It happened all the time.
Nearby, a crow cawed, making Bill jump. “Go on, bird! Git! Shoo!”
It squawked again, passing so close to Bill’s head that he gasped at the suddenness of feathers against his cheek like a slap.
Theta waited impatiently for Henry on the corner of Broadway and West Forty-second Street. At last, she saw him sauntering up the street, his beaten boater hat perched on his head. “There you are! Come on, kid. You’re gonna be late.”
She linked her arm through Henry’s, and the two of them hurried as best they could in the bustle of Broadway, past streets housing the many music publishers of Tin Pan Alley, till they came to the address they wanted. Henry stared up at the four-story row house.
“Bertram G. Huffstadler and Company, Music Publishers,” he said on a shaky exhale.
“Don’t have kittens, Hen. They’re gonna love you.”
“That’s what you said about Mills. And Leo Feist. And Witmark and Sons.”
“Witmark and his Sons are a bunch of chumps.”
“They’re one of the biggest music publishers in the biz.”
“And they didn’t publish you, so they’re chumps.”
Henry smiled. “You’re my best girl.”
“Somebody should be. Hold on, let me fix your tie,” Theta said, adjusting the knot. “There. Now. Let’s hear your spiel.”
With a big razzmatazz smile, Henry stuck out his hand and said, “How do you do? I’m Henry Bartholomew DuBois the Fourth. And I’m the next big thing.” He dropped the hand and the smile, pacing nervously in front of the stoop. “I can’t say that.”
“But you are the next big thing.”
“I don’t feel like the next big thing.”
“That’s where the acting comes in, kid. You gotta make ’em believe it. Just remember our plan. Now. Who’s the one they want?”
“I am,” Henry mumbled.
“Very convincing,” Theta deadpanned. “You selling ’em your songs or a funeral plan?”
“I am the next big thing!” Henry said a little more forcefully.
“Go get ’em, kid. Ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes.”
Henry took the stairs to the second floor, making his way down a narrow hallway of small rooms. Music was everywhere, songs competing with one another till they all sounded as if they were part of the same orchestration. He passed an open doorway where two composers paced a small room, throwing out rhymes to each other. “June, moon, soon, moon—”
“You said moon already—”
“So sue me—”
“I can’t. It’s like suing myself.”
In another room, a fella played a verse for a girl who was curled up in a chair with her shoes off and one arm thrown across her eyes.
“What does that make you feel?” the fella asked.
“Suicidal,” the girl said.
“Okay. But would you want to make whoopee first?” he shot back, and Henry tried not to laugh.
All of them were selling dreams in rhythm and rhyme. Henry desperately wanted to be one of them. No, he wanted to be the best of them. The ambition burned coal-hot inside him. He hoped today would be his lucky day. If that hack Herbie Allen could sell his terrible songs, why couldn’t Henry?
The hallway funneled him into a larger common area at the back. A lanky, dark-haired young man hunched over a typewriter did not look up. The sounds of a treacly, forgettable love ditty competed with the clack of typewriter keys. Of the two, Henry preferred the typing. It was more honest.
“What do you think?”
It took Henry a second to realize that the question was directed at him and that it had come from the typist, who had stopped working and was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching Henry intently.
“About…” Henry gestured toward the room from which the bad song originated.
The typist nodded. Henry wasn’t sure what to say. What if this was a test? What if this young man and those composers were the best of friends? What if this was, in fact, Mr. Huffstadler in disguise? The typist seemed too young to be a publisher. In fact, he didn’t look much older than Henry. “Well, it’s certainly… high-pitched.”
The young man grinned. “That’s the thing about Simon and Parker—they’re nothing but treble.”
Henry laughed and stuck out his hand. “Henry DuBois. The Fourth.”
“David Cohn. The one and only. Actually, one of about a million. David Cohn is like the John Smith of the Jewish world. You here to see the big man?”
“Indeed I am.”
“You any good?”
Theta’s voice purred encouragement in his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to say those words. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
“You can go on in,” David Cohn said, gesturing with one finger toward a door with a glass window with the name BERTRAM G. HUFFSTADLER fanned out in blocky black-and-gold lettering. “Oh, and don’t let the Amazing Reynaldo throw you.”
“Who?”
David Cohn smirked as he resumed his typing. “You’ll find out. Good luck, Mr. DuBois the Fourth.”
Mr. Huffstadler was a small, portly man with a jowly face that seemed to be in a perpetual state of imminent disappointment. He shoved a cigar into his scowling slash of a mouth and gave Henry a dismissive glance.
“Have a seat. What brings you to the Huffstadler Company today?”
I’m the next big thing. “Well, sir, I’d very much like to have my songs published by the great Bertram G. Huffstadler.”
“So would a lot of folks. Why should I publish you?”
“Well, sir…” Henry launched into his well-rehearsed patter about his love of music and his passion for songwriting as Mr. Huffstadler shuffled to the door and poked his head out. “Where’s Reynaldo?” he shouted.
A moment later, a man in a pinstriped suit and shoes with spats like bat’s wings entered. He wore enough aftershave lotion to asphyxiate a busload of people.
“Where you been?” Mr. Huffstadler scolded in what he probably thought passed for a whisper. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”
“The muse must be fed, Mr. Huffstadler. I required sustenance,” the other man said with an actor’s flair.
“I don’t pay you to eat. I pay you to pick hits.” The harrumphing Mr. Huffstadler waddled back to his chair. “This is the Amazing Reynaldo. He’s a Diviner,” the man said with a knowing nod. “Name another publisher who has a Diviner working for him. You can’t—I’m the only one. This fella here has the power to communicate with the spirit world and find out which songs stink and which ones will be hits.”
Henry felt fairly certain that the “Amazing” Reynaldo’s real talent was the ability to detect a sucker and a meal ticket. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he said.
The Amazing Reynaldo shook Henry’s hand and closed his eyes. “The spirits tell me that you are from the South.”
My accent tells you I’m from the South, you faker. “Gee, that is astonishing,” Henry said.
Huffstadler smiled around his cigar. “Did I tell you or did I tell you? Okay, kid. You’re up. Show the Diviner and me what you’ve got.”