The Ragtime Fool (17 page)

Eileen twirled hair between thumb and forefinger. “Well, maybe you can make up for it. Tonight, I’ve got to go…” Her face turned disgusted. “…to a Bible Class supper. It might be at least a little fun if you’d take me.”

“Well, sure. Sure I will.”

The girl’s face lit. “Hey, groovy. I’m really glad Mr. Barton brought you over, but I’m curious why. I mean, what with you already having a room at a hotel.”

Alan hoisted the book bag. “I’ve got a journal here that I brought out for the ceremony. It’s pretty valuable, and just a couple of hours ago, somebody tried to steal it off me on the street. Lucky for me, Mr. Barton came by and ran the guy off. We got to talking, and he said I could stay at his house, but then he remembered he had family coming from out of town. So he brought me here. He said your father’d be glad to put me up.”

The longer Alan talked, the brighter became Eileen’s smile. “Neat-o,” she said. “And I’d sure love to hear more about that journal. But let me get you some towels, and then we better go back on down.” She rolled her eyes. “My parents are
so
square, and Mama’s a real prude. You can tell me about it afterwards.”

***

Eight cigarettes and nearly half an hour later, Green had heard Slim’s whole story, and had told the big man a good deal about Tom Ireland. “I don’t got any idea why he be so fired up over that book,” Green said, then jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. By reflex, he ducked away and whirled around. A young white cop looked the men up and down, then grinned. “Little nervous, boy?”

Green put on an aw-shucks face. “You did take me by surprise.”

“What’re you boys up to? Standin’ around on the corner for all this time.”

Green saw Slim’s body tighten, and prayed the hothead would leave the talking to Green. “We ain’t up to nothin’, officer,” Green said. “Just havin’ a smoke an’ catchin’ up a bit.”

Behind the patrolman, Green saw Jerry Barton come down the stairs from Klein’s porch, get into his truck, and drive off. No sign of the kid.

“I think maybe you ought go do your catching-up in Liberty Park or Lincolnville,” said the cop. “’Stead of loitering in this part of town.”

Green grabbed Slim’s elbow. “We’ll be right on our way, officer.” He moved the big man in the direction from which they’d come. “I’ll take you to meet Mr. Ireland,” Green said. “The man I been tellin’ you about.”

Chapter Fifteen

Sunday, April 15
Mid-afternoon

Slim frowned as he followed Green up the concrete walkway to the little house. Sufferin’ Jesus, the big man thought, what a dump. If a colored man can’t hope for nothing better in his life than a tiny old cottage like this, there ain’t a whole lot of point in tryin’.

Green led the way onto the porch, knocked at the door. He peered through the glass pane, then knocked again, more loudly. A couple of minutes later, Tom Ireland opened the door, and blinked at his visitors.

“Okay if we come in?” Green asked.

“Well, sure. Sorry, Alonzo, I guess I must have nodded off in my chair.” Ireland chuckled. “My daughter-in-law knows how to make Sunday dinner.”

Slim studied the old man. Probably comin’ up on eighty, but he keeps himself good. Stands up straight, clear eyes. A man you’d be a fool to sell short.

“Tom Ireland, Slim Sanders,” Alonzo said. “Slim’s from New Jersey.”

Ireland’s eyes opened full. “You’ve come a long way.”

He extended a hand, which Slim gripped, then released. “I got me a good reason,” the fat man said.

“Slim’s got a story I think you oughta hear.” Green looked around. “I thought maybe Isaac, too.”

“Isaac’s at his daughter’s.” Ireland laughed. “You want to find an old colored man on Sunday afternoon, go to his daughter’s house, or his daughter-in-law’s.” He motioned Slim and Green into his living room. “I was a newsman all my life, and one thing I can’t resist is a good story. I can catch Isaac up later.”

***

When Slim finished, Ireland was perched on the very edge of his chair. “That boy took five thousand dollars from your employer to buy the journal from Mrs. Joplin?” He glanced toward Green. “He told us Brun Campbell had wired him the money.”

Slim showed teeth. “Guess that ain’t the first time somebody told a story about how he just happened to put his hands on a little lettuce that wasn’t his.”

“A little lettuce? Five thousand dollars isn’t exactly pocket change? How did he—”

“By gettin’ himself real friendly with my boss’ daughter. Sweet li’l thing, I been with the family since she was born. She ain’t much to look at, and I’d swear on a Bible she don’t put out for the boys. Must be some reason that kid was spendin’ all his time with her. After my boss fire’ me, I went and talked to her, and I thought sure she was gonna wet her pants. She musta found her daddy’s suitcase in the attic, and saw a way she could buy herself a boyfriend. By the time I run over to his house, he was long gone. So I figured the onliest way left to me was to come out here myself, find him, get my hands on that stupid book, and go sell it back to the lady he got it from.”

Ireland and Green exchanged a quick glance. “Maybe we ought to work together,” Ireland said quietly.

Slim bit on his upper lip. Ireland waited. Finally, Slim asked, “Why is it
you
wants that book?”

“Some of what’s written in there would be a very severe embarrassment for certain people.”

Slim straightened in his chair. “Mr. Ireland, look here a minute. If we gonna even think about helpin’ each other, we both gotta talk straight. I already tol’ you, I’m aimin’ to get the book from that kid, then see if the ol’ woman’ll give me back the five thousand for it. That’d at least make gettin’ fired off my job worthwhile. And even if she won’t give back the money, I gotta figure if the kid and that Campbell guy paid five thousand for it, so will somebody else. Maybe somebody’d pay more than five thousand, who knows? That book just might be my first-class ticket outa bein’ a nigger. But it sound to me like you just want to hide it away till hell freezes. So how we supposed to work together, huh?”

“Fair enough.” Ireland’s face was like chiseled tan marble. “For one thing, if we work separately, one of us is definitely going to be unhappy. And if we get in each other’s way, we both might come up empty-handed. But if we can cooperate, then once we have the journal, we can sit down and decide what to do. Maybe we could sell it to a museum or some other institution with the stipulation that it be kept sealed for fifty years. Any money we’d get would go to you.”

Slim just stared at the older man.

Which didn’t seem to bother Ireland. “If you don’t want to work along with Lonzo and me, then so be it,” he said. “But we know this town. We know the people. And you’re not just a stranger, you’re a colored stranger.”

A grimace twisted across Slim’s lips, then worked itself into a feeble grin. “You got a way of putting things, Mr. Ireland.”

“It’s called straight,” Ireland said. “People always know where they stand with me.” He held out a hand.

Slim breathed a huge sigh, then grasped the hand. “Okay, then. Figure I’m in.”

Green coughed. “Where you stayin’, Slim?”

The big man held out both hands, palms up. “Waitress at Davis’ said I should go by Miz Simmons’ on West Main. That’s where I was headin’ when I spotted the kid.”

“You can sleep on my couch if you want,” said Green. “My rates are even better’n Miz Simmons’.”

Slim’s smile spread over his face. “Well, I’ve slept on worse, an’ I thank you. But for right now, could one of you please aim me in the direction of the privy?”

Ireland pointed. “Out the door from the kitchen back there, then straight on back.”

Slim nodded thanks, took a few steps toward the kitchen. Ireland called after him. “One more thing, Mr. Sanders.”

Slim turned.

“If all you want from that five thousand dollars is to buy your way out of being a nigger, you might as well go home right now, and save yourself a lot of trouble and a heap of disappointment. You could have five
million
, and you’d still be a nigger. A rich nigger, but a nigger all the same.”

Slim seemed on the verge of saying something, but turned away and continued on out the door. Ireland and Green sat silent until they heard the outhouse door slam. Then, Green gestured with his head toward the back of the house. “Tom, who the hell you know gonna pay five grand to hide that journal away for fifty years?”

“Nobody in particular. But just because I don’t know doesn’t mean there’s not somebody out there. Lonzo, in eighty-five years, you learn to attend to one problem at a time. Till we’ve got that journal, there’s no point scratching around for somebody to buy it.”

Green nodded. “But if that Campbell guy gets together with the kid before we can snatch the journal, we’re done. And I don’t even know what Campbell looks like.”

“I’ll recognize him,” Ireland said. “And so will Isaac. He’s down at the station right now, checking every train that comes in from Kay Cee. We’ll know when our boy is here.”

Green laughed. “I thought he was at his daughter’s, Mr. Straight-shooter.” Then, seeing the look that came over Ireland’s face, the dark man quickly added, “Well, I guess you got it all covered, Tom. I shoulda known.”

“Yes, Lonzo. You should have.”

***

As the rail car rolled out of Knob Noster, next stop, Sedalia, Brun Campbell’s heart pounded a rapid, irregular rhythm. The old man slipped a nitroglycerin tablet out of the little pocket container and slid it under his tongue, then closed his eyes and waited for the squeezing in his chest to let up. He’d once promised never to set foot in Sedalia again, another vow about to be broken. By the time the train pulled into the station, the pain in his chest had eased, but his heartbeat was as heavily syncopated as any of the tunes he’d been banging out of pianos for the past half-century.

He stepped off the train into a blast of wind, welcome to Sedalia. The old barber shivered. Damn, he thought, it ain’t under fifty degrees, and look at me. When he was growing up back in Kansas, his old man used to say it wasn’t cold until your snot froze before it could drip down your face. All those years in California must’ve thinned out his blood.

A colored man, real old-timer, slowly made his way toward Brun. The barber absently reached into his pocket for a coin, but the man never put out a hand. Instead, he looked Brun straight in the eye, and said, “Now if I ain’t makin’ a mistake, you be Mr. Brun Campbell, ain’t I right?”

Brun, doubly glad he’d taken the nitro, blinked at the apparition. His jaw moved, but nothing came from his mouth.

“You the one they call The Ragtime Kid, rode a rail to Sedalia back in eighteen and ninety-nine to get Mr. Scott Joplin to give him piana lessons.” The Negro’s entire face creased in a smile; his eyes beamed mischief. “Talked himself into a job at Mr. John Stark’s music store. Worked with Mr. Light Stark and Mr. Dark Stark.”

Brun cocked his head. “Isaac? Can’t be.”

“None other.”

“But how old—”

“Next birthday, I be a hundred and one.”

“Isaac!” Brun grabbed the Negro by the shoulders, then loosened his grip as if he were afraid the human antique might crumble in his hands. “You moved to St. Louis with Mr. John Stark, didn’t you? Back in oh-one?”

“And then we both went up to New York City, but we came back in nineteen-ten. Mrs. Stark, she got real sick, wanted to die at home. Then, in ‘twenty-seven, when Mr. Stark passed, I come back here to live out my days.” He laughed, an old man’s cackle. “Just didn’t figure I had so many of them.”

“But what are you doing here? In the train station?”

“Waitin’ on you. I hear tell you’s gonna meet a boy, brung you out a diary writ in Scott Joplin’s own hand.”

Brun scanned the station. “The boy’s here? Where is he?”

“That, I can’t tell you, ‘cause I don’t know. But yesterday, he was out by Tom Ireland’s, and—”

“Did he have the journal?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, he surely did. Tom and me, we got a good look at it, and it’s got some stuff in it you’re gonna remember.”

Brun’s face asked questions.

Isaac gestured with his cane. “Best you comes with me up to Tom’s place, Brun. I think we got us some talkin’ to do.”

***

Ireland pushed two wooden chairs up closer to the wood stove in the kitchen, and motioned Brun and Isaac to sit. Then, he settled into a chair at the side of the scarred table. Across from him, Slim’s ample hindquarters spread beyond the edges of his seat; Green, at his side, perched on a step-stool. Nobody spoke. Finally, Ireland said, “It’s a joy to see you again, Brun. I didn’t think that ever was going to happen.”

“Life takes some funny turns, don’t it?” Brun said. “I just wish I had my friend, Cal, back in Venice, out here with me. He don’t believe I really did take lessons from Scott Joplin fifty years ago. He thinks I made it all up.”

Ireland laughed. “I’d tell him it’s not likely I’d forget the freshest, nerviest kid I ever did see. But you always came through.” Ireland’s face went solemn. “And if I needed proof, one look at that diary is all it would take.”

Throats cleared, chairs squeaked as rumps shifted, the sounds you hear when a group knows the preliminaries are over, and the real business is about to begin. Ireland acknowledged the fact by looking around, then saying, “Brun, I’m glad Isaac happened to see you. We hoped we could get hold of you as soon as possible.”

“Something about the ceremony?”

“You might say that. Actually it’s…well, hell’s fires, Brun, let’s get right down to it. There’s a boy running around Sedalia with a journal of Scott Joplin’s. He says he got hold of it to give to you.”

Brun was instantly on his feet. “That’s what Isaac told me. Where is he?”

Slim barked a derisive laugh. “That be the sixty-four dollar question. Every last one of us in this room want to know that.”

Ireland, traffic cop at a conversational crossroads, held up a hand to Brun, another to Slim. “We don’t know where he is. He got in yesterday and found his way here. He said you wrote to him about wanting to have that journal at the ceremony Tuesday, so he went into New York, got it from Mrs. Joplin, then hopped on a train and brought it here. He let Isaac and me look it over. And Brun, that journal simply can not come to light.”

Brun was back on his feet. “Now, wait a minute, Mr.—”

“No, Brun. You wait a minute. Sit down and listen.”

Brun lowered himself slowly, not taking his eyes off Ireland.

“When it came to writing music, Scott Joplin was in a class by himself.” Ireland’s voice was gentle. “But he was also a man, same as any one of us, and sometimes he didn’t use the best judgement. There are things he wrote in that journal that never should have been put on paper.”

“Like what?” Brun’s tone made it clear he’d require some convincing.

Ireland fixed his hardest stare on the barber. “If you’ll remember, there were some nasty goings-on during that summer when you were in town. Stuff that you and a few other people agreed to keep under wraps.”

“That’s what Mr. Joplin wrote down? No. I can’t believe it.”

“Every word. Every detail.”

“I’ll be…” Brun coughed, reached toward the little pillbox in his pocket. “We all took an oath to keep it secret. I never told a soul, not my wife, not anybody. But still, I don’t see where we got any problem. That was so long ago.”

“Some of those people are still around,” Ireland shot back. “You, for one. Isaac, for another. And for good measure, Miss Luella Sheldon, who got so jealous of you fooling around with another girl, she cut herself up in some embarrassing places, and warned you if you didn’t leave town right then and promise never to come back, she was going to tell her uncle you’d done it to her.”

Brun felt color drain from his face. “Oh, Lordy. She’s still around, huh?”

“Her name’s Mrs. Rohrbaugh now, but yes, she’s right here in Sedalia, a pillar of her church, or maybe better, the whole darn foundation. Brun, listen to me. We’ve still got people who’d take any excuse to stir up the worst kind of trouble for the colored. Not all that long ago, the Klan was holding their meetings right out in the open, in Liberty Park. Just think what they’d do to the families of the mayor, the police chief, the state senator, and the attorney who helped cover up the fact that a bunch of white people ended up dead that night. And then there’s Isaac, who helped bury those white people. You think he’d get to see a hundred and one?”

Brun tapped a nitro tablet out of the pillbox, slipped it under his tongue. “We had to do it. Didn’t have any choice.” The words came out all mushy.