The Ragtime Fool (18 page)

“Sure you had to. But there was a good reason you all swore to keep it in the dark. And just for good measure, there’s also a couple of pages about how Irving Berlin stole a piece of Scott’s music to write
Alexander’s Ragtime Band
, and then a few years later, swindled Scott out of a musical play Scott wrote, and tried to frame him for murder. From all I hear, Berlin is one very tough nut. He’ll probably have lawyers all over everybody who has anything to do with letting that stuff out.”

Brun’s wind was returning. He took in a long breath. “Mr. Ireland, I can’t believe Berlin could do us harm for something Scott Joplin wrote.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. But in any case, Scott was terribly sick his last few years. His mind was in pieces. Do you want to see his name dragged through the mud, what with all you’re doing to get people to respect him and his music?”

During the last few exchanges, Slim had wiggled harder and harder on his chair. Now, he got to his feet. “Listen, you all,” he growled. “I done had all I can sit through. I don’t give a rat’s ass about what’s in that book. What
I
cares about is the five thousand dollars that boy went and stole to buy it. You think maybe we can talk about that a li’l?”

Brun looked to Ireland.

“Your young man, Chandler. He stole five thousand dollars from Slim’s employer to pay Lottie Joplin for the journal. The employer blamed Slim, and fired him. Slim wants to get that money back.”

Unconsciously, Brun patted at the money pouch under his shirt.

“You never did know about that, huh?” asked Slim.

Brun shook his head. “How the hell do
you
know?”

Slim lit a cigarette, took a long draw, blew two streams of smoke from his nostrils. “My boss’ daughter is that kid’s girlfriend, and I heard the kid tellin’ her how much he wished he had five thousand bucks to get some book for you so you could show it to everybody out here this Tuesday. And next I know, my boss say he be missin’ a pile of money, and it musta been me stole it. So you tell me, huh? Where’s a seventeen-year-old kid gonna get his hands on five thousand dollars, less’n maybe
you
give it to him? Did you?”

Brun shook his head. “No.”

“All right, then. He say you wired that money to him, so if you ain’t a liar, he gotta be. I ever get my hands on him, he for sure ain’t gonna be tellin’ no more lies. He won’t be tellin’ nobody nothing.”

Ireland scrambled to his feet, waving his hands in all directions. “All right, hold on. Everybody. We’re not getting anywhere like this. Brun, the four of us are working together to find that boy and the journal. Why don’t you come aboard? Maybe we can figure a way to satisfy everyone.”

Brun chewed his lower lip. “Mr. Ireland, I’ve got the greatest regard for you, and I’m proud to count you as a friend. But I think we gotta go our own ways on this thing. I’ve come too far to quit now. The boy brought the journal for me, and I’m bound to have my own look in it. But I will ask him where he got the money.”

“Damn your eyes, you don’t
have
to.” Slim was beside himself. “I already done tol’ you that.”

Brun started toward the door. “I’ll check in with you from time to time, Mr. Ireland. I hope we ain’t gonna have any hard feelings.”

The room stayed quiet until the colored men heard the front door open and close. Then, Slim said, “I already got myself some pretty goddamn hard feelings.”

Ireland’s eyes looked far away. “People don’t change,” a murmur. “He was a headstrong, stubborn boy, and now he’s a headstrong, stubborn man.” Ireland smiled sadly. “Of course, if he weren’t headstrong and stubborn, he never would have hopped that train and talked Joplin into giving him piana lessons.”

***

A few minutes after five, Eileen and Alan waved good-bye to her parents. “I don’t mind driving you over there, if you want,” Klein said.

“No, thanks, Daddy, we can walk,” Eileen called back. “That way, we can get acquainted a little before we get to the church.”

Klein nodded. “Okay, then. Alan, you’re sure you don’t want to leave your book so’s the whole committee can look it over?”

The boy shook his head. Klein closed the door.

Eileen gave her escort the fish eye. “Do you really need to carry that thing along? You could leave it in your room. My dad’s not going to steal it.”

“It goes where I go,” Alan said.

The girl tapped the toe of her shoe. “Well, at least tell me why it’s so important.” She took his hand, then pulled him along, down the porch stairs to the sidewalk.

By the time Alan finished his story, they were around the corner and two blocks down. Eileen stared at him, spellbound. “You mean your parents let you come all the way out here with something as valuable as that?”

“Not exactly. I didn’t ask them. I just did it.”

“Whoa. You mean they don’t even know where you are?”

“No.”

“Oh boy. I don’t think I’d want to be in your shoes when you get back. So, you haven’t even met that Mr. Campbell?”

Alan shook his head.

“And he trusted you with five thousand dollars?”

“Well…yeah. Like I said, we’ve been writing back and forth, he’s been helping me learn to play ragtime. I guess he figured I was okay.”

She fluttered her eyelids. “You must be good with words.”

“Yeah, I am. Do you know your name is a complete sentence?”

She gave him a playful slap on the arm. “I better watch myself around you.”

He smiled. “What’s this thing we’re going to that meets in a church basement?”

She stuck out her tongue and made a gagging sound. “Mrs. Rohrbaugh’s Sunday Night Supper. She has it once in the fall and once in the spring. The old bat looks about ninety, but she’s actually sixty-something. She teaches a Bible class. The kids call it Mrs. Pruneface’s School For Good Little Christian Boys and Spotless Virgins. Every Sunday morning, we sit in that damp, smelly basement and listen to her tell us what’s right and what’s wrong. Mostly, what’s wrong.” Eileen’s face went sly. “Mama used to call me a little pitcher with big ears, and I’ve heard some stories about Holy Mrs. Rohrbaugh. Like when she was younger than us, she had a big crush on a boy, and he had to up and leave town in a hurry, quiet-like. What do you think of that?”

Alan shrugged. “From what you say, I think he was lucky to get away.”

She slapped his arm again. “You’re terrible, Alan.”

The boy grinned.

***

Alonzo Green looked over to his sofa, where Slim lay snoring. The big man had gone down for the count right after supper, and now looked set for the night. Good. Green smiled, walked toward his bedroom, quietly pulled the door closed. Then he went back through the living room and outside, climbed into his old Ford, and drove off.

Not five minutes later, he pulled up in front of a late-model Pontiac at the corner of Fifth and Washington, set the brake, and killed the motor. “Black man’s one thing,” he muttered. “But ain’t nobody gonna care about a black car loitering on a Honkytown street corner.” He sank low in the seat, and fastened his eyes on Otto Klein’s porch.

***

As they approached the basement entrance at the side of the Calvary Baptist Church, Eileen suddenly pulled her hand from Alan’s, then led him down the stone stairs, and inside. Old single-bulb ceiling fixtures gave off patches of light, but did little to dispel the sense of cheerlessness in the large room. Boys and girls sat around large round tables, eating and talking quietly. Smells like an old bookstore on a rainy day, Alan thought.

Eileen led her escort up to a thin woman in a plain black dress, dark hair piled up on her head like a beehive. The corners of her mouth seemed set in the down position, and her cheeks were twin mazes of wrinkles. Mrs. Pruneface, Alan thought, and struggled to keep his own face straight.

“Mrs. Rohrbaugh,” Eileen said, “I’d like you to meet Alan Chandler. He’s from New Jersey, and he’s staying with my family for a few days.”

Mrs. Rohrbaugh took a moment to scrutinize Alan. The boy wasn’t sure she approved. “Welcome to our social evening,” she said through her nose. “I didn’t see you at worship this morning.”

“I wasn’t here,” Alan said.

The woman ignored Eileen’s stifled giggle. “Do you attend a different denomination?”

“I’m not religious, ma’am. I think what some people call the Word of God was actually said and written down by people just like you and me.”

He felt Eileen hold her breath. But Mrs. Rohrbaugh smiled, if faintly. “I’ll say a prayer for you,” she said, then looked at Eileen. “I’m glad to have your friend spend the evening with us.” She glanced toward Alan. “Or is he family?”

“No, ma’am,” said Eileen. “Just a friend. He brought out an important historical book for a man who used to live here back in 1899, and took piano lessons from Scott Joplin. The man’s going to give a speech at that ceremony Tuesday at the Hubbard School, and show off the book. He thinks it’ll make people appreciate Mr. Joplin more.”

Mrs. Rohrbaugh’s face contorted into a sickly simper. “Really. Who is this man from California? What’s his name?”

Eileen looked at Alan.

“Campbell,” Alan said. “Brun Campbell. Except for Scott Joplin himself, he’s the greatest ragtime piano player who ever lived…are you all right, Mrs. Rohrbaugh? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine, just fine, thank you. It must be that awful light down here.” She clapped loudly, twice. “Girls, boys. We have a visitor this evening from New Jersey, a friend of Eileen Klein’s family. I trust you’ll make him welcome.”

Behind Mrs. Rohrbaugh’s back, Eileen gave Alan’s hand a quick squeeze.

***

The talk in Jerry Barton’s basement was heated. Barton called for quiet. “Listen here. Nobody’d like to see Charlie Bancroft’s grocery or Herb Studer’s real estate go up in smoke more’n I would, but compared to blowin’ up that school, it’s like pissin’ in the ocean. Besides, we stretch ourselves too thin, we’re more liable to get nailed. Bancroft’s place and Studer’s will still be there next year, or even in six months. We ain’t none of us gonna forget.”

Mumbled comments, then Rafe Anderson said, “Okay, Jerry, makes sense to me. Better to save part of a big dinner for tomorrow, ‘stead of eatin’ the whole thing and pukin’ your guts all night.”

Barton smiled. “Christ, Rafe, I never knew you were a goddamn poet.”

“But I still ain’t sure we wouldn’t do better all goin’ down to set the charge,” Anderson said. “You know. Give Johnny a hand.”

Johnny Farnsworth was instantly on his feet. “What the hell’s your problem, Rafe? You think I don’t know how to do it?”

“Cool off, Johnny…Rafe.” Barton said. “Listen, the less people down in that school basement, the less chance somebody’s gonna leave a fingerprint or a footprint, or snag their pants on a nail and give the feds a piece of cloth to check out. Johnny’s the expert here, so let’s stay outa his way and keep the job clean.”

Clay Clayton snickered. “Good enough for me that we’re all gonna get to see the school go up.”

“No trouble there,” Barton said. “On our way out here, Otto and me checked that empty house on Moniteau, right back of the school. It’s wide open, we can just walk right in, watch the fun, and then by the time the black rain stops falling, we’ll all of us be back here, playin’ a li’l poker, been playin’ all evening. Yeah, we did hear a noise…”

Raucous laughter. Anderson slapped his thigh.

Cartwright waved a hand. “But what if they figure the charge
did
get set ahead of time?”

Farnsworth motioned Barton silent. “Ain’t no worries there. I don’t think there’s gonna be anything but powder left of the timers, but even if I’m wrong, so what? None of you guys knows shit about dynamite, so they ain’t gonna bother you. And if they come after me, just figure I’ll be ready. Ain’t no way they’ll be able to pin it on me. I’ll make good and goddamn sure I don’t leave any threads loose.”

Barton looked around the room, saw heads nodding agreement. “Okay, then. Tomorrow night, eleven o’clock, we get back together here, and go on down by the school. Johnny does his thing, we all take us a look at the empty house, then we do up the alibi, tight as a drum. That oughta do it for now.”

As the men got to their feet, and filed out the door, Barton touched Klein’s arm. Their eyes met. “Gotta use the crapper,” Barton said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Good thing,” Clayton called back. “Maybe then you won’t be so full of it.”

Everyone laughed.

A few minutes later, Barton returned, buttoning his pants. He looked around the room. “They’re all gone?”

“Well, yeah. But why—”

“We gotta talk a little about that kid and his book.”

“How come you didn’t say nothing at the meeting?”

“’Cause it sounds like that book of his is worth big money. Five thousand dollars? How’d you like to lay your hands on half of five thousand bucks.”

A smile crept across Klein’s face.

“If it was worth five K to that coot in California, it’s got to be worth that to somebody else. Maybe the California guy’d pay us another five to get hold of it, who knows? But if everyone’s in, the dough gets split six ways. You want eight big, or two and half grand?”

Now, Klein’s smile covered his face. “Twenty-five hundred sounds better to me.”

“All right. There you are.”

“So what’re we gonna do?”

Barton shrugged. “What do you think? We’ll get that damn bag away from him, then kill him.”

Klein looked disgusted. “But my wife and daughter have seen him now. What the hell am I supposed to tell them about where he went.”

“Easy. He’s a kid, rolled into town, said he was from New Jersey, but how do we know he was telling the truth about that? Maybe he’s running away from his parents, or the law. Maybe he’s crazy. You tell your wife and daughter he must have taken it into his head to go off, that’s all. Now, here’s the plan. Before you leave for work in the morning, tell the kid he’d better not go outside till he hears from us, else Big Black Sambo might catch him. Your daughter’ll go off to school…when does your wife do her grocery shopping?”

“Right about eleven.”

“Fine. I’ll watch for her to leave, then I’ll ring the bell, tell the kid the committee’s all excited about his book, and I’m gonna take him to talk to the chairman. I’ll drive him out in the woods back of Melvin Armstrong’s, kill him, take the journal, and bury him there.”