by Larry Karp
“Another few days, at least. Perhaps a week. I’m making very satisfactory progress with my business.”
“Would it be okay for me to ask what your business is?”
Fitzgerald took a swallow of whiskey, then looked at Brun like the boy might have told him a joke that was moderately amusing. “Well, of course, Master Campbell. It’s not as though I were here on a secret mission. Since the end of the Great Conflict, my endeavors have been entirely above-board.” Another belt from the glass. “I work for Procter and Gamble, in Buffalo, New York. It’s a big company, getting bigger, and they are looking to expand their production into other areas of the country. Sedalia is attractive, a new city, growing and booming. There’s a Build Factories Drive here, and they’re prepared to make some attractive concessions to companies willing to locate in Sedalia. And there are advantages to a place where both raw materials and labor are much cheaper than on the east coast. My superiors have sent me to negotiate because, well…I speak the language.” He stopped talking just long enough for one of his sad little smiles to work its way across his face. “And I’d be telling less than the truth if I didn’t say that success would represent the finest sort of personal opportunity for me. So, there you have it.”
“I wish you luck,” Brun said. “And I will definitely pay you back next week.”
Fitzgerald took another sip. “You are a young man of honor,” he said. “You’ll go far in the world.”
Brun wondered, as he walked back to the piano, whether Mr. Fitzgerald’s ideas about honor had brought him far in the world, or whether that was just one of those things people say because saying it makes them feel better. Like drinking whiskey for hours in a saloon does.
Next time Brun looked around, Mr. Fitzgerald was gone, but there was Elmo Freitag, at a table with Maisie McAllister. He didn’t seem conscious of Brun, but Miss McAllister slipped the boy a wink that came close to disconnecting his fingers from his brain. Then he caught a glimpse of someone else he knew, carrying three glasses of whiskey up to the table. Otis Saunders. Saunders set down the drinks, slid onto a chair, and the three commenced to talk like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years.
Brun realized he’d lost his place in the music. Quickly, before he made a complete fool of himself, he swiveled back to face the piano, and commenced banging out “Good Old Wagon.” What on earth were those three discussing with such energy, and what in hell was Otis Saunders doing, drinking in a white saloon, at the same table with a white woman, never mind a white man? Then Brun realized—Saunders was doing a bit of passing. But why?
Brun was still trying to dope the trio as he played a wild “Down Went McGinty,” when he heard, “You play a good piano, kid. Too bad that’s all you’ll ever do—play piano in a third-rate saloon and sell my music sheets in a fifth-rate store. When I’m on Easy Street, and Miss Maisie’s right there with me.” Sneered from Brun’s left through a heavy cloud of secondhand scotch.
Brun glanced sidewise, and there stood Freitag. “Talk’s cheap,” Brun said. “Cheap enough so even you can afford it. If Mr. Boutell’s third-rate and Mr. Stark’s fifth-rate, I can’t count high enough to figure where you stand.”
Freitag laughed. “You talk big for a squirt. Think John Stark’s such a hero, do you? Well, fact is, he deserted from the Union Army, yes, he did. Just last month I went and looked up his record. His officer ordered him to shoot a nigger, been spying on them, and what do you think that hero of yours did? He ran off, just flat-out deserted. Six weeks later, back he comes with a cock and bull story about how him and the nigger got caught by a band of rebels, and they hung the nigger, but Stark got away. What do you think of that?”
For answer, Brun sang at the top of his voice, “Down went McGinty to the bottom of the sea.”
Freitag made a clucking sound. “You don’t believe me, go ask him. That is, if you ain’t afraid.”
After Freitag left, his taunt echoed in Brun’s ear, and no matter how hard the boy banged at the keys, or how fast he played the tunes, the voice in his head got louder and clearer. He played until two in the morning, and in the process of trying to shut Freitag up over the course of the long evening, Brun found out for himself that beer on whiskey was in fact very risky. When he reeled out the front door of the saloon, for the first time in his young life he was truly three sheets to the wind. At the corner of Ohio and Sixth, he stopped long enough to empty into the gutter what poisons remained in his stomach, after which he felt enough better to make it to Higdon’s without falling down. He watched carefully as he came up to the house; it would not have done to have Mr. Higdon see his niece’s escort for the coming evening drunk as a skunk. But all was dark, so he carefully removed his shoes, tiptoed up the stairs to his room, closed the door, then fell onto the bed, fully clothed. All night, Elmo Freitag’s voice echoed in his head. “You don’t believe me, go ask him. That is, if you ain’t afraid.”
***
Next he knew, bright sunlight streamed through the window into his face. He wiped sleep from his eyes, drool from his cheek. To put it mildly, he’d seen better mornings. Pounding eyes and churning stomach, the calling cards of Mr. Beer and Mr. Whiskey, led the boy to promise himself he’d never again in his life get drunk, not ever. He willed himself out of bed, navigated his way downstairs. No one home, good. He staggered out back to the privy, relieved himself of his night’s accumulation of coffee and beer, then made his slow way up Sixth to Ohio, to the Boston Café.
He blinked at the clock on the wall, a little past eleven. Good thing he didn’t need to be at work until one. He took a seat at the counter, and threw himself on the mercy of Mr. Walch, the owner, a kindly old gent whose white chin whiskers, thin face, large ears and bright brown eyes gave him an amazing resemblance to a goat. Mr. Walch nodded with sympathy when Brun told him his story. “I treat more hangovers than any doc in town,” the old guy said, then went off and came back in a moment with a glass full of tomato juice, and a little bowl. Four raw eggs in that bowl, yolks swimming around in the gooey uncooked white. Brun felt his stomach go upside-down, and he estimated how long it would take him, if necessary, to make it out into the street. Mr. Walch pointed at the juice. “This’ll fix you up. Go on now. Drink it down.”
Brun swallowed half the glass, then grabbed at his throat, which felt like it had caught fire. “Rooster shit,” he thought he heard Mr. Walch say, but then the old man repeated, “Worcestershire. Go on, boy. Drink the rest, fast.”
Brun did as he was told, then managed to get down the raw eggs. Mr. Walch nodded, all encouragement. “Good boy. Now, hang on here, and I’ll get you some coffee and toast with jelly. No butter.” He squinted at Brun. “Maybe you’ll remember how you’re feelin’ next time you’ve got a notion to get yourself plastered.”
Brun winced. “I already took the pledge.”
Mr. Walch smiled benignly. He’d heard it before; he’d hear it again.
By the time Brun got back to his lodgings, it was coming up on twelve o’clock. Still no one home. He went upstairs, washed his face and brushed his teeth. Then, he changed into his new suit and spent an hour at the piano, practicing the exercises Joplin had given him. Finally, a little before one, he went out the door to work, squeezing his red rubber ball, right hand, left hand.
***
Saturday afternoon was busy time in a music store. When Brun walked in, Stark and Isaac were hopping, looking after two and three customers at once. Brun jumped to, couldn’t even think of trying to push music sheets by playing them, but no matter, there was a six-person wait at the piano. Guitar picks, fiddle bows, rosin, clarinet reeds flew out of racks and cabinets faster than the men could ring up sales.
All of a sudden it dawned upon Brun that he was listening to something a little different on the piano. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. And who was the pianist but High Henry, the incredible seven-foot dancing fool from the night before, playing off a sheet, note-perfect, no hesitations, never a missed ke
y. Brun listened with one ear as he rang up purchases, heard applause as Henry played the final notes. Then a man said, “Well, I’ll be. Say, friend, I never would have believed a nigger could play that kind of music. You are mighty good, you know that?”
Brun recognized the voice. Elmo Freitag, and dressed flashy enough to give even Brun Campbell pause. Yellow checkered suit, pink silk shirt, white boater with a wide red band, black patent leather shoes with pearl buttons, and a tie like a rainbow somebody took an eggbeater to. Stickpin in the right lapel—glass, Brun figured—and a big four-in-hand with a monogrammed F in the jacket pocket. The Swede patted the pianist on the shoulder, all the while grinning like a ’gator.
Miss McAllister was with him. In her white summer dress and wide-brimmed hat, Brun imagined her as St. Cecilia, though with a good deal more powder, lip paint, and rouge than he imagined he’d see on the phiz of the patron saint of music.
Freitag shook his head, pulled out a gold coin from his pocket, dropped it into High Henry’s hand. He took care, Brun thought, that their fingers did not touch. “There’s your dollar, boy, fair and square.” The big man flashed his reptile grin at Brun. “I told him a dollar said he couldn’t do it, but I was sure as the deuce wrong.”
All the time Freitag talked, Miss McAllister dog-eyed Henry. Now she said, “I declare—I teach piano, and I’ve never seen…where on earth did you learn to play classical piano like that?”
Brun saw Stark turn from showing a guitar to a customer. His body was tense, pale blue eyes firing electrical discharges.
But High Henry didn’t seem the least bothered. Just smiled shyly, blinked up at Maisie, and said, “Thank you, ma’am. And sir, too. I can’t tell you rightly how I came to play. Just been doin’ it since I was a li’l boy.”
“But you can read music!” said Maisie, like that might’ve been the Eighth Wonder of the World.
Henry smiled the smile of someone about to pass along a major confidence. “Many colored can, but they don’t usually let on. Just say they play by ear.”
Don’t usually let on to whites, Brun thought. Old ways die hard. Before emancipation, it was bad enough for a colored man to have his owner find him with a gun, but even worse if Massa caught him with a book.
Freitag laughed like a hyena, then gave Henry’s arm a light punch. “I like you, boy, you got yourself a good sense of humor. But now, tell me something, okay? A smart nigger like you, can read music—”
That was as far as he got. Stark had left his customer at the back of the store and marched up to face Freitag across the piano. “See here,” he barked. “I told you once before—that word does not exist in my establishment. I meant it then, I mean it now.”
Freitag’s face went like raw beef. He looked back to the young colored man. “Hey, now, boy, you know I didn’t mean you any disrespect, right?”
High Henry looked from Freitag to Stark and back again. Finally Freitag spoke up. “Well, see now, Mr. Stark? If he ain’t got no complaints, why should you.”
“This is my store,” Stark snapped. “Not his, and certainly not yours. And if you use that word again, I will throw you out, and I doubt you’ll land on your feet.”
A buzz ran through the little crowd around the piano. Customers stopped browsing music sheets or looking over instruments, and turned their attention to the front of the store. Brun thought for sure he was about to see a battle royal, but Freitag surprised him. “Okay, Mr. Stark, now just calm yourself. I don’t mean any insults. I come to Sedalia to get me some good colored ragtime music to publish, and this talented young knee-grow piano player…sorry. What was it you said was your name, boy?”
“Henry Ramberg. High Henry.”
Freitag looked up at Henry the way he might’ve regarded a hot lunch, fresh out of the oven. “Okay, then, Henry, tell you what. You told me you’ve got some nice ragtime tunes you could write down for me. You do that, and I’ll do a neat little magic trick for you.” Freitag made a presto-changeo motion, fumbled in his pocket, then came out with a gold coin. “I’ll turn a piece of paper with music notes on it into gold. Five dollars, free and clear. Just as soon as the music’s published.”
High Henry laughed, then rubbed his fingers across his mouth. “I guess that’s nice an’ all, sir, an’ not to sound ungrateful, but most of the boys be gettin’ twenny-five or even fifty dollar’ for their music. An’ they don’t gotta wait ’til it gets published, neither.”
If that bothered Freitag, he didn’t show it. He squeezed Henry’s shoulder and stood beside him like a proud papa. “Well, now, Mr. Stark,” he boomed. “You hear that? This boy’s a first-class musician, and a solid businessman to boot. If he don’t got a drop or two of white blood in him, my name’s not Elmo Freitag. All right, Henry, what say you play me one of those tunes right now. If it sounds anywhere near as good as that Beethoven piece, I just might give you twenty-five dollars for it.”
“Just a minute.”
The tone of Stark’s voice quieted everyone in the store.
“Mr. Freitag, if you want to audition music for purchase, I think you’d do well to use your own piano.”
Henry started to move off, but Freitag put a hand to his back and pushed him toward the stool. “Well, I would do that,” Freitag said. “I surely would. But my piano hasn’t been delivered yet. And I thought…” He stopped just long enough to flash that toothy grin. “I thought that considering your fond feelings for members of the colored race, you wouldn’t have any objection to letting Henry here play me a song or two.”
Brun couldn’t take his eyes off Stark’s hands, balled into fists. “Oh, it’s all in his interest, is it? Mr. Freitag, it’s Saturday afternoon, and as you can see, there are people waiting to try music on this piano. My piano. In my store.”
Freitag did a quick scan of the crowd around the piano. “Oh, I see,” he said. “You talk mighty big about how you love the knee-grow people. But if white folks want to play a piano, then a knee-grow man is just tough outa luck. He’s got to make his money some other time, when no white man wants to play.”
A young woman, next in line with a sheet in her hand, said, “Mr. Stark, he plays so nice, I don’t care if you let him do one more tune.” The man behind her chimed in with, “Way he played that Moonlight thing, let’s all of us hear what he’s got in his hip pocket.”
Freitag looked like a balloon freshly pumped full of hot air.
Stark sighed, then said, “Very well,” without moving his lips. “Go ahead, Henry. Play your tune.”
Brun didn’t think High Henry looked convinced, but he sat on the stool and started to play. Brun felt well short of impressed. Henry’s tune had at least passable syncopated melodies, and some halfway-decent bass drive, but by comparison to “Harlem Rag,” it suffered considerably; next to “Maple Leaf” it was pathetic. Brun was surprised at the applause when Henry finished playing. Freitag looked even more like a hungry ’gator.
Stark said, “That’s very good, Henry. Lively. Why, I could hardly keep myself from dancing, right here behind the counter. It should be a big hit.”
Freitag nodded hearty agreement. Brun couldn’t believe his ears.
“I’ll bet that tune’ll make Mr. Freitag a whole lot of money,” Stark said. “Thousands of dollars for sure. Maybe hundreds of thousands.”
Freitag went off like a cherry bomb on the Fourth of July. He stormed over to Stark, cocked a fist, but Stark didn’t budge, didn’t even flinch. Freitag paused, then pulled back his hands. “Hey, Stark,” he bawled. “You know what? You’d do good to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”
Brun thought he sounded like a little girl, somebody was trying to run off with her dolly.
“This is my shop,” said Stark. “And my piano. And what goes on in my shop, at my piano, is my business. Henry has a nice tune there, you and I both know that. It should make a good deal of money for its publisher. I say you should share the wealth with the composer. Fifty dollars
on delivery of the manuscript, and a penny a sheet royalties sounds about right to me. Oh, and with a legal and binding contract, of course. I’m sure you could get Mr. Higdon, over in the Katy Building, to draw one up for you.”
Henry’s eyes bulged. The fifty dollars alone, Brun thought, was likely as much money as the colored man would make in a month, whether at the railway yard, in construction, or by sweeping a floor. But royalties? Was Stark serious, or was he playing a game with Freitag?
The Swede stepped away from Stark. “Listen, Henry, he’s just talk. How many colored you know who get royalties, huh? What you really want to think about is that my music sheets are going to be in every music shop from New York to Kansas City, and my troupe’s gonna be performing those tunes on every stage from Kay Cee to New York. Fact, you can be up on those stages, playing your own tunes. Sign up with me, and by this time next year, people all over the country will know who High Henry Ramberg is.” Freitag snickered, leaned in close, stage-whispered, “Pretty women’ll be falling over themselves to get next to you. Now, tell you what. You go and write down that tune, give it to me, and we’re in business.”
Henry tipped his cap, and got up from the piano bench. The young woman next in line sat at the piano, smoothed her skirt, set her music sheet on the piano rack, and began to play. But Freitag wasn’t finished with High Henry. “You’re gonna write me that tune, and bring it on over soon as you can, right? I’m in Room 201 at the Commercial Hotel. You know where that is?”
“Yes, suh. Out West Main, right ’cross the street from Miss Nellie’s whorehouse.”
Brun almost laughed out loud at the smile in his boss’ eyes.
“Okay,” Freitag said. “I’ll see you later.” Then he led Maisie through the doorway.
Stark turned to High Henry. “You’d be a fool to give that man any music.”
Henry laughed, a musical sound. “Sure, Mr. Stark, you don’t need to tell me. That man think it still be slavey-time, but I do believe we’s free. He been askin’ all over town, but ain’t nobody gonna give him a tune. We know we wouldn’t never see a plugged nickel.”