The Ragtime Fool (9 page)

“Do you intend to be a ragtime piano player when you grow up?” Dr. Broaca, still humoring the half-wit.

“That sounds pretty good to me,” Alan said.

The doctor ended the conversation with a dismissive laugh. “I suppose it would be all right, so long as you’re not terribly fond of eating.”

***

After dinner, as Alan worked through the final passages of “Bohemia,” by Joseph Lamb, Miriam sighed. “That’s so beautiful. I’m sorry we don’t have any more.”

“We can stop at Selvin’s on the way home from school tomorrow,” Alan said. “I saw more pieces by Lamb in the rack.”

Miriam clapped her hands. “Mr. Campbell said in his letter that Mr. Lamb lives in Brooklyn. Maybe you could get him to give you lessons. Maybe he could even teach you to write ragtime.”

Alan nodded. “Yeah, I guess. But what I’d really like to do is what I said to your father. I wish I could go out to Sedalia next week, find Mr. Campbell, listen to him play, and get him to give me some tips. He learned from Scott Joplin, so if he gave
me
lessons, it’d be almost like learning straight from Joplin.” The boy sighed. “If I could get that journal from Mrs. Joplin and give it to Mr. Campbell, I bet he’d give me all the lessons I want.”

Miriam’s forehead creased; her eyebrows moved closer together. “Alan, the way you talk sometimes. I mean, telling my father that they’re going to put up a statue and start a museum? Isn’t that only what Mr. Campbell said they ought to do?” She extended a hand. “Let me see the letter.”

She pulled the folded paper from his shirt pocket, then while her eyes worked their way down the page, the boy said, “I didn’t want him to make fun of Scott Joplin. Or me, either.”

“He did anyway,” Miriam mumbled. “‘Sedalia, Sedalia, right down the road from Podunk.’” She lowered the letter. “Alan, you can’t begin to put your hands on five thousand dollars, so why do you even think about getting that journal and taking it to Mr. Campbell? Are you going to go break into Mrs. Joplin’s house and steal it?”

“No, of course not. But Miriam, don’t you ever wish you could do something great? Even if you know you’ll never really do it, just dreaming about it is better than putting it out of your head altogether.”

Miriam thought he looked like one of those little boys in a Charles Dickens novel, standing ragged and starving outside a bakery window, nose to the glass. Without thinking, she threw her arms around him. For a moment, he sat quietly, then pulled back just far enough to look into her eyes. “I’m glad you came into the music room last week,” he said. “I’m glad I met you. I like being able to talk to you about…things.”

She started to cry.

Alan stiffened. “What’s the matter? What did I say?”

She snuffled. “Nothing bad. I’m happy you feel like that.”

He nodded as if he understood, then sighed. “I guess I better get on home, and face my old man’s music. But I’ll see you tomorrow, at lunch, won’t I? In the piano room?”

She wiped a sleeve across her face. “Sure.”

“And tell you what. After school, let’s go get more music at Selvin’s, then come back here and I’ll play it for you.”

“I’d love that.”

She looked as if she’d never need another thing from life to be happy. Alan smiled, gathered up the sheet music, then walked out of the room and into the hall. Down to the left, he saw Slim walking noiselessly toward the kitchen, and wondered whether the big man had been eavesdropping. The boy shrugged. So what if he was?

Chapter Eleven

Thursday, April 12
Mid-afternoon

Brun, at his barber-shop piano, wound up “Ginger Snap Rag” with a flourish, then jumped as he heard applause.

“Didn’t know you had an audience, eh?” someone said. “What’s that tune called, anyway? I don’t think I ever heard it.”

The barber turned, and found himself facing a well-fed middle-aged Negro in a dark blue suit. The man’s brown eyes blinked rapidly; a purse-string mouth smiled as if pleasantries had come under rationing. “I call it ‘Ginger Snap Rag,’” Brun said. “Reason you ain’t ever heard it is because I never did publish it. Just play it for my own enjoyment.”

The little man permitted the smile to ratchet up a notch. “Nice piece of ragtime. You wrote it, did you? Sounds like a genuine colored rag.”

Brun could scarcely contain himself. “Ain’t many people your age these days know ragtime from chicken fricassee. Nowadays, it’s all jazz.”

The Negro laughed. “Well, Mr. Campbell, when most of a man’s clients are older colored folks, he gets to know some things he otherwise wouldn’t.” The man extended a hand. “I’m Sam Pepper.”

Brun gripped the hand. “Somehow, I don’t guess you’re here for a haircut.”

“You guess right.” Pepper set a battered black-leather briefcase onto the counter, then took a business card from his pocket, and gave it to the barber. Brun squinted, read, “Samuel J. Pepper, Attorney-at-Law.”

“I was Roscoe Spanner’s lawyer,” Pepper said. “I need to talk to you. I went to your house, but no one was there. And you don’t have a telephone.”

“I won’t have one of those blasted things,” said Brun. “Always ringing, ringing, breaking up your dinner or whatever you’re doing, and never mind the expense. I’ve got along fine without one a lot of years now.”

“People got along without inside plumbing, too,” said Pepper. “But never mind. Here’s the situation. Mr. Spanner named you his sole beneficiary.”

Brun stared like an ox at the stubby lawyer.

“Apparently, he had no living relatives,” Pepper added.

Brun’s answer was a mumble. “Not so far as I know, and I’ve known him for a long while. Never got married, never had kids, no sisters or brothers I ever met.”

“Well, what he’s left you isn’t exactly a fortune,” Pepper said. “But it’s not to be sneezed at either. Basically, it comes down to his house and the contents of a savings account. The house is valued at about thirty-eight hundred, and the savings account has just over twenty-six hundred in it. Nice little nest egg…Mr. Campbell?”

“What?”

“You feeling all right? Maybe you ought to sit down.”

Brun waved off the man’s concern. “Nah, I’m fine. Just thinking, is all. That comes out to what, about sixty-four hundred?”

“That’s how I figure it, yes. You sound disappointed.”

“No, no. You got that wrong. Like I said, I was thinking. Mr. Pepper, how soon can I get the money?”

Pepper’s close-mouthed smile broadened even further. “I’ve heard that line once or twice, Mr. Campbell. It shouldn’t take too long. We need to jump through the usual hoops, you know. Dot all i’s, cross the t’s. Shouldn’t take more than a month—”

“A
month
? Damn!” Brun punched his right fist into his left palm. “I need…Mr. Pepper, is there some way I can get an advance on that dough?”

Pepper took Brun’s measure. “You’ve got some sort of pressing need?”

“You could say that. Look, you know about ragtime, you must know who was Scott Joplin, right?”

“Of course I know who Scott Joplin was. Why?”

“Well, here’s the thing. Next week, in Sedalia, that’s in Missoura, they’re having a ceremony in honor of Mr. Joplin.” Brun tried to slow himself down, but his speech only accelerated. “I’ve got the chance to get his personal journal of how he first created ragtime, and I think if I can take it to Sedalia, I can get the people there to think for real about starting a Scott Joplin museum—”

“Where is this journal now?”

“His missus’ got it. In New York.”

Pepper nodded. “That does sound interesting. Maybe I can help. How much do you need?”

Brun braced himself. “Five K.”

Pepper’s jaw fell. The lawyer gaped at Brun. “Five
thousand
? Whew. I was thinking I might be able to lend you, say a few hundred. But five thousand?” He shook his head.

“Now, wait, wait just a minute.” Brun’s tongue went into overdrive. “I wasn’t thinking about you giving me anything outa your own pocket, but looky here. You’re saying I’m in line to collect something like sixty-four hundred inside of a month, right?”

Pepper held up a hand. “There’s never a one hundred percent guarantee, Mr. Campbell. But yes, I would bet a little money that you will in fact collect your inheritance. Can you hold off Mrs. Joplin for a month?”

“No, that’s the problem. Some other guy who wrote a book on ragtime wants to get his hands on Mr. Joplin’s journal now, and publish it with a bunch of his own comments. He’s working on a deal with a publisher, and I hear tell it’s gonna go down next week. So, if I don’t come up with the scratch…”

The frown on Pepper’s face brought Brun to a halt. “Mr. Campbell, I do see your problem, and I really would like to help. But I can’t go around proper procedure. I wouldn’t want to lose my license to practice law.”

“Well, sure, sure. I can understand that, but hold on a minute.” Brun’s face went crafty. “You said you’d bet a little money that it’s all gonna go through, right?”

“Mr. Campbell—”

“No, wait. Listen to me. How about you give me five thousand now, and I sign all the sixty-four hundred over to you? Then inside of a month, you make a clear fourteen hundred profit. What about that?”

“You’d want to take a hit like that? Just to get the money a few weeks earlier?”

“Like I said. After this weekend, it ain’t gonna do me much good.”

Pepper went deep into thought. Looking at him, Brun drifted back sixty years in memory. Boy sitting on a riverbank in Oklahoma on a warm summer day. Little tug on his line, then a second, harder one. Set the hook, boy. “Mr. Pepper, you could draw up papers saying this whole thing, start to finish, was my idea, that I want to sign over the…what do you call it again?”

“Estate.”

“Yeah, right. Put down on paper that I’m signing over Roscoe Spanner’s whole estate to you for five thousand dollars on the spot.”

Pepper bit so hard on his lower lip, Brun thought he might draw blood. “You’re serious?”

“Never been more serious in my life. What do you say?”

Pepper’s smile was like a field of reeds on a windy day. “Well, if that’s what you really want…” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ll need to take out a loan myself, but it’s after four, the banks are all closed. Can you come by my office tomorrow, say about eleven?”

“That’ll work just great.” Brun looked at the business card, still in his hand. “This’s your address, right?”

Pepper nodded. “Waiting overnight will give you more time to think this through. Talk it over with your wife. Make sure she doesn’t have a problem with it.”

Brun grinned. “Mr. Pepper, don’t you worry about that. I’m sure my wife ain’t gonna have the least little problem.”

After Pepper left, Brun turned the sign in the door to CLOSED, locked up, then hustled down Venice Boulevard to the Rexall. He strode across the black and white tiles to the phone booth, pulled out the slip of paper with Bess’ phone number, asked the operator to connect him.

“Forty cents.”

Brun dug change from his pocket, dropped a quarter and three nickels into the slots. A couple of rings, then he heard, “Martin’s Pharmacy, Ted Martin speaking.”

“I’m calling for Miss Bess Vinson,” Brun said. “She told me she lives upstairs.”

“Right, right,” said Martin. “But she doesn’t usually get in till after five. You want to call back then, or give me a number?”

“I ain’t got any phone where she can get to me,” Brun said. “Okay if I leave a real short message with you?”

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. Just tell her Brun Campbell called and says she should come by tomorrow, in the afternoon, and I’ll have the money for her.”

The pharmacist laughed. “Bet that’s one message she’ll be glad to get. Does she know where to go?”

“Same place as always. My barber shop.”

“Okay, Mr. Campbell. I’ll tell her to meet the barber at the clip joint.”

Brun chuckled. “Much obliged.”

***

All the way down Market Street to Selvin’s Music House, Alan sneaked side glances at Miriam. Something going on with her today. At their lunch-hour concert, she’d been up and down on the piano bench, ants in her pants the whole hour. Once or twice, he’d been sure she was about to say something, but she never went through with it. When he’d asked if she was all right, she’d said, well, sure, of course, why shouldn’t she be, why was he thinking that? And all the way downtown from Hobart High, seven blocks, she’d danced at his side, couldn’t seem to walk three steps of a straight line.

As they drew up to Sweetie’s Shoppe, a few doors before Selvin’s, she tugged at his arm. “Let’s go in and get a soda.”

Here it comes, Alan thought. Bet she’s been trying to get up the nerve to ask me to take her to the Senior Prom. The idea of renting a tuxedo and spending a whole evening in the damn thing didn’t appeal to Alan, but he knew if she asked, he’d do it. He cut across the sidewalk, and opened the door for her.

Only one customer in the place, an old man sitting at the counter, sipping coffee, but she led Alan to the booth all the way in back, then slid onto the slick orange bench facing the wall. As he moved toward the bench opposite her, she grabbed his hand. “Sit here.” She patted the seat. “Right next to me.”

He smiled, if uneasily, then sat at her side.

The waitress’ face said clearly what she thought of a couple of kids who’d made her walk all that way for no good reason. Alan ordered a chocolate soda with two straws. The corner of the waitress’ mouth twitched.

Miriam watched the woman all the way back to the counter at the front, then turned back, rested a hand on Alan’s arm, and murmured, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

Finally, Alan thought. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“Just one thing.” Miriam shot a glance over her shoulder. “Whatever you do, don’t shout or make a fuss. Don’t say or do anything that’d make people look at us.”

“What people? There’s only one other—”

“Alan,
please
. And when the waitress comes back, make like we’re just gabbing.”

“Okay, fine, don’t worry.”

“Promise.”

“I promise. Now, tell me, already.”

Huge sigh. She opened her purse as if she were afraid a dangerous animal might spring out, then reached inside and grabbed a crumpled white envelope, which she pressed into Alan’s hand. “Put this in your pocket.”

“Huh? Miriam, what the hell’s going on?”

“Just put it in your pocket. And keep your voice down.”

Without taking his eyes off Miriam, Alan slid the envelope into his shirt pocket. Again, the girl looked over her shoulder. “That’s your ticket,” she said. “To Sedalia, Missouri.”

“Ticket?” Alan grabbed for the envelope, but Miriam stayed his hand. “Alan, stop. I told you, don’t…oh, Alan, you’re such a tease. You stop that right now.”

“Huh…oh.” Alan looked around to see the waitress, holding a tray with a chocolate soda and two straws. “He’s such a tease.” Miriam mugged at the waitress. “He buys me a soda and thinks that means I owe him a kiss.” She leaned over and planted a buss on Alan’s cheek. “There. Paid in full. Okay?”

Alan grinned. “Yep. You want a receipt?”

Chocolate soda spilled onto the table as the waitress set the glass in front of them, then stalked away.

“I thought you didn’t want to draw attention to us,” Alan said.

“I don’t. And if you’d just keep your hand out of your pocket, and your voice low, we won’t. Now, listen. There’s five thousand, two hundred dollars in that envelope. Five thousand for you to pay Mrs. Joplin for the journal, and the rest for train fare and food. I don’t want you to starve.”

The ball of ice cream slid off the edge of the glass, into the soda; more brown liquid splashed onto the table. Miriam sucked at one of the straws, then pulled a napkin from the holder and mopped at the table top.

Like nothing else is happening, Alan thought. It took all his will power to keep his hand from snatching the envelope out of his pocket. “Miriam—”

“Mmm, this is really good.” She pointed at the other straw. “Have some.”

“But—”

“Alan, it’s going to look funny if you just sit there like a dummy. Go on, drink. Then, give me a nice smile.”

He did as she said, though the smile fell considerably short of convincing. “Miriam, this is some kind of joke, right?”

“It’s no joke. It’s for real. You can get the journal, take it to Sedalia for the ceremony, and give it to Mr. Campbell. And then you can tell him he owes you a bunch of piano lessons.”

“Where did you get fifty-two hundred dollars?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

“Oh no. I’m asking you, and you’re going to tell me the truth.”

“It’d be better if you just take it.”

“Just take it.’ Miriam—”

“Alan, dear, lower your voice.”

“Jesus!” A moan. “I can’t ‘just take’ over five thousand dollars, say thank you and walk away.”

“Why not?”

“Because. That’s as much money as my father makes in a year, and you casually hand it to me in an envelope, and say go have a good time?” He shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

She planted another kiss on his cheek, then motioned toward the soda: take a swallow. He opened his mouth to object, but as Miriam flashed him a death look, he rolled his eyes and sucked at the straw. The girl pulled a napkin from the holder, wiped at the lipstick on his face, all the while flashing a smile that said without doubt he was her sweet patootie. “I’d really rather not tell you.”

Alan painted a matching grin over his own face. “You’re going to anyway. Or else I’m giving it back.” He reached toward his pocket.

She grabbed his hand. “You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. Not for anything, ever.”

He swung his hand up to cover his heart.