The King of Ragtime (17 page)

Was he just going to leave her there? How stupid could he be? She’d be out and on her way before he ever got to wherever he was going. She worked up another little smile. “Sure…sure, that’d be nice, thank you. I guess I am a little hungry.” Though she really wasn’t.

The man nodded. “Okay.” He walked toward the door. But the girl’s fledgling hopes took a barrel-roll and flopped onto the carpet as he picked up the telephone receiver, growled, “Columbus 3487,” waited a moment, then said, “Yeah…Fred? We needs us some eats up here in 2A…couple beef sandwiches an’ cake be just fine…yeah, but don’t you be all day with it…oh, an’ don’t forget some coffee too…yeah, thanks.” He replaced the receiver. “Won’t take long, they’s only ’cross the street and down a li’l way.”

Birdie nodded. “Thank you.” A restaurant on this street with a Columbus telephone exchange? They couldn’t be far from the office.

The man looked at her as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Birdie held her breath. Finally, he spoke. “You like to play cards?”

The question seemed so silly, she almost laughed. “Well, yes. Sure.”

“What game?”

“Gin?”

Now, his smile was friendly, open. “Gin rummy? I can play that. I had a white-boy friend in N’Orleans, he teached me. You wants a game while we waits for the food?”

“Sure.”

The man rushed to pull an end table so it stood in front of Birdie’s chair, then ran into the bedroom, came back with the pine chair, and sat opposite the girl. He made a show of whipping a pack of cards from his pocket, flipping the cards into the air, slapping them down onto the table. “You be in for it now,” he said. “Li’l girl like you beat me at gin rummy, I guess that be time for me to quit.” He shuffled the cards, dealt.

They were on their third hand when there came a loud knock. The man set down his cards, walked over, opened the door partway, and took a large paper bag from the delivery boy. Then he set the bag on the floor, and fumbled in his pocket. Birdie smelled roast beef; her stomach growled. But more important than food—without tipping off Mr. Scarface, was there some way she could get that delivery boy to understand she’d been kidnaped? She pushed back in her chair, but that was as far as she got. The colored man passed money around the edge of the door, and in the same motion, slammed the door and threw the lock. Then he picked up the bag of food, brought it to the table. “Well let’s see what-all we got here. Better eat up before it get cold.”

“Sure.” Birdie tried not to be obvious about looking at the words printed on the bag. Barker’s Café, 391 West Forty-ninth Street. So she was on West Forty-ninth, somewhere in the three hundreds, in an even-numbered building, on the second floor, 2A. How could she get the information to Martin? He was staying at Mr. Lamb’s, he’d said, in Brooklyn. She scanned the room, but saw no telephone directory.

***

Berlin was just a little too friendly for Stark’s taste. The butler had answered his knock, let him in, and brought him directly into the living room, where Berlin sat on the bench before a grand piano, to all intents and purposes lost in music composition. “Mr. Berlin,” Miras had announced. “Mr. Stark is here to see you.”

Berlin turned; his face lit. “Mr. Stark, thanks for coming by on such short notice like this.”

Stark thought he sounded like a novice actor, reading lines off a script. For that matter, the room looked like a stage set. Heavy curtains at every window, each piece of furniture massive. A conventional seascape on one wall, a portrait of a medieval couple on another. Bookshelves filled just so with leather-bound volumes. Behind Berlin, over the fireplace, a pair of British pottery urns flanked a lovely Empire mantel clock. As to the grand piano—Berlin had told every newspaper and magazine reporter in Christendom that he always composed at his special transposing piano, since he could only play in the key of F-sharp. But Stark had just seen him hit white keys. The grand was a prop in this particular play, as it was in the bigger stage production of the Life of Irving Berlin. All right, Stark thought, if he’s going to all this trouble to set a scene for me, he must have a good reason. By all means, let’s hear it. “Mr. Hess said you wanted to talk to me about Scott Joplin’s music. I will always have time for that.”

“Well, good, Mr. Stark.” The composer clapped his hands together. “Let’s get right down to facts. I don’t appreciate being buttonholed in the street and threatened with getting my teeth knocked out, or worse.”

So that was it. Perhaps Niederhoffer’s little game last night was not such a bad thing after all. Stark put on a puzzled face. “I’m sorry you had a problem, Mr. Berlin, but I thought we were going to talk about Scott Joplin’s music. I don’t see—”

“Mr. Stark, don’t try and be cute.” Berlin worked to keep any sharp edge off his words. “We’re both grown men, we don’t need to play kid games. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve got the chance of my life, writing this show with Victor Herbert for Flo Ziegfeld. I’m working every minute to get the music down on paper, and I just don’t have time for monkey business. All I need is for some mug to beat me up, and I’ll have to throw in the towel.”

Stark thought the little man looked barely in control of himself. “Well, I
am
sorry, Mr. Berlin, but I’m also confused. You say a man threatened to knock out your teeth and beat you up? Why? And what does it have to do with me?”

Berlin’s prominent Adam’s apple rose, then fell. His lips scarcely moved as he said, “He wants me to give Joplin a contract to publish his music.”

Stark extended his hands, palms up. “Well, that seems easy enough. Surely you don’t need me to tell you how to write up a contract.”

“Mr. Stark, would you listen to me, please. I can’t publish Joplin’s music because I don’t
have
Joplin’s music. I wouldn’t touch Joplin’s music with a ten-foot pole, not after the lies he spread all over town about me, five years ago. Now, would you please call off your gorilla?”

Stark kept his face set into an expression of mild puzzlement, eyes slightly squinched, right corner of his mouth twisted. “But Joplin said he gave you the music.”

“
Are you calling me a liar, Stark?
”

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.”