“All right, I’ll trust you.”
Alan felt a terrible tug at his throat.
“My father keeps a suitcase up in the attic, all full of money.”
“What? Doesn’t he believe in banks?”
Smug smile. “Listen, I’ll tell you. Late one night, a couple of years ago, I got hungry, so I went down to the kitchen. I was just about to go in when I heard a noise, so I peeked around the corner. My father had a pile of money on the table, and it looked like he was sorting it or counting it up. When he finished, he went out the far door, up the stairs to the attic. I went up after him, just far enough so I could see over the landing. He lifted a couple of floorboards, and pulled out an old suitcase, you know, one of those big, heavy tan leather things. He set it on the floor, opened it up, and put the money inside. Then, he turned and looked all around. I don’t know if he was just nervous, or if I’d made a little noise. Anyway, I ducked down and ran back to the kitchen, grabbed a few graham crackers, and got myself back in bed PDQ.”
“But why does he keep money in the attic? That’s weird.”
“Maybe not so weird. I don’t know for sure, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. You saw the way my father likes to quiz me about money and investments. Well, I’m not a dope. A lot of my father’s patients pay him in cash, and I think he keeps that stash in the attic because then he doesn’t have to declare it as income and pay tax on it.”
“Whew!” Alan wiped the lipstick-smeared napkin across his forehead. “Do you make a habit of borrowing from the First National Bank of Dad’s Suitcase?”
She giggled. “No, of course not. I never even touched the floorboard until yesterday, after dinner. My parents were in New York for a play, and Wednesday evenings, Slim always drives Sally down to the Baptist Church on Hamilton Avenue for some kind of ladies’ meeting, and waits around till she’s ready to leave… Alan, you’re red as a beet. Are you okay?”
He’d been thinking that Slim probably didn’t just sit around and wait at the church. “I’m fine. Go on, tell me what you did.”
“Easy. Soon as they were out the door, I ran up to the attic, lifted the floorboards, and pulled out the suitcase. Boy, was that thing ever heavy. Then, I set it on the floor and opened it.”
“It wasn’t locked?”
Miriam shook her head. “Those old things didn’t have locks on them, at least this one didn’t. I threw the catches on the left and the right and…oh, Alan, I couldn’t believe my eyes. No wonder it was so heavy. It was loaded with money. Twenties, fifties, hundreds. I took out what I just gave you, closed the suitcase, and put it back exactly the way I found it. Then I waited for morning. I could hardly sleep, I was so excited.”
“Isn’t your father going to notice there’s some missing?”
“I don’t see how. There were thousands of bills in there, and it looked just the same after I took what I did. I can’t imagine he counts what’s already in the suitcase. That would take hours.”
Alan felt as if his shirt pocket might have caught fire. He glanced down, then shook his head. “Miriam, I just don’t think I can do this.”
“Why not? My father’ll never miss it or need it.” Her voice shook, eyes shimmered. “Didn’t you mean what you told me, about how much you wished you could get that journal and take it to Mr. Campbell in Missouri?”
“Well, yeah. Of course I did. But—”
“But nothing. You said you wanted to do it, so I got you the money. Now, all you’ve got to do is give it to Mrs. Joplin, get on a train, and there you are.”
“Just like that. Bad enough what I got from my father last night. What’s he going to say when I tell him and my mother I’m going to Missouri to attend a ceremony for a ragtime music composer, and meet a ragtime piano player who uses lousy grammar and punctuation?”
Miriam’s face went wry. “I didn’t think you’d bother to tell them you were going…oh,
damn
, Alan! If I’d known you were such a chicken, I wouldn’t have bothered—”
He grabbed her by both wrists. “Keep
your
voice down. Listen, how the heck am I even supposed to find Mrs. Joplin, let alone give her the money and take the journal?”
“I thought of that. We’ll go down to the library and get a phone book that has Harlem in it, and find her address. Do you know her first name?”
Alan squinched his eyes in thought. “It was in
They All Played Ragtime
. Lucy? No, wait. Lottie. Yeah, that’s it, Lottie. But suppose she doesn’t have a phone?”
“Suppose, suppose, suppose. Then we’ll think of what to do next. Maybe there’s a New York City Directory at the Library.”
Alan sighed.
“Then, in the morning, you’ll get up and get dressed just like you’re going to school, but you’ll go downtown instead, hop on a New York bus, take the subway up to Harlem, and get the journal. Then, you’ll go down to Penn Station and catch the next train to Sedalia. Easy.”
“You sure it’s Penn Station? Maybe it leaves from Grand Central?”
“No. I guess I’m not really sure. But after the library, we can go over to the Lackawanna station and ask the ticket agent.” The girl slid off the booth seat, extended both hands to Alan. “Come on. Pay for the soda and let’s get moving.”
Friday, April 13
Morning
When Brun got an eyeful of Samuel J. Pepper’s law office, he stopped mid-stride and gawked. The lawyer worked out of a shabby storefront, the white paint on the sign above the door weathered and chipped, black letters faded. It looked more like a bailbondsman’s office than a lawyer’s. On the other hand, how many poor colored clients in Venice were going to haul themselves downtown to see a lawyer with a posh office up in a skyscraper? Brun muttered a rebuke to himself, then pushed the door open and walked inside.
The small anteroom held three green vinyl and chrome chairs, and a receptionist’s desk. An attractive young woman smiled at Brun. “I’ll bet you’re Mr. Campbell, right?”
“That’s me,” Brun said. “I must be a pretty important customer, you know me right off.” He looked closely at the woman. “And I bet you’re Mr. Pepper’s girl.”
She laughed. “You’d win. I’m working for my dad till I can get enough money together to go to law school myself. It’s good training.” The woman stood. “I’ll show you in.”
As the door to his office opened, Pepper looked up from behind his desk, dropped the document he was reading, slid off his black horn-rimmed glasses, and reached across to shake hands with Brun. “Mr. Campbell, glad to see you.” He motioned toward a scratched wooden chair at Brun’s side. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Brun sat. Pepper watched his daughter out of the room, then turned to the barber. “So, Mr. Campbell. Are you still interested in that proposal, or have you picked yourself up some patience?”
Brun loosed a low whistle. “It ain’t a matter of having patience, Mr. Pepper. Plain fact is, I need that money now. I told you why.”
Pepper nodded. “All right, then.” He slid the document he’d been reading across the desk to Brun. “Look it over. I want to make sure you understand all the details.”
Brun adjusted his spectacles, and slowly mumbled his way down the page. Toward the bottom, he stopped, squinted, then looked up. “This says if I pay you the money back before the estate is settled, I get the whole ball of wax, less however many days-worth of interest got charged on the loan. And if I don’t pay it back, I get what’s left of the estate, except for the interest.”
Pepper gestured with his glasses. “That’s right.”
“But there’s no way you’re going to make anything on the deal.”
Pepper folded his hands on the desk in front of him, then blinked several times, a dark-skinned owl. “Roscoe thought very highly of you, Mr. Campbell. He told me you’re one of the few people he met in his life who genuinely didn’t care if a man was white or colored, and that you’d stood up for him several times when it really mattered.”
A lopsided smile came over Brun’s face. “We did have ourselves a nasty scrape or two over the years. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but once upon a time, I could throw a pretty good punch when some yahoo started yelling nigger.”
“So I heard.” Pepper grinned. “And considering that, it doesn’t seem right for me to profit from what you’re trying to do.”
Brun was shaking his head before Pepper stopped speaking. “What don’t seem right is for me to take advantage of you being kind and helping me.”
“We can argue all day,” Pepper said. “But those are my terms. Take them or leave them. If it makes you feel any better, you can figure that doing it this way makes it much less likely I could be charged with an ethics violation.”
Brun’s mouth moved, but nothing came out. Finally, he managed, “How about we at least split the difference. You take half of—”
“Not a penny,” Pepper said. “Roscoe told me you’re up to your neck in projects to give Joplin his proper place in history, so you can use the rest of the money for those.” A sly smile crossed his face. “Though I do have to say, Mr. Campbell, it’s mighty white of you to offer.”
***
Alan knew his way around New York City. For the past five or six years, he’d been going in on his own to take in a movie and stage show at the Roxy, a Sunday matinee at Carnegie Hall, or a baseball game up at the Polo Grounds. This particular morning, he got off the B train at St. Nick’s and 135
th
Street, two stops before the Polo Grounds. He took the stairs three at a time, and bounded up into bright sunlight. The April wind packed a chilly punch; the boy zipped his jacket, then started up Edgecombe Avenue.
His parents had often warned him not to go into Harlem, but he didn’t think it looked dangerous. Some of the pedestrians gave him a bit of a stare, but no one approached him or said anything. He passed grocery stores, confectionaries, clothing stores, small storefront restaurants that sent odors into the street he didn’t recognize, but liked. At 138th, he turned right, walked to Eighth Avenue and across the street. Mrs. Joplin lived at 212 West 138th. Should be on this block.
He crossed to the north side of the street, and stepped up his pace. A man, sitting on a stoop, called, “Hey, boy, you lookin’ for somebody?”
Alan slowed just a bit, tried to look casual, waved and shouted back, “I’m okay, thanks.” Don’t run, he told himself. His heart beat a Krupa riff.
The buildings on this street were different from the ones to the west: bigger, more gingerbread, better kept up. The boy tried not to hurry, but as the numbers fell, he couldn’t keep from walking faster and faster.
Number 212 was a large brownstone. Alan climbed the worn stairs, and rang the doorbell. Then he stood, shuffling from one foot to the other. After a minute, he raised a hand to ring again, paused, then took a breath and pushed the button.
He heard a sound from inside, a slow, steady thump, coming closer. Then the door opened slowly, and he found himself staring at the homeliest woman he’d ever seen, hands down. She looked old beyond reckoning, hunched over, twisted fingers clutching a cane. A shapeless housedress, white with flower prints, hung loosely from her shoulders. Her white hair was scraggly, eyes rheumy, and she had the face of someone who’d just caught a strong whiff from a bottle of ammonia. The old woman craned her neck to look up at Alan. “Who you be?” she rasped. “What you be wantin’ here?”
Her eyes bored holes through his skull. Alan gave serious thought to turning and running like hell. Go to a movie, then get back home in time to pretend he’d been at school all day. But the thought of meeting Scott Joplin’s only white pupil, giving him Joplin’s journal, and getting ragtime lessons from him kept the boy’s feet in place. “I…I’m here f-f-”
“Spit it out,” the old woman snapped. “I ain’t got all day to stand here and listen at you stutter.”
Alan closed his eyes. His throat was so dry, he couldn’t swallow. When he opened his eyes, the woman was still there, but her gaze was softer. “Well, come on inside,” she said, in a much more civil tone. “I shouldn’t be talkin’ at you like that. Just that it’s hard for me to stay on my feet for any time.”
Thoughts of Hansel and Gretel in his head, Alan walked into the vestibule. The walls were covered with photographs of colored people, mostly men. Alan paused in front of one he recognized; the woman chortled. “You know who that be, do you?”
“Well, sure,” Alan said. “Who wouldn’t know Duke Ellington? And he signed it.”
The woman waved her free hand. “I always get ’em to sign for me, been doin’ it more’n forty years now. Ain’t one colored musician or composer in New York City hasn’t been here one time or another. Lots of them as boarders.”
She motioned Alan into a room to the left; he took three steps inside, then stopped and stared. A gleaming mahogany grand piano, draped with a faded blue and yellow scarf, held dominion over the room. Massive scarlet drapes framed two windows which looked out onto the street; an old oak record player, lid up, sat on an oak table under the near window. Not a square inch of wall showed between the framed photographs. The woman chuckled. “Ain’t never seen a room like this, huh, boy? If you’da come here in 1920, it woulda looked just exactly the same. With a “Whoof!” she collapsed into a well-used tan wingback chair. “Now.” She patted a matching chair beside hers. “Sit you down, and tell me what is it?” Her words floated on wheezes. “You can just take you’ time, I sittin’ now.”
The woman gave off the same odor as Alan’s grandmother, a mild, sweetish smell of decay. She was still incredibly ugly, but now, relaxed in her chair, she seemed far less scary. “You’re Mrs. Joplin? Lottie Joplin?”
Her eyes lit. “That’s who I be, all right. How about you?”
“My name is Alan Chandler, Mrs. Joplin, and I—”
She waved him silent. “You can stop with the ‘Mrs. Joplin’ stuff. ‘Lottie’ be just fine. Now, what on earth can I be doin’ for you, huh?”
Alan patted the thick envelope in his pocket. “I’m here to get Mr. Joplin’s journal, to give it to Mr.—”
“Oh, well, for heaven’s sake. I shoulda knowed. That man was just bound and determined he was gonna get that book. He sent the money with you?”
Alan pulled the envelope from his pocket, gave it to Lottie. “Here it is. I’m going to take the journal to him—”
He intended to say, “In Sedalia, for the ceremony,” but she cut him off. “Boy, what be goin’ on here?” She jabbed a finger into the envelope. “This ain’t no five hundred dollars.”
“Well, no, it’s five thousand. That’s what he said I’m supposed to give you.”
Lottie looked from Alan to the money, then back to the boy. “What you say is your name again?”
“Alan. Alan Chandler.”
“And how old you be.”
“Seventeen.”
The boy thought he’d never seen a sadder smile. “Well, Alan, I got to tell you, gettin’ old ain’t no stroll through the park. Once upon a time, I could remember ‘most anything. Forty years now, I been runnin’ a boardin’ house, and time was, I could tell you the name of every single one a my boarders, and how long he’d been there, and if his rent wasn’t paid up, how much he owed. But now? Jeesh! I be lucky if I remember my own name sometimes. I got it in my head that I was supposed to get five
hundred
for that journal.”
“No, ma’am…Lottie. I’m sure it was five thousand. I have it in writing.”
The old woman started to cry silently. A drop fell onto the envelope. “Now, I’m gonna go and get all embarrassed.” She wiped a sleeve against her face. “Well, God bless you, Alan, I just can’t believe my good fortune. This’ll probably keep me for as long as I get to stay on earth.”
Alan wanted to cheer her. “It’s really going to make people know who Scott Joplin was,” he said. “It’ll be a real splash in Sedalia, at the ceremony.”
Lottie looked puzzled. “Hmmm, you don’t say. I thought he was just gonna publish it.”
“I think he will. But first, he’s going to show it to people at that ceremony, and persuade them to build a statue for Mr. Joplin, and maybe a museum, too.”
“A statue and a museum…” Alan could barely hear the old woman’s murmur. Then, she seemed to recollect herself. “All right, now, listen here.” She pointed out the open doorway. “Go on out there, down the hall, first doorway on the right-hand side. Watch your step goin’ down the stairs. At the bottom, pull on the light-string, an’ you’ll see a li’l table just off to your right. The journal gonna be sittin’ right there, waitin’ for you. Go ‘long, now.”
Alan’s hands shook as he gripped the handrail and started down the staircase to the cellar. As he came to the last step, a string brushed his cheek; he pulled it. A light bulb above the middle of the room came on.
Was there no end of wonders in this house? Beyond a little table holding a thick book covered in faded brown leather lay piles of paper, some on broken-down chairs, more on the floor. Alan walked slowly into the room, taking care not to step on anything. He plucked a handful of papers off the floor. Music manuscripts, most of them heavily syncopated. Some filled a page, some were just a few notes.
The boy wandered, sampling as he went. His head swam. There had to be thousands of pages here. He was too excited to think clearly, wondered whether he could sweep up an armful and take it away with the journal, but a shrill shout brought him back. “Boy…
Alan
! You find that journal okay?”
He cupped a hand around his mouth. “Yes. I’ll be right there.”
As he walked back into the sitting room, he held up the journal to Lottie. The old woman nodded. “Uh-huh. That be it, all right. Why’d you take so long?”
“I was looking at all the music down there. Is it Mr. Joplin’s work?”
“Sure is. That man musta published only one piece outa every hundred he wrote. They had to be good enough, at least accordin’ to him, else they just sat there.”
Alan lowered himself into the chair. “What’s going to happen to them?”
The old woman shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. Sometimes I think I oughta give them to somebody, get ’em copyrighted and published, but I don’t know who. What if they use their own name, an’ just steal the music offa Scott? And then, if Scott didn’t like ’em good enough to publish them hisself, would he be sore at me if I do it? Anyway, ain’t nobody these days I can think of who’d want to publish music by Scott Joplin.”
I can think of someone, Alan thought, but decided to keep the idea to himself, at least until he got to Sedalia and had a chance to talk to Brun Campbell. Maybe he could put more than a journal into Mr. Campbell’s hands. Come back from Sedalia, pay Lottie another visit, get all that music together and ship it to California. How many folios could be made out of that mountain of paper? ‘The Music of Scott Joplin. Collected by Brun Campbell and Alan Chandler.’”
“Boy, where be your mind? You look like you’s a thousand miles away.”
Alan laughed. “I guess maybe I was. That’s how far it is from here to Sedalia.”
“Mmm-mmm. Don’t pay proper heed, you can find you’self a mess of trouble.”
“I’ll be careful.”
***
Penn Station at mid-day was Pandemonium. Alan pushed through the mob toward the Western Union kiosk in the grand lobby. He had a little more than half an hour; if there was no line, he’d be okay.
The clerk, gray and bespectacled, sat behind the little glass window, his face as blank as the form Alan took from the holder on the counter. “To Mr. Brun Campbell,” he wrote. “711 Venice Boulevard, Venice, California. I got Joplin journal STOP Bringing it to Sedalia STOP Be there tomorrow STOP. Alan Chandler.” He ticked off the words with the pen, muttered “Damn, eleven,” then crossed out the ‘I’.