The RagTime Traveler

by Larry Karp

  Alan straightened and laughed. “Haunted? An amusing idea, but unlikely. Perhaps the young woman who just left…?”

  “Mrs. Blackstone? Perhaps, perhaps. Though why? She was looking for a whippen. Not something she would have needed to remove the panel to see.”

  Alan forced a smile. “Maybe she was doing you a favor to thank you for allowing her to look for used parts.”

  Taylor looked dubious, but shrugged. “It could be. But…” He collected himself and peered closely at Alan. “No matter. But you, Sir—are you all right? You seem disturbed.”

  “Just a passing thought.” Alan waved a hand dismissively, and started walking toward the shop, drawing Taylor with him. “I am curious. Mrs., ah, Blackstone, you said? She’s a pianist? At a church, perhaps?”

  “Nothing so elevated, I fear. She is, I am given to understand, a quite good performer of the lower sort, though I haven’t heard her myself, of course. She plays at the Black 400 Club—you know of it? Of course you do, you said you were at the Maple Leaf Club two nights ago.”

  Alan nodded. “An unusual profession for a woman.”

  Taylor’s expression combined sympathy and disdain. “I quite agree, Sir. How her husband can permit it—even let her appear in such places unaccompanied and using her maiden name—I shall never understand. But such is the modern age, I fear. Even my own wife wishes to claim the vote.”

  Alan hid a smile as he entertained a mental image of Miriam’s likely reaction to Taylor’s statement. “I’m glad the Maple Leaf Club’s piano is in such good hands and I look forward to hearing it once you’re finished with your work.”

  He shook hands and exited through the front door of the shop before Mr. Taylor could think to ask why he was there. He glanced around. Just a couple of blocks from the hotel. Up Ohio, past the grocery where Fitter’s will be. Convenient.

  ***

  Alan closed the hotel room door behind himself, not at all tempted to slam it. “Food for thought,” he informed the empty space. He glanced at his watch. “But that can wait.” He set the alarm for forty-five minutes and stretched out on the bed.

  ***

  Tom thought Blackstone was making no effort to conceal his contempt for the two kids and the old woman who’d come to his office to weasel information from him. The city editor leaned forward in his desk chair to focus on his daughter.

  “’Mae, I already told you this isn’t a game. You’re getting into dangerous waters.” He waved an arm to include all his visitors in his comments. “The three of you—you need to stay out of the way of the police. Don’t screw up their work and don’t get yourselves into trouble. Let the cops do what they’ve got to do.” He turned to Elvira. “I’d hoped you might have a little more sense than these kids, for Christ’s sake.”

  Elvira sat upright. “Mr. Blackstone, this’s ’bout my child. You don’ want your child gettin’ hurt, I knows. But my child already get hurt, hurt real bad, a lotta years ago. Man hit him with a baseball bat. My Jack, he think he fin’ the man what hurt him, that ‘Mr. Raney’. An’ now he gotta live in the house for dangerous peoples. A day don’t pass, I don’t cry for him at least one time. Mr. Alan, he think if he know who ‘Mr. Raney’ really be, he might could get Jack outa there and back home with me. You say you wants me to go home and let the p’leece, who never did nothin’ for my boy, ‘do what they gotta do?’ No, sir, I’m sorry. I thinks you oughta be ’shamed a yourself, talkin’ to me like that.”

  Tom clenched his teeth, then his fists. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he said, speaking slowly, in a level tone.

  He may be able to ignore Granny and his own daughter, but Alan needs that name, and I’m not going to let Blackstone ignore me.

  He stared hard into the editor’s eyes. “We know we aren’t playing some kind of silly little game. And if it was just the murder, I might agree with you about letting the cops do their thing. But the music changes everything. The police don’t care about the music at all. Even if they find it, you know it’s just gonna disappear into some evidence room and never be seen again.”

  He took a deep breath, then went on, a little faster. “I can’t believe you don’t realize how awful it’d be if a bunch of compositions by Scott Joplin got destroyed or lost, so no one ever gets to play them or hear them. And my grandfather’s been studying Joplin and his music for more than sixty years. He’s eighty years old, he’s got cancer, he’s in pain, he knows he’s not going to be around a whole lot longer…”

  Tom’s hand flew to his mouth as he tried to stifle a whooping cry. Saramae set a hand on his shoulder; Elvira shot a look of pure malice at Blackstone. The boy swallowed hard, forced himself to go on. “We’re not asking you for anything unreasonable, or that could get you in trouble. We think there was a story in your newspaper some years back that could give us a real lead in finding that music. All we want is for you to find that story for us.”

  Blackstone looked as if he didn’t know whether to be angry or sympathetic. “But, how does—?” He interrupted himself, shook his head, started over. “You just want a story from the paper? That’s all?”

  “If that doesn’t have what we need, maybe we’ll need you to dig deeper. Reporter’s notes or something. But we hope the story will be enough.”

  “All right, all right. Give me the information. Soon as I have a chance I’ll look into it and get back to you.”

  “Mr. Blackstone, I’m sorry. We need the information now. It really shouldn’t take long. We can give you dates and some names that’d be in the story.”

  Saramae leaned across the desk. “Daddy, what you doin’ stonewallin’ us? Ain’t no big deal, an’ it ain’t like you gotta find anything yo’self. Petey, down in the morgue, he a sweetheart. Iff’n I ast him nice, he find that story right quick. An’ I bet you went more’n a li’l outside the lines one time or another, gettin’ a story. This ain’t even outside the lines, none.”

  Weird, Tom thought. Every time she starts talking to her father, she starts sounding more like JJ than JJ does.

  While his daughter was talking, Blackstone stiffened, his eyes bulged, and he half rose, only to settle back with a sigh when she finished. “We’re going to have words about your attitude, young lady. But if it’ll get you out of my office…” He turned to Tom with an exaggerated shark-like grin. “Make with the details.”

  Tom counted them off on his fingers. “Big Jack Jackson, ten years ago in August, slugged somebody in a bar, sent to the county house.” He turned to Elvira. “Is there anything else?”

  “My boy tho’t the man’s name were Raney, but that prob’ly not right. That be enough?”

  Blackstone picked up the phone, dialed a number. “Yeah, Petey. Blackstone here. I need a story from ten years ago last month, about a bar fight involving Big Jack Jackson—and I need it on the double.”

  An uncomfortably silent eight minutes later, Blackstone’s secretary walked in, handed her boss a sheet of paper, and walked back out. The city editor scanned the paper, then without a word, passed it to Tom. The boy read the report aloud: “Last night saw some unfortunate activity at Rudy’s Roadhouse on Route Fifty. A man from Kansas City was beaten senseless by ‘Big Jack’ Jackson of Sedalia. The victim of the unprovoked attack was identified as Jarvis Nowlin, a well-known trad-jazz enthusiast and sometime critic. According to witnesses, Jackson shouted ‘You son of a bitch’ and began punching Nowlin. Nowlin was treated at Bothwell Hospital and released the next morning. Jackson is being held without bail pending evaluation of his mental stability.”

  Elvira began to cry, and Saramae leapt up to hug her.

  Tom stood, extended a hand to Blackstone. “Thank you, Sir,” he said. “I really appreciate your help. I think this is going to help a lot.”

  The walk back to Elvira’s house passed in silence, but Tom’s mind was bubbling with activity.

  Alan set me up for that to see if I really c
an help him. And okay—I did it. Got what we needed. But he’s gotta open up some. He made everyone tell their secrets and all, he has to do the same. Tell them all about his time-traveling. If he doesn’t volunteer, I’m gonna have to push him.

  Tom barely let the group seat themselves in Elvira’s living room before he passed the newspaper story to Alan. JJ leaned over the old man’s shoulder to read the account. As Alan finished, he held up the paper like an athletic trophy.

  “Jarvis Nowlin! From Kansas City, a jazz enthusiast! Way to go, the three of you. This is a real breakthrough.”

  “It was Tom,” said Saramae. “Daddy shot down Miz Elvira and me, but Tom told him just exactly right. You shoulda heard the way he talked to Daddy. We had this in our hands practically before Tom was done.”

  Tom blushed, but said, “You helped a lot, threatening to go to Petey yourself.”

  Saramae shook her head. “That wasn’t much. He wasn’t even listenin’ to me or Granny. You got him started, I just pushed him a little.”

  “Teamwork,” said Alan with a nod. “And a good thing, ’cause I struck out at the courthouse. By the time I’d filed the request they said I needed, and had it reviewed by the proper authorities, that music would be two hundred years old. But Jarvis Nowlin, K.C.? I think we’re ready for another trip down Route Fifty. JJ, I think you better come along on this job. We don’t know whose particular skills we might need.”

  JJ chortled. “Tha’s more like it! We gonna be back ’fore I gotta go t’ work? If not, best I call in sick.”

  Alan glanced at his watch. “I can’t imagine we wouldn’t be back by midnight.”

  “Okay, then. Lemme get some stuff we might be needin’.” He disappeared down the hall, then returned less than five minutes later. “All set. Let’s roll!”

  Tom couldn’t miss the look of regard Alan turned on him.

  But he’s still got to tell them about the time-traveling.

  ***

  “Shotgun!” Tom called as he grabbed the door handle.

  Alan shook his head, tapped Tom’s shoulder and jerked a thumb toward the rear of the car. “I want you behind me this time. Saramae! Front seat, please. I don’t want you distracting the boys.”

  “You not worried ’bout me distracting you?”

  “Distracting the driver? You’re brighter than that.”

  Saramae snickered and got into the front seat while JJ settled into the seat behind her.

  Tom hadn’t moved. When Alan started around the car, Tom put a hand on his arm. “Alan, can we talk?”

  “Now?”

  “It won’t take long, and this is the best time to do it.”

  Alan took in the expression on Tom’s face. Worried, almost fearful, but determined. “Okay, Thomas. Go ahead.”

  “I’ve been thinking…we need to tell them about your memory and the time-traveling. Not knowing what’s going on, that’s not fair, especially after everything they’ve told us. And there’s another thing. You were thinking I was biting off too much to chew when I said I’d be your memory, right? Maybe they can help with that, too. Help me remember everything you learn in 1899, help us both put it all together. Okay?”

  For a moment, Alan couldn’t answer; then he gave Tom a hug. “Thank you, Thomas. I wanted to tell them, but I was afraid you were going to think I didn’t trust you to help me. Couldn’t figure out how to bring it up, make sure you understood. But you were one step ahead of me the whole time.” He gave the boy another squeeze. “There’s something else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Saramae’s family stories. That’s really why I want her up front, so I can quiz her, get her to remember more. Maybe she knows something that’ll prove whether or not I’m really going back in time. That’s a question I’ve got to answer.”

  “Even if the answer is that you’re hallucinating?”

  “Even if. Knowing would mean I could get help. Probably more drugs, but that’s inevitable at this point anyway.” Alan gave Tom one more hug, then looked theatrically at his watch. “Guess we better stop holding up the show here. Like JJ said, let’s roll!”

  When Tom and Alan opened their doors, JJ was leaning forward between the front seats, talking to Saramae. The conversation cut off abruptly. Tom glared at JJ and considered asking him to slide over, but changed his mind. It felt too awkward, too much like a junior high school kid trying to sit behind the prettiest girl in class so he could look at her while pretending to pay attention to the teacher.

  Everyone was silent until they reached the freeway, then Saramae said “Can we have some travelin’ music?”

  JJ laughed. “Somethin’ we kin all go for? Not likely!”

  Alan headed off the developing argument. “I’d rather we talk. We’ve got some planning to do, but there’s something else I need to tell you first…” More musing out loud than talking. “Looking at the three of you takes me back, way back. My wife and I were not any older than you when we set out from New Jersey in a beater, and drove all the way across the country to Los Angeles—Venice, specifically—and visited Brun Campbell.”

  “Brun Who?” JJ and Saramae pulled off a spontaneous baritone-soprano duet.

  “Brun Campbell. Well, fair enough—I guess you wouldn’t know who he was if you’re not deep into ragtime. He was an old man then, only sixty-seven, but a half-century of hard living had pretty well used him up. In 1899, he rode a freight car to Sedalia to get Scott Joplin to give him ragtime piano lessons. Then he played ragtime for seven, eight years in low joints all around the Midwest. When ragtime faded out, he got married and worked as a barber.

  “In the 1920s, he moved his family and his shop to California. But when ragtime started coming back in the forties, Brun was right up front and center. I met him in Sedalia in 1951 when they had a ceremony to honor Scott Joplin. Before I left, he gave me a piano lesson, imagine that. After the ceremony, I went back home, but I ran right away again, this time to California, to get more lessons from Brun. Your grandmother came with me on that trip, Tom. We practically starved all the way out, figured when we got there, Brun would feed us like royalty.

  “But that poor old guy had less money than we did—and even worse, since ragtime was the devil’s music, no hell-spawned ragtime pianist was ever gonna set foot in Mrs. Campbell’s home. We played in Brun’s garage or his barber shop.”

  “Gettin’ married’s bad business. Serious bad business.” JJ nudged Saramae’s arm.

  She snickered. “Especially for the woman.”

  Despite himself, Alan chuckled. “Depends on the woman. And the man, for that matter. But don’t distract me. That trip formed me for life. Brun made sure I knew he was ‘learning me how to play ragtime,’ especially ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’ Oh, he was a character. He had no trouble telling people straight-out he was the best ragtime player in existence, both in 1900 and 1945.”

  “Well, maybe he was,” said Saramae. “He did ‘learn’ you, right? And aren’t you the best player of your time?”

  “Damn right he is,” Tom chirped.

  Alan tried to wave away the complimentary flood. “We’re in dangerous territory,” he said. “Am I really the best? Maybe on some days, yes, but only on some days. Listening to John Arpin used to make me feel very modest. Same for Trebor Tichenor. All that’s important is to be out there at a piano, playing your best for the people who pay good money to sit and listen.”

  As if for punctuation, Alan pushed the open buttons for his window and Tom’s. As the early fall wind whistled through the car, Tom stiffened.

  I can’t let him get away without telling them.

  He cupped a hand to his mouth, and shouted, “Shut those effin’ windows, Alan!”

  Alan shot the boy a curious look in the rearview mirror. He’d never heard anything out of Tom remotely resembling that remark, either in content or manner.

 
; “Shut the windows,” Tom repeated. “Can’t hear anything over the wind. And if you keep going on like this, we’ll be in Kansas City before you ever get to the point. Like you said, they gotta know. Rip the Band-Aid off and just say it.”

  Alan sighed and shut the windows, but still couldn’t find the right words.

  Tom marshaled his courage. “What my grandfather’s trying to tell you is he’s got trouble with his memory because of the chemo. It’s not like he’s got Alzheimer’s or anything; he’s still sharp as a tack. But he can’t always remember stuff. So I told him I’d be his memory—but I think this is a time where four heads are better’n two.”

  The boy took a deep breath.

  Fill your lungs before you jump into the deep end of the pool.

  “And there’s something else, something I know just a little about, and I think maybe all of us need to know a lot more about. Since we’ve been in Sedalia, Alan’s been time-traveling. Going back to 1899, talking to Scott Joplin…”

  He ground to a halt at the expressions on JJ’s and Saramae’s faces. The girl snickered, but cut it off when Tom glared at her. He turned back to his grandfather. “Start at the beginning, Alan. How you do the time-travel, who you’ve been talking to, all of it.”

  Alan nodded. “I wish I knew how I did it. Tom can tell you later how he thinks it might work, but since he’s never time-traveled—”

  “I’ve been trying, every chance I get.”

  Alan ignored Tom’s interruption. “There’s no way to know if he’s right. The first time I did it, it just happened. Late on the first day we were here—actually, early in the morning—I was concentrating on a little musical theme Joplin had written on a card from the Maple Leaf Club, and all of a sudden, I found myself there…in 1899. Talking to Joplin. It lasted a couple of hours, and then suddenly I was back in the present. It was a couple of hours later here too—Tom had woken up and gone looking for me—but I had no idea how I got back.

  “When I tried to do it again, I couldn’t, but it worked when I stopped trying to go to the exact same time. I think I failed because I had already been there. I guess you can’t be in the same place twice. But the thing is, if I fix on a particular time and place while I study the musical theme, that’s where and when in the past I find myself.”