s the story. I can’t begin to understand how it happened.”

  “Time-traveling?” Tom’s eyes widened. “That’s an awfully big bite to swallow. Could you possibly have been hallucinating, you know…what with how tired and all you’ve been?” The boy’s face brightened. “There must have been a name on the front of the shop—did you see it? We could go to the Carnegie Library and look in the 1899 City Directory. Then we might know what really happened.”

  Alan laughed out loud. “Nice try, but no cigar. It was Bryant-Tewmey—which I already knew. Remember, a few years ago, when I was researching those concerts they used to have on the courthouse lawn, right across the street from here? The name in the City Directory and the Sanborn maps stuck in my head because I wondered if that Bryant was related to the BBQ bigshot in K.C.”

  Tom returned the laughter, but then his expression went serious again. He rubbed his chin. “Any chance it could’ve been the chemo? That stuff does do all kinds of weird stuff to you.”

  Alan shook his head. “I don’t think so. Fatigue, stomach cramps, and yes, it does affect the nervous system. You know how forgetful I’ve gotten. I have tingling in my feet and fingers, and I know I’m more irritable and have less patience than I once did. But Tom, I can’t believe that was a hallucination. Would I have hallucinated all of my pain? I don’t think so. And it was so quick; no disorientation, no confusion, just suddenly—ta da!—I was in Sedalia with Scott Joplin in 1899, and then ta da! again, I was back here in 2015.”