The King of Ragtime

by Larry Karp

  “The opening measures!” Berlin’s face was scarlet, his features twisted in fury. “A couple of measures in a couple of tunes look the same, so you tell me I stole from Joplin? What about the whole rest of the song—did I steal that from Joplin, too? Maybe a few notes could’ve stuck in my head, but—”

  “If it was good enough to stick in your head, why didn’t you publish it?”

  Berlin’s expression suggested that more than a few of Stark’s screws might have come loose. “Why didn’t I publish an opera by a colored man? Why the hell didn’t you publish it?”

  “That’s not the question. If I both composed and published music, I would take pains never to make a hit tune for myself out of a work entrusted to me for evaluation.”

  “Jesus, Stark!” Berlin clapped a hand to his forehead, then wheeled around to face the piano. “Here, listen to this!” He began to play, striking the black keys with such force as to suggest the piano had offended him.

  Stark gave the performance his full attention. Lot of mistakes, but still… “That sounds familiar.”

  Berlin stopped playing, then thrust his face forward so it came to within a few inches of Stark’s. “Oh, it does, huh?” Shooting a fine spray of saliva into the older man’s face with each word. “Well, what it is, it’s a little Russian melody I always heard my father sing when I was a kid. Go take yourself a walk around the lower east side, Mr. Stark. You’ll hear Russian Jews singing that tune on every street corner. Now…” Berlin turned away to resume his assault on the black keys.

  Stark again listened, intent, then said, “That’s ‘Magnetic Rag.’ Joplin published it himself, two years ago.”

  “Well, what do you know about that!” Berlin waved a fist in front of Stark’s nose. “Sounds a lot like my father’s song, don’t it? You think I oughta sue Joplin? Christ Almighty, Stark! Joplin heard some Russian music on the streets, and he did a little borrowing. If they treated songwriters like bank robbers, every last one of us’d be wearing stripes. So now, if you really don’t mind, I need to get back to my work. I ain’t got Scott Joplin’s manuscript, and I got exactly zero interest in Scott Joplin’s manuscript. Been good talking to you, Mr. Stark, but I’m a busy man.”

  Stark pulled a pen and a small white business card from his pocket, then scribbled numbers and held out the card to Berlin. “My daughter’s telephone, I’m staying with her. If you do come up with anything about Joplin’s music, I’d appreciate hearing from you.”

  Berlin took the card, flipped it over and back in his hand, then slid it behind his vest and into his shirt pocket. Without another word, he turned away from Stark, sat on the piano bench, and began to play.

  Chapter Seven

  Brooklyn

  Wednesday, August 23

  Early evening

  As Stark walked up to Joe Lamb’s door, he heard piano music from inside. Joplin. This was not going to be easy. He set his jaw, knocked.

  Nell opened the door. Stark pecked at her cheek, then walked past her, into the living room. Lamb slouched in an easy chair, shirt open at the collar, tie loose. At the far wall, Joplin sat at a piano, playing notes and chords, and every now and again reaching to the rack to write. Stark extended a hand to Lamb. “Good to see you, Joe. How’s the family?”

  Lamb pulled himself out of the chair to shake Stark’s hand. “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Stark. I’m sorry Etty and Little Joe are away. I’d have liked for you to meet them.”

  Nell cleared her throat. “Did you get lost on the subway, Dad?”

  Stark glanced at Joplin, still fully engaged with his composition. Then, he turned back to his daughter. “No, I did not get lost, not in the subway or anywhere else. Since I had time, I decided I would speak to Berlin and see what I could learn, so I took the subway down to Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder. They’ve moved—”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “I talked to Henry Waterson. He remembered me, and gave me Berlin’s home address.”

  “And?”

  Stark shook his head. “Berlin swears he hasn’t seen Scott in years, and doesn’t know a thing about the manuscript.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Not for a moment. The man’s brass is incredible. But I think it can’t hurt that Waterson knows about it now. There’s clearly no love lost between him and Berlin.”

  Stark glanced toward the piano. Joplin played one chord, a second, a third, then raised a shaking hand to write on the music paper. Nell followed her father’s eyes, and a good deal of starch seemed to drain out of her. “He’s at it night and day,” she said to the unasked question. First it was the musical play, now it’s Symphony Number One.”

  Stark sighed. “Perhaps you should tell him he’s got a visitor. If he happens to turn and sees me, it will be that much more difficult.”

  Nell nodded, then walked to the piano. She rested a hand on Joplin’s shoulder. “Scott…Scott.”

  No response.

  Nell tightened her grip, shook the composer. He swung around ferociously and jumped to his feet, arms up, fists balled. Stark took a step toward his daughter, but Nell didn’t flinch. “Scott, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but you have a visitor.”

  At the sight of Joplin, face-on, Stark’s throat sucked itself dry. He felt as if his shoes had been nailed to the floor. This man couldn’t be Scott Joplin. Joplin was always so neat in his dress, meticulous in his personal habits. Hair always cut short, trimmed cleanly above the ears. Every day, a close shave. Crisp collar, tie set just so. White shirt, vest and suit pressed to a fare-thee-well. Eyes that greeted you with self-possessed calm. But this man’s eyes were muddy and wild. His hair had not been cut in weeks, nor had he shaved this morning. His collar was wilted, tie open; his suit was wrinkled as though he routinely slept in it. With an odd sensation of disgust, Stark noticed the fly in the specter’s pants was unbuttoned. Joplin didn’t say a word, just glared at Stark.

  “Joplin?” Stark finally managed.

  No response.

  “Don’t you remember me, Joplin? John Stark? From Sedalia and St. Louis?”

  At the mention of his own surname, Stark saw the corner of Joplin’s mouth twitch; at ‘Sedalia’, a near-smile. But then Joplin turned to Nell. “What’s he doing here? Haven’t I got enough trouble already?” The composer chewed at his upper lip, then reached for Nell’s hand. “Make him go away—please.” A high-pitched wail. “The day he stopped paying me royalties, I told him I was through with him, and I’ve never talked to him from that time till this. If only he’d published my Guest of Honor and Treemonisha, I’d have had my symphony done years ago.”

  Nothing could have prepared Stark for this. The composer’s speech was slurred like a drunkard’s, hard consonants mushy, words run together, but Scott Joplin had never been a drinker. Even in Sedalia, in those wild days when ragtime was bursting upon American music, and parties went on for entire weekends at a time, Stark had never seen Joplin drink more than one beer at a sitting. A terrible desolation settled into the old man’s chest.

  “We need his help, Scott.” Nell’s voice was that of someone trying to talk a man perched on a window ledge out of jumping. “I called him, and he got right on a train to come out and help you get your music back from Irving Berlin. Please be polite to him.”

  All through Nell’s speech, Joplin nodded his head like an automaton. When she finished, he said, “All right,” then extended a hand to Stark. “I thank you for your concern,” Joplin said as they shook, but before the older man could reply, the composer added, “Is Artie Matthews doing well?”

  Stark had begun to adjust to the unpredictable flight of Joplin’s mind. “I’m pleased to see you, Joplin, and yes, Matthews is doing just fine. He’s arranger for the Booker T. Washington Theater now, working for Tom Turpin, and they’ve put on some very fine shows.” He paused as an idea came into his head. “In fact, Matthews is also doing a good deal of arranging for me, and he’s writing some very
fine ragtime. Do you know his ‘Pastimes’? I brought out ‘Number One’ a couple years back, and ‘Number Two’ just this year.”

  Joplin shook his head. “Haven’t seen them. Did you give him royalties?”

  In fact, Stark had not. He’d paid Artie Matthews an outright fifty dollars for the latest “Pastimes.” “Conditions have become such,” he’d told Matthews, “that I can no longer pay royalties to any composer, white or colored, and hope to stay in business. Get your work into print, get yourself a reputation, then you might be able to wangle a royalties deal from one of the big New York outfits.” He did give Matthews an additional twenty-seven dollars because the man badly needed a new suit of clothes, but no point mentioning that to Joplin.

  “I’ve never discussed your business with other composers,” Stark said, as mildly as he could manage. “So I’m not going to discuss their business with you. I came here to try to help you, Joplin, and I’ll do the best I possibly can. But talking to you now has given me an idea for your music. Once we get it back, perhaps I can publish it myself, and then talk to Tom Turpin about putting it on at the Booker T. I have to think Turpin would be interested.”

  “Why would you be interested?” Joplin said. “You turned me away with Guest of Honor and Treemonisha, both.”

  Stark reminded himself he had to be patient. “As good as any opera might be, if it’s written by a colored man, no white producer would touch it, and no colored producer could afford to even try. Not that it’s right, but a man needs to pick his fights, and if there’s no chance of winning, he’d be foolish to get into the ring. Turpin and Matthews would mount a nice show for you, and if you get some good reviews, who knows? You might just have a New York producer knocking at your door.”

  “Yeah…yeah…” Joplin seemed to be trying to think the matter through, then exploded in speech. “But I don’t want to have it staged at Turpin’s. Or the Lafayette.” He waved his arms ferociously. “Martin Niederhoffer is right. If we can get Irving Berlin to publish and produce my work on Broadway, why, then, everybody will know Scott Joplin’s name, everybody in the world. As they should.”

  The abrupt change in Joplin’s speech and manner, and the glint in his eyes took Stark aback. The composer always had wanted respect for himself and his music, but he’d been a modest man, never given to anything remotely resembling such grandiose talk. Was it his disease, or had he been deranged by his years of frustration over trying to get his operas staged? Whichever, Stark grabbed the opening. “That could be, Mr. Joplin, and I’d be the first to wish you well. But aren’t you concerned that Berlin might steal your music again?”

  “Martin promised me he wouldn’t let that happen.” Joplin’s face clouded. He held up a trembling hand. “I told Berlin that Martin knows all about my play, and he’s going to be watching.” Joplin shook his head, then cocked it to the left, an odd tic. He gave off a powerful odor of sweat and something more. Stark had smelled it, years before on battlefields throughout the south, the stench of fear. “Mr. Stark, thank you for coming all the way out here on my account. It’s just that I don’t have much time left to get my music written and staged. You do know what my trouble is?

  Stark nodded.

  “Well, then.” That seemed to settle something in Joplin’s mind. “I better get back to writing my symphony.”

  He took a step toward the piano bench, but Stark called to his back, “I need some information, Joplin. This musical play of yours—what is it? A comedy? A revue? Just what is it we’re talking about?”

  “That’s a little hard to say.” Tossed over the shoulder. “I guess a…well, a drama set to music. Some of it might be humorous, but only in an ironic way. I guess you could call it a fantasy, or maybe a dream. So many things can happen to a man at every step along his way, but the one thing that does happen determines all of what comes after. That’s the ‘If,’ you see. My play is a man’s life in two acts, what did happen and what might have happened. All set to music, but not an opera and not an operetta. A musical drama.”

  Amazing, Stark thought. Just like that, he’s his old self. A musical drama, ironically humorous, a fantasy, or perhaps a dream! There was no end to this man’s genius. What might he have accomplished if he’d been white?

  Joplin lowered himself onto the piano bench. Nell laid a hand on his shoulder. The composer looked up at her, all gratitude.

  “All right,” Stark said quietly. I’ll see what I can do. He turned to Nell. “I suppose for now, we just need to wait for this Martin fellow to show up.”

  “Hope he shows up,” said Nell.

  Stark’s face was grim, lips like purse strings. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a talk with his girlfriend, and see whether she can fill in any of the gaps. But first we’ll have to find her.”

  Nell tried not to smile, succeeded only partially. “I did find her. And I have an appointment to talk to her, at eight tonight.”

  Joplin hit a discordant note. Stark opened his mouth, but said nothing.

  ***

  Nell looked around the small living room. No furniture aside from the four wooden chairs that she, Birdie, and the girl’s parents occupied. But clean? You really could eat off the floor, Nell thought. On her left, Abe and Eva Kuminsky were giving her as hard a stare as she’d ever gotten from anyone other than her father. To her right, Birdie looked at her as though Nell were a puzzle needing to be solved.

  “I’m very sorry to have alarmed you all,” Nell said. “No, I’m not from the Visiting Nurse Service. I needed to talk to you, Birdie, and I didn’t want the receptionist hearing something I’d rather keep between us—”

  “Between you?” Eva gulped down a huge swallow of air. “What’s so terrible you got to say, it needs to be between you and Birdie?”

  “She done something she shouldn’t have?”

  Nell thought if Abe’s eyes opened any wider, they might fly right out of his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. Please let me explain. I want to talk about Martin—”

  “Oh, Martin, huh?” Abe crossed his arms over his chest. “I should’ve known. This is about him killing his friend in his office, right? You’re with the police.”

  Nell waved to dispel that notion as fast and as thoroughly as she could. “No, I’m not with the police. Please, Mr. Kuminsky, listen to me. I’m not with the visiting nurses, the police, or anyone else. I’m a good friend of Scott Joplin, the composer. I want to help him and Martin—”

  Abe leaped to his feet. “Look, lady, I don’t care who you are. You told Birdie you was with the Visiting Nurses, so her mother spent the last three hours down on her knees, scrubbing and cleaning. You’re telling me you want to help some murderers that the cops are after?” He pointed toward the door. “I think you better just leave. I ain’t about to let Birdie get in any trouble on account of Martin Niederhoffer. That boy is trouble himself.”

  Nell returned his flinty glare with interest. She got slowly to her feet, and as she smoothed her skirt, she said, taking care not to look at Birdie, “Martin seems to have some sort of plan for this evening. It might help a great deal if any of you know what it is.”

  Abe looked ready to go airborne. “Lady, you don’t hear so good? The only plan that boy’s got that I know about, he wants to marry my daughter, and hell’s gonna freeze before that happens. Now, get yourself out of here before I call the cops.”

  Nell calmly extended a hand, which Abe took as if by reflex, then dropped as if he’d grabbed hold of a hot pan. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Nell said, then nodded to Eva and Birdie, and turned to leave.

  Abe wheeled around and stormed away toward the kitchen. Eva stood in place, wringing her hands in front of her apron. Birdie said, “I’ll see you to the door, Mrs. Stanley.” But as she turned the lock and pulled the door open, she whispered into Nell’s face, “I don’t know anything about tonight, but meet me tomorrow, Schneider’s Deli, twelve-fifteen?”

  Nell smiled. “Thank you, Bi
rdie.” Then she winked at the girl.

  ***

  A little past ten-thirty, on his way up the stairs from the subway at Broadway and Seventy-second, Martin turned a backdoor look on his companion. No way would he ever want to get on this guy’s bad side, not for anything. Cap pulled low over dark, piggy eyes, mouth like a bloodless gash, bullet head set directly onto his shoulders, not even a trace of neck. He walked with the rolling gait of a gorilla. “Martin, this here’s Footsie Vinny,” Ragtime Jimmy had said by way of introduction, after he’d held a brief private consultation with the thug. “When Berlin gets two eyefuls of him, he just might decide he don’t need Scott Joplin’s music no more.” Martin had extended a hand, but Footsie Vinny just nodded and shifted a toothpick from the right to the left side of his mouth. Then, all the way down from Harlem on the subway, the man had spoken only once. “If this mark a yours don’t come across, how much you want me to persuade him?” A gutteral growl that had sent the man sitting on the other side of Vinny to a seat at the far end of the car.

  Martin shook his head. “I don’t want you to actually hurt him. Just scare him so bad he’ll think you’re going to do something. Okay?”

  The contempt on Vinny’s face set Martin’s cheeks glowing. “You want maybe I should get one a them masks like the kids wear for Hallowe’en?”

  Martin came this close to saying he thought Vinny’s own face would intimidate Berlin more than any Hallowe’en mask, but caught himself just in time. “Just scare him for me,” Martin pleaded. “Scare him good.”

  Vinny coughed, turned his head and hawked a gob onto the floor. Martin fought to keep his face butter-bland. “They don’t call me Footsie for nothing,” Vinny snarled. “Most guys I work on, they don’t say much when all’s I do is just talk. But after I kick out their teeth, then all of a sudden they get real chatty.”

  Martin pictured Irving Berlin down on the ground, his face in a pool of blood, teeth scattered all over the sidewalk. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s right, Vinny. Maybe you could do something like twist his arm behind his back, or, say, grab him by his shirt collar and give him a good shake. But don’t kick out his teeth. Please.”