The King of Ragtime

by Larry Karp

  Berlin stood over the older man, fists clenched and cocked, eyes popping, sizzling with rage. All pretense at civility was gone; the angry question came through in the harsh gutturals of the immigrant Jews Stark remembered hearing down on the lower east side. But then, suddenly, Berlin pulled himself up straight, adjusted his tie, cleared his throat. “Sorry…I guess I really am a little bit on edge.”

  Stark marveled at the change; it was as if an entirely different person were speaking.

  “Look, Mr. Stark. This has got to be some kind of misunderstanding. How much would it take to get you to call off your goon and leave me be?”

  Anger boiled up into Stark’s throat, hot and bitter as gall. No more playacting. Up on his feet, shaking his right fist into Berlin’s face. “’How much would it take?’ Do you really think you can buy me off, then go merrily along your way as if nothing ever happened? You’ve got another think coming.”

  “Ah, Mr. Stark, come on, cool off. Look, I don’t mean any insult. What’s Joplin’s music worth, you tell me. I’ll give him every cent he hopes to get, then he can go his way and I’ll go mine.”

  “Oh, you’ll each go your own way, will you? And in six months, Joplin will walk down Broadway, look up at a marquee, and see If by Irving Berlin, the King of Ragtime. No, Mr. Berlin. Joplin wants to see his work on stage under his name. He wants to receive a royalties check in his mail every six months, and he’ll want a percentage of the gate as well.”

  Stark paused to draw a deep breath. “Now, hear me, sir, and hear me well. You will present a proper contract to publish and produce Joplin’s play, and you’ll present it within the time constraints you’ve been given. If you persist in this tomfoolery of yours, you’ll find to your sorrow that my patience is not without limit. Good day, Mr. Berlin.”

  Stark clapped his hat onto his head, and stormed out of the room, barely nodding to a puzzled Robert Miras. He flung the door open, slammed it behind himself, but once outside, he slowed his pace, and his face relaxed into a broad smile. He wondered whether there might be any demand for seventy-five-year-old novice actors. Pity he’d never given a thought to going on the stage until now. He might have enjoyed it.

  ***

  Eva Kuminsky answered the door, bug-eyed, and grabbed Nell by both jacket lapels. “You come to tell me something about my Birdie?” The woman’s shriek echoed down the hallway.

  Nell gently removed Eva’s hands from her jacket, then stepped inside, and pushed the door closed. She leaned into the hysterical woman’s face. “Mrs. Kuminsky…Birdie didn’t show up for work today. I came by to see whether she’s here. Is she?”

  Mrs. Kuminsky shook her head, mumbled a few words, the only ones of which Nell could understand were “phone call.” She half-pushed, half-coaxed the woman into a chair, then marched off to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with water. Back in the living room, she put the tumbler into Eva’s hand. Eva regarded it as if she’d never seen a glass of water before.

  “Drink.” Nell urged Eva with her hand.

  Without taking her red-rimmed eyes off Nell, the woman downed a couple of swallows, then sighed deeply. “You know something about Birdie?”

  “Only that she didn’t come to work this morning. Do you know where she is?” Nell paused, then added, “I want to help. What can you tell me?”

  Mrs. Kuminsky couldn’t seem to unlock her tongue, just sat panting like an Airedale after a five-mile run. Nell smiled encouragement. Eva took another swallow of water. “I got a phone call, out in the hall there, not even half an hour ago. A man said he’s got my Birdie, and if I want to see her again, I gotta tell Martin Niederhoffer and another man to go to the police and give up.”

  “Another man?”

  Eva nodded. “I forget his name.”

  “Scott Joplin?”

  “Yes. Yes. That’s the one. You know him? You know Martin, maybe, too? Go tell them please, they should go in to the police. I’m scared—the man who called said if I tell the police, then he’ll kill my child.”

  It had been a good while since Nell last had a headache, but now she felt a whopper brewing above her left ear. “Does your husband know about this?”

  Eva shook her head. “He works on the trains, engineer. I don’t know no name or phone number I could call. I gotta wait till he gets home. I’m afraid he’s gonna kill Martin for getting Birdie into this trouble.”

  Nell started to say it wasn’t Martin’s fault, but decided that would be a waste of time. She thought about giving Mrs. Kuminsky her own telephone number in case any new developments arose, but what if that hothead husband called instead, or even showed up at her apartment? What if he sent the police? She took Eva Kuminsky’s hand, squeezed it. “I’m going to do everything I can to help to get Birdie back safely.”

  The best the woman could do by way of answer was a distorted little smile.

  Nell walked into the hall, down the stairs and outside, then started toward the subway station. But only a half-block along, she stopped. A hefty woman plowed into her from behind; Nell barely managed to stay on her feet. Ignoring the large woman’s shouts, she stood a moment as if in a trance, then murmured, “Yes,” and walked the rest of the way to the subway. But instead of taking the Number Two train downtown to Brooklyn as she’d originally intended, she pushed her way onto an uptown Number Three, rode to Seventy-second Street, and rushed along the sidewalk to her apartment. A few minutes later, she was at her desk, typing furiously.

  ***

  Scott Joplin hit a chord, nodded satisfaction, reached to the music rack to write it down. The symphony was coming along; maybe he really would have time to finish it. And if he did, he’d get started on the score for that ballet he’d been thinking about, the one that would make his Ragtime Dance look like a practice piece. A symphony, a ballet…the kind of music he wanted to leave behind, music that would stop people saying Scott Joplin only composed music fit to be played in sporting houses.

  His fingers wandered back to the piano keys, then he clenched his teeth as his bladder delivered its latest ultimatum. No, Joplin thought, I can hold it. He played a treble sequence, hit a couple of bass chords, wrote more notes on the paper.

  Stark pushed himself out of his chair, walked to the window, looked up the street, then down. No sign of Nell. She was going to have lunch with Niederhoffer’s girlfriend, what was her name, but it was already past three. What was she up to now? He didn’t know whether to worry or be annoyed.

  Across the room, on the sofa, Martin turned over a card, placed it in the proper sequence, turned over another card. Solitaire never had been his game, but right then, it was all that was keeping him from going crazy. Time was passing, but nothing was happening. Old Man Stark had gotten nowhere with Berlin, and as for Mrs. Stanley having lunch with Birdie, what was the point? Birdie had told him she hadn’t heard anything and didn’t know anything. He’d done more yesterday on his own than anyone else was going to do today. At least he’d gotten Berlin nervous…well, Footsie Vinny had, but who’d taken Vinny down there?

  He glanced at Stark at the window. He could be up, out the door, and on his way before the old guy could even turn around. He set down the cards, stood, stretched. Quick glance toward the piano. Mr. Joplin looked like nothing but his music was in his head. The young man padded to the door, reached for the knob…and the door flew open, catching him squarely in the face. He let out a howl.

  Nell stood in front of him, Stark at his side. “What happened?” Stark asked.

  Nell pushed the door shut. “I think Mr. Niederhoffer was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  No sympathy in her voice. She knew. Martin took his hand from his face, glanced at it. No blood. “I heard you out there, and was coming to open the door,” he said. “I wanted to do something today besides play solitaire.”

  Stark looked at the manila folder in Nell’s hand. “I guess Martin’s ears are better than my eyes. I never saw you coming down the street.�
�� He made a production of pulling out his pocket watch, then squinted over it, at his daughter. “I’d say you had a long lunch. Was it productive?”

  Nell marched past him, dropped the folder onto the telephone table. She pulled the pin from her hat, set the hat on top of the folder. Joplin’s apparent attention to his composition didn’t waver. “As a matter of fact,” Nell said. “I had no lunch. Birdie didn’t come.”

  “What do you mean, she didn’t come?” Martin, instantly on the uptake.

  “I called the office and asked for her. They said she didn’t come in to work today.”

  “Why not?” Martin’s fists tightened. “Where is—”

  Nell cut him off. “I couldn’t find out right then, because I had an appointment with Irving Berlin.”

  Above his beard, Stark’s face went crimson. “What…when did this happen? I had no idea—”

  Nell tried to ignore the hammer, pounding relentlessly at her left temple. “You had no idea because I didn’t tell you, and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to have to argue with you about whether or not I was going to do it. I posed as a reporter, and I got some interesting answers to my questions.”

  “But damn it to hell! What about Birdie?” Martin, not about to let the most important matter be put aside.

  “Young man, control your tongue,” Stark snapped. “There’s a lady here.”

  “It’s all right, Dad.” Nell sounded weary. “Anyone in the music business who gets offended at every hell and damn doesn’t have time to do anything else. Martin, I don’t know what’s happened to Birdie. After I finished with Berlin, I stopped at Kuminskys’ and spoke to Birdie’s mother. She was quite upset. Someone had called her and told her they had Birdie in custody, and that they’d release her if you and Mr. Joplin turn yourselves in.”

  It took a moment for Martin to process the information; then he barreled over to the piano, and tugged at Joplin’s arm. The composer, taken by surprise, nearly toppled off the edge of the bench. Martin pulled him up and toward the door. “Get out of my way,” he shouted at Stark and Nell. “I’m not going to let them hurt Birdie.”

  “You young fool—shut up and sit down!”

  Martin’s expression suggested Stark had slapped his face.

  “Turning yourself in now would be the worst thing you could do. Can you really be so foolish as to think whoever’s got your girlfriend would simply let her walk out of wherever she is, safe and sound? If we ever had any thought of you and Joplin going to the police, we don’t have it any longer. They’ve forced our hand, and damn it…” He paused just long enough to glance at Nell, who managed not to smile. “We have no choice but to find out ourselves just what in Sam Hill is going on here, and we can’t all be running around on our own, each of us trying to outmaneuver the other. If we want to have any hope of getting that girl back safely, we need to work together. Do you both understand me?”

  Silence for an instant, then Martin exploded into tears. Nell put an arm across his shoulders. Joplin, now ignored, walked back to the piano bench, and picked up where he’d left off when Martin had pulled him away.

  “My father’s right, Martin,” Nell said gently. “Come on, let’s go in the kitchen. We need to put together what we know, and decide where to go from here.”

  Martin wiped at his eyes.

  “We’ll find her. “Nell’s voice was like steel. “The sooner we start, the better.”

  “No doubt about that,” said Stark. “But we do need to be careful. Trying to predict the behavior of a cornered rat can be dangerous business. Tell us about your talk with him, Nell.”

  ***

  Stark leaned so far forward in his chair, Nell thought he might fall across the kitchen table. “You say Berlin told you he knew about Joplin’s play?”

  “Not exactly,” Nell said. “He didn’t admit it, but I think he slipped and referred to the play by name, If. I almost pushed him on it, but thought it might be better to not let him know I’d picked up on him.”

  Stark nodded. “Good judgment. Did he say anything else?”

  Nell made a wry face, glanced toward the living room, then shifted into a whisper. “He said everyone in the business knows Scott’s got a dose of the French goods, and is out of his mind. Of course, he lost no time in apologizing, and asking me to understand how much pressure he’s under with his new show.”

  “The man’s disgusting. If I were thirty years younger—”

  Nell rested a hand on her father’s arm. “Dad, enough. He’s a crass little man who’s terrified that one day he’s going to find himself back on the streets of the lower east side. Let’s get on. Did you find anything useful?”

  Stark hesitated. He’d have sooner taken on both his boys at the same time than get down to cases with their little sister. She’d scared off more suitors than Penelope, didn’t get married until she was past thirty. The only man he’d ever seen her defer to was Scott Joplin.

  Whom he had come here to help, hadn’t he? Slowly, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, laid it on the table. Nell picked it up and began to read. “I admit to being a bit ashamed of myself,” Stark muttered. “I took it from Joplin’s desk.”

  Nell looked up, disbelief all over her face. “Lottie doesn’t know?”

  Martin scrambled out of his chair to peer at the paper over Nell’s shoulder.

  “She was scared silly just about our being in there.” Stark talked in a hoarse whisper. “I decided not to take a chance she’d say no. Or not let me even copy it.”

  Nell murmured a soft “Hmmm,” then went back to reading. Finally, she looked up. “‘The most important word in the dictionary of a man’s life…The Ifs that have defined the life of Scott Joplin…’ What you think those Ifs might be, Dad?”

  “I’ve been wondering all afternoon. If Scott Joplin had been born white? If reconstruction had been more than a joke? If he could have gotten some real schooling in music composition and performance. If John Stark had published his operas…” His voice faded. “I suppose if I were in his place, it’d be something along those lines.”

  No one spoke. Nell pushed the paper back across the table; Stark folded it carefully and returned it to his pocket. “In any event, I’m afraid we can’t make much of the fact that Berlin knew the name of Joplin’s play. I mentioned it yesterday, when I went down and talked to him. I wanted to see how he’d react.”

  Nell sent her father’s eyebrows skyward with a vigorous misuse of the Lord’s name.

  “I wouldn’t be concerned, my dear. Two people, one of them supposedly a reporter, have asked him about that play, so he must have serious doubts by now as to whether he really can get away with stealing it. And…” Stark gestured toward Martin. “Thanks to our young friend and his companion, he must also know he can’t try to get out of the situation by destroying the manuscript—not if he wants to keep his teeth. My apologies on that point, Martin. It was obvious this afternoon that Berlin thinks I’m the mysterious person behind the thug who threatened him, and I said nothing to disabuse him of the idea. Your plan might just have been brilliant, after all. Do you think you could get back in touch with this Footsie Vinny person?”

  “Probably. I could go up to the Alamo and talk to Ragtime Jimmy.”

  “Yes, I suppose. I don’t like your going out on the street, but I don’t see any other way. All right. Nell, you stay with Joplin while Martin and I go uptown and arrange for Vinny to pay another call on Berlin, with Martin and me in his company.” He turned to the young man. “But you will keep your mouth severely shut. I want Berlin to think he’s up against the boss, and that the boss is angry about a missing girl, and running out of patience in a hurry.” Stark pushed away from the table, and started in his stiff-legged trot into the living room.

  “Just a minute, Dad.”

  Stark turned.

  “I can’t stay here with Scott. I have something else to do now.”

  Stark walked slo
wly back to his chair, sat, drummed fingers on the table, blew out a breath.

  “I’ve been thinking about Birdie, too. It’s almost four o’clock, and if I move fast enough, I can get to Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder before five. While I was waiting my turn at Berlin’s, I overheard Mr. Tabor, the office manager, tell Berlin there’s a real problem with the books, what with both Martin and Birdie disappearing, and he needs to hire a new bookkeeper, fast. I’ll bet he’d jump at someone with experience at a music publisher’s. He’d probably hire me on the spot and put me right to work.”

  “Nell! You can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Weren’t you satisfied with my work? When I kept books at Stark Music, you were never a penny off. I’ve got eyes and ears, and if I’m in that office all day, I might pick up some information about Birdie’s whereabouts, and maybe about the murder as well. Don’t you think they might be tied in with each other?”

  Stark frowned. “That could easily put you in harm’s way. I won’t let you do it.”

  The silence in the kitchen was like the stillness that precedes a tornado. Martin stopped breathing.

  Nell spoke first. “I am forty-four years old, and I’ll decide for myself what I will and will not do. If I don’t try this, and it comes to a bad end for that girl, do you suppose I’ll be able to forgive myself for sitting by because of a half-baked concern for my own skin? That’s not the way I was brought up.”

  Stark studied his shoes. She’d always been like this. There had been episodes in Sedalia where Nell’s speech and behavior had sent ladies in for quiet talks with Sarah, but nothing had ever stopped his daughter, or even slowed her down. And blast it, she always managed to couch a proposition in such terms that if he objected, he’d be the one to sound unreasonable. No, that was not the way she’d been brought up. He raised his eyes. “Suppose Berlin should see you at the office, and recognizes you from this afternoon?”

  “He’s not there often, and in any case, I seriously doubt he’d give a bookkeeper a second glance, let alone a first. But I’ll make up my hair and face differently. He’ll never notice.”