by Larry Karp
Tom nodded. “Alan told me. Even the black preachers were against them. ‘Dens of depravity’ and like that, right? Didn’t the city shut them down pretty quickly?”
“Exactly. And it wasn’t just preachers complaining. There were legitimate concerns about public drunkenness and violence. My great-grandad’s father saw some of it first-hand. I don’t know if the authorities would have taken action against white clubs, but…” Mr. Blackstone shrugged. “Great-granddad was a boy when Mr. Joplin lived in Sedalia. He always said he was ‘powerful proud’ to have shaken ‘a great man’s hand.’ But he also said some of the trouble that got the clubs shut down was aimed at Mr. Joplin.” He shook his head. “But I’m getting off the subject. Is there anything else you can share with me, Mr. Chandler?”
“Uh…I don’t think so. Not right now, anyways.”
“All right. Saramae, I have an uneasy suspicion that you intend to continue to assist this gentleman with his investigations?”
“Heck, yes! I be havin’ a great time. Most fun I’se had since I broke up with El’Ray.”
“It’s not a game, ’Mae! You could be in serious danger—and how many times do I have to tell you to speak Standard English? This is important business!”
Saramae glared at him. “What do Standard English gots to do with importance? ’Sides, this investigation be mos’ important to black folks.” She started counting on her fingers. “JJ an’ his granny, the ol’ lady who useta have the music, me, even Mr. Joplin…Hell, Daddy, after Mickey, Tom an’ his granddaddy be the only white folks mixed up in this at all.” She flipped a hand in dismissal. “I got me a well-developed sense a preservation, Daddy—why you think I’se not seein’ ’Ray no more? I be real careful. I don’ want you writing no stories ’bout me. But some things is worth takin’ a few risks for.” She winked at Tom. “Leastwise, if you gonna write ’bout me, it gonna be my story, not some kinda sidebar to someone else’s story. Okay?”
“I could chain you to your bed, but you’d probably just pick the lock.” He shook his head. “Much as I’d like to stop you, you’re eighteen, old enough to make your own decisions, so I can’t force you to stay out of this. Tom, you be careful too. Don’t drag my daughter into any trouble you can avoid.” He leaned forward. “Hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Sir.”
A chuckle as he settled back in his chair. “Good.”
Saramae stood. “Now, if you be done ’timidatin’ Tom, how’s ’bout I walk him back to the Bothwell?”
Mr. Blackstone glanced at his watch. “How about you walk him to the door? Tomorrow’s a school day—and even if you don’t care about your senior year, I do.”
On the front porch, Saramae touched her lips to Tom’s cheek and whispered, “Wait for me at the corner.”
Tom leaned against the street sign for a quarter of an hour before Saramae showed up, brushing leaves out of her hair and rubbing a scratch on her left arm.
“Guess I’m gettin’ too big to climb out the window and down that tree,” she complained as she approached.
Tom eyed the mini-skirt that did little to hide her tights-covered legs. “Must have been quite a scene. Ow!” He rubbed his shoulder.
“Wimp. I didn’t hit you that hard.” She frowned at him. “I was gonna collect another payment on what you owe me for hookin’ you up with JJ. Now I don’ know…”
“Oh, come on! Put yourself in my position. ’Course I’m going to want to have seen that. Any guy woulda!”
“Yeah, but some guys would have had the class not to say anything about it.” She sighed theatrically. “I suppose I gotta work with what I’ve got.” She pressed herself against Tom and pinned him against the sign pole.
Tom put his arms around her, somewhat awkwardly, and bent his head to kiss her.
A long minute later, Saramae pulled away. “You’re getting better. Might not be sorry about settling for something besides cash.”
“Does that mean I can have my ten bucks back?”
“Don’t be stupid. Now shut up. That’s not the only reason I came out here. I wanted to tell you, Daddy cleaned up what he said about his great-great.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Triple-Great-Granddaddy didn’t just see the violence, okay? Daddy’s not proud of that, so it’s somethin’ he doesn’t share outside the family. But your granddaddy being who he is, I know he’s gonna want to hear Daddy’s stories. When this’s over and we have the music back, if he asks nicely, maybe we can talk about it. Not now, no way.”
“Hey, credit me with some sense! Alan, too. You don’t want to talk about it, that’s your call.”
Saramae looked embarrassed. “Sorry. Just, y’know?”
“Yeah. We’re cool.”
***
I can’t just pop into the club the way I have been. Not when it’s full of people. What about outside? Can I do that?
Alan built a mental picture of the ground-level storefront at 121 East Main Street as he had seen it when he went looking for Joplin. But the night before. He darkened the scene, then added patches of light from the windows of the Maple Leaf Club and the other late-night businesses. After a moment’s thought, he added more illumination from the gas streetlight at the corner.
The scene didn’t feel alive the way it had on his previous visits to 1899. The sense of rightness or wrongness that helped him build the image was missing. He let it go.
Up until now, I’ve started with the music on the invitation. That makes a kind of sense.
Alan pictured the card tucked into the lockbox under the end of the Maple Leaf Club’s bar. Slowly, he broadened his mental picture to include the entire club. Joplin at the piano in his role as the club’s entertainer, the tables filled with customers, gamblers at the gaming tables, money changing hands at the pool tables, Walker Williams filling orders behind the bar. The feeling of rightness was back.
He stretched the picture further, bringing in the staircase, a man leaning against the wall near the top, sipping from a glass. Straining further, he added the street outside, with the club and the staircase more felt than seen. It didn’t diverge much from his original picture, but the shadows were a little different, and there were a few people in the street, though none close by. Still right.
Alan let the card music play in his mind. A gust of wind from down the street and a burst of laughter from the window over his head hit him simultaneously. A moment later, he heard applause as Joplin brought “Maple Leaf Rag” to its conclusion. Alan grinned and stepped inside, out of the wind, and started up the stairs. He nodded to the man drinking at the top and approached the bar. Williams spotted him and frowned.
“’Scuse me, Sir. We not open to the public tonight. Club members only.”
“Walker—” Alan started. He doesn’t know me from Adam yet. He corrected himself. “Mr. Williams. It’s all right. I’m here as a musician. Mr. Joplin will vouch for me.”
“Wait here, please.”
Joplin was playing something that was almost “Swipesy Cakewalk,” stopping every so often, backing up, and playing it again a little differently. Arthur Marshall leaned over his shoulder, reaching in to interject a few notes. Williams hurried over and spoke in Joplin’s ear. The composer looked up, saw Alan, and nodded.
Williams returned to the bar, nodding sideways to indicate Alan could go to the piano. As he did, Joplin stood, allowing Marshall to take over. He shook Alan’s hand.
“Mr. Chandler. Good to see you. Come to grace us with a tune or two, have you?”
The temptation was irresistible. “I’d be delighted, if it wouldn’t be an inconvenience.”
“Not at all. I’m pleased to have the opportunity.”
As Marshall brought the almost-Swipesy to a close, Joplin tapped him on the shoulder, then waved toward Alan. Marshall yielded his seat, and Alan took over. He began with Joplin’s “Ori
ginal Rags,” then went on to his own “Emerald City Rag,” a classic ragtime tribute to his hometown. As he finished, he found himself wondering whether any of the pianists present would be tempted to snag his themes for their own compositions.
I suppose if anyone does, it won’t go over well enough to survive. But if it does or did, or however you put it, I could have wound up defending myself against accusations of plagiarizing myself!
Alan appreciated the applause, but cheerfully returned the hot seat to Marshall and Joplin. As long as he was playing, the unknown thugs who attacked the piano couldn’t make their move. He slowly worked his way to the back of the room and took a seat where he could watch everyone.
Forgot to bring a cushion again.
He found it difficult to concentrate on the audience. Not only was Joplin’s performance a significant distraction, but Alan’s attention was repeatedly caught by a woman in a bizarre hat seated near the front of the room. The hat was decorated with lace and what appeared to be real flowers, but its most striking feature was a pair of gauze butterfly wings. Every time the woman moved her head, the wings flapped, catching Alan’s gaze.
It wasn’t until Joplin and Marshall had been playing for more than half an hour that Alan finally noticed a pair of men at a nearby table who looked out of place. They didn’t seem to share the general air of good cheer, and the younger one was tapping his foot in an irregular rhythm that bore no relationship to the piano.
Suddenly, the younger man reached across the table and deliberately pushed the other man’s glass into his lap.
The beer-soaked man leaped to his feet, shouting, “What the hell you do that for?”
“You keep your dirty mouth offa my Mabel!” the first retorted as he stood and threw a punch.
As the two men traded blows, most of the room turned to watch them, including the musicians. Abruptly, the older man rushed at the younger, forcing him a few steps toward the front of the room. In a single motion, the younger man grabbed the remaining glass from their table, hurled it past his opponent’s head, and dashed for the stairs.
The contents of the glass sprayed across the room as it flew, leaving it empty when it smashed against the underside of the piano’s raised lid. At the sound of the crash, the second fighter followed the first out of the club.
Alan’s attention was locked on the space around the piano; almost absently, he noted that the glass had actually come closer to Joplin’s head than Marshall’s. The audience rushed to the front of the room, crowding around the piano so quickly Alan couldn’t tell who reached it first, or see whether anyone was dumping pee-infused beer inside. He swore under his breath, before his attention was caught by the butterfly hat again.
Why is she moving away from the piano?
Something else about the woman’s appearance nagged at Alan, but he couldn’t take the time to figure it out. As she moved toward the tables in the middle of the room, Alan tried to get Joplin’s attention.
Wait a second. I can’t talk to him now, or he’ll know tomorrow I didn’t leave before the commotion started.
He froze in indecision as the woman and a male companion walked past him. Alan watched them move toward the stairs and suddenly realized what had caught his attention were the puffed shoulders of the woman’s dress: one was distinctly less puffed than the other, giving it the appearance of a deflated balloon.
On impulse, he followed the couple outside. By the time he reached the sidewalk, they were several doors down the street. He tried to catch up, but his spine wouldn’t permit him to move that quickly. He followed at his best pace, and gained a few steps on the couple when they stopped to exchange a few words with a man walking past. As they resumed their walk, Alan realized with a start that the man they had been speaking to was Otis Saunders. Alan stopped and waited for Saunders to reach him.
“Mr. Saunders!”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir. You looks familiar…”
“Alan Chandler. We met in the Maple Leaf Club not too long ago. But that’s not important. That couple who just passed. Do you know them?”
Saunders flinched, then quickly turned and looked back, as though he was trying to determine which of several couples Alan might have meant. After a second, he returned his attention to Alan. “Not real well. I’se seen him—Mr. Noland, I think he is—’round the Maple Leaf Club a few times. Ain’t never been introduced to his wife, though.”
Another Nowlin? Here?
Before Alan could ask Saunders where he could find Mr. Nowlin during the daytime, Saunders spoke rapidly. “’Scuse me, Sir, they needs me upstairs.” He pushed his way through the crowd beginning to leave the club and vanished inside.
Alan sighed, dropped the question, and set off for the hotel.
I’m getting a little tired of this walk. No, very tired. As he went along, his brain filled with speculations about the aerodynamics of filled and empty glasses, the feasibility of concealing bags of liquid inside dress sleeves, and violent words and actions.
There’s plenty of evidence Otis Saunders’ claim to have written part of the “Maple Leaf Rag” destroyed Joplin’s friendship with him, but I’ve never heard it went beyond words. And two Nowlins involved with Joplin, one here in 1899, and the old bitch in K.C. Coincidence?
***
Some time later, Saramae backed away again, buttoning her blouse. “What time is it?”
Tom pulled out his phone and checked. “Bit after eleven.”
“Huh. Hadn’t thought it was that late. I’d best go home, and you should check on your granddaddy.”
“You sure?”
“Hell, yeah. Maybe I’ll collect another payment later, but that’s enough for now.”
“I suppose.” A thought struck Tom. “How’re you going to get back inside?” Wistfully. “Climb up the tree?”
“In your dreams. I’ll use the front door; Daddy’s not gonna want to keep me out, y’know.”
***
Alan wasn’t in the room. Tom looked around, as though Alan might be hiding in the tiny excuse for a closet.
Did he duck out to the ice machine or something? Or is he time-traveling again?
After five minutes, when Alan still hadn’t appeared, Tom called his phone. The call bounced to voice mail. “Hey, Alan, it’s me. I’m back here at the Bothwell, and you’re not. I mean, heck, you know what I mean. Give me a call, huh?”
Tom dropped onto his bed and pulled one of the sheets of Joplin’s music out of his pack, determined to wait for Alan. Ten minutes later, he was sound asleep.
***
As he shut the room door behind himself, Alan grinned at the sight of Tom sitting on the bed, slumped forward with his head on his backpack.
Good instincts. Too tired to lie down, but he put the music aside before he conked out.
Alan carefully packed away the card he had left on the table and the page Tom had been trying to study, and stretched out on his own bed to give his back a chance to unkink.
I wonder if there’s any way to hide the card nearer the Maple Leaf Club. I don’t dare risk losing it, but it’s such a pain coming back here each time.
Chapter Eleven
Alan glanced at his watch as Saramae and JJ burst into Elvira’s living room. “Yeah, we’re late,” JJ groused. “Took my little nursemaid here forever t’ show up.”
“Jeez, not my fault,” Saramae shot back. “The asshole principal called my father because I’ve been cuttin’ so much lately.” Her face brightened. “But Daddy was really cool. He wrote me a note for school tellin’ them I’m working on a special newspaper project for him and it’s great experience. He even said they should excuse me, maybe even give me extra credit. Epic, right? But the school’s way the hell out on Sixteenth, and, like usual, I hadda wait for Daddy to get ready for work and drive me out there. Then he waited while I dropped off the note, so I didn’t
have to walk all the way up to the paper to meet up with JJ.”
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Boy, that is cool of your old man.”
JJ looked as if he were eyeballing the floor for a spittoon. “Yeah, Mr. Blackstone is okay. But it still pisses me off, I gotta have somebody with me alla time. On account of I’m black.”
Elvira, walking into the room with a tray of food and coffee, gave her grandson a hard look, obviously preparing a reprimand. Before she could say anything, Alan cleared his throat.
“You’ve got it backward, JJ—you don’t need to be covered because you’re black; it’s because Detective Parks is an asshole.” He held up a hand to shut off the retort he saw coming. “It’s a shame on us that there are people like that around, and they have the authority to do what they do, but that’s what’s what, at least for right now. But I believe you can look forward to a time when all Parkses will get their asses handed to them for stuff like they’re pulling now. In the meantime, you need to stay alive to see that day. And you’d be smart to take the opportunity to learn from your experiences.”
“Huh! Learn what? What the hell have you learned from the experiences you havin’ now, ’sides you gonna die?”
JJ winced as Saramae landed a serious punch to his upper arm. “Jesus, JJ!” she hissed. “Talk about bein’ an asshole.”
“That’s something I knew already.” Alan spoke softly, slowly. “I’ve never known when, I still don’t, and neither do you know when you’re going to die. Probably after me, but no guarantee, is there? You know what? I’ve learned I have to go slow chewing my food, swallow it a little at a time, else I start to feel sick. And funny thing—that’s also true about how I need to swallow my days. I go a day at a time, enjoy every minute of every experience just as much as I can, and I don’t think more than I have to about what I’m going to do tomorrow.”
Suddenly, his mind’s eye filled with an image of Scott Joplin’s face. “Mr. Chandler,” he heard, as if spoken from a great distance. “Good to see you. Come to grace us with a tune or two?”