The Autograph Hound Read online

  “They don’t pay much attention in a rough crowd like that.”

  “You’d think they’d show some respect. Where have you seen platform shoes, cinch belts, padded shoulders, real silk stockings?”

  “In the movies.”

  “I’ve been wearing these kind of clothes fifteen years. Boutiques are just catching up with my style. Are my seams straight now?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Very Joan Crawford.”

  “You’ve got a better eye than your friend. That’s because you’re older. You’ve been around.”

  “C’mon, Benny, let’s split.”

  “I know your type—Bette Davis fans. You applaud when she walks out on Leslie Howard in Of Human Bondage. So what if he had a club foot? Leslie Howard would’ve made an excellent husband. He was kind and talented. He had the bedside manner. The minute he looked down Bette’s throat, Leslie knew it was her lungs.”

  Moonstone pulls me aside. “Benny, this broad’s a bomb.”

  “I heard that.”

  “He’s just a kid, lady. He don’t know how to act around grown-ups.”

  “What’s your name, Mr. Know-It-All?”

  “Moonstone.”

  “Mr. Moonstone, what do you do in case of an atomic conflict?”

  “You gotta be kidding, lady.”

  “One. Never look at the sight of the blast. Two. Turn your head away from the shock wave. Three. Get as close to the ground as possible. Four. Cover your head to avoid debris.”

  “Can we split now?”

  “The number-one rule of safety, and he doesn’t know it.”

  “Who cares?”

  I give Moonstone the elbow. He’s been hanging out with Sypher too much. You don’t talk back to performers. You listen.

  “The new actors have a method. They get background for their parts.”

  “Do you play nurses or something?”

  “Is there any place around here where a girl can make herself pretty?”

  “I’m new down here, too.”

  “First time?”

  “It was worth it for Tina’s autograph.”

  “You got it?” she says.

  “Uh-huh.” I show her the name.

  “For your information, that’s Benny Walsh. He has more autographs than anybody in New York. He’s the Motown of signatures.”

  “Really?”

  Moonstone whispers, “She’s jeffing us, Benny. If she’s in movies, what’s she doin’ waiting for Tina to sign?”

  “Lady, if you’re in movies, what were you doing getting Tina’s autograph?”

  “Part of my research. I study film types. Tina just finished her third movie.”

  “What movies have I seen you in?”

  “I’m working my way up.”

  “That’s the only way. Color or black and white?”

  “The works—close-ups, middle-long shots, take four.”

  “I’m sorry, miss,” says Moonstone. “There’s a mirror at the luncheonette around the corner.”

  “I’ve been an actress nearly five years. I also sing. I’m not boring you, am I?”

  “My name’s Benny Walsh.”

  “I’m Gloria.”

  We shake on it.

  Moonstone leans across the linoleum tabletop. “Take it, Benny. Go on. It’s gossamer tip. The best.”

  “Are you crazy? She’ll be out of the Ladies any second.”

  “I’m telling you she’s hot to trot. She’s wide open.”

  “You said you were sorry.”

  “Starlets, man. They get to the top on their backs. That’s the rules.”

  The soda jerk brings our orders. Moonstone gets the banana split. I’m the egg cream. The BLT on diet bread, butter not margarine, is for her.

  Gloria arrives back just in time. Her perfume makes it hard to smell the egg cream.

  “May we start?” says Moonstone.

  “Well … how do I look?”

  “Very nice.”

  “Is it an improvement?”

  “The tricks of the trade, right?” Moonstone says, kicking me.

  “I pencil under the iris. The black line is what gave Joan’s eyes their size. She never had an operation, she was just a master of makeup. You’ll notice I have real eyebrows, too. You can take this penciling too far. I’m not falling into the same trap as Lana Turner when she shaved them off for Marco Polo and they never grew back.”

  “You mean Lana’s not all there?” says Moonstone.

  Gloria’s cheeks are so rouged it’s hard to tell if she’s blushing. She looks down at her food.

  “What he meant was—it must be very tough breaking into movies.”

  “You’ve got to be very, very careful. Don’t overeat. Don’t undereat. Don’t use water on your skin. Don’t wear unmatched colors. Don’t use bad grammar. Don’t be bad mannered. Don’t forget to brush your hair seventy times a night before going to bed.”

  “Seventy?” says Moonstone.

  “It’s a beauty tip,” says Gloria.

  “Well, it works.”

  Gloria smiles at me.

  “What are you waiting for?” she says. “Eat.”

  Moonstone makes a mess. He uses his spoon like an oar. He stirs everything up. “I’m into color,” he says. Whipped cream drops on his pants. “I’m creaming.” He laughs and digs back in.

  “Other people are eating, you know.”

  “He’s trying to be the life of the party.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite,” Gloria says, pushing her plate away.

  Gloria stares past me. She reminds me of Mom waiting for me to finish dinner, tapping the Lucky Strike song on the table while I chew each piece of meat twelve times. “You wanna talk, Ma?” “Sure.” “What’ll we talk about?” “Anything.” “You start.” “You asked first,” she’d say and cross her arms, waiting. Finally, I discovered how to break the ice. I’d slap my face like Milton Berle—a real hit. “I sweah I’w kiw you. I’w kiw you a miwion times.” I even picked my teeth with my pinky. Mom would start to laugh. Each time I’d hit myself, she’d laugh harder. “The fourth Ritz Brother!” she’d wheeze. It was great—the two of us entertaining ourselves like friends. Sometimes she’d get up, and hurry into the other room. When she came back, she’d say “Whaddya want, Ben?” “I dunno.” “Makeup!” she’d scream, and whack me with a fluffy powder puff. A white cloud would hang all around me. I could taste the powder in my teeth. She’d shake with laughter (this was before she started shaking for real). “My son the actor,” she’d say, and pat my head.

  But Gloria’s too New York for slapstick.

  “So long,” says Moonstone, slapping something flat and rubbery in my hand as he slips out of the booth. “It’s for your tip.”

  Moonstone puts on his sunglasses and bows to Gloria.

  “Good riddance to bad trash,” she says.

  At the door, Moonstone turns. “Sticks and stones.”

  The waiter puts the check in the middle of the table. Gloria acts like she doesn’t see it. The check flops off the table. I pick it up and put it back.

  “I hope you’re not insulted?”

  “I’m not frowning, am I? Do you see any wrinkles?”

  “Or upset?”

  “In my business, you do your crying in the dressing room. Once you walk out that door, you show nothing. You hold it in. Nobody wants an emotional actress.”

  “It’s this kind of thing I’m after. I’ll file it under Miscellaneous.”

  “But I told it to you.”

  “I’ll keep it on a card for when you’re famous.”

  “I’ve got you pegged. The Don Ameche. First, you get a girl to tell you everything. You give her the bum’s rush—flattery, promises, the whole thing. Then you take advantage.”

  “Your information’s safe with me. I got two thousand, three hundred and seventy-six autographs, five hundred and fifty-two doubles. All locked tight in my apartment.”

  “Really?”

  “Someday my collection will b
e famous.”

  “All you do is collect women.”

  “And men, too.”

  “I don’t wish to know about that.”

  “What’s it like being under the lights?”

  “No comment.”

  Gloria pushes the check over to me.

  I push it back.

  “Don’t be fresh,” she says.

  “I thought you were treating.”

  “Who said?”

  “You’re the one in movies. You’re the one with a Players’ Guide instead of a pad.”

  “Moonstone gave you money. I saw him.”

  “No, he didn’t.” I drop Moonstone’s present and put my sneaker over it. I hold out my hands to prove nothing’s in them.

  Gloria pulls the veil down from her hat. “A lady’s not supposed to pay for herself. That’s the man’s job. And, for your information, the lady’s not supposed to even see the check. I don’t want to see it.”

  “Well, it’s two dollars and five cents.”

  “Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

  “But you’re so well dressed.”

  “I have to shop very carefully. In show business, you’ve got to save for the dry periods.”

  “Give me your address. I’ll send you my share.”

  “I should never talk to strangers.”

  She takes the money out of her purse and hands it to me under the table.

  “You pay,” she says.

  The soda jerk comes from behind the counter to collect. He won’t go away.

  “What about a tip, Gloria?”

  She puts more change on the table. She shakes her head. “The way you start with a man’s the way you end.”

  “Is that another movie saying?”

  “Forget it,” she says, handing me her overcoat.

  Gloria stops and stares at every ad on the subway platform. With me she’s quiet as a tomb—but a picture of a Motorola television console gets her talking. “Isn’t it lovely,” she says. She stands back like Chef from his pastry, then moves slowly forward for careful inspection until the next ad catches her eye. “I’m old-fashioned about clothes, but very modern when it comes to appliances.”

  Gloria has the makings of a first-rate collector. She wants to acquire. It’s the tip-off to talent. She looks presentable. She doesn’t beat around the bush. She gives as much as she takes. In fact, she’s got three out of Coach Lombardi’s Big Four—Determination, Energy, and the Will to Win. But she’s crude—no Discipline.

  “You should work harder on your autographs. You could be good.”

  “My goal is to complete my Players’ Guide.”

  “But that’s just for actors. Don’t you want to widen your horizons?”

  “I want to study film people. Not everyone can get a Players’ Guide. You’ve got to qualify.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “I got it.”

  “The Academy Award winners—the envelope performers—aren’t in the book. They don’t need to remind people what they look like. Everybody remembers.”

  “You’re trying to make me wrong.”

  “Look around, Gloria. People who never went to Hollywood are getting bigger all the time.”

  “The Players’ Guide’s a very important publication in our business.”

  “The Players’ Guide weighs five pounds. It’s a drag.”

  “I think Amy Vanderbilt knows a little more about autographs than you.”

  “Does she have over two thousand signatures?”

  “Amy Vanderbilt’s influenced thousands of America’s finest families. She wrote a book. Daddy gave it to me. ‘Do as she says, not as we do.’”

  “Does she talk about her big signatures?”

  “She’s no collector.”

  “Then, what does she know?”

  “‘Autographs given freely to all and sundry have no value either historically or momentarily. The rare ones are the good ones. To ask a really important person to sign an autograph book full of names of nobodies is to insult him.’ Amy Vanderbilt.”

  “If they’re insulted, they won’t sign. They usually sign.”

  “Feel this paper—High Gloss. Look at the type—Bodoni Bold. The Players’ Guide is heavier than the complete works of William Shakespeare.”

  “Too many pictures.”

  “Every face belongs to Equity. You’re not being rude if you ask an actor to sign.”

  “No room for comments.”

  “Who gives comments?”

  “Mickey Mantle.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Number seven. They retired the number for life when he hung up his spikes. He was a New York Yankee. He’s a millionaire now. Insurance. He’s hard to get. Even in the old days, he’d sit in the locker room and only sign baseballs. Nothing on paper. He signed my pad, ‘Keep smiling, Mickey.’”

  “He said that?”

  “You never know when somebody’s going to become rare. This Vanderbilt doesn’t even know. Suddenly they can retire or be killed, lose their show or go to jail. There’s so much happening. Opportunity only knocks once.”

  “You mean a strike-while-the-iron’s-hot technique.”

  “Right.”

  “Aren’t you embarrassed to hand somebody a scrap of paper when they’ve just stepped out of a Cadillac limousine, when they say Tiffany all over them. There’s such a thing as self-respect. Paper might be okay for a ballplayer, but a movie star with a long-term contract or a hit commercial? You’d be a laughingstock.”

  “Would you believe Nanette Fabray, Yvonne De Carlo, Mrs. Bing Crosby?”

  The subway screeches to a stop. Gloria and I step in. Gloria takes a newspaper from the seat and dusts off a place for herself. The headline says—

  CONTINENTAL DRIFT CARRIES

  STATES FARTHER FROM EUROPE

  We don’t talk. We look at the ads. These are the ones I like, faces you can depend on.

  “Arthur Godfrey. Got him. Buddy Hackett. Got him. The Ronzoni Brothers, including the three not pictured—got them.”

  Gloria smiles. “You think I’d be good?”

  Shubert Alley’s like home plate, the first and last spot an autograph collector touches every day. But Gloria isn’t paying attention.

  “Just go up to them and say, ‘Are you famous?’”

  “Benny, let me take the Guide. I can’t ask somebody I don’t know.”

  “Try it anyway.”

  “No. It’s not right.”

  “We made a bet. It’s the test.”

  “In auditions, you’re allowed to hold the book.”

  “Don’t worry. You look very nice.”

  “What if they’re not actors?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s Sardi’s.”

  “I’m not used to hanging around in alleys.”

  “It happens to be a city landmark. By law, nobody can build over it—ever. I’ll wait here.”

  “I don’t get anything out of this bet. If I lose, you don’t pay for the ice cream and soda. If I win, all I get is autographs I don’t know and a ‘surprise.’”

  “You said you wanted to be good.”

  “How do I know you won’t take my Guide?”

  “Would I want someone else’s signatures?”

  Gloria starts toward Sardi’s. She turns around.

  “Are my seams straight?”

  “Go ahead.”

  It feels nice leaning against the rave reviews. Gloria’s not interested in history, but our crowd’s had some good times here—the greatest shortcut in Manhattan. Shubert Alley’s where Sypher got Greta Garbo, and I hit for Orson Welles, Bea Lillie, and Buffalo Bob Smith. The wind can really work itself up in the winter. But it’s not as bad as Dustin Hoffman made it out to be in Midnight Cowboy—that was Hollywood.

  Horn & Hardart’s is around the corner, but once in a while it’s fun to camp out. Sometimes the construction workers leave a steel drum lying around. Moonstone and Sypher tip it up and fill it with paper. The New
York Times is across the street, and leftover Sunday supplements burn like birch bark. We get a pretty good fire going. We take turns keeping watch—one person at each end of the alley. That way, on 44th Street we cover Sardi’s, the Playbill Bar and Grill, and the Royal Manhattan, and on 45th Street the Piccadilly, the Theatre Bar, and the Scandia. The stories they tell around the fire! Somebody should write them up, like the time we roasted marshmallows on the aerial from George Hamilton’s Mercedes 300SL.

  Gloria hurries across the street. “I got Janice Rule and Ben Gazzara quicker than you could say Jackie Robinson. I’m fainting.”

  “They’re husband and wife.”

  “Ben Gazzara was Channel Four. I watched him all the time. The doctor told him he’d only one year to live, so he runs for his life all over the world.”

  “The show’s Neilson rating was nineteen point one in ’sixty-five. It dropped to eleven point five in ’sixty-eight.”

  “He lives it up before it’s too late. Can he dance!”

  “I’ve never watched the show.”

  “What’s my surprise present?” says Gloria.

  Somebody’s yelling at us from across the street.

  “You got my Ben! Give me my Ben!”

  It’s Delia. She’s hobbling towards us. She’s a disgrace. She’s dressed like a shadow—black shawl, black gloves, black hairnet, black skirt, black sneakers.

  “I’m scared, Benny.”

  “Relax, Gloria. Hunchbacks can’t hurt you.”

  Delia’s got the guts of a bandit. She comes right up to us. Even her teeth are black.

  “Don’t pretend I’m not here. I’m here. I saw. Ben was one of my first before the robbery. And Janice. She was just off the train from Cinci. Now they won’t look my way. They don’t remember. Please, lady—you’re young—spare a Gazzara.”

  “Get lost, Delia.”

  “Benny, I’ll give her—”

  “Stay out of this.”

  “George Segal was in The Homestead to night,” Delia says. “Mr. Sypher told me. He said you’d struck it big lately. He said you’d have something for me.”

  “You never learn, Delia. Anybody stupid enough to carry their autographs around with them deserves what they get.”

  “I’ve turned over a new leaf, Benny.” She lifts up two bags. “See? Alexander’s. Plastic. They’re tied to my wrists with rope. No jigaboo’s gonna steal them this time.”

  “Charity begins at home, Delia. Do yourself a favor. Scram.”