The King of Ragtime (5 page)

***

Bartlett Tabor walked slowly up Broadway. The clock on the big billboard atop the roof of the Strand Theatre Building read six twenty-five; to the right of the clock, thick red letters stated it was TIME TO LIGHT A CHESTERFIELD. Time to check out Niederhoffer, Tabor thought. He walked into the building and up to the elevator, but then remembered, the operator left at five-thirty. He muttered a curse, and started up the stairs.

A couple of stairs down from the third floor, Martin heard footsteps. He put a hand on Joplin’s arm, peered over the railing, saw Tabor, whispered a brief curse of his own, then put a finger to his lips and pulled the composer into the pass-through behind the elevator shaft. Carefully, he edged his head forward to watch the top of the stairwell. When he saw Tabor come up onto the landing, he ducked back to the far side of the space, pulling Joplin with him, then listened hard. Key in a lock…door opening…slamming shut. Martin blew out a sigh, then pulled Joplin from behind the elevator shaft and onto the stairwell. “Let’s go!” he half-whispered.

Tabor walked through Reception and down the corridor to the bookkeeper’s space. One step inside the doorway, he stopped cold at the sight of a body on the floor, sprawled in a lake of blood. Niederhoffer? Tabor rushed forward. No, not Niederhoffer. Who in hell—

Tabor sprang back from the body, flattened against the wall. The office was stone-quiet. He charged out, through the Reception Room, into the hallway, and leaned over the rail to peer down the stairwell. Footsteps, but all the way down—he’d never catch them. Back he charged through Reception and into his office, yanked the window up, and leaned forward just in time to get a clear view of a red-headed white man hustling a colored man out of the building, onto the sidewalk, and then out of sight past the Strand marquee. “Christ,” Tabor muttered. “Niederhoffer—and that looks like Scott Joplin with him. God
damn
that crazy nigger.” He banged a fist on the wall, then hurried back to the receptionist’s desk and picked up the phone.

***

As Martin and Joplin shoved their way through the Broadway crowd toward the Fiftieth Street subway kiosk, a young man lowered himself into a dark-red plush armchair next to a gleaming mahogany grand piano in the living room of his suite in the Chatsworth Apartments on Seventy-second Street, just short of Riverside Drive. Six-thirty, the workday finished for most people, but this young man wasn’t most people. He was Irving Berlin, Composer of A Hundred Hits, The Boy Who Revived Ragtime. When Irvy first saw light, twenty-eight years earlier, in Russia, he was Israel Baline. Six years later, the boy came with his family through Ellis Island, then grew up on the teeming streets of New York’s lower east side, where he was known as Izzy. No one in the Great Land of Opportunity had a sharper eye for the main chance than Izzy Baline, but what the skinny little guy had in push, he lacked in polish, and so, when the newly-designed-and-labeled Irving Berlin moved uptown, he was determined to leave Izzy behind on Cherry Street. But a little thing like a court document changing his name was not nearly sufficient to convince the tenacious, rough-spoken Izzy he no longer existed. Where Irvy went, Izzy went, and he spoke his mind freely whenever he thought Irvy was in any way falling short.

Berlin eyeballed the magazine reporter, smoothing her skirt on the couch to his right. One of those women, flirting with forty, eats like a bird and smiles to herself when her friends call her Slim. Creamy silk blouse under a perfectly-tailored smart gray suit, blonde hair curling every which way from under the matching gray cloche hat. That sparkler on her left ring finger was a whole year’s-worth of royalties from “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” and then some. She’s gotta be a sharp dame, not enough going on around the house to keep her busy and interested, so she writes articles for magazines. Respectable articles, respectable magazines. Kinda magazines where Irving Berlin’s name needs to be.

The composer cleared his throat. “Sorry to be a little late, Mrs. Allred, but I had some pressing business. I’m writing a musical with Victor Herbert for Flo Ziegfeld, and the time’s getting to be pretty short.” He lowered his jaw just enough to part his lips, then opened his eyes wide and dropped his gaze. He chuckled, just the right bit of self-deprecation.

It worked. It always did with woman-reporters. Mrs. Allred smiled openly. “That’s all right, Mr. Berlin. Your butler made me very comfortable. And considering how busy you are, it was good of you to fit me in at all.”

“Well, you said your deadline was in the morning.” Berlin extended his hands in an extravagant shrug. “So what could we do, huh?” Big smile. Pain in the ass, but it’d be crazy to kiss off a feature piece in
Green Book
.

Mrs. Allred pulled a notebook from her purse, flipped it open, said, “I do appreciate that, and I’ll try not to keep you too long. My piece will be titled, ‘How The Ragtime King Writes His Songs.’”

“I guess I can help you with that, all right.” Berlin gestured at the lustrous grand. People think I just sit down at the piano, hit maybe a couple of keys, half an hour, and boom, there’s my next hit song.” Quick finger-snap. “But that’s not how it goes. A song’s kinda like a kid, you know, bashful, but maybe a little bit of a wisenheimer, it stands there sticking out its tongue at me, and it goes, ‘Nyah, nyah. Betcha can’t catch me.’ But I sit at the piano and play and play, because I know the song’s there, all right, and if I don’t let the kid get my goat, sooner or later, I
am
gonna nail it.”

He ratcheted the corners of his lips for the lady. Sweet, endearing little Irving Berlin, just a tiny bit embarrassed.

“I’m sure that must be very frustrating, Mr. Berlin.”

“Quick flash of panic. ‘I’m sure that must be very frustrating, Mr. Berlin’. Sarcastic? And that smile on her face—was she mocking him? He rushed to speak. “No, it ain’t…that is, it
isn’t
frustrating, not really. Just part of the game. That’s why a good songwriter can’t be on any kind of a schedule. I’m
always
writing songs. The tune I was working on last night? It’s in my head right now. Even while I’m talking to you.”

The woman’s smile covered her face. “Would I be presumptuous…that is, would you be willing to play that tune for me?” She pointed. “On your piano. It would be just fascinating.”

“Well, sure, why not? Berlin stood, then walked slowly to the piano, stretching his fingers as he went. Draw the woman’s eyes to his hands, and maybe she won’t notice how he’s only five-six. He slid onto the piano bench, looked back at the interviewer. “Remember a little while ago, I told you what I’m working on right now?”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Ziegfeld’s new revue. Victor Herbert and you. It’s called
The Century Girl
, isn’t it?”

Izzy cackled. “
Herbert and you! Not you and Herbert
.”

God damn it, she
was
mocking him. Irving Berlin was a songwriter, but Victor Herbert didn’t just write songs. He composed serious music, conducted orchestras, played instrumental solos. Next to Victor Herbert, Irving Berlin was a singing waiter with a
shtick
. Berlin willed himself to keep talking. “I’m working on this one particular song,” he said, then turned to the piano and tossed the rest of his comments back over his shoulder. “It’s for Hazel Dawn, a duet for her to sing with one of the male leads. I’m calling it ‘Alice in Wonderland.’”

He began to play a musical theme, a bit hesitantly, then picked up speed. Mrs. Allred leaned forward to peer over his shoulder. Perfume like that, she didn’t buy at the Five and Dime. Berlin felt sweat pop out across his forehead; a drop ran down from his armpit. “Mr. Berlin—you
do
play only on the black keys, don’t you?”

“
Nigger keys
.” Izzy snickered. Show-biz lingo, everyone said it, even the colored. But Berlin knew better than to say it to a woman-reporter, never mind a society woman-reporter. Instead, he said, “That’s right. I compose in F-sharp major. The key of C is for people who study music.”

The woman smiled. Going along with the gag? Or patronizing him? Keep talking, just keep talking. “Wait’ll you hear this song in the theater. It’s going to be one of my best. Most of the lyrics, I’ve got already.” His fingers tapped out the first theme again. “All I need now is to make the music—”

“Fit,” said Mrs. Allred, just a little too brightly for Berlin’s taste.

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“And of course you will.”

Berlin moved to take back control over the interview. “I know what—I’m gonna get you tickets for opening night. Then, you can let me know if I made it fit right. How’s that sound?”

“Why, I’d be delighted,” Mrs. Allred crooned. “I’m certain you’ll make it fit, and I know I’ll simply love the song. Particularly after having been present at its birth.”

“At least during the labor,” said Berlin, then winced as Izzy slapped his face. “
Schmuck! One thing with the boys or chorus girls at rehearsals. But this is a society woman. You don’t talk about stuff like that in front of her.
”

“I…I’m sorry,” Berlin stammered. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

Mrs. Allred looked surprised, then confused, then finally burst into a full-throated laugh. “Oh, Mr. Berlin, no, of course not. You didn’t offend me in the least. And even if you did, I wouldn’t have valid grounds for complaint, would I? After all, I was your straight man.” She glanced down at her pad, pursed her lips, then looked back to the songwriter. “May I ask you just one more question?”

Berlin resisted a fierce urge to look at his watch. He’d sooner sweep floors for an hour than give an interview, but every reader was one more potential sheet music buyer. And of course, once the articles were written, he loved to read them. Shy smile. “Well, yes. Of course. What’s the question.”

“You’ve been so very successful, writing popular tunes, and musical theater as well. But you’ve been saying for a couple of years now that you’re going to write a ragtime opera with the story set in the south. ‘Syncopation for peoples’ hearts as well as for their toes?’. Is that an accurate quote?
Theatre Magazine
?”

Berlin swiped his hands against the sides of his pants legs. “You’ve been reading about me.”

“Oh yes. I always try to know my subjects as well as I can before I interview them. How are you coming along with that opera?”

Berlin thought frantically. This society-broad scribbler knew better than he did what he’d said to other reporters, and the last thing he wanted to do was contradict himself. “An opera…now that
is
a project. But in the meanwhile, a man needs to make a living. I work at the opera when I’ve got a few minutes here and there. Not saying I wouldn’t like to, but I can’t just up and take off a year or two to turn out—”

Mrs. Allred smiled. “Donizetti wrote
Don Pasquale
in two weeks.”

“
Oh sure. Sure he did! But Donizetti was studying music from before he even got outa diapers. When the damn guinea was just a kid, he was playing a violin in front of fancy people. When I was a kid, I was waiting tables at Nigger Mike’s, singing dirty songs so they’d throw nickels at me”
.

Berlin picked up on the alarm in the woman’s eyes as she moved a step away from him. He muscled Izzy aside, and said quietly, “I think things were a little bit different for a composer those days.”

“Oh, Mr. Berlin.” Never mind her well-applied face powder, Mrs. Allred’s name described her complexion. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that your songs and shows are so popular and so wonderful, you’ve got us all curious over your opera. I’m just dying to hear it.”

“Well, you will, you can count on it.” Delivered through the most ingratiating smile in his repertoire. “Here, let me show you something.” He led his guest past the piano to an inbuilt bookshelf, filled with every piece of European literature Robert Miras could find, all in the classiest leather bindings. On the lowest shelf, waist-high, sat two Swiss music boxes. Berlin opened one, a fair-sized rectangular case with an impressive inlay of brass, ebony and enamel on the lid and across the front. He turned the oval-headed key that stuck out from the left side of the box, then pushed a small lever beneath the key. Music began to play. Berlin pointed to the little brass plate inside the opened lid. “See, now, Mrs. Allred, this is ‘La Donna Mobile.’” He pronounced the last word, ‘Mo-beel.’ “By Verdi, from his opera,
Rigoletto
. Nice, huh?”

Mrs. Allred nodded. “Lovely. Just exquisite.”

When the music stopped, Berlin said, “Okay, now,” and opened the second box, a much smaller one with a decal featuring musical instruments on its lid. The mechanism inside was about one-third the size of the first one, and when Berlin started the music playing, Mrs. Allred fought to keep her feelings off her face. The tone of the first machine had been rich and full, the musical arrangement gorgeously ornamented, but this box spoke in painfully strident tones as it played a pedestrian arrangement of some popular song she’d heard a few years back. The tune finished, but Berlin let the box play on. A few bars into the second melody, Mrs. Allred said, “Oh…why, that’s
your
song, Mr. Berlin, isn’t it?”

If Berlin had been a cat and Mrs. Allred a canary, it would have been all over right then. “Sure, that’s my tune, but so was the first one. That was ‘When the Midnight Choo-Choo Leaves for Alabam,’ and now you’re hearing ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band.’ See, the other box was made in Eighteen-sixty-something, back when Verdi’s music was popular. This one was made just a couple of years ago, so it’s got my music on it. You gotta give the people what they want. Back then it was Verdi, now it’s Berlin. So, yeah, one of these years, you’re definitely going to hear my opera. And I’ll tell you something else. If a syncopated opera isn’t high-class enough for the Met, I’ll take it over to Broadway and call it a musical play in syncopation. And everybody except maybe the Juilliard profs’ll love it. I’ll be sure and send you comps for that, too. I don’t forget.”

The woman smiled, closed her pad, slipped it into her purse. She extended a gloved hand. “I’m sure I’ll be applauding madly, Mr. Berlin, thank you. And thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”