“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.”