The Ragtime Fool Read Online Free PDF Page B

sink. Almost seven-thirty. Brun sighed; she wasn’t going to like this. “I’ve got to go out,” he ventured. “Roscoe came by the shop earlier, and he wanted to talk to me about something. Sounded like it might be important.”
    She surprised him. “I hope he’s not sick.”
    “That’s what I’m worrying about. He looked okay, but you never do know. Get to be eighty, you’ve already beaten a lot of the odds.”
    May sighed. “Well, I’ll say a prayer. He’s a good man, even if he is colored.”
    Brun bit on his tongue. If she knew what-all Roscoe did in St. Louis fifty years ago, serving up liquor and running traffic for the rooms upstairs, she’d be saying how it’d be God’s punishment, never mind why it took the Almighty all that time to get around to it. He bent to kiss her cheek.
    “You won’t be late, will you?”
    He shook his head, almost said, “Promise,” but swallowed the word. Then he walked to the front door, picked up his fedora, planted it on his head, strode outside.
    ***
    The sun was setting as Brun walked to the corner. He took in a deep breath, blew it out very slowly. A puff of breeze came off the ocean; the hair on his arms stood up. Little chilly. Maybe he should go back and get a jacket? Nah, he’d be okay. Besides, he was already late.
    He walked quickly down Crestmore to Oakwood, turned left onto Woodlawn, then continued all the way down to Roscoe’s small white stucco house on Zeno, in a neighborhood a rank below Brun’s middle-class surroundings. Some of the lazy bums who’d been living in the cheap rents around the canals had moved up here; they called themselves Beats, Brun guessed, because they were too beat from staying up all night writing poetry and smoking reefer to get an honest job. They didn’t get on with the old-timers, and there had been some nasty scenes, cops coming in with sirens howling, heads getting bashed with billy clubs. Brun didn’t like for Roscoe to be living there, but what choice was there for an old colored man who made his living doing odd jobs?
    The barber walked up a narrow concrete strip from the street to the little stoop at the front door. Doggone place needed painting, probably also a roof, and at least a couple new windows. Roscoe never seemed to have time to take care of his own property. Like the shoemaker and his kids, Brun thought. He climbed the three rickety steps to the porch, and knocked at the door.
    No answer. Brun looked at the grimy doorbell, but that hadn’t worked in more years than he could remember. “Roscoe,” he shouted. “Hey, Roscoe! Where the hell are you?”
    The barber pulled the screen door open, then turned the knob on the front door. Roscoe never locked up. Whenever Brun suggested that might not be a good idea any more, his friend shrugged mildly, and said, “Anybody want to try and steal what I got in that house just be wastin’ his time.”
    Brun called Roscoe’s name again, still no answer. He trotted through the living room, the bedroom, the bathroom, then walked back into the living room. No luck. Maybe when Brun didn’t show on time, Roscoe got impatient, and went on over to Brun’s? Naw. They’d have had to cross somewhere along the way.
    Then, Brun noticed the basement door was open. Well, sure. Roscoe was probably down at his workbench, fixing a chair or a little table that Mrs. Vollmer or one of the other old white ladies who kept him in pocket change had sent home with him. Down there, he wouldn’t have heard anyone calling him.
    The barber hustled to the door, started down the stairs, but stopped as he saw it was dark below. Shoot! Roscoe just plain wasn’t here. Might as well go back home, try and catch up with him tomorrow. But as Brun turned to leave, he caught a familiar smell. Whiskey. There was rotgut down there, or his name wasn’t Sanford Brunson Campbell.
    He reached around the corner of the top stair, flipped the light switch, froze. “Roscoe,” a moan. He whipped down the