by Larry Karp
Vinny laughed out loud. The man at the far end of the subway car bolted out of his seat, through the door and into the next car. Vinny pointed with his head. “Guess maybe I scared him a little…well, you’re the doc. Jimmy said I should help you, I’ll help you. Best I can, anyway, with what you let me do.”
***
Martin led Vinny into Riverside Park, directly across Seventy-second Street from the Chatsworth Apartments. Just beyond, cars sped past on Riverside Drive. Vinny looked around, seemed to approve of what he saw. “Nice neighborhood your boy lives in.”
“He’s my boss,” Martin said. “One of them, anyway. He makes a bundle writing music.”
The words were barely out when Martin regretted them. In the glow of the streetlight above them, Vinny’s eyes shone like an animal’s. “He does, huh? Makes a bundle? What’s his name?”
“Irving Berlin.”
Vinny shook his head slowly. “Never heard of him. Sounds like a kike.”
To the Irish, Italian, and Polish kids in the neighborhood when Martin was growing up, he was a kike, a mockey, a sheeny bastard. By any name, a dirty Jew. The good side was that he had developed early on into an accomplished street fighter, though not nearly so accomplished he’d even think of showing displeasure at Vinny’s slur. “Mr. Berlin’s probably the most famous songwriter in America right now.”
“If you say so. Myself, I don’t go for music much, except maybe for what Ragtime Jimmy plays, and that’s because I just like Jimmy. You ain’t never gonna meet a decenter guy. I once seen him give a hooker a handful of long green to get herself an operation she needed, and it wasn’t even Jimmy’s fault she needed it. I could say he’s a sucker, but he ain’t. He knows what he’s doin’, but he can’t just stand around and see somebody hurtin’.”
Martin wondered how someone whose specialty was kicking out teeth could admire a man who couldn’t say no to a knocked-up prostitute. But then he saw Berlin, half a block away, no question who it was. A little man in a snappy straw boater, moving quickly, head turning first one way, then the other. All of a sudden, Martin felt glad he’d taken Jimmy’s advice about leverage. Jimmy was right. Berlin would’ve just given him a straight-arm and kept walking. He elbowed Vinny. “That’s him.”
“Aw right, then. Let’s go.” Vinny shoved Martin off the bench, and the two men hustled out of the park and across Seventy-second, up onto the sidewalk, smack into Berlin’s path. The songwriter stopped on a dime. He seemed about to run, but then took a closer look at Martin, and relaxed. “You’re Niede…”
“Yes, sir. Martin Niederhoffer. Your bookkeeper, at W, B, and S. I need to talk to you, sir.”
“So make an appointment with my secretary. Don’t come up to me on street corners at night.” Clearly, he was trying not to look at Vinny. “Hey, but wait a minute. The cops’re looking for you…”
“That’s not exactly what I want to talk about, but—”
Berlin pushed past Martin, took a few fast steps toward the Chatsworth, but Vinny caught him by the arm. “My friend here wants a word with you,” Vinny growled. “Now, what I think is we should all of us go across the street and sit down for a minute on one a them nice comfortable benches. Make it friendly and quick.” He jerked Berlin’s arm toward the street.
Berlin swiveled his neck. Vinny jerked his arm again, harder this time. “You’re gettin’ bad ideas in your head, Mr. B. Just open your mouth to do anything but talk to your boy here, and you’ll be visitin’ your dentist tomorrow to get yourself a new set a choppers. Now, let’s go.”
Berlin turned a look at Martin that made the young man cringe. He wanted to tell Berlin he was sorry, that he’d just wanted a quiet word with him to straighten out a problem, but he knew that would be a very bad move. The three men waited for a cab to sail by, then crossed the street and walked into the park. “At least take your hand off me,” Berlin snapped to Vinny.
Martin had to give him credit. He didn’t think he’d be able to talk that way, in Berlin’s place.
Vinny dropped his hand. “Long as you behave yourself. An’ if you don’t, I’m gonna do a whole lot more’n just grab your arm.”
They sat on a bench, Berlin between Martin and Vinny. Berlin adjusted his hat, then turned to face Martin. “So?”
“Mr. Berlin…I’m…” Martin caught the “sorry,” swallowed it, then went on. “Scott Joplin is my piano teacher, and he wrote a musical play. He wants to get it published and put on stage, and I thought…” Looking at the face on Berlin, Martin silently cursed himself for a hopeless idiot, but knew he had to go on. “I told him to bring his music down to the office, and I’d introduce him to you, and then maybe you’d be interested in publishing it and putting it on stage…”
His voice ran out of steam as he watched disbelief and fury run wild across Berlin’s face. “Are you nuts, Niederhoffer?” the composer shouted. “Are you absolutely crazy? I wouldn’t touch a piece of Joplin’s music. Not after what he said about me five years ago.”
Anger rose into Martin’s throat like gall. “Then why did you take it? Mr. Joplin came down to see you on his own, and you told him you wanted to look it over. Then yesterday, you called him to come down and talk about it.”
“Called him?” Berlin barked. I called Joplin? You must be out of your head.” The composer glanced at Vinny, then went on speaking, but in considerably softer tones. “Listen, Niederhoffer. I don’t even remember the last time I saw Joplin, never mind talked to him, and I’ve never called him on the phone. I don’t know a thing about this musical play of his, and I don’t want to. For Christ’s sake, I’m the King of Ragtime. You think I’m going to waste five minutes looking at music from a half-dead bozo who once wrote some decent stuff, but now he’s an embarrassment even to the colored? I got tired a long time ago of hearing from people who think I stole his damn music, and I ain’t gonna have a whole lot of patience now with somebody trying to tell me I stole something else from him. You’re Number Two in the last six hours.” Berlin shifted, spoke to Vinny. “I don’t have a clue about what the hell is going on. Yeah, right now I’m scared, I’ll admit it. But I can’t tell you a thing about Joplin’s music, whatever you do to me, and that’s the truth.”
Martin wondered about that telephone call. If Mr. Berlin had liked Mr. Joplin’s music, and wanted to snatch it, he could have decided to get Mr. Joplin and Martin both out of the way. If Martin hadn’t gone out to the bathroom when he did…
Vinny rescued the young man from his guilty reverie. All the while Berlin talked, the bruiser had nodded like a mechanical doll with the right side of its mouth painted into a nasty smirk. Now he said, “Lemme ask you something, Mr. Berlin, okay?”
Berlin managed a weak grin. “Guess I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“Not if you want to keep the teeth you got. Now, here’s the question. “You must be a pretty big guy in music, what with you bein’ the King of Ragtime. That right?”
“Well—”
“He does call himself the King of Ragtime.” Out of Martin’s mouth before it was in his mind. He began to apologize for interrupting the conversation, but Vinny held up a finger, and the young man shut up in a hurry. “So, I guess that’s right, hey, Mr. B? You really are the King a Ragtime, huh?”
“Well, yeah, you know. You gotta promote yourself in any business.”
“Sure. Sure you do.” Vinny’s voice was all sympathy. Martin tried not to think of what might be coming. “So I figure like this: The King of Ragtime’s gotta have a pretty good idea about what’s goin’ on in his own kingdom. I’m gonna give you five days to put your mitts on that music by this kid’s teacher. Have yourself a good gander at it, decide it’s the best thing you’ve seen in all your life, and get a square contract all ready for the guy to sign. Five days. If you don’t have that music in your hand to show Martin here, and a contract to publish it fast, you will be a very sorry person the whole rest of your life…which might not be real long. You can
hire all the bodyguards you want, but they ain’t gonna be with you every second of every day. Go in to take a crap, they’ll find your body stuffed in the can. And a bodyguard can’t do nothing about a guy with a gun across the street, maybe behind a window. So please, Mr B, don’t go and do nothing dumb. Cops get wind of this, then the talkin’s over. And don’t think I’m workin’ just for this kid here. The both of us represent a person you do not want to mess around with. I’ll be back to see you in five days, King Irving, count on it. And I ain’t gonna be makin’ no appointments with your secretary or nobody else. Just see that you got that music with you, and a contract with your name on it.”
Martin gasped as he saw Vinny point a pistol directly at Berlin’s chest.
“Do I make my point clear enough for you, Mr. B?”
Berlin nodded.
Vinny smiled without separating his lips, then slid the gun back behind his jacket. Berlin got to his feet, smoothed his trousers, glared at Martin. “Niederhoffer, you’re fired. Even if the cops weren’t looking for you, you’d still be fired. I run a music business, not a rest home for morons.”
Martin watched him turn, then start walking away. But Vinny said, “Hold on there a minute, King. I guess we ain’t quite done after all.”
The pistol was out again, aimed at Berlin’s back. The little man turned slowly. “Now what?”
Vinny gestured with the gun. “Gimme your wallet here.”
Berlin hesitated, but when Vinny clicked the hammer, the songwriter dug into his left pocket and came out with a billfold. Vinny took it, passed it to Martin. “Open it up. How much’s there?”
Martin counted as quickly as his shaking hands allowed. “Hundred…sixty…four.”
“Put it in your pocket. The man just fired you, he’s gotta give you severance. Okay, King. Now you can go. ’Less you wanna shoot off that big mouth again.”
Berlin was out of the park and across the street in a dash. Vinny nudged Martin. “Come on, kid. Let’s get outa here before the King sends out some troops.”
***
Back at the Alamo, the evening’s entertainment was in full swing. Ragtime Jimmy, his dented fedora pushed far back on his forehead, banged away at the keyboard while the woman who’d been auditioning earlier belted out a raucous, spirited “Alabama Jubilee.” Vinny led the young man up to the piano. Without missing a note, Jimmy looked over his shoulder and asked, “Everything go jake?”
Vinny snorted. “You ever think it wouldn’t?”
Jimmy laughed. “I appreciate you helpin’ the kid. And Joplin.”
Vinny nodded, then started off toward the bar. Martin leaned over to stage-whisper, “Thanks, Jimmy. I bet it works out now.” He wiped the back of a hand across his forehead. “I sure wouldn’t ever want Vinny coming after me.”
Jimmy laughed even louder. “Then you better make sure and be a good boy. Don’t go messin’ with dice and cards, stuff like that. This town’s full a guys just as tough as Vinny, and he’s tough as they come. It’s a darned good thing for his wife he ain’t married.
“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, at an Alabama Jubilee.” Martin thought the girl might strangle the microphone.
***
Past one o’clock. Martin tiptoed up the stairs to Joe Lamb’s porch, quiet as a thief, then padded to the door. Any way he considered the situation, he was going to catch Hail Columbia; might as well get it over with. He knocked gently.
Mr. Lamb opened the door, and the look on his face left no doubt in Martin’s mind as to what was coming. Against his will, the young man walked into the room. Mr. Joplin, at the piano, played and scribbled. Mrs. Stanley sat on the sofa, beside a man Martin had never seen. He was old, over seventy for sure, and he looked like a well-to-do businessman. Neatly-groomed gray hair, scanty up on top, mouth tucked behind a bushy salt-and-pepper Van Dyke beard that took off from the edges of a thick mustache. Even in the damp heat of the summer night, he wore a dark vest and a neatly-set dark bow tie. Lines at the sides of his eyes looked to have been cut with a chisel. When he fixed those light-blue eyes on Martin, the young man felt as if his clothes had been stripped from his body, leaving him standing naked before the group.
Then Lamb unloaded on him. “You damn fool—putting Mr. Joplin in danger like that. What in hell did you think you were doing?” Without waiting for an answer, he strode off, into the kitchen.
Nell and the old man got to their feet. “Damn and hell in the same sentence?” Nell said. “I’ve never heard either one from Joe.”
“Nor have I. I wouldn’t have thought anything could make him that angry.”
Nell sighed. “Dad, this is our truant, Martin Niederhoffer. Martin, my father, John Stark, from St. Louis.”
“The music publisher? Mr. Joplin’s publisher? ‘Maple Leaf Rag?’”
Lamb walked back into the room, holding a partially-drunk glass of water. Martin thought he looked calmer, maybe even a little embarrassed.
“I see my reputation has preceded me.” Stark extended a hand; Martin grasped it, winced. This old guy had some grip.
“Mr. Joplin’s always talking about you.” Martin glanced toward the piano. “He says you gave him the biggest break of his life.”
“My father’s come to help with this mess that seems to be getting worse every minute,” Nell said. “I’m sure that he, along with Mr. Lamb and I, would like to know just what you were up to all day and evening.”
Martin couldn’t speak. Couldn’t say a word, just stared into the old man’s magnetic eyes. Nell knew what he was going through, but kept her face severe. Finally, the young man stammered, “I’m…I’m sorry, sir, I really am. I didn’t mean to take Mr. Joplin with me. I went out on my own, but he saw me go, and came after me. I couldn’t get him back inside, because the door was locked behind us.”
“In other words, your intention was to leave Mr. Joplin alone here.”
Martin held out his hands, palms up, a plea for clemency. “I didn’t think…I guess I just didn’t think. I couldn’t take it, sitting around here doing nothing, and I hoped I could get a line on some of the stuff that’s been going on.”
“Joplin told us you went to a delicatessen and talked to your girlfriend.”
“That’s right. I got through to her at work by telling Fannie—she’s the receptionist—that I was the bookkeeper at Mr. Berlin’s uptown office, and Mr. Berlin needed some figures. Then I told Birdie to put papers into a file folder and meet me at Schneider’s Deli.”
“And what did you learn?”
“Just that the cops think Mr. Joplin and I killed Sid, and they’re looking for us. But you know what? Sid was sitting at my desk at work, so I think maybe someone was really trying to kill me.”
“I might sympathize with them.”
Lamb chuckled, but there was no humor in Stark’s eyes. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill you?”
Martin bit his lip. “Well, actually, I was wondering…if Mr. Berlin knew I was going to keep an eye on Mr. Joplin’s manuscript, maybe he figured he’d call Mr. Joplin to come down there, then he’d kill me, and make it look like Mr. Joplin did it. And then he’d have Mr. Joplin’s play free and clear. But if he saw me go to the bathroom, and saw Sid at my desk, he could have decided to kill him, and frame Mr. Joplin and me.”
Lamb took a sip of water. “Mrs. Stanley told me you’d gotten some figures together that showed Henry Waterson has been embezzling from the company. Could he have found out, and decided to to fix your wagon?”
“I don’t think so. Right about three, I went to check and see if he had an invoice I was missing, but he was already gone for the day. He’s usually out in the afternoons anyway, at least during horse-racing season.”
“You’re sure he didn’t come back, hide in one room or another, and wait for his chance? He must have a key.”
Martin shook his head. “No…well, I guess I can’t be sure. But if Mr. Waterson was sore at me on account of
the numbers, why would he have killed Sid? Besides, what about Mr. Berlin calling up Mr. Joplin and telling him to come down to talk about his music?”
Stark made a lemon-sucking face, then shook his head. “It seems to keep coming back to Berlin, doesn’t it? All right, Martin. Now, suppose you tell us what you’ve been doing since you left Mr. Joplin with Mrs. Joplin.”
Out of the frying pan. Martin told his audience about his and Vinny’s encounter with Berlin. When he got to the part about the severance pay, he thought Stark looked fit to explode. “Let me be sure I understand this,” the old man said. “You’ve led Berlin to think that some mysterious and dangerous man has an interest in Scott Joplin’s music, and that if Berlin does not publish it promptly, he will at the least have all his teeth knocked out.”
Sweat ran from every pore on Martin’s body. “I’m afraid so, sir.”
Stark blew. “Damn and blast, you young idiot.” On his feet, face to face with Martin, who wished he could sink through the floor and vanish. “This has gotten utterly out of hand. First it was a missing musical manuscript, next a murder, and now we’re up to our necks in monetary theft and extortion. And who is at the center of this crime wave?”
Brief pause, sufficient answer.
“And for that matter, who had the crackbrained idea in the first place that Irving Berlin might give thirty seconds to the idea of publishing and producing music by Scott Joplin.”
Martin couldn’t speak, bad enough, but now tears started down his cheeks, and all he could do was drop, mortified, into the nearest chair.
Nell stepped up to Stark. “Dad, calm down.” Martin felt a bit of encouragement at the sympathy he read in the brief look she turned on him. “It’s two in the morning, we’re all tired, and we’re going in circles. Let’s sleep on it, and get back here tomorrow, dinnertime.”
