The Ragtime Kid

by Larry Karp

  Right about then, it began to dawn on him. To look straight into her face, he’d had to twist himself into a most uncomfortable sidewise attitude. The woman seemed to be looking to the right, upward and backward, and when Brun tried to move his own head the same way, he couldn’t even come close. He reached a hand behind the woman’s head and lifted, whereupon chills coursed through his body. That head felt like it was attached to the rest of the woman only by skin. Any small way Brun moved his hand, the head lolled in a different direction, and the boy got a terrible feeling if he let go too quickly, the woman’s head, pretty hair and all, might just come loose and go rolling down the street.

  Fighting a strong inclination to cut and run, Brun pulled a lucifer from his pocket and snapped a shaking thumbnail across the tip. On the third try, light flared. Brun brushed the woman’s hair to the side, and looked closely into her face. Once, she had been pretty, and not all that long ago. But her gaping mouth and bulgy, staring eyes did a fine job of ruining her appearance. If more was needed, the dark bruise marks over her neck took care of that.

  Maybe Brun was never much of a scholar in the classroom, but he had not the least trouble seeing what a disadvantageous situation he’d fallen into. A stranger in town, looking not even close to reputable after his boxcar rides, caught kneeling over the body of a woman very recently choked to death? Didn’t take much imagination to see himself looking at the inside of a jail, maybe even at a noose. Best to put as much space between that woman and himself in the shortest possible time.

  He blew out the lucifer, grabbed his jacket, whispered a hoarse, “Sorry, Miss,” and scrambled to his feet. But as he turned to run, he noticed something gleaming in the moonlight at the edge of the weeds. He sprang past the woman and picked it up. It looked to be some three inches long, in the shape of a musical lyre, and it held small pieces of paper. A money-clip. Brun looked around, no one in sight. He started to shove the clip into his pocket, hesitated, then went through with the act. What were the chances that money-clip would get past the next person who tripped over the body, or the copper who got called when the body was found? Leaving clip and money made less than no sense.

  Brun commenced slapping leather along the dirt road. At the first corner, he turned left, then kept close to the edge of the street as he flew past dark houses and vacant lots. A sudden loud noise froze him for a moment, but then he realized it was just a horse tethered in a back yard, and he took off afresh. A couple more blocks brought him to the business section of town. To his left were dark buildings, shops and banks; to his right, lights and the sound of human voices. He turned right and slowed his pace to a rapid walk. A half-block along, just past an alleyway, he came up on a saloon, Boutell’s, according to the gold block letters on the window. Maybe he could sweep up or wash some dishes for food. He took just long enough to smooth down his hair, then pushed through the swinging doors.

  Boutell’s Saloon was a small room, occupied right then by five men at the bar and another twenty or so sitting around five oak tables, drinking and playing cards. Customers and bartender were all white. A couple of geezers in blue shirts and overalls stood at the far end of the bar, nursing glasses of whiskey and taking turns feeding nickels into a little counter-top slot machine. No dice, no girls. Just a quiet watering hole for Sedalia’s working men.

  Against the far wall stood an upright piano, no one at the stool. Brun’s spirits took a sharp turn upward—that piano was not there for decoration. Just about every refreshment parlor had its piano player, but they were not what you’d call steady citizens. Odds were at least fair that Boutell’s was in the market for a musician.

  Brun started toward the piano, but then considered that a bit of discretion might be in order, so he reversed direction and ambled to the bar. The bartender, a hefty man in his fifties, slouched against a keg as he wiped his face on a towel. A sparse crop of stringy gray hair crowned his head, and he was permanently stooped to the right, as if to accommodate to his work. He sized Brun up over the towel in his hand, then said, “Out a bit late, ain’t you, sonny?”

  One of the graybeards in overalls at the slot machine let out a rheumy cackle. Another man, well-dressed, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, studied the new arrival from his stool at the bar. Brun figured him for some kind of drummer.

  “These are my customary hours,” the boy said, as boldly as he knew how. He pointed at the silent piano. “I play, and am looking for work.”

  The barman’s lips twisted into a crooked smile. “You’re not from here.”

  Brun cursed himself mildly for not having considered this question in advance. For one thing, the bartender might know at first hand any place Brun mentioned; for another, a lot of people paid close heed to a man’s speech. The War was over some thirty-five years, but in Missouri or Kansas, the way you spoke a sentence might still get you either a pat on the back or a dose of lead in the belly.

  “Arkansas City,” Brun said, which was where the Campbells had lived before El Reno. “I played piano in hotels and saloons.”

  The barkeep tipped his head and gave the boy a long, hard stare. “You’re how old?”

  “Almost seventeen.” Brun stuck out his hand. “My name is Brun Campbell. I was a student for a little while of Otis Saunders. You know him?”

  Brun’s hand disappeared inside the bartender’s paw. “Gaylord Boutell,” the man said. “Sure I know Otis Saunders. Didn’t know he ever was to Arkansas City, though.”

  Brun told himself not to talk too fast. “Actually, I met him one day last summer while I was in Oklahoma City. He showed me how to play a tune by Scott Joplin. Now, I’m bound to meet Scott and get him to give me lessons. But I’m going to need work.”

  Boutell wagged a hand toward the piano. “Let’s hear that tune Saunders taught you.”

  As Brun strode to the piano, his stomach growled. He sat, stretched his back and fingers, then commenced to play.

  All through the smoky saloon, people stopped drinking, talking, playing cards. When Brun wound up “Maple Leaf” with a little flourish, there was great general whistling and shouting. The boy heard an old man’s voice carry above the crowd, “My eyes must be goin’ bad. I swear that’s a white kid, but way he plays, he’s gotta be a nigger.”

  Brun once told me that no compliment he ever received pleased him more. Boutell called out, “Pretty good. What else can you play?”

  “Whatever you want to hear,” Brun called back.

  “‘Old Oaken Bucket,’” someone shouted.

  Brun swung around and played that awful song, but he ragged it, the way he’d learned from Ben Harney’s folio. “Damn hottest oaken bucket I ever heard,” somebody shouted. “Betcha can’t do that with ‘In the Baggage Coach Ahead,’” someone else hollered.

  “You’re going to lose your money, sir,” Brun called over his shoulder, and swung into that sloppy little tearjerker about a man on a train, taking his wife’s body home for burial, who gets help from the other passengers in caring for his crying baby. But written as the tune was, in straight waltz-time, it was no trick for Brun to ring in some syncopation, and the longer he played, the louder got the hoo-ing and the hah-ing and the wow-ing. That gang in the bar thought Brun was some kind of sweet onion. When he finished “Baggage Coach,” people fell all over themselves calling out their favorites, and the boy played every one, lively cakewalks, grand marches, mush even more sentimental than “Baggage Coach.” Finally, Boutell called him back up to the bar. As Brun shoved his way through the crowd, men slapped his back and shoulders. Some pushed coins into his hand. By the time he reached the bar, he was giddy with pleasure. “Yes, sir?” he asked Boutell.

  “You play all right,” the barkeep said. “How long you been in town?”

  “Not two hours, sir. First thing I came in, I saw your lights and the piano, so I figured to strike while the iron was hot.”

  Boutell grinned. “Well, son, I got to say, I admire your get-up-and-go. B
ut I got a regular player. He’s just off tonight.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Brun said, thinking he’d never spoken truer words. But he shut up in a hurry when Boutell slid a thick ham sandwich across the bar. “What’d you say your name was again?” the barkeep asked.

  “Brun. Brun Campbell.”

  “Okay, Brun. You look like you could use a meal.” He pushed the plate with the sandwich right under the boy’s nose, then drew a beer and set it next to the plate. “Like I said, you play all right. But even if I was looking for a piano man, a boy your age…” He stopped just long enough to let on he knew Brun was younger than almost seventeen. “…shouldn’t oughta be playing piano nights in a saloon. He oughta have a right job. Now, I happen to know that Mr. John Stark needs a boy to help with sales in his music store. Over to East Fifth, across from the courthouse.”

  Brun couldn’t hold off one second longer. He grabbed up the sandwich and ripped off a huge bite. His mouth filled with saliva, his eyes teared. Boutell talked on. “Mr. Stark will treat you right. I know him well—been coming around for a beer and some talk just about every afternoon after work for, oh, fifteen years. Go to his shop tomorrow, it’s Number 114 Fifth, if I’m not mistaken.” Boutell stopped long enough to watch Brun chew. His eyes softened, and that crooked smile broke out again. “Here, I’ll write it down for you.” He pulled a piece of paper from a small pad, scribbled on it, laid it on the counter next to Brun’s plate. “Tell Mr. Stark that Gaylord Boutell sent you.”

  Brun took up the paper, said, “Thank you,” then pointed at the sandwich and the beer. “What do I owe you?”

  The saloon-keeper shook his head. “My players get tips and food.”

  Brimming with food, beer, and his good luck, Brun thanked Boutell again. “I’ll go talk to Mr. Stark in the morning, I definitely will. But can you tell me one more thing? Where can I find Otis Saunders and Scott Joplin?”

  Boutell laughed. “Easy enough. Just go to the Maple Leaf Club.” He pointed back over his shoulder. “Down Ohio, the other way from Stark’s, turn on East Main, then one block across. Club’s pretty much closed down for the summer, too damn hot up on that second floor for dancing, even at night. But most days, late in the afternoon, you’ll find your friends there, playing piano. Sometimes just the two of them, sometimes with other colored. Something you oughta know, though…”

  “What’s that?”

  Boutell chewed at his lip. “Main Street gets pretty rough after dark, Brun. Any kind of action a man wants, he can get it there. Daytime, you got no worries, but down on Main after sunset, you watch what you say and what you do. You watch, period. And north of Main, past the tracks, that’s Lincolnville, where the colored live, so you don’t go beyond Main after dark. Don’t get me wrong, white and colored get on well here, always have. Never been a riot in Sedalia, never one single lynching. But you know how it is. Takes only one bad apple.”

  “Thanks,” Brun said. “I’ll be careful. It’s pretty much the same in Arkansas City.”

  Boutell raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess. Just one more thing…” The barkeep picked at a fingernail. “I know it ain’t the usual, but seeing you’re as young as you are, I think if you want piano lessons off Scott Joplin, you’ll be smart to call him Mr. Joplin. Not that he’d ever tell you to, no colored’d do that. But if I was you, I wouldn’t go calling him Scott right off. If that wouldn’t bother you.”

  “Doesn’t bother me the least,” Brun said. “I sure do appreciate your help.”

  Boutell went back to serving customers; Brun went back to his sandwich. But as the boy chewed, he started feeling uneasy. He turned and found himself looking into the face of the man on the stool to his right, the one he’d figured for a drummer. Nice, finely checked suit, ascot tie nice and straight, celluloid collar still stiff, even that late in the day. Not a scuff on his black shoes. A real dandy. But his eyes were gentle, not like most drummers’. “If you don’t mind, young man…Master Campbell, you said?”

  His voice was mint juleps and honeysuckle. He looked to be in his middle-forties, not old enough to have fought in the war. But if he had, no question what color he’d have worn. “Yes, sir. Brun Campbell.” He stuck out his hand.

  The dapper man swiveled on the stool to face Brun directly, then grasped his hand. “Edward Fitzgerald. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I gather you’re newly arrived in town?”

  “Couldn’t be much newer, sir.” Brun began to wonder and worry just a bit as to just what the man was after.

  “You’re a runaway, aren’t you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Was he a Pinkerton? In town on some other business, a Pink would’ve been glad to pick up a runaway boy, return him to his family, and walk away with his wallet a bit fatter. Brun regretted having told the man his actual name, but seeing he’d already given it to Boutell, he was caught between a rock and a hard place. “No, sir,” Brun said. “Not a runaway. I can’t exactly say my parents liked having me leave, but they knew I was bound and determined to—”

  “Take piano lessons from this Mr. Scott Joplin?”

  Brun fought a strong inclination to tell Fitzgerald to mind his own damned business. But without knowing just what that business might be, he figured better to play along. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.

  “That’s good,” Fitzgerald said. “I’m glad to hear your parents are not worrying, fearful of what might have happened to you. Though of course they always will worry anyway.” He laughed lightly, a gentle breeze off the Swannee River. “I have a son, myself, not nearly as old as you. But I pray he’ll never run off from home, leaving me no idea where he is or what he’s doing. Please do keep in touch with your parents.”

  The sadness that appeared in and around Fitzgerald’s eyes gave him the look of a man who’d given up all hope of ever coming face to face with the happiness he’d once expected to find in his life. The boy felt a catch in his throat, quickly took another bite of sandwich, chewed slowly. “I will, sir.”

  Fitzgerald took several seconds to look Brun up and down. “I should guess you haven’t been traveling in a passenger coach.”

  “No, sir. I might’ve done that, but truth, a couple of ’boes robbed me two nights ago, took every cent in my poke. So I had to make my way here best as I could. Boxcars.”

  By the pain in his eyes and the little smile that struggled around the corners of his mouth, Brun thought Fitzgerald looked like he himself was the one who’d been robbed. “Well, Master Campbell, I declare. You are a most determined young man.”

  Brun put the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “I am that, yes, sir.”

  “But nevertheless,” Fitzgerald went on. “You have just arrived in town, and you have no money. Where do you propose to spend the night?”

  Uh-oh. All of a sudden Brun thought he might know why Fitzgerald was showing all this interest in him. Just the year before, a man in El Reno had earned himself a tar-and-feather suit and a one-way ticket out of town because of what he did to a boy he’d coaxed into a hotel room. “It’s warm enough, sir,” Brun said. “I can sleep out-of-doors, maybe in a field, or I can find me a barn. At least until I make enough money to get a room in town.”

  Fitzgerald threw back the last of his drink, set down the glass, then looked squarely at Brun. Brun glanced at Boutell, but the bartender was talking with a customer. “Y’all come with me,” Fitzgerald said. “The YMCA is just down the block. For a quarter a night, you can get a decent bed there.” He lowered his voice. “And a bath. I’ll see you to a week’s lodging. With your spunk and resolve, I expect by then you’ll be able to attend to your own needs.”

  “I couldn’t permit you to do that, sir,” Brun said, talking considerably faster than his usual.

  But Fitzgerald waved him off. “I admire your courage.” He pronounced the word coo-rage, and drew it out to several seconds. “If you wish, you may consider it a loan, payable without interest when y
our circumstances are comfortable. It’s what I’d hope someone might one day do for my own son.” He slid off the stool.

  Brun was surprised at how short the man was, not more than five-seven, though he stood very straight. “Let us not discuss it further, Brun. The Y is just a short way down the block. I’ll take you there and get you your room.”

  Brun figured if the man tried anything funny, he could handle him. Fitzgerald was not only small, but slender, and clearly not heavily muscled. And behind those fine Southern manners, there was such a tiredness about him. What if the guy really was on the level? Wouldn’t it be a whole lot better to sleep that night in a YMCA bed than in a hayloft, or between rows of corn?

  Brun slid off his stool, and said, “Are you local? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Half-hearted chuckle. “One must consider a little turnabout to be fair play, isn’t that so? No, I live in Buffalo, New York. I’m here to investigate certain prospects for my employer.”

  “But you don’t hail from New York. Not the way you talk.”

  Fitzgerald pulled himself even straighter. “No, of course not. I’m proud to say I hail from Maryland. My family there goes back to the sixteen hundreds.”

  And, he said without actually saying it, every one was a fine and upstanding gentleman, or a noble and gracious lady. Which Brun thought probably went a long way toward explaining his appearance. Trying to live up to that sort of heritage every minute of every day would get to be exhausting. Maybe better to have at least a few horse thieves among the heroes in your ancestry.

  In the end, Brun’s concern turned out to be unnecessary. His Southern-gentleman benefactor walked him up to the desk at the YMCA, put down a dollar and a half (twenty-five cents off for a week’s payment in advance), then bid him good-bye and wished him good luck. As he left, he pressed three dollar-coins into Brun’s hand. “A young man looking for work needs to eat well,” said Fitzgerald. “You will make a far better impression if you don’t look as if you’re starving. And…” That tired little laugh again. “Your piano teacher just might expect you to pay for your lessons.” Brun watched him out the door, then took the key from the bald, scaly-faced little desk clerk, went up to his room, stripped down, wrapped a towel around himself, and walked down the hall to the bath room.