The Ragtime Kid (22 page)
Higdon nodded. From across the desk, the lawyer studied Overstreet’s bloodshot eyes, his fluttering lids. “Sorry to have to bother you, Doc.”
Overstreet leaned across the desk to hand Higdon the glass, two inches of brown liquid at its bottom. “I couldn’t talk to you earlier because I had to get over to the Katy Hospital, one of the yard men got his leg and pelvis crushed.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Luther Jensen?”
Higdon shook his head. “No. Did you get him through?”
Overstreet downed his drink in one swallow. Higdon wondered how the man managed to get through one day after another after another, running full tilt, but always a half-step behind Death. He took a sip from his glass, then said, “Sorry.”
The doctor poured himself another drink. “Left a wife, two months pregnant, and a little girl, three. No family to take them in. I can get her a job in the kitchen at Sicher’s Hotel, but then, when she starts showing… Well, we’ve got a month or two to think about that. I gave her twenty dollars for now.” He slammed down the second drink, poured a third.
Higdon thought about Fitzgerald, that pathetic, ineffectual bag of Southern manners. He also had a wife and a small child—what would happen to them? The lawyer imagined himself looking up at a scaffold as the sheriff fitted a noose around Edward Fitzgerald’s neck. At least Jensen’s family could count on some charity from the yard workers and their families. Who ever tried to help the family of a convicted murderer?
Higdon set down his glass. “I’ll try not to keep you too long, Doc. I’m representing the man they picked up in connection with that young woman who was strangled last Tuesday night. Can you tell me what you found when you examined her?”
Overstreet slowly sank back into his chair, closed his eyes, then blinked them open. “Somebody did a real job on her. Bruises all around the neck, and her trachea and larynx were shattered. Whoever killed her was strong as the deuce.”
“And that’s all you found?”
“I’m afraid so…but wait a minute. Talking about Mrs. Jensen reminds me. The dead woman was two months pregnant.”
Higdon sat up straight. “You’re sure of that? Two months?”
“Easy enough to tell.” Hoarse laugh. “Ed Love was a little more difficult. He wanted to know what color the baby was. But yes, you can figure two months, though I don’t know how that would help your client. He could have been with her in some other town, two months ago.”
Higdon made a wry face. “You ever think of taking up the law, Doc?”
Overstreet’s reply was instant. “I’d take my life first.”
***
When Brun woke, it was dark. Cotton in his head, a dry, salty taste in his mouth. He stumbled to his feet, then picked up his jacket, made his way down the hill to the lake, washed his face, and headed back up the hill and into town. As he came up on Ohio, he heard noise, loud shouting, and stepped up his pace. From the corner of Ohio and Third, he saw a crowd up a few blocks, on Main Street, and past the knot of people, an orange light in the sky. Fire. In Lincolnville, north of Main.
He ran up the street to the mob. Everyone he saw was white, and as the group shifted and pulsated, it took care to stay on the proper side of the railroad tracks. “What happened?” Brun shouted, but the only answer he got was “Fire in Lincolnville.” No one seemed to know what was burning. When he asked whether the fire department had gone out, a man he took for a drummer stranded in Sedalia over a Sunday, laughed and said, “Fire department? Whatever are you thinkin’, boy? You suppose a white volunteer fireman oughta go’n risk his life for a nigger’s house?” A woman at his side spoke up. “We’ve got a paid fire department in Sedalia, and they go to any fire, anyplace.” “Well,” said the drummer. “Then you’re a bigger bunch of fools than I took you for.”
Brun turned to leave, but at the edge of the crowd, he almost walked straight into Elmo Freitag, grinning to show all the teeth in his mouth. “Well, now, if it ain’t young Master Campbell. You got a pretty mean right cross, you know that? That boy you hit yesterday still ain’t eating or saying a whole lot.”
Brun looked around. Emil Alteneder stood like a stone statue just to Freitag’s left, and he wasn’t close to smiling. Arms crossed over his chest, eyes sizzling, he glared at Brun. “Fat pig that kid is, it won’t hurt him to go without food a while,” Brun said, keeping a good eye on Alteneder. “And considering what-all he likes to say, it won’t be so bad for him to keep his trap shut a while, either.”
Freitag looked like Brun had just barely managed to amuse him. “You’ve got a good mouth on you, all right, Master Campbell. Just you better keep watch nobody messes
it
up.”
Brun glanced at Alteneder. “That a threat?”
“No, boy. Just a little warning, friend to friend.”
“I don’t think you’re my friend.”
Freitag shrugged. “Your loss.” He jerked a finger back toward the fire. “Too bad about that nigger’s house—it’s gonna burn right to the ground. Won’t be a thing left, inside or out, and his dog’s gonna get cooked up nice and juicy. It’s a real mistake to tie up a dog inside of a house, ’cause you never can tell, can you, when there’s gonna be a fire. But then, a nigger’ll eat anything he can get into a stew pot, possum, squirrel, ’coon, whatever. Bet he’ll think roasted dog is damn fine eatin’.”
Alteneder let out a gargle of a laugh. In the dim streetlight, Freitag’s face was aglow. His eyes fairly shone. Despite the warm night air, the joy on the man’s face set Brun to shivering.
“Good thing the nigger and his li’l girl weren’t in there when the fire hit, ain’t it? Otherwise, they’d be just as cooked as their dog.”
“Isaac…” It was out of Brun’s mouth before he realized he’d even thought it.
“Oh, yes. Yes indeed. Mr. Isaac Stark. That’s his house burning. You didn’t know that, huh?”
“Nobody here seems to,” Brun said. “Except you. I wonder how it is you know.”
Freitag threw back his head and laughed like a maniac. A well-dressed man and woman stared at him a moment, then quickly moved away. Alteneder stepped forward; Brun got a whiff of coal oil and smoke. Freitag coughed his guffaw down to a snide chuckle, then said, “Well, now, Master Campbell, is
that
some kind of threat.”
Brun thought about telling him, no, just a warning, but he was already off and running, down Ohio to Fifth, to Stark’s, up the stairs, banging at the door, shouting. John Stark let him in and took him directly to the back porch; at the sight of him, Isaac’s eyes opened wide, and Mrs. Stark clutched at her throat. By the time the boy finished his story, Isaac was halfway to the door, but Stark told the colored man to sit tight and cool down. “Nothing to do now.” Each word clipped cleanly, right at the edge. “Going into that crowd would be foolish at best.”
Isaac took a moment to think matters through, then slowly went back to his chair. “He burn’ my dog! I never tie Buster up in the house, he was in the yard like always. What kind of a man is it, do a thing like that?”
Mrs. Stark walked over to Isaac and rested a hand on his shoulder. Brun thought if they were giving out guns before a battle, Mrs. Stark would be at the head of the line.
“A man like this Freitag tends to run up pretty long tabs himself,” Stark said. “Soon or late, I believe we’re going to have to collect.”
Sedalia
Monday, July 24, 1899
Joplin and Weiss were so engaged in their discourse as they walked out of Myers’ Drug Store, they bumped square into Emil and Fritz Alteneder. Emil shoved Joplin to the side, and growled, “Hey, nigger, watch where you’re going. You better learn and learn fast about givin’ way to a white man.” He turned a hot-eye on Weiss. “Same goes for fat old white fools who like to go walkin’ with niggers.”
Joplin thought they’d been set up, the whole business staged, but no matter. Emil obviously expected a reply, though his son appeared to be more interested in getting inside the store to find relief for his swollen eye and bruised mouth. Most people hurried past, but a few waited to see what was going to happen. “I beg your pardon,” Joplin said. “I wasn’t looking, and I’m sorry I bumped you.”
He watched the wind go out of Emil’s sails. Whatever the man had expected was not what he’d got. “Well, okay, then,” he grumbled. “See you don’t let it happen again.”
“Come on, Pa.” Fritz’s plea was somewhere between whining and mumbling.
Joplin and Weiss began to move off, but Alteneder called after them, “I ain’t done with you yet. One way or another, you’re gonna sell that music of yours to Mr. Freitag. If you’re smart, you’ll get paid decent. If not…” Emil shrugged, and showed his few teeth in a nasty smile.
Joplin took a step away, but Emil went after him. “Nigger, a white man talks to you, you don’t just up and walk off.” He grabbed at Joplin’s coat, but Weiss moved with surprising speed to get between the two. Joplin heard a torrent of angry German words, the only one of which he recognized was
schwein
. Then, Weiss took him by the arm. “Let’s go, Scott.”
Joplin had never seen his teacher so angry. When they got to the next corner, he asked what Weiss had said to Alteneder. Weiss reddened. “Just that he was a pig, a disgrace to Germany. And if he ever puts a hand on you again, I will cut off his penis and his testicles and feed them to dogs in the street.”
***
At Stark’s that afternoon, Brun had an abundance of time to play the piano. He thought the lively tunes he knocked out ought to bring crowds into the store, but most passersby just stopped briefly, tightened their lips or shook their heads, and walked along. Shortly before closing, six or seven little boys came up to the doorway, stuck their thumbs in their ears, wiggled their fingers, crossed their eyes, and yelled, “Yah, Stark! Nigger-lover!” Brun took a step toward them, and they scattered.
About four o’clock, Stark told Isaac to take off the rest of the day. Not long after he’d left, a sunburned pear of a man in farmer’s overalls, bald-headed and unshaved, duckwalked through the doorway. Brun asked could he be of help, but the man pushed past him like he wasn’t standing there. Just ambled up to the counter, and shouted through the open door to Stark’s office, “Hey, Stark, know what I just heard? They lynched that nigger, Embree. Took him away from the sheriff was bringin’ him back from Kansas, stripped off his clothes, laid on the lash ’til he was all over bloody welts, and then put a rope ’round his neck, threw the other end over a tree limb and raised him up so he choked real slow. Had more’n five hundred people watchin’. What do you think of that, huh?”
Brun’s stomach rocked. He tried to remember where he’d herad about that business. Stark turned in his chair to face the man. “I thought Governor Stephens gave the Kansas governor assurance the man would be brought back safely to stand trial.”
Now it came back to Brun. The newspaper article he’d read in the Boston Café at breakfast.
The big man laughed. “Jeez, Stark, you are a daisy. Waste all that time and money on a trial? An’ then what if he breaks jail? Ain’t but one way to deal with bad niggers, ’cause if they don’t know for God’s truth they’re gonna get themselves strung up, no white woman’ll be safe anywhere, never mind little girls. Damn good thing you ain’t responsible for nothing except runnin’ a music store.”
Stark got up slowly, walked to the counter, reached underneath, and came up pointing the shotgun at the big man. He waggled the barrel in the direction of the door. “Get out.”
The man looked like he might call Stark’s bluff, but moved away, probably a smart call, considering the look on Stark’s face.
“Come in here and talk like that again, you won’t walk away,” Stark called to the man’s back. He replaced the gun, walked back into his office and sat at his desk. Brun quickly found some music sheets that needed to be put into the racks.
***
Back at Higdon’s after work, Brun spotted Luella in the yard, taking down the wash. Just like his mother, a wooden clothespin in her mouth, folding a towel with one hand, while the other hand pulled a sheet off the line. Meanwhile, clothespins, one after the last, dropped neatly into a little wooden box on the ground. A trick women were born knowing how to do? Brun believed he could practice ’til the cows came home and he’d still have clean wash all over the ground and clothespins across hell’s half acre.
When Luella noticed her audience, she got the clothespin out of her mouth in jig time. “Hi, Brun.” She waved the towel like a flag. “I got you all nice, clean towels and sheets—this is Monday.”
Just one more funny way of women. Sleep on a sheet for a week, or use a towel for that long, a man won’t see anything wrong with it, but to a woman’s eye it’s dirty, no room for discussion. Brun said a proper thank-you, then waited until Luella had all the wash down, and carried the basket inside for her. She looked up at him like he’d pulled a sword and killed a dragon that was going to eat up all the sheets and towels.
At dinner, talk turned to the previous night’s Lincolnville fire, after which Brun told about the goings-on at the store that afternoon. Higdon looked grim. “I’m concerned for Isaac,” he said. “And John Stark, for that matter. Rabble-rousers like Freitag know just how to get others to do their dirty work for them, while they keep their own hands nice and clean.”
Luella, who hadn’t said a word to that point, put down her fork, and said, “Brun…” in that tone women use that tells a man trouble’s moving in fast. “Let’s you and me walk over to church after supper, and say a prayer for Mr. Stark and Isaac.”
Brun scratched at his head. “Well, truth, Miss Luella, I’m really not much for praying. Last time I was in church was when I was baptized.”
“But you
were
baptized.”
But I was only a month old, Brun thought, so I couldn’t do a whole lot about it. But neither could he manage to say that to Luella. Her face had gone all bright and smiling. “I know what, Brun. You walk me to the church, and
I’ll
say a prayer.”
Belle’s expression and Higdon’s told Brun they both were on to Luella’s game. He felt sorry for the girl. “All right,” he said. “I’m game to do that.” At which, Higdon’s body relaxed, and Brun thought Belle wanted to put her arms around him and give him a hug.
After dinner and after the dishes were cleaned, off the young couple went across Sixth, Luella’s hand linked into Brun’s elbow, while she prattled away about what a comfort it was for a person to know they were saved, and that whatever happened in this life, all would be well afterwards when Jesus himself would personally welcome them into his kingdom. Brun listened politely. In front of the Central Presbyterian Church, he made ready to wait outside, but Luella would have none of that. “Oh, Brun, come on in with me. You can just sit there, you don’t have to pray. Why, you look like you’re afraid.”
“Well, ’course I’m not afraid.”
Brun took her arm and escorted her up the walk and into the church. It was dark, cool and quiet, and the boy admitted to himself, if with some considerable reluctance, that it gave him kind of a peaceful feeling. Luella led him up to the back pew, and he sat and listened while she went through the rigmarole, addressing Jesus like he was some kind of old friend, then invoking his blessing and protection on Mr. John Stark and his whole family, and Isaac Stark and little Belinda, colored though they were. Brun couldn’t help but think of Jesus being like an operator on one of those telephone switchboards, headphones over his ears, hooking up one supplicant after another to God, local and long-distance, world without end. Brun’s Ma always told him to trust in the Lord, and the boy considered that if a person could believe in the Lord in the first place, it probably did make sense to figure He’d call the best shot, and put all that praying time to more practical use.
Luella prayed not more than five minutes, and as Brun led her back outside, he asked whether she’d like to take another walk through town. The look on her face caused him to wonder if that actually might’ve been what she was praying for. “Let’s go up Lamine to Second,” he said. “Then we can cut over to Ohio, and walk back to Sixth.”
He’d rather have gone as far as Main, but knew there would be hell to pay back at Higdon’s if Luella burbled about how they’d gone walking across Main Street, especially coming on dark. In any case, the girl seemed to have gotten the religion out of her system for the time being, and as they strolled up Lamine, she talked on about how she really didn’t want to go back to Kansas City in the fall, and maybe she’d ask Uncle Bob to talk to her father and let her stay on in Sedalia. “Sedalia’s lots nicer than Kansas City, and Uncle Bob and Aunt Belle are so good to me. And now that you’re here…”
Brun commenced to shed considerably more sweat than the weather could have justified. Going for walks, hand in arm, two nights out of three, put him close to being a beau. Stay away from Liberty Park, he told himself. Don’t let her even think you might want to take her sparking. Thirteen was old enough to be married, and breach of promise was a serious affair. A young man could get himself a life sentence, no parole, by saying something he didn’t really mean, or intended a different way.
As the young couple came up on Third Street, a rough voice startled Brun out of his thoughts. “Hey-a, young mister and young lady. No you go walkin’ down in that alley.”
It was Romulus Marcantonio, a raggedy Italian with a big bushy mustache and dark eyes that made him look sorry he’d ever left Italy. Romulus pushed a wagon around town all day, hollering, “Ice-kadeem, ice-kadeem.” He leaned against the wall of Glass’ Wholesale Liquors, wobbling, weaving, as he waved a wine bottle to punctuate his warning. Luella moved closer to Brun, whether out of genuine fear or just opportunity. “He’s all right,” Brun whispered. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody.” Brun cupped his hands around his mouth. “What’d you say, Romulus?”
The Italian tipped a stained brown fedora toward Luella. “I wisha you a good-evening, young lady.” Then he wagged a finger at Brun. “You no take-a this nice young lady walkin’ down da alley-there. Not safe. Got ghosts.”
Luella put a hand to her mouth. “Come on, Romulus,” Brun said. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
The Italian came right back. “What you say, boy, there ain’t no ghosts? Well, you wrong. That place, there, it’s-a haunted. Once-a time I’m standin’ right here an’ I see those ghosts, an’ I run for my life. I no mess-a with no ghosts, no sir. No more I go over there after dark, not for nothin’.”
“Probably got the DTs and has himself scared silly,” Brun whispered to Luella. Romulus took a stagger-step, came close to dropping his bottle, and in recovering it, nearly went face-down in the street. If he had, Brun thought, he’d tell the next people by that a ghost had pushed him. “Okay, Romulus, thanks,” Brun said. “We’re not going down that alley, not for nothing. We’ll go up and walk across Second.”
“You welcome. An’ stay this side of the street,” Romulus called after them.
“Thanks, we will,” Brun shouted over his shoulder.
They strolled past the Post Office, crossed at the corner of Second and walked past Kaiser’s Hotel. After a quick look into Mr. Bard’s jewelry-store window, they went along to Ohio, then turned south. As they passed the Boston Café, Luella flashed such a look of longing that Brun told himself what the hell, steered her inside, and bought her another ice-cream soda. The way she looked at him, face to face over their straws, reminded him of Wendell, the little cocker pup his parents gave him on his seventh birthday. Wendell got run over by a wagon when Brun was nine.
Back at Higdon’s, Belle took Luella off to the kitchen to pit cherries. Higdon was nowhere to be seen. Brun went out back to the screened porch, rolled a cigarette and lit up. Thinking about Romulus Marcantonio and his ghosts, he laughed. Italians are so superstitious, anyone could tell you that, and they can be as hysterical as women. Besides, Romulus had been drunk. Maybe he had a bad dream and didn’t even know he was sleeping.
***
Next day at the end of Brun’s lesson, Scott Joplin allowed that he was pleased with his pupil’s progress, but still wasn’t altogether satisfied. “When you keep watch on yourself, you come close. But then you get into the music, and you sound like any barrelhouse player, da-d’-
da
, da-d’-
da
, da-d’-
da
. Your technique is good, but if you want to play my ragtime, you need to develop a better feeling for the music.”
Professor Weiss had sat quietly through the lesson, but now he spoke up. “What you gotta do, Brunnie, is to develop that ear inside of your head. Scott says you play like a barrelhouse pianist, and that’s because maybe you
hear
the barrelhouse players in your own head. Have you ever been to a concert with a classical pianist?”
Brun shook his head. “No, sir. Never.”
“Ah, see!” Weiss turned to Joplin. “That’s the problem. You never was at a concert either, Scott, but you heard me all the time play classical music at Rodgerses’. I would play Brahms and Beethoven, remember? And then you would learn them yourself. Listen, Brunnie, I tell you what. You have a piano where you live, yes? To practice on?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Then I will come there tonight, say, eight o’clock? It’s all right? I’ll bring music and play for you, and then maybe your ear can start hearing classical instead of barrelhouse.”
“I’ll ask Mr. Higdon,” Brun said. “But I’m pretty sure he won’t mind.”
As Brun put two quarters into Joplin’s right hand, the Negro slowly raised his left hand, all the while squeezing a rubber ball, one-two, one-two. “And meanwhile, remember—”
