Free The Ragtime Kid by Larry Karp Page A

men said they wanted sheets as well.
    After the audience wandered back outside, Stark turned a look on Brun that told the boy he’d sold more than three copies of sheet music. “You’ve got a mouth on you, but you can deliver the goods. You’ll do. But you can’t work in my shop looking like you just walked off the last freight into town. Go back to Ohio, turn right, then go three blocks to the corner of Second, the St. Louis Clothing Store. Tell them to fix you up with a decent suit, shirts and a tie. Put it on my account.”
    Brun was two steps to the door when Stark called after him. “One more thing—where are you lodging?”
    “I’ve got a room at the Y,” Brun called over his shoulder.
    Stark nodded. “All right, go on, then. Get yourself suited up. I’ll see you at one o’clock.”
    At five minutes to one, Brun walked back through the door and up to Stark, who stood beside the piano, talking to a slim dark colored man in a worn, but clean, white shirt and black trousers. The two men caught sight of Brun at the same time, and the way they suddenly stopped talking and gapped the boy, he knew he had trouble. Stark made that plain in a hurry. “This is a music store, Brun. A respectable establishment.”
    “I’m sorry, sir,” Brun said. “I thought I looked pretty sharp.”
    The colored man laughed, which did not appear to do anything favorable for Stark’s frame of mind. “Sharp, is it, eh? Pink silk shirt? Patterned necktie so loud it could make me hard of hearing? Yellow and black checkered suit bright enough to blind me? Patent-leather shoes with pearl buttons? I guess you’d be just fine if you were going to work in a house of ill-repute, but you’re not going to work in
my
store looking like a pimp. Now, get yourself out of here. Go on back to St. Louis Clothing, and…who the hell waited on you, anyway? I’ll bet it was Felix, wasn’t it?”
    “That’s right.” Brun’s voice quavered like an organ pipe. “Mr. Felix Kahn. Big man, tall, very fine manners. Talks like a Frenchman—”
    “Blast it, he
is
a Frenchman,” Stark shouted. “So are his brothers, but they’ve got more sense than to sell an outfit like this to one of my employees. Get yourself back there PDQ, and tell Felix to take back these bordello duds and give you a proper outfit to work in my store.” He pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “If you’re back here and looking decent by one-thirty, you’ll still have a job.”
    In less than two minutes, Brun was inside the St. Louis Clothing Store. Felix Kahn laughed when he heard the problem. “Ah, Meestair Stark, he is so vairy tradeetional, yes? Well, come, come, young man. It would not do to have you lose your new job.” He pushed Brun back into the try-on room, and while the boy got himself out of his unrespectable threads, Kahn went off, then came back with two armfuls of dark cloth that Brun thought could in no way have given offense to an undertaker. “Put them on, young man, hurry,” Kahn said. “If you or Meestair Stark is not hoppy with ze fit, just come back and we will make adjustments.”
    The fit was fine, though the dark English worsted suit was heavier than Brun would have cared to wear in the Missouri summer. He tugged at the celluloid collar, then caught himself. For four hours a day, he could handle it. He’d wear his old clothes whenever he could, though it might be a good idea to get the dirt and hay out of them, and have a tailor stitch the holes.
    When Brun hustled back into Stark and Son, the clock on the wall behind the counter said one twenty-eight, but John Stark neither looked at it, nor did he check his watch. Just nodded at the colored man, and said, “Well, that’s a little better, isn’t it?”
    “Um-hmmm.” The colored man was grinning, clearly enjoying the situation. “Looks like a proper young gentleman now, don’t he?” He extended a hand to Brun, who gripped it. “I be Isaac, I work for Mr. Stark too.”
    “Brun