The Autograph Hound (13 page)

The audience yells, “More! More!”

“Don't make her do it.”

Their voices drown mine. Miss Magdalen comes back, carrying her robe on her shoulder. She touches a few hands. She starts to blow us all a kiss. Her cheeks swell up. When she opens her mouth, a flame bazookas out. She's held the fire inside her!

Gloria finds me in the bar. “Did you like Merri's act?”

“She's got nine lives.”

“I don't understand, Benny.”

“I never saw anything like it.”

“I want you to meet her.”

“Please, Gloria. Don't make me.”

“What's wrong with you tonight?”

“Butterflies.”

“There's nothing to be afraid of.”

“She's got powers. She'll see right through me. I'm not the religious type.”

“Don't be silly.”

“You weren't watching from where I was. You didn't see what I saw.”

Gloria leads me backstage. The music has started. Another Gaiety Girl's buttoning herself up, waiting to go on. “And now, the girl who'll rub you dry, Miss Terry Cloth …”

The dressing room's straight ahead. Miss Magdalen's sitting in her chair, legs crossed, stripping off her eyelashes. She's hardly got a stitch on.

“I told her about you. Go in and introduce yourself.”

“Not like that!”

I close the door. I knock.

“Yeah?”

“She doesn't sound so friendly.”

“Who is it?” yells Miss Magdalen.

“It's Gloria.”

“Come in, sweetie.”

Gloria gives me a shove. I freeze. She walks into the room and closes the door behind her. A few minutes later, Miss Magdalen's saying, “Benny Walsh, step in here and say hello to your Merri.”

She sees me staring at the necklace hanging down from the corner of her mirror.

“Pure rhinestones, Benny. They used to drape it over the cash register at the Pink Panther in Miami. It was my calling card. Told the customers I was performing that night. They liked seeing it on stage better than the cat.”

“You worked with animals?”

“I'm all animal.”

“You can be anything you want.”

“Hey, he's a cute one.” Miss Magdalen pinches my cheek. “Gloria says you want work at the Gaiety.”

“I may need a job soon.”

“He needs one right away, Merri.”

“Business is off. It'll take a miracle to get a berth in this place.”

“If anybody could do it, Miss Magdalen, you could.”

“In the old days, maybe. When I was hotter.”

“You were hot out there tonight.”

“Gloria, this guy's a doll.”

“I told you he was the outgoing type.”

“Benny, if you weren't with my friend here, I'd kiss you.”

“No!”

“Don't be frightened.”

“Do many stars come to the Gaiety?”

“Jesus Christ could walk in here, honey, and nobody'd notice him. It's a watching bar, not a talking bar. Everybody minds his own business. You can't hobnob and get hot.”

“You could make drinks, Benny. Keep the pad under the bar.”

“It's too dark, Gloria. You can't see the faces.”

“I could fire my prop man.”

“Don't do that.”

“Benny, the Gaiety's two blocks from Broadway. Merri's offering you a good deal.”

“Tell you what, I'll ask around. Gloria says you like photographs. I've got a great one of the act at the Body Shop in L.A. I'll send it.”

I shake her hand.

“What's that for?” she says.

“Thanking you in advance.”

I ask Gloria back to my house. She won't say yes or no. She keeps walking. She won't even stop to look in the restaurants.

“Joan Crawford was always seeking, trying to improve herself. You could learn from her.”

“I'm a man.”

“What she said goes for both sexes. ‘I must never allow myself to become self-satisfied. But I don't think I ever will. My ambition is too driving—too relentless to permit me to become complacent.'”

“You haven't even looked at my politicals.”

“You're like Dad. You never listen. ‘I want my girl to look like a million,' he'd say. ‘These are the best clothes money can buy, Pop.' ‘Throw them out, they look old.' But I knew what was best, what would last.”

“You have a late date?”

“The Lord helps those who help themselves, Benny.”

“I've got feelings, you know. I'm not just a nobody you can kick like an old shoe. I could walk away and never look back.”

At the papaya stand, Gloria stares at her reflection in the mirror. “Cheer me up,” she says.

“First, you're grumpy, now you want to laugh. I don't feel funny.”

“You put me in a bad mood.”

“I can't tell jokes. I get nervous remembering the punch-line.”

“Please?”

“What did one hat say to the other hat?”

“I don't know, what?”

“You stay here, I'm going on ahead.”

“Ugh.”

“I'm no Bob Hope, Gloria. You want fast talk, get Sypher to tell you snappy stories.”

“I was feeling good with my new autographs. I can get them just as fast as anybody.”

Gloria scratches her nose.

I scratch mine.

“Stop that,” she says.

“Stop that.”

“I hate it.” She wiggles her fingers.

“I hate it.” I wiggle mine.

“Don't copy me.”

“Don't copy me.”

A bus door wheezes open. Gloria hops inside.

“Why'd you do that?” She doesn't hear me.

The bus whooshes out into traffic. I see her sit down. Gloria turns around. When she sees me waving, she smiles and quickly looks away.

I click on the television and get comfortable. Just before the
Late, Late Show
, an announcement crosses the bottom of the screen. It's too scary to speak out loud. The astronauts have lost contact with ground control.

The movie is
Forty-second Street
, one of my favorites. It's about the ups and downs of show business. Dick Powell plays a young singer who has his first big break in a new musical. Ruby Keeler's in the chorus. Everybody's very poor and nervous because of the Depression. Everything's riding on this show. Then, on the day of the opening, the star—Bebe Daniels—breaks her ankle and Ruby's tapped to replace her. Warner Baxter rehearses her until she's ready to drop. He's a director who works well under pressure. Ruby's very unsure of herself. But Baxter says: “You're going out there an unknown and coming back a star.” Ruby's not convinced. “You've got to do it. Seventy-five actors, twenty stagehands, a half dozen ushers will be out of work if you don't.” Dick kisses Ruby good luck. She steps out onstage. The show's a smash. Everybody eats. At the end, hundreds of men and women dance down the middle of 42nd Street. The traffic stops. Everybody's rushing, but nobody's bumping. Their arms wave together like seaweed—“Naughty, bawdy, gaudy, sporty, Forty-second Street.”

I sit up in bed. Garcia has refused the astronauts at The Homestead because they don't have ties. Nobody in America will feed them. It's just a dream. Even if the astronauts die, their deaths would be famous. The thought cheers me up. I put my hands above my head and sway like the chorus to the tick-tock of my alarm clock. “Naughty, bawdy, gaudy, sporty, Forty-second Street.” After that, I sleep like a baby.

Chapter Four

ROOM 201 IS LUCKY. I got my union card here the first time I tried. The button came in the mail a week later. It means I'm professional, it tells everybody I'm on the union rolls. It's white and black. Around the outside is written United Federation of Restaurant Workers. The number in the middle is 1260, and under it is the union symbol, a crossed knife and fork. Not all the people who hang out at the Union Hall and watch the Job Board wear their buttons. Playing cards, reading the paper, listening to their pocket radios—they could be the ordinary man on the street. They don't wear anything to let people know they're special.

Nothing's changed much since I was first here. When you work at a good place like I do, the name rubs off on you. You don't drop by and showboat for the guys without jobs. You're sort of a graduate. Many famous members have sat on these wooden benches. Garten, “the busboy with the golden baton” from the Roosevelt Grill, who Sammy Kaye let lead his band three times on TV. Carpozzi of the old Stork Club, who won a lifetime supply of Morton Downey soap when he got caught on the dance floor in the Easter stampede for the Gold Balloons. If one of these fellows walked in right now, you'd hear whispers. They'd clear seats for them near the Big Board. The famous ones won't take any job. They're choosy like actors. The wrong restaurant could ruin their reputation. “Big Slice” Butterworth worked behind the counter of the Stage Delicatessen and got his nickname for the size of his corned beef portions. He decided to move to Lindy's, where they had a bigger turnover and specialized in strawberry shortcake. At Lindy's they watched him like a hawk and put him in the take-out section. He had to weigh every serving. After a year and a half, Lindy's closed. Nobody calls Butterworth “Big Slice” anymore. The last I heard he was a short-order cook at Walgreen's.

“Valenti got Tavern-on-the-Green this morning.”

The voice surprises me. I turn around. Lester Fein, “the Road Runner.” Fein worked The Homestead when it was starting, but only lasted three weeks. He's a good waiter—polite, fast, quick with the bill. He's got his quirks. He serves on the right. If a customer spills salt and doesn't throw it over his shoulder, Fein does it for him. But Lester's real problem is he can't stay put. He loves the glamour of restaurant openings, the excitement of a new place. Once the menus have been reviewed and the customers are steady, Lester gets bored.

“Valenti'll be back, Walsh. Take it from me. It was ritzy in the 'twenties. Casino in the Park, they called it. Harry Richmond, Al Jolson, George White—they'd go there on a Saturday night. Now, it's Puerto Rican confirmations and senior proms. Who needs it? At my age, I want something classier.”

“Me too, Lester. You've got to move on to move up.”

“Traditional or experimental?”

“A place with a history.”

In twenty years, Fein has worked almost everywhere in New York. He tells me he's waiting for number sixty-seven right this minute.

“Celebrity Burger was the pits, Walsh. The menu was embarrassing. ‘Bite into a Sidney Pokier.'”

“I want some place serious.”

“What about the French restaurants in the fifties? I've done every one between Fifty-first and Fifty-sixth Streets. Worked Le Mistral twice. My only repeat.”

“I'm not sure about the French places. Too small.”

“On a good night, you serve one hundred and fifty-five dinners. That's bustin' your chops.”

“I don't think it's my type.”

“How do you know unless you've tried?”

“Tables against the wall. Eyes on you. No privacy. People whispering so it's hard to hear. I don't like it. It's not for me.”

“You'll be lucky to get a Chinese restaurant with the new Union Master they've brought in.”

“Tough?”

“This guy's got something between his ears. He's CCNY in Hotel Administration.”

“Smart?”

“Most universities take four years. He took six. Figure it out.”

“Wow.”

“He's a swinger, this one. The union's new look. Wears suits you see in ads. Drives a sports car with wire wheels. Has his hair done at Henri Bendel's. He's even written articles for
Management News
.”

“If there was ever a strike, a guy like him could stop it quick, couldn't he?”

“Are you kidding? The minute the TV gets a load of Victor Monte-Sano, he'll be a star.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“We've chewed the fat. Mr. Vic knew all about me. Said he'd read my file—it's the biggest in the New York area. I told him I was sick of wooden chairs, tablecloths, screaming over the kitchen noise. I heard of a new place with Plexiglas chairs and tables, where waiters call their orders over video cameras. That's the future, Walsh—technological restaurants. He said a fraternity brother was the contractor for the restaurant. They have secret handshakes and code words. He talked about the bonds of brotherhood. He said I could trust him. He'd go to bat for me. I'm supposed to hear today. With his connections, if there's a man-on-the-moon cafeteria, I'll be there.”

“You think this Mr. Vic would help me?”

“He'll take care of you, if you take care of him.”

“I've got my autographs. I take care of them.”

“You still up to that?”

“It's better than jumping from restaurant to restaurant. All you've got's memories. No signatures, conversations. Nothing solid.”

“Crazy bastard.”

“Where can I meet him?”

“He's very busy,” says Lester, pointing to the doors behind the Big Board.

“Hey, Walsh. Don't let your meat loaf.”

I smile. But I don't like cooking jokes.

The letters on her ankle bracelet spell BONNI. She says, “Ssssh! Can't you see the astronauts are in trouble.” She points to a TV.

“Other people have problems.”

“They're taking it like men,” Bonni says. “Come back after lunch.”

“I've got to be at work. I want to see Mr. Vic now.”

“They're having trouble breathing,” she says, touching her throat. “The oxygen's leaking. Oxygen fires burn faster than Kotex. Didn't you see that Special Report on CBS after the last three went up in flames?”

“I'll only be a few minutes. It'll be worth Mr. Vic's while.”

“Mister, it's history in the making.”

“Who said?”