Lair of Dreams

“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.”

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.”