***
Not a customer all afternoon. Brun sat at his piano, and played ragtime tunes and cakewalks, but for once, his heart wasn’t in it. Finally, about four-thirty, he locked up the shop and walked off.
Ten minutes later, he stood in front of Roscoe’s house. Next door, an old white man in an undershirt and gray work pants clipped unenthusiastically at some low shrubs. Brun tramped up to him.
The man lowered his clippers, rubbed his forearm over his face, then turned a pair of beady black eyes onto Brun. Lot of gray hair above the top of his undershirt, not much on his head. He plucked a cigarette from between thick lips, flicked it onto the sidewalk, studied his visitor. “I seen you yesterday,” he said. “You a plainclothes dick or something? Here about what happened to the old spade?”
Brun thought about letting the man believe he was a detective, but decided against it. Venice was just too small a place. “No, I ain’t any cop.” He extended a hand. “Brun Campbell’s the name, I run the barber shop over on Venice Boulevard. I’m a friend of Roscoe’s.”
The man shook Brun’s hand. “Horace Randall. Yeah, now you mention it, I think I seen you here before. I didn’t know your friend except we said hello when we saw each other. Seemed like an okay guy, but I ain’t much on mixin’ with colored. They got their place, I got mine, we get along fine, know what I mean? What happened to him, anyway?”
“Fell down the stairs to his cellar.”
“Mmm.” Randall stroked his bristly chin. “Hell of a way to go.”
“There’s worse. Cops think it was an accident, but myself, I ain’t so sure.”
Randall’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Like you think somebody pushed him, or something?”
Brun nodded. “You didn’t see anybody over there yesterday afternoon, did you? Between about three and seven?”
The man shrugged. “There’s always people comin’ and goin’ in any house. Friends, Fuller Brush Man, the mailman, some Jew sellin’ insurance. You know.”
“Yeah, I know. But did you see anybody particular yesterday?”
Randall tried to wave away the question. “I don’t want to get mixed up in nothin’. I mind my business, and I got good health. I’d just as soon have it stay that way.”
He half-turned back to the shrub, but Brun caught him by the arm. Randall shifted his feet, and looked toward the house, as if he thought there might be help there. “Listen,” Brun said. “Roscoe was my friend, and he was a hell of a better man than a lot of white people I’ve met in my time. Now, I want to know. Did you see somebody going in there yesterday?”
Randall pulled roughly away, then faced up to Brun. “I already told you once, I don’t go messin’ around where it ain’t none of my business. Somebody blows out a nigger’s lights, it ain’t no never-mind to me. He had his booze and his skirts, just like all of us, and now he’s dead, that’s how it goes.” Randall gestured with his chin toward Roscoe’s house, then growled, “Place is a goddamn dump. I’m hopin’ they’ll tear it down and put in a decent-looking house.” He snatched the clipper handles, and picked up where Brun had stopped him.
Brun stood, waited. After a minute or two, Randall stopped again, turned Brun’s way, and shouted, “You can stand there till it snows, and I ain’t gonna talk to you no more. Now, go on, get the hell outa here. Else I’m gonna call the cops myself.” He gave the shrub a ferocious clip.
Thursday, April 5
Noontime
When the bell rang at the end of English class, Alan gathered his books and started for the door, moving so fast he didn’t notice the foot out in the aisle. As he went sprawling, books flying in every direction, he heard, “Hey, Chandler, know what? Maybe you shouldn’t be in such a big goddamn hurry.”
He looked up. Eddie Bernstein, that son of a bitch greaser with his slicked-back D. A. hair, was laughing like a donkey. Alan made a move toward him, but then turned away, swept his books into a pile, got up, and started to walk away.
“Hey, Alan,” Eddie called after him. “Aren’tcha gonna at least say excuse me, you kicked me in the foot?”
Alan glanced around. “Yeah. Excuse me, Eddie, I was aiming for your balls. Next time, I won’t miss.”
A couple of girls giggled. Alan hustled out of the room, into the hall, and to his locker. He stopped just long enough to grab his brown lunch bag and the three new music sheets from Mrs. Selvin’s, then ran down the hall to the music room, half a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich jammed into his cheek. He dropped two of the sheets onto the piano bench, put “The Entertainer,” by Scott Joplin, onto the rack, and began to play.
Within twenty minutes, he thought he had a good feel for it, but then heard a sound behind him, a strange sort of honk, and lost his place. Bang, both hands down hard onto the keyboard. He swung around on the bench to face the intruder.
She was a girl about his age, blue eyes huge behind soda-bottle glasses. Her face was narrow as a pickle jar, and her carrot-colored hair looked as if she’d put it through a Mixmaster. The girl took a quick step back. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you.”
Alan waved off her concern. “Don’t worry. I can just start again. You don’t have to cry about it.”
“I’m not crying about that. I mean, I’m sorry I messed you up, but it’s the music. I’ve never heard music like that. It makes me feel so happy.”
“It makes you so happy, you’re crying?”
“That’s part of the happy feeling. Don’t you ever feel like that?”
Girls! “Actually, no.”
She snuffled, wiped at her eyes with a sleeve. “I guess it sounds dumb to you, then, but I can’t help it. What kind of music is that?”
“It’s called ragtime. I just found out about it myself a couple of weeks ago, on Oscar Brand’s radio program. I thought it was great music, so I went down to Selvin’s and bought some sheets and records of it, and a new book that tells all about the people who started it going. My parents won’t let me play it at home, though, so I’ve got to play here, lunchtimes.”
His face positively glowed. That’s for the music, not me, the girl told herself, but still, she felt warm all over, a little light in the head. “Your parents don’t let you play it at home? Why not?”
“They say it’s trash, and I should only play classical.”
“Well,
I
like it. In fact, I love it.” She thrust a hand forward; Alan had to duck away so as not to get fingers in his eyes. “My name is Miriam Broaca. I’m not in any of your classes, but I’ve seen you around.”
Alan didn’t remember ever seeing her. He gripped her cold, damp hand, tried not to let his reaction show. “I’m Alan Chandler.”
“I know.” A giggle escaped. Damn it, she thought, he’s going to think I’m silly.
“Were you walking by and heard me play?”
She nodded, but it wasn’t true. She’d been stalking him for days, trying to get up the nerve to ask him to take her to the Sock Hop in the gym Saturday night, and time was running out. Today, before Social Studies, Linda Ralston had dared her to go up and ask him. “He never goes out,” Linda had said. “He’s probably shy with girls. And he
is
cute.” So Miriam had hurried out of her classroom at the end of the hour to wait at the door of third-period English, but when that moron Eddie Bernstein tripped him, he’d looked so sore that Miriam lost her nerve. She followed him to his locker and into the music room, but couldn’t bring herself to say boo. All the while he played, she tried to drag her invitation from her mind to her tongue, but all that came through was that big stupid honk.
The girl looked up at the big clock on the wall. She still had half an hour. “Do you care if I stay and listen to some more?”
“No, of course not.” Alan picked up the two pieces of sheet music, then patted the bench next to him. “Sit here. Do you play?”
Miriam hoped her face wasn’t anywhere near as red as it felt. She smoothed her skirt. “No…well, just a little bit. Not like you. I’m not awfully good at music.”
Alan grinned. “What are you good at?”
The girl gripped the edge of the piano bench. “Well…math, I guess. I’m pretty good with numbers.”
Alan seemed to be thinking. “Broaca,” he muttered. “Broaca…”
“Yeah, you’ve got it,” Miriam said. “I’m the one they call Stock Broaca. My father’s been teaching me about investments since I was five years old. You want to know whether the Dow-Jones Average went up or down yesterday, and how much? You want the closing price of General Motors? IBM?”
Alan laughed. “I don’t even know what IBM is.”
“You’re pulling my leg. International Business Machines? It’s the hottest company on the market.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care much about business machines. It’s music I’m interested in, which is why I’m here. I don’t mind if you want to sit and listen, but—”
She intended to say okay, she’d shut up and listen, but what came out was, “WillyoutakemetotheSockHopSaturdaynight?”
Alan’s face suggested the girl had just landed a solid punch, smack on his nose. She edged away from him. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want…I just thought maybe…” She scuffed one penny loafer over the other.
An image came to Alan’s mind, one of his mother’s good china plates dropping from his hand and shattering past any hope of restoration. “I don’t know any of the dances,” he said. “But yeah, I guess I could take you, if you want.”
He thought she was about to throw her arms around him. She was, but managed to hold back. “There’s only twenty minutes till lunch is over,” she said. “Play me some more of your ragtime, okay?”
“Sure,” Alan said, and turned to the keyboard. “This is the one I’ve worked at the most so far.” He played a few notes. “It’s called ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’”
What beautiful music, she thought. But she knew she’d be thinking the same thing if he were playing “Chopsticks.”
***
Brun did a double-take at the woman walking into his shop. Colored lady, probably in her forties, wearing a spiffy, tailored dark-blue suit over a cream-colored blouse, and a blue pillbox hat with a little veil. Face made up to the nines. She smiled at the barber. “Mr. Campbell?”
Brun lowered the comb and scissors from his customer’s head. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Brun Campbell, all right. What can I do for you?”
“I want to talk with you.” The woman pointed toward the customer. “I’ll wait until you’re finished.”
Brun pointed with the scissors toward the piano bench. “I ain’t got much in the way of chairs. Pretty small place.”
She smiled. “That’s fine, Mr. Campbell. I’m sure I’ll be comfortable.”
Talks like some kind of businesswoman, Brun thought, or maybe a schoolteacher. “Okay, then,” the barber said. “I’m almost done. Be with you in just a few minutes.”
“Don’t you go hurryin’, Brun,” drawled the customer, a older man with purplish wattles that would have done a turkey proud. “I want to get out of here with all the blood I came in with.”
***
As the door closed behind the customer, the woman stood. “I hope you’ll excuse me for coming to your place of business,” she said. “I stopped at your home, and your wife told me it would be all right.” She smiled an apology. “Mrs. Campbell said you’re usually not terribly busy.”
Brun nodded. “Sorry to say, but she’s on the mark. We get by, that’s about it.”
The woman looked at the piano, then back to Brun. “I’ve never seen a barber shop with a piano in it.”
“Me neither, except for mine. I play ragtime, been doin’ it for more years than you’ve been on this earth, but my wife don’t like it. So I do most of my playing here, in between customers.”
The woman leaned over the piano to peer at the sepiatone on the wall. “That’s me,” Brun said. “Fifteen years old, in Sedalia, Missoura, 1899. Man with me is Scott Joplin, he wrote the greatest rag ever, ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’ He gave me piano lessons, and my nickname, too, The Ragtime Kid. I was Scott Joplin’s only white pupil, and…”
Brun’s monologue ground to a stop as he saw tears roll down the woman’s cheek. “You all right, ma’am?” he asked. “Did I say something to get you upset?”
“No…not really.” She blinked several times, then forced a little smile, pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her purse, dabbed at her eyes. “I know about you, Mr. Campbell. I’ve read articles in the newspapers, and I’ve been to some of your performances in the clubs…oh, Mr. Campbell, I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name is Bess Vinson.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“And Scott Joplin was my father.”
It was a rare occasion to find Brun Campbell speechless, but all the old barber could do was stare at the woman.
“I never did know him, though. When I was born, my father and mother were living in St. Louis, and they were having their troubles. Unfortunately, I was sickly, which put even more of a strain on my mother. While my father was away, playing in Jefferson City, she gave me to a couple who couldn’t have children of their own. Then, when my father came back, she told him I’d died and she’d had me cremated. And then she left town herself, went to Chicago, and died there a few years later. At least that’s what my new parents told me when I was older. They gave me their last name, Vinson, but they wanted me to know my father was Scott Joplin. I wish I could have met him, but by the time I found out, he’d already died.”
Brun shook his head slowly. “I don’t know as I’ve ever been in more of a flat spin.” He took off his glasses, wiped them on a shirt sleeve. “You really are Scott Joplin’s daughter?”
“If what my second parents said was true. But I don’t know why they’d have said it if it wasn’t.”
“I’ll be! I heard Mr. Joplin and his wife had a baby, and it died.” Brun shook his head. “Well, you just never know, huh? What is it I can do for you…is it
Miss
Vinson?”
“That’s right. Actually, it’s more what I might be able to do for you. I just found out my father kept a journal, starting from when he was composing ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ till almost the year he died. It’s in Mrs. Joplin’s hands, in New York. You know of Rudi Blesh, don’t you?”
Brun looked like someone who’d just downed a swallow from a glass of spoiled milk. “I don’t just know
of
your Mr. Blesh, I know him, period, and I can’t say I think a whole lot of him. I’ve been working for years now on a book about your father and ragtime. Yes. Well, Rudi Blesh was out here last year, interviewing me and other people for his own book, and I let him borrow my manuscript and pictures. Then, after he went back to New York, I wrote and asked him for twenty-five of his books and fifteen percent of the motion picture rights, for using my information. I thought that was a very generous offer. But since then, I can’t hear a word from him.”
Bess Vinson raised a finger. “Well, first of all, he’s not
my
Mr. Blesh. I don’t care for him, either. He tracked me down when he was doing his research, and he just set my teeth on edge, he was so pushy. I finally told him to go away, I wouldn’t talk to him.”
“I wish I’d been smart as you. Now, I don’t know if I’m ever gonna get my own book published.”
Bess smiled. “Sometimes we get a second chance. That’s why I’m here.” She opened her purse again, and this time pulled out a sheet of yellow-lined paper, which she unfolded and handed to Brun. “Go ahead. Read it.”
Brun adjusted his spectacles, then read slowly, moving his lips as he mumbled the words. “I was working in the Maple Leaf Club with Otis Saunders today when a young white boy came in and begged me to give him piano lessons. He said he met Otis last fall in Oklahoma City, and played ‘Maple Leaf Rag,’ and he liked the music so much, he rode a baggage car to Sedalia to learn ragtime from me. He seemed quite serious, so I agreed to take him on.” Brun turned the page over. “A white boy, my first white student. If my music is ever going to be looked upon as respectable, whites will have to think well of it. I might just be on my way.”
Brun looked back to Bess Vinson. “This is—”
“Copied right out of my father’s journal. That book in Mrs. Joplin’s basement is filled with material just like what you’ve got in your hand. Mrs. Joplin wouldn’t let Rudi Blesh see it while he was writing
They All Played Ragtime
, but now she seems to have changed her mind. Blesh wants to publish it with his commentary—”
“His commentary! Scott Joplin don’t need some stuffed-shirt professor to help him tell people what he had to say. He could speak just fine for himself.”
“Well, I certainly think so,” said Bess. “And if you really do want to make people know who he was, I can get you that book. You can publish it as it’s written, or put it together with something you’ve written yourself. Maybe you and my father would both have something to say. After all, the two of you were there. Rudi Blesh wasn’t.”
Brun’s heart whacked against his chest cage. He hoped he wouldn’t need to pop a nitro under his tongue, then stand and wait for it to melt away the pain. He took in a deep breath, blew it out. “Okay, Miss Vinson, drop the other shoe. What do I got to do to get that journal?”
Bess crossed one foot over the other, rocked side to side on her heels. “That’s the problem, Mr. Campbell. Blesh has got the inside track, and we’ve got to knock him out of it. Mrs. Joplin is supposed to get five hundred dollars—”
“Five hundred? For the inside story of Scott Joplin’s life? That’s highway robbery.”
“They’re also promising her royalties, telling her they’ll amount to a small fortune over the years. But that’s the catch. Mrs. Joplin is close to eighty, and has no children, no one to leave anything to. A pile of royalty income in five or ten years can’t mean a lot to her. But some money right now would buy her a bit of comfort, maybe someone to look after her and make sure she gets the things she needs. I think five thousand would turn her head.”