Lair of Dreams

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.”



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.”