The King of Ragtime (11 page)

As the subway rumbled past Fiftieth Street and through Columbus Circle, Martin snuck a peek at the paper in his pocket. Yes, Mrs. Stanley did live on West Seventy-second, Number 114. He could leave Joplin there. Come to think of it, didn’t Mr. Berlin also live on Seventy-second? Sure. Mr. Waterson was always making fun of him behind his back, saying, “I live in d’ Cha-a-tswoith, on Sev’ndee-sekkint, right by Riv’sidrive.” Which gave Martin an idea. But first, he had to get Mr. Joplin off his hands before his teacher’s behavior landed the two of them behind bars.

He readied himself to get off at Seventy-second, but then thought about what Mrs. Stanley would have to say to him for running out of Mr. Lamb’s apartment. Besides, Mr. Lamb had given her a spare key, and what would she do but haul him and Mr. Joplin right back there, no questions asked, and there he’d have to stay. He’d better cook up a different stew, and in a hurry. Maybe take Mr. Joplin back to his missus?

They stayed on the train through the stop at Seventy-second, then swayed back and forth with the motion of the car to 135
^th
Street, where Martin herded Joplin out of the car and up the stairs into brilliant sunlight. Five shouting ten-year-olds dodged past the two adults, ran up to a hydrant on the corner, and went to work with a large wrench. Martin laughed, then looked up and down the street, caught sight of a Nedicks sign half a block up St. Nicholas Avenue. He took his teacher’s arm, guided him along the sidewalk, into the Nedicks, and up to the bank of telephone booths. He knew the number, had called it many times over the past several months, and as he recited it for the operator, he prayed Lottie would be in.

Three rings, then, “Hello?” A woman’s voice.

“Mrs. Joplin?”

“Who this be?”

Probably thought he was the police. “Mrs. Jop…” He faltered. “Mrs. Joplin, this is Martin Niederhoffer.”

“Martin, you sound scared. Something the matter? Something happen to Mr. Joplin?”

The boy pushed words through a tight throat. “No, Mr. Joplin’s fine. He’s here, with me.”

“At Mr. Lamb’s house, right?”

“Well, no…not exactly. Mrs. Joplin, it’s a long story. I had to do something, and I didn’t want to leave Mr. Joplin by himself. But I’ve got more to do now, and I need to get him back to you. I figured I’d better call instead of coming over.”

Short silence. Then Martin heard, “Boy, are you tellin’ me you walked outa Mr. Lamb’s place, took Mr. Joplin with you, and now you’re out on the streets someplace?”

“Well, yes…that’s kinda it. We’re at the Nedicks on St. Nick, half a block up from 135th. That’s where I’m calling from.”

“Hoo-ey! Well, I guess the best thing I can say is you got at least enough brains in your head, you didn’t just come gallivantin’ right over here. Cops’ve been by, and they got one of them all the time out in front of my house. Why you don’t you take Mr. Joplin back to Mr. Lamb’s?”

“Because we’re locked out of there, and Mr. Lamb won’t be back for at least another couple of hours. And I
have
got some stuff I need to do. Isn’t there some way I can get Mr. Joplin to you? Then you could check with Mrs. Stanley and see if you should take him to her place or back out to Mr. Lamb’s. Mr. Lamb gave her a key last night. I’ll come by later, when I’m done.”

Silence.

“Mrs. Joplin?”

“Hold on to your pants, Martin, I be thinkin’. All right. You know where’s the Alamo Club? On 125th?”

“No, I never—”

“Between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.”

“I can find it.”

“Mr. Joplin’ll recognize it. Go through the bar room and on inside the big room. I’ll see you there.”

“But how are you going to get past the cop?”

“You leave that to me, boy. Just get yourself and Mr. Joplin over to the Alamo, fast as ever your feet can move you.”

Martin hung up the phone, feeling like an eight-year-old whose mother had just finished bawling him out and told him he should wait until his father got home. He shuffled out of the booth and looked around. No Joplin.

His first thought was to get himself outside, fast as ever his feet could move him, and not slow down until he was in Chicago. But then he looked toward the rear of the store, and there was his piano teacher, counting out money and giving it to a white-clad soda jerk. Then Joplin walked away from the counter, carefully carrying a waxed-paper cup in each hand. He gave one to Martin, and took a long drink from his own. “I’m real thirsty,” he said. “The way we’ve been running around.”

Martin swallowed hard, then took a sip at his drink. “Thanks, Mr. Joplin. Come on, we’re going to meet Mrs. Joplin, and she’ll get you back home, or someplace.”

“Home? But when are we going to see Irving Berlin?” A splash of orange spilled from Joplin’s cup onto the tile floor.

“Later,” Martin said, and wondered whether Chicago would be far enough away. “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of it. Mrs. Joplin says you know where the Alamo Club is, right?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been there.” Joplin fell into step beside Martin.

***

A few minutes before one o’clock, Robert Miras tiptoed into the study. His boss didn’t usually work on his music this early in the day, but the past couple of weeks, it seemed that Berlin’s whole schedule had gone topsy-turvy. This revue he was doing with Victor Herbert had made him even more irritable than usual, no small accomplishment. The composer sat side-by-side with Cliff Hess, his musical secretary and arranger, at that special piano with the lever he could move so he could play in whatever key he wanted. They’d been there only half an hour, but the floor around the bench was littered with music paper, much of it crumpled. Miras swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” he finally managed. “But Mr. Tabor is on the phone for you. He says it’s important.”

Berlin didn’t look around. “Tell him I’m busy, I’ll call him later.”

“He said you’d say that, sir, and he told me to tell you it really is very important, and it won’t take more than a minute.

Berlin banged the keyboard with both hands; the discordant crash filled the room. “Son of a bitch!” He swung around to face Miras. “I
had
that line, I was this close. Ah!”

Hess sat silently, his face a mask.

Berlin leaped off the piano bench and charged past his valet to the telephone with the disabled ringer on the little Sheraton table next to the doorway. “Tabor?” he shouted into the receiver. “God damn it to hell, what is so fucking important, you had to interrupt me?”

Miras’ expression didn’t change. S.O.P., and like Hess, he had long since become accustomed to it. He turned and walked soundlessly out of the room.

Berlin heard Tabor swallow. “Mr. Berlin, have you had a chance to look over the material I left for you yesterday?”

Christ, Berlin thought. I should have known. “No, I haven’t. When I got back last night, there were two cops waiting to talk to me, and they took their goddamn sweet time about it, over an hour. Then it took me another hour to get so I could actually do some work. And I’m working now—or I would be, if people would just leave me the hell alone. When I get some time, I’ll look over that stuff of yours, but until then, quit bugging me about it.
I’ll
call
you
. Is that clear enough?”

A brief silence, then, “Yes, Mr. Berlin.”

“Good. Your minute’s up.” He slammed down the receiver, started back to the piano, then stopped long enough to snicker, shake his head, and mutter, “Suck-ass toady. Wish I could’ve seen his face.”

***

About halfway between Seventh and Eighth on 125th, Joplin pointed at a fleabag Burly-Q house, posters on either side of the theater entryway, showing every detail permissible by law of a Hundred Gorgeous Girls. “There it is. The Alamo Club.”

As Martin scanned the entryway, one of the Hundred came up from behind. “You’re early, boys—’less you want a private show. I only live down the block.”

She was big in every dimension, hair a brilliant red never seen in nature, splashing over her shoulders. But no amount of makeup could compensate for the harsh line of her mouth. Her eyes were blue, with pupils so small, Martin could barely make them out. “I’m sorry…no,” he said. “We’re looking for the Alamo.”

The girl snickered. “Pretty early for that, too, you ask me, but there it is.” She pointed toward a narrow wooden door at the far side of the theater. “Go on in there, downstairs.”

Joplin executed a polite bow. “Thank you, Miss.” Martin grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him away, toward the door.

Inside, the young man led Joplin carefully down a worn wooden staircase, into a cave of a room that reeked of antique cigarette smoke. They walked past the bar, where a colored bartender barely moved as he filled glasses for five men, three colored, two white. Martin heard voices from the big room beyond, a man’s and a woman’s, and as he and Joplin walked in, he saw the man—a white man—at a piano, gesturing up at a colored woman who stood on a little stage before him. To Martin’s surprise, Joplin worked his way quickly through lines of battered wooden tables that filled the room, marched right up to the piano man, and tapped his shoulder. The pianist spun around, took one look at Joplin, and the sunshine Martin thought he’d left outside burst across the man’s face. “Well, hey now, look, it’s Scott Joplin.” The piano player grabbed the composer’s hand with both of his own, and gave it a healthy pump. “What you comin’ by so early for, Scott, I don’t start playin’ till eight.” Which seemed to remind him of the woman, standing on the stage, head cocked, hands on hips. “Hey, honey.” The man’s voice was pure gravel. “Go take yourself ten, okay. Then come on back, and we’ll see what we can do with your routine.”

The grin on the man’s face was infectious. Despite herself, the woman smiled back, then walked off, down the few stairs, and out to the bar. Martin also smiled. Only Joplin didn’t smile, but that meant nothing. Martin had never seen a smile on his teacher’s face.

Joplin indicated Martin with a casual wave. “This is Martin Niederhoffer, Jimmy, my piano student. Martin, Ragtime Jimmy. He plays ragtime right.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Ragtime Jimmy gave Martin’s hand a pump as vigorous as he’d given Joplin’s. “So you’re learnin’ pianna from the master, huh?”

Jimmy’s big, oval face radiated good humor; his eyes sparkled. Hair hung loose across his forehead. But what caught Martin’s attention beyond all else was the man’s nose, long and broad, twice the size of an average snoot, but neither discolored nor misshapen by the purple excrescences of a serious elbow-bender. Just an monster honker, like the man took nose vitamins every morning with his orange juice. Martin tried not to stare, but Jimmy dismissed his concern with a casual wave. “It’s just how I am. I think maybe if the good Lord wanted to give me something big, he coulda picked better. But I ain’t got no cherce in the matter.”

Martin laughed. The man was a natural comic.

“So what brings you guys out here at four o’clock in the afternoon? You want to go on tonight or somethin’? Scott, you don’t need no tryout, and if you say the kid’s okay, that’s good enough for me. Just come by maybe about ten or eleven—”

Martin saw Lottie sail through the doorway and up to the trio. She fired a look at Martin that brought sweat out of his every pore, then looked at the piano player. “Hello, Jimmy. Thank you for lookin’ after my man.”

Jimmy looked blank-faced from Lottie to Joplin to Martin. “Well, Mrs. J, I’m always glad to help, but I ain’t sure—”

“I’m sorry, Jimmy, but Scott and me are in a hurry.” Lottie pointed at Martin. “He’ll tell you about it.”

As the Joplins walked away, the woman-singer came back through the doorway, but halfway to the stage, Jimmy motioned her off. “Sorry, honey, I got busier’n I thought. Go on out there an’ oil your tonsils for about half an hour more, okay? Tell ‘em Jimmy said it’s on the house.” He gave Martin a light punch to the arm. “Looks like there’s a little bit of a story here, hey? You want to tell me? Or do you gotta get your sticks movin’ too?

Something about Ragtime Jimmy… Martin couldn’t keep a smile off his face. “You want to hear it, sure, I’ll tell you.”

Jimmy listened quietly to Martin’s story, but the instant the young man finished, the piano player exploded. “Well, don’t that beat all I ever heard—and you can bet I hear plenty in a place like this. Irving Berlin, huh? Well, I ain’t got no trouble rememberin’ the fuss Scott made a few years back, tellin’ anybody who’d hold still for a minute about how Berlin stole his music and made it into ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band.’”

Martin nodded. “I know.”

Jimmy rolled right along. “I was a kid then, playin’ out at Diamond Tony’s in Coney, an’ everybody—I mean ev-er-y-body in the music game—was talkin’ about it. I didn’t know just what to believe, ‘cause I didn’t know Scott then. But now I do. He comes in every once in a while, an’ listens to me play, an’ I get to talk to him about this and that and the other. An’ one thing I’ll tell you—if that man says something, you better take it as the truth from the gospels. I don’t think a lie ever came outa his mouth. If he says Berlin stole his music, then Berlin stole it. I can’t for the life of me figure what you or anybody else coulda told him that woulda got him to give Irving Berlin more of his music. If you don’t mind me sayin’, that wasn’t a smart thing to do.”

Martin thought if he had a sword, he’d fall on it, right then and there, but took heart as he saw Jimmy’s face brighten. “Well, but hey, we all of us do something dumb here and there, and at least you was tryin’ to help Scott, so I say good for you. Now, we gotta give him
and
you some help. Not to be disparagin’ or anything like that, but if you think you can just go off on your own and talk Berlin into gettin’ square on that music, you got yourself a whole different think comin’. You got plenty of moxie, but what you ain’t got is leverage, know what I mean? If you can hang around a li’l while, I’ll go make a phone call and get you some. A whole bunch, in fact.”

“That’s no trouble.” Martin checked his watch. “Mr. Berlin always goes out to a show or a late dinner, then he gets home about 11, 11:30, and starts writing his songs. He once told Mr. Snyder that watching something by Kern or Romberg gets him moving better on his own stuff. He works all night.”