“Bertram G. Huffstadler and Company, Music Publishers,” he said on a shaky exhale.
“Don’t have kittens, Hen. They’re gonna love you.”
“That’s what you said about Mills. And Leo Feist. And Witmark and Sons.”
“Witmark and his Sons are a bunch of chumps.”
“They’re one of the biggest music publishers in the biz.”
“And they didn’t publish you, so they’re chumps.”
Henry smiled. “You’re my best girl.”
“Somebody should be. Hold on, let me fix your tie,” Theta said, adjusting the knot. “There. Now. Let’s hear your spiel.”
With a big razzmatazz smile, Henry stuck out his hand and said, “How do you do? I’m Henry Bartholomew DuBois the Fourth. And I’m the next big thing.” He dropped the hand and the smile, pacing nervously in front of the stoop. “I can’t say that.”
“But you are the next big thing.”
“I don’t feel like the next big thing.”
“That’s where the acting comes in, kid. You gotta make ’em believe it. Just remember our plan. Now. Who’s the one they want?”
“I am,” Henry mumbled.
“Very convincing,” Theta deadpanned. “You selling ’em your songs or a funeral plan?”
“I am the next big thing!” Henry said a little more forcefully.
“Go get ’em, kid. Ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes.”
Henry took the stairs to the second floor, making his way down a narrow hallway of small rooms. Music was everywhere, songs competing with one another till they all sounded as if they were part of the same orchestration. He passed an open doorway where two composers paced a small room, throwing out rhymes to each other. “June, moon, soon, moon—”
“You said moon already—”
“So sue me—”
“I can’t. It’s like suing myself.”
In another room, a fella played a verse for a girl who was curled up in a chair with her shoes off and one arm thrown across her eyes.
“What does that make you feel?” the fella asked.
“Suicidal,” the girl said.
“Okay. But would you want to make whoopee first?” he shot back, and Henry tried not to laugh.
All of them were selling dreams in rhythm and rhyme. Henry desperately wanted to be one of them. No, he wanted to be the best of them. The ambition burned coal-hot inside him. He hoped today would be his lucky day. If that hack Herbie Allen could sell his terrible songs, why couldn’t Henry?
The hallway funneled him into a larger common area at the back. A lanky, dark-haired young man hunched over a typewriter did not look up. The sounds of a treacly, forgettable love ditty competed with the clack of typewriter keys. Of the two, Henry preferred the typing. It was more honest.
“What do you think?”
It took Henry a second to realize that the question was directed at him and that it had come from the typist, who had stopped working and was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching Henry intently.
“About…” Henry gestured toward the room from which the bad song originated.