The Ragtime Fool by Larry Karp Read Free Book Online Page A

the developing brain of a young person. Now, hear me and hear me well. From this moment on, you will not spend another penny on ragtime music, and you will not play ragtime music in this house, not ever again. Do I make myself clear?”
    Alan tried to hold on, but went over the edge. “It’s my money. I earned it mowing lawns and shoveling snow, and I’ll spend it any way I damn please.”
    Dr. Chandler bounded to his feet, stood over his son. He reached toward his belt buckle. “This is not your house,” he barked. “This is my house and your mother’s, and if you’re going to live here, you’ll live by our rules. When you come of age, you can get your own place to live, and then if you want to throw away your money and your life, that will be your business. Do you understand
that
?”
    “Yes, I understand. And I still don’t agree.”
    His father drew back a fist. Across the table, Alan’s mother said, “Ron!”
    Dr. Chandler’s hand seemed to lower against his will. His shoulders rose to obscure his neck; Alan thought he looked like a vulture, ready to descend on a chunk of spoiled meat. “Insolent puppy! You’re going to find yourself trouble you’ll wish you’d never encountered. Now, you will apologize to your mother.”
    “For
what
?” Alan slammed his napkin onto the table. “She’s the one who was rude. Let
her
apologize to
me
.”
    Blotchy maps spread over Dr. Chandler’s cheeks. “Go to your room, right now,” he roared. “I’ve seen the last of you for this day.”
    “Fine with me,” Alan shouted at his father. “I’ve seen more than enough of you for the rest of my goddamn life.”
    He ran past his mother, into the hall, took the stairs three at a time, charged into his room, slammed the door, locked it. Fists clenched, he looked around for a moment, then launched a haymaker at the closet door. The wood splintered. The boy pulled back his hand and extracted a fair-sized sliver from his middle knuckle. Gingerly, he flexed his fingers; no pain, and they all seemed to work fine. “Stupid!” a growl. “Should have kicked it.”
    He gathered his records and sheet music from the floor and the desk, carried them to his dresser, opened the bottom drawer, slid the music under a pile of sweaters. “He finds it there and takes it, I’ll kill him,” the boy muttered.
    ***
    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