a little common sense. If you want to spend the rest of your days hollering ‘Scott Joplin’ at deaf people, I guess you’ll just have to go right ahead. But don’t you even think of doing something like mortgaging our house to pay for this craziness.”
How did she always know what was in his mind? “May, I’d never—”
“Yes, you would. And you’d better forget about it. I’m not going to ask you for a promise, because I know what your promises are worth. But if you put us in debt over this, I will walk out the door and never come back, and you’ll have to figure your own way out of your mess. That’s my final word on the subject.”
“May, come on, you know I wouldn’t do it. I owe a big debt to Mr. Joplin, but I wouldn’t mortgage the house.”
May sighed. He looked like a little boy, caught reaching for the cookie jar up on a high shelf. She pointed at his plate. “Eat your supper, Brun. Cold spaghetti’s pretty bad.”
***
After dinner, Brun told May he was going for a walk. Once outside, he tapped a cigarette from its box, lit up, then walked to Venice Boulevard and into the Rexall drug store. He got the soda jerk to change a fin, took the coins into the phone booth at the front of the store, closed the door, pulled a little notebook from his shirt pocket, and began to dial.
When he came out of the booth, he had thirty-five cents in his pocket and a glum look on his face. After fourteen calls, the kindest reaction he’d gotten was, “I’d like to help, Brun, but I’m hurting right now, myself.”
The old barber trudged out of the pharmacy into the warm spring evening, started to drag his feet homeward, but then stopped. “Yes!” he muttered, pumped a fist into the air, and took off at a codger’s stiff-legged trot, up Amoroso Court to Cal’s tiny cottage, where he banged on the door and called, “Hey, Cal, open on up. I got to talk to you.”
***
They sat on opposite sides of the tiny living room, each with a partially-drunk bottle of beer. For what seemed to Brun like forever, Cal just stared at him, didn’t say a word. Finally, the young man gestured with his bottle. “Let me get this straight. A woman walks into your barber shop, tells you she’s Scott Joplin’s long-lost daughter, and offers you the opportunity of your life. For a mere five thousand dollars, you can own Scott Joplin’s personal journal.”
“You got it,” Brun said. “And I need the dough in about a week.”
“Okay. Now, the first question is, why the hell are you talking to
me
? You don’t really think I’ve got five grand burning a hole in my pocket.”
“No, ‘course not. But I got to start someplace. Maybe you…” His voice wound down as he saw the look on Cal’s face.
“I couldn’t give you even
one
thousand, never mind five,” Cal said. “And not to hurt your feelings, but if I did have anything like that kind of money, just about the last thing I’d do with it is give it to you to publish Scott Joplin’s memoirs. If they really are Scott Joplin’s memoirs. Jesus, Brun—”
Brun pulled the page from his pocket. “Here, wise guy. Take a look at this.”
As the young man read, a twisted smile crept across his face. “Okay, now I get it. ‘The Reminiscences of Scott Joplin…brought your way by the one…the only…ta-da! Brun Campbell.’”
“Jeez-all-Pete, kid. If you didn’t talk so pretty, you could really piss me off.” Brun snatched the paper from Cal’s hand, slipped it back into his pocket. “So, what’s wrong with that? A man lives for as long as I have, he gets to askin’ himself, well, what did I
do
? Scott Joplin was a thing that comes along maybe once in a hundred years, and he put a ton of hope on me. And then I pissed my life away, cutting peoples’ hair when I shoulda been talking up Mr. Joplin’s music every place I could. Now, looky here, I ain’t bughouse. I never thought you could bankroll me. Why I came over was to see if maybe you know some
How did she always know what was in his mind? “May, I’d never—”
“Yes, you would. And you’d better forget about it. I’m not going to ask you for a promise, because I know what your promises are worth. But if you put us in debt over this, I will walk out the door and never come back, and you’ll have to figure your own way out of your mess. That’s my final word on the subject.”
“May, come on, you know I wouldn’t do it. I owe a big debt to Mr. Joplin, but I wouldn’t mortgage the house.”
May sighed. He looked like a little boy, caught reaching for the cookie jar up on a high shelf. She pointed at his plate. “Eat your supper, Brun. Cold spaghetti’s pretty bad.”
***
After dinner, Brun told May he was going for a walk. Once outside, he tapped a cigarette from its box, lit up, then walked to Venice Boulevard and into the Rexall drug store. He got the soda jerk to change a fin, took the coins into the phone booth at the front of the store, closed the door, pulled a little notebook from his shirt pocket, and began to dial.
When he came out of the booth, he had thirty-five cents in his pocket and a glum look on his face. After fourteen calls, the kindest reaction he’d gotten was, “I’d like to help, Brun, but I’m hurting right now, myself.”
The old barber trudged out of the pharmacy into the warm spring evening, started to drag his feet homeward, but then stopped. “Yes!” he muttered, pumped a fist into the air, and took off at a codger’s stiff-legged trot, up Amoroso Court to Cal’s tiny cottage, where he banged on the door and called, “Hey, Cal, open on up. I got to talk to you.”
***
They sat on opposite sides of the tiny living room, each with a partially-drunk bottle of beer. For what seemed to Brun like forever, Cal just stared at him, didn’t say a word. Finally, the young man gestured with his bottle. “Let me get this straight. A woman walks into your barber shop, tells you she’s Scott Joplin’s long-lost daughter, and offers you the opportunity of your life. For a mere five thousand dollars, you can own Scott Joplin’s personal journal.”
“You got it,” Brun said. “And I need the dough in about a week.”
“Okay. Now, the first question is, why the hell are you talking to
me
? You don’t really think I’ve got five grand burning a hole in my pocket.”
“No, ‘course not. But I got to start someplace. Maybe you…” His voice wound down as he saw the look on Cal’s face.
“I couldn’t give you even
one
thousand, never mind five,” Cal said. “And not to hurt your feelings, but if I did have anything like that kind of money, just about the last thing I’d do with it is give it to you to publish Scott Joplin’s memoirs. If they really are Scott Joplin’s memoirs. Jesus, Brun—”
Brun pulled the page from his pocket. “Here, wise guy. Take a look at this.”
As the young man read, a twisted smile crept across his face. “Okay, now I get it. ‘The Reminiscences of Scott Joplin…brought your way by the one…the only…ta-da! Brun Campbell.’”
“Jeez-all-Pete, kid. If you didn’t talk so pretty, you could really piss me off.” Brun snatched the paper from Cal’s hand, slipped it back into his pocket. “So, what’s wrong with that? A man lives for as long as I have, he gets to askin’ himself, well, what did I
do
? Scott Joplin was a thing that comes along maybe once in a hundred years, and he put a ton of hope on me. And then I pissed my life away, cutting peoples’ hair when I shoulda been talking up Mr. Joplin’s music every place I could. Now, looky here, I ain’t bughouse. I never thought you could bankroll me. Why I came over was to see if maybe you know some
Similar Books
