The Autograph Hound Page 8

  I get to Gloria’s chair first. She stands up. Sypher leans back in his seat sipping his coffee. “Nobody wants to ball it up at the Flamingo?”

  “We’re going to see the Johnny Carson show on Benny’s TV.”

  Sypher takes Gloria’s hand and kisses it. He feels her fingers. “Very nice, Benny.”

  “So long, Louis.”

  “Don’t do nothin’ I wouldn’t do, Walsh.” Sypher smiles at Gloria. “Later for you, baby,” he says. “Later.”

  “You got a camera, Benny?”

  “Don’t poke in the drawers. Those are my things.”

  “I only wanted to take your picture on TV.”

  “I’m gonna work on the autographs.”

  “Don’t you want a souvenir? If I had a Polaroid Instamatic …”

  “I’ve got their autographs.”

  “Don’t you want to see yourself on TV, Benny?”

  “Just tell me to break a leg.”

  Gloria says they save the best for last, and that’s why I’m not on after the football movies. Joe and Johnny are there, but they talk as if nothing happened. We wait until 1:00.

  “I guess I’m on the cutting-room floor.”

  The TV’s showing a late-night movie. Gloria’s resting on my pillow. She’s snoring.

  I pull out my Great Comeback section. I have quite a few signatures. Frank Sinatra, “Peg-Leg” Bates, Eddie Waitkus, Jane Froman, Ben Hogan—the people the papers call “inspirational.” Even when times were tough, they kept plugging. Floyd Patterson’s my most inspirational inspirational. He was the first man in the history of boxing to win back the heavyweight title. They say he ran 2,000 miles training for the Ingemar Johansson fight. He went on a special African diet of raw meat. Some people wrote he had a glass chin, but when I met him he was all muscle and bone. I talked to him.

  ME: What’s the secret, Floyd?

  FLOYD (to me): You gotta keep moving. Keep in shape. Eat good. You gotta believe you can do it. You got to want to do it—that’s very important. You can’t let nothing get in your way. God’s gotta be in your corner. I’d like to thank my mom, too.

  ME: How did you know God was in your corner?

  FLOYD: I won, didn’t I?

  It was tough getting comments out of Floyd. Stars are big on silence. Garbo, Howard Hughes, J. Edgar Hoover—they hardly ever talk. People have to guess what they’re thinking. I should’ve been more cool and collected. I should’ve made Johnny and Joe guess what I wanted instead of asking them outright. I should’ve stood there quiet as Harpo, until they signed. That would’ve been dramatic—Hallmark Hall of Fame stuff.

  I lock the autographs away. I turn off the television. Gloria’s curled up on the bed like a kitten. I lie down beside her, careful not to come too close. I don’t turn out the light—that’d be sexy. I just push myself up on my elbows and watch her breathe. Looking at her makes me sleepy.

  Gloria turns toward me, blinking. “What?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I thought you said something.”

  “No.”

  “Turn out the light, Benny.”

  In the darkness, she says, “Benny, you can touch me.”

  I put my leg next to hers.

  “Sweet dreams,” I say, and shut my eyes.

  Chapter Three

  GLORIA HANDS ME A cup of coffee. “Rise and shine.” The TV’s interviewing one of the astronauts. I’ve got him on my wall standing with the team and the wives around the model of the earth. “What’s it like up there, Bill?” the announcer asks. (It’s what I want to know, too.) “The bluest Tuesday I’ve ever seen. The moon’s as big as a burro’s bottom.” One astronaut lets his knife and fork go. They float in the air. Science is wonderful.

  Gloria turns off the set.

  “Hey!”

  “Get a move on, Benny.”

  “I don’t have to clock in before eleven.”

  “The early bird catches the worm.”

  “The TV said it’s a nice day. How about a movie?”

  “I’ve got to work. So do you.”

  “I do?”

  “You’ve got to start looking for a job, Benny.”

  “Zambrozzi’s fixing things. How can I look for a job when I’ve got a job?”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “What Sypher said about The Homestead last night was bull. It’s still as good as ever. With the Waldorf, everything has to be new.”

  “I’ll sing you my song for good luck.”

  After I’ve washed, and combed my hair, Gloria makes me sit in the easy chair. She stands by the window. “Pretend this is a stage,” she says, and brushes the hair off her forehead.

  “In our cottage for two

  Our forever rendezvous

  We’ll share rooms with a view

  Of the sky.

  You and I.

  I’ll work.

  You’ll plant.

  There’s nothing we can’t

  Create

  Me and my mate

  Making our Fate …

  “Well?” Gloria says.

  “It’s got a nice beat.”

  “Each line has a rhyme.”

  “Is it a tango?”

  “A duet.”

  “They’re the toughest.”

  “I sing both parts,” says Gloria. “That way, I know they both mean it.”

  The pigeons are shitting on George M. Cohan. I shoo them off. They fly up and perch on his hat. Cohan would’ve never given his regards to Broadway if he saw how dirty they kept his statue in Duffy Square. New Yorkers walk right by. Nobody cares. I try everything—even Gloria’s song—to keep those clucking mothers away. No luck. It’s not a job, but it’s work.

  At 10:30, there’s nobody to get on Broadway. None of the faces look familiar. People are still grumpy and swollen from waking up.

  The Drama Book Shop on 52nd Street’s the only place to find an actor before lunch. I take the elevator to the fifth floor. I sit in a chair by Show Records. No big stars need a book shop, they get all their scripts from Studio Duplicating. But I wait anyway. I feel lucky. I ask anyone who buys an acting edition to sign my pad. By work time, I have eight names.

  “Is this the man?”

  Garcia nods.

  A policeman clears a path for me through a crew standing around Zambrozzi’s table. There’s a lead pipe on the table with handkerchiefs tied to both ends.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Benny Walsh.”

  “I’m sick to death of these bomb calls. Do you understand, Mr. Walsh? Pissed off. Three times this year we’ve been called out of headquarters on bomb threats. Three times HQ has been bombed while we’ve been doing our duty.”

  “You’re batting a thousand. Any clues?”

  “Walsh, I think you should know you’re dealing with J. J. Burns—kin to Walter Burns, the detective who cracked the great glycerine bombings of 1910. Bombing’s no way to solve a labor dispute. Between 1905 and 1910, there were eighty-three bombings of industry. They found every man and put him behind bars. Business continued as usual.”

  “Did you know George Metesky—the Mad Bomber?”

  Detective Burns turns to the policeman beside him. “Put that down, Frelingheusen. Knew Metesky.”

  He picks up the pipe.

  “In the ’fifties they evacuated the Paramount five times for me to go to work. I knew my way around the inside of every explosive device. The bomb squad was the Glory Boys then. Seventeen time on the front page of the Daily News. Now, it’s dinky lead pipes or candy-ass Coke bottles filled with kerosene. No one’s interested in one man’s battle against illegal combustion. This bomb was found in station four.”

  “That’s my station! I could’ve been hurt.”

  “Why weren’t you at your post?”

  “I give him the night off,” says Zambrozzi.

  “That’s your story,” says Garcia, crossing his arms. “He no your responsibility.”

  “Have you missed a day sin
ce you joined The Homestead in 1961?”

  “Up to yesterday, I was running ahead of Hello, Dolly.”

  “But yesterday you weren’t here?”

  “Right.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At a film studio. Then the Johnny Carson show.”

  “Hah!” says Garcia. “You done it now, Walsh. The Big Lie.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Fanático. I watch. I have eyes. Fuck with the bull, you get the horn.” Garcia pushes past the crew and walks out the kitchen door.

  “I know I was there. How could I have gotten their autographs?”

  “I suppose you’re going to claim this was a frame-up?”

  “Yes.”

  Detective Burns and the patrolman look at each other. “You want to name names?”

  “There’s only one.”

  “Out with it, Walsh!” says Detective Burns. “Time’s the very essence of detection.”

  He hands me a cigarette. I smoke it Sam Spade style, like I was kissing my fingertips. “Garcia’s your man.”

  “Benny, you’re asking for trouble,” says Victor.

  “We have a team here, Mr. Burns. It’s the best restaurant in New York. I can show you pictures from my scrapbook. Garcia wants to break us up. He wants to wear the chain of command. Garcia’d blow us up. I bet he even left a note. He wants credit for everything.”

  “I didn’t mention a note.”

  “Garcia always leaves notes.”

  Detective Burns hands me a piece of paper with OFF-AMERIKA typed in red. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  “That’s him.”

  “How do you know?” says Detective Burns.

  “Puerto Ricans can’t spell.”

  “I’m listening very carefully, Mr. Walsh.”

  “I like the police. I wanted to be one when my Uncle Jack lived with us. I’d take his hat from Mom’s dresser. I’d swing his nightstick on the bed each Sunday morning until they got up.”

  “I think that’s enough. Check out Walsh’s story, Frelingheusen.”

  “But, Chief, I watched the Carson show all night. He wasn’t on TV.”

  “In the old days, they begged for orders. Allow anarchy in the streets, it infects the ranks. Bomb squad rule number one—follow the leader.”

  “Stick with me for a moment, Chief,” says the patrolman, walking around the table and staring at me. “The pieces are beginning to fit together. Aren’t they, Benny?”

  “I love this place. If I blew it up, there’d be no more album to keep.”

  “Except for the newspaper photos of the charred ruins of the empire you helped to build, which you knew for so long, and suddenly, in a violent confrontation between middle management and personnel, you were forced to abandon.”

  “Save the Policeman’s Academy stuff for the squad car, Frelingheusen.”

  As they start to leave, Detective Burns spins around. “Don’t think because we’re walking out this door, I don’t have people watching each and every one of you. I’ll tell you one thing, this violence is driving us crazy.”

  “Take it easy, Chief.”

  “Do you know how many assaults there were on policemen in this city in 1950? One hundred and thirty-seven.”

  “Calm down,” says Frelingheusen. “Your angina.”

  Detective Burns pushes him away. “In those days a detective could walk the streets. The city had charm. Do you know how many assaults there were last year? Two thousand, eight hundred and three. A man’s not safe to enforce the law.”

  “I thought the gun was the great equalizer.”

  “Belt up, Walsh,” Detective Burns says. “Or I’ll have your guts for garters.”

  The door slams behind them.

  I never heard of this Manhattan Gandhi.

  Zambrozzi sits me down at the table before the evening rush and shows me his book. “Benny, you a student of history. My plan is from the history book.”

  “Chef, piccata and politics don’t mix. If the Boss heard of this, you’d be back at Leone’s faster than I could say ‘prosciutto and melon.’”

  “This little pisser—look at him—he sit on the railroad track. He block the building. He bring change.”

  “I’ve seen his type. When they sat down in the middle of Times Square with candles. That burned me up. I couldn’t get anywhere. No one famous would walk the streets. They’d be mauled. Stars will stop coming to The Homestead. They don’t want to take sides.”

  “Last night, Garcia say to close the restaurant. No, I tell him, the food must go on.”

  “How long did Gandhi take?”

  “Thirty years.”

  “Our customers wouldn’t wait that long. They’d find other restaurants. It’s the wrong publicity.”

  “The man was a saint. Look what he did.”

  Italians are crazy about saints. “What happened to him?”

  “He was shot. But he was ready for death.”

  “I’ve seen too much shooting on TV. Besides, you’re Italian—you’re not calm enough to wait for anything.”

  “The boys—we talk. They know him better. We complain to Garcia. We mention you. He listen. He nod. Then look how the cafone talk—‘Fuck with the bull, you get the horn.’ Me, the only Italian chef invited to last year’s Concours des Meilleurs Ouvriers d’Europe.”

  “Now you know how it feels.”

  “Today, I take my Madonna off the dashboard. I put it on the stove. Better to risk the West Side Highway than be a body buried under bricks and beef. I’m telling you, Benny, we gotta work fast.”

  “They try this all the time, Chef. It never works.”

  Zambrozzi reaches for another book. “The Pavilion, remember the Big Strike of ’forty-five? They close down the best restaurant in America, yes? And for what? Bigger tips.”

  “The workers at the Pavilion lost, Chef.”

  “They were too polite—talking to guests across picket lines, walking into the kitchen for something to eat. It was just waiters, now it’s got to be everybody.”

  “What happens when people march? What happens when the TV gets a hold of it? The Homestead becomes an incident. You’ll have the blacks marching and those women’s groups arm in arm with the faggot groups. And groups protesting what all of us are marching for. I don’t like it. We’ve got nice American decor. These types write over everything.”

  “Benny, be careful. You look for other job. Garcia could do the dirty on us.”

  “Can’t you talk to the Boss?”

  “I call Florida. He’s fishing. Now actions must speak louder than language.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Prepare for the worst, Benny. We try for you.”

  Zambrozzi closes the book. He wants to be alone.

  The worst may be a good thing. Babe Ruth must’ve felt scared when he was traded from Boston to New York. Eisenhower didn’t know he’d be President when he graduated at the bottom of his class. Cassius Clay was down in the dumps after they took away his championship belt, but he got a Broadway show. You’ve got to make your breaks.

  In the pantry, I put five patties of butter in each dish instead of three—eight rolls to a basket instead of five. I’ll work harder. If I have to go, I’ll walk out like a man—a tip of the hat, eyes straight ahead like Gary Cooper in Pride of the Yankees. Of course, when I leave it won’t be as noisy as it was for Gehrig. It won’t be pleasant. I remember saying good-bye to Mom and the cats. “Bye, Mom,” I said. I bent close to her. “This is all I need,” she said. I touched my favorite things—the TV, Mom’s autographed Gene Autry picture, the flowers by the window in the pie pans. On the bus to New York, I made myself think of them once every Howard Johnson’s. It’s the same with The Homestead—every spot has its memory. My first autograph—Xavier Cugat and Abbe Lane—by the wagon wheel bar. The first fight—scrappy Billy Martin and some out-of-towner who kept calling him minor-league material when he was the best second baseman the Yankees ever had.
The first party in the Northwest Passage Room for the New York Critics Circle, who were so busy arguing about their constitution they didn’t touch the apple pie. If I go, The Homestead and I are quits. Even if they become caterer to a major airline, even if they hold the Academy Awards in the Wounded Knee Room—well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  Garcia bangs into the pantry dressed for dinner. His chaps have flowers sewn on them. The white holsters are strapped to his leg with rawhide.

  “Drop the rolls, Walsh.”

  “The doors open in a few minutes …”

  “There are three rules for the maître d’. One. Always smile. Two. Never be surprised. Three. The maître d’ must never lose face …”

  “If I don’t get the butter on the tables, the waiters’ll start screaming.”

  Garcia grabs my wrist. “The detective call me. Your alibi checks. But you accuse me!”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Habla!”

  “I said I thought you could do it.”

  “You’re on silverware—”

  “But I didn’t do anything, Mr. Garcia. The detective proved it. I’ve only got a few days. Please.”

  “You lie to the police of the City of New York. You drag the name of Garcia through the mud—”

  “They asked my opinion.”

  “My credit rating’s Triple-A. I bounce no check. I drive a ’fifty-six Thunderbird convertible—no violations in ten years. I go to church, with my whole family. I have a hundred-thousand-dollar Major Medical policy. Does he do that? Does he take one responsibility? No! And he call me crazy.”

  “Let go of my arm.”

  “Concha! Cabrón! Maricón!”

  Garcia keeps repeating, “No brains!” All the time, I’m making sure. I’m thinking National League hitting champions. 1943, Stan Musial, .357; 1944, Dixie Walker, .357; 1945 (this is the tough one), Phil Cavarretta, .355. I get them all right after that. Garcia’s still yelling. I test myself with Academy Awards. My brain’s okay.

  He’s shouting as if I’m in another room. But I’m right here, one foot from him. I’m scared to wipe his spit-spray off my new whites. I had a shock just like this in high school. I rubbed on a girl for a long time, the way I do on sheets. Later, I went to the bathroom and there was blood on my fly. I thought it had rubbed off. I started to cry. I was afraid to look. Slowly, I unzipped my pants. It was there. I was all there, like I am now.