The Ragtime Kid (31 page)

“Only in spirit, sir.”

Brown turned slightly to redirect his gaze into Johnny’s eyes. Johnny gripped the edge of the table. “And what say you, young man?” Brown’s tone became surprisingly gentle. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen, sir.” Johnny hoped Brown didn’t hear the quaver in his voice.

If he did, he didn’t let on. “Seventeen, old enough. Will Etilmon Stark’s brother Johnny join my army?”

As if in a dream, Johnny saw black faces, contorted in misery, washed by tears for wives, husbands, children, friends left behind on plantations or buried in forests between Mississippi and Indiana. Not a week earlier he’d tended to an emaciated woman, burning with fever, three-week-old lash-marks across her back oozing green and yellow fluid. She lay curled up on blankets on the floor of the Stark cabin, her shaking black hands over Johnny’s on the metal cup of water he held to her lips. “Gar bless you,” she whispered. “’Least I gets to die free.” That night Etilmon and Johnny buried her in the woods back of the cabin; the day after that, her husband and son went on toward Canada, disguised as women, led by a white man who pretended to be their owner.

Johnny worked to keep his gaze and his voice as level as Etilmon’s. “sir, I’ve helped colored to get free, and I’m going to keep on doing that the best I can. But I don’t think one wrong can make another wrong right. I’ll stand with my brother.”

Brown’s razor-edged lips twisted into a crooked smile. “A well-spoken fellow,” he said to Etilmon. “How came he to live with you?”

Etilmon cleared his throat. “Johnny was only three when Mother died, and he went to live with our sister Effie and her husband near Taylorville in Kentucky, where we were all born and raised. But Effie’s husband keeps slaves…” As Etilmon paused, Johnny noticed his brother’s face had more than regained its usual color, and when he spoke again, his words fairly throbbed with anger. “And I would not, by God, stand by and have my brother brought up in the house of a slaveowner. I rode down and brought him here, worked him heavy on the farm, made sure he got schooling over by Miss Wilkens’. I’m mightily satisfied with him.”

Brown drew a deep breath, sprang to his feet, stepped in the direction of the open doorway. “Mr. Stark, since I cannot enlist your active assistance, I thank you most sincerely for your sympathy and your hospitality. Now, I must be on my way.” He chuckled. “Our Mr. Buchanan has put a price on my head, so shorter visits are best for us all. Besides, I need to get to Kansas. There is much to do.”

“Go in peace, Mr. Brown,” said Etilmon. “I’ll see you to your horse.”

Brown’s eyes flared, as if he might’ve considered Etilmon’s benediction an insult. From the doorway, he stopped just long enough to look at Johnny. To the young man, it seemed as though Brown were taking his measure and finding he’d fallen short.

Ed Love’s bellowing, as he tried to restore order, brought Stark back. For just an instant he stared at the small mob, then stepped forward and marched directly up to Joplin, who looked like a man with a bad case of St. Vitus’ Dance. Stark rested a hand on Joplin’s shoulder. “Forget about this nonsense,” he roared for all to hear. “
I
am going to publish your music.”

“But…but…” Joplin jabbed a spastic finger toward Freitag. “That man has stolen my music. How—”

Stark took just long enough to shoot Freitag a glance of pure contempt. “There won’t be any problem. You’ll sit down and copy out the music from memory, and I’ll publish it.”

“But
The Ragtime Dance
has thirteen tunes—”

“We’ll start with your ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’ One tune’s probably better anyway for a new publisher and a composer just getting started. For as long as you’ve been playing it, you ought to be able to get me a copy in a day, maybe less. After that, you can take your time with the rest of the music.” Stark’s eyes shot flames at Freitag. “And if that man ever tries to publish even one piece of your music, I will go to court on your behalf.”

Freitag let out a howl, lowered his head and charged, but before he got halfway to Stark, the police chief had him in a hammerlock. “All right, that’s it,” he shouted. “Whoever don’t belong in this store, out.” He directed a very hairy eye toward the Alteneders, who backed up a step; then the chief gave Freitag a shove that sent the big man staggering toward the doorway. “Out,” Love yelled. “All of you.” He looked at John Stark, still standing with a hand on Scott Joplin’s shoulder. “I’m gonna get those characters a couple of blocks away. Then I’ll be back. And Scott, I’m gonna escort you to your house myself, and I want you to stay there. I’m confining you to Lincolnville ’til this business blows over.” His voice softened. “For your own safety.”

Julius Weiss pulled himself up straight. “I must be allowed to go with him.”

Brun thought the chief was going to say no, but he nodded and said, “Suit yourself.” Then he straightened his cap, went outdoors, and Brun heard him yell, “All right, the three of you, get moving. I see you on Fifth Street again today, you get a free room for the night.”

Weiss said, “Brunnie, go get some music paper, yes? A lot. That way, Scott can start writing down his music as soon as we get back to his house. Is that all right with you, Mr. Stark?”

Stark motioned with his head toward the rack of manuscript paper. “I don’t think you should go back to your own place, Joplin. Too easy for someone to find you. Is there another place you could stay, where you’d have someone to stand by you? Just in case?”

“Marshalls,” Joplin murmured. “I once lived with them. They’re good people.”

During the exchange, Brun ran to the paper rack and quickly counted out five pads, then ran back with the pads and put them into Weiss’ hand. Weiss smiled like a benevolent uncle.

In a few minutes, Chief Love was back. Brun ached to tell Joplin right there and then that it had all been a mistake about his music. But after what had just happened, the boy was not sure how Joplin and Stark, never mind the police chief, would take that information.

Halfway to the door with Joplin at his left, Weiss on his right, the chief turned around. “Better close up for today, John. Probably by tomorrow this’ll all be blown over.”

Stark shut and locked the door behind Love, then hung out the CLOSED sign. “Tangle with a pig in his trough, you’re going to get filthy.” He waved toward the stairway in back. “Let’s go take a load off. Sounds like we need to do some talking.”

***

Stark’s back porch was shady and cool, if a bit crowded. Isaac, Daniels and Brun sat with Stark in a circle of chairs. After making sure everyone had a glass of lemonade, Mrs. Stark and Nell sat off to one side with Mrs. Fitzgerald, odd-looking as ever in her mismatched shoes. Little Frankie curled in his mother’s lap, tried to play patty-cake with her.

Stark looked at Brun and Daniels. “We’ve had quite a day. Somebody—I don’t have much doubt it was Freitag and his pair of halfwits—broke into the Maple Leaf Club during the night. When Joplin got there this morning, all his music was gone, and the place was pretty badly worked over. Chairs broken, top of the piano smashed, all the strings cut and the sounding board a mess of splinters. Maybe with all that’s been happening, Joplin shouldn’t have left that music sitting there in the club, but the way he worked at it, coming in at all hours whenever he was free, I can’t rightly fault him. In any case, he went clear off his head, ran all around town yelling about how Freitag had stolen his music. Freitag heard and decided to beard Joplin, told him he was being pretty loose with his tongue, and he’d better mind his manners, starting with an apology right then. From down on his knees.”

Brun closed his eyes.

“The only thing that saved Joplin was that Mr. Weiss was along.” Stark chuckled, not humorously. “He let Freitag know that Joplin was not going to do any such thing, and then he got Joplin away and over here. I thought we had matters in hand, but then Freitag and his bully-boys showed up. Fortunately, there was a policeman up at the corner. He sent Ben Helminck’s boy running up to the station, and kept things under control here until the chief got himself over.”

“Mr. Daniels and I went to Freitag’s house in Kay Cee,” Brun said. “And the lady next door told us what a bad egg he is. He’s a lush, and besides that, he…” Brun glanced backward at the women, decided to go on, but carefully. “Well, he likes to play with little boys.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald’s black umbrella clattered to the floor; she didn’t make a move to pick it up. Mrs. Stark looked like she’d tasted curdled milk.

“And that woman who was killed here week before last? Freitag’s neighbor said she
was
Mrs. Freitag, but she used to be a singer, and Sallie Rudolph was her stage name. The neighbor said she came to Sedalia because she was getting sick from being in the family way, and lost her job.”

Daniels, who hadn’t said a word to that point, bent to pick up the photograph he’d set on the floor, and handed it to Stark. Mrs. Stark peered over his shoulder. “Oh, my, what a lovely woman. Johnny, dear, is she the one?”

Brun bit down hard on his tongue.

“I can’t know that, Sarah, but I’ll bet Bob Higdon will. He’d give a lot to see this picture, and he will see it.”

“If I’m stepping out of bounds, I apologize,” said Daniels. “But do you really intend to publish Joplin’s music?”

“I’m not in the habit of dealing in taradiddle.” Stark’s tone and face said that was the end of the discussion.

But Daniels persisted. “Joplin won’t agree to anything unless it includes royalties.”

“I know that,” Stark said. “And not to be impertinent, but I don’t believe I ought to discuss Joplin’s business and mine with you.”

Daniels gulped loud enough for Brun to hear. Then he said, “I apologize if you think I was trying to impugn your honesty. That wasn’t my intent.”

“Your intent, I’m sure, was to find out whether you still had any chance of getting that music for yourself, though I don’t doubt through honest means,” said Stark. “And if you can convince Joplin he’d be better off publishing with you, then I would have no objection. But I do mean what I say.”

“I hope you believe I’ve had nothing to do with Freitag, though.”

Stark nodded. “I don’t think you or Mr. Hoffman would ever stoop to such behavior.”

Daniels chewed at his upper lip. “I’ve had no dealings with Freitag since he left Hoffman, and I never will.”

“Good,” Stark said. “Now, then. I’ll warrant Freitag stole Joplin’s music just so what happened did happen. He knew Joplin would accuse him, probably in public, a dangerous thing for a colored man to do. And unfortunately, I don’t think Ed Love is right. This is not all going to cool off overnight, Freitag will see to that. But if that murdered woman really was Freitag’s wife, it puts a whole new light on the case.”

“But it wouldn’t prove he killed her.”

Everyone turned to Nell.

Stark said, “That’s correct. The information would open up a whole new line of inquiry for Bob Higdon, as well as for the police, but that line wouldn’t necessarily weaken the case against Mr. Fitzgerald. In fact, there’s a possibility it might strengthen that case.”

“Mr. Stark!” Mrs. Fitzgerald was on her feet, holding Frankie by the hand. The little boy jammed his free thumb into his mouth. “My husband does not have dealings with strange women while he’s on the road.”

He sure does when he’s at home, Brun thought, and judging from the looks on most faces right then, he was not alone in that idea.

Mrs. Stark took Mrs. Fitzgerald by the hand, murmured to her, eased her back into her chair. Then came a call, “Yoo-hoo. Mr. Stark?”

In the alley below, Professor Weiss waved a hand. Stark called down to him to go around front, and he’d open the door.

By the time the two men came back up, there was a chair set for Weiss. When Sarah Stark handed him a glass of lemonade, he thanked her with a great profusion of words and bows, then took a long swallow. “Ach!” He looked around the group. “Such a time.”

“Is he all right?” Brun asked. “Mr. Joplin?”

“Ja. He is at Marshalls’, they will make sure he stays the night. But why I come—Brunnie, he wants for you to go there before dark and tell him what happened in Kansas City.”

Stark nodded toward Brun. “I told Joplin you went to try to find out why Freitag was here.” He pulled his pocket watch. “After five already. Brun, go ahead, why don’t you. If it’ll make Joplin feel any better, it’s worth it.”

Brun wondered whether High Henry had told anyone else what had happened to him, and about the plan to steal Joplin’s music. For that matter, was Henry still alive? Brun was this close to asking whether Stark or Isaac knew how Henry was doing, but figured better not to open another door; Stark would be through and inside instantly. And then Brun likely would be on the receiving end of some harsh judgments. So he kept shut, and followed Weiss toward the door.

As Weiss led Brun out, Stark said to Daniels, “Would you be kind enough to give me the photograph? And by the way, I hope you’ll join us for dinner this evening.”

“I’d be pleased, thank you,” said Daniels.

“We’d be glad to have you stay the night,” said Mrs. Stark. “But I fear we are full right now.”

“That’s all right.” Daniels cast a sidelong glance at Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Once we have everything sorted out, I’ll take an evening train back to Kansas City. And since you’re determined to publish Joplin’s music, I’ll stay out of the way.”

“I am not just determined to publish that music,” said Stark. “I am
fully
determined.”

Daniel smiled. “I’ll be interested to hear how your negotiations come out.”

***

The Marshall house, on Henry Street, six blocks past the railroad tracks into Lincolnville, was a small white frame building with a neat front yard and flowers all along the front and sides. Joplin had the door open for his visitors before they’d covered half the cement path from the street.

The living room put Brun at ease. Comfortable. The rug on the floor was threadbare, but not dirty; the chairs were the overstuffed kind that a person could sink into and get lost. Arthur Marshall and Scott Hayden sat at an upright piano against the far wall, looking like they were working at writing music. Joplin introduced Brun to the elder Marshall, a dark brown burl about fifty years old, with a shaved head and an easy smile. “Wife’s in the kitchen,” he said. “And my daughter.”