The RagTime Traveler

by Larry Karp

  Alan knew he had been thinking about that. They’d rehearsed this scene in the car, on the way back from Kansas City.

  “Saramae’s father’s the city editor on the newspaper, the Democrat. He had a short piece on the case in today’s paper, and I’ll betcha anything he’s going to have a big article tomorrow. Maybe with all kinds of stuff in it like autopsy reports, the time of Mickey’s death, any clues the cops have found. Maybe even clues we’d recognize and cops might not.” The boy slid a sly look across to Saramae. “You think we could get him to tell us anything?”

  Saramae snickered. “‘We?’ No way. ‘Me!’ You keep your big mouth shut and I’ll get him talkin’ about the case for hours.”

  “All right, then,” Alan said. “So the two of you can go down to the paper and take it from there.”

  “No, Daddy works days.” Saramae grinned. “We’ll go over to my house. Be a piece a cake. My daddy, he’s a real integrationist. Won’t care if I bring over a white boy or a black one. Long as he can put on his “Sedalia Democrat City Editor” show, he wouldn’t care if I brung a Martian ’round.”

  Alan managed a tired chuckle. “Okay, get as much detail as you can. Anything could be a key here. Saramae, does your dad go to bed early?”

  “Nah. Not before the late news, anyways.”

  “Good. Maybe the two of you could walk JJ home before you go on to your house. I’m sorry, but my age and my…condition are catching up with me, and if I don’t hit a bed soon, I’m in real trouble. JJ, you figure to stay home till it’s time for you to go to work. Then, Tom and Saramae could come back and walk you to the plant.”

  “Less’n my Granny do that…no, don’t worry. Nobody, an’ I means nobody, not even cops, gonna ever mess with my Granny. She can pick me up in the mornin’, too, and if you want, we can all figure to get back together like we did today, nine o’clock, and see what be what.”

  Heads nodded all around the table.

  Chapter Ten

  As Tom, Saramae, and JJ crossed the tracks, entering Lincolnville on North Ohio Street, Saramae pursed her lips, and poked a finger into Tom’s side. “Your grandpa’s got some kind of condition?”

  I knew she wouldn’t let that rest. “Yeah. He gets really tired, and has to lie down.”

  “My grandpa had The Big C. That what yours has?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Can they cure it? You hear all about how people are living with cancer now, but it sure as hell must be tough.”

  “Thanks. It’s as tough as it sounds. They can’t cure it, but they give him medicines that make it grow slower. The medicines make him feel lousy, at least some of the time, but he still plays the piano and writes his music, so he says he’s okay.”

  “Man, I don’ know as I could ever say that,” said JJ.

  “He’d tell you that you just haven’t had a life yet,” Tom replied.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way.

  ***

  Alan set his alarm for thirty minutes, then changed his mind and made it an hour. Wouldn’t be as good as a night’s sleep, not even the partial nights he was getting more and more often, but it would be enough to see him through for another few hours. He thought that was the most he could afford.

  When the alarm rang, he woke feeling surprisingly alert. After a moment he realized it was because he was in the zone. Not quite the same feeling of total control he had when he was performing, but closely related. His head was near-bursting with unfocused thoughts about Mickey and the missing music. He’d have bet the farm he was on the right track to finding Mickey’s killer and the treasure-packed duffel bag.

  He settled himself at the bedside table and looked at the card without really seeing it.

  I’m pretty sure the scene I cook up controls where I arrive. I doubt Joplin was alone in the club very often, so trying to catch him when there’s nobody else there might mean a very long time after my last visit. And I don’t want to surprise him again.

  Alan considered the possibilities, then built up a new scene in his mind. Late morning, maybe ten o’clock. A few napkins, bottles, and glasses scattered around the tables, legacy of the previous night’s entertainment. A pile of papers on the end of the bar closest to the piano, as though someone had been interrupted while looking through them. Nobody in the room.

  It felt wrong. Not wildly wrong, just slightly off. Alan added more mess to the tables and floor, a “not cleaned up” scene. Better, but still not quite right. On a sudden impulse, he changed his mental picture, setting the piano’s lid beside it against the wall. That felt right. Odd, but right.

  Alan let the card’s strain pour through his head, and stepped forward. To his left, he heard footsteps descending the stairs. He looked in that direction just in time to see the backs of two heads disappear down the stairs.

  Give them time to get clear of the door.

  He peeked into the piano. Shards of glass littered the cavity, and liquid had been splashed across the mechanism. A strong odor—beer and urine!—filled the interior.

  What kind of jackass does that to a piano?

  He shook his head, and walked as quietly as he could toward the stairs. As he neared the top of the staircase, he heard someone coming up. Heavy footsteps that sounded too firm to be Joplin’s. A moment later, a burly black man carrying a broom stepped out of the staircase.

  Alan spoke before the man noticed him. “Have you seen Mr. Joplin?”

  The man jumped, nearly dropping his broom, but collected himself quickly. “Who you to be asking that?”

  “A friend of Mr. Joplin. Have you seen him?”

  The man crossed to the bar and leaned his broom against the end. “He not here.”

  Alan laughed. “I can see that. And you can’t be slow enough to think you can fool me by acting stupid. You don’t have the look of a janitor, and a bartender needs more brains than you’re using. Or are you the club owner?”

  “Could be both, Sir.”

  “Which would make you one of the Williams brothers. Alan Chandler.”

  “’Deed I be, Sir.” The black man shook Alan’s extended hand. “Walker Williams.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you—but I do need to speak to Mr. Joplin.”

  Williams gave a one-shouldered shrug as he picked up his broom. “You jus’ miss ’im, Mr. Chandler. You kin have a seat and wait, but I don’ know how long he be gone.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “He turn down toward Ohio, him and Otis Saunders, but I didn’t hear where they goin’.” Williams started sweeping behind the bar. Alan heard the tinkle of broken glass over the scrape of the bristles.

  “Thanks. I’ll go take a look for him.”

  Alan took a step toward the stairs, then stopped and turned back, gave Williams a half-wave. “If I don’t find Mr. Joplin, I’ll come back and wait.”

  Outside, Alan turned right, glancing in windows as he walked. At the corner, he looked in all directions. The sheer number of people passing made it obvious he wasn’t going to spot Joplin, so he turned back—and found himself a few steps behind his quarry. Joplin and Saunders had stepped out of a hardware store and headed toward the club. Alan was about to hurry his pace to catch them when he realized they were arguing.

  Saunders was the more agitated of the pair. He threw his arms in the air and made punching motions several times as they walked—or in Saunders’ case, stomped. Alan couldn’t hear any of their discussion, but could tell Joplin was trying to calm his friend. At the door to the club, Saunders whirled to face Joplin.

  Alan caught the last few words he shouted, “…if it takes the rest of my life!” before he stomped away.

  Joplin sighed, watched Saunders disappear in the crowd, and then walked slowly inside.

  Alan waited several minutes befor
e he went up to the club so Joplin wouldn’t think he had been eavesdropping. He found his man sitting at a table, staring not so much at the piano as through it. The papers Alan had seen on the bar earlier were on the table in front of the composer. Alan tossed a salute at Williams, who was clearing debris from the tables, and slid onto a chair next to Joplin.

  After a few seconds, Joplin spoke without looking around. “It’s a sad thing, Mr. Chandler, when a man lets his pride do his thinking.”

  “Sometimes all you can do is give that man some space and hope he lets go of his pride before it gives him too nasty a fall.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes before Joplin shook himself free of his melancholy. “Well, Mr. Chandler, what brings you back to the Maple Leaf Club so soon? Was last night’s excitement not enough?”

  Alan blinked. Last night? But…Oh! “I must have left before the real excitement began,” he said in an attempt to conceal his ignorance. “What did I miss?”

  “The death of an old friend,” Joplin said with a nod to the piano. “I didn’t hear what started the fight—the first I knew was when a couple of out-of-town rowdies began to shout and punch each other in the back of the room. Then one of them grabbed a glass off the table and threw it. He missed his opponent, but hit the piano squarely. The glass went right over Arthur’s head and smashed against the lid.”

  “And liquid and glass don’t do good things for pianos. RIP, piano. My sympathies on your bereavement.”

  “Thank you.” Joplin turned a weak smile on Alan. “I doubt the club will be open tonight. Without a piano, there’s little reason for anyone to come here instead of the Black 400 across the street.”

  Alan stared absently at the instrument and considered what he had seen inside it.

  There was far too much liquid in there to have come from a single glass. And even beer that tastes like horse piss doesn’t smell like horse piss. Joplin is missing something.

  “What happened to the lowlifes, Mr. Joplin?”

  “The what? Oh, the fighters? They ran out while everyone was still looking at the piano and making sure Arthur hadn’t been hurt.”

  Those thugs must have been working with someone else. Someone who wanted to make sure that piano was put out of commission. I’ll have to find a way to come here last night. Watch from out of the way, see who might have used the commotion to cover dumping piss into the piano. Follow the thugs. Alan’s back twinged. Well, maybe. Change the subject. “The reason I’m here is that I owe you a story—more likely, several stories—and last night wasn’t the right time to tell them.” He stared in thought at the table. “I guess the right place to start is with the music.” He locked eyes with Joplin. “I’ve been playing ragtime almost my entire life. I heard “Maple Leaf Rag” when I was sixteen, and that was it. I’ve been listening to ragtime, playing it, and writing it ever since.”

  Joplin leaned back in his chair, disappointment written large on his features. “A shame you’ve aged so much in just a few months, then.” He shook his head sadly, pushed his chair back, and started to rise. “I see no point in listening to such ravings.”

  “Wait! Please, Mr. Joplin, every word I’ve said is true. I hardly believe it myself, but I’m not lying and I’m not insane. Give me a few minutes to try to explain.”

  Joplin’s expression didn’t change, but he didn’t leave the table.

  “The simple truth is what I said. I first heard your music when I was sixteen—in 1951. It’s been more than sixty years since that day, and I believe I’ve played ragtime—your own music often enough—on all but a handful of those days. Just two days ago, I was studying a scrap—a piece of a work in progress—I had never seen before. I was trying to put myself in your head, to figure out how the strain had evolved and imagine what you might do with it, and I suddenly found myself here, as you were writing that strain.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Completely.”

  Joplin dropped back into his chair. “If I hadn’t heard the way you play, I’d dismiss your tale out of hand, and you along with it.”

  “Then you’re more generous to me than I am to myself. I’ve lived this tale, and I’m not convinced it’s real. For all I know, I could be lying in a hospital bed, dreaming this conversation.”

  A moment of silence as Joplin stared at Alan. Then he said, “I’m not a drinking man, but somehow I believe this conversation requires something stronger than a soft drink.” He called over his shoulder, “Walker, bring me a beer, please?” After a hesitation, he added “And one for Mr. Chandler.”

  “Comin’ up, Scott.”

  Alan said quietly, “I can’t pay for a drink. I can’t pay for anything.” At Joplin’s raised eyebrow, he pulled a few coins out of his pocket. “Mr. Williams wouldn’t be happy with my money.” He held up a battered penny. “1970.” He dropped it on the table and sorted through the rest of the change. “2008 quarter.” He flipped it over. “Alaska. It’s a state now—or, no, make that then. Hmm. 1986 dime. Another quarter. Florida Everglades on the back.” He shoved the pile over to Joplin. “None of ’em legal tender today. Hell, they’re not even worth their face value as metal, now or then.”

  Joplin studied the coins. “I don’t believe the cost of a beer will break me,” he said absently. He dropped the coins back into Alan’s hand as Williams brought a pair of glasses to the table.

  “Thank you,” Alan said to both men. He pushed his glass aside.

  Williams caught the motion. “You don’ want no beer after all?”

  “Oh, I want it plenty. But alcohol doesn’t mix well with the medicines I have to take.”

  “That be a true shame.”

  Williams reached for the glass, but Joplin snagged it. “No harm done, Walker. I’ll drink them both. And perhaps you could bring Mr. Chandler a Co’cola?” Joplin turned to Alan. “Would that suit you?”

  “Yes, it would, and thank you. My apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Williams.”

  “Ain’t much trouble. The bar’s just a few steps away. Funny thing, though, now’s I think about it, you might jus’ be the first piano player to pass through here without tryin’ to sweet talk me inta givin’ him a beer to keep his fingers loose.”

  Joplin cleared his throat meaningfully.

  “Oh, not you, Scott. You not passin’ through; you damn near lives here—an’ you allus pay for your drinks.” Williams stepped to the bar and returned a moment later with Alan’s soda. “But, Mr. Chandler, I prides myself on ’membering every face I meets. When you taked me for a janitor this morning, after callin’ me by name las’ night, I was afraid my memory was playin’ tricks on me, ’membering a body I ain’t never met.”

  “More like my memory playing tricks on you, I’m afraid,” Alan lied smoothly. “No way did I intend to deceive you. But when a man gets to be my age…” He shrugged.

  Williams nodded. “I understands. Right sorry to hear it, Mr. Chandler. But I let you gentlemen get on with your business.”

  Joplin gave Alan a suspicious look. “I doubt your mind suffers the failings of age any more than mine.”

  “It does, actually, though my forgetfulness is due more to medication than to age. But it was a convenient explanation. I could hardly tell him today was the first time I’d ever met him, when he remembers speaking to me yesterday.”

  Alan took in the blank look on Joplin’s face. “Traveling in time has some unique confusions. I wasn’t here yesterday. Not yet, anyhow. But it seems that at some point in my future, I’ll be visiting your past. Don’t try to make sense of it; I certainly can’t.”

  “Maybe I had best not think about it at all.” Joplin took a large swallow of beer. “So when you told me it was my music that brought you to the Maple Leaf Club, you were speaking the literal truth.”

  “In several ways.”

  “And when you said you had spoken to Brun Campbell?”r />
  “That was misleading, I admit. He was my first teacher. Taught me to play ragtime just the way you taught him.”

  Joplin pounced on the implication. “In 1951?”

  Alan sat mute.

  “If you were playing my music, but didn’t come to me—”

  Alan interrupted. “I’m not going to answer that question, Mr. Joplin. There’s no way your knowing the answer would be a good thing.”

  “But if I knew, I could plan! There’s so much I need to do!”

  “The muse moves at her own speed, and no one has found a way to hurry her. You have time, but it’s best that you don’t know how much, just like the rest of us. It’s not enough time, but none of us ever has enough. The man who says he’s done everything he set out to do and is content to die is a liar, a coward, or a fool, Mr. Joplin.”

  Joplin thought for several minutes. Alan didn’t interrupt. “I believe I understand,” Joplin said at last. “And just by your presence, you assure me that I will achieve some of my goals.”

  “You will, Sir. Your popularity will rise and fall, but you won’t be forgotten. Millions of people will enjoy your music. You’ll be remembered as one of the great American composers, and ragtime will be considered a true American musical style.”

  Alan considered, and then smiled a little. “In your future, you’ll tell other musicians that you won’t be properly recognized until a quarter century after your death. They may laugh at you, but it’s true—and generations of scholars will be amused at how accurate your prediction will be.”

  Joplin thought that idea through and back. “I’ll say that because you told me I will. But you told me I will because I did say it.” His face took on the puzzled expression of a dog whose chew toy has been stolen between bites. “What if I don’t say it?”

  Alan assumed a similar look. “I think you will because you did. If you don’t, I won’t have had any reason to tell you to say it.”

  “I think this is another one of those things I had best not think about.” Joplin drained his first glass and reached for the second. “All right, Mr. Chandler. Let us put my life aside, at least for now. You’ve played your introduction—and quite impressive those four bars are. Now let’s have the rest of the piece.”