by Larry Karp
Alan squirmed in his seat, momentarily feeling as if he were seventeen again. “Call me Alan, please. Being your student’s student, I don’t feel right hearing you say Mr. Chandler.”
A considering look. “Very well. Your tale, then, Alan.”
“Your music’s tale as much as mine. It’s well known that some of your music was lost. Never published, in some cases never seen by anyone but you and your wife.” He stopped and shook his head, forestalling Joplin’s automatic question. “You wouldn’t thank me for spoiling any of life’s pleasant surprises. Anyway, imagine opening your mail and learning a friend had sent you a previously unknown piece by Chopin or Mozart. That was how I felt a few days ago when I received a letter…”
Alan left out many of the details of his story. He worried that he might already have told Joplin too much about the future, so he didn’t say anything about Wilbur Sweatman, Freddie Alexander, or Lottie Stokes. He snipped everything he could have said about Joplin’s time in St. Louis and New York, nor did he mention the titles of any of Joplin’s compositions. And he carefully avoided any mention of his suspicion that the attack on the piano had been aimed at Joplin.
When Alan finished talking, Joplin shook his head. “You have my sympathy for the loss of your friend, Alan.” He looked pensive. “All those years, and men still torture and kill for profit. That’s hard to hear. Harder still to know that I’m responsible for your friend’s death.”
“Don’t ever think that! You had nothing to do with Mickey’s death, not one little bit. I don’t hold you responsible for anything anyone did over your music, and Mickey wouldn’t have either.”
Joplin closed his eyes and didn’t respond for several moments. Alan was beginning to worry if he had said too much, when Joplin stood. “Forgive me, Alan. I believe I need some time to think about what you’ve told me before I can comprehend anything more. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course.” Alan watched Joplin collect his music from the table and return it to the lockbox under the bar. “I’ll see you soon, I hope,” he added as Joplin passed his table on the way out of the club.
Alan waited until Joplin had disappeared down the stairs, then crossed the room to the pool tables, where Williams was collecting the previous night’s garbage. “Mr. Williams, will you take some advice from a worried man?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Be careful, and keep an eye on Mr. Joplin. I don’t think last night’s fuss is going to be the end of this business.”
“You think Mr. Joplin be in trouble?”
“I think it’s possible. Maybe whatever is going on is aimed at the club, but I have a feeling…Mr. Joplin would never notice a threat until it came right out in the open.”
“You gots that right, Mr. Chandler. Long as he can compose his music, he don’t see nothing.” He fixed Alan with a considering look. “You the same way.”
“When I was his age. For a lot of years after, too. Hopefully I’ve outgrown it, at least some of the time.”
“Hmmm. Okay, I keeps alert. Would anyways.”
The walk to the future location of the Hotel Bothwell was uneventful, allowing Alan to think. By the time he opened the door into Bryant-Tewmey, and stepped into the hotel lobby, he was sure he needed to visit the previous night as soon as possible. Back in the room, he glanced at the clock.
Ten forty-five. Miriam first.
***
Alan kept the nightly call as short as he could, little more than “I’m fine. Tom’s fine. We’ve got a lead on the music. No, we still don’t know when the police will let us go. Don’t worry any more than you have to.” He could tell Miriam wasn’t buying it any more than she had the previous night, but she also didn’t threaten to hop on a plane and drag him back to Seattle, so he counted it a victory.
Another glance at the clock. Alan downed the handful of pills he’d normally have taken at bedtime, reloaded his pocket container, and sat at the table again.
***
JJ reached across the couch to take Elvira’s hand. “Granny, I know what you’re gonna say, but we gots to tell Alan…the old man…” He held up a hand, palm out, to halt the steamroller he saw coming, but it didn’t even slow down.
“Boy, you hear me now, an’ hear me good. We takes care of our own, and that be all there be to that.”
“No, it ain’t, Granny. It ain’t all there be, by a long shot. You listen at me ’fore you say anything else. All my life I been takin’ more’n anyone oughta have to carry from that man, but now—this gotta be the end of it, I don’t care if he be my father. He weren’t ever supposed to go outside, not ever, not for nothing. But did he go? Did he? An’ did you call me, and did I go out lookin’ for him ’steada eatin’ dinner, and bring him back? An’ did a cop see me out there, a nigger-boy goin’ around lookin’ a little crazy on East Third, a block away from where a white man got killed? An’ did that cop tell his boss, and did his boss lock me up for ‘questioning’?”
JJ punched the sofa cushion. “We gives that man shelter an’ food, an’ what he do for a thank-you? Jus’ plain luck the cop see me, ’steada him, else we got a SWAT team outside the door there, the house is fulla tear gas, an’ you and me are both downtown, maybe forever. But this Alan—he one smart guy, I’m tellin’ you, an’ a smart white guy is what we needs to get us outa this mess. ’Cause I sees on’y two things for us right now. We tell Alan about Pop an’ see what he figure we oughta do. Or we gives Pop a ticket for the next train to K.C., so long and don’t let the door hit ya in the ass. An’ if anybody with a badge asks us, we never saw hide nor hair of him. ’Cause takin’ care of our own only go so far iff’n he ain’t gonna help hisself. We kin trust Alan, Granny. Not Pop.”
Elvira sighed from the deepest part of her soul. “I hear you, Boy. But sometimes trust ain’t enough.”
“Sometimes it’s the best you got, Granny. An’ don’ forget, it were Alan got me outa the clink—and you shoulda heard how he talked to that cop. I had all I could do to keep from bustin’ out laughin’ a couple times. White cop don’ like him none, but he listen to Alan ’cause he talk their language. Hell, he even call a lawyer, had him all ready to spring me if he had to. I owes him big.”
JJ paused, took a deep breath. “Come hell or high water, that man gonna find the duffel bag fulla music, an’ who it was killed Mickey. That what he want, so I owes him my help. An’ that mean I gotta give him everythin’, so he know what the cops be thinkin’, and why they pick me up. An’ I gotta tell him quick. He say if the cops get to that music first, he never see it again. It be locked up fo’ evidence till he dead and gone. Or worse, if whoever snatch it get spooked and throw it in a fireplace—”
“Sweet Jesus. And he think it all be by Scott Joplin?”
“Yeah. His grandson say nobody in the world know more about Joplin than Alan do. He’s got cancer, and he need to take care a that music afore it too late for him.” Another deep breath. “Now, you say no, you gonna keep hidin’ that bum in your basement, I does two things. One, I finds me a new place to live, startin’ tonight. Two, I tells Alan everything he wants to know, and I figure I’m helpin’ us all.” Now, what do you say?”
Elvira’s eyes shimmered. “I guess I say you now for real the man in this house, so we do what you say.” She hugged JJ’s hand. “When you gonna go bring Mr. Alan ’round?”
“Not now. He back at the hotel, layin’ down for a while. We all gonna get together tomorrow, nine o’clock. Think you can do one mo’ breakfast?”
She patted his hand. “Got a feelin’ it gonna be more’n one.”
***
Once they’d delivered JJ to his house, Tom and Saramae started down Lamine toward downtown. After a few steps, Tom broke the silence. “Your folks aren’t going to have a problem with this, are they?”
“Not folks,” said Saramae. Just ‘folk’—Daddy. Momma died when I was four, don’t know exactly why, I think her
kidneys. Daddy never talks about her, and I hardly even remember her. As for missing dinner without checking in, hangin’ with a couple of strange white dudes, and investigatin’ a murder…well, Daddy, he’s pretty used to the first two. We might have to roll with a punch or three on the last.”
“If he’s pissed at me for getting you in trouble, we’re not gonna learn much, right?”
Saramae giggled. “Nah, it’s cool. Can’t get a girl in trouble by kissing. If you don’t know that…” Tom mimed a punch at her shoulder as she went on. “No, seriously, we’re cool. Daddy says his job is reporting the news, so somebody else needs to go out there and make it. He ain’t gonna lock me in my room for the rest of my life. And I’m havin’ too much fun to be ashamed.”
Tom held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, yeah, I get it. So how we gonna play this?”
They walked half a block or so in silence while Saramae considered the question. “I think better we be straight with Daddy. Like I said, he loves to talk about his stories, but he also says ‘nothing’s free in the newspaper game.’ You’re probably gonna have to trade him info for info.”
It was Tom’s turn to think for a block. “I guess there’s some stuff I can maybe tell your father if I have to. More, if he promises not to put it in the story. At least make sure the cops don’t know where he got it. Would he do that?”
“Oh, yeah. He does that all the time. Police keep stuff quiet while they investigate, and Daddy has to work with them or they won’t tell him squat no more. So he doesn’t always put everything he knows into the paper. ‘Price of doing business,’ he says.”
A couple of blocks later, Tom said, “Hey, meant to ask you before, but I forgot. How’d you get my phone number, anyway?”
“Off your phone.”
Tom made a grab for his pocket.
A giggle. “Not like that. I saw it at the top of your address book when you put my number in.”
“The hell you did. No way is it there.”
“Wanna bet?”
Tom didn’t answer, just pulled out his phone and opened the Address Book app.
“See? ‘My Number.’ Might be a good idea to turn that off before someone nasty gets it the same way I did.”
“How the hell did you read it that fast? And remember it?”
“I’ve got a good memory, and you were juggling that paper and your phone for ages. Gotta admit I didn’t get the whole thing. Wound up callin’ a bunch of folks in Seattle trying to work out the last number. Too bad it’s a seven, instead of a one or two.”
Tom grunted sourly and shoved the phone back in his pocket, thinking it was a damn good thing he hadn’t downloaded “Pussy Cat Rag” while Saramae was around.
***
Saramae’s house was an unpretentious two-story building, as was almost every other within several blocks. The green paint had once been cheerful, but now its faded color nearly matched the pale grass in the front yard. On the other hand, the couch and chairs on the front porch were a bit worn, but still bright and comfortable-looking.
Her father was sitting in one of the chairs, writing on a clipboard, as they approached. He looked up when Saramae’s shoe scuffed on the front steps. “Is that you, ’Mae? Finally remember the way home?” He stood up, setting his writing on the arm of the chair.
Saramae sighed and shook her head. “Pretendin’ you an old-fashioned reporter again?” She waved to Tom. “Come on up here and meet the old fraud. Daddy, this is Tom. Tom, this’s my father. Don’t let him kid ya. When he really workin’, he use a laptop like anybody else.”
She showed Tom the clipboard—the lined, legal-sized paper in it was as free of marks as the day it came from the store. “Didn’t even notice he didn’t have a pen, didja? He pull this stunt every time I bring a boy home.”
Tom blinked.
What the heck’s going on with her? All of a sudden, she’s talking like JJ’s country n—
He chopped off his thought, refocused. No, I didn’t notice he didn’t have a pen; I was too busy staring at him….
Mr. Blackstone was at least six-five, and massive enough to look almost square. His grin looked faintly piratical, an image the fuzzy, alligator-shaped slippers he wore somehow failed to dispel.
The boy ignored the family byplay. “Pleased to meet you, Sir.” He held out his hand.
“Likewise, Mr. Chandler.” He smiled at Tom’s surprised start. “My daughter, for all her failings, knows better than to bring someone by to pump me for information without making sure I have something to share. Text messages are one of the few good reasons to tie yourself to a phone around the clock.” He didn’t wait for Tom to respond. “C’mon inside, and let’s talk.”
As they walked into the house and through the living room, Tom noticed a piano, a well-kept but obviously much-used baby grand, against the front wall. He leaned sidewise to read the music on the rack: a softbound set of Chopin’s polonaises, then turned a silent question onto Saramae, who responded with an embarrassed little shrug.
Tom was impressed.
If she’s good enough to handle those, asking her to play ’em for me might be a way to get on her good side.
Mr. Blackstone opened a door on the right wall of the room. “Welcome to my lair,” he said with a theatrically evil laugh.
Saramae sighed again—it was obviously an old family joke—but she held her tongue as she detoured into the dining room for a couple of chairs.
As he sat, Tom looked around curiously. Despite its title, the room didn’t look much different from any other home office he’d ever seen—a desk with the promised laptop, a cheap office chair, a wall full of filing cabinets, and a couple of crammed bookcases.
“You want to know about Mr. Potash’s unfortunate demise, Tom? Seems to me that you might know more than I do, being the person who found him.”
Tom paled as an image of Mickey’s face popped up from his memory, but he pushed it aside and said, “Which didn’t exactly make me Detective Parks’ best buddy. He’s not about to share anything his investigation turns up with me. I know what I saw, but that’s about all. You’ve got the newspaper behind you; he has to have told you something.”
“Good, so we’ve got the basis for an exchange.” Mr. Blackstone leaned back in his chair.
“Told ya!” Saramae chimed in.
“Shush, ’Mae. Tom, much as I hate to admit it, I don’t know a lot that wasn’t in yesterday’s story. The cops are being unusually tight with details. If they’re holding back this much, it probably means they don’t have a lot to go on in the first place.”
Tom sighed. “I sorta figured Parks was stingy like that, but haven’t you heard anything? Autopsy results, maybe?”
“That I can do.” Mr. Blackstone unlocked his laptop and pulled up a file. “Time of death, four-thirty—”
Saramae jumped in her seat and interrupted her father. “So the cops can’t think it was JJ! He were back at work by four!”
Mr. Blackstone shook his head. “Was he? According to this, he’s listed as a person of interest because an officer saw him looking agitated near your friend’s house at ten ’til. Would have been tough for him to get back to the paper by four from there. But even if he did clock in by four, it wouldn’t help his case. Time of death is an estimate. Four-thirty means it could have been any time between three and six. Sorry, ’Mae.”
“Damn!”
“Preliminary cause of death, strangulation with wire.”
Tom nodded. “A piano string. But why ‘preliminary’?”
“Piano? Interesting. That’s something Parks didn’t say.” At Tom’s stricken look, he added “Relax, Kid. The police don’t give me their informants, I don’t give them mine. Preliminary because it’ll take a while for all the drug tests to come back. Okay?”
Tom nodded.
“Smaller bruises, cuts, and scrapes consi
stent with his having been repeatedly hit or punched by someone wearing rings. Cigarette burns, suggestive of torture, but no indication of restraint. That would be something like rope burns or more extensive bruises.”
“Huh? Who sits there and lets someone burn him with a cigarette?”
“Someone drunk or stoned, maybe? That would be one reason for the toxicology tests. Or it could have been that the killer was strong enough to restrain him without ropes.”
“Oh. Anything else?”
“Not from the autopsy. One thing Parks asked me not to publish. During the initial investigation, the police found signs that the house had been searched multiple times.”
Tom repressed a flinch. “What kinds of signs? And how many times?”
“Unfortunately, he didn’t share that information. I take it you could shed some light on the subject?”
“Well…Maybe. I—I mean, Alan and I—looked around a little for the music before we called the police, but it wasn’t really a search. I mean, we didn’t open any cabinets or anything.”
Mr. Blackstone gave Tom a dubious look, but let the question drop. “About the music: your grandfather believes it to be by Scott Joplin?”
Tom nodded. “There’s a lot of work to do to prove it, once we get the bag back, but he’s sure.”
“The bag?”
Saramae jumped in. “The music’s in a whadyacallit—a bag like sailors use. A duffel! Right, Tom?”
“Yeah. A lot of music, and as far as Alan could see, most of it is nothing anyone knew about before. That’s why it’s so important.”
“That much? I had the impression from the police that it was only a few pieces…” Mr. Blackstone leaned his chair back and thought for a minute, then spoke to the ceiling. “You know, not everyone was a big fan of Mr. Joplin in those days. By what my great-grandfather used to say, there were plenty of people, even blacks, who thought he was arrogant, or what we’d call a sell-out.” He sat up and looked at Tom. “You know the black clubs like the Maple Leaf weren’t popular with the gentry?”