by Larry Karp
He paused, quickly decided to go on. “Scott Joplin had a friend, Wilbur Sweatman, a clarinetist—he was the executor of Joplin’s estate, and a bunch of Joplin’s music went to him after Joplin died. But nobody knows what happened to it when Sweatman died, more than fifty years ago. And there were initials inked inside the duffel bag—WS. Wilbur Sweatman.”
While Alan had been talking, JJ had been scribbling in his notebook. Now he looked up and leaned forward in his seat. “That it?”
“That’s all I’ve got.”
Tom raised a hand: Teacher, I got a question. “Just one thing. When Mickey was telling us where he got the music, I had a feeling he was cooking up a whopper. But you guys know him better than I do. What do you think?”
Alan shrugged. “He probably didn’t tell us the uncontaminated truth. Mickey’d stretch a story on any excuse, but he’d never tell an outright lie when it mattered. He knew how much money was going to come in, he had the music in his hands, so I don’t think he’d cook up much of a story.”
“The man did drink way too much.” JJ’s voice was soft. “And he love t’ tell a wild tale when he had a couple a drinks. But he were cold sober when you come to his house.”
“And what he told you does fit with what he told me,” Alan said. “I guess the next step is to talk to Korotkin, and if he can give us a lead to the dealer, we’ll know for sure. We also might be able to find just whose house he was cleaning out.”
JJ nodded, then loosed a raucous bark. “Guess you guys are on for that. Ain’t no antique dealer gonna give a seventeen-year-old black kid the time a day, ’specially if he askin’ ’bout some guy who got hisself murdered. Phone calls won’t work real good, either. You up for a li’l drive?”
Alan and Tom looked at each other, then nodded in unison. “This afternoon,” Alan said. “But there’s another thing.”
“Like what?”
“Like who else, here or in Kansas City, besides Rudy Korotkin, knew Mickey had that duffel bag?”
“Good, Old Man…Alan. You take K.C. I’ll take here.”
Saramae cleared her throat. “If I can say somethin’, there’s one other thing.”
“Go ’head,” growled JJ. “You on the team, you can talk.”
“What if the guy who sold Mickey the music finds out what it’s really worth? Think he mighta come back for a second visit?”
Elvira burst into a full-throated laugh. “Girl, maybe you got more upstairs than I give you credit for.”
Alan nodded. “It is a good thought. We’ll be careful.”
Chapter Nine
Mid-September in Missouri is still warm; the breeze through the open car windows felt soothing on Alan’s face. How many times over how many years had he driven Route 50 between Sedalia and Kansas City with Miriam in the passenger seat? Then as now, the breeze served as a buffer, precluding any sort of conversation, and leaving Alan’s mind free to run audio clips of ragtime. He smiled, a little sadly, as he recalled the skinny teenaged girl who would have killed him if he hadn’t agreed to link their fortunes in life. She was crazy for him, didn’t seem disturbed when he told her straight-out he could never return her passion, that for him, such a feeling was focused onto music and only music. Yes, he’d said, he was fond of her, and he appreciated all she did for him, but she cut him off, telling him we all have our different ways, and that was fine with her, so long as they were together.
“I think about ‘September Song,’” she’d once said. “I’ll play me a waiting game, and you’ll come my way.” In fact, she had and he did, though never with anything resembling the feeling she had for him. Did he love her? He thought so.
Alan glanced across the car at the kid staring out the window. God only knew what was turning over in that mind right then. From the moment of Tom’s birth, Alan knew something special existed between them, kind of like they were one person who’d somehow been split into two bodies, but with a common mind. Was this what Miriam felt for him? Who could tell? If he didn’t understand it, that was all right.
The days dwindle down…He shook the melancholy out of his mind, let the invitation card theme have full play for a moment. Think, Alan. You’re not taking a joy ride, and you’re not speeding into K.C. to get to a concert on time. You’re hunting down a bag full of what could be the most glorious music you’ve ever heard, something that’s going to justify the eighty years you’ve been on Earth. And you’re going to find the son of a bitch-bastard torturer-killer who had the audacity to put the end to a friendship of more than half a century. Get yourself ready.
***
Tom stared out the window without seeing anything; the landscape and the sounds of the breeze and tires on pavement were white noise, isolating him with his thoughts. Most of his attention was on his self-imposed vow to take on as much as he could of the work of tracking down the duffel bag. But how to get information from an antique seller? Did he even need to do anything? Talking was a lot less stressful than running around Sedalia looking for mysterious newsboys and breaking into crime scenes. Maybe just let Alan take charge on this trip, be ready to jump in and volunteer for any physical activity. But…
The rest of his brain was occupied with Saramae. She was really hot, and a great kisser. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Alan had an uncanny ability to tell what he was thinking. Tom really, really hoped his grandfather wouldn’t notice what was on his mind. She had called that kiss a down payment. Tom looked forward to paying the next installment.
***
Rudolph Korotkin’s antique shop was at one end of the Forty-fifth and State Line Antique, Art, and Design Center, a two-block row of toney establishments on the border between Missouri and Kansas. Rudolph’s Treasures occupied about twelve hundred square feet offering a wide selection of high and mid-level antiquities, tastefully displayed in glass-front cabinets and on shelves. Pottery, glass, medical, and scientific instruments; tasteful Victorian jewelry, some smaller furniture pieces. The real stuff.
From behind a graceful walnut desk, Korotkin looked past the computer to give Alan and Tom a simper of acknowledgement when they opened the door. He listened to Alan’s story with clearly increasing discomfort: squirming in the chair gave way to mopping a handkerchief across his beefy forehead and cheeks. Alan silently warned himself not to scare the man off. When he got to the part about the murder, he left out the ugly details, and simply told the dealer Mickey had been killed and the music stolen.
“So you understand where I’m coming from,” Alan said. “I want to find that music. I am going to find that music.”
“Well, I’d say that’s what the police are for,” Korotkin said laconically and blew a cigarette-scented chest full of air across the desk. “I might be wrong, but you don’t look like a detective to me.”
Alan pushed his temper back under cover. “Looks can be deceiving,” he said with a little smile. “I’m eighty years old, Mr. Korotkin, and my neighborhood is not one where many people hold long-term leases. Right now, I’m impatient.”
“Mr…?”
“Chandler. Alan Chandler.”
“Sorry. Mr. Chandler, I’m sorry, but I can’t help thinking that if you get too impatient, somebody might want to cancel your lease altogether.”
Don’t push him. “Oh, I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Korotkin. But I think you’ll understand this: sometimes a person needs to seize an opportunity. Take a risk. I’ll bet in your business you’ve had to go out on more than one pretty shaky limb. So I’m asking for your help—won’t try to get you to do or say anything illegal that could get you into trouble. Please, would you give me the name of the dealer you referred to Mickey?”
Korotkin tapped a cigarette out of a package, thought better of the idea, slipped it back in.
“It’s my funeral,” said Alan.
“You may be eighty, but that kid’s not even twenty. How’re you gonna feel if�
��?”
“Like dirt. Garbage. How else would I feel? That’s why I’ve got to be sure to not let it happen.”
Two quick nods, more “I hear you” than “I agree.” Cigarette out and back in again. “Okay, Mr. Chandler. I need to say, Mickey had his failings and faults, just like all of us. Never mind the drinking, he was the greediest sumbitch I’ve ever seen. But basically he was a decent little guy; he didn’t deserve to end up like that.”
“Most of the time, we don’t get what we deserve,” Alan said quietly. “And most of the time, that’s a good thing. But not this time.”
Korotkin allowed a chuckle to work loose. “Okay. Your man is Sylvester Maggione, right up the street here. He told quite a little story about that duffel bag. Maybe he’ll tell it to you. But you didn’t hear that from me. Get it?”
Alan smiled and nodded. “I appreciate that, Mr. Korotkin. Thank you.”
***
Old World Antiques and Collectibles was at the far end of the Center from Rudolph’s Treasures, both geographically and economically. Some nice things, but mostly dreck from the fifties to the seventies—the nineteen fifties and seventies—and nothing displayed in any particular order. The place reeked of mold.
Alan coughed. “I can understand you don’t want trouble, Mr. Maggione. But I’m not going to give you any or bring you any. And I’m willing to make it worth your while.” He dug his wallet out of his pocket, pulled a hundred-dollar bill from the back compartment, and passed it to the cadaverous little man perched on the countertop.
Maggione made a show of inspecting the bill, then grinned, revealing a double row of browned teeth. “Nice piece,” he said. “I like it. But y’know what? In my business, what’s better than a single nice piece is a pair a nice pieces. I’ve always had trouble saying no when somebody offers me a real nice pair a something.” He coughed consumptively.
Alan and Tom exchanged the quickest glance, then the old man pulled another hundred from his wallet and gave it to the dealer. “Long as I get honest value,” Alan said. “Give me the real story, and you’ll never have to hear from me again. But I swear, try to screw me over with a whopper, and you’ll be missing another nice pair I’m sure you’re fond of.”
Tom took that as a cue, and looked as fierce as he could.
Maggione shoved the two bills into his pants pocket, then waved off any concern Alan might have been harboring. “Nope, you ain’t got no worries. I ain’t exactly on the top of the feeding chain, but I never in my life screwed a client over, and I ain’t gonna start now. Okay, then. Where I got that duffel bag. Damndest thing I ever saw in my life. There was this estate sale over East a Troost, usual stuff, y’know, nothin’ I could get a hardon over. Crap. Garbahge. All out on the front lawn, people pickin’ it over, not much goin’ away. But the family—the whole famn damily was there, musta been fifteen of ’em at least, and it sounded like they didn’t know how to say a civil word to each other. Fightin’ about everything. ‘Who the hell put two bucks on this ol’ camera—it’s gotta be worth ten times that.’ ‘Why’d’ja let that blanket go for a lousy buck? Go try an’ buy a blanket like that for a dollar at Goodwill, never mind Bed Bath and Beyond.’ Fuckin’ circus. I grabbed a lamp I can probably unload on some disco burnout case, and a coupla other cheesies and sleazies.” He waved an arm at the far wall.
Tom followed the gesture and had to suppress a gag at the quintessential seventies-green pole lamp beside a pair of wooden music stands badly carved to resemble musical clefs, a battered Papasan chair without a cushion, and a box of sheet music.
Maggione was on a roll. “I had the crap in my truck and was just about to split when one of the freaks latches onto my arm and says do I see anything else I like? I told him I’m a dealer and I ain’t seen nothin’ at all there I like, so how could I find somethin’ else? Went right past the moron.
“‘Well, maybe I can turn that around,’ he says, and makes with the finger, I should follow him. We go inside the house, he takes me kinda through to the back, and tells me to wait a minute. Then he goes inta the next room and less’n a minute later, comes back with this duffel bag. I give him a funny look, I guess, and he says, ‘Just hold your horses,’ then opens the duffel bag. And it’s full of these music papers.
“‘This’s real old stuff, the McCoy,’ the guy says. ‘Ragtime, you know. No one’s ever proved it, but it’s supposed to be written by Scott Joplin. Been in the family here since, jeez, like forever. It’s gotta be worth somethin’, right? Gimme a thousand and go make your fortune on it.’
“Well, that got him a real good horse laugh. ‘These papers ain’t even signed,’ I said. ‘How the hell do I know Scott Joplin wrote them, not Joe Schmuck?’ I ended up givin’ him a hundred bucks, got in my car, and went right to Rudolph Korotkin’s to try and find out where to dump it. Rudolph sent me to that guy Mickey in Sedalia…and the rest’s history. Okay?”
Alan felt as if he’d been run over by a steamroller. “And you sold it to Mickey for…”
“Five Cs. Hey, I’m not greedy. I hope he ain’t unhappy.”
Alan shook his head. “No. He’s not at all unhappy.”
Maggione held out his hands, palms up. “So, good, then. Everybody’s makin’ out. Right?”
“Just about. Everybody but me. Mickey was your pigeon; I’m his. I’m supposed to be the expert on Scott Joplin, and it does look very much like the music really is his. Which would make me very happy. But if I’m going to authenticate it, I need to know where the music came from. If it’s been in that family for a hundred years, how did they get their hands on it, and what have they been doing with it all this time?”
He smiled, and poked a finger into Maggione’s ribs. “History. Provenance, you know the drill. I want to talk to some of the people in the family. Give me the address…”
Alan ground to a halt as he saw doubt smear itself across Maggione’s face. He sighed, pulled out his wallet, extracted a fifty, and pushed it into the dealer’s hand. “There. Now, I’m betting you haven’t had a payday like this in your shop in the past year. Give me the address and a name, and I’ll be in your rearview mirror in nothing flat.”
“I ain’t got a name,” said Maggione. “I didn’t give a damn, just wanted to get the hell outa there and make my resale. Like I said, it ain’t all that far from here, maybe a ten- or fifteen-minute drive.” He peeled a blank page off a pile of paper. “Here, lemme write you directions. But if they come back at me, I’ll be tellin’ them I never heard of you or saw you in my life. Capiche?”
Alan nodded.
***
Saramae fluttered her lashes at JJ from across the little table in Fitter’s outdoor space. She sucked at her straw, drained the liquid with a slurp, and sat back in her chair.
“Thanks for the Co’cola,” she said. “And for lettin’ me help find out what’s going on.”
“Huh. You’re welcome. I just figure, better I keep an eye on you, not let you go pokin’ ’round on your own. ’Sides, I gotta admit, you gotta pretty good idea, sayin’ maybe the guy who did Mickey were the same one as sold him the music, when he figured he sold out cheap. If he did, Mickey wouldn’t’a given him a bigger cut. I been thinkin’ about it, an’ I remember now, Mickey did say it was a dealer from K.C., some Italian, maybe. I think let’s go over to the library, get a K.C. phone book, and see if we can narrow it down some. Then we give Alan and Tom a call; see if they can find this guy and get sense outa him.”
JJ smirked. “Done with that Coke? C’mon, le’s get movin’.” He pushed back his chair—and found himself looking up into the concrete face of Detective Parks.
Saramae looked around for the nearest exit.
“Mr. Jackson, I’d like you to come down to the station with me. I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you.”
“What, about Mickey? I—”
“Please just come along with me, would you,
Mr. Jackson?”
JJ and Saramae exchanged a long look. “Go on, JJ,” the girl said lightly. “Thanks for offerin’ to help with my homework, but I guess I can jes’ go over to the library.”
JJ grinned and flipped her a quick salute. “Catch you later.”
***
East of Troost was clearly a long-established black enclave, small houses generally well-kept-up. Alan parked in front of 5708 Virginia Street, a beige bungalow with gray trim and a covered front porch, killed the motor, and raised a finger as Tom started to open the door. The old man coughed, cleared his throat.
“Just give me a few minutes, and we’ll take in Act 2.”
He rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes. Tom wondered whether his grandfather was going to fall asleep, but in less than five minutes, he opened his eyes and said, “All right. Let’s go.”
Peeling paint on the mailbox identified the resident as “A. Nowlin.” More peeling paint under the eaves of the house suggested money had been too tight to deal with a leaky roof for more than just a couple of years. A yellowed Venetian blind over the front window sagged at the near end.
The woman who answered the bell put Tom in mind of a superannuated alley cat, hanging onto life for all she was worth, which was not a whole lot. Probably his grandfather’s age, wisps of scraggly white hair going in all directions, a yellow and blue flower-print dress that showed no evidence of a human female form underneath. Eyes red and watery, cheeks and arms covered with brown splotches and scaly circles. She leaned heavily on a black wooden cane as she took in her visitors. Then she spoke one word: “Yeah?”