The King of Ragtime

by Larry Karp

  Hess said nothing.

  Berlin’s face went almost purple. Hess began to worry about apoplexy. “Christ Almighty, Cliff—you think I do have it, don’t you?”

  It’s not beyond the realm of possibility, Hess thought, but he was not about to say that. “Mr. Berlin, if you tell me you don’t, I’ll believe you. Unfortunately, it isn’t me you’ve got to convince.”

  At that point, Miras glided into the room, carrying a silver tray with a silver coffee pot and two white china cups. He set the tray down on the table next to Berlin, poured the coffee, gave each man a cup, then left the room, more quickly than usual. Berlin and Hess watched him until he vanished around the corner.

  “All right,” Hess said. “Here’s an idea. Tell Stark you did have the manuscript, but you got rid of it.” He paused as Berlin choked on his coffee, then raised his eyes to glare across the top of his cup at his secretary. “No, Mr. Berlin, just listen for a minute. Nothing’s going to satisfy them short of a deal, so give them a deal. Tell them to have Joplin write up a new manuscript, and to show your good faith, you draw up a contract to publish and produce the work when Joplin delivers it to you.”

  Berlin shook his head. “They’d never go for something like that.”

  “Why not? If you’ve agreed in writing to publish and produce that play, they’ll go out of their way to make sure you live to do it.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “I didn’t really think you would, but have you got a better idea?”

  “If I do what you say, then where’s it going to stop? Any time Joplin or Stark wants a piece of my hide, I’m going to be looking down the barrel of a gun and hearing about how my teeth are going to be scattered all over Riverside Park.”

  “Give Joplin a contract for this play, but put in a clause that it’s a one-time agreement, no more dealings with either him or Stark.”

  Berlin sank back into his chair. “I don’t know, Cliff…I just don’t know.” Teeth clenched so firmly, Hess wondered how the words managed to get through. “If I don’t get back to writing music soon, I might as well go see if Nigger Mike’ll take me back on as a singing waiter…” Berlin’s voice trailed off, as if a new idea had intruded into his thoughts. Then he jumped to his feet so suddenly that Hess, without thinking, leaped out of his chair. “Let’s go,” Berlin said. “We’ve got work to do. This is make-or-break for me, and I’m not about to flop.”

  Hess was accustomed to abrupt turnarounds from his boss, but he’d never seen one like this.

  “I’ll take care of Joplin and Stark tomorrow,” Berlin said. “I’ve got an idea. But I’m not going to waste any more time tonight.” He started to walk out of the room.

  Hess considered asking whether Berlin had forgotten about that missing girl, but the secretary was already looking at his boss’ back. All right, Hess thought, it’s your funeral. He’d stay up all night transcribing and arranging. He’d put up with the tantrums that erupted when it became clear that a whole song, a night’s work or more, was unsalvageable. But hell would freeze before he’d ever go out again at night with Irving Berlin.

  ***

  Berlin worked like a man possessed. Hess had never seen the little composer so focused. Every word out of his mouth had to do with the music; no small talk the whole night long. Not a mention of the incident in Riverside Park. Usually, they knocked off by six, seven at the latest, but this morning, Berlin showed no sign of even slowing down. Hess was so full of coffee, he sloshed when he shifted on the bench. Finally, a few minutes past eight, Berlin stretched, yawned, and said, “Okay, Cliff, any more and I’m going to start doing damage. Let’s call it a night.”

  Amen, Hess thought, and trotted off in the direction of the bathroom. Berlin watched him all the way down the hall, and when he saw the bathroom door close, he pulled Stark’s business card from his pocket, grabbed the telephone, and asked the operator to connect him.

  ***

  Nell and Stark sat at the breakfast table, she in an unadorned plain, off-white silk blouse and a smart, neatly-fit dark suit, black shoes with sensible heels, her long, dark hair piled up and pinned atop her head. Stark wore a blue and white striped bathrobe, ragged at the ends of the sleeves, and a well-worn pair of slippers. ‘Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without,’ Nell thought. His way. Always was, always will be.

  Stark speared a chunk of biscuit, raised it, let gravy drip onto the plate, then gobbled the forkful. “Wonderful breakfast again, Nell. You really do need a meal like this to get started for the day.”

  If you’re working on a farm, she thought, but instead said, “You were out late, Dad. I thought you might need a little extra fuel this morning.”

  He nodded. “It won’t hurt you, either, my dear. You have a big day ahead of you.” He ran eye tape over her. “And I must say, you’ve presented yourself very well. You’ll have them eating out of your hand, I’m sure.”

  No, you’re not, Nell thought, but said, “I hope so. I’ll snoop around, talk to some of the help. Maybe the receptionist and I can go out for lunch. Receptionists know everything that goes on in an office, and I just might get something out of her that the police—”

  The telephone bell from the living room cut Nell off. She jumped up and ran to pick it up. “Damn nuisance,” Stark muttered. “A man can’t even eat a meal anymore without having that blasted thing interrupt him.” He jabbed his fork into the biscuit.

  Nell called from inside. “Dad, for you.”

  Stark swallowed, then pushed away from the table and ratcheted his body to full vertical. He shuffled into the living room, where Nell stood, holding a hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Irving Berlin.” She held out the telephone.

  At this hour? he wondered, then took the instrument. “Hello. John Stark here.”

  “Mr. Stark, this is Irving Berlin.”

  “I’m surprised, Mr. Berlin. I thought you spent your mornings sleeping.”

  “You’re right. When we’re finished talking, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. But I can’t waste any time, can I? What I got to say to you, I want to say now.”

  “Well, that’s fine, Mr. Berlin.” Stark winked at Nell. “Should I assume this has to do with our encounter last night.”

  “Yeah, well, that was an easy one, wasn’t it? Listen, Mr. Stark, I want to get this thing taken care of. Let’s you and me set up a time, and get together with Scott Joplin. Could we do that?”

  “I don’t know. My first question is why you want this meeting. If it’s to have Mr. Joplin there to sign a contract, I’ll certainly say yes. But for any other reason, no. I think we were direct with our requirements last night. A contract, publication, production.”

  Silence. Stark waited. When Berlin spoke again, he sounded as if he might be strangling. “Look, Sta…Mr. Stark. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I don’t have Joplin’s play and I never did. I’m hoping if I can talk to you and him together, maybe we can figure out what’s really going on.”

  “I think what’s really going on is that you’re trying to weasel out of the situation and keep that play for yourself. But it’s not going to work.”

  Berlin took a moment to swallow. He didn’t dare let Izzy go off now. “Mr. Stark…all I’m asking is for you to be just a little reasonable. Joplin says he’s sure he gave me his play, and I say I’m sure he didn’t. Why can’t we all talk about it in the same room?”

  “We’re not going to do that, Mr. Berlin, and there’s an end to it.”

  Stark heard a gulp. “Look, Mr. Stark—”

  “Mr. Berlin—”

  “No, listen. Please. If you won’t let me talk to Joplin, at least ask him when it was he gave me that music, and where. Then—”

  There’s no need of that. He gave you his manuscript at your office, Monday, during lunch hour.”

  “Which office? I got two of them. Did he say which one? And my lunch hour is at three or four o’clock. Come on, Mr. Stark. F
ind out from Joplin which office he saw me at, what day, and what time. Then call me back. Would you at least do that?”

  Stark cleared his throat. “All right, Mr. Berlin. I’ll talk to Joplin, and get back to you. But don’t forget—”

  “I know, I got a deadline.”

  “I was going to say that every hour that passes makes me more concerned for that girl’s safety. Whatever you do regarding Joplin’s music will come to nothing if she is not returned safely.”

  He heard Berlin gulp. “Okay, I’ll remember that too. You got my number, right?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Berlin, I’ve definitely got your number. You can count on that.”

  The telephone was barely back on the hook when Nell said, “What’s he trying to do?”

  Stark shook his head. “Squirm out of his dilemma, what else? He wants Joplin to say exactly where and when he gave Berlin his music.”

  “And then Berlin will deny he was there.”

  “I’m sure. But there just might be another edge to the sword. If we do pin down the particulars, suppose a third party can place Berlin there?” He glanced at the clock on the wall above the stove. “I suppose you’d better be off soon. You don’t want to be late your first day. Just be careful. Please.”

  Nell shot him an evil grin. “Don’t worry, Dad. Heaven will protect the working girl.”

  She started toward the kitchen, but Stark stopped her. “I’ll clean up,” the old man said. “Go to work.”

  ***

  Birdie opened her eyes to bright sunlight, surprise. She felt like she’d slept only a couple of hours, but she and the colored man had broken up the card game a little after eleven, then she’d gone straight off to bed. Not that she’d fallen directly asleep. For at least a couple of hours, every little sound had snapped her eyes open to stare through the darkness toward the door, trying to see whether it might be inching open.

  She sat up, looked around. No sign of the man. Had he come in at all during the night to check up on her? She didn’t think he’d tried anything funny, because wouldn’t she have felt it and waked up? But there was that girl in school last year who got in the family way, and swore she’d never been with a man. Once, though, she’d gone walking with a boy in Central Park, and when they stopped to sit for a while under a willow tree, she fell asleep, and thought maybe he’d taken advantage of her. Birdie leaned forward, pulled up her dress, peered underneath. No blood, and her undergarments looked in place. Gingerly, she pressed two fingers against her groin, which told her only that she needed to go to the bathroom.

  When she walked out of the bedroom, into the sitting room, there was the colored man, sprawled in an armchair. He grinned. “Thought you was gonna sleep all day.”

  She smiled. Except for right after she came out of the chloroform, he’d been really nice. While they played cards through the evening, she’d told him about how she and Martin were going to get married as soon as they could, but she’d go on working because they’d need the money. He’d laughed. “Leastwise, till the babies come, right?” She was sure she’d never blushed so hard in her life. “That’s why I ain’t havin’ no truck with women who want to get married,” the man had said. “Musicians be a fool to go an’ get married, they be on the road so much, an’ even when they’s home, they be workin’ nights. Maybe after I makes a bundle writin’ music, I can think about gettin’ married. An’ matter of fact, I be on my way already. Some big publisher’s gonna put out two of my tunes.”

  A huge yawn vaporized Birdie’s recollection. She tried to cover her mouth, too late. “Oh, I’m sorry. I couldn’t fall asleep last night for the longest time. Getting kidnaped…well, you’ve been nice to me, but it’s still scary.”

  Which seemed to upset the man. “Oh, now, I don’t want for you to get scairt. Hey, listen—my boss, he says ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to you, otherwise I wouldn’t a ever done this for him. He says soon’s a couple a bad eggs go down and turn themselves in, then I can open up the door, an’ out you goes.”

  Birdie couldn’t imagine that they’d let her walk out the door when she could so easily identify her kidnaper, but decided she’d be foolish to pursue the matter.

  “They killed a man, these two guys, then they went on the lam.”

  Birdie’s hands started to shake. Two bad eggs who’d killed a man and gone on the lam? Martin and Mr. Joplin? But what could that have to do with her?

  The colored man interrupted her thoughts. “You sick or something?”

  “No. I’m all right.” Birdie thought frantically. “I guess I’m just hungry, that’s all.”

  The man grinned. “Tell you what. I been pretty hungry myself, but I figured I’d wait till you got yourself up. How about I call down for eats?”

  Birdie forced a smile. “That sounds real good.”

  “Okay, then. But you go on back in the bedroom there, and stay till I comes for you. I don’t want the delivery guy seein’ you. Go on, now.”

  Birdie obeyed. He called after her, “I’ll get us some orange juice and coffee, an’ a good mess a bacon and eggs.”

  “Okay,” Birdie called back. She almost laughed. Here she was, kidnaped and being held in an apartment by a colored man with a big scar on his face, and she was worried about what her mother would say if she knew her daughter was about to eat bacon.

  ***

  They sat at a table in the tiny kitchen. Birdie had a little trouble with the first taste, but once it was chewed and swallowed, she decided bacon actually was pretty good. Very good, in fact. She didn’t feel any different, and thought if she got another chance, she’d probably eat it again. Her mother didn’t have to know everything she did. Besides, she’d soon be married to Martin, and then her mother couldn’t tell her not to do anything.

  While they ate, the colored man went on about his music, told her how he’d gone to school back in Sedalia, Missouri, the same music school Scott Joplin had attended, and that he guessed those old European composers were okay for their time, but what really got to him was the music coming up out of New Orleans. “I was in St. Louie one night, and I hear this guy, Jelly Roll, he cut everybody in sight—”

  Birdie’s cheeks went chalky. “With a knife?”

  The man started to laugh, but a look at her face stopped him cold. He reached across the table, touched her hand, then pulled his own hand back in a hurry. “Sorry, Miss. No, see, cutting be a kind of contest to find out the best piano player in the joint. They’s judges and all, and the winner get a prize, maybe ten or twenty, or in a big one, even a hundred dollars. An’ this Jelly Roll man, he made some of the best players in St. Louie look like li’l kids. He play what he call jass, it’s a new kinda music from New Orleans. Well, the very minute I heared him, I knew that jass music be the thing for me. When I finished school, I played my horn on the streets, and I hired out for any kinda job that paid money, building, digging, whatever. I saved every penny, some days I didn’t eat, and when I got enough together, I come here to New York City. They already be lots a good players in Chicago and Kay Cee, but jass just now be comin’ to New York, so I figure I can be the man here. Mr. Jelly Roll, he told me don’t just play other peoples’ music, you gotta write your own. Besides, they pays you to publish your tunes, and then everybody gonna know your name. You play piano, Miss?”

  “Yes. Not really good, though.”

  “Well, when my music come out, I gonna give you copies. See if I don’t.”

  Birdie’s smile came naturally. She looked around. Dust motes drifted lazily in beams of sunlight. This must be what it’s going to be like, she thought, sitting over breakfast with Martin, listening to him talk about the big things he’s going to do with his life. If she closed her eyes and ignored the southern speech, she could have been listening to Martin. They’d finished eating, but neither one seemed inclined to leave the table. An idea came to Birdie; she paused to think it through, then spoke. “I don’t even know your name.”

  He grinned. W
hat beautiful teeth, Birdie thought.

  “Dubie, Dubie Harris,” the man said. “You’re gonna know it real good some day. What be your name? My boss told me, but I went and forgot.”

  “Birdie. Short for Bertha.”

  “Birdie…Birdie…” Dubie seemed to roll it around on his tongue. “That be a nice name, nicer than Bertha. When I gives you my music, I’m gonna sign it for you: ‘To Birdie, Best wishes, Dubie Harris.’ Then, when you play it, you can think about me.”

  He’s stringing me along, she thought. Maybe he thinks that’ll make me behave myself. She got to her feet. “That was a good breakfast, thank you. I’ll wash up the dishes.”

  “Woman’s work.” Dubie grinned wide, showing off those wonderful teeth. He stood, stretched. “I’ll go inside for a bit. Maybe we can play us some more cards later.”

  “Sure.”

  She watched him amble into the living room, then set about clearing the table. The strangest thing, how it kept feeling like a rehearsal for married life. She soaped a dishcloth. Someone lived here—who? It couldn’t be Dubie’s apartment. Probably his boss’, whoever that was. First chance she got, if she got a chance, she’d have to snoop around.

  As she walked into the living room, she heard a rasping sound, like a piece of machinery not running quite right. Dubie was stretched out on the sofa, mouth open, snoring away. She looked from the sleeping man to the telephone, then back to Dubie, then back again to the phone. She could call home—but no, her mother would be hysterical, no help at all. Martin was at Mr. Lamb’s, in Brooklyn, but she didn’t know the number. Okay, then, how about the office? Give Fannie the phone number here, and tell her to call the police so they could go to the telephone company and get the address.

  She tiptoed to the phone, lifted the receiver, took care not to let the cradle rise too fast and make noise. She needed three tries before the operator heard her whispered request. Her heart pounded at her throat as the telephone at the other end began to ring. Then, Fannie’s voice. Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, Music—”