The King of Ragtime (3 page)

Meggy poked her head around the corner from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready,” she whispered, mouthing the words theatrically.

Stark held up an index finger, then looked longingly across the room at his rocker. “Nell, I’m seventy-five years old,” he said, almost a groan.

For answer, he got a sharp, “Some men are better at seventy than others are at twenty. Isn’t that what you told my brothers when they wanted you to retire after Mother died, and let them run the business?”

How many platefuls of his own words was she going to serve him up, and insist he eat every bite? Stark sighed “What about this musical of his? Is it any good?”

“I’ve got no idea. He kept it under lock and key, wouldn’t let anyone see it. But he’s convinced it’s not only going to establish his reputation for all time, it’s also going to bring in money to support Lottie after he’s gone. We’ve all been trying to encourage him. What else could we—”

“Nell, I’m sorry to interrupt, but what on earth possessed Scott to take his music to Berlin? After all that fuss over ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band?’”

“I know. But Berlin’s bookkeeper convinced Scott to put the past aside, and said he’d keep an eye on the music and Berlin.”

“Do you think the bookkeeper’s in on some funny business?”

“That, I don’t know. Lottie seems to think he’s no worse than naive, and just wanted to help Scott. But there’s no point in my trying to talk to him—if he
is
involved, he’ll go right back to Berlin, and that will only give them more time to cover up. Dad, you’ve got to come out here. If Berlin steals this music and Scott goes to his grave knowing you sat in your rocking chair in St. Louis and didn’t even lift a finger, you won’t be able to look in a mirror the rest of your life.”

Apples and trees. He had to hand it to her. “All right, Nell. Give me a little while to consider the situation, and I’ll get back to you. I promise.”

“Today?”

“Don’t push me. You know my word is good. I’ll call you just as soon as I can. And I’ll give your love to Till and Margaret.”

He replaced the receiver slowly, as if too vigorous a hang-up might trigger an explosion. Then he shook his head, strolled out of the living room, into the dining room, and took his seat at the dinner table. Through the barrage of silent questions, he said, “Nell sends you all her love.”

At the head of the table, his son, Etilmon, cocked his head and studied his father. “That’s why she called?”

“No. It’s Scott Joplin.”

“She still keeps up with Scott, doesn’t she?”

“Always has. Now she wants me to get on a train to New York, and help Scott out of some music-publishing pickle.”

“Just like that? Get on a train and go to New York?”

Stark thought Margaret looked like a cow shocked with a prod. “I believe I said that was her wish.”

“Nell should have more sense than to ask that of a man your age,” said Etilmon. “After what Joplin said about you back in oh-eight, you don’t owe him a thing. Now, let’s say grace. Meggy?”

The girl folded her hands, lowered her eyes. “Though I have all faith, so it could move mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.” The girl looked up, glanced from her father to her grandfather. “Amen.”

Stark thought he might split a gut. But later, as he sat over his cup of coffee, a thought came into his mind and sent him bolt upright. Could his granddaughter’s impertinence have been directed not at his son, but at him?

He excused himself, jumped to his feet, strode out-of-doors into one of those heady summer evenings that quicken the blood of the young and revive memories in the old. The scent of the little white Autumn Clematis blossoms in the beds in front of the house made his head spin. Evenings like this, back on the farm in Maysville, he’d sit on the front porch and play his guitar, Sarah at his side, accompanying him in that beautiful clear voice, while the children, Etilmon, Will, Eleanor, kept up as best they could. As he remembered the duet Sarah and Nell sang on “Aura Lee,” his eyes filled. “Our boys will shine tonight,” he murmured, “Our boys will shine…” The farmhouse faded from his mind’s eye, and in its place, Stark saw endless files of men in blue uniforms, marching and singing in chorus. “John Brown’s body lies a-mold’ring in the grave. John Brown’s body lies a-mold’ring in the grave. John Brown’s body lies a mold’ring in the grave. But his soul goes marching on.”

The old man did an abrupt about-face, hurried back up the concrete walkway to the house and inside, slammed the door shut. He marched to the phone, double-time, barked a number to the operator, then shifted from one foot to the other as he waited. Finally, he heard his daughter’s hello. “Nell,” he said. “I’ll be taking the New Yorker out of Union Station tomorrow, so I’ll see you the day after. I hope that will do.”

A pause, then he heard a quiet, “I’ll meet you at Pennsylvania Station…thank you, Dad.”

As Stark walked away from the telephone, a thousand miles away, his daughter slowly replaced the receiver and swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears that filled her eyes from streaming down her face. She did not succeed.

Chapter Three

Manhattan
Tuesday, August 22
Early afternoon

Bartlett Tabor, office manager for Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, walked slowly through Reception on his way back from the can. All collars in the office were open, ties askew, sleeves rolled up. Fannie Solomon, the receptionist, flashed him a big smile as he came within range of her desk. “Five days in a row over ninety. Mr. Snyder was smart to take his vacation now, huh?”

Tabor grunted a vague acknowledgment. He didn’t give a fiddler’s fart for Ted Snyder or the weather; right then, all he could think of were those numbers he’d left for Martin Niederhoffer to check out. He needed those figures, and he wanted them now.

He dodged a
schmegeggi
who was waving sheets of music manuscript at Harvey Jacobs, one of the arrangers. Music publishing, Christ, what a business. The manager hustled out of Reception and down the hallway, past the secretaries’ space, past his own office, past Ted Snyder’s. In the next room, he saw Henry Waterson, feet up on his desk, pawing through a racing form. Tabor checked his pocket watch, just past one-thirty. He leaned through the doorway. “Henry, what the hell’re you still doing here? Those poor ponies’re going to think you don’t love them any more.”

“Ach.” Waterson swung around, lowered his feet. His thick lips curled, jaw set, ready to broadcast a piece of his customary derisive humor. “Berlin again. Every time I think we’ve got things settled, him and that lawyer of his come up with another angle on copyrights or royalties or whatever. We had a meeting today that was supposed to be be done by one o’clock, but it lasted till fifteen minutes ago. Every word outa my mouth or my lawyer’s, that shyster Max Josephson jumped on it, turned it all around and fed it right back to me. Son of a bitch jewed me out of God knows how much money. Now, Irvy’s back in his hole there, door shut like always, doing God knows what. I can’t trust the little bastard an inch out of my sight.” Waterson waved the racing paper at Tabor, then worked himself out of his chair and to his feet. “Well, there’s still some good horses running. I guess better late than never, huh?”

Tabor thought Waterson was sorer about missing the early races than losing the money to Berlin, but fine, all the better. He clapped a hand on Waterson’s shoulder. “Sorry, Henry. We can’t win ‘em all, can we?”

Both men looked around at the sound of raised voices coming from Reception. Tabor laughed. “Another genius composer, sore that we don’t think his crap is gonna sell a million copies.”

Waterson snickered, folded his racing form, and walked out.

Tabor marched down the hall, and into Bookkeeping. Birdie, the assistant bookkeeper, went red and looked away; five’d get you ten she and Niederhoffer had been paying attention to the wrong figures before they heard him coming. “Miss Kuminsky!” he snapped.

Birdie jumped to her feet; her pen rolled off her desk onto the floor.

“Go up front and ask Fannie if she’s heard from Sam Goodman today.”

As the girl flew through the doorway, Tabor strode up to Niederhoffer’s desk and turned a humorless smile on the bookkeeper. “You got it?”

Without a word, Niederhoffer grabbed a folder, opened it, and handed Tabor several sheets of paper with columns of numbers. Tabor scanned them, chortled, then choked off the sound. “Good work, Niederhoffer—but hear me now, and hear me clear. Not a word of this, not to anyone. That includes your girlfriend.”

Niederhoffer bit on his upper lip, then looked back to the ledger he’d been working on, but Tabor interrupted him. “Niederhoffer!”

The bookkeeper looked up.

“Do you understand me?”

Niederhoffer set down his pencil with exaggerated care. “Yes, sir, I understand. I speak pretty good English for a greeny. What’s on those papers is none of my business.”

Tabor smirked. “Boy, one day that temper is going to get you into some real trouble. Listen—you’re going to have to stay after hours tonight to get the monthly sales figures caught up. I’ll see that you get overtime.” Tabor waved the papers. “I appreciate this.”

“Thank you, sir.” Niederhoffer’s words lacked enthusiasm, but he did feel some considerable satisfaction, and why not? It was no secret in the office that Mr. Waterson had a lot more interest in cards and ponies than in music, and Niederhoffer had just given Tabor solid evidence that Waterson was regularly raking money off the top, probably to pay gambling debts. That should be worth something, somewhere, to someone. He’d keep his ears open.

***

By five o’clock, Scott Joplin’s locked room was a pressure cooker. The composer pushed away from the piano, wiped his face with a handkerchief, filled a dirty glass from a pitcher of luke-warm water, took a long swallow. He gazed at the music rack on his piano, ground his teeth. This symphony was harder going than he’d anticipated. He’d learned symphonic music, form and structure, first from Mr. Weiss in Texarkana, then at General Smith’s College in Sedalia, but the minute he sat at the piano and tried to write down his
Symphony Number One
, his knowledge seemed to drain out of his head. The notes he put down on paper didn’t hang together the way he wanted. He walked to the window, stared into the street, where a bunch of kids had opened a hydrant and were running around, screaming and laughing, under the cascades of water. “The Cascades”…St. Louis World’s Fair. That rag came to him so easily, it practically wrote itself. They all did back then, but no more. The composer felt panic grip his heart as he remembered his friend, Louis Chauvin, shortly before he died, when his disease had filled his mind with garbage.

He forced himself back to the piano, played a few notes, but then heard Lottie’s voice. “Scott…
Scott!
Come on, now, Scott, open up. He ain’t gonna wait forever.”

Who’s
not gonna wait forever? Then he realized he’d only thought it, hadn’t said it out loud. “Who’s not gonna wait forever, Lottie?”

“Irving Berlin. He’s on the phone for you. Now, would you come on out of there and talk to the man.”

Joplin was through the doorway in a flash, up the stairs, into the hall. The telephone receiver hung from its cord like a lifeless thing. The composer snatched it up. “Hello, yes. Mr. Berlin?”

“That’s right. How you doing, Scott?”

“Fine, just fine. I’m working at my
Symphony Number One
. It’s going to be good. Really good.”

“Glad to hear that. Look, I’m calling about your musical.”

Joplin couldn’t talk. His muscles froze; he couldn’t draw breath.

“You there, Scott?”

He managed a choked, “Yes.”

“All right then, listen. I think it’s got some possibilities, I want to talk to you about it. Can you come on down?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now. Is that a problem?”

“No. No problem at all. I’ll be right there.”

“Good. See you soon. Just come on in, I’ll keep an ear out for you.”

Joplin hung up the receiver, dashed back into the apartment. Lottie gave him a curious look. He took hold of her by the shoulders.

“Hey, easy, Scott, you hurtin’ me.”

He let go, then grasped her again, this time as if she might have been made of glass. “Berlin
likes
it, Lottie. He says he thinks it’s got real possibilities, and he wants to talk to me about it.”

Lottie’s smile was cautious. “Well, that does sound good, all right. When you goin’?”

“Now. He says come on down right now.”

“
Now?
You sure that what he say?”

“Lottie, my ears still work all right. He says he wants to see me now.”

“It’s past five. Don’t you think maybe you ought to wait till tomorrow, so Martin’ll be there? Or maybe—”

“What am I supposed to do, woman? Tell Irving Berlin I can’t come and talk to him without having his bookkeeper there in the room? Now, let me be. Time’s wasting.”

She sighed, then took him by the arm, motioned him toward the bathroom. “All right, Scott, if that’s what you want. But you’re
not
going down there looking like a colored beggar off the street. You are going to let me give you a shave, and put a clean court plaster on your forehead, and then you’re going to wash up and change into your good suit. Won’t take but fifteen minutes, if you don’t argue. Come on.”

***

Bartlett Tabor stepped lively up from the subway station, and across Seventy-second Street. Not a woman under sixty failed to give him the eye as he went past, but he was used to that. What could he say, the ladies loved him, with his wide shoulders, dark eyes, long lashes and heavy eyebrows. They couldn’t seem to keep their fingers out of the dimple in his chin—not that he ever tried to stop them. He glanced at the manila folder in his left hand, and smiled as he thought how well his plan was working out. ‘Berlin, Snyder, and Tabor’ had a nice ring. As he looked up, still smiling, he caught the eye of a delicious little thing in a pretty white summer dress, then chuckled as he watched her blush. If he weren’t otherwise engaged…but he was. The girlies would have to wait.

He crossed West End Avenue and hurried on along Seventy-second to the end of the block. There, he turned left under the awning at the doorway to the Chatsworth Apartments. The doorman, a slightly-built Negro in a red uniform with gold trim, and a little circular hat to match, grinned, bowed, then opened the glass door. “’Afternoon, sir. Goin’ up to see Mr. Berlin?”

Tabor nodded.

Less than two minutes later, he was on the fifth floor, knocking at Berlin’s door. Practically before his hand was off the brass lion’s-head, the door opened and there stood Robert Miras, Berlin’s valet, looking down his long, slim nose at Tabor in that infuriating way of his. Too bad the lousy bum-sucker was Berlin’s property. Tabor would’ve loved to give him a good what-for.

“I’m sorry,” Miras said through his nose. “Mr. Berlin is not available at the moment.”

Tabor narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘he’s not available at the moment?’ This is the ‘moment’ he told me to come. I’ve got to talk to him, it’s important.” Tabor brandished the folder. “He’s not going to like it if he finds out you’re the reason I couldn’t show him this.”

“I’m sure it really is very important, Mr. Tabor. But Mr. Ziegfeld needed to see Mr. Berlin urgently, about
The Century Girl
. You know, the musical he’s working—”

“Yes, I know about
The Century Girl
. I’m his office manager.”

Miras’ face suggested that Tabor might have just said it was a nice day. The valet extended a hand. “I’ll be glad to give it to Mr. Berlin as soon as he returns.”

Tabor pulled the folder away, started to step inside. “I’ll wait.”

Miras glided a step to the left, blocking Tabor’s path. “He has an interview scheduled for when he gets back, and then he and Mr. Hess are going to dinner and a show. If you wish to leave the material with me, he should be able to look it over later and get back to you in the morning. But if you’d rather make an appointment for tomorrow, I’ll be glad to consult his calendar.”

Tabor fought an intense desire to punch the supercilious bastard square on the snoot. Miras’ faint smile said he knew exactly what Tabor would like to do, and more, knew he never would. Finally, Tabor thrust the folder at Miras, who gathered it up and slipped it under an arm. Tabor jabbed a finger. “Be careful. Make sure you don’t drop any of those papers.”

Miras pulled himself up to his full height. “Mr. Tabor, I do not occupy my position because I’m in the habit of being careless.” Then he shut the door—not gently—in Tabor’s face.

As he stormed out of the building, past the doorman, the office manager’s mood was 180 degrees from what it had been when he came in. All along Seventy-second Street, people moved aside to let him pass. No admiring looks from women, or anyone else. When he got to Broadway, he stopped short of the subway entrance, and shaded his eyes to look down the street. Three doors down, a bar and grill, praise the Lord. Tabor hustled down the sidewalk and inside, slumped on a stool at the far end of the bar, ordered bourbon and water, knocked it down in one swallow, then ordered another. A man sitting three stools away moved another five seats down.

***

Martin Niederhoffer pushed back from his ledger, rubbed his eyes, pounded a fist onto the account book. From a chair next to the little desk, Sid Altman reached to steady the glass inkwell that Martin had set into a dance. “Jeez, Martin, take it easy, huh? How’s it gonna help if you spill ink on the books and you’ve got to start all over?”

Martin stood and stretched. He and Sid had been pals all through school, spent as much time in each other’s apartments as in their own. Sid was a chunky towhead, so affable that Martin sometimes wanted to slug him. Like right then. “Sidney, have you ever gotten sore at someone? Just once in your life?”

Sid chuckled, gave a mild shrug. “I guess so. But not too sore, or for very long.”

The mildness in his friend’s large brown eyes was like iodine on a cut on Niederhoffer’s finger. “You
like
to let people walk all over you? You like it when your boss screws you around?”

Another shrug. “That’s what bosses do, Martin. Dogs pee on fire hydrants. Cows do their business in a pasture. No point losing sleep over it.”

Martin shook his head. “
Damn
Mr. Tabor! He’s a trash can with legs. I spent most of the day getting him his evidence that Mr. Waterson’s raking off profits from the business, so what was my reward? I get to stay late to catch up the monthly sales numbers. Tabor’ll give me overtime, big deal. When he comes by to check me out, he’ll make sure he doesn’t overpay by a nickel.”

Altman smiled. “Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.”

Martin winced. “I’m talking to a wall. Maybe that’d be fine for you, Sid, but I’m not going to spend
my
life being grateful I didn’t get poked in the eye. Give me a few years and see if I’m still sitting here, adding up columns of numbers and saying, ‘Thank you, sir,’ for every piece of crap Tabor pushes in my face. I’m learning this business from the inside…matter of fact, I got something in the works right now.” Martin paused, glanced around. “My piano teacher, Mr. Joplin? Wrote ‘Maple Leaf Rag?’ Well, he just finished a musical play, and I talked him into letting me help him sell it to Mr. Berlin, ’cause Mr. Berlin’s getting into the theater in a big way. He wrote scores for two Broadway shows in the last two years, and right now he’s working on one for Florenz Ziegfeld.
And
, he just opened up a new office, his own place, for show-tune music. So, I got to thinking about what Mr. Berlin could do for a Scott Joplin musical, and what a production of a Scott Joplin musical could do for Mr. Berlin’s new company.”