by Larry Karp
The woman barely glanced at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Berlin isn’t in.” Then she swiveled to take a pile of folders from a stout, perspiring young man.
Stark had long preached that persistence is the most important determinant of success. “Would you please tell me where I can find him, then,” he said. “It’s a matter of some considerable urgency.”
The woman swiveled her chair, deposited the folders onto the desk in front of her, and looked up at the old man. “It’s extremely important that I talk to Mr. Berlin,” Stark said. “Please be so good as to tell me where I can find him.”
The woman said, “Just a moment,” then pushed back in her chair, got up, and walked quickly away, down the far corridor. She was back in just a couple of minutes, in the company of a stocky middle-aged man, a generation behind Stark, stringy brown hair combed across his balding head. A large diamond stickpin in his tie drew attention to a belly whose every wish clearly was heard as a command. The woman returned to her desk and picked up a piece of paper. Stark knew she’d be listening, didn’t care.
The heavy man extended a hand. “Well, John Stark, I’ll be damned. How are you, sir?”
Stark took the soft, manicured hand. His own hands had never lost the roughness they’d acquired in his farming years. “I’m well, thank you, Mr. Waterson. Yourself?”
“Just fine, fine.” Waterson swept his hand in a wide arc, as if to indicate the reason for his well-being. “And Mrs. Stark—how is she?”
Stark didn’t waver. “I’m sorry to say, she is no longer among us. She was ill when we returned to St. Louis six years ago, and she died shortly after.”
Waterson’s face was that of a man who’d been taking a pleasant stroll, not paying attention to where he was going until he’d stepped smack into a pile of fresh dog turds. “Oh, Mr. Stark, how clumsy of me. I’m terribly sorry—”
Stark put him out of his misery with a slight motion of his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Waterson, but please don’t be concerned. I need to speak with you.” He motioned toward Waterson’s office. “May I?”
Sarah would have been amused at the way her husband had turned Waterson’s embarrassment to his advantage. “Why, yes, certainly.” the big man said. “Come right on back. What is it? Are you planning to start back up here in New York?”
Stark smiled into his beard, but said nothing as he followed Waterson into his office. The publisher made a ceremony out of closing the door behind them. Stark looked around. A well-worn roll-top desk, couple of nondescript wooden chairs, oak file cabinet, floor-to-ceiling shelves, mostly filled with messy piles of paper. No piano. Waterson was a businessman, not a musician.
The publisher waddled to his desk, sat, then folded his hands across his abdomen, a move that made him look at least twice as big as he looked standing. Stark settled into a chair facing the desk. “No, Mr. Waterson, I’m not considering moving my business back to New York. We’re doing very nicely in St. Louis.”
Waterson sat forward. “Still publishing those classic rags of yours, eh?”
Stark bristled privately at the condescension, but kept his voice level. “Not my classic rags. I might wish they were, and I’ll admit I’ve tried writing them, but none have been good enough to publish. I’ve got some fine young men, though. Artie Matthews, James Scott, Paul Pratt—”
“But nothing from Joplin any more.”
No missing the malice there. Waterson had recovered from his gaffe out in the Reception Room. “No,” Stark said. “We’ve published nothing of his since oh-eight. But I’ve noticed you haven’t put out any work by him for quite some while, either.”
“You can’t publish what isn’t written.” Waterson reached for a box of cigars, held it out toward Stark, who declined politely. Waterson hesitated, then took a cigar, flicked a lighter into life, and lit up. White smoke filled the room.
“Joplin hasn’t given you any manuscripts, then?” Stark asked. “In all these years?”
Waterson shook his head. “Not a one. Ever since 1911, all he seems able to think about is that opera of his. An opera, can you imagine? He could be turning out hit after hit.”
“Like your Mr. Berlin.”
Waterson pursed lips, then nodded cautiously.
“Scott wants his music to be respectable,” Stark said.
“Respectable?” Waterson spat the question. “What the hell’s unrespectable about ragtime?” He turned a waggish grin on Stark. “To read your ads, ragtime is as respectable as music can get.”
“I’m glad someone reads my ads.”
Both men laughed, Waterson with that unease which sneaks in when the laugher doesn’t know where the conversation might be heading.
“But to get down to cases, Mr. Waterson, why I’m here has to do with Scott Joplin and Irving Berlin.”
Waterson dropped his cigar into the ash tray, and gave Stark a look that suggested the old man had just spit onto the office floor. “God damn!” Waterson groaned. “You’re not going to start up that business about Berlin supposedly stealing “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” from Scott, are you? That’s a dead issue, it’s been five years already. Besides, Irvy doesn’t have to steal music from Scott Joplin.”
“Because he’s got a pickaninny in his closet who writes his songs for him?”
Waterson’s jaw fell. He gaped at Stark.
“Don’t look so shocked, Mr. Waterson. I’m only repeating your own words, which were in all the papers.” Stark paused just long enough for Waterson to get out a syllable of objection, then pressed on. “That was in December of 1911, you’ll recall. The same year ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ came out.”
Waterson’s face was a blotchy map, whether of rage or embarrassment, Stark couldn’t tell. He thought probably a bit of both. The stout publisher sniffed. “It was just a joke.”
“Perhaps the joke has taken on a life of its own.” Stark’s tone was conciliatory; if the situation were to get out of hand, it wouldn’t do him any good. “Mr. Waterson, I can’t prove Berlin stole Joplin’s music, so I won’t make that claim. But Joplin believes it, which is why I’m concerned. Apparently, he’s left another piece of music with Berlin, and I don’t want there to be any more trouble. That’s why I need to speak to your partner, and I’d be grateful if you could help me arrange that.”
Waterson narrowed his eyes, swung his chair around, studied Stark. “Joplin’s left music with Berlin, you say? I find that very hard to believe. In fact, I’d say if ever I heard poppycock, I’m hearing it now.”
“I understand your confusion, Mr. Waterson. But Joplin’s written a musical play, and it seems your bookkeeper, who happens to take piano lessons from Joplin, persuaded him that Irving Berlin would give his work its best chance of being published and produced on stage.”
“Our bookkeeper, you say? Young Niederhoffer?”
“Yes.”
Waterson leaned across his desk, all seriousness now. “You may not be aware, Mr. Stark, but just last evening, someone was murdered in our office. Matter of fact, that’s the reason I’m here now. I originally had…an appointment for this afternoon, but by the time the police were through, it was so late I had to cancel. Anyway, Niederhoffer was seen running away with Joplin, after the body was found.”
“Be that as it may,” Stark said. “Joplin’s music is the reason I need to speak to Berlin, and the murder doesn’t change that.” He saw Waterson sneak a look at his watch. “I know it’s late, and I really don’t want to impose upon your time. Would you please take a moment to direct me to Mr. Berlin?”
Waterson looked across the room, dragged his gaze across the expanse of bookshelves, then suddenly grinned, and returned his attention to Stark. “Okay, sure. Probably your best chance of finding him right now is at his flat, Seventy-second at Riverside Drive. The Chatsworth.”
Just a couple of blocks over from Nell’s place, Stark thought, which reminded him that his daughter and Joplin would be waiting for him at
Joe Lamb’s. Nell would have a fit when he got there, late as he was going to be. But she’d asked for his help, so she’d just have to wait another hour. He might have something to tell her that would make the wait worthwhile.
Waterson interrupted his thoughts. “Irvy got the place all fixed up for his new wife four years back, but she caught typhoid on their honeymoon, and died a few months later. A shame, shouldn’t happen to anybody. Anyway, Irvy works there, ’specially at night. It’s private, it’s quiet, nobody bothers him. Right now, him and Victor Herbert are writing the music for Ziegfeld’s new show, Century Girl. Gonna put it on at the Century Theater.”
Stark’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that theater supposed to be cursed? Everything that opens there falls to pieces.”
“It is, it is.” Waterson sounded more enthusiastic than at any time since Stark had come into his office. “But Flo thinks he can break the curse, so I guess we’ll see. One way or the other, it don’t matter much to me. Irvy’s started up his own firm to handle his theater music, so there’s no way W, B, and S is going to see a nickel from that show, no matter what.”
Clear to Stark that Waterson wouldn’t mind if Irving Berlin’s new firm didn’t see a nickel either. The old man rose, extended a hand, shook with Waterson. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your day, but I’m grateful for your help.”
Waterson smirked. “If I were you, I’d be careful, talking to Irvy right now. He wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but he knows that next to Victor Herbert, he’s a pipsqueak, soaking wet behind his ears. He wants to score big with Flo, but every time he gets a few notes down, he sees this big shadow laying across the paper.”
***
Nell heard them coming down the hall, Scott’s angry tenor, Lottie’s soprano, first soothing, then pleading, finally warning. Like an opera, Nell thought. Before her guests reached the door, she had it open, and was hustling them inside, ducking under Joplin’s wildly flapping arms. “I don’t have time for all this,” the composer shouted, glaring from one woman to the other. “I need to go home, and get back to work on my symphony.”
“Scott, please listen to me.” That from Nell.
The five words stopped Joplin cold. Lottie felt a terrible urge to start screaming, herself. She could talk herself blue in the face, and her husband wouldn’t bat an eye, but one line from Nell, and he stood there like a pussycat. But shame on me, Lottie thought, I got no right to be anything but grateful. Wasn’t for Nell, I’d have had to put him away in a hospital months ago.
“You can’t go home right now, Scott.” Nell’s voice was quiet, her tone, even. If you do, the police will pick you up and you won’t get any work done in jail. They’re after you for murder, remember? The boy in Martin’s office?”
Joplin blinked several times, shook his head like someone trying to shake pieces of memory back into place.
“I’m going to take you back to Joe Lamb’s, where you were last night and earlier today. Joe’s got a piano and paper. You can write your music there.”
Joplin nodded. “I was working there this morning. Then Martin took me out to talk to Irving Berlin about my music, but I don’t remember doing that. We went to a deli, met his girl, and talked for a while. Next thing, we were at the Alamo Club, and Lottie came and took me away, and now I’m here. What is this all about?”
Nell glanced at Lottie, who shrugged. “Martin bring that girl with him to his lesson a couple of times. Sweet li’l thing. She be his assistant bookkeeper.”
“At Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder? She works there, too?”
Lottie thought Nell looked like a cat about to pounce on a bird. “That what the boy say.”
“What’s her name?”
Joplin closed his eyes, thought hard.
“Way I recall, it be Birdie,” said Lottie. “Pretty sure.”
“That’s right,” said Joplin. “Birdie.”
Without a word, Nell walked to the telephone, snatched up the receiver, gave the number to the operator. Joplin and Lottie stared. “Hello, yes. This is Caroline Spooler, with the Visiting Nurse Service.” Nell’s voice was that of a military commander. “You have an employee named Birdie. I need to speak with her a moment.” Nell shifted the receiver to her other ear. “Yes, hello. Birdie? This is Caroline Spooler, Visiting Nurse Service. I need to pay a visit to your family, but I don’t want to interfere with your work. Will you all be at home at eight this evening?…Good, I’ll see you then. Please tell me your address, so I’ll be sure I have it right.” She scribbled on a small pad next to the telephone. “Good, thank you, Birdie. I’ll—no, no, really, there’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ll see you at eight. Good-bye.”
She hung up the phone, then turned a bent smile on Joplin and Lottie. “I didn’t want to take a chance the receptionist might be listening in. Maybe Birdie can shed a little light on this nonsense.” She took Joplin by the arm. “Come on, Scott. Let’s get back to Joe’s so you can go back to work. Lottie, why don’t you head on home. The longer you’re away, the more chance they might start looking elsewhere for Scott.”
“Yeah, but it’s just I feels bad about you gettin’ yourself all mixed up in this, and it ain’t really your problem.”
“It is now,” Nell said.
***
A few minutes before five o’clock, Robert Miras padded into Berlin’s study. His boss sat alone at the piano, a sheet of music paper in one hand, striking piano keys with the other. Miras cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mr. Berlin, but there’s a Mr. John Stark here from St. Louis, who says it’s urgent that he speak to you. I tried to put him off, but he simply won’t leave. He says he will not take no for an answer, and will sit in the vestibule until you have a moment to see him.”
Berlin surprised Miras by breaking into a wide grin. “Jesus, John Stark, here from St. Lou? He used to be Scott Joplin’s publisher. Crazy old guy, he thinks ragtime is music straight from God. Wonder why he’s back in New York, and what the hell he wants with me. Urgently, no less.”
Miras shrugged. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out, sir.”
Berlin nodded. “Okay, Robert. Why’n’t you show him in.”
If Berlin was in any way unhappy to see his visitor, it didn’t show. Stark began to introduce himself, but his host interrupted. “Yeah, sure, Mr. Stark, I remember you from the old days. Nice seeing you, again.” He shook Stark’s hand with enthusiasm.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” Stark said. “I didn’t want to interrupt your work—”
“Nah, nah, nah.” Berlin shook his head vigorously, silly thought. “It won’t hurt me to have a little break, I’m workin’ fifteen, sixteen hours a day right now. Gotta get a whole show’s-worth of songs for Ziegfeld, and it’s all got to be first-class.”
Stark nodded sympathy and understanding. “I can imagine how you must feel. After shows like Watch Your Step and Stop! Look! Listen!, everyone’s expecting something very big from you.”
Berlin motioned Stark into a forest-green plush chair, then sat on the piano bench. “Yeah, well, I’ve just plain got to do it,” the composer said. “We open in the fall, gonna start rehearsals in just another month or so.”
He’s strung tighter than his piano, Stark thought. Looks like a man sitting on the edge of a razor blade. The old man leaned back in his chair and turned a favorite-uncle smile on his host. “Oh, Mr. Berlin, I’m sure you’ll get it done.” Stark pointed at the piano. “Do you have something I could hear?”
A mild backhand wave, then Berlin said, “Nah, Cliff Hess and I still got a lotta work to do before I could let anybody hear any of these tunes. But tell you what. Come back in November, I’ll get you a great seat at the Century, you can hear every tune in the show. So, tell me, Mr. Stark. What is it I can do for you?”
Nicely done, Stark thought. Set me up, then a quick sucker punch. “I’m here on Lottie Joplin’s behalf,” he said. “And I suppose Scott’s as well.”<
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“Son of a bitch!” Izzy howled, and Berlin’s calm vaporized. He spoke quickly. “Look, Mr. Stark—I’ve been telling people for five years now, and it’s getting to be a real pain in the ass. I wrote ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band,’ just like I write all my other songs, and I’m goddamn sick and tired of hearing about little colored boys I’ve got hiding in my closets—”
Stark raised a hand. “I’m not here to talk about ‘Alexander’. I’m here to talk about If.”
“About if? About if, what? Stark, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Here is the situation,” Stark said. “Scott Joplin is quite ill. I don’t think he can last very much longer. And he’s apparently completed a musical play called If.”
Stark watched Berlin closely, but saw no indication of concern. The young man spread his arms, an elaborate shrug. “So good, good for Scott Joplin. I wish him luck getting it published and produced. I really do.”
Stark doubted that. He’d always thought Berlin’s solicitude ended at the tip of his own nose. “Joplin was negotiating with Lester Walton to have it put on at the Lafayette,” Stark said. “But then he gave the work to you.”
“To me? No. Sorry. First I ever heard about this If was from you, just a minute ago.”
“Joplin says he left the manuscript with you on Monday.”
Berlin set himself into a posture of thought. “Listen, Mr. Stark. You just got done telling me about Joplin being ‘ill,’ right? Well, everybody in this city who’s got anything at all to do with music knows that where Joplin is ill is in his head. But nobody says I’m ill in my head, and I’m telling you he didn’t leave any manuscript with me. Not on Monday, not any time. And if he ever did ask me to look at something by him, I’d tell him I put my own music—which I write myself—on stage. Nobody else’s.”
Stark felt his temper rise, tried to hold it back, no luck. “Which you write yourself, eh? Not quite so fast. Remember, I saw Joplin’s opera in manuscript, before he had to rewrite those opening measures of the ‘Marching Onward’ tune because they just happened to be note-for-note the same as your big hit.”