Symphony of Secrets, page 33
They worked through the next two days, sleeping a few hours at a time, and then getting back to it. On a credit card owned by one of the shell companies, under the name Kurt Fredericks, which seemed to be an alias that Kurt Delaney used from time to time, Bern came across a large purchase to the Good Tidings Company. There were dozens of corporations with that name, but Eboni hunted systematically through each of them.
Finally, four hours later, she choked on her coffee. “Holy shit. That’s it. Look.”
He tried to follow her keystrokes, but she’d already spun out of that web page and into another. Now she was searching hospital records and clinic files.
“Boom. Just a nasty old man,” Eboni said as she turned her screen around.
Bern looked. “Ew. Just ew,” he said.
43
Stealing Your Songs
Fred
Everyone said they wanted to be like Fred Delaney—the wunderkind, they called him! Only twenty-eight, and the top composer in the country! Dining in Europe with heads of state! His music featured throughout not only America but the world! Fred’s staff of twenty could barely keep up with the workload—the requests, the commissions, the adaptations—and Fred had to manage them and seek out new business and write new music and new lyrics! No wonder Fred was under such pressure. No wonder he wasn’t sleeping and his hair had started to thin. “Wunderkind” was all well and good, but all those admirers should try walking around in Fred’s shoes for a day; they’d see it wasn’t all sunshine and starlight and graceful melodies wafting upon the breeze. It was work. Hard work.
He was knee-deep in an argument on the telephone with a concert hall in San Francisco: they wanted to adapt The Wanderers—one of Fred’s musical theater shows—and had the temerity to request culling a couple of the characters, removing a few parts, and cutting four songs. Fred was having none of it and was telling Mr. Randolph Martin of the San Francisco Players what he thought of Mr. Martin’s ideas when the receptionist buzzed him, saying a Miles Turpin was outside and that it was urgent he speak with Fred.
Miles Turpin. Fred remembered visiting Miles in a run-down office after parting ways with Ditmars. Fred knew all the composers and music publishers, of course—he had to stay abreast of the competition!—but Miles, with his lackluster melodies and tepid showmanship, had never presented much competition.
“Tell him to come back later,” Fred told the receptionist. He returned to Mr. Martin, telling Mr. Martin that it was crucial that the character of Libby be kept exactly as written, that cutting Libby completely would undermine—
“Excuse me, Mr. Delaney,” came the receptionist’s voice again, timid but resolute. “I’ve told him to come back or to leave a message, but he wants to speak directly with you. He says it’s very important.”
“I’m busy,” Fred told the intercom. He really needed bigger offices. And a better receptionist, come to think of it. What he had to deal with on a daily basis! “Have him come back. Have him make an appointment like everybody else.” He turned back to Mr. Martin.
Eventually, after another ten minutes—and this was a long-distance telephone call! His bill would be astronomical!—Mr. Martin saw the error of his ways and agreed to keep Libby intact and to pay the full performance rate for The Wanderers. Now why did Fred have to deal with that? Isn’t that why he’d hired lawyers, so he could focus on the creative? He shook his head, laid the phone down in its cradle.
No sooner had he hung up when the receptionist—what was her name? Fred really couldn’t keep them all straight—knocked on the door. “Mr. Delaney, I hate to disturb you, but Mr. Turpin refused to leave. He gave me this to give to you.” She handed him an envelope, sealed. It was one of Freddy’s own, labeled Delaney Music Publishers, Inc. in blue lettering embossed on heavy stock.
Fred tore it open with a thumbnail. One sentence: Someone is stealing your songs.
A pause. Fred glanced up at the receptionist, down at the page. Stealing. “Send him in, would you?”
A moment later Miles Turpin was in the room, shaking Fred’s hand, looking as seedy as he’d looked several years ago. The shine on Miles’s suit was positively pathetic. Fred’s suits were now, of course, bespoke silk and wool.
They shook hands, exchanged brief pleasantries. “Sorry, Miles, it’s a busy day for me,” Fred said. “What’s this about someone stealing songs?”
Miles was in an indolent mood, casual and expansive. He took his time settling himself in one of the leather chairs across from Fred’s desk. He was holding a manila envelope and laid it lightly on the desktop. Not that there was much room to put it down; Fred’s desk was piled with music, contracts, notes, fan letters, and dozens of other papers.
“I had a visitor this morning,” Miles said at last. “Just a couple hours ago.”
“Oh yes?”
“You remember that pretty colored girl, Josephine, from the office?” Miles said. He leaned forward, touching the manila envelope.
Fred looked at Miles, face blank. He blinked once. “Sure, I remember her. Had a few screws loose.” He stood up abruptly, went over to the wet bar to make himself a drink. It was almost lunchtime, after all. “You want one?” he asked Miles.
“Sure,” Miles said. “Is that whiskey, this early? Aren’t you a bad boy. I’ll have what you’re having. Guess you’ve got yourself a supplier these days. Good for you.”
“So what about Josephine? She came by, you say?” Fred said, his back to Miles as he poured out two glasses. Lead crystal. Waterford. Fred’s hand shook.
“She did. She did indeed. Damnedest thing,” Miles said.
The two glasses, each a quarter-full of whiskey, stared back at Fred. He took a breath, and then another, set the whiskey bottle back in place, and said, “Don’t tell me you’re going after darkies now.”
“Oh no. Nothing of the sort. She came by to sell me a song. Five songs, actually. And promised me more. A whole lot more, she said.”
Fred counted to three and then, careful, picked up both glasses with fingers that were suddenly slippery with sweat. It wouldn’t do to drop the Waterford crystal. He imagined a rainbow-colored explosion, shards sparkling on the carpet. After handing a glass to Miles, Fred went around to his desk, sat down, the whiskey untouched in front of him. “A song?” Fred repeated. His voice sounded odd to him: strangled, too high. “I didn’t know you were selling colored songs now. Is business that bad?”
“Well, I’m not sure if it’s a colored song or not. See, she comes in with this song, she plays it and it’s just swell. I mean, it’s swell. She tells me she writes it. I don’t believe her, of course, because the coloreds can barely write, let alone write a masterpiece like this. The best part is, she asks for twelve dollars for it. Can you believe that? Twelve dollars.”
Fred took a sip of his drink and somehow found himself swallowing the entire three fingers of whiskey. “That’s quite a story there,” he said at last. “So what is it that I can do for you?”
“Here’s the thing, Freddy. I think Josephine may have stolen this music.”
“From me?”
“Yes, I believe so. It’s definitely one of your songs. It’s trademark Freddy Delaney. I’d know it anywhere. The one thing that all your songs have in common is how singable they are. Memorable, right? No matter what you’ve written, they all have that characteristic I’ve-heard-this-before angle to them. This was exactly like it. Exactly.”
Fred could hear his voice, bruised, coming from a distant place. “Interesting,” he heard himself say.
“No way anybody else could have written a song like that,” Miles said. “It was way too sophisticated, especially for a Negro. She played it pretty good, though.”
“Did you tell anyone? The police?”
“Of course not. I came straight to you. Here.” Miles pushed the envelope across the desk. “Take a look.”
As Fred pulled the sheets from the envelope, Miles said, “She called the first song ‘When It Was Evergreen.’ Said she wrote it a week ago. But check out the one called ‘Sapphire in the Morning.’ That one is the berries.”
Each of the twenty-odd pages was in regular musical notation, each bearing the initials JoR in the top right corner. “So you say she brought this to you this morning?”
“Yeah. This morning. You recognize them? I bet she stole them from you while she was at Ditmars. You can’t trust these coloreds.”
“You’re right, this is mine,” Fred said. “I’d hate to lose out on a great song because some colored bitch stole it from me.”
“It is yours,” Miles said triumphantly. “I thought so. I said to myself, This is a Freddy Delaney song if I ever heard one.”
“I’m going to have to go to the authorities,” Fred said, trying out the words, nerves and rage simmering through him. “I tried to be nice to her, but she’s a loon, you know? Who knows when she stole it. Niggers shouldn’t be allowed to work with white folks, that’s really what it boils down to, doesn’t it?”
“Glad I could help,” Miles said. “Glad I could do a good turn for a chum.” He looked around exaggeratedly. “You’ve sure made something of yourself. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks,” Fred said. “Can I reimburse you for the song? How much are you out of pocket?”
“Sixty bucks. But if you want to find her, she’s coming back to my office tomorrow morning. I told her to come back at ten a.m. But, honestly, it’s okay. You don’t have to repay me. Although I was kinda hoping you could do me a favor in exchange.”
Again Freddy’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. “Favor?”
“Come on, pal. You own one of the fastest-growing publishing houses in New York. Your music is all over the place. You’re printing money these days.”
Fred said nothing.
“I was hoping you’d throw some work my way. You’ve got enough going around, you know? And I can handle some of it. I hired a couple of people. Two song pluggers. We’re mostly doing rags and ballads, nothing big-time. Nothing like you. So just some of the projects you’re going to turn down. Things that are out of your wheelhouse.”
Fred breathed again. “Of course. I’d love to.” His lips made a smile. He wiped his hands repeatedly on his silk-and-wool trousers. “Let me reimburse you for the song, too. And yes, of course I’d be glad to throw some business your way. Why don’t you meet me for dinner tonight so we can talk about it? Can you meet me at The Little Restaurant, that basement place on Forty-Fourth? Tonight, maybe at eight? We can talk about some of that business I’ll be throwing your way.”
Fred stood, held out his hand to shake. He wondered if Miles noticed how sweaty Fred’s palm was.
Miles didn’t seem to.
“Actually, make it nine,” Fred said easily. “Is that too late for you?”
Nine was swell, Miles told him.
“Great,” Fred said. Surely Miles, pumping his hand, didn’t notice anything amiss.
But Fred could not be sure.
44
Coffee & Toilet Paper
Bern
Bern was making simple mistakes. Stupid stuff, like forgetting to turn off the oven, or hearing directions to turn left and turning right even though he was thinking left. Eboni often had to tell him the same thing three or four times before he understood what she was saying, and until then he just stared at her like she wasn’t even speaking English. He knew why it was happening: he was battered by the constant realization of how the Delaney Foundation was sabotaging his life—he’d probably never work again in academia; he’d be lumped in with cranks and conspiracy theorists, a joke; as one of the leading scholars on all things Delaney, he’d never again study Delaney’s music. The music that had once saved his life now was ruining it.
He didn’t know anymore what he thought about Frederic Delaney, or about Josephine Reed, or about the music they’d written. He felt betrayed by everyone, except Eboni. Now all the pathetic stores of energy he had left were focused on bringing down the Foundation.
So he slept as much as possible, when he wasn’t researching the Delaney Board, and when he wasn’t with Eboni.
The new place she’d found seemed safe enough. It was deep in the ass-end of Queens, in a cul-de-sac, so few pedestrians passed; and only a handful of cars, looking for elusive parking spots, turned down the street. From the window Bern could see who was out front. Out back, the building butted onto a small trash-strewn park, empty except for a handful of homeless people and drug dealers who prowled their turf more relentlessly than rottweilers. Eboni really had found a perfect spot. When he told her so, she rolled her eyes.
“You think I didn’t realize it when Marissa rented this place? I told her then it would be the place to hang if I were ever on the run from the law. How would I know it wasn’t just the police that would be after me but a bunch of musicians with harps and trumpets?”
That had made him laugh, and he’d kissed her again, and then they didn’t talk for quite a while afterward.
They had no idea what was going on with the Foundation, and he hadn’t logged on to emails or texts. He reached out to no one, in case the Foundation had already reached out to them. He’d gone underground, not contacting his family or any other friends. In the back of his head he worried about what the Foundation was doing to take him down: how they were discrediting him. Had they told UVA some mash-up of lies and half-truths? The FBI? Was all the good work he’d done on RED discredited as well?
The Foundation must have gone after Eboni, too. Nosy-ass Colleen must have told them everything she knew, and everything she thought she knew. Had the Foundation reached out to Eboni’s clients, spewed their vitriol to them, too? He had no idea.
Nights had blurred into days, burrowing into hidden dark paths on the internet. Now, although it was only after two in the afternoon, Eboni had fallen asleep, her fingers still in place on her laptop’s keyboard.
She’d lost everything for him. If that wasn’t love, what was?
He was determined to make things right. He’d gotten her in this mess and he would fix it. In the meantime, they were running low on basic supplies. They could do without most of the luxuries they were accustomed to, but toilet paper and coffee were nonnegotiable. A drugstore was just four blocks away.
He knew the drill. He wasn’t to leave unless it was necessary (it was). They were to give each other exact information and details about where they were going, and check in every twenty minutes. They had to be back within an hour.
He penned a quick note that he was going to Duane Reade for coffee and toilet paper. She didn’t stir as he slipped out the door.
He kept his head down, baseball cap covering his face and the cheap red puffy coat pulled tight around him.
One block down. He passed a woman pushing a toddler; two young Latinas laughing and talking in Spanish; a small group of young Latino men smoking weed, passing the joint back and forth.
Two blocks down. He thought he could see the pharmacy’s red lettering.
He wanted to look behind him but knew that might give him away. He took a chance and glanced back. Four men, one carrying a black duffel bag, had appeared several blocks down and were heading his way.
Two more blocks. A smoke shop glittered bright with bongs, pipes, and vape pens in the window. He went inside, ducked to the left to see if the guys would follow him. They wouldn’t try anything in a public store, with video cameras everywhere, but would they once he was outside? Should he call Eboni?
The four men continued past the smoke shop. He could barely make out their laughter, one guy saying, “Why the fuck would you do that, man, that shit for brains—”
They sauntered down the block, and he decided he wasn’t going to get coffee and toilet paper after all. He could get it delivered. It wasn’t safe to be out on the streets. He wanted to get back to Eboni. Vaguely, he thought that he should get back to protect her, in case anything happened. He could barely protect himself, but he wouldn’t let that stop him.
He slipped outside again, but instead of turning right, toward the apartment, he turned left. He’d go around the block, make sure those guys weren’t following him back to Eboni. Was he being paranoid? How could the Foundation have found him so quickly? It didn’t seem possible.
He checked his phone. There was a bodega on the next block, around the corner. He was walking faster, glancing into each storefront to see if anyone was inside, lying in wait for him. He rounded the corner, waited. Contemplated whether or not to call Eboni. Maybe he should call the police? That wasn’t an option; a lot of crooked cops were in the Delaneys’ back pocket, and would just a phone call draw attention to them, put them on the Delaney Foundation’s radar?
He turned; the four men were farther down the block. A couple of them were really big, with muscles that swelled their shoulders. One carried a duffel bag. Two eyed him. They strolled in his direction.
He turned and fled back the way he’d come, not running but certainly walking briskly. He cut across against the light. Horns blared. He turned randomly up another side street, and wished he hadn’t: it was deserted.
He walked as quickly as he could, but then two men appeared from in between parked cars, and Bern thought he recognized the duffel bag. He was pretty sure these two guys were part of the same group he’d seen a moment ago. They must have split up.
He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, worried that he’d somehow drop it as he went. He reached the end of the side street, blindly turned right, broke into a light jog. Halfway down the block he took off into a full-on sprint. He didn’t know the area, so he kept running straight, dodging people and cars, paying no attention to the crosswalk signs.
Now it was more crowded, which made navigating through the pedestrians difficult. The men behind him were surprisingly nimble and managed to keep up. He knew he was in trouble. No weapons, nowhere to go for safety. They were getting close now. No breakfast, no energy; Eboni had worn him out. Maybe he could lose them, double back? But now he couldn’t go home—that would lead them to her.
