The Autograph Hound (11 page)

“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.

When I look up, Garcia has gone.

The hot water sizzles the inside of my arms when I lift the wire-mesh basket from the sink. I'm in charge of two sinks, one for rinsing and one for washing. There's nothing to see but the clock, nothing to hear but the chinking of silverware and the drumming of the fresh water filling the tubs. I can't pull any faster. My arms ache. After I dunk the basket into the clean hot water, I slide it to the side and let it cool. I load more dirty silverware into the first tub. I change the soapy water in the second tub. Then I sort. Then I wipe the sweat from my neck and eyes. Then I start again. The rubber gloves don't work—silverware keeps slipping out of my hand. By the end of the shift, my skin's speckled with pink fork pricks. My fingers are wrinkled like the apple the teacher kept on our school window to show us how the world ages.

Gloria meets me at 46th Street and Broadway. From here, we can see the news spelling itself out on the Allied Chemical building and the funny cartoons showing the time on the Accutron sign. It has more than one million lights and operates twenty-four hours a day. At the bottom is the time—not ordinary time, but the hour, minute, second, and tenth of a second. Something new is happening each blink of the eye. At 10:53:3:9, a man in a straw hat knocks on a door. A woman answers and hits him over the head with a broom. WHAM is spelled out on the sign. He falls. He bounces up. She hits him again. This time his hat is banged right down around his arms. He's spinning like a top. Then she kicks him right off the screen. It's a riot, and all in twenty seconds. At 11:02:3:6, a hockey player skates for the goal. He slaps the puck with his stick, it sails past the goalie into the net.

“I wish every clock had a story.”

“Benny, did the Chef make everything okay?”

“You see on the top of that building?”

“Yes.”

“Yogi Berra used to be up there. He blew Camel smoke rings. Each puff the size of a pizza.”

“That big?”

“A perfect circle every time.”

“Did you find a job?”

“The Chef says I should look.”

“You were going to look today.”

“Well …”

“Will you look at what I brought to show you?”

Gloria hands me
Stargazer, A Guide to Tomorrow's Talent
. “It cost me fifteen dollars. It came out today.”

“It's not worth it. Cheap paper. Sixty-four pages.”

“You've got to improve yourself, Benny. That's what I'm trying to show you. If you look on page twenty-three you'll be very surprised.”

There's a picture of Gloria and a whole page about her.

LAURETTE

(Dancer/Singer/Composer/Actress)

CONTACT: Screen Femmes

111 W. 42nd St. (212) 289-3533

HEIGHT: 5'3½"

WEIGHT: 119

MEASUREMENTS: On request

EYES: Blue

HAIR: Brown

AGE: Over 21

BACKGROUND: Lake George High School The Gaslight Club Viola Wolff Dance Studios

SINGING EXPERIENCE: High school choir, church choir

BAND EXPERIENCE: 4 years high school band, 2 years all county band

FAVORITE COMPOSERS: Sigmund Romberg, Beethoven, Mozart

FAVORITE GROUPS: The Ink Spots, The Harmonicats, The Beatles

NO. 1 DISC HIT: “Cottage for Two” (own composition)

TASTES IN MUSIC: All types of music

FILMS:
A Bird in the Bush, Double Clutch
, and (soon to be released)
A Doctor's Dilemma

“My name stays in for a whole year. Eight issues. You never know who'll see it. It's one dollar on the stands.”

“We should have this kind of magazine for restaurants.”

“You've got a union. Pull some strings. That's the only way to get ahead. Of course, if you don't have talent, no push is going to help. But when you do, all you need is that little extra …”

“I didn't get anybody tonight.”

“Not one?”

“Zero.”

“Are you feeling okay, Benny? You can't get depressed. You can't let little things throw you.”

“They put me on silverware.”

“You've got to hold a good thought.”

“I hate to think about leaving The Homestead.”

“We'd better hurry.”

“Where?”

“Let's try the Majestic.”

At the stoplight, we look up on the second floor. Four go-go dancers are twitching their backsides in the window.

“Do you dance, Benny?”

“No time.”

“That's how I broke into show business.”

“Chorus line?”

“Ballroom. My first job in New York.”

“Arthur Murray or Fred Astaire?”

“No, I was uptown. Viola Wolff. Young kids. The upper crust. They wore white gloves when we danced.”

“Where did you learn?”

“Dad taught me the basic steps. We'd practice each Friday when Mom went for Bingo. By the time I was thirteen, I could two-step, bunny hop, Lindy. I could do the rumba without the wiggle.”

“Arthur Murray had a television show. He wore a tuxedo. He taught famous people the latest steps.”

“Joan Crawford started as a dancer. Lucille le Sueur was her name then. She did the Black Bottom.”

“Can you do that?”

“Sure. But you have to wear a shimmy dress. I don't like it.”

“In dancing school?”

“Viola gave me money for a gold gown. It wasn't really gold, but it was beautiful. Wasp waist. Strapless. I wore gold shoes. Viola would stand up by the piano and click her clicker. Everybody would stop and stand in a circle. ‘Gloria, would you do the Grapevine?' she'd say. ‘When you're ready, Gloria!' I'd wait a second or two—the pianist always wanted to hurry. But when I was in the mood, I'd start to dance—big, swirling box steps. Around and around the room, slow at first, then faster and faster. I could see the boys' little heads shiny with hair tonic. The girls holding punch glasses with paper napkins, giggling in their pink dresses and patent leather shoes. Then the music would stop, and I'd go up to one of the young men and ask him to dance. He'd say yes, and we'd dance. I was a good teacher. I knew from experience. They liked dancing with me. They were polite. When Miss Wolff would click her clicker, they'd say, ‘Thank you, Miss Franzen.' And we'd change. That way everybody got to dance with everybody else.”