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

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.

Chapter Five
    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