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married.”
    “Maybe just luckier.” Roscoe looked up at the clock on the wall behind the bar. “You better start gettin’ on home. Your old lady’s gonna have some kinda fit.”
    Brun shook his head. “Won’t be anything new or different. Go on, now, eat up your cake. It’s your favorite, all chocolate.” Brun waved to the bartender. “Hey, Oz, two more Jack Daniels.” He grinned at Roscoe. “Gotta have somethin’ to wash it down with.”

Chapter Three
    Tuesday, April 3
Afternoon
    Roscoe turned the knob on the barber-shop door, but it wouldn’t open. Only then did he notice the CLOSED sign on the other side of the glass panel. He shaded his eyes. There was Brun at the piano, stomping his usual hell out of the beat with his left foot, banging notes as if the keyboard was some kind of mortal enemy. Three men, two white, one black, stood around the bench. Roscoe pounded at the door. “Brun…hey, Brun. Open up.”
    The black man on the near side of the piano bench turned.
    Roscoe pointed toward Brun, then toward himself, then again toward Brun. “Open the door,” he shouted.
    The black man tapped Brun’s shoulder. The barber looked around, startled, saw Roscoe, hustled off the piano bench to open the door.
    Roscoe turned a hard eye on the barber. “Only three o’clock and you’re closed?”
    Brun laughed. “Yeah, you bet. Hey, Roscoe…” He gestured toward the three men at the piano. “These guys’re from Chicago, terrific trio…what’d you say your name was again?”
    “The Windy City Ragtimers,” said one of the white men.
    “That’s it. Sorry, it just slipped outa my mind. They’re in town to do a show this weekend, so they come by to learn how old Brun plays ragtime. Let’s see how I can do with their names. Harry Willis, George Baldwin, Terry Singleton. That right?”
    The three men looked at each and nodded exaggerated surprise.
    “Boys, this here’s Roscoe Spanner, him and me been friends longer than any of you’ve been on earth. He was one of Tom Turpin’s guys in St. Lou, best damn bartender you ever did see. Now he lives out here, like me. Couple old guys getting away from the crappy weather.”
    Roscoe and the musicians shook hands.
    “I’m showing them how Scott Joplin taught me,” said Brun.
    Roscoe nodded. “Somehow, that don’t surprise me overly much. You’re gonna be a while, then, I suspect.”
    “I guess. Why don’t you hang around and listen?” Brun pointed to the barber chair. “Go on, get a load off. I won’t even sneak up on you with scissors.”
    Everyone chuckled. Roscoe shook his head. “I gotta go fix a loose step by old Mrs. Vollmer’s before she breaks a leg on it. But I was goin’ right past here, so I thought I’d stop a minute. Come by my place tonight after supper, okay?”
    Brun shrugged. “Well, sure, I can do that. ‘Bout seven, seven-thirty be all right?”
    Roscoe nodded. I’ll see you then. He waved toward the Windy City Ragtimers. “Nice meetin’ you boys.”
    Three yeahs.
    As Roscoe closed the door behind him, Willis, the black man, murmured, “Something’s on that man’s mind.”
    Brun sighed. “I hope he ain’t gonna tell me some doctor just gave him bad news. Get to be my age, never mind his, you don’t know who of your pals is still gonna be there when you wake up in the morning…
if
you wake up in the morning.” He walked quickly to the upright piano, opened the lid, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, unscrewed the cap, took a long swallow. Then, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and passed the bottle to Harry Willis, who took a more moderate swig. Brun coughed his throat clear. “Well, we’re all of us still here today, so let’s play us some ragtime.” He sat on the bench. “Here, now, I’m gonna show you exactly how Scott Joplin did.”
    ***
    Brun moved his napkin to his mouth to cover a burp. His wife shot him a sour look. “If you’d get home on time, and didn’t keep supper waiting, it