The King of Ragtime

by Larry Karp

  Miras couldn’t keep back a smile as he watched Tabor’s back disappear around a corner. He straightened his face, then said to the reporter, “Mr. Berlin will see you now, but please do try to keep your visit as brief as possible. He’s a terribly busy man.”

  ***

  Nell gave Berlin a womanly handshake, gentle and brief. “I’m Geneva Edwards,” she said, with just the right touch of upper-crust inflection. “New York Dramatic Mirror. I know how busy you are, Mr. Berlin, and I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

  Berlin nodded and smiled politely.

  “So I’ll come right to the point. There’s word going around, maybe a rumor, maybe not. But if it’s true, it’s a big story, and I’m sure you know how important it would be to my career to publish it. It concerns you and Scott Joplin—”

  Izzy’s scream drowned out the rest of Nell’s sentence. “God damn Scott Joplin! I just might have to kill the bastard.”

  “Can you tell me whether or not it’s true?” Nell asked.

  “I’m sorry. Whether what’s true?”

  “What I just said, Mr. Berlin. That you’re going to publish and produce a new musical play by Scott Joplin.”

  She watched closely, but saw only exasperation on Berlin’s face. “Listen, Miss Edwards, I’ll give it to you straight. I haven’t seen Joplin for years, and I don’t know a thing about any new musical play by him. That clear enough?”

  “But it’s common knowledge that you’re working on a ragtime opera. You’ve been quoted in the Dramatic Mirror, the Green Book and, just recently, in Theatre Magazine. Does your present association with Scott Joplin have anything to do with that?”

  Nell watched with no little satisfaction as Berlin’s whole body tensed, his fists clenched. “There is no association with Scott Joplin. How many times have I got to tell you that? I’m the King of Ragtime, Miss Edwards, and I’m going to write my own ragtime opera. I don’t need help from any broken-down has-been.”

  It took all Nell’s force of will not to haul off and slap him into next week. Both hands held her little notepad in a death grip.

  “That’s the story, Miss Edwards, okay? Now, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Nell cleared her throat. “Just one more question, if you wouldn’t mind. I happened to be talking to a friend yesterday, someone who writes for the New York Age. He said when he ran into Mr. Joplin a couple of days ago, Mr. Joplin was very excited. He told my friend he’d left his play with you, and that you’d just called and made an appointment to talk with him about it. Can you tell me why he might have said that?”

  Berlin gawked, jaw slack, eyes wide and staring. His body coiled like a wound spring. “Jesus Christ Almighty! Everyone in the business knows Joplin’s got a heavy dose of the French goods, and his mind’s shot all to hell. If I was a doctor running a funny farm, maybe I could tell you what kind of crazy stuff goes through his head. If! But I ain’t a doctor, so I can’t tell you. Now, would you please leave a man alone to get his work done?”

  Nell slapped her notebook shut and moved face-to-face with the raging songwriter. “All right, Mr. Berlin, I’ve got your quote down, word for word, thank you.”

  Berlin writhed. How could he have let Izzy get past him to talk like that, not just to a reporter, but a lady-reporter? Now, she had his balls in that notebook of hers; if she ever put into print what he’d just said, he’d be finished. He muscled Izzy aside, then turned his best soulful look onto his visitor. “Miss Edwards, I…I’m terribly sorry,” he stammered. “There’s no excuse for talking like that, especially to a lady, and I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m under a whole lot of pressure, not that that makes it right, but…well, I hope you’ll understand. Let me answer your question the way I should’ve in the first place. No, I haven’t got the slightest idea why Joplin would’ve said he got a call from me, except maybe that’s what he wants to happen. Maybe the whole business about showing me his play is real inside of his head. But it’s not real anyplace else. Now, please, Miss Edwards. There’s absolutely nothing else I can tell you.”

  If he knew I’m not a reporter, Nell thought, he’d have me thrown out on my ear, lady or not. “All right, Mr. Berlin.” Struggling to keep contempt out of her voice. “Thank you for your time.”

  No handshakes on departing.

  Robert Miras showed Nell to the door, then walked back to his boss. Before he was fully into the room, Berlin shouted, “Get Cliff for me, Robert. I can’t afford to waste any more goddamn time today.”

  If a messenger’s ever going to be killed, Miras thought, it’s going to be me, right now. “I’m sorry, Mr. Berlin, but if you’ll remember, you asked Mr. Hess to invite Mr. Stark by at a quarter till two. That’s only fifteen minutes away.”

  Berlin sank to the piano bench and flopped his head into his hands. All right, fifteen minutes. Make a couple of phone calls, then talk to Stark, get that deal done, and get the hell back to writing music.

  All the way down to the lobby, all the way across Seventy-second Street, all the way to the Kuminskys’ apartment, Nell replayed Berlin’s outburst in her mind. He hasn’t talked to Scott for years, but he did seem to know the name of Scott’s musical, didn’t he?

  ***

  Bartlett Tabor, his face the color of uncooked beef, burst into Reception, straight-armed a man who jumped out of a chair and waved a sheet of music in his face, then charged down the far hallway to Henry Waterson’s office. Fannie, the receptionist, sat stone-still, didn’t even say hello. When her boss was in that kind of a mood, the help did all they could to melt into the background.

  Waterson’s door was closed. Tabor knocked once, then, without waiting for a response, slammed the door open and flew in. Waterson swung around in his chair, turned a curious eye onto the office manager. Sammy Varick, one of the young pluggers, perched on the window sill, grinning, but the look on Tabor’s face got rid of the grin in a hurry. “Sammy, go sell some tunes,” Tabor snapped. “I need to talk to Mr. Waterson.”

  Varick was out the door before Tabor had finished speaking. The manager reached backward to slam the door shut. Waterson raised a hand. “What’s up, Bart? Something about that murder?”

  Tabor shook his head, and without a word, handed Waterson the manila folder. Waterson opened it, glanced at the first page, then scrambled frantically through the sheets of paper. When he looked back to Tabor, his face had aged twenty years.

  “Right, Henry,” Tabor said. “I’ve got it all, every nickel, every penny.”

  “What are you going to…do?” Waterson’s voice was hoarse.

  “I could show this stuff to Berlin, couldn’t I? But I thought I’d give you first crack.”

  A bent smile inched across Waterson’s lips. “I appreciate that.”

  “No trouble, Henry. I’m sure you and I can work something out that’ll make both of us happy.”

  Waterson nodded. “I’m sure we can.”

  ***

  Birdie opened one eye. All she could see was the bed she was lying on and a shiny pine table and chair. No sign of the man who’d chloroformed her. But when she opened her second eye and looked around, there he was, sprawled in an upholstered armchair across the room. A colored man! A lacy curtain fluttered before an open window near his head. Was he asleep? The girl sat up quickly, slid off the bed, started on tiptoes toward the door, but before she’d taken three steps, the man stood between her and the door. “Now, don’t go makin’ trouble,” he growled. “If I gotta, I’ll tie you up to the bed there.” Then, as if anticipating her thought, he pointed a finger, and added, “And don’t be makin’ noise either, else I’ll shove a gag in your mouth. You be nice, I be nice, too. Okay?”

  Birdie didn’t answer.

  “Hey, I said, ‘Okay?’ You ain’t deef ‘n’ dumb, are you?”

  Birdie shook her head. The man was young, just about her age, but with his bashed nose and that scar across his cheek, he’d clearly done a lot more living than
she had. The girl shook hair back off her face. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Don’t be askin’ questions.” He gripped her shoulder, marched her back to the bed, and pushed her down.

  Birdie’s throat closed, eyes filled. “You’re not going to…hurt me, are you?”

  For just an instant, she saw his face relax, eyes soften, but his voice was no less gruff. “Not less’n you makes me trouble.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small pistol, waved it in Birdie’s face. The girl screamed, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Hey, be quiet, huh?” The man shoved the gun back into his pocket. “I was just wantin’ to show you. My boss says I ain’t supposed to do nothin’ to you, ’less you makes any trouble, and then I gotta do whatever I need to. So, best you don’t make no trouble, see?”

  “I won’t. I promise. But I can’t understand why you kidnaped me. My parents don’t have any money. There’s no way they could pay you a ransom.” She began to cry.

  “Hey, stop that, huh?” The man’s voice turned gentle. “Ain’t no call for you to be cryin’…”

  She wiped a sleeve across her eyes, looked around the room, then at her captor, who stared at her, puzzled. Finally, she brought herself to say, “Bathroom?”

  The man jerked a finger toward the door at the far end of the room. “Right in there. I let you go in by yourself, but you better not do nothing funny, hear?”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  Birdie edged off the bed, keeping a good distance between the man and herself, and practically ran into the bathroom. She closed the door, paused, then turned the key in the lock. She hadn’t gone for hours now, not since she’d left for work. She hoped the man wouldn’t hear her, she’d be so embarrassed. Whenever Aunt Ruth came for dinner and went into the bathroom, Birdie and her mother sat and waited for what they knew was coming from her father: “That woman pees like a horse.” Then they’d all giggle and snicker until her mother said, “Sha, both of you! She’ll hear.”

  When she’d finished, Birdie opened the bathroom door, and looked around. No sign of the colored man. Then she heard his voice coming from the room beyond. “Yeah, she be fine, just scairt, that’s all. No, sir, she didn’t say nothin’ at all, except for askin’ why she be here…she figured you was lookin’ for a ransom…You want me to ask her…okay, okay, I ain’t gonna say a word, yes, sir. I’ll just wait’ll I hears from you again.

  The girl heard a telephone receiver being replaced, and almost immediately, the colored man appeared in the doorway. He motioned her forward. This be the sitting room. You want to stay in here with me, that be okay.”

  “Thank you.” Birdie did her best to smile. Being in the bedroom with him had been scary. She’d have felt that way if he were any man…well, any man except Martin. And even with Martin, she guessed she might be just a little nervous, at least the first time.

  The sitting room was what she’d have called a living room, larger than the bedroom. She walked to the bar, bottles lined up next to a stainless steel sink. The furniture was good quality, an oak rocker with beautiful decorative turnings, matching chairs, sofa and a fainting couch, all covered with a red, nubby fabric, no stains, no holes. The tan woolen carpet was thick and unspotted. This had to be an apartment, not a hotel, and whoever owned it was pretty well off. A telephone sat on a small table near the door. If the man ever left her alone or went to sleep, she might be able to call home, or the office.

  Her back felt sore, legs stiff; she stretched, then settled into one of the upholstered chairs. The colored man stayed on his feet. Birdie thought he looked nervous. He paced the length of the room, peered out around the edge of the curtain on the window, then turned to face Birdie. “Hey, you ain’t had nothin’ to eat since we been here. You want me to get us some eats?”

  Was he just going to leave her there? How stupid could he be? She’d be out and on her way before he ever got to wherever he was going. She worked up another little smile. “Sure…sure, that’d be nice, thank you. I guess I am a little hungry.” Though she really wasn’t.

  The man nodded. “Okay.” He walked toward the door. But the girl’s fledgling hopes took a barrel-roll and flopped onto the carpet as he picked up the telephone receiver, growled, “Columbus 3487,” waited a moment, then said, “Yeah…Fred? We needs us some eats up here in 2A…couple beef sandwiches an’ cake be just fine…yeah, but don’t you be all day with it…oh, an’ don’t forget some coffee too…yeah, thanks.” He replaced the receiver. “Won’t take long, they’s only ’cross the street and down a li’l way.”

  Birdie nodded. “Thank you.” A restaurant on this street with a Columbus telephone exchange? They couldn’t be far from the office.

  The man looked at her as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Birdie held her breath. Finally, he spoke. “You like to play cards?”

  The question seemed so silly, she almost laughed. “Well, yes. Sure.”

  “What game?”

  “Gin?”

  Now, his smile was friendly, open. “Gin rummy? I can play that. I had a white-boy friend in N’Orleans, he teached me. You wants a game while we waits for the food?”

  “Sure.”

  The man rushed to pull an end table so it stood in front of Birdie’s chair, then ran into the bedroom, came back with the pine chair, and sat opposite the girl. He made a show of whipping a pack of cards from his pocket, flipping the cards into the air, slapping them down onto the table. “You be in for it now,” he said. “Li’l girl like you beat me at gin rummy, I guess that be time for me to quit.” He shuffled the cards, dealt.

  They were on their third hand when there came a loud knock. The man set down his cards, walked over, opened the door partway, and took a large paper bag from the delivery boy. Then he set the bag on the floor, and fumbled in his pocket. Birdie smelled roast beef; her stomach growled. But more important than food—without tipping off Mr. Scarface, was there some way she could get that delivery boy to understand she’d been kidnaped? She pushed back in her chair, but that was as far as she got. The colored man passed money around the edge of the door, and in the same motion, slammed the door and threw the lock. Then he picked up the bag of food, brought it to the table. “Well let’s see what-all we got here. Better eat up before it get cold.”

  “Sure.” Birdie tried not to be obvious about looking at the words printed on the bag. Barker’s Café, 391 West Forty-ninth Street. So she was on West Forty-ninth, somewhere in the three hundreds, in an even-numbered building, on the second floor, 2A. How could she get the information to Martin? He was staying at Mr. Lamb’s, he’d said, in Brooklyn. She scanned the room, but saw no telephone directory.

  ***

  Berlin was just a little too friendly for Stark’s taste. The butler had answered his knock, let him in, and brought him directly into the living room, where Berlin sat on the bench before a grand piano, to all intents and purposes lost in music composition. “Mr. Berlin,” Miras had announced. “Mr. Stark is here to see you.”

  Berlin turned; his face lit. “Mr. Stark, thanks for coming by on such short notice like this.”

  Stark thought he sounded like a novice actor, reading lines off a script. For that matter, the room looked like a stage set. Heavy curtains at every window, each piece of furniture massive. A conventional seascape on one wall, a portrait of a medieval couple on another. Bookshelves filled just so with leather-bound volumes. Behind Berlin, over the fireplace, a pair of British pottery urns flanked a lovely Empire mantel clock. As to the grand piano—Berlin had told every newspaper and magazine reporter in Christendom that he always composed at his special transposing piano, since he could only play in the key of F-sharp. But Stark had just seen him hit white keys. The grand was a prop in this particular play, as it was in the bigger stage production of the Life of Irving Berlin. All right, Stark thought, if he’s going to all this trouble to set a scene for me, he must have a good reason. By all means, let’s hear it.
“Mr. Hess said you wanted to talk to me about Scott Joplin’s music. I will always have time for that.”

  “Well, good, Mr. Stark.” The composer clapped his hands together. “Let’s get right down to facts. I don’t appreciate being buttonholed in the street and threatened with getting my teeth knocked out, or worse.”

  So that was it. Perhaps Niederhoffer’s little game last night was not such a bad thing after all. Stark put on a puzzled face. “I’m sorry you had a problem, Mr. Berlin, but I thought we were going to talk about Scott Joplin’s music. I don’t see—”

  “Mr. Stark, don’t try and be cute.” Berlin worked to keep any sharp edge off his words. “We’re both grown men, we don’t need to play kid games. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve got the chance of my life, writing this show with Victor Herbert for Flo Ziegfeld. I’m working every minute to get the music down on paper, and I just don’t have time for monkey business. All I need is for some mug to beat me up, and I’ll have to throw in the towel.”

  Stark thought the little man looked barely in control of himself. “Well, I am sorry, Mr. Berlin, but I’m also confused. You say a man threatened to knock out your teeth and beat you up? Why? And what does it have to do with me?”

  Berlin’s prominent Adam’s apple rose, then fell. His lips scarcely moved as he said, “He wants me to give Joplin a contract to publish his music.”

  Stark extended his hands, palms up. “Well, that seems easy enough. Surely you don’t need me to tell you how to write up a contract.”

  “Mr. Stark, would you listen to me, please. I can’t publish Joplin’s music because I don’t have Joplin’s music. I wouldn’t touch Joplin’s music with a ten-foot pole, not after the lies he spread all over town about me, five years ago. Now, would you please call off your gorilla?”

  Stark kept his face set into an expression of mild puzzlement, eyes slightly squinched, right corner of his mouth twisted. “But Joplin said he gave you the music.”

  “Are you calling me a liar, Stark?”