The Ragtime Kid (12 page)
That odd look was because Freitag had reminded the boy about the note he’d left his parents just a few days before. “No, sir, I don’t disbelieve you,” he said. “It’s just you were talking about music publishing, then all of a sudden you’re onto the Gold Rush. I’m not sure I follow your drift.”
“Ah, the young—so impatient.” Freitag shot Maisie an arch glance. Brun slurped down the last of his phosphate and made to slide sideways off his seat, but Freitag shifted to block his exit. “Now, Brun, you’d be smart to pay me mind. I’ve been in music publishing nearly twenty years. Ragtime music is going to take this country by storm, and I’m bound to ride that wave to my fortune. Maisie here…well, her dream is to have a singing career, and what with all these ragtime tunes I’m going to get, that little dream can’t help but come true. And so can yours. All you got to do is help me get Scott Joplin’s music, and bang, like magic, you’re vice-president of Freitag Enterprises. How does that sound?”
Brun thought it sounded like the man was a nut case. Brun Campbell, of all people, was supposed to get Scott Joplin to give him music?
Freitag’s laugh filled the café. “Listen up, I’ll explain it to you. I got to know Joplin at Hoffman, from when we published his ‘Original Rags,’ and he’s a whole different kind of nigger. Don’t drink hardly at all, don’t fool around—the man’s a ragtime-writing machine, that’s all he ever thinks about. Now, if I’ve got his music, I’ve got the best that’s being written, and on top of that, with Scott Joplin in my company, every nigger in Sedalia and for miles around is going to come in line. Problem is…” Freitag stopped long enough to snicker, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Joplin says he’ll only publish under a royalties contract. A nigger talking royalties, can you imagine that? Where’d he ever
get
that idea from? You ever meet a nigger who could tell you what a percent is?”
Brun’s impatience rose like a creek in flood time and washed over the banks. Mr. Stark was going to give him hell for taking too long on his break. “Truth, Mr. Freitag, I’ve met more than my share of white men in Kansas and Missouri who’d hear the word percent and figure you were probably talking Latin or Greek.”
Freitag ignored the wisecrack. “Now, Brun, I do know you’re in a hurry to get back to your job, but just give me two minutes—not a second more—of your time, and listen to my idea. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”
Many years later, Brun told me he knew he should have just said a nice-to-meet-you to Freitag and gone out the door, fast as he could walk. But he looked at Maisie McAllister, in her lace-trimmed turquoise silk waist and bright plaid skirt, smiling and blinking her eyes at him, and asked out loud what he would better have just kept wondering about. “Why do you need
me
to get Scott Joplin to publish with you?”
“Joplin seems well inclined toward you,” Freitag said. “So take your lessons with him, learn to play his music.
Learn
his music. Get so he trusts you. Then, maybe you can persuade him that his future lies with Freitag Enterprises. But if you can’t, well, that wouldn’t really be all that much of a problem. Once you’ve learned Joplin’s music, what’s going to stop you from writing it down and bringing it to me? And then…” Freitag spread his arms grandly. “Then, it will be Mr. Brun Campbell, the Boy-King of Ragtime. You’ll be on Easy Street right there with Miss McAllister and me. How does that sound, my lad?”
For answer, Brun pushed away from the table, gave Freitag a hard shove to the chest, and stamped across the floor and outside. His brain was hotter than the thermometer next to the door, and that read ninety-six. Steal Scott Joplin’s music? Bad enough he’d made off with a money-clip and a locket from a murdered woman. But if he ever stole Scott Joplin’s music, he’d have to crawl out of Sedalia on his stomach the next time Joplin even looked at him.
But how did Freitag know he was taking piano lessons from Scott Joplin? Miss McAllister? He hadn’t said anything to her the day before. He was sure he hadn’t.
Sedalia
Friday, July 21,1899
Afternoon
From behind the counter, John Stark watched with no real interest as a man and two women browsed the sheet music racks. Time was, he’d have been out there, asking them what they might be looking for, and had they tried the newest hit from St. Louis or New York, but now, more often than not, he just let browsers be. How many years had he been selling, selling, selling? Stark wasn’t a rich man, never would be, but he was comfortable. His wife and children always had what they needed, and Stark himself had the luxury, nights, of reading whatever he pleased, history, theology, science. Will was looking to branch into music publishing, but the idea of learning a whole new business, once an exhilarating notion to Stark, now just made him feel tuckered. And the thought of risking everything he’d worked for all those years just scared the bejesus out of him. A rocking chair and a book, with a glass of lemonade in the afternoon and whiskey after dinner, sounded better to him every day. He was almost sixty. An old man.
He breathed a sigh of bravura proportions, then glanced at the big clock up on the wall behind him. His new boy was taking himself a pretty good break, twenty minutes already. Probably saw a sweet little girl at the Boston, bought two phosphates, sat himself next to her, and started talking. The boy had the kind of mouth that would likely bring him either success or an early grave; Stark hoped it would be the former. Brun was a likable kid, willing and eager, didn’t act like the world owed him a living. You couldn’t exactly call him a liar, just that he was not overly inclined to let truth stand in the way of convenience. Like telling his real age, or where he’d really run off from. Still, Stark thought when chips were down on the table, Brun could be counted on.
Just then, the object of his musings burst through the doorway and up to the counter. Stark took him in with a mild squint. “I’d say you’re looking a bit worked up.”
“Just thought I might’ve overstayed my limit.” Through teeth zipped tight.
Stark smiled without changing the expression on his face. The girl must’ve turned him down, or maybe her boyfriend happened to walk in on them. “Well, perhaps you did, just a bit—but here.” He pointed at a fair-sized carton on the floor. “You can make up for it by getting these guitar strings into the display case
molto vivace
. Isaac’s out delivering a piano to a farm past Smithville. He’ll be gone all afternoon, so you and I are it.”
As Brun hustled off, Stark lowered himself onto a stool behind the counter, and mopped at his face with a handkerchief. He looked up to see two colored men walk into the doorway, then just stand there, looking all around like they were a little unsure of themselves. Stark cleared his throat, slid his hand down to the shelf behind the counter, gripped the shotgun. He stiffened as he saw Brun stride up to the men. The boy was bright, but he still had a lot to learn, and if he didn’t learn caution in a hurry, he wasn’t going to live long enough to learn the rest. Stark heard him say, “Hello, there,” then ask how he could help.
The bigger man smiled. He had on a black coat, a wide-brimmed black hat, and a neat white shirt and black tie. Heavy dressing for a day like this, and his near-black skin shone with sweat. “Thank you, young sir,” the big man said. “I means you no disrespect. But I think we needs to speak directly with Mr. Stark, yonder.”
The man started toward the counter, moving in the slightly rolling, shambling gait of an old man with arthritic hips. The younger man followed him, staring all the while at Brun. Stark folded his finger around the shotgun trigger. As the older man closed in on the counter, Stark suddenly took his hand off the shotgun, and stood. “Mr. Weston, welcome. I’m sorry, I didn’t see it was you out there.”
“Well, now, that’s no trouble,” the man said. “Sun’s bright outside, does make it harder to see.”
Stark smiled, but his eyes were sad. “And at our age, our sight’s not what it once was, now, is it? What can I do for you, Mr. Weston? By the way, this young man is my new clerk, Brun Campbell. He’s just gotten to town from Arkansas City.”
Weston looked Brun up, then down, seemed to approve of what he saw. “Welcome to our city, Master Campbell. What is it brings you to Sedalia?”
“I came to take piano lessons from Mr. Scott Joplin.” Brun looked at the young man who’d come in with Weston, and who now seemed to be looking anywhere but at Brun. “Well, hello, there, Scott Hayden,” Brun said. “Don’t you recollect me? From the other day, when Mr. Joplin agreed to give me lessons? Remember, he introduced us, said he was teaching you and Arthur Marshall to write ragtime, and…”
The dismay accumulating on Hayden’s face shut down the flow of Brun’s words. Stark glanced at his clerk, rolled his eyes. The older colored man looked fit to explode. From the scowl he turned on Hayden, you might have thought the young man was a loathsome bug that had just crawled in under the door. “Scott Hayden! Is this true?”
“Well…yes, sir.” Hayden scraped the floor with the toe of his right shoe, held one hand with the other. “But Scott Joplin is a fine pianist, the best teacher in Sed—”
Weston slammed down his huge fist; the counter shook and rattled. “That is the music of the devil! And you want to be our church organist? When you walk out of God’s house and consort with Satan’s followers?”
Stark reached out, took Mr. Weston’s arm in his hand, and immediately regretted the move. The big, angry Negro seemed to shrink in size, the customary reaction of a colored man when a white took hold of him in the midst of an altercation. Stark released his grip. Weston, all his anger safely locked away, at least for the time being, said quietly, “I do apologize, Mr. Stark, for creating a commotion in your store.”
Brun was astonished at the sudden mildness in Stark’s blue eyes. “Not at all, Mr. Weston,” Stark said. “I just wanted to say that I fear you’re making a mistake, abandoning such a fine young man to the darkness. Do you suppose our Lord Himself would have cast him out?”
Mr. Weston looked at the floor.
“Besides…” Stark chuckled. “If I’m not severely in error, the older generation has always thought their offspring were going straight to the deuce. Didn’t your own father ever have concerns about you, Mr. Weston?”
Severity drained out of Weston’s face, replaced by an odd mixture of embarrassment and humor. What the man might have been going to say, we’ll never know, because Stark didn’t wait for an answer. “All right, then, Mr. Weston. What was it you wanted to see me and only me about?”
A skinny old white man in a shabby blue shirt and torn overalls, who hadn’t had acquaintance with a razor for some time, shuffled into the shop on bowed legs. He tipped his leather hat and said, “How dee, Miz Stock,” showing teeth like a picket fence splashed with kerosene. “I need me a new C string, I do.”
Stark nodded, then motioned to Brun. “Brun, meet old Clete the Fiddler, he’s been my customer since the day I opened. Can you please get him a C-string? Put it on the tab.”
Brun was back with the string in almost no time. Clete shook his hand to some excess, told the boy how obliged he was, then left Brun to watch the rest of the drama. The matter of Scott Hayden and ragtime seemed to be in the past. Weston pointed toward a folding suitcase organ, all shiny varnished tiger-striped oak, sitting like a sovereign among a display of five or six of those little twelve-note organs that play paper rolls when you turn the crank. “Something like that li’l Bilhorn would do us just right—that’s a real organ. Got itself a fine sound, and when we ain’t usin’ it, we can fold it up and keep it safe under lock and key. An’ in fine weather, it could go down to the river with us for baptisms, or on a Sunday church picnic.”
Stark nodded, then looked at Scott Hayden. “Before Mr. Weston makes a decision, why don’t you play him some music. Make sure you’re both satisfied.”
Hayden looked doubtful, but walked over to the Bilhorn, stopping on the way to pick up the piano stool. He sat at the keyboard, pumped the sustain lever with his right foot, checked the swell lever outside his right knee. Then he shot his cuffs, wiggled his fingers, stretched his head all the way back, then forward again. Putting on a bit of a show, Brun thought. Mr. Weston called out, “Don’t you dare play no ragtime now, hear? Play us a hymn.”
Stark picked up on the smile that flickered across Hayden’s face before the young man began to pump the pedals and move his hands. Like Scott Joplin’s, Brun thought, fingers gliding over the keys, gently pushing one here, three there. He wondered whether he’d ever be able to play like that, rather than banging away like those piano keys had done something to insult him.
It took just a couple of measures for Brun to recognize “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Mrs. Howe generally gets credit for that tune, but she was a poet, not a composer, and just plugged her words into the popular Civil War anthem, “John Brown’s Body.” Hayden played it soft and slow, but then, on a second go-round, he commenced to pump more air. Mr. Weston smiled broadly. Brun heard him whisper to Stark, “There, now!”
Stark, though, seemed not to hear him, just stared at Hayden, who at that point did something with the music that Brun couldn’t quite figure. But when he saw his own foot tapping, he realized Hayden had shifted the beat. He was syncopating. Playing the Lord’s melody to the devil’s rhythm. Just a hint at first, but the further Hayden went, the more the music seemed to carry him along; he stepped up the tempo, pumped the pedals ever faster, moved his knee into the swell lever to put even more emphasis on accented notes. Now his left hand played a clear barrelhouse rhythm. Faster and faster, louder and louder. Hands crossed over, back and forth. On a piano, this would have been an impressive performance; on the organ it was past belief, put to shame any playing Brun ever had done. The boy felt sick with envy. He heard applause behind him, someone clapping time with the music. He glanced back and saw it was Weston. “Isn’t that
something
,” the preacher called out. “Why, he’ll have them jumpin’ in the aisles in the church.”
Lest Weston catch sight of his face right then, Brun quickly turned away. He saw Stark’s lips move, then realized his boss was singing, but as if to himself. “John Brown’s body lies a- mould’ring in the grave. John Brown’s body…” The pain weighting Stark’s eyes moved Brun so, he began to sing along, and then Weston joined in. “John Brown’s body lies a mould’ring in the grave. But his soul goes marching on.” Scott Hayden finished with a flourish, the fingers of his right hand dancing from key to key, finally winding up in a big, bass-supported, “Ah-
men
.”
Hayden swung around on the stool, dripping sweat, a sly smile all over his face. A few people who’d gathered at the doorway cheered and clapped; then, as they saw Hayden move away from the organ, they went along their way. Weston was almost dancing with pleasure, but Stark looked like he was just barely holding back a flood of tears. Seeing Brun staring at him, Stark swiveled to face Weston. “I guess that organ is going to the right place.”
Whereupon Weston’s smile faded. “I hope so, Mr. Stark, sir. I truly do. But of course. I need to ask the price.”
“Well, of course,” Stark said. “Let’s see, now… That’s the best of the Bilhorn Telescope Organs, Style C, double reeds and four full octaves. It lists at seventy dollars, but for ecclesiastical use, we would give a discount of ten percent.”
Weston took off his hat and fanned himself, exposing his bald pate and looking some twenty years older. He stared into space and his fingers twitched, as if trying to calculate sums. Then he looked at Stark with great seriousness. “I don’t wish to offend you, sir, but the fact is, our congregation simply does not have that much money to spend. But would you consider a time payment?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of bills and coins, and laid them on the counter. “Say, thirty-six dollars and eighty-two cents down, and five dollars each week?”
Stark now looked fully recovered from whatever had been ailing him. “That would be just fine, Mr. Weston. We do offer time payments, and considering the situation, in addition to the ten percent discount, there will be no interest charged on the balance.”
“Why, bless you, Mr. Stark.” Weston had Stark’s hand between the two of his own, and was working it like he hoped to fill a pail with water from the shopkeeper’s mouth. “Bless you, sir! My congregation will pray for your well-being, and your family’s.”
Stark managed a reasonable-enough smile. “Well, then, Mr. Weston, I suppose we’re both getting a good deal, aren’t we?”
After Weston signed a time-payment agreement, he and Scott Hayden folded up the organ and began to carry it out, Weston in front, Hayden bringing up the rear. As Hayden walked past Brun, Stark heard his clerk half-whisper, “I sure hope one day I’ll be able to play hymns like you.”
For a moment, Hayden seemed to consider the wisdom of answering, but his grin wouldn’t be denied. “Glory hallelujah an’ a-men, brother,” he said to Brun.
Once the Negroes had navigated the doorway and passed out of earshot, Stark turned a good hot eye on his clerk. “That was wicked of you, Brun.”
“Yes, sir.” Stark thought the reply sounded more triumphant than repentant.
The boy went on. “Mind if I ask a question, sir?”
“That is the only way to learn. Say on.”
“I was wondering…when Scott Hayden played that tune, you looked mighty severe. Didn’t you approve of his playing?”
Stark looked away. He saw files of blue-coated soldiers, a young blue-eyed bugler at the edge of the first rank. The Indiana Twenty-first Infantry Regiment, late in the summer of ’sixty-one, marching southward toward Baltimore to the tune of “John Brown’s Body.” Stark felt as though Brun had gone trespassing on private property, but he could hardly fault the boy. There had been no signs posted.
“I apologize if I talked out of turn,” he heard Brun murmur.
Stark shook his head, couldn’t shake away the vision, finally fought his mind back to the present. “No, it’s all right, Brun.” He checked the clock, then strode around the counter, shut the front door and locked it, hung the
CLOSED
sign, and motioned Brun toward the office. Once inside, he sat behind his desk and motioned the boy to a chair opposite him. “You’ve heard of John Brown, I suppose,” Stark said.