The Ragtime Kid (27 page)

“I think we’re well enough acquainted now, you can forget the Miss.”

***

Maisie had a ten o’clock piano student, so directly after breakfast, she walked Brun outside. He wondered whether he should say anything at Higdon’s about his night-long absence, but decided no point bringing up an awkward situation. Better to just wait and see whether anyone asked about it. Maisie gave him a good solid kiss to send him on his way. As he started down the path to the street through the ivy, she called after him, “Don’t forget, now. You get the music and we’ll set vaudeville on its ear.”

Brun turned, and straightway saw he wouldn’t have to worry about making excuses to the Higdons. There stood Luella, a basket of eggs on her arm, staring smack-dab at him. She must have gone to Tobrich’s, a block further across Sixth, where they kept chickens and sold fresh eggs. The look on the girl’s face as she took off toward home made it more than clear she didn’t care to have him accompany her.

Chapter Thirteen

Sedalia
Saturday, July 29, 1899

Back at Higdon’s, Brun went straight for the piano, and practiced until just before one. Mr. Higdon was nowhere to be seen, and both Luella and Belle gave the living room a wide berth, whether out of consideration or because Luella had spilled the beans the instant she got home. Brun’s mind labored through heavy weather. He felt bad about upsetting Luella, had hoped to disabuse her of her illusions a bit more gently. Then, there was the matter of stealing music from Scott Joplin, which he knew he shouldn’t even be thinking on. And how about abandoning John Stark for Maisie McAllister, never mind that most fifteen-year-old boys would make that trade in the blink of an eye? Worst of all, he still hadn’t figured out what to do about the locket and the money-clip hidden in his closet. More and more, it looked like the choice of whether to send Edward Fitzgerald or Scott Joplin to the gallows was going to be Brun Campbell’s.

***

Business was brisk that afternoon at Stark’s, but not quite up to the Saturday usual. Brun noticed that several customers were more reserved than he’d known them to be, not so much inclined to chat over their purchases. Toward midafternoon, lardy, frowzy Mrs. Wilkins walked up to the doorway, stood with her hands on her hips, and harrumphed until she had Stark’s, Isaac’s and Brun’s full attention. Then she wheeled around and stalked away. Brun scratched his head. “What’s eating
her
?”

“Judging by her expression, I’d say her hemorrhoids are acting up,” said Stark.

Brun laughed, but Isaac looked almost grim. “I think somebody be tellin’ stories.”

Stark shrugged. “Probably so. And that battle-ax would be the first to believe them.”

A bit later, during a lull, Stark and Isaac told Brun more about Mrs. Fitzgerald. When Isaac’s status in the house came clear to her, she grabbed little Frankie and started to stomp out, all the while delivering a world-class harangue about how she was not about to stay in a place which catered to white and colored alike, nor sit next to a nigger at the dinner table. It took a good bit of Mrs. Stark’s blarney to convince her guest that she was not at a boarding house, and that white and colored alike who needed sanctuary would find it within Sarah Ann Casey Stark’s walls. “I was all for just getting out of her way and closing the door behind her,” Stark grumbled. “But you know Sarah.”

Isaac laughed lightly.

Stark gave him the hard eye, then turned to Brun. “The woman’s not in her right mind. Do you know what she did at supper last night? Just set down her fork, and said, ‘Mrs. Stark, I spent a great deal of time this afternoon at the mirror, trying to see how I would look in mourning. How do you suppose I’d appear?’ Can you imagine that? Mrs. Stark just told her she imagined Mrs. Fitzgerald would look somber and sad as any mourner, but she shouldn’t worry her head because Mr. Higdon would get her husband safely back to her.” Stark shook his head.

Late in the afternoon, Professor Weiss waddled into the shop. Brun hustled by to see what he needed. “Music paper, if you please, Brunnie. Scott makes changes, changes, changes. I tell him, the music’s good, leave it be, but no. He needs it better, always better, change this, change that. He’s used up all his paper, but he still won’t stop with his changing. Better give me two packages.”

Brun pulled two pads of music manuscript paper from the rack, and handed them to Weiss. The old German’s dark eyes looked weighted with the cares of the world. “I don’t know if Scott is going to finish before the performance so he’s satisfied. Never have I seen him so uncertain. You know what he says, Brunnie? That it’s because he lost the money-clip I gave him. He says all the years he had it, he had good luck, and now he feels like maybe he can’t write music no more.” Weiss cocked a finger at Brun. “You see how strange is the workings of the mind? Scott thinks the money-clip was bringing him luck, so he says to himself, ‘I lost the money-clip, and now I can’t no more write music…’ Brunnie, are you okay? You’re so pale, maybe you should lay down.”

The boy shook his head. “I’m all right.” He rang up the purchase and took Weiss’ money.

Weiss didn’t look convinced. “You sure you’re all right, Brunnie? You look like you saw a ghost—mein Gott, you are going to fall down on your face. Here, let me help you.” The German reached stubby arms across the counter; Brun waved him off. “Don’t worry, Mr. Weiss, I’m all right. I guess I just feel bad on Mr. Joplin’s account.”

***

At dinner, Brun picked at his food, and now and again wondered whether Belle and Higdon were looking cross-eyed at him. Higdon’s fiancée, Miss Gertrude Selover, was there, and it seemed to Brun that all the Higdons were taking care to not say anything out of turn. Everything about Miss Gertie seemed sharp: the angles of her thin body, her slim nose, thin lips showing just a slit of tooth at the middle. Every word she spoke sounded like it had been snipped off with well-honed shears. And she showed not the least reluctance about telling Mr. Higdon how he should manage his business. “Bob, I think it’s a mistake for you to defend that Fitzgerald man. The whole town’s talking, everyone thinks he’s guilty. I’m afraid you’re going to end up losing a lot of good clients.”

Higdon smiled. “Not if I get him off. Let me get an acquittal for a man everyone thinks is guilty, and I’ll have a line outside my door two blocks down Ohio.”

Miss Gertie said she didn’t think that was at all funny.

Brun ground his teeth so hard, a pain from the corner of his jaw shot down his neck. He knew just how to settle the whole matter, didn’t he—set Mr. Fitzgerald free, make sure Mr. Higdon had no problem, and put every note of Scott Joplin’s music up for grabs. One stone, three birds. Brun felt his dinner rise up like boiling water into his throat. He didn’t say another word the entire meal, just sat and chewed his cud.

***

After supper, Higdon and Miss Gertie took off for the Saturday night dance in the big hall over the St. Louis Clothing Store. Brun followed them out, but where they turned off Sixth onto Ohio, the boy continued straight. He walked four blocks to Lafayette, looking up and down the avenues as he crossed, then went north a block on Lafayette and started westward on Fifth.

Early Saturday evening, the work week done. People sat in small groups on porches, gossiping. A boy of about eight shot out from between two houses, crossed Brun’s path, darted across the street and vanished up between two houses on the other side; he was followed closely by a gang of eight or ten boys about the same age, all of them laughing and shouting, “Go, Sheepy, go!”

Brun walked on, passed a vacant lot where some teenaged boys played a loud and lively game of base ball. Brun figured he had a year or two on them, not more, but they seemed ages younger than himself, and he felt a curious sensation of superiority, sadness and envy, all mixed up together.

Back across Ohio on Fifth as far as Moniteau, looking every which way, then up Moniteau to Fourth. A little fellow on an iron-wheeled tricycle shot past him, piping, “Whoo-whoo…MoPac Special, clear the tracks.” Brun smiled, but his eyes filled.

At the next corner, just a little way up Kentucky, Brun saw what he’d been looking for, a crowd of small boys and girls at the edge of the street, pushing, shouting, arms out. He heard the familiar cry, “Ice-kadeem. Ice-kadeem,” and started to run. As he came up to the little push-wagon, raggedy Romulus Marcantonio scooped a serving into a paper cup and put it carefully into the hand of a little girl, then took the nickel from her other hand. “There-a you are, Missy. Bes’ ice-kadeem in Sedal’, vanill’. Maybe tomorra choc’late, who know?” Then he caught sight of Brun, and flashed a sly grin. “Hey-a, young mister. Where’s-a da pretty girl tonight, huh?”

Brun tried a smile, wasn’t at all sure he’d pulled it off. “That’s for later, Romulus. Right now, I just need to talk to you.”

***

By the time Brun finished with the ice-cream peddler, it was growing dark. The boy felt at sixes and sevens. He had to talk to someone, but who? John Stark? Then he could forget about any future he might ever have with Stark Music Publishing. Higdon? He might just as well get on the next train back to El Reno. The cops? Sure, if he wanted to share a cell and a chamberpot with some drunk bum. He could think of only one person who might possibly give him a sympathetic ear.

He hustled back to Ohio, then up to Second. From the open windows above the St. Louis Clothing Store, he heard piano music, no question who was playing it. He took the stairs two at a time, paid his quarter at the door.

At first, he didn’t see Higdon or Miss Gertie, but spotted Scott Joplin at the piano, the gaiety of the
Fledermaus
waltz he played as far from the impassiveness of his face as black is from white. Mr. Weiss stood at his side. Some fifty couples were on the dance floor, while a few others sat at small tables, sipping drinks and talking. As Brun caught sight of Higdon and Miss Gertie across the room, he did a quick doubletake. He’d have sworn that woman was too much a sobersides to dance at all, but there she was, gliding easily around the room in Higdon’s arms, smiling, and every now and again saying a few words up into his face.

Then Joplin surprised Brun by throwing a little bridge into the music and crossing it, right out of
Fledermaus
into “Echoes of the Snowball Club.” One of the dancing couples stopped, looked at each other in clear confusion, and walked to the sidelines, shaking their heads. But the rest went right on dancing. Brun walked toward the piano, and when Weiss saw him, he put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Brunnie, hello!” He made a show of looking around. “What is this? You don’t have yourself a pretty girl with you?”

Brun shook his head. “Just here by myself.”

“So you come to hear Scott play, yes?” Weiss didn’t wait for an answer. “You see, then, what he does? Two lovely waltzes, one from Europe, one from America. One with syncopation, one without, but look.” He waved a hand, covering the entire range of the dance floor. “They can dance to one, they can dance to the other. Is waltzes, that’s all.”

During Mr. Weiss’ speech, Joplin played his way across another short bridge back to
Fledermaus
, but now syncopating it. Then he transitioned to an unsyncopated “Echoes,” and finally he put the two together, a phrase from one, then the other, never missing the waltztime beat. When he finished the tune, the couples stood and applauded for over a minute.

“So, Brunnie,” said Mr. Weiss. “You see now what a genius he’s got.”

Joplin looked pleased, but as always, no smile came over his face. He stood, made an awkward bow, then sat back down and swung right into “Sidewalks of New York.” The boy stared at the composer, off in his own world of music, and tried to figure how to tell him and Professor Weiss that for a whole week, Brun had been hiding the one material object that bound them together. Sure, the idea was to save Joplin’s neck, but Brun had no trouble imagining Joplin, unreadable as any Chinaman, turning that unsmiling face on him, and saying, “So you thought I was guilty of murder,” then cutting him dead. “Yes, I see,” Brun said quietly, then left the dancers and went back to Higdon’s, to his room, to bed.

***

Sunday morning, the courthouse bell and the rail yard whistle didn’t blow, and turning a deaf ear to church bells had never been a problem for Brun. By the time he blinked his eyes open, the house was quiet, near ten by the clock in the kitchen. No doubt the Higdons were gone off to church, fine with Brun. He’d awakened with the makings of a plan in his head, and was grateful for solitude to work it through. He fried a couple of eggs, made coffee, and as he ate, he thought. By the time he washed and dried his dishes, he figured he might just have the matter in hand.

But it was only about eleven, too early to turn thought into action. Best, though, to be away before the Higdons got back. He went to his room, took the locket out of the cubby, and headed out toward Liberty Park. All through town, a clangor of Methodist bells, Presbyterian bells, Catholic bells, each trying to shout down the others. Another few hours, the park would be mobbed with picnickers, but right now it was near-empty. Brun strolled around the lake, one hand on the locket in his trouser pocket, thinking his idea through and through. After an hour and a half, he turned off the path and made tracks to Stark’s.

John Stark looked surprised as he opened the door to Brun. “I know it’s early, Mr. Stark,” the boy said. “Sorry to intrude on the Sabbath.”

Stark’s eyes opened wide. He took a moment to regard Brun from over the upper rim of his reading spectacles. “Sabbath or not, the world has a habit of intruding. And somehow, I suspect there’s a degree of urgency to your visit.”

“Yes, sir. I think there is.”

“Then don’t just stand there, come in.”

Stark led Brun to the back porch, where Mrs. Stark and Nell sat with Isaac. Mrs. Stark gave the boy her customary warm greeting, but he saw suspicion in Nell’s eyes.

“Brun’s come to talk to me about a problem,” Stark said. “Do you wish privacy, Brun?”

The boy shook his head, took a chair. “Not from anyone in your family, sir. It’s about Mr. Freitag—and that woman who was murdered last week. I was walking along the road this morning, out where they found the body, and I saw the sun shining off something in the grass.” He pulled out the locket, gave it to Mr. Stark. “Look inside.”

Stark grunted, then popped the locket open. His eyes bugged. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

Everyone was around him in an instant. Brun heard Isaac murmur something, but couldn’t quite pick up on it. Mrs. Stark asked who the man was.

A hoarse staccato from Stark. “That Freitag nut.” He looked back to Brun. “You say you found this where the woman’s body was discovered?”

“Yes, sir. The weeds were still trampled down.”

“Why did you bring it here? Why didn’t you go to the police with it?”

Brun was prepared. “Truth, I’d rather be answering your questions than the coppers’, especially what with me being a runaway. But if you want me to go there, I will.”

Stark’s smile would have been sly, if not for the troubled way his brows beetled. “No, I don’t want you to do that, at least not until I’ve had more time to think about it. I’m sure Ed Love would wonder why you found this locket so readily, when his men had already combed the whole area and missed it.”