talk, a promise that’s a lie from the start, that’s enough for Scott Joplin, he can go to hell, and nobody would care. The composer grabbed the blond man by the collar of his jacket, pulled him off his seat, and flung him to the floor.
***
Martin Niederhoffer, primed to blast through those columns of sales figures in nothing flat, marched through the doorway, then stopped as if he’d walked into a glass wall. For a few seconds, he stood like an ox, gawking at Scott Joplin, a razor in his hand, crouched over Sid Altman, down on the floor next to the desk. Blood all over Joplin, over Sid, over the floor, over
everything
. The open ledger was covered with blood; blood dripped from the top of the desk. Finally, whatever held the bookkeeper in place let go, and he ran toward Joplin, dodging the pooled blood on the floor, taking care to keep Sid between the composer and himself. Quick glance at his friend’s doughy, blood-smeared face, oh, Jesus! Throat gaping ear-to-ear, like a second mouth, shirt a blood-soaked rag. Martin looked a question at Joplin, but Joplin didn’t seem to pick up. Finally, the bookkeeper pointed from the razor to Sid, then managed a strangled, “Mr. Joplin… What…why?” Sounding to his own ears like he was choking on his words.
“I came in to see Irving Berlin, and I saw…” Joplin jabbed the razor toward Sid. “He was in your chair, there, he looked like he was asleep at his work, and I thought he was you, maybe you were waiting to come in with me to talk to Mr. Berlin. But when I saw he didn’t have your red hair, I got sore, and gave him a shove, and that’s when I saw…” With a wave of the razor, the composer took in the cut throat and all the blood; Martin quickly ducked away. “…this razor, down there on the floor, and I picked it up. Stupid!” Joplin flung the razor down; it bounced off Sid’s chest, onto the floor.
Martin had to strain to make out Joplin’s words, flying by at breakneck pace, no space whatever between them. “You didn’t…?” The young man could only point at his friend, sprawled like a recently-dispatched cow in an abattoir.
Joplin shook his head violently. “I’d never…Martin, you know me. Do you think I could
ever
do a thing like that?” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “We better call the police.”
Which brought Martin around. “You really didn’t kill him?”
“As God is my witness.”
“All right. I believe you. But if we call the cops,
they’ll
never believe you. They’ll cart you off, and you’ll be as good as convicted.”
“But I didn’t do it.”
Martin tried to think. Wash the blood off Joplin’s hands, then tell the cops…
what
? That Martin and Joplin came in together and found Sid’s body? Then they’d both be suspected; there was nobody else in the office. Besides, did he really think Joplin could remember all the details of a made-up story, once the cops went to work on him? They’d break him down in nothing flat, and then the two of them would be in the soup for fair. And if they told the cops the truth, that Martin came out of the bathroom and found Joplin and Sid and the razor…wait. What if they got rid of the razor? Toss it in the incinerator,
then
call the cops? Martin sighed. No good. Joplin would forget, say something about a razor, and that would be that. Tell the story any way it didn’t happen, Joplin would give it away; tell it the way it did happen, Martin walking in on a colored man, razor in hand, squatting over a dead white man, and Joplin was a dead colored man.
Martin looked from his teacher’s bulging eyes to his open mouth, to his trembling fingers. Those fingers had been shaking so much lately, he’d been having trouble getting them onto the right piano keys. No, Martin, thought, he didn’t kill Sid. Sid spent all day hauling sacks of vegetables and fruit, tossing them around like they weighed nothing. If Joplin had grabbed Sid, Sid would have made Hamburg steak out of
***
Martin Niederhoffer, primed to blast through those columns of sales figures in nothing flat, marched through the doorway, then stopped as if he’d walked into a glass wall. For a few seconds, he stood like an ox, gawking at Scott Joplin, a razor in his hand, crouched over Sid Altman, down on the floor next to the desk. Blood all over Joplin, over Sid, over the floor, over
everything
. The open ledger was covered with blood; blood dripped from the top of the desk. Finally, whatever held the bookkeeper in place let go, and he ran toward Joplin, dodging the pooled blood on the floor, taking care to keep Sid between the composer and himself. Quick glance at his friend’s doughy, blood-smeared face, oh, Jesus! Throat gaping ear-to-ear, like a second mouth, shirt a blood-soaked rag. Martin looked a question at Joplin, but Joplin didn’t seem to pick up. Finally, the bookkeeper pointed from the razor to Sid, then managed a strangled, “Mr. Joplin… What…why?” Sounding to his own ears like he was choking on his words.
“I came in to see Irving Berlin, and I saw…” Joplin jabbed the razor toward Sid. “He was in your chair, there, he looked like he was asleep at his work, and I thought he was you, maybe you were waiting to come in with me to talk to Mr. Berlin. But when I saw he didn’t have your red hair, I got sore, and gave him a shove, and that’s when I saw…” With a wave of the razor, the composer took in the cut throat and all the blood; Martin quickly ducked away. “…this razor, down there on the floor, and I picked it up. Stupid!” Joplin flung the razor down; it bounced off Sid’s chest, onto the floor.
Martin had to strain to make out Joplin’s words, flying by at breakneck pace, no space whatever between them. “You didn’t…?” The young man could only point at his friend, sprawled like a recently-dispatched cow in an abattoir.
Joplin shook his head violently. “I’d never…Martin, you know me. Do you think I could
ever
do a thing like that?” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “We better call the police.”
Which brought Martin around. “You really didn’t kill him?”
“As God is my witness.”
“All right. I believe you. But if we call the cops,
they’ll
never believe you. They’ll cart you off, and you’ll be as good as convicted.”
“But I didn’t do it.”
Martin tried to think. Wash the blood off Joplin’s hands, then tell the cops…
what
? That Martin and Joplin came in together and found Sid’s body? Then they’d both be suspected; there was nobody else in the office. Besides, did he really think Joplin could remember all the details of a made-up story, once the cops went to work on him? They’d break him down in nothing flat, and then the two of them would be in the soup for fair. And if they told the cops the truth, that Martin came out of the bathroom and found Joplin and Sid and the razor…wait. What if they got rid of the razor? Toss it in the incinerator,
then
call the cops? Martin sighed. No good. Joplin would forget, say something about a razor, and that would be that. Tell the story any way it didn’t happen, Joplin would give it away; tell it the way it did happen, Martin walking in on a colored man, razor in hand, squatting over a dead white man, and Joplin was a dead colored man.
Martin looked from his teacher’s bulging eyes to his open mouth, to his trembling fingers. Those fingers had been shaking so much lately, he’d been having trouble getting them onto the right piano keys. No, Martin, thought, he didn’t kill Sid. Sid spent all day hauling sacks of vegetables and fruit, tossing them around like they weighed nothing. If Joplin had grabbed Sid, Sid would have made Hamburg steak out of
Similar Books
