The King of Ragtime

by Larry Karp

  Aunt Ida clasped her hands before her face, like her happiness was almost too much to bear. Uncle Clarence, though, still frowned. “What kinda contract he give you?”

  Dubie tightened his lips. “Well, I ain’t got no contract, not yet. Mr. Berlin said come on back tomorrow, and we get it all tied up. But I don’t see there be any sorta problem. Man love my music and he want to publish it.”

  Now, Ida looked as concerned as her husband. Clarence aimed a finger Dubie’s way. “Boy, now don’t you be forgettin’ that this’s New York you’re in. Or that you’re colored, an’ Mr. Berlin is white. Did you leave that music of yours with him?”

  “Well, yeah. Sure I did. How else he gonna publish it?”

  Clarence felt like the last rose of summer. Why did every generation have to learn the same lesson, over and over and over, no end in sight. The boy needed some sense kicked into him, but Clarence knew that was not his place. “You just be careful,” he said. “New York’s the toughest place in the world. There’s good people here all right, but there’s also a whole lot of bad. And a colored man’s a fool if he goes and trusts a white man he just that minute met.”

  No point pushing him, Dubie thought. “I do thank you, Uncle Clarence. I hear what you say, and I will take care. Ain’t no man, white or colored, gonna take advantage and make a fool outa me.”

  Clarence picked up his fork, but stopped short of using it on food. Instead, he pointed it at his nephew. “Something else you better keep in your mind. Back some five years ago, Scott Joplin left some music with your Mr. Irving Berlin. After a time, Berlin gave it back, said it wasn’t good enough. But right after that, he put out ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band,’ and then all manner of commotion went and broke loose. Joplin swore Berlin stole that tune, note for note, from his music. It was in the papers and all. Everybody in Harlem was talking about it. You best be on your guard around Irving Berlin.” Clarence stabbed his fork into a piece of pork, and filled his mouth.

  “Well, I will do just that,” Dubie said. “I ain’t nobody’s fool, never was, never will be.” He picked up his fork and started in to work on his pork and beans. Clarence and Ida exchanged looks, said nothing, didn’t have to. Nearly forty years of marriage, most couples pick up the knack.

  Chapter Five

  Brooklyn

  Wednesday, August 23

  Late morning

  Scott Joplin sat at the small upright piano in Joe Lamb’s living room, hitting keys and scribbling notes onto the music composition paper Lamb had given him the night before. His Symphony Number One would have to do it for him, that and If. Maybe one day, somebody might discover Treemonisha, and then people would say yes, Scott Joplin really was some potatoes, a colored man, wrote a symphony and an opera, think of that. But he had less time to finish his symphony than he had money, which was saying something. Not that he minded about the money—nice to have it, sure, but he’d always figured money was like food. You’ve got to get enough to satisfy your needs, but go make eating the reason for living, then your stomach grows to where you never can fill it up, and you spend the rest of your life stuffing cheese and oysters down your throat without even tasting them. But time was a whole different story. Seventeen years ago, when he lived in Sedalia, writing and teaching music, helping kids like Arthur Marshall and Scott Hayden write their music, getting his penny-a-copy royalties contract from John Stark to publish “Maple Leaf,” it seemed like he had all the time in the world. What happened to all that time? If only… If. Black fingers glided over white and black piano keys.

  Martin Niederhoffer glanced over from the sofa. Strange music. It sounded like something Beethoven or Brahms might have written if they’d just spent an evening in a Harlem club, listening to Luckey Roberts or old One-Leg Willie Joseph. Occasionally there came a short passage Martin recognized as a theme from one or another of Joplin’s rags. One such, from “The Entertainer,” surprised Martin with an unexpected move into a minor key that tugged so hard at the young man’s heart, it brought tears to his eyes. He looked hard at Joplin, but as always, could tell nothing from his teacher’s face. If the man had put as much work into playing poker as he had into writing music, he’d be living on the snazziest block of Easy Street.

  Martin wiped his face with his forearm. Goddamn house was like a Turkish bath. His shirt was drenched, stuck to his back. He dragged himself into the kitchen, filled a glass of water from the tap, drank it as he stared out the window. “Jim-i-nee,” he muttered, “I might just as well be in jail.” Finally, he wandered back into the living room, and for a moment stood and stared at Joplin, still playing his Germanic ragtime. Shout ‘Fire,’ Martin thought, and the man wouldn’t even notice.

  He had a piece of paper in his pocket with Mrs. Stanley’s street address and phone number, and Mr. Lamb’s address and phone number at the customs house where he worked. “In case you need help,” Mrs. Stanley had said. Some joke. The only thing he needed help with was how to stay awake, sitting around in a boiling-hot little house in Brooklyn, baby-sitting a man who could spend eight hours composing music without saying a word. Meanwhile, no one was checking into Sid’s murder. And who was closer to the situation than Martin Niederhoffer? If he could only get this mess cleaned up, he could go back to work, persuade Mr. Berlin to take on Mr. Joplin’s music, and then go get a marriage license…hold on. By now, Birdie would have been at work all morning, wouldn’t she? Maybe she could tell him something she’d heard or seen that might put him on the right track.

  He scrambled to the edge of the sofa, reached over the armrest, grabbed up the candlestick telephone from the little end table, put the receiver to his ear, waited for the operator to cut in. And waited. And waited. He tapped his foot, rapid-fire. “Hey, operator…operator,” he shouted into the mouthpiece,

  Joplin turned, looked at him for a second, then went back to his work.

  Martin shouted for the operator a second time, a third, a fourth. Then he dropped the earpiece back into the cradle, slammed the telephone back onto the table, and slumped against the armrest. “God damn things never work when you need them.” He glanced at his wristwatch. Only one o’clock. Mr. Lamb wouldn’t be home until after five—and then what? Eat dinner, sit around, tell his story another time to that Mr. Stark, Nell’s father.

  “No!” Martin pounded a fist into an open palm. “What do they think, I’m just a stooge? I’m gonna find out about Sid’s murder—and Mr. Joplin’s music.”

  He jumped from the sofa, running, out of the living room, through the front door, across the porch, down the stairs to the sidewalk. He shaded his eyes, looked both ways, then took off toward the subway kiosk at the far end of the next block, but had to pull up at the corner to let a line of wagons and automobiles go past. He jogged in place, ready to charge at the first opportunity. Not even half an hour, he could be talking to Birdie.

  Traffic broke. Martin put a foot down to the street, but froze as he felt a hand close on his arm. He stepped back up onto the curb, ready to swing a fist—and found himself face to face with Scott Joplin. Before Martin could say a word, a short, wiry man with small, mean eyes just visible under the brim of a “straw hat” stuck his jaw toward Martin’s chest and piped, “This nigger botherin’ you, bub? The little man’s fists were balled, his right hand drawn back, ready to fire.

  “No,” Martin said, and shifted to place himself between Joplin and the pint-sized aggressor. “He’s my piano teacher. My friend. Beat it.”

  The man’s face showed clearly what he thought of a white man who’d claim a colored man as a teacher, let alone a friend. Martin drew back his own fist. “I said beat it. Get yourself the hell outa here.”

  The man took long enough to spit, then stomped off across the street.

  From Joplin’s face, you’d have thought Martin might just have given the man directions to Coney Island, but the composer said, quietly, “Thank you, Martin.”

  “Well, sure, what else was I gonna say?” He looked J
oplin up and down, as if confirming the fact he was really there. “Mr. Joplin, what’re you doing here?” Martin jabbed a finger toward Lamb’s apartment.

  Joplin looked confused. “You said we were going to find out who killed your friend, and what Irving Berlin is up to with my music. I heard you perfectly clearly.”

  Had he been talking out loud, back there in the apartment? Martin would’ve sworn he’d only thought those ideas, but Joplin was hardly a mind reader. Too late now, though, to think about that. What he had to do was get Joplin back to the house, fast…uh-oh. “Mr. Joplin? Did the door lock behind you?”

  Joplin’s expression suggested that Martin might be losing his mind. “Why, yes, of course. I made sure it was locked. This isn’t Sedalia. In New York, you lock your door when you go out.”

  Martin’s mind whirled. He couldn’t take Joplin back and leave him sitting on the stoop all afternoon. He couldn’t even go back and sit with Joplin for four hours, then try to explain to Mr. Lamb and everyone else how they’d managed to get themselves locked out. Especially since Joplin would say they’d started out to find a killer and have a talk with Irving Berlin.

  Martin grabbed his teacher’s arm. “Sorry, Mr. Joplin, I’m just trying to be extra careful that we locked up, since it’s Mr. Lamb’s place and he’s being good enough to put us up.” He jerked his head toward the far side of the street. “It’s clear, let’s go.”

  Joplin fell into step beside him.

  ***

  Joe Lamb pulled the heavy wooden door open, and walked into the church. He liked to come here during his lunch hour: a few minutes in the cool, dark room seemed to restore him for the afternoon’s work ahead, particularly in the heat of summer when people tended to be short-tempered and impatient. In one quick motion he genuflected and blessed himself, then stood and walked into a rear pew, where he knelt, and murmured, “Almighty God, my friend and benefactor, Scott Joplin, is in danger, as is Martin, the young man who so bravely and generously helped him. I ask you to please protect and guide them both out of harm’s way. I ask this in your name, with thanksgiving for your guidance.”

  Again, Lamb blessed himself, then rose from his knees. It occurred to him that some might consider his decision to offer shelter to the fugitives as reason for confession, but he would decide for himself when he’d sinned and when he hadn’t. He wondered what Joplin might think about his request for divine intervention. His mentor had little use for churches and even less for preachers, who for nearly twenty years had condemned the wonderful music he wrote as being the devil’s own. Well, the prayer couldn’t hurt, and in any case, no reason to mention it to Joplin. Lamb practiced his religion; he did not preach it.

  ***

  All the way into Manhattan on the subway, neither Martin nor Joplin spoke. Martin tried to dope out an approach; Joplin kept pulling a sheet of music paper out of his pocket, scribbling a few notes, putting it back, pulling it out again. Martin wondered whether he stopped composing when he was in bed at night with his wife.

  A block down Broadway from Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, Martin guided Joplin into a drug store and up to a bank of five telephone booths. He pushed the composer into an empty booth, sat him down. “I just need to make a quick call.”

  Joplin nodded. “All right.”

  Martin slid into the next booth, gave the operator Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder’s number, put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece, and half-turned so his back faced the door. When Fannie, the receptionist, answered, he said, “Yeah, hello. This is Roger Walker, the bookkeeper up at Irving Berlin, Inc. I need to talk to Martin Niederhoffer.”

  The young man waited through the pause he knew would come, then heard Fannie say, “Mr. Niederhoffer isn’t in today.”

  “Christ!” Martin counted to three, then went on. “Okay, look. Mr. Berlin wants some numbers, and he wants ’em now. Is Niederhoffer’s assistant in, the girl?”

  “Birdie Kuminsky? Yes.”

  “Good. Lemme talk to her.”

  “Just a minute.”

  The thump of Martin’s heart against his ribs was almost painful. He went through his speech one more time, then when he heard Birdie’s “Hello?” he pulled the handkerchief away from the phone and spoke as fast as he could. “Birdie, listen—do not say my name. Just say, ‘Hello, Mr. Walker,’ like you don’t know why I’m calling.”

  Silence.

  “Birdie. Say it. Now.”

  “Hello…Mr. Walker?”

  “Beautiful. Now, listen. I’ve got to talk to you. You know where they keep the monthly sales records, right? Go in there, pretend to pick up last month’s numbers, but just grab a handful of blank pages and put them in a file folder. Then come up to Schneider’s. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Mr. Walker, please. I’m right in the middle of trying to finish up the numbers that the bookkeeper didn’t get to do last night. Mr. Tabor won’t let me out to run an errand.”

  “Yes he will. Listen, Miss Kuminsky, listen careful. You do know where they keep those numbers, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. Do what I said. Get the papers inside a folder, then go in and tell Tabor that Mr. Berlin is up at I-B, Inc, and he wants those figures right now. Tabor’s not gonna call to check, and take a chance on catching hell for interrupting Mr. B. I’ll meet you at Schneider’s. Okay?”

  “I’ll get right on it, Mr. Walker.” Then, the line clicked dead.

  Martin grinned. This was some girl. If he didn’t marry her fast, someone else would beat his time. But that was not going to happen.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, Birdie walked out of Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, clutching a manila folder to her chest. Mr. Tabor had looked kind of funny at her, maybe a little mad, but he didn’t say no, just that she shouldn’t take too long. She cocked a finger in her mind at Martin, and started to tell him what-for, but she didn’t get far before she began giggling. Her boyfriend could be aggravating, but he was so enthusiastic all the time, so much fun. Something was always happening around Martin; he made things happen. Life with him would never be dull. In spite of the mid-day heat, she shivered when she thought of Martin being the first person she’d see every morning, and the last every night. If he’d asked her to, she’d have emptied the petty cash box and brought him the money. By the time she turned into the doorway at Schneider’s Deli, she was running.

  She spotted Martin and Joplin all the way in the back, and hurried across the black and white tiled floor to their table. Martin held a chair for her, then called the waiter and ordered vanilla egg creams for himself and Birdie; Joplin ordered sarsaparilla. The waiter, sour-pussed with the knowledge that this was going to be at most a nickel tip, marched away.

  Birdie watched him go, then set the folder of papers on the table, and stage-whispered to Martin, “All right, what is going on?” She glanced at Joplin, who looked confused. “And what happened to Sid last night? There have been police around almost all day, and they keep talking about you and Mr. Joplin. Between the policemen and their questions, and the fact that your work from last night has to be done all over because the pages were covered with blood, Mr. Tabor’s got the worst heebie-jeebies I’ve ever seen. You’ve got to talk fast. If I take too long, he’s going to give me real trouble.”

  Martin checked his watch. “Okay. The problem is, I don’t know what happened. I was trying to finish up those figures, took off for a few minutes to go to the bathroom, and when I came back, I found Sid with his throat cut. Mr. Joplin was standing there…” Martin paused long enough to decide not to mention the uncomfortable fact that Joplin had been holding a bloody razor. “So I ran, and took him with me.”

  “You ran? Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Because if I did, they’d most likely have said Mr. Joplin did it. I mean, he was standing there in the room with Sid—”

  Joplin looked up from where he’d been scrawling musical notes on his napkin. “I did not do
it. I came in to talk to Mr. Berlin about my play. The door to that room was open, and I knew it was Martin’s office, so I went in and found his friend.” The longer Joplin talked, the faster he spoke, and the more his voice rose. Two men at a nearby table turned to look.

  Birdie leaned across the table to rest a hand on Joplin’s. “Take it easy, Mr. Joplin,” she crooned. “We know you didn’t do it.”

  Joplin blinked. Martin saw the muscles in his face relax. “But I’ve got to talk to Mr. Berlin; he called last night, and I still haven’t seen him.”

  “I just came from the office, and he’s not in right now,” Birdie said. “Why don’t you let Martin try to find out who killed his friend, so no one can ever blame it on you. And then we’ll get you another appointment with Mr. Berlin. Okay?” She finished with a warm smile.

  Martin couldn’t believe it. A line like that, off the top of her head. Butter would melt in her mouth.

  The waiter left the drinks, then strode off. Martin watched him all the way to the front of the deli. Then he leaned toward his girlfriend. “Birdie, listen. I don’t know what’s going on. There was nobody else in that office, but somebody killed Sid while I was out in the bathroom.”