The Ragtime Kid (18 page)

***

Sarah Ann Stark heard her husband coming up the stairs. She rushed to the door, opened it, laughed as she saw the surprise on his face. Johnny always said he loved the way she laughed. He told friends that was the first thing he’d noticed about her, when she and her mother came to the barracks to sell molasses cookies to the soldiers. And when anyone asked what was the second thing he’d noticed, he only smiled.

Stark stood his rifle against the wall, then put his arms around her. “It’s after two in the morning, Sarah. What are you doing up?”

“Waiting for you, of course. What else?”

“But you needn’t have.”

“Now, stop that. What sort of wife would I be if I could sleep a wink before I knew all went well for you and Isaac?”

Stark patted her arm. “It all went well. Belinda is safely at her aunt’s, and as you see, I’m here with you. Isaac took the horse back to the stable, he’ll be with us shortly. I thought better to have him sleep here tonight than in his own house.”

She saw his face tighten. “What is it, Johnny? There’s something you’re not telling me. I saw it in your eyes before you left, and I see it still.” She watched emotions move across his face like clouds in a windy winter sky, uncertainty…concern…anger. And one she was unaccustomed to seeing. Fear. She knew he could neither lie to her nor put her off. “It’s about this Freitag, Johnny, isn’t it?”

Nod. “He’s an odd one. Deucedly clever, but something’s terribly wrong with the man. Setting up a colored troupe to work like an antebellum plantation? He really believes that nonsense, Sarah, that the colored are a lower grade of man and it’s an act of Christian goodness to treat them like an organ grinder treats his monkey. And now with those two Alteneder hellkites in the picture, he’s got his overseers. I’m afraid this business with Belinda and Isaac is only the beginning.”

She folded her arms around him, patted his back. “We’ve been through much in our lives that hasn’t been easy, but we’ve always come through. And we will this time.”

He drew partway back. She could hardly bear to look into his anguished eyes, but knew she mustn’t turn away.

“Sarah, it’s been more than thirty-five years that the colored haven’t been slaves, but are they any better off? Having to give way on a public sidewalk to the likes of Fritz Alteneder? Having to be sure they don’t look cross-eyed at a white woman? Having to stand by quietly when men like Freitag steal from them, because they know if they make any complaint, they’ll be found in the morning hanging from a tree, burned and mutilated? I fought nearly five years in a terrible war, and the slaves were freed. But only on paper.”

She’d heard it before, many times. “You’ve always made certain nothing happened to Isaac. In 1865, again today, and how many times in between?”

“But Isaac is only one. And I’m nearly sixty years old. It doesn’t end.”

“No, Johnny, it doesn’t. It will be here after you and I are no longer even a memory. It stole out the courthouse door at Appomattox, and took command of a whole new army of confederates. We’ll never be mustered out from this war, and so long as we don’t desert, no one can properly fault us.” She took him by the arm, guided him toward the kitchen. “There’s fresh coffee, let’s have a cup.” She smoothed back a thick lock of hair from his brow, as much gray now as black. “Then I’ll go make up the couch for Isaac.”

***

The sun was high next morning when Brun pried himself off his bed, winced, shaded his eyes, then staggered downstairs and outside, first to the privy, then to the pump, where he held his head under a stream of cold water for two minutes by the count. Back in his room, he squirmed and wriggled into shirt, tie and pants, and told himself he was heading straight for perdition. Two nights in a row, throwing-up drunk, not getting into bed until after three in the morning. Was it worth it? To his surprise, he smiled. Yes. It certain-sure was. More than two hours of Big Froggy banging those piano keys, then an hour upstairs in Rita Hodges’ room, doing what Luella wouldn’t imagine doing until she was firmly and legally married…well, a lot of what Rita and Brun did, Luella would never imagine, let alone actually do.

But now Brun had something to do. The talk at dinner the evening before had started him thinking, and his excuse to Luella that he had another engagement for the morning had set a plan into motion in his mind. He’d visit Mr. Fitzgerald in the County Jail, see whether he could learn anything which might help get that poor man out and away from the danger of a noose.

Downstairs, he checked the longcase clock in the living room. Past ten. He knew he ought to be thoroughly ashamed, but couldn’t quite manage. The Higdons were no doubt gone to worship, but Belle had left him half a peach pie and the remains of a pot of coffee. By the time the boy finished his meal, his head still hurt some and his mouth was a dust bowl, but he believed he was thinking straight. He washed and dried his dishes, threw the towel on the little hook above the sink, skipped to the front door, and ran outside.

Before he got so far as the corner, he saw the Higdons on the other side, about to cross. He considered ducking away and running, but too late—there was Luella, waving a hand. Then they all waved.

“On your way somewhere, Brun?” Higdon made a show of looking at his watch. The ladies smiled just enough to let on that they were in on the joke.

Brun considered lying, but what with Higdon being Fitzgerald’s lawyer, he’d likely be found out, and then it would be considerably harder to explain himself. “Yes, sir. I’m going to talk to Mr. Fitzgerald, in the jail. Maybe I can figure how to repay some of his kindness.”

Higdon scratched at his cheek, and looked off into the distance. “Tell you what. As soon as I see the ladies home, I’m going to talk to Mr. Fitzgerald myself. You can come along, if you’d like.”

Brun felt a flash of disappointment, but then reconsidered. Fitzgerald might say something to Higdon that he wouldn’t say to Brun, and Brun might just see more in one particular comment or another than Higdon would. “That sounds fine to me, sir.” He turned to start walking with the family back to the house, but Belle told her brother she really thought she and Luella could get themselves half a block without an escort. “The two of you go right along,” she said. “We’ll see you for dinner.”

Uh-oh. Brun suddenly remembered. “Miss Belle, I’m sorry, but with all the commotion yesterday, I forgot to tell you. Mr. Stark invited me for dinner at his house today.”

Higdon looked surprised, then laughed. “You constantly amaze me, Brun. I don’t think I’ve ever known such a fast mover. Well, all right then, let’s go. I’ll be back in plenty of time, Belle.”

***

The Pettis County Jail was a red-stone building on Lamine, between Second and Third. Higdon led Brun inside and down a dark, damp corridor. The boy tried holding his breath against the stink of unwashed bodies and chamber pots not emptied nearly often enough. At the end of the corridor, a young policeman sat with his feet up on a desk, eyes half-closed. “Hey, there Calvin,” Higdon said. “I’d like to talk to my client.”

The young copper practically jumped to attention. His face showed relief to the point of gratitude that if he’d had to get caught on the loaf, it had been by a civilian, not by the captain or, worse, one of the sergeants. “Sure, Mr. Higdon.”

Calvin clearly couldn’t figure out where Brun fit in, but he picked up the big ring of keys from the desk and started walking back through the cell block. “Sheriff Williams and the Missus’re out to her mother’s,” he said. “They always go there Sunday after church, and stay to dinner, so it’s just me here right now.” The smirk on Higdon’s face said he knew that. Brun wondered whether that just might explain why the lawyer had scheduled his visit for right then.

They walked between rows of cells, most of them occupied, which made sense to Brun. Saturday night was the likeliest time for being drunk and disorderly. Other prisoners would be in for theft, assault or murder. Most of the inmates slept curled on their small beds; one man lay stretched out on the dirt floor of his cell. A few stared at the short parade going past. A big ebony-black man in a torn shirt and patched pants rattled the bars of his cell. The man’s muddy eyes bulged; a trickle of blood ran down his left cheek. “When’sa doctor comin’?” he shouted. “Mah haid hurts fit to bust.”

“You shoulda thought of that before you decided to run outa Scally’s with that armful of groceries,” Calvin snapped. “Doc’ll be here when he gets here. Now sit down and shut the hell up.”

Brun made a new vow to lay off the sauce. He looked all around for Fitzgerald, but didn’t see him until they came up to the last cell on the left. The Southern gentleman looked very different from the two times Brun had seen him at Boutell’s. His face was stubbly, trousers badly wrinkled, shirt dingy and open at the neck. No attempt to hide his suspenders. At Boutell’s he’d been immaculate; here, he looked like just another gutter bum picked up drunk and pitched into a jail cell to dry out. The perplexity all over his face, probably from trying to figure where Brun fit in, didn’t help his overall appearance. He stood, then walked quickly to the front of his cell. “Mr. Higdon!” he called. “Did you straighten this terrible business out? Am I going to be set free?”

Calvin snickered, but the look Higdon turned on him wiped the comedy off his phiz in nothing flat. “Not yet,” Higdon said. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

Calvin opened the cell door, and as Higdon and Brun walked inside, locked the door behind them. Brun felt a stab of panic. The cell was furnished only with a small cot at the back, under a tiny barred window ten feet up the wall, the sole source of light.

“Call me when you’re done, Mr. Higdon,” Calvin said. Then he was gone back up front.

Higdon called a thanks, and turned to Fitzgerald. “I believe you’ve met my young friend.”

“Brun Campbell.” The boy extended a hand. “At Boutell’s. You were very kind, got me a room at the Y. I’m sorry to see you in this situation, sir.”

Fitzgerald gave a courtly nod, then shook Brun’s hand gravely. “Of course I remember.”

“Brun is now my lodger,” said Higdon. “When I told him about your arrest, he insisted you could not possibly be guilty. He was determined to come and see you this morning, and since I was coming anyway, I asked him along. Is that all right with you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Fitzgerald. “Absolutely. And, Master Campbell, I am grateful without bounds for your confidence in my character.” He drew himself straight up to attention. “As God is my witness, Mr. Higdon, I am totally innocent of the charge against me.”

If the man’s situation were not so distressful, Brun might well have laughed at his Southern formality of speech and manner. But the sadness that seemed draped across his shoulders like a heavy cloak brought tears to the boy’s eyes.

“That’s very well,” said Higdon. “For what it’s worth, I believe you. But we’re going to need to convince a judge and a jury to feel as we do. And I’ll need your help doing that.”

“Whatever is necessary, sir, that I will do.”

“All right.” Higdon sat on the edge of the cot, and looked up at Fitzgerald. “Please tell me about your encounter with the dead woman. All about it. Every detail you can remember, the entire story. Leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

Fitzgerald sank onto the edge of the cot, next to Higdon, and lowered his face into his hands. “Well, now, let’s see,” he drawled. “Tuesday evening, I stopped for a couple of drinks at Boutell’s—”

“What time was that?”

Fitzgerald studied the ceiling as if the answer might have been written there. “Oh, between six and seven, I should say.”

“Is that as close as you can get?”

Back to reading the ceiling. “Just before six-thirty, yes. According to the clock there.”

“Good. The closer we can pin down times, the better. Please go ahead.”

“All right, sir. I decided to have a bit of supper, so I walked over to Mr. Pehl’s Restaurant on Second Street, was taken to a small corner table, ordered my supper, and ate. I left, oh, I should say, at about half-past eight, and as I went outside, I practically bumped into this young woman on the walkway. She was attractive, and rather well turned out. I dare say that white silk dress on her cost some man a pretty penny. She looked…well, confused. Frightened? Casting glances everywhere. It even occurred to me she could be mad. I asked whether I might be of assistance, perhaps escort her to her home, but for some reason that seemed to upset her no end. She began to cry, and passersby started to stare…well, sir, you can surely understand. I thought perhaps if I could get her out of public scrutiny, she might calm down, so I led her across Ohio, into the lobby of the Kaiser Hotel, and to a sofa off to the side of the hotel restaurant and behind a row of potted plants. I asked repeatedly what was the matter, but if anything, that only made her cry the harder. I asked her name; she said Sallie Rudolph.”

Maybe that’s what she said, Brun thought. But I bet her name was really Freitag.

“I told her again that I’d be most happy to escort her home, but she said, ‘No, thank you, that would be much farther than either of us could walk.’ I asked her where she was from, and what had brought her here, which seemed a quite reasonable thing to do, wouldn’t you say? But that only got her worked up all over again, and I began to fear she might become hysterical. So I went to the desk clerk, explained the situation, and said I’d pay her night’s lodging. I thought of going for a doctor, but in the end decided perhaps just a night’s rest would permit her to gather her emotions. I signed her in, and asked the clerk to be so kind as to show the lady to the room, but he said the bellhop was off for a break, and he couldn’t leave the desk unattended. So I told him I’d show her to the room myself. He gave me the key; I led her to the stairs—”

“One minute.” Higdon held up a hand. “Did this woman, who was presumably from out of town, have a suitcase?”

Fitzgerald looked back to the ceiling. “Oh yes. Of course. I
am
sorry, Mr. Higdon, I’d forgotten. She had indeed been carrying a small case, cardboard, brown imitation leather. Rather a cheap one, I’m afraid. I took it from her as we started up the stairs. Her room was to be on the second floor, and as we were walking along the hall, she began to act as if she were faint, so I left the suitcase, assisted her into her room, and then helped her off with her shoes and onto the bed. After that, I went back for the suitcase. So it did take a bit longer than I’d expected to get her to the room, and comfortably situated. But I assure you, sir, I left the door open the entire time. I do believe that’s the entire story.”