The King of Ragtime

by Larry Karp

  Martin swallowed hard, then took a sip at his drink. “Thanks, Mr. Joplin. Come on, we’re going to meet Mrs. Joplin, and she’ll get you back home, or someplace.”

  “Home? But when are we going to see Irving Berlin?” A splash of orange spilled from Joplin’s cup onto the tile floor.

  “Later,” Martin said, and wondered whether Chicago would be far enough away. “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of it. Mrs. Joplin says you know where the Alamo Club is, right?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been there.” Joplin fell into step beside Martin.

  ***

  A few minutes before one o’clock, Robert Miras tiptoed into the study. His boss didn’t usually work on his music this early in the day, but the past couple of weeks, it seemed that Berlin’s whole schedule had gone topsy-turvy. This revue he was doing with Victor Herbert had made him even more irritable than usual, no small accomplishment. The composer sat side-by-side with Cliff Hess, his musical secretary and arranger, at that special piano with the lever he could move so he could play in whatever key he wanted. They’d been there only half an hour, but the floor around the bench was littered with music paper, much of it crumpled. Miras swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” he finally managed. “But Mr. Tabor is on the phone for you. He says it’s important.”

  Berlin didn’t look around. “Tell him I’m busy, I’ll call him later.”

  “He said you’d say that, sir, and he told me to tell you it really is very important, and it won’t take more than a minute.

  Berlin banged the keyboard with both hands; the discordant crash filled the room. “Son of a bitch!” He swung around to face Miras. “I had that line, I was this close. Ah!”

  Hess sat silently, his face a mask.

  Berlin leaped off the piano bench and charged past his valet to the telephone with the disabled ringer on the little Sheraton table next to the doorway. “Tabor?” he shouted into the receiver. “God damn it to hell, what is so fucking important, you had to interrupt me?”

  Miras’ expression didn’t change. S.O.P., and like Hess, he had long since become accustomed to it. He turned and walked soundlessly out of the room.

  Berlin heard Tabor swallow. “Mr. Berlin, have you had a chance to look over the material I left for you yesterday?”

  Christ, Berlin thought. I should have known. “No, I haven’t. When I got back last night, there were two cops waiting to talk to me, and they took their goddamn sweet time about it, over an hour. Then it took me another hour to get so I could actually do some work. And I’m working now—or I would be, if people would just leave me the hell alone. When I get some time, I’ll look over that stuff of yours, but until then, quit bugging me about it. I’ll call you. Is that clear enough?”

  A brief silence, then, “Yes, Mr. Berlin.”

  “Good. Your minute’s up.” He slammed down the receiver, started back to the piano, then stopped long enough to snicker, shake his head, and mutter, “Suck-ass toady. Wish I could’ve seen his face.”

  ***

  About halfway between Seventh and Eighth on 125th, Joplin pointed at a fleabag Burly-Q house, posters on either side of the theater entryway, showing every detail permissible by law of a Hundred Gorgeous Girls. “There it is. The Alamo Club.”

  As Martin scanned the entryway, one of the Hundred came up from behind. “You’re early, boys—’less you want a private show. I only live down the block.”

  She was big in every dimension, hair a brilliant red never seen in nature, splashing over her shoulders. But no amount of makeup could compensate for the harsh line of her mouth. Her eyes were blue, with pupils so small, Martin could barely make them out. “I’m sorry…no,” he said. “We’re looking for the Alamo.”

  The girl snickered. “Pretty early for that, too, you ask me, but there it is.” She pointed toward a narrow wooden door at the far side of the theater. “Go on in there, downstairs.”

  Joplin executed a polite bow. “Thank you, Miss.” Martin grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him away, toward the door.

  Inside, the young man led Joplin carefully down a worn wooden staircase, into a cave of a room that reeked of antique cigarette smoke. They walked past the bar, where a colored bartender barely moved as he filled glasses for five men, three colored, two white. Martin heard voices from the big room beyond, a man’s and a woman’s, and as he and Joplin walked in, he saw the man—a white man—at a piano, gesturing up at a colored woman who stood on a little stage before him. To Martin’s surprise, Joplin worked his way quickly through lines of battered wooden tables that filled the room, marched right up to the piano man, and tapped his shoulder. The pianist spun around, took one look at Joplin, and the sunshine Martin thought he’d left outside burst across the man’s face. “Well, hey now, look, it’s Scott Joplin.” The piano player grabbed the composer’s hand with both of his own, and gave it a healthy pump. “What you comin’ by so early for, Scott, I don’t start playin’ till eight.” Which seemed to remind him of the woman, standing on the stage, head cocked, hands on hips. “Hey, honey.” The man’s voice was pure gravel. “Go take yourself ten, okay. Then come on back, and we’ll see what we can do with your routine.”

  The grin on the man’s face was infectious. Despite herself, the woman smiled back, then walked off, down the few stairs, and out to the bar. Martin also smiled. Only Joplin didn’t smile, but that meant nothing. Martin had never seen a smile on his teacher’s face.

  Joplin indicated Martin with a casual wave. “This is Martin Niederhoffer, Jimmy, my piano student. Martin, Ragtime Jimmy. He plays ragtime right.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Ragtime Jimmy gave Martin’s hand a pump as vigorous as he’d given Joplin’s. “So you’re learnin’ pianna from the master, huh?”

  Jimmy’s big, oval face radiated good humor; his eyes sparkled. Hair hung loose across his forehead. But what caught Martin’s attention beyond all else was the man’s nose, long and broad, twice the size of an average snoot, but neither discolored nor misshapen by the purple excrescences of a serious elbow-bender. Just an monster honker, like the man took nose vitamins every morning with his orange juice. Martin tried not to stare, but Jimmy dismissed his concern with a casual wave. “It’s just how I am. I think maybe if the good Lord wanted to give me something big, he coulda picked better. But I ain’t got no cherce in the matter.”

  Martin laughed. The man was a natural comic.

  “So what brings you guys out here at four o’clock in the afternoon? You want to go on tonight or somethin’? Scott, you don’t need no tryout, and if you say the kid’s okay, that’s good enough for me. Just come by maybe about ten or eleven—”

  Martin saw Lottie sail through the doorway and up to the trio. She fired a look at Martin that brought sweat out of his every pore, then looked at the piano player. “Hello, Jimmy. Thank you for lookin’ after my man.”

  Jimmy looked blank-faced from Lottie to Joplin to Martin. “Well, Mrs. J, I’m always glad to help, but I ain’t sure—”

  “I’m sorry, Jimmy, but Scott and me are in a hurry.” Lottie pointed at Martin. “He’ll tell you about it.”

  As the Joplins walked away, the woman-singer came back through the doorway, but halfway to the stage, Jimmy motioned her off. “Sorry, honey, I got busier’n I thought. Go on out there an’ oil your tonsils for about half an hour more, okay? Tell ‘em Jimmy said it’s on the house.” He gave Martin a light punch to the arm. “Looks like there’s a little bit of a story here, hey? You want to tell me? Or do you gotta get your sticks movin’ too?

  Something about Ragtime Jimmy… Martin couldn’t keep a smile off his face. “You want to hear it, sure, I’ll tell you.”

  Jimmy listened quietly to Martin’s story, but the instant the young man finished, the piano player exploded. “Well, don’t that beat all I ever heard—and you can bet I hear plenty in a place like this. Irving Berlin, huh? Well, I ain’t got no trouble rememberin’ the fuss Sc
ott made a few years back, tellin’ anybody who’d hold still for a minute about how Berlin stole his music and made it into ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band.’”

  Martin nodded. “I know.”

  Jimmy rolled right along. “I was a kid then, playin’ out at Diamond Tony’s in Coney, an’ everybody—I mean ev-er-y-body in the music game—was talkin’ about it. I didn’t know just what to believe, ‘cause I didn’t know Scott then. But now I do. He comes in every once in a while, an’ listens to me play, an’ I get to talk to him about this and that and the other. An’ one thing I’ll tell you—if that man says something, you better take it as the truth from the gospels. I don’t think a lie ever came outa his mouth. If he says Berlin stole his music, then Berlin stole it. I can’t for the life of me figure what you or anybody else coulda told him that woulda got him to give Irving Berlin more of his music. If you don’t mind me sayin’, that wasn’t a smart thing to do.”

  Martin thought if he had a sword, he’d fall on it, right then and there, but took heart as he saw Jimmy’s face brighten. “Well, but hey, we all of us do something dumb here and there, and at least you was tryin’ to help Scott, so I say good for you. Now, we gotta give him and you some help. Not to be disparagin’ or anything like that, but if you think you can just go off on your own and talk Berlin into gettin’ square on that music, you got yourself a whole different think comin’. You got plenty of moxie, but what you ain’t got is leverage, know what I mean? If you can hang around a li’l while, I’ll go make a phone call and get you some. A whole bunch, in fact.”

  “That’s no trouble.” Martin checked his watch. “Mr. Berlin always goes out to a show or a late dinner, then he gets home about 11, 11:30, and starts writing his songs. He once told Mr. Snyder that watching something by Kern or Romberg gets him moving better on his own stuff. He works all night.”

  Jimmy grinned. “Everybody says he’s some kinda owl.”

  “Right. That’s why I figured I’d wait outside his building tonight, and catch him on his way home. Try and make him understand what’s going on.”

  Jimmy laughed. “Which would probably just get you a fist in your kisser, and you’d end up lookin’ like me.” He got up from the stool, stretched. “Go on, sit down. Let’s hear your stuff. Maybe I can get you to play behind that li’l songbird later on, while we’re waitin’ for Footsie Vinny.”

  Footsie Vinny? Martin thought he’d already bitten off more than he could chew, hadn’t even begun to swallow it, and now it looked like he’d taken another huge bite. He sat at the piano, shot both cuffs, and began to play Joplin’s “Solace.” Seemed about right for the occasion.

  ***

  While Nell brought Stark up to date, he sipped at his coffee, didn’t say a word. “Now, I think it’s time to grab the bull by the horns,” she said. I’ll take you over to Joe’s place, and we can see how Scott reacts to you. And you can hear first-hand what Martin Niederhoffer has to say.”

  “He’s the young man who started all this.”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  Stark pulled out his pocket watch, slid it back, said nothing, just stared past Nell as if he found the sight of the kitchen sink fascinating. Nell stifled a sigh. She knew this act; he was preparing to be difficult. “Dad…”

  He focused back to her. “Yes, my dear?”

  “Don’t ‘yes, my dear’ me. If you think I’m wrong, then just say so, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it that strongly, but I do think we might be making the situation more complicated than it needs to be. Why don’t I just go down and talk turkey to Berlin? Drop in on him, not give him any opportunity to make up stories? Perhaps I can persuade him to return Joplin’s music, which is why you asked me to come out in the first place.”

  “But we’ve gone far past the first place. There’s been a murder, if you’ll remember.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my memory. But we don’t know, do we, that the murder has any connection with the theft of the music. Let’s deal with the straightforward problem in a straightforward way. If we can recover Joplin’s music, then we can turn our full attention to the other concern. All things in good time, my… Nell.”

  “Oh, Dad.” Nell ran her hands through her thick dark hair, just the way Sarah used to do. Stark shivered. “I think you’re trying to get out of coming face-to-face with Scott.”

  “I most certainly am not. I have no reason to be embarrassed on his account. If anyone ought to feel awkward—”

  The ring of the telephone interrupted his speech. Nell rolled her eyes, then got up and ran into the living room. Stark poured himself more coffee.

  When she came back, he knew instantly there was trouble. She shook her head. “I keep thinking it can’t possibly get worse…”

  “It can always get worse,” Stark said, not in an unkindly way. “And it often does. What’s the problem now?”

  “That was Lottie. She’s got Scott with her. She’s bringing him here from Harlem. Apparently, our young man got restless, ran out of Joe’s place to go see his girlfriend, and took Scott along. Now, he’s left Scott with Lottie and he’s off somewhere, doing God knows what. All he’d tell Lottie was that he had some things to do.” She paused. “Dad, I’m going to kill him.”

  Stark worked very hard at not smiling. Even as a little girl, when Nell planted her feet, wild horses couldn’t pull her loose. Some of those scenes between his daughter and her mother…

  Nell thrust a slip of paper into his hand. “Here’s Joe’s address. I’m going to take Scott back there as fast as I can, but if he sees you here and goes into one of his states, I’ll never get him to Brooklyn on the subway. So go ahead, if you’d like, talk to Berlin, and then come over to Joe’s. You can find your way, can’t you?”

  Stark glanced at the paper. “615 Avenue C, Brooklyn.”

  “That’s in Windsor Terrace, just a few blocks south of Prospect Park. He’s got a lovely little house there.”

  Stark nodded, slipped the paper into his pocket, got to his feet. “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble. I lived and worked in this city for five years, and I know my way around.” He kissed her cheek, then walked into the living room, took his straw boater off the chair where he’d left it, and went out. Quickly, it seemed to Nell.

  She waited a minute, then walked to the telephone table, picked up the city phone directory and thumbed through its pages. Balancing the book in one hand, she lifted the receiver to her ear, and gave the operator a number. When she heard, “Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, Music Publishers,” she said, “This is Geneva Edwards, from Dramatic Mirror Magazine. I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Berlin for a short interview, and I’m working with a close deadline. Would he have just a few minutes tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure Mr. Berlin will be in the office at all tomorrow,” said the receptionist. “You might try his home—that’s Riverside 5396. I’m sure he’ll do all he can to accommodate someone from Dramatic Mirror.”

  Which brought a wry grin to Nell’s face. The joke in the music business was that Irving Berlin would stand up his mother if it meant getting an hour with a reporter. Nell thanked the woman and hung up the phone. Yes, her father had once lived and worked in New York City, and he knew his way around, but only in the geographical sense. She had to admit, if only to herself, she found his straight-from-the-shoulder, no-nonsense, my-word-is-my-bond style admirable, and more than a little touching. But to think he could barge in on Irving Berlin, demand the music back, and expect Berlin to hand it over? Nell shook her head. She’d do better, using a little guile and a lot of flattery.

  Chapter Six

  Manhattan

  Wednesday, August 23

  Late afternoon

  Stark came up from the subway at Forty-second Street and Broadway, walked downtown to Thirty-eighth, and into Number 112. A few minutes later, he was back outside, scratching his head. Two doors down the block, he saw the Joseph Stern
Music Company, started in that direction, hesitated. For several years now, Stern had published Negro ragtime—including some pieces by Scott Joplin—with far more financial success than Stark had ever enjoyed. Finally, he swallowed his pride, walked up to the door and inside, and asked the young receptionist where Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder had gone. The girl told him they’d relocated uptown. “A couple of years ago, actually. Mr. Stern threw a party when they moved. He didn’t like Mr. Waterson.”

  “I didn’t like either one of them,” Stark said, then thanked the girl and started hoofing back up Broadway. He passed the Palace…Sarah used to love the vaudeville shows there. The huge shield-shaped sign on the ornate facade of the Gaiety told passersby Turn To The Right will open shortly. At Broadway and Forty-seventh, the old man stood before the Strand Theatre, and scanned the white block lettering in the windows above the grand marquee. Hendricks and Saloman, Press Agents. Katz and Elliot, Lawyer and Notary. Charles S. Gellman, Theatrical Bookings. “Ah, there, third floor. Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder.”

  He shunned the elevator in the lobby, walked up the three flights, and inside. The place was a circus. Young men and an occasional young woman carrying books, note pads, file folders, papers, charged back and forth through a haze of tobacco smoke. Music from pianos in the back corridor fused into painful cacophony. Six songwriters wriggled in chairs at the periphery of the Reception Room, waiting their turn to sit at one of those pianos and play their work. Stark strode across the room to a desk where a darkly-attractive young woman sat as if at the center of a storm, talking on an upright desk-stand intercom, and nodding or winking to the cascade of young runners as they deposited papers onto her desk, or snatched some up. As she finished her conversation, and reached toward another button on the circular base of the intercom, Stark said, “Excuse me, Miss. I’m John Stark, of the Stark Music Company.” He took care not to add “of St. Louis.” “I need to speak with Mr. Berlin.”