The Ragtime Kid (15 page)

Brun recognized the voice. Elmo Freitag, and dressed flashy enough to give even Brun Campbell pause. Yellow checkered suit, pink silk shirt, white boater with a wide red band, black patent leather shoes with pearl buttons, and a tie like a rainbow somebody took an eggbeater to. Stickpin in the right lapel—glass, Brun figured—and a big four-in-hand with a monogrammed
F
in the jacket pocket. The Swede patted the pianist on the shoulder, all the while grinning like a ’gator.

Miss McAllister was with him. In her white summer dress and wide-brimmed hat, Brun imagined her as St. Cecilia, though with a good deal more powder, lip paint, and rouge than he imagined he’d see on the phiz of the patron saint of music.

Freitag shook his head, pulled out a gold coin from his pocket, dropped it into High Henry’s hand. He took care, Brun thought, that their fingers did not touch. “There’s your dollar, boy, fair and square.” The big man flashed his reptile grin at Brun. “I told him a dollar said he couldn’t do it, but I was sure as the deuce wrong.”

All the time Freitag talked, Miss McAllister dog-eyed Henry. Now she said, “I declare—I teach piano, and I’ve never seen…where on earth did you learn to play classical piano like that?”

Brun saw Stark turn from showing a guitar to a customer. His body was tense, pale blue eyes firing electrical discharges.

But High Henry didn’t seem the least bothered. Just smiled shyly, blinked up at Maisie, and said, “Thank you, ma’am. And sir, too. I can’t tell you rightly how I came to play. Just been doin’ it since I was a li’l boy.”

“But you can read music!” said Maisie, like that might’ve been the Eighth Wonder of the World.

Henry smiled the smile of someone about to pass along a major confidence. “Many colored can, but they don’t usually let on. Just say they play by ear.”

Don’t usually let on
to whites
, Brun thought. Old ways die hard. Before emancipation, it was bad enough for a colored man to have his owner find him with a gun, but even worse if Massa caught him with a book.

Freitag laughed like a hyena, then gave Henry’s arm a light punch. “I like you, boy, you got yourself a good sense of humor. But now, tell me something, okay? A smart nigger like you, can read music—”

That was as far as he got. Stark had left his customer at the back of the store and marched up to face Freitag across the piano. “See here,” he barked. “I told you once before—that word does not exist in my establishment. I meant it then, I mean it now.”

Freitag’s face went like raw beef. He looked back to the young colored man. “Hey, now, boy, you know I didn’t mean you any disrespect, right?”

High Henry looked from Freitag to Stark and back again. Finally Freitag spoke up. “Well, see now, Mr. Stark? If he ain’t got no complaints, why should you.”

“This is my store,” Stark snapped. “Not his, and certainly not yours. And if you use that word again, I will throw you out, and I doubt you’ll land on your feet.”

A buzz ran through the little crowd around the piano. Customers stopped browsing music sheets or looking over instruments, and turned their attention to the front of the store. Brun thought for sure he was about to see a battle royal, but Freitag surprised him. “Okay, Mr. Stark, now just calm yourself. I don’t mean any insults. I come to Sedalia to get me some good colored ragtime music to publish, and this talented young knee-grow piano player…sorry. What was it you said was your name, boy?”

“Henry Ramberg. High Henry.”

Freitag looked up at Henry the way he might’ve regarded a hot lunch, fresh out of the oven. “Okay, then, Henry, tell you what. You told me you’ve got some nice ragtime tunes you could write down for me. You do that, and I’ll do a neat little magic trick for you.” Freitag made a presto-changeo motion, fumbled in his pocket, then came out with a gold coin. “I’ll turn a piece of paper with music notes on it into gold. Five dollars, free and clear. Just as soon as the music’s published.”

High Henry laughed, then rubbed his fingers across his mouth. “I guess that’s nice an’ all, sir, an’ not to sound ungrateful, but most of the boys be gettin’ twenny-five or even fifty dollar’ for their music. An’ they don’t gotta wait ’til it gets published, neither.”

If that bothered Freitag, he didn’t show it. He squeezed Henry’s shoulder and stood beside him like a proud papa. “Well, now, Mr. Stark,” he boomed. “You hear that? This boy’s a first-class musician, and a solid businessman to boot. If he don’t got a drop or two of white blood in him, my name’s not Elmo Freitag. All right, Henry, what say you play me one of those tunes right now. If it sounds anywhere near as good as that Beethoven piece, I just might give you twenty-five dollars for it.”

“Just a minute.”

The tone of Stark’s voice quieted everyone in the store.

“Mr. Freitag, if you want to audition music for purchase, I think you’d do well to use your own piano.”

Henry started to move off, but Freitag put a hand to his back and pushed him toward the stool. “Well, I would do that,” Freitag said. “I surely would. But my piano hasn’t been delivered yet. And I thought…” He stopped just long enough to flash that toothy grin. “I thought that considering your fond feelings for members of the colored race, you wouldn’t have any objection to letting Henry here play me a song or two.”

Brun couldn’t take his eyes off Stark’s hands, balled into fists. “Oh, it’s all in his interest, is it? Mr. Freitag, it’s Saturday afternoon, and as you can see, there are people waiting to try music on this piano.
My
piano. In
my
store.”

Freitag did a quick scan of the crowd around the piano. “Oh, I see,” he said. “You talk mighty big about how you love the knee-grow people. But if white folks want to play a piano, then a knee-grow man is just tough outa luck. He’s got to make his money some other time, when no white man wants to play.”

A young woman, next in line with a sheet in her hand, said, “Mr. Stark, he plays so nice, I don’t care if you let him do one more tune.” The man behind her chimed in with, “Way he played that
Moonlight
thing, let’s all of us hear what he’s got in his hip pocket.”

Freitag looked like a balloon freshly pumped full of hot air.

Stark sighed, then said, “Very well,” without moving his lips. “Go ahead, Henry. Play your tune.”

Brun didn’t think High Henry looked convinced, but he sat on the stool and started to play. Brun felt well short of impressed. Henry’s tune had at least passable syncopated melodies, and some halfway-decent bass drive, but by comparison to “Harlem Rag,” it suffered considerably; next to “Maple Leaf” it was pathetic. Brun was surprised at the applause when Henry finished playing. Freitag looked even more like a hungry ’gator.

Stark said, “That’s very good, Henry. Lively. Why, I could hardly keep myself from dancing, right here behind the counter. It should be a big hit.”

Freitag nodded hearty agreement. Brun couldn’t believe his ears.

“I’ll bet that tune’ll make Mr. Freitag a whole lot of money,” Stark said. “Thousands of dollars for sure. Maybe hundreds of thousands.”

Freitag went off like a cherry bomb on the Fourth of July. He stormed over to Stark, cocked a fist, but Stark didn’t budge, didn’t even flinch. Freitag paused, then pulled back his hands. “Hey, Stark,” he bawled. “You know what? You’d do good to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

Brun thought he sounded like a little girl, somebody was trying to run off with her dolly.

“This is my shop,” said Stark. “And my piano. And what goes on in my shop, at my piano, is my business. Henry has a nice tune there, you and I both know that. It should make a good deal of money for its publisher. I say you should share the wealth with the composer. Fifty dollars on delivery of the manuscript, and a penny a sheet royalties sounds about right to me. Oh, and with a legal and binding contract, of course. I’m sure you could get Mr. Higdon, over in the Katy Building, to draw one up for you.”

Henry’s eyes bulged. The fifty dollars alone, Brun thought, was likely as much money as the colored man would make in a month, whether at the railway yard, in construction, or by sweeping a floor. But royalties? Was Stark serious, or was he playing a game with Freitag?

The Swede stepped away from Stark. “Listen, Henry, he’s just talk. How many colored you know who get royalties, huh? What you really want to think about is that my music sheets are going to be in every music shop from New York to Kansas City, and my troupe’s gonna be performing those tunes on every stage from Kay Cee to New York. Fact, you can be up on those stages, playing your own tunes. Sign up with me, and by this time next year, people all over the country will know who High Henry Ramberg is.” Freitag snickered, leaned in close, stage-whispered, “Pretty women’ll be falling over themselves to get next to you. Now, tell you what. You go and write down that tune, give it to me, and we’re in business.”

Henry tipped his cap, and got up from the piano bench. The young woman next in line sat at the piano, smoothed her skirt, set her music sheet on the piano rack, and began to play. But Freitag wasn’t finished with High Henry. “You’re gonna write me that tune, and bring it on over soon as you can, right? I’m in Room 201 at the Commercial Hotel. You know where that is?”

“Yes, suh. Out West Main, right ’cross the street from Miss Nellie’s whorehouse.”

Brun almost laughed out loud at the smile in his boss’ eyes.

“Okay,” Freitag said. “I’ll see you later.” Then he led Maisie through the doorway.

Stark turned to High Henry. “You’d be a fool to give that man any music.”

Henry laughed, a musical sound. “Sure, Mr. Stark, you don’t need to tell me. That man think it still be slavey-time, but I do believe we’s free. He been askin’ all over town, but ain’t nobody gonna give him a tune. We know we wouldn’t never see a plugged nickel.”

Brun deliberated a moment, then said to Stark, “You don’t mind me saying so, sir, but I suspect you’ve made yourself an enemy.”

Stark’s face went dead-serious. “I hope so, Brun. A man’s character can be gauged at least as well by his enemies as by his friends. You’ll do well to keep that in mind.”

***

Fritz Alteneder stared out the window of Boutell’s Saloon. He bit off a chunk of his beef sandwich, washed it down with an immoderate swallow of beer, then looked across the table. “Hey, Pa—wanna go shoot squirrel ’safternoon?”

His father shook his head. “Damn, boy, I already told you. We’re goin’ over to Widda Folsom’s, gonna shoe her new horses. Mr. Fehr gives me a half-day off, we ain’t gonna waste the time and a bunch of shot besides. Anyways, you got to start learnin’ the business. Make a little money yourself.”

Fritz laughed, not an agreeable sound. “Who says I want to be a blacksmith, huh? But if I ever do go an’ be one, I sure ain’t gonna work for some other man, got to ask his permission to take off long enough to have a piss. I’d have my own shop—”

Emil Alteneder cut his son short with an open hand across the cheek that brought tears to the boy’s eyes. “You talk pretty good, let’s wait an’ see how you do when it comes to workin’,” Emil growled. “You ain’t got no call talkin’ like that. Your sandwich there, the beer you’re drinkin’, they was bought with money I earned and Mr. Fehr paid me. You wanna bite the hand that feeds you, go someplace else.”

Behind the counter, polishing bar glasses, Gaylord Boutell shook his head. The saloon-keeper wished the Alteneders would take their business elsewhere. Not only did no one ever sit with them, no one would take a table to either side of them, so disgusting as it was to see them eat, so foul their smell. Boutell swore he’d rather spend time on Hubert Marshall’s pig farm east of town than have to breathe the air around Emil and Fritz. Father and son had identical broad, flat noses and thin lips. Bullet-shaped heads sat directly on their shoulders, same barrel chests, same bay windows below. They looked at the world through brown piggy eyes behind slitted lids, as if forever squinting into a low sun. Fritz had more spiky hair than his father, but the kid was only sixteen, give him time. Word in Sedalia was that the Alteneders were as they were because they lived without the civilizing influence of a woman, Emil’s wife having died years before in some sort of accident. But Boutell figured people had the story backward: would any woman be desperate enough to take up with those two cavemen? Bad enough they looked and smelled the way they did, but Fritz was as quick as his father to settle a problem with a fist, and a woman in that household would have a body perpetually covered with bruises. “Look at Doc Overstreet,” was Boutell’s usual observation on the subject. “He ain’t never been married, and is he anything like them?”

Emil went back to attacking his food, but Fritz sat and sulked. Somebody’s going to get it, Boutell thought. Somebody smaller and weaker than Fritz’s old man is going to pay for that slap.

Emil leaned across the table to poke a finger into Fritz’s ribs. “That there’s lunch,” he snarled. “When I’m done, we’re leavin’. You get hungry later, gonna just be too bad.”

Fritz picked up the sandwich, rested his head against his palm, nibbled a few bites. He swallowed some beer, gazed through the window. A couple went by, the man carrying a suitcase in each hand, real leather, nice. They were headed in the direction of the railway station—on their way out of Sedalia, lucky them. Fritz’s stupid old man thought Sedalia was the beginning and the end of the world, but one of these mornings, he was going to wake up and find his son’s bed empty. Fritz Alteneder wasn’t about to spend
his
whole life in Sedalia, sweating blood in front of an open fire, burning his fingers, saying ‘Yes sir,’ and ‘Thank you, sir’ to Mr. Herman Fehr, who wasn’t no better in any way than him, and didn’t deserve…

Fritz dropped the last uneaten bit of sandwich onto his plate, smiled, snickered. He pointed through the window. “Hey, Pa, lookit there.”

Emil shaded his eyes. “What the hell you talkin’ about, boy? All I see’s a bunch a people.”

Fritz pointed. “Li’l pickaninny there, lookit her. You think niggers ought to be walkin’ around all dressed up white?”

Emil studied the small colored girl walking past Boutell’s, hair in two neat braids that bounced with each step. Her dress was almost blindingly white. Then he looked back at Fritz, and like on cue, the two jumped up from the table and ran outside. Emil pulled Fritz by the arm. “Come on, boy, move it along. Get her ’fore she makes it to the corner.” Father and son took off running, shoved past Apple John, spilling fruit from his basket. The peddler knew better than to complain.