The RagTime Traveler

by Larry Karp

  And remember, you fucking bastard, the tool that cut the wire can cut other things too!”

  “She has quite an impressive command of the vernacular, doesn’t she?”

  Joplin sighed. “If she had worked half as hard on her music as she has on pursuing her grievance against me, she could have found a publisher on her own and never had a reason to plague me.”

  “Only half?”

  “Three-quarters, then. But it sounds as if you don’t think she’s harmless.”

  It wasn’t quite a question, but Alan answered. “Someone with a screw loose can be just as dangerous as anyone else. And it sure looks like she’s got more than a couple of loose screws.”

  “Loose screws? Is the piano falling apart?”

  Alan looked up in surprise. “Otis.”

  “Mr. Chandler. Scott.”

  Joplin glared. “The piano’s fine, Crackerjack. What do you want?”

  Saunders was wearing a black suit that had seen a few better days and a faded blue shirt. He winced slightly, but said evenly, “I was hopin’ to catch Arthur Marshall ’fore he went home.”

  “Arthur left hours ago. Something about a young woman, I gather.”

  “No doubt.” Saunders shook his head. “Iff’n you sees him ’fore I do, tell him Ernest Edwards ain’t happy ’bout the attention Arthur be paying to his girl.”

  Alan laughed. “Pot, kettle, Otis? Your girlfriend’s husband isn’t at all happy about the attention you’re paying to her.”

  “I guess you means Angeline Noland—”

  “Oh, so you do know her!”

  Saunders ignored Alan’s interruption. “Don’t you believe everything you hears from her—or her husband, neither.”

  “Including her claim that you stole her music?”

  “She botherin’ you with that blather, Scott?”

  “It’s no bother, Otis. No more than your ridiculous claims against ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’” He looked Saunders up and down. “Wearing the contents of your rag bag won’t make me any more sympathetic to your claims of poverty. Mrs. Noland’s threats against my life, however, are more than just a bother.”

  “Threats?”

  Alan thought Saunders’ look of surprise lacked sincerity, but he waved the letter. “These.”

  Saunders took the sheet and read it quickly.

  “Should we believe this?”

  “’Course not, Scott.” Saunders tossed the letter onto the piano. “Angeline be all talk. ’Thout a man, she helpless.” He tugged at one of his cuffs.

  “Hardly a gentlemanly thing to say about your girlfriend,” Alan said. “But then, if you were a gentleman, you’d hardly have taken up with a married woman, would you?”

  Saunders’ face darkened. “Mr. Chandler, you an ol’ man, so I let that go. But if you be a wise ol’ man, you gonna watch where you walk. Sedalia ain’t safe for nobody who let his mouth run.”

  Alan and Joplin watched Saunders storm out of the club before Joplin asked “Was that necessary, Alan? Otis has been a good friend, outside of his insistence on claiming credit for ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’” His eyes narrowed. “Or is he involved in something you can’t tell me about, something you know from history?”

  Alan shook his head. “I don’t know anything more than that he’s been quarreling with you over that claim. But I suspect he knows a lot more about what Angeline is up to than he’s letting on.” He held up a hand to stop Joplin from interrupting. “I’m not going to accuse him of anything without proof. I hope you’ll be careful, though. Maybe Angeline does need a man to do anything—though frankly, I doubt that—but if she does, she’s got at least one.”

  He picked up the letter, slipped it back in the envelope, and looked for the piece of wire. It wasn’t on the piano’s fallboard, nor, when Alan bent to look, was it on the floor. “Do you have that piece of wire?”

  Joplin shook his head. “Wouldn’t want it, to be honest.”

  “I can’t argue with that. But someone wanted it, and if it’s not you or me, there’s only one other candidate.” Alan tapped the envelope against his hand. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take this and dispose of it.”

  “Dispose…?”

  “In more normal circumstances, I’d tell you to take it to the police. But consider who the police report to, and who is currently demanding that the black clubs be closed. Something like this would only add fuel to that fire.”

  Joplin nodded slowly. “I take your point. But then, what should I do?”

  Alan tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket. “Let me see what I can do. For now, don’t talk about this mess to anyone. And be careful when you’re alone. Walking home, for instance.”

  Another nod. “I will. It’s just up Washington, not that far, and the sun will be up soon.”

  “Not that soon. But regardless, keep people around you. People you know and trust.” Alan noticed Walker Williams leaning against the bar. “I’d best get out of here before Mr. Williams throws me out. I’ll be back when I can.” They shook hands, and Alan left with a nod to Williams, as Joplin began straightening up around the piano.

  “Scott!” As he started down the stairs, Alan heard Williams call, “Give me some he’p with these bottles ’fore you go. Hey, Scott, come on, get your head outa your music!” The closing door cut off any reply Joplin might have made.

  ***

  “Mr. Chandler!”

  Alan looked across the street toward the voice calling his name. Lathan Blackstone trotted over. “Lathan! What are you doing here?”

  “I was…I gotta…” A look of confusion crossed Lathan’s face before he shook his head violently and restarted his speech. “I were gonna talk t’ Mr. Joplin. Mr. Chandler, I been thinkin’ ’bout what you say fo’ the last coupla days. I talk t’ Mr. Ireland, and he say the same ’bout Mr. Joplin you do. I don’ wanna think Angie been lyin’ to me, no way, but if she is, I gotta do somethin’. Like I say, I gotta talk t’ Mr. Joplin. Gonna ast him what he done say t’ Angie. He tell me true, an’ then I knows fo’ sure.”

  Alan suppressed a groan. “Why are you so sure he’ll tell you the truth?”

  “Because I gonna tell him ‘Mr. Chandler an’ Mr. Ireland, they say you be an hones’ man, so you gotta tell me true or they not respec’ you no mo’.” He gave Alan a wide-eyed look of innocence that expressed total confidence in the logic of his argument.

  That stopped Alan cold. He ran the idea back and forth in his mind a couple of times before giving up. “Mr. Blackstone, your faith in your fellow man puts me to shame.” He held out his hand and Lathan, the confused expression back on his face, shook it. “Unfortunately, this is a very bad time to talk to Mr. Joplin about your wife.” Alan hesitated, then pulled the envelope out of his pocket and extended it to Lathan. “I don’t know if you can read it in this light—”

  “The light don’ matter none. I gots my numbers an’ enough letters t’ sign my name, but tha’s all.”

  “Oh. Then you should ask Mr. Ireland, or someone else you trust to read it to you. It’s a letter from your wife to Mr. Joplin. You should hear what she said in her own words. I don’t want to say more than that.”

  “It be bad, then.”

  “I’m sorry, Lathan.”

  Lathan shook his head. “I ask Mr. Ireland to read the letter, Mr. Chandler. If it be bad, I do what I has t’ do.” He sighed. “Iff’n I can’t see Mr. Joplin now, I best be gettin’ back t’ work. Mr. Carter give me an hour fo’ my dinner, but I come here steada eatin’.” He started to walk toward Washington Avenue.

  Alan hesitated, then fell into step beside Lathan. After a few steps, he said “Did you see Otis Saunders leave the club a few minutes ago? Which way did he go?”

  “I seed him, sure. He go this way, and turn onta Washin’ton.” Lathan hesitated. “If he go the other way, up Ohio, I woulda follered him, in
case he were goin’ to see Angie.”

  “I need to go after him.” They turned the corner onto Washington while Alan was talking.

  “Inta Lincolnville? That a bad idea, Mr. Chandler.”

  “I know it is, but I don’t have a choice. Mr. Joplin’s house is that way.” He gestured in the direction they were walking. “I’m afraid Otis is going there to set some kind of a trap for Mr. Joplin.”

  They walked up the block in silence. Lathan stopped at the corner of Washington and St. Louis and put a hand on Alan’s shoulder. “You know where Mr. Joplin live?”

  Alan paused. Chemo brain again, shit! “I can’t remember the number, but it’s somewhere up Washington.”

  Lathan stared at him. “You jus’ gonna go wanderin’ around Lincolnville in the middle uh the night lookin’ for Otis Saunders? By yo’self? Is you crazy, Mr. Chandler?”

  “Probably. But I can’t just let him do whatever he’s going to do.”

  A deep sigh. “Then I come with you. You tryin’ t’ do the right thing. I cain’t let you get yo’self hurt or kilt.”

  ***

  They crossed St. Louis and continued north. Their pace was slow, sparing Alan’s back and letting them peer behind the trees and shrubbery separating the houses. Streetlights were non-existent north of Main Street, and Alan was grateful for the light given by the moon, just past its third quarter.

  Beyond Johnson, Alan was ready to throw in the towel, when Lathan whispered, “Somethin’ movin’ ahind the trees across the street.”

  Alan leaned forward, trying to see, and immediately felt foolish. “Is it Otis?”

  “I’se not sure it even be a person. We has t’ get closer.”

  The trees stood close together beside a two-story white house. A gravel path ran straight from the curb to the bottom of three stairs leading up to the front porch; the trees were just a few steps from the porch.

  As they reached the curb, Alan caught a flash of movement between the trees. He nudged Lathan in the ribs and pointed, just as Lathan was doing the same to him. Lathan whispered harshly, “Preten’ you don’ see nothin’. We walk pas’ an’ look back, see what goin’ on.”

  Alan nodded, and kept walking, resolutely keeping his eyes on the sidewalk until they were well past the trees. That view was even worse: a third tree stood directly between them and their target.

  Lathan blocked Alan’s move toward the trees. “Lemme go firs’. White man shouldn’ go sneakin’ aroun’ in Lincolnville. If that be Otis Damned Saunders, I call you. Else, I comes back an’ we keep lookin’.”

  Splitting up sounds like a bad idea—but he’s right that I’d be a risk if that’s not Otis. Alan nodded and waved a hand treeward.

  Lathan turned and moved surprisingly quietly across the grass in the moonlight. Alan lost sight of him as he stepped into the trees’ shadow. A few seconds later, he heard Lathan shout, “What the hell you doin’ wit’ my wife, you son of a bitch?!”

  Damn it to Hell! Alan started forward at his best speed, only to reflexively dodge aside, allowing Angeline to fly past and avoiding the slap she aimed at his head with one gloved hand. His automatic grab for her was late, and her tight-fitting men’s shirt and pants wouldn’t have given him much purchase anyway. She was down the street and turning the corner onto Johnson before Alan could take more than a few steps after her. He shook his head and went on toward Lathan.

  The big man had Saunders trapped against the trunk of one of the trees, his right hand on his opponent’s sternum, anchoring him as securely as if he had been nailed in place. Saunders’ unbuttoned fly and dangling penis made the answer to Lathan’s question obvious. As Alan approached, Lathan buried his left hand in Saunders’ stomach, then released the smaller man, who gagged and doubled over. Lathan kicked him onto his back and stepped on his stomach, causing another gag.

  “Wait, Lathan! Let me talk to him a minute.”

  Lathan ground his foot into Otis’ gut, then swore as Otis vomited explosively onto Lathan’s leg and his own chest. “Talk quick, Mr. Chandler. I got somethin’ to tell this bastard, an’ I don’ wanna wait.”

  Alan leaned over Saunders. “What did you do, Otis? What were you planning for Mr. Joplin?”

  “Wire…on…” A cough. “Stairs. Her idea.” Another cough and a deep breath. “Trip him an’ tell him how much worse it gonna be if…if he don’t pay what…he owe.”

  “I’m thinking there was more to it than that. Somebody threatened Mr. Joplin with a pair of wire cutters. You telling me that wasn’t you two?”

  Saunders managed a faint laugh as Lathan frowned. “That jus’ be a bluff. She done put the other wire in her pocket, but she di’n’t even look at the cutters.”

  As if a piano string is harmless. He looked up. “I’m really sorry you had to hear this, Lathan. Don’t assume he’s telling the truth about who was planning to do what.”

  Lathan nodded. “I knows, Mr. Chandler. Man like that, he say anythin’ if he think it get him outa trouble. Me ’n’ Angie is gonna have a long talk when I gets home.”

  Alan squeezed his shoulder before he turned back to Saunders. “And what were you planning to do if someone else came along first? There are other people living in that house. Come down the stairs quickly, hit that wire, someone innocent could have been killed.”

  “We was watchin’—”

  Alan laughed. “Doing a lousy job of it, I’d say.” He stepped back. “Don’t kill him, Lathan. You don’t need that on your conscience.”

  “Wasn’ gonna kill ’im.” Lathan dug his foot into Saunders’ stomach until he gagged again. “Just gonna learn him ’bout messin’ where he shouldn’ oughta.”

  “Fair enough. More than fair.” Alan looked back at the man on the ground. “Consider what’s about to happen to you as a lesson in not mixing business and pleasure, Mr. Saunders.” He headed for the front of the house, trying to tune out the sounds of Lathan’s teaching method.

  The piano wire had been stretched between the lowest pair of newel posts. It was anchored with two shiny screw eyes, a few inches above the top of the lowest step, the perfect height to catch a careless foot. Alan pulled out his Leatherman and snipped the wire off the screws at both ends. He started to put the tool back in his pocket, then changed his mind. Don’t want Otis taking this wire back to Angeline so they can try again. He quickly snipped the wire into six-inch lengths and carried the pieces back under the trees.

  Saunders was sprawled on his back, gasping for breath. His nose was obviously broken, bent to the right and bleeding. The rest of his face bore a large collection of scratches and rapidly developing bruises.

  Alan dropped his handful of wire snippets on Saunders’ chest. “Don’t try it again, Otis.” He turned to Lathan, who was wiping his hands on a grease-stained cloth. “Are you done?”

  Lathan grunted something that sounded vaguely affirmative, then stuffed the cloth into his back pocket. “S’pose I is. He still alive, but he not gonna be happy fo’ a long time.” He looked around absently, his ring catching a stray bit of moonlight as he turned. “Le’s get you back south o’ Main, then I guess I gotta have it out with Angie.” He sighed. “I ain’t gonna thank you for tellin’ me what Angie doin’, Mr. Chandler, but I ain’ gonna blame you none, either. ’Magine I woulda found out sooner or later.”

  He took a couple of steps toward the street, then ducked back under the trees. “Some un’s comin’.”

  Saunders groaned as Alan looked down Washington. “It’s Mr. Joplin! Lathan, keep the bastard quiet.”

  Lathan whipped his rag out of his pocket again and shoved it in Saunders’ mouth. When Saunders groaned around the gag, Lathan added a knee on his chest, pressing down on his ribs. Otis’ breath rushed out, and he gasped, but quietly.

  Alan watched Joplin shuffle along the gravel path and up the stairs with a lack of energy that spoke eloquently of a long
day after not enough sleep. He stumbled slightly on the top step, and Alan had to force himself not to smack his forehead in dismay. Joplin closed the door behind himself, and Alan turned back to Otis.

  “If Mr. Joplin ever hears about what happened tonight, I’m going to assume it came from you. You won’t like what happens after that. Get it?”

  A nod.

  Alan pulled the cloth out of Otis’ mouth and handed it back to Lathan. “Better wash that well. No telling what kind of slime he’s carrying around.”

  ***

  Alan glared at Bryant-Tewmey Dry Goods’ locked door. Hell! All I want to do is take my meds and collapse for a couple of hours, and I’m stuck here until they open for business. Are they even going to open on a Sunday? Shit. How am I going to explain this to Miriam?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saramae’s face brightened when she opened the door for Tom. “I’m sittin’ in the living room with Daddy,” she half-whispered. “We’re talkin’ about what’s been going on. You got something new?”

  “Heck, yeah!”

  “Sweet. You kin tell the both of us.”

  ***

  Charles Blackstone rose to shake hands with Tom. “I’ll say this for you and your grandfather—I’ve never seen my daughter so serious about anything. I think she just might be finding her niche in life. I was afraid she wasn’t ever going to take an interest in anything besides her latest boyfriend. I’d be happier if it was a less…well, adventurous news story she was chasing, but at least she’s getting into the family business, and I can’t object to that.” He waved Tom toward a group of chairs. “Since you’re here, I suppose that means Betty Singer turned up something.”

  Tom settled into the left side of a loveseat; Saramae plopped down next to him. Blackstone sat in a large wingback chair opposite. “Well, Betty found a lot of information about both the families who’ve been chasing Joplin’s music.”

  Blackstone’s eyes opened wider. “Really? Like what?”

  “She started with Angeline No-land—that’s how she pronounced it—and her husband and son, Lathan and William, and how the Blackstones have been respectable people. Right down to you.”