He gestured to the piano in the corner, a cherrywood upright that Henry wished were his. Henry played a portion of his first song, stealing glances at Mr. Huffstadler’s face, which was like a stone.
“Reynaldo?” Huffstadler said when Henry had finished.
The Diviner looked heavenward, frowning, then turned to Henry. “Mr. DuBois. May I be frank?”
“I wish you would, Mr. Reynaldo,” Henry said, though he wished no such thing.
“I’m afraid your song simply isn’t up to the standards of our company. It’s too jazzy. Too… complicated. The spirits found it odd and displeasing.”
“I’m very much influenced by the style of New Orleans, where I was raised.”
“Well, this isn’t New Orleans, kid. It’s the big city. You’re competing with George and Ira Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Herbert Allen, and about a thousand other fellas churning out songs folks wanna sing down at the corner dance hall.” Mr. Huffstadler spread his hands out as if that gesture were an explanation in and of itself. “We need songs that anybody can sing anywhere. Popular songs. Songs that make money.”
“The spirits concur,” Reynaldo said, frowning down at his cuticles as if they, and not Henry’s future in the music business, hung in the balance. He gave Henry an apologetic smile that was as insincere as his divining. “Alas, it’s no Berlin.”
Mr. Huffstadler punched the air with the end of his cigar. “Irving Berlin. Didn’t have a cent to his name. Didn’t even speak English, for Pete’s sake. Started his career on the streets of the Lower East Side. Now? He’s the biggest songwriter in America—and a millionaire. What you need, my friend, is to make your music sound like Irving Berlin’s.”
Henry forced a half smile. “Well, sir, we’ve already got a Mr. Berlin. Seems redundant to have two.”
“Kid, if I could have a hundred Irving Berlins, I would. I’m in the business of business. If you write me a song about a disembowelment and it sells, I’m interested.”
“Constipaaation…”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Henry said quickly.
Right on cue, Theta pushed through the door. “Oh, excuse me! I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said, batting her lashes and doing her “little girl lost” shtick.
“Not at all, Miss…?” Mr. Huffstadler looked her up and down.
Theta got wise immediately and smiled up at him, wide-eyed. “Knight. Theta Knight. And you must be the one and only Mr. Bertram G. Huffstadler,” she purred.
The lecherous man laughed. “Guilty in the first degree.”
“And I am the Amazing Reynaldo, Seer of Futures, Reader of Thoughts, Diviner and Advisor to great men,” Reynaldo said, kissing her hand.
And low-rent music publishers, Henry thought.
Mr. Huffstadler smoothed back his thinning hair. “Now, how can I help you, little lady?”
“Oh, I surely hope you can help me, Mr. Huffstadler. I’m just beside myself,” Theta said, baiting the hook. “You see, I work for Mr. Ziegfeld, in the Follies?”
“The Follies?” Reynaldo blurted eagerly before catching himself. “That is, I sensed it.”
“No kidding? Golly!” Theta cooed, batting her lashes until Henry had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Sometimes Theta’s best acting wasn’t on the stage. “Well, Flo—Mr. Ziegfeld, that is—he’s looking for a new song, and the other night, I was in a little nightclub, and I heard the dreamiest number! But I don’t know who wrote it. I was kinda hoping you might know or, gee, bein’ as you’re such a Big Cheese, maybe you even published it?”
“Well, if we didn’t, we oughta!” Mr. Huffstadler winked at Theta. “So what’s this dreamy tune called, honey?”
“Jeepers, I don’t really know.”
“Reynaldo?” Mr. Huffstadler looked to the Diviner, who paled.
“Er… the spirits don’t see fit to tell me at this time.”
“Perhaps if you sang a little of it, Miss,” Henry prompted.
“Of course! It went something like this.…” Theta launched into the chorus of Henry’s song, purposely forgetting some of the words and humming along as if she’d only heard it once.
Henry’s eyes widened in mock-surprise. “Why, Miss, that’s my song!”
“Your song? You don’t say!”
“I do say.” Henry picked up the chorus, supplying the right words, and Theta gazed at him with a swoony face. At the end, she applauded enthusiastically. “Oh, that’s wonderful! You’ve gotta come by and play that for Mr. Ziegfeld.”
“Of all the luck,” Henry said, grinning. “I don’t believe it.”
“I don’t believe it, either.” Behind the desk, Mr. Huffstadler scowled. “You kids think I fell off a turnip truck this week? Your song stinks, Mr. DuBois—and so does this phony act. Now get out before I throw you both out.”
Theta dropped her smile, along with her breathless voice. “Yeah? You wouldn’t know a good song if it came up and bit you in the a—”
“Ascot!” Henry said quickly. “May I escort you out, Miss Knight?”
“I wish you would, Mr. DuBois,” Theta said. She leaned in to the Amazing Reynaldo. “And if you’re really a reader of thoughts, you oughta be blushing to beat the band if you can read mine right now, ya big phony.” She slammed the door behind her for good measure.
At the front desk, David Cohn grinned up at Henry and Theta from behind his typewriter. “Nice try.”
“Well, it almost worked.” Henry tipped his hat. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” David fiddled with some paper, glancing shyly at Henry. “Hopefully, we’ll meet again. Hey!”
“Yeah?” Henry said, turning around.
“For what it’s worth, I thought your song was pretty good.”
“Good or pretty good?”
“Nothing wrong with your song that a little more heart and a lot of hard work couldn’t fix.”
“You a Diviner, too?” Henry joked.
David Cohn smiled. “No. Just honest. But nobody pays you for that.”
After saying good-bye to Theta, Henry hopped the El to Chatham Square and made his way through Chinatown in the brisk chill. He moved in and out of shops, pretending to be interested in ceramic bowls and fabric for a new suit, while surreptitiously looking for the girl he’d only met inside a dream.
A commotion erupted in the street. Police were turning out a restaurant, allowing the health inspector passage. The owner protested the disruption to his business mightily: “This is a clean place! No sickness here.”
“Do you have your papers?” the policeman asked one of the waiters, who didn’t seem to understand. “Your resident permit?”
A translator spoke quickly with the frightened waiter.
“He left it at home,” the translator explained to the police. “He’ll go get it now.”
“Nothing doing, pal. No papers, we take you in.” The policeman whistled for his partner, and they loaded the terrified waiter into the back of the wagon.