Lair of Dreams (The Diviners #2) (9 page)

“You would do that for old Bill, wouldn’t you?” Blind Bill asked again. The playfulness of his tone had vanished.

“Isaiah, Memphis, wash up for supper now!” Octavia called from inside.

“Yes, ma’am!” Memphis called back, grateful for his aunt’s interruption. “Coming, Mr. Johnson?”

“You go on ahead. I’ll be in shortly.”

When he heard the door close behind him, Bill sat for another minute on the front stoop and tilted his head up toward the sky, which he could only see as a dark, grainy impression.

That would change soon, if it all worked out right.

Somebody had healed Isaiah Campbell as the boy lay in that back bedroom at Octavia’s house all those weeks ago. Somebody very
powerful. When Bill had put his hands on the boy’s head, trying to see into his Diviner mind in the hope of getting another lucky number to ease his gambling debts, he’d felt the energy in the boy’s body immediately. It had traveled up Bill’s arms and into his own body, till it was too much, and he’d had to let go. That was when he noticed the change in his vision. It was very small—where there had been total darkness he now saw faint, blocky shapes, like looking through several layers of gray gauze. But it had been enough to let him know that it was possible: He could be healed. He could see again. And if he could see again, he could get revenge on the people who’d taken his sight from him in the first place.

Diviners were everywhere these days, it seemed. But Bill was fairly certain there was only one person who had the gift to do that sort of healing, only one person desperate enough to try it. A brother’s love was strong, and the Campbell brothers’ love was stronger than most. It was clear that Memphis would do anything to protect Isaiah, even lie to Bill about his own abilities. Fine. If Memphis Campbell wanted to play the rabbit and hide in his warren, then Bill would play the fox and wait him out. Memphis would surface in time. And Bill would be right there waiting.

And if not, well, he might have to smoke the rabbit out.

Sometimes a child who’d had one fit suffered another.

It happened all the time.

Nearby, a crow cawed, making Bill jump. “Go on, bird! Git! Shoo!”

It squawked again, passing so close to Bill’s head that he gasped at the suddenness of feathers against his cheek like a slap.

Theta waited impatiently for Henry on the corner of Broadway and West Forty-second Street. At last, she saw him sauntering up the street, his beaten boater hat perched on his head. “There you are! Come on, kid. You’re gonna be late.”

She linked her arm through Henry’s, and the two of them hurried as best they could in the bustle of Broadway, past streets housing the many music publishers of Tin Pan Alley, till they came to the address they wanted. Henry stared up at the four-story row house.

“Bertram G. Huffstadler and Company, Music Publishers,” he said on a shaky exhale.

“Don’t have kittens, Hen. They’re gonna love you.”

“That’s what you said about Mills. And Leo Feist. And Witmark and Sons.”

“Witmark and his Sons are a bunch of chumps.”

“They’re one of the biggest music publishers in the biz.”

“And they didn’t publish you, so they’re chumps.”

Henry smiled. “You’re my best girl.”

“Somebody should be. Hold on, let me fix your tie,” Theta said, adjusting the knot. “There. Now. Let’s hear your spiel.”

With a big razzmatazz smile, Henry stuck out his hand and said, “How do you do? I’m Henry Bartholomew DuBois the Fourth. And I’m the next big thing.” He dropped the hand and the smile, pacing nervously in front of the stoop. “I can’t say that.”

“But you
are
the next big thing.”

“I don’t feel like the next big thing.”

“That’s where the acting comes in, kid. You gotta make ’em believe it. Just remember our plan. Now. Who’s the one they want?”

“I am,” Henry mumbled.

“Very convincing,” Theta deadpanned. “You selling ’em your songs or a funeral plan?”

“I am the next big thing!” Henry said a little more forcefully.

“Go get ’em, kid. Ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes.”

Henry took the stairs to the second floor, making his way down a narrow hallway of small rooms. Music was everywhere, songs competing with one another till they all sounded as if they were part of the same orchestration. He passed an open doorway where two composers paced a small room, throwing out rhymes to each other. “June, moon, soon, moon—”

“You said
moon
already—”

“So sue me—”

“I can’t. It’s like suing myself.”

In another room, a fella played a verse for a girl who was curled up in a chair with her shoes off and one arm thrown across her eyes.

“What does that make you feel?” the fella asked.

“Suicidal,” the girl said.

“Okay. But would you want to make whoopee first?” he shot back, and Henry tried not to laugh.

All of them were selling dreams in rhythm and rhyme. Henry desperately wanted to be one of them. No, he wanted to be the best of them. The ambition burned coal-hot inside him. He hoped today would be his lucky day. If that hack Herbie Allen could sell his terrible songs, why couldn’t Henry?

The hallway funneled him into a larger common area at the back. A lanky, dark-haired young man hunched over a typewriter did not look up. The sounds of a treacly, forgettable love ditty competed with
the clack of typewriter keys. Of the two, Henry preferred the typing. It was more honest.

“What do you think?”

It took Henry a second to realize that the question was directed at him and that it had come from the typist, who had stopped working and was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching Henry intently.

“About…” Henry gestured toward the room from which the bad song originated.

The typist nodded. Henry wasn’t sure what to say. What if this was a test? What if this young man and those composers were the best of friends? What if this was, in fact, Mr. Huffstadler in disguise? The typist seemed too young to be a publisher. In fact, he didn’t look much older than Henry. “Well, it’s certainly… high-pitched.”

The young man grinned. “That’s the thing about Simon and Parker—they’re nothing but treble.”

Henry laughed and stuck out his hand. “Henry DuBois. The Fourth.”

“David Cohn. The one and only. Actually, one of about a million. David Cohn is like the John Smith of the Jewish world. You here to see the big man?”

“Indeed I am.”

“You any good?”

Theta’s voice purred encouragement in his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to say those words. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

“You can go on in,” David Cohn said, gesturing with one finger toward a door with a glass window with the name
BERTRAM G. HUFFSTADLER
fanned out in blocky black-and-gold lettering. “Oh, and don’t let the Amazing Reynaldo throw you.”

“Who?”

David Cohn smirked as he resumed his typing. “You’ll find out. Good luck, Mr. DuBois the Fourth.”

Mr. Huffstadler was a small, portly man with a jowly face that
seemed to be in a perpetual state of imminent disappointment. He shoved a cigar into his scowling slash of a mouth and gave Henry a dismissive glance.

“Have a seat. What brings you to the Huffstadler Company today?”

I’m the next big thing.
“Well, sir, I’d very much like to have my songs published by the great Bertram G. Huffstadler.”

“So would a lot of folks. Why should I publish you?”

“Well, sir…” Henry launched into his well-rehearsed patter about his love of music and his passion for songwriting as Mr. Huffstadler shuffled to the door and poked his head out. “Where’s Reynaldo?” he shouted.

A moment later, a man in a pinstriped suit and shoes with spats like bat’s wings entered. He wore enough aftershave lotion to asphyxiate a busload of people.

“Where you been?” Mr. Huffstadler scolded in what he probably thought passed for a whisper. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”

“The muse must be fed, Mr. Huffstadler. I required sustenance,” the other man said with an actor’s flair.

“I don’t pay you to eat. I pay you to pick hits.” The harrumphing Mr. Huffstadler waddled back to his chair. “This is the Amazing Reynaldo. He’s a Diviner,” the man said with a knowing nod. “Name another publisher who has a Diviner working for him. You can’t—I’m the only one. This fella here has the power to communicate with the spirit world and find out which songs stink and which ones will be hits.”

Henry felt fairly certain that the “Amazing” Reynaldo’s real talent was the ability to detect a sucker and a meal ticket. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he said.

The Amazing Reynaldo shook Henry’s hand and closed his eyes. “The spirits tell me that you are from the South.”

My accent tells you I’m from the South, you faker
. “Gee, that is astonishing,” Henry said.

Huffstadler smiled around his cigar. “Did I tell you or did I tell you? Okay, kid. You’re up. Show the Diviner and me what you’ve got.”

He gestured to the piano in the corner, a cherrywood upright that Henry wished were his. Henry played a portion of his first song, stealing glances at Mr. Huffstadler’s face, which was like a stone.

“Reynaldo?” Huffstadler said when Henry had finished.

The Diviner looked heavenward, frowning, then turned to Henry. “Mr. DuBois. May I be frank?”

“I wish you would, Mr. Reynaldo,” Henry said, though he wished no such thing.

“I’m afraid your song simply isn’t up to the standards of our company. It’s too jazzy. Too… complicated. The spirits found it odd and displeasing.”

“I’m very much influenced by the style of New Orleans, where I was raised.”

“Well, this isn’t New Orleans, kid. It’s the big city. You’re competing with George and Ira Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Herbert Allen, and about a thousand other fellas churning out songs folks wanna sing down at the corner dance hall.” Mr. Huffstadler spread his hands out as if that gesture were an explanation in and of itself. “We need songs that anybody can sing anywhere. Popular songs. Songs that make money.”

“The spirits concur,” Reynaldo said, frowning down at his cuticles as if they, and not Henry’s future in the music business, hung in the balance. He gave Henry an apologetic smile that was as insincere as his divining. “Alas, it’s no Berlin.”

Mr. Huffstadler punched the air with the end of his cigar. “Irving Berlin. Didn’t have a cent to his name. Didn’t even speak English, for Pete’s sake. Started his career on the streets of the Lower East Side. Now? He’s the biggest songwriter in America—and a millionaire. What you need, my friend, is to make your music sound like Irving Berlin’s.”

Henry forced a half smile. “Well, sir, we’ve already got a Mr. Berlin. Seems redundant to have two.”

“Kid, if I could have a hundred Irving Berlins, I would. I’m in the business of business. If you write me a song about a disembowelment and it sells, I’m interested.”

“Constipaaation…”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Henry said quickly.

Right on cue, Theta pushed through the door. “Oh, excuse me! I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said, batting her lashes and doing her “little girl lost” shtick.

“Not at all, Miss…?” Mr. Huffstadler looked her up and down.

Theta got wise immediately and smiled up at him, wide-eyed. “Knight. Theta Knight. And you must be the one and only Mr. Bertram G. Huffstadler,” she purred.

The lecherous man laughed. “Guilty in the first degree.”

“And I am the Amazing Reynaldo, Seer of Futures, Reader of Thoughts, Diviner and Advisor to great men,” Reynaldo said, kissing her hand.

And low-rent music publishers
, Henry thought.

Mr. Huffstadler smoothed back his thinning hair. “Now, how can I help you, little lady?”

“Oh, I surely hope you can help me, Mr. Huffstadler. I’m just beside myself,” Theta said, baiting the hook. “You see, I work for Mr. Ziegfeld, in the Follies?”

“The Follies?” Reynaldo blurted eagerly before catching himself. “That is, I sensed it.”

“No kidding? Golly!” Theta cooed, batting her lashes until Henry had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Sometimes Theta’s best acting wasn’t on the stage. “Well, Flo—Mr. Ziegfeld, that is—he’s looking for a new song, and the other night, I was in a little nightclub, and I heard the dreamiest number! But I don’t know who wrote it. I was kinda hoping you might know or, gee, bein’ as you’re such a Big Cheese, maybe you even published it?”

“Well, if we didn’t, we oughta!” Mr. Huffstadler winked at Theta. “So what’s this dreamy tune called, honey?”

“Jeepers, I don’t really know.”

“Reynaldo?” Mr. Huffstadler looked to the Diviner, who paled.

“Er… the spirits don’t see fit to tell me at this time.”

“Perhaps if you sang a little of it, Miss,” Henry prompted.

“Of course! It went something like this.…” Theta launched into the chorus of Henry’s song, purposely forgetting some of the words and humming along as if she’d only heard it once.

Henry’s eyes widened in mock-surprise. “Why, Miss, that’s my song!”

“Your song? You don’t say!”

“I do say.” Henry picked up the chorus, supplying the right words, and Theta gazed at him with a swoony face. At the end, she applauded enthusiastically. “Oh, that’s wonderful! You’ve gotta come by and play that for Mr. Ziegfeld.”

“Of all the luck,” Henry said, grinning. “I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t believe it, either.” Behind the desk, Mr. Huffstadler scowled. “You kids think I fell off a turnip truck this week? Your song stinks, Mr. DuBois—and so does this phony act. Now get out before I throw you both out.”

Theta dropped her smile, along with her breathless voice. “Yeah? You wouldn’t know a good song if it came up and bit you in the a—”

“Ascot!” Henry said quickly. “May I escort you out, Miss Knight?”

“I wish you would, Mr. DuBois,” Theta said. She leaned in to the Amazing Reynaldo. “And if you’re really a reader of thoughts, you oughta be blushing to beat the band if you can read mine right now, ya big phony.” She slammed the door behind her for good measure.

At the front desk, David Cohn grinned up at Henry and Theta from behind his typewriter. “Nice try.”

“Well, it almost worked.” Henry tipped his hat. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” David fiddled with some paper, glancing shyly at Henry. “Hopefully, we’ll meet again. Hey!”

“Yeah?” Henry said, turning around.

“For what it’s worth, I thought your song was pretty good.”

“Good or pretty good?”

“Nothing wrong with your song that a little more heart and a lot of hard work couldn’t fix.”

“You a Diviner, too?” Henry joked.

David Cohn smiled. “No. Just honest. But nobody pays you for that.”