It's 1916, and time's running out for Scott Joplin. Before he dies, he wants to provide for his wife and to secure his place in musical history. He's written a musical drama. His young piano student, Martin Niederhoffer, who works as a bookkeeper at Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder Music Publishers, convinces him to try to get Irving Berlin to publish and produce the work.

The next day, Niederhoffer walks into his office and finds Joplin crouched over the blood-soaked body of a young man. He hustles his teacher away; unfortunately, the two are seen leaving the building. Nell Stark, daughter of Joplin's first publisher, John Stark, hides Joplin and Niederhoffer from the police and summons her father from St. Louis to help sort out the mess.

After Berlin flatly denies ever having received Joplin's play, young Niederhoffer breaks cover and engages the services of hit man Footsie Vinny, who gives Berlin a five-day deadline to come up with the manuscript. And just when things couldn't get worse, Niederhoffer's girlfriend, Birdie, is kidnapped....

The King of Ragtime

By Larry Karp

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2008 Larry Karp
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59058-526-9

Chapter One

Manhattan, New York City Monday, August 21, 1916 Mid-day

The short, dark-skinned man standing in front of the Strand Theatre Building shaded his eyes with a hand, and looked up past the marquee to the gold letters on the third-story windows. Waterson, Berlin, And Snyder, Music Publishers. That wife of his, she wouldn't let him out of the apartment till she wrote out the address for him. He told her he was almost ten years in New York now, he didn't need any numbers on a piece of paper to find his way to Broadway and Forty-seventh Street, but she wrote it down anyway, and pushed it into his pocket. Women are like that. If they don't have a real baby, they find a man to treat like one.

Heat rose from the pavement, made the building and the people look wavy. Made everything look wavy. Damn, he didn't like that. He was nervous enough, just coming down here with his music, which of course he never would be doing if Martin hadn't convinced him he should. Question was, could he really trust Martin? Could he trust anyone anymore, after all he'd been lied to, ignored, pushed aside, even by people every bit as black as himself, those fancy Negroes with their three names. Will Marion Cook. J. Rosamund Johnson. James Reese Europe. None of them would give him the time of day any more. Lester Walton once had been partial to him, wrote a bunch of nice words in the newspaper about his music, but not since Cook, Johnson and Europe got hold of Walton's ear. Scott Joplin was low-class, him and his ragtime music. Low-class and old hat. An embarrassment to the race.

He pulled a well-used handkerchief from his pocket, mopped water from his forehead, glanced at the sheaf of papers in his left hand. Was there anybody he could trust? Well, sure, his wife. Lottie was always square at his side. And Nell—of course. Never mind her father, he could trust Nell with his life. He sighed. And yeah, he really did think Martin was okay. Nice kid, wanted to play piano just like Scott Joplin, came up every week for his lesson. He kept the books at Irving Berlin's, and he got himself some inside information. Berlin was doing musical shows now, not just writing popular songs. "Let him see your music," Martin had said. "What can you lose? I'll go along with you, and I'll make good and goddamn sure he doesn't steal anything off you again."

Joplin had his doubts, but decided to give it a try. With no contacts of his own any more, little money, and less time, he really didn't have all that much to lose, did he? But he was not about to take Martin along with him, no need to do that. Scott Joplin was the King of Ragtime. Go walking into Irving Berlin's office with a baby-sitter? Uh-uh.

Besides, his head had felt pretty good earlier this morning. It wasn't till he got outside and started off downtown that he commenced getting nervous and shaky in his mind. All this heat and humidity, all that noise, gasoline motorcars with their backfires, all the people, pushing, yelling, waving their arms. He tried to will calm, blew out a deep breath, then moved, a little unsteadily, toward the door.

A white couple, old people, passed by; he heard the woman say, "Just look at that—drunk on the street, and in broad daylight." Joplin tried not to react, but in his anger, he caught his foot on the step, stumbled, finally managed to hold his balance. Damn! Lottie had fixed him up right to go downtown, shaved him close, got him into his best dark suit and tie, but as far as that old woman was concerned, Scott Joplin was just another drunk nigger. But what was he supposed to tell her? No, he wasn't drunk, just that his brain didn't work right anymore because he once upon a time lay down in bed with the wrong woman?

He turned to go back home, but pulled himself up short. No, that wouldn't serve. He had to leave Lottie some money. Had to. And besides. A man sees he's got no future, he wants to leave something of himself in the world, and what did Scott Joplin have to leave? No children. No paintings, no books, no buildings. Nature had filled his head so full of music there never was a moment's time for anything else, his blessing, his curse. If all his music disappeared along with him, better his mother would have gone to the old woman down the road and gotten something to put up inside her, so next day she'd have passed a mess of blood, and Scott Joplin never would've seen light of day.

He wheeled about, then walked carefully up the steps to the door, pulled it open and went inside, past the elevator, up the staircase. The third floor hallway was stifling. He felt dizzy, afraid he might pass out. Guiding himself with his free hand against the wall, he made his way down the corridor and into the Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder Reception Room.

Nobody there. He looked right, left, right again. A receptionist's desk sat between the take-off points of two hallways; two other passages ran back from the opposite wall. Joplin felt like he was standing at the hub of a wagon wheel. The wheel started to spin, sending the composer staggering toward one of the cheap wooden chairs against the wall opposite the receptionist's desk, He dropped his manuscript to the floor, fell into the chair, lowered his head into his hands.

The wheel slowed, stopped. Joplin raised his head by degrees. Still no one in the room, nobody waiting to show a tune to a buyer, or hoping to bag a tune for a vaudeville act. No receptionist at the desk. The composer picked up his music, stepped cautiously across the room, peered down the corridor to the right of the desk. No luck. He walked a few steps past the desk to check the second corridor. Again, no one in sight ... but then he heard a loud, phlegmy cough. He gripped his papers, started walking.

The door to the fourth office on his left sat open. Joplin saw a man sitting at a desk, his back to the door. The composer paused. This nervousness was going to be the death of him. Even when he sat alone at his piano these days, trying to put a tune together, he felt ants crawling up his legs, butterflies sailing around inside his stomach. "I'm Scott Joplin," he muttered. "The King of Ragtime. I don't need to give any apology—least of all not to him." He stepped into the room, cleared his throat.

The white man at the desk swiveled to face him. Joplin recognized him instantly. "Good day, Mr. Berlin," the colored man said.

The white man smiled. "Why, Scott Joplin—how are you? I haven't seen you since forever."

Not since 1911, Joplin thought. Not since "Alexander's Ragtime Band." He worked to keep his attention on his business. "Well, I guess that's so. I know I haven't been by since you moved up to here from Thirty-eighth Street—when was that again?"

"1914, two years ago. What brings you down?"

The stale smell of old cigar smoke burned Joplin's eyes. He held out his offering. The pile of papers shook; he was afraid he might drop the whole stack onto the floor. "I've got some music I want to talk to you about."

The white man stood, pushed a hardbacked wooden chair toward his visitor. "Sit down, Scott, huh? Take a load off, catch your breath. You say you want me look at your music?"

Joplin nodded. Lottie had warned him. "Take it slow, Scott, nice and easy. You get to talkin' fast, your tongue gets all tied up in knots, and even I can't follow...