Read The King of Ragtime for Free Online

Fannie Solomon, the receptionist, flashed him a big smile as he came within range of her desk. “Five days in a row over ninety. Mr. Snyder was smart to take his vacation now, huh?”
    Tabor grunted a vague acknowledgment. He didn’t give a fiddler’s fart for Ted Snyder or the weather; right then, all he could think of were those numbers he’d left for Martin Niederhoffer to check out. He needed those figures, and he wanted them now.
    He dodged a
schmegeggi
who was waving sheets of music manuscript at Harvey Jacobs, one of the arrangers. Music publishing, Christ, what a business. The manager hustled out of Reception and down the hallway, past the secretaries’ space, past his own office, past Ted Snyder’s. In the next room, he saw Henry Waterson, feet up on his desk, pawing through a racing form. Tabor checked his pocket watch, just past one-thirty. He leaned through the doorway. “Henry, what the hell’re you still doing here? Those poor ponies’re going to think you don’t love them any more.”
    “Ach.” Waterson swung around, lowered his feet. His thick lips curled, jaw set, ready to broadcast a piece of his customary derisive humor. “Berlin again. Every time I think we’ve got things settled, him and that lawyer of his come up with another angle on copyrights or royalties or whatever. We had a meeting today that was supposed to be be done by one o’clock, but it lasted till fifteen minutes ago. Every word outa my mouth or my lawyer’s, that shyster Max Josephson jumped on it, turned it all around and fed it right back to me. Son of a bitch jewed me out of God knows how much money. Now, Irvy’s back in his hole there, door shut like always, doing God knows what. I can’t trust the little bastard an inch out of my sight.” Waterson waved the racing paper at Tabor, then worked himself out of his chair and to his feet. “Well, there’s still some good horses running. I guess better late than never, huh?”
    Tabor thought Waterson was sorer about missing the early races than losing the money to Berlin, but fine, all the better. He clapped a hand on Waterson’s shoulder. “Sorry, Henry. We can’t win ‘em all, can we?”
    Both men looked around at the sound of raised voices coming from Reception. Tabor laughed. “Another genius composer, sore that we don’t think his crap is gonna sell a million copies.”
    Waterson snickered, folded his racing form, and walked out.
    Tabor marched down the hall, and into Bookkeeping. Birdie, the assistant bookkeeper, went red and looked away; five’d get you ten she and Niederhoffer had been paying attention to the wrong figures before they heard him coming. “Miss Kuminsky!” he snapped.
    Birdie jumped to her feet; her pen rolled off her desk onto the floor.
    “Go up front and ask Fannie if she’s heard from Sam Goodman today.”
    As the girl flew through the doorway, Tabor strode up to Niederhoffer’s desk and turned a humorless smile on the bookkeeper. “You got it?”
    Without a word, Niederhoffer grabbed a folder, opened it, and handed Tabor several sheets of paper with columns of numbers. Tabor scanned them, chortled, then choked off the sound. “Good work, Niederhoffer—but hear me now, and hear me clear. Not a word of this, not to anyone. That includes your girlfriend.”
    Niederhoffer bit on his upper lip, then looked back to the ledger he’d been working on, but Tabor interrupted him. “Niederhoffer!”
    The bookkeeper looked up.
    “Do you understand me?”
    Niederhoffer set down his pencil with exaggerated care. “Yes, sir, I understand. I speak pretty good English for a greeny. What’s on those papers is none of my business.”
    Tabor smirked. “Boy, one day that temper is going to get you into some real trouble. Listen—you’re going to have to stay after hours tonight to get the monthly sales figures caught up. I’ll see that you get overtime.” Tabor waved the papers. “I appreciate this.”
    “Thank you, sir.” Niederhoffer’s