The RagTime Traveler

by Larry Karp

  “And you know what else? Everything considered, my life is still pretty good.”

  Alan smiled, then shook his attention back to the moment. “JJ, do you really think that because you’re black, every white man is your enemy? I thought by now you’d learned that some white guys are even on your side.” A wicked smile spread across Alan’s face. “At least one of them.”

  Another “Huh,” but all the steam had leaked out of the syllable, and JJ couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.

  Elvira had set the tray on the coffee table; now she straightened, nodded at Alan, jammed hands to hips, and favored her grandson and guests with a wry smile.

  “If you people can quit squabblin’ for a few minutes, maybe you’d like to put away some pancakes and sausages before you get down to your business.”

  ***

  Once Elvira had collected the plates and coffee pot onto the tray, the group refocused. “All right,” Alan said, and gestured toward JJ. “Let’s start with you. Did you pick up anything at the paper last night? Hear anything? Anything at all?”

  The young man took a moment to think, then shook his head slowly. “No…no. Guys talked some ’bout Mickey—a lot of them knew him—but nobody said nothin’ we di’n’t know. Nobody had any ideas ’bout who did it and why. They didn’t even talk about the duffel bag or the music.”

  Alan nodded. “Okay. Tom, Saramae…what did you come up with…” Sly smile. “…from the city editor?”

  “Well, he—” Both spoke at the same time, then stopped and laughed. “Go ahead,” said Tom. “He’s your father.”

  Saramae laughed again. “Well, he said the detectives were a whole bunch tighter on details than usual, which makes Daddy think the cops don’t have a lotta ideas.”

  “Which is probably why they picked up JJ,” said Tom. “He had a solid connection with Mickey, and on the night of the murder—”

  “He couldn’t prove he had an alibi,” Saramae broke in. “The time of death was set at four-thirty, but that just means it coulda been any time between three and six.”

  JJ bit his lower lip and looked away.

  Saramae talked on, a mile a minute. “And the cops didn’t seem to know the wire was a piano string. It seems like the cigarette burns musta been done by somebody real strong, because there weren’t any rope burns—no signs of restraints. Or maybe Mickey was stoned or drunk and didn’t feel anything. So they’re doin’ toxicology studies.”

  Alan shook his head. “Drunk is a good possibility for Mickey.”

  “And the cops think the house was searched more than once. And that there were only a few pieces of music.”

  Alan shrugged. “Anything else?”

  Saramae squinched her eyes in thought, then looked at Tom. “Did I forget anything?”

  The boy hesitated. “What about what your dad said about…how everyone back in Joplin’s time was not a fan of his. Can I…or would you…?”

  “Sure. Go ahead. He told us, so it’s okay.”

  Alan realized he’d stopped breathing. He worked at keeping his face straight.

  “Well…set me straight if I get it wrong, Saramae. Sounds like Mr. Blackstone’s family goes all the way back in Sedalia, and his great-grandfather—Saramae’s great-great—knew Joplin. He was ‘powerful proud’ that he’d gotten to shake Joplin’s hand. But there were some people, even blacks, who didn’t like Joplin—thought he was arrogant, even a sell-out. Right, Saramae?”

  She nodded. “Right on.”

  Tom smiled. “He also said he thought some of the fighting and stuff that got the Maple Leaf Club and the Black 400 shut down was somehow set off because of Joplin.”

  Alan tried to speak, but felt as if his vocal cords had been inactivated. Tom picked up on his distress, and signaled to Elvira. “Could my grandpa have a glass of water, please?”

  She was out of the room, then back within thirty seconds. Alan nodded thanks as he took the glass, swallowed slowly, once, twice, a third time. Then he blew out a long sigh. “It’s that chemo med…sorry to concern you. I’m fine now.”

  The tension in the room declined noticeably.

  Alan flashed Tom and Saramae his best smile. “That’s really interesting—and maybe important. Very important. What else did Mr. Blackstone say about that?”

  “That’s pretty much it,” Tom said, very quickly. “He said he was getting off the subject, and went back to trying to see what I could tell him.” He shot Saramae a quick glance.

  Which Alan did not miss. “Saramae,” he said. “Can you tell us anything more?”

  The girl’s body tensed.

  “I don’t mean to push you too hard,” Alan said. “But there could be an important connection here. For example, your great-great-grandfather? Was that on your grandfather’s side?”

  She chewed on her upper lip.

  “Listen, Saramae. You’ve put a lot of energy into becoming part of the team. Your father’s even given you a note to miss school and work on this project. We’re glad to have you, always have been. But every one of us needs to put whatever we possibly can into the case. Can we all agree that whatever is said among the five of us will stay there, and will never, not for any reason, be told to anyone else?”

  He looked around the room. Tom’s hand shot toward the ceiling; slowly, Elvira’s followed it. JJ nodded, then raised his hand. Staring at Saramae, Alan did likewise. Tears coursed down the girl’s cheeks, but her hand went up.

  Alan stood as rapidly as his back would accommodate the changed position, then pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Saramae. She wiped at her face, then managed a weak smile. “You’re tougher than you look,” she said.

  “Believe it,” said Tom. “Be on his team and never cross him.”

  She blew a deep puff of air into the room. “Okay, then. “Yeah, we’re talkin’ about Blackstones all the way back. Triple-great-granddaddy Lathan and his son. From what I hear from my daddy and his daddy, Lathan and Will were both big men, and big storytellers too. Like Tom said, Will was high on Scott Joplin all his life, had nothin’ good to say about the people who tried to drive Mr. Joplin down. Daddy, he told me Will used to say ‘When a black man try t’ make somethin’ of himself, there always someone right there ready t’ unmake him, and some of those somebodies are gonna be black. That just be the way of things, and it mean we need t’ watch out for each other, not just ourselves.’ So Lathan—Triple-great—was up to his neck in the fuss that got the black clubs closed down. It was just something he figured he had to do, or else Scott Joplin could’ve been hurt real bad.”

  “But who was it that wanted to hurt Mr. Joplin?” Alan asked.

  “Oh, jeez.” Saramae made a go’way motion with her hand. “That’s where I don’t know much. There were people who had it in for Joplin, but I really don’t know why, exactly. I know it had somethin’ to do with who composed some piece of music, and I’m pretty sure a man named Saunders was the big troublemaker. But I don’t know how Triple-Great Lathan got mixed up in it. I suspect there’s more—probably lots more—Daddy never told me, because I’m a girl and all.”

  Alan’s legs wobbled. “That could be really helpful, Saramae, thank you.” He walked back to his chair and plopped into it. Then he looked around the little circle. “Well, now, let’s figure where do we go from here.”

  “Nowhere yet.” JJ dropped his notebook into his shirt pocket. “I’ve got something else to tell about.”

  Alan waved his hand, palm up, a “go ahead” motion. “The floor’s yours.”

  “Okay, Granny?”

  “I already say it be your call, Jackson. Don’t need to ask me no more.”

  Before Elvira finished speaking, Alan’s cell phone rang.

  He fumbled it out of its holster. “Hello? Alan Chandler here.”

  “Mr. Chandler. This is Rudolph Korotkin
. In Kansas City.”

  Alan put a finger to his lips, then hit the “speakerphone” button. “Yes, Mr. Korotkin. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I just heard something terrible. Sylvester Maggione is dead—murdered. Gruesome. He was bludgeoned to death with an antique music stand. Blood all over his shop. I’m hoping you can tell me I don’t have anything to be concerned about.”

  Alan looked at his phone as if the device might be in need of psychiatric counseling. “Mr. Korotkin, I’m sorry to hear that. It is terrible. But I don’t really see how I can tell you whether or not you’re also in danger. I had nothing to do with what happened to Mr. Maggione.”

  “You’re certain of that, are you?”

  Alan almost said, ‘Well, one never know…’ but caught himself. “I don’t see how I could have.”

  “Did he tell you anything that made you wonder whether he was swimming in shark-infested water?”

  “No…no, I can’t think of anything like that. We talked for just a short while, he said he’d picked up the duffel bag and music at a sale in Brookside, I asked him to let me know if he got hold of any more information, and that was about it. I did get the impression that Mr. Maggione—and the person who sold him the music—were both totally focused on money. Perhaps one of them, I wouldn’t know which, got a little greedy. So unless there’s something I’m not aware of, I don’t imagine you’re in any danger.”

  “Well, if you hear anything or think of anything else, I hope you’ll call me.”

  “I will. And you, me. I’m sorry, Mr. Korotkin.”

  Alan turned off his phone and returned it to the holster. Four pairs of eyes studied him, then JJ loosed a low whistle. “Man, that were smooth as snot. ’Less I ain’t remembering straight, you ’bout the best liar I ever did hear. Didn’t say Word One ’bout goin’ to that ol’ lady’s house.”

  Alan grinned. “I also gave him the wrong neighborhood. We wouldn’t want him to go snooping where he shouldn’t, do we? I doubt Ms. A. Nowlin’s ever even dreamed of moving up to Brookside, so that ought to throw Rudy off the scent nicely.”

  “Like I said, you good. Now, I suppose to just believe what you tell me?”

  Alan nodded. “We’re all in this together. It wouldn’t do any of us any good, me included, to not be straight with you and everyone else in this room.”

  JJ guffawed. “You really good…Hey, there, Tom.” JJ winked. “Am I supposed to believe him? He ever lie to you?”

  “Not so I could ever tell. And not so I ever got hurt. Yeah, you’ll do better believing him than not.”

  “Mmmmm. Guess I’m in, fo’ good or bad.” JJ paused, collecting his thoughts. “Like I was sayin’ ’fore your phone went off, I got somethin’ to tell alla you. ’Bout why I were out when Mickey got it.” He paused, pursed his lips, then fixed a hard stare on Alan. “Granny and me, we got us a secret. See, there be a man, he live downstairs in the basement, been there for what, Granny? Six month now?”

  Elvira nodded. “Just ’bout that. A good halfa year.”

  “He come to us lookin’ for help, we should hide him away ’cause he runned off from the County Nuthouse, and if they catched him, they’d lock him up where he wouldn’t never get out no more. So, what could we do, huh? We put him away downstairs, and when the cops come by, we tell ’em no, we ain’t seen him. An’ when they come back with a search warrant, we had him tucked away nice and snug in the chimney. Elvira take him his food, an’ he got a li’l music player an’ a cot, so he be happy as a clam.”

  JJ stopped talking, and tapped his index finger on the coffee table. Alan sensed this was a test of some sort. “Well, all right,” he said. “But why would a person…two people…take in some runaway mental case, and hide him for half a year? Especially when the police are doing a search? The trouble you could’ve gotten into…You’re leaving something out. Something big.”

  JJ pointed to Alan, then looked at Elvira. “See, I tell you this one sharp white guy! Okay, Alan, yeah. Guy we got down our basement just happen to be my ol’ man. Granny’s son. An’ like she allus say, you takes care of your own. But you don’t have to be no kinda genius to see that sooner or later, this ain’t gonna work out so good. ’Cause he cain’t never be goin’ outside, not for nothin’. But the other night, he did just that, went outside, lookin’ for a man prob’ly been dead an’ gone for years. Granny, she call me, so I went out to find him, which I did, and hauled his sorry ass back home. But a cop seed me out there, he tol’ Detective Park-it-in-’is-asshole, and I get picked up. Now, we can’t have that hap’nin’, no way, so I tol’ Granny we be smart to tell you. Maybe it helps you find what you’re lookin’ for, and also maybe you can just help us figure out what we can do with Pop. Fair deal?”

  Alan smiled. “One for all, all for one. Sure, I’ll do whatever I can to help with that. But you’re still not giving me full disclosure, and you need to. Who was this man your Pop was chasing, and why was he chasing him?”

  JJ nodded, looked at Saramae, who nodded back. “Don’t sweat it, JJ. I won’t say nothin’ to my daddy about yours.”

  “Okay, then,” JJ said. “Here it be. My Pop was never the brightest bulb in the ’lectric store—sorry, but that be truth. When he have a job, it something like pushin’ a broom, or loadin’ stuff onto trucks in a warehouse, kinda thing that take muscle, but don’ need no brains. My mama got sick and tired of not havin’ no money, and one day when I was maybe five or six, she was gone, out the door, no note, no nothin’.”

  JJ took a deep breath, then another. “People allus took advantage of him. Way back ’fore I was born, some guy take him to a bar, a crummy place outsidea town, offa Fifty. The guy makes like he Pop’s best friend, tell Pop he had the chance to make a nice li’l bit a money, real easy. All Pop hadda do was swipe a duffel bag offa someone.”

  The room filled with soft murmurs.

  “Oh, nothin’ real valuable in it, you know. Just that it b’longed to Pop’s new buddy there, and a scumbag had nicked it off him, an’ he wanted it back. Easy, you know—wait’ll real late at night, go in this guy’s house, get the bag, bring it on over. But when Pop come by with the bag, his pal don’ give him no money, just give him a good one upside the head with a baseball bat. Knocks him colder’n a walk-in freezer, an’ then dump him in an open field. If Pop wasn’t so sharp before, he even worse after that.”

  Elvira nodded, and dabbed a handkerchief at her eyes. “That all happen in ’73, and for the rest of the seventies an’ into the eighties, he had these bad times when he think he know where he could find the guy who did him wrong and fix him for it. Jes’ keep walkin’ ’round town, lookin’ for the bar and the guy he say call himself Mr. Raney. It happen less an’ less, but he never quite stop lookin’, an’ finally, one day ’bout ten years ago, he did something he shouldn’t’a, and ended up where Jackson said. An’ then, ’bout a half a year ago, he show up on our doorstep, pleadin’ with Jackson and me to hide him away, said they treated him so bad, take away the food I brung him, make funna him for bein’ dumb, sometimes hit him with a switch. What else I gonna do? We been keepin’ him downstairs all this time, but Jackson be right, it ain’t gonna come out good in the end. I can’t take him back to that place, though, no how. Not my own son. Mr. Alan, I sure hope you can help us figger out what to do.”

  “I will do my best to help you,” Alan said. “Do you know who Mr. Raney was? It sounds like you don’t think that was really his name.”

  Elvira’s face hardened. “Jack allus called him Mr. Raney, but you be right, I’m sure’s I can be that weren’t actually his name. Nobody know who he be—but I can tell you this: the person Jack stoled the bag from was Sam Blackstone…” Elvira gestured with her head toward Saramae. “Her grandpa, Charley’s father.”

  Saramae jerked erect, but couldn’t find any words. Alan cleared his throat. “JJ, Elvira…how sure can we be that the duffel bag Jack s
tole is the same one we’re trying to hunt down now? And do you think he could give us a description of what ‘Mr. Raney’ looked like?”

  Elvira laughed dismissively. “Oh, he could tell you, I be sure of that. On’y problem is, he still be lookin’ for the man what hit him, an’ he not real clear how long it been, how much the man musta change, ’sumin’ he ain’t dead already. And as for the bag—” She shrugged.

  “That’s fine, I understand.” Alan worked his jaw side to side. “Do you think it’d be okay to bring him up here and let me talk to him a little? Could he handle that?”

  Elvira and JJ studied each other. “I’ll go down, talk to him,” JJ said. “Tell him you’re our friend and you’re gonna help us figure out how t’ get him outa the nuthouse for good. I think it’d be okay, but if not, I’m stronger’n he is now.”

  JJ rose from the sofa, then disappeared out the doorway behind the living room. Five minutes later, he returned with an older man at his side. Alan wondered whether his idea had been a good one. The man was, he guessed, about sixty. He walked hunched over, making him appear to be shorter than his full height, which would have been something over six feet. His head was shaved, eyes bloodshot, and his expression was one of combined fear, hope, and barely suppressed anger that pulled at Alan’s heart.

  The pianist forced a smile and extended a hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Jackson.”

  “People, they calls me Big Jack,” the man rumbled.

  “Big Jack, then. I’m Alan.”

  “You my friend—my boy, JJ, he tell me you gonna get me ’way from them bad peoples at the hospital.”

  “I’m going to try my best. You’ve been there a long time, huh?”

  “Longer’n I got numbers in my head. Mr. Alan, I don’t want to die there. Know what they do with me when I do die?”

  “Bury you, I guess.”

  Jackson loosed a raucous, bitter laugh. “Sure, they does. They buries me, but it be in a hole with ten other peoples, an’ it got quicklime and vitriol in it, so nobody could ever know who’s me and who’s somebody else.” The man’s face went to grief. “Please he’p me, Mr. Alan. I wants to get buried right when I die.”