The Autograph Hound Page 2

  Black fingers on my shoulder.

  I put my tray back on the stand. I hold it with both hands. “Hey, baby, sorry for jivin’ witchou. That flaky cowboy’s a heavy trip.”

  “He says I’m not allowed to talk to customers.”

  “Eleven o’clock tonight. Fillmore East. It’s on Tina.” A yellow ticket slides on my tray.

  In the kitchen, Victor and Anthony are joking. They must’ve seen. Anthony puts two potatoes in his T-shirt. “Sign my spuds, bud,” he says to me in a high voice. Anthony rubs against my shoulder with his potato chest.

  “I’m a bad, bad Boogie

  And I need my big, bad Benny, man.”

  “Hey, Benny, get much?” laughs Victor.

  “Yes,” I say and show them the ticket.

  The good thing about subways is they run all night. It’s too expensive to get to the Fillmore East by taxi—anyway, who do you see in a cab but yourself?

  I took a cab once and asked the driver if he ever carried any big names. That driver was a real nut. He kept singing songs to himself—“Swinging Down the Lane,” “I’ve Got the World on a String,” “Chicago.” After every song, he’d turn back to me and ask, “Don’t you think I look like him?”

  “Who?”

  He put on a felt hat and tilted the brim over his forehead so he could hardly see. He kept showing me his profile while he drove, asking me to guess. It was dangerous. Finally, at a traffic light, he turned back and crooned with his hands held out like a dead fish. He looked like Mickey Mantle running to first base. He kept singing. He gave me clues. “F. S.,” he said.

  “I give up.”

  As we pulled up to my stop, he gave me a rough look. “Frank Sinatra, schmuck.”

  I didn’t give him a tip.

  “Don’t you have anything for the driver?”

  I took out my penknife and slashed his seats. I ran out of the cab down into the subway.

  As Ziegfeld said, “Talent will out.”

  It’s very quiet underneath the city at this hour. I can sing to myself and hear the echo. I can play the gum machines and read what’s been written over the GET OUT OF VIETNAM stickers. I look good in my Mets cap, I’ve broken in the crown just right. Anthony and Victor think I could pass for Yogi Berra (as a catcher, not a coach). I’m short and heavy. I’ve got thick hands for the knuckleball. I’m not afraid of getting dirty or hurt—after all, I’m a New Yorker. When nobody’s around, like tonight, I can put my face close to the mirror over the candy machine and practice how I’d coax Tom Seaver on the mound. I was in the bleachers while he was up and coming. I worked hard for his victories. “Fire it in there, Tom, big fella! How you chuck! Put some spaghetti on it, Tom baby—let it dangle!” He’s got my sign. Here’s the pitch. Strike three. The Mets are one closer to the pennant.

  The crowd goes wild.

  The doors of the subway slam shut.

  “This is your subway car. Keep it clean. When you leave, take all papers with you. Over and out.”

  My only paper is my brown bag, and that’s for the autograph book. I’m not leaving it anywhere.

  “Thirty-fourth Street next stop. Pennsylvania Station. Madison Square Garden. Change for the QB and the F. Have a pleasant journey.”

  The door opens. A man with a wooden board for legs rolls himself into the car. He steers with his hands. There’s only half of him left. He stops at each passenger and clanks his cup.

  I pretend to be reading my paperbag. He won’t go away. They should lock these types in the slammer. They should keep them off the streets, make them work for a living.

  “Change, mister.”

  I show him what I have in my pockets—two tokens and a ticket.

  “Change.”

  “Seaver’s going for number fourteen tomorrow. The miracle Mets. They’re a sure bet for first.”

  He rattles his cup.

  “Put your money on the Mets. At seven to one you could make thousands.”

  “May God have mercy on you,” he says, and pushes his raft down the aisle. Ungrateful.

  Out at Eighth Street. Cool air smelling of incense and onions. Crowded streets. I like uptown better—you meet a more mature class of person. Here they bump you. Kids mainly—weirdos dressed like Indians or Hunters or African Warriors or Buddhist types who look you in the eye and sing to you. None of them famous.

  One Buddhist comes up to me. He holds out a seashell filled with calling cards. “Krishna consciousness,” he says. “The Empire State of ecstasy. It works as advertised.”

  I take a card.

  “It’s like going to the top by elevator instead of the stairs. You hit the sublime in no time.”

  He dances away, singing.

  I toss the card into the gutter. Nothing good comes easy.

  The Fillmore East is no Winter Garden. The ushers are grown men with beards, not nice old ladies in white collars. They don’t show you to your seat, they just point. They don’t tip you off to the big names in the audience.

  On Broadway you see women—at the Fillmore, girls of all ages. They won’t behave. A program and a seat’s not enough. They walk up and down the aisles in the darkness. They brush against you. They don’t care. Their bosoms jiggle. Their nipples poke up like pug noses.

  I’m fifth row on the aisle. It’s safer sitting down.

  An arm reaches over my shoulder. Warm breath and a bottle. “Have a swig, Benny.”

  “Moonstone. It’s a public place.”

  “I can’t handle that uptown hustle every day, man. Sypher wanted me to hang out at the Opera opening. He promised a fifty-fifty split. A lot of heavies—Leontyne Price, Nureyev, Leonard Bernstein, Rudolf Bing … I mean I can’t take that shit, Benny. I mean it’s the Age of Aquarius. I’m only collecting the ones in my orbit. I wanted the real juice tonight.”

  “Forget about Bernstein, he’s always around.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. You guys have taught me a lot. But there’s a time to work and a time to play. Dig?”

  “You’ll never be big if you don’t concentrate.”

  “A brandy high’s the only thing for Tina. Smooth and sweet. Gets the buzz going.”

  “You can’t drink in the theater.”

  “Belly up to the bar and have a few. It’s party time.”

  He shoves the bottle at me. I push it away.

  “Rock stars come and go, Moonstone. They’re not stable. You can’t put all your time into flash-inthe-pans.”

  “That’s the beauty part, man. I dig change.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Tina gave me a ticket.”

  “Sure. Paul McCartney sent mine special delivery from Apple.”

  “McCartney’s in New York, Moonstone.”

  “Where?”

  “The Plaza.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Read Variety. Europe to New York. Pay the fifty cents, it’s worth it.”

  “The old time, Benny. There’s got to be new rules. I mean it’s so corny. I’m into people, not grosses.”

  “You gotta have the whole picture. They say the Beatles may split.”

  “Yeah, and Snow White snorts C. Don’t be a downer, Benny. Tonight it’s Tits ’n’ Ass.”

  “Show some respect, Moonstone.”

  “If I was seventeen again, I wouldn’t have dropped out.”

  “You’re only twenty-four. The world’s your oyster.”

  “I wouldn’t have joined up with Uncle Sam. ‘See the world,’ my ass.”

  “At your age, you could do anything. I was still slaving in the composing room of the Asbury Park Press at twenty-four.”

  “I’d be a lead guitarist. The Feds would never find me underneath those groupies. One-night stands all over the country. I’d have money. A rep. Hard dope and fucking—what a life!”

  “You couldn’t be a star with that attitude.”

  “I’d be great. I got rhythm and I got blues.”

  The musicians ta
ke their time coming on stage. Don’t they know people are waiting? They check the amplifiers.

  “Tina’s gonna grease your tracks, Benny. She likes to make you suffer. Know what I mean?”

  Moonstone doesn’t even know Tina. He keeps poking my shoulder until I turn around.

  “Look at that!”

  He doesn’t have to point. The lady stands out like Mary Martin across a crowded room. She takes a seat a few rows behind us. She doesn’t chew. She doesn’t stomp the ground or clap for the show to begin. She’s wearing a long dress down to her ankles, a veil hangs from her hat. Her skin seems very white, her lips very red. Her nails and toes are painted the same color. She’s got to be Broadway, maybe Hollywood. She’s not reading the program but a book—a large one she rests on her lap. Hardback. Shiny pages.

  “Where have I seen her? She’s very Joan Crawford.”

  “Let’s lay a drink on her. If she’s here, she swings.”

  “She’s Somebody.”

  The band starts to warm up. Moonstone sits back in his seat. “There’s only one woman,” he says. “Wait for it.”

  “And now straight from a record-breaking five months in Las Vegas—the Ike and Tina Turner Revue.”

  I get comfortable. I push my knees against the back of the seat.

  The Ikettes bounce into the light. White dresses with fringes wiggling with them. Legs like breadsticks.

  “Easier than bangin’ H, eh, Benny?”

  “Sssh!”

  The Ikettes are going to sing golden goodies. The first’s “Under the Boardwalk.” Everybody applauds. I don’t—just mentioning the beach makes me feel sand in my shoes. The Ikettes sing about warm nights and love—but that’s only three months of the year. Somebody should tell them about the rest. Booths boarded up. Wind too strong for sand castles. Old folks talking to their dogs. Pee dripping through the cracks, stinking up the sand. No radios, no kids … just Ma by the pavilion at five yelling for me to come home.

  “Twist and Shout” is next. The minute they say “shout” I picture Garcia, or Mom by the staircase telling me I forgot to flush. But the Ikettes make screaming fun. They are loose, not tight. Their hair falls in front of their faces, their hands flap like wings. They get carried away, but not at you. I feel like laughing.

  “Just a cocktease,” says Moonstone.

  It’s no time for conversation. The Ikettes are sliding sideways—knees high, hands waving as if they held spears. “Who can do the Tinaroo?” They keep singing the question over and over. Of course they can’t do it—they’re not Tina.

  Tina jumps out from the wings. She does the dance. The Ikettes can’t touch her. It’s dangerous. Tina could hurt herself.

  She grabs the microphone. “Hi, everybody!”

  “I’m here, Tina. I’m here. Slip it to me—I need it!”

  “Sit down, Moonstone!”

  “C’mon, you can do better than that. I’m gonna yell it one more time—Hi, everybody!”

  “Hi, Tina.”

  She remembers me.

  She says, “We don’t do nothin’ nice ’n’ easy—we do things nice ’n’ rough.”

  The lights go down. You can hardly see the Ikettes bopping behind her. She’s in a purple glow. She sings about being a honky-tonk woman and how she needs a honky-tonk man. First she looks at Ike, then at us. It hasn’t made the charts yet, but when you’re with Tina everything feels like a smash.

  Tina gurgles into the microphone, “Shuggabugga. Shuggabugga.”

  I swear I used to say those words to myself in the dark.

  She whispers, “What you hear is what you get.”

  I can hear her nylons scrape the microphone. They’re silver. They sparkle as she sings. Her knees nudge the long stand. Her legs are all muscle. They bulge. They shine. Everything’s tight and fresh. If she were a steak, she’d be too tough to chew.

  I put my cap in my lap.

  The lights are way down. It’s better to shut your eyes and imagine Tina.

  She says, “Now, I’m gonna be serious. I’m gonna sing this for the men.”

  Everybody’s very quiet.

  Tina says, “I want you to give it to me …”

  Ike says, “Oooh, shit baby …”

  I have to see this. Flat palms working their way up the head of the mike. She never touches it. Just her sharp nails and long fingers. Her hands seem to be singing.

  Tina is

  a pony

  a panther

  a Cadillac convertible.

  She is standing bowlegged, singing—

  “I wanna take you higher

  Higher

  Higher

  Higher …”

  She does her sidestep. She’s bucking. The strobe lights start to click. Tina turns silver. You have to squint to see her. A cloud of smoke bursts from the floor.

  “TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER!”

  When the voice stops, the smoke has cleared.

  Tina has vanished.

  “Outtasight,” says Moonstone.

  The audience’s standing on their seats, yelling for Tina, asking for more.

  This is the way it should be with the stars. You should see them. Then they should disappear.

  Moonstone’s on home ground. He knows a shortcut. He leads me through a small room by the side of the stage and onto the street.

  I can see Ike and Tina’s bus. The crowd presses close to it. One man stands on the bus’s fender, holding onto the rear-view mirror for balance.

  We angle in toward the stage door. Moonstone’s good at running interference. He talks right into people’s faces. “Did you see Bob Dylan? On the corner. Bob Fucking Dylan.”

  People turn, standing on tiptoes to get a look.

  We slip closer to the door.

  The Fillmore stage door doesn’t have your bronze Broadway polish or the lettering. It’s black and rusting. The Fillmore door slides open, the Broadway stage doors open out. It’s more dramatic. You see the iron staircases. You hear the vibrations of the stars hurrying down on their way to Sardi’s. The doorman’s at his table—the bulletin board with telegrams saying BREAK A LEG is right under your nose. The Fillmore’s a letdown. There’s nothing to see backstage—no sets, no stars. The stage managers are as hairy as the musicians. Sometimes the door slides open and a familiar face peeps out. The crowd pushes forward. The face disappears. Rock stars spend too much time in recording studios, they don’t know how to treat their public.

  Moonstone puts his head against the door and talks through a small crack. “A cat here wants Tina to do a riff on his pad for auld lang syne.”

  “Tina’s not seeing anybody.”

  “She brought him down here. His maiden voyage. Noonan sent me.”

  Moonstone waves me close. He takes my pen and pad and pushes it through the door. “Benny Walsh.”

  “Is he a relation?”

  Moonstone starts to tell a lie. I stop him.

  “Just sing this to her—Kill me. Thrill me. Chill me with your sweet love …”

  The door clamps shut.

  “Tell her to say ‘To Benny.’”

  The bolt thumps down on the latch.

  “Didn’t you want one, Moonstone?”

  “I’m on vacation.”

  After a few minutes, the door opens again.

  “Make way.” A Hell’s Angel type waves the people back. He’s got my pen and pad in his hand. Moonstone grabs them back. He’s learning fast.

  Suddenly, a whole wedge of bodies, a human wall, rushes out of the door. Ike and Tina are in the middle. “Clear the way!”

  The people won’t budge. They fight to keep their places. It’s hard to get a look. I see a hand reach out over the guards’ leather jackets and grab at Ike’s tie. There seems to be a fight. Somebody’s hooting, waving Tina’s scarf in the air. He shoves it into his blue jeans.

  “Sypher has green fringe from Little Richard’s bolero jacket. He’s a hot shit.”

  �
��Get wise, Moonstone. That stuff’s worthless. I mean you can’t prove it’s his.”

  The lights on the bus go on. The engine turns over. The man on the front fender won’t get off. He’s staring right over the windshield wipers at Tina. His pants slap against the flat front of the bus. He’s leading the crowd. They yell, “WE WANT TINA.” The crowd rocks the bus. The driver honks his horn until the man jumps off the fender. The bus creeps down the street.

  They follow it.

  Both of us hear the scream. “My book! Somebody help!”

  The crowd’s a forest of elbows and ankles. Then I see her—Moonstone’s well-dressed lady—on her hands and knees. She can’t get her balance. Feet ram the book and kick it aside. It slides under the fire escape by the ash cans.

  “Let’s get out of here,” says Moonstone.

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Haven’t you ever been in a riot? Keep on the outside of the crowd.”

  I work my way over to the ash cans.

  “Wanna get trampled, Benny?”

  I pick up the book. I push into the crowd and help the lady up.

  “Thank God you found it,” she says. “Are the pages dirty?”

  “They stepped on it.”

  “Thirteen eighty-five for a Players’ Guide. Five hundred and twenty-four pages, five pictures to a page. Why won’t they stop pushing?”

  “C’mon, Walsh!”

  “No upbringing. They treat you like Bette Davis,” she says, looking at her broken shoe. “You’re all pigs. Not you.”

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “All right? Of course, I’m all right. Don’t I look all right?”

  “The crowd’s murder.”

  “Look at my hands—they’re scraped. And my nail! Ecch. Don’t look at me.”

  “I saw you at the concert.”

  “These people act like animals.”

  “Let’s get across the street.”

  She holds the book to her chest. I step in front of her to lead the way. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “I’m not composed. I’m a mess.”

  I put her book on the hood of a ’68 GTO called “The Eliminator.”

  She leans against the car and buckles her shoe. “The only Joan Crawford ‘Chase Me’ shoes in New York. Took a month to find them. Three-inch heels. Open toe. None of those imitation fat heels. Stiletto, see. The real thing.”