The Autograph Hound (19 page)

“You finished?”

“I'm finished.”

“This your radio, mister?”

“It belongs to the lady who's with me.”

“Happy pecans and merry almonds,” he says, shaking his head.

I walk out. There's no time to genuflect.

On the Broadway bus uptown, I hook up the transistor radio's earplug. Things are quieter this way. Sophia Loren's just been robbed of $100,000 in jewelry while walking up Fifth Avenue. Is nothing sacred?

Chapter Five

THURSDAY BEGINS LIKE EVERY morning. I wake up, pull the shade, open the grate and then the window, stick my head out as far as I can into the alley, and look up at the sky. Sunny and blue—a nice day.

My head's full of voices. At this hour I should be hearing fire engines, airplanes, car horns, babies crying. Mrs. Berado's not out on the stoop playing her cha-cha records and yelling for Leroy, her dog, to stop barking. The tuberculosis truck and the Mr. Tastee don't pull up to the playground until ten.

I lie back in bed. I put the pillow on my forehead to stop the sound and shut out the light. The sound won't stop. “If you can hear my voice, you can help mankind as well as yourself. Your body—be it blood, eyes, kidneys, or heart—can help someone else to live. Your donations mean dollars and dignity. Be a Good Samaritan today, invest yourself in science. The dividends will pay off in the future of mankind. Call 822-3344 or write Our Lady of Victory Donation Centre, New York 10001. Remember—giving is the best part of living. This has been a public service announcement.”

Transistors are wonderful, you can sleep on them and they don't break. Sometimes, like now, they give you ideas.

A letter from Mom in my mailbox—

Dear Benny,

Madge is typing cause I feel bad. They're giving me an enema this morning and I got to be ready.

Benny, after all the money I spent on your education, you could put a few quarters in the pay phone to call your mother, couldn't you?

Love,

Francine/Mom

P.S. Contacts. Don't forget.

Mrs. Berado's looking out the window with Leroy when I walk out the door.

“Walsh. There y'are. I got a letta for ya.”

“I'll pick it up tomorrow, Mrs. Berado. I'm—”

“Walsh, it was twelve cents postage due. I don't take no packages and no lettas. I did yuz a fava. The letta's been sittin' hea since yesterday mornin'. If I was a bank, I'd be collectin' interest …”

“I've got a busy day.”

“Walsh, I think ya better read it.”

“Is it from Johnny Carson?”

“The Asbury Park Hospital.”

Getting into Mrs. Berado's apartment's very hard. First, there's the police lock. Then there's the accordion grate to protect people from the dog. Then there's the dog.

“Leroy, be quiet!” Mrs. Berado hits him on the snout with her slipper. Leroy stops growling.

“S-I-T.” Mrs. Berado's voice goes hard and deep. Leroy lies down.

“Sit,” she says, talking to me now. She points to the living room. The chairs are filled with boxes of clothes. Her husband, Val, is asleep on the sofa.

“Don't mind him,” she says. “He's in maintenance. Works early, sleeps late.”

The only place to sit is on the window sill with Mrs. Berado's collection of flags.

“I got 'em all. Irish, Chinese, Jew, Italian, Greek, P.R. You gotta show you're a good neighbor. It pays off. The building's only been robbed five times in the last year—that's a block record.”

“Mrs. Berado, I've got business …”

“I know I got it. Wait a minute,” she says, looking in her drawer. “The letta was very big with special delivery purple, and stamps like Vatican City only with Presidents. I tried to steam them off for Val's collection. Well, why not? I paid for 'em. The letta came undone. Here it is …”

It's the fattest letter I've ever gotten. I open it quickly. There's a note and a long, Xeroxed report called “History.” On top, it says—

WALSH, MARGARET F., HOUSEWIFE CAUCASIAN 72 FEMALE HUSBAND—UNKNOWN

That's Mom.

“Well, she had a good life, Walsh.”

“I heard from her this morning. She wasn't feeling so good.”

“No use cryin' over spilt milk.”

“I'll call her tomorrow when things are settled down.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“There's a note. Maybe it's from Mom.”

“I tried to get ya three times yesterday, Walsh. You know how it is leavin' things in these corridors. Read it. Go ahead. Read it out loud if it helps.”

“‘Dear Mr. Walsh. Unable to reach you in time for the termination at four forty-four A.M., this Tuesday. We are enclosing the final report. Yours truly, George Bromberg, M.D., and Phyllis McGuire, M.D., Consultant.'”

“I thought I wuz doin' a fava, Walsh. You know I don't take no packages for nobody. It's a rule.”

“The history's very long.”

“Yeah?”

“Impressive.”

“Wanna read it?”

“No time.”

I read down the first page quick like a menu.

The report goes on for pages. It has footnotes like a book. Mom always said she was a rare specimen.

“I don't do favas easy.”

The letter fits inside the secret pocket of my windbreaker. Leroy growls at me as I go to the door.

“S … I … T!”

“Here's your twelve cents, Mrs. Berado. Thanks.”

“Walsh, did she give y'anythin'?”

“I really can't talk about it now, Mrs. Berado.”

Mrs. Berado walks me to the door. Leroy's ahead of her on the leash. He nearly yanks her down the steps.

“Fucking dogs,” she says. “They should all be dead.”

“See you tomorrow, Mrs. Berado.”

“Walsh, can I ask you one question?”

“Okay.”

“Did y'inherit anythin'?”

“I think Mom left me her body.”

This must be the place. The billboard has a newspaper story blown up the size of a door.

THE MAN WITH GOLD IN HIS VEINS

Mr. Joe Thomas, of Detroit, is about to start receiving $12,000 a year as legitimate blood money. Mr. Thomas, a 34-year-old assembly belt worker in a car factory, is a blood donor. Thomas was found to possess blood containing a remarkably high concentration of a rare antibody called antilues B. The discovery is the medical equivalent of a gold strike or an oil strike in Texas. Scientists knew there was gold in those veins. Now, after a fiercely competitive auction, involving five biological supply companies, Mr. Thomas' blood has been valued at $1,500 a quart. Mr. Thomas is amazed at his good luck. “It's hard to believe, but I've signed the contract. So I guess it's true.”

“It could be you,” says a man from the window of the trailer parked next to the Donation Centre. I been watching you from the window. You're the first today.”

“I gave blood on Forty-second Street. I fainted.”

“That's chump change. Here, you get twenty dollars in two minutes.”

“I've got a plan. How many pints for three hundred and fifty?”

“Seventeen plus.”

“Could you take eighteen right away?”

“Will you settle for two? You won't feel a thing. I'm a fast syringe. They don't call me ‘Quick Draw' Scarpino for nothing.”

“It's eighteen or nothing.”

“Mister, if I took eighteen I'd have to send you to the morgue. Blood's not the big money, man. Try Scientific Research. Ask the girl at the Information Desk inside. Her name's Anne. Tell her Quick Draw said to stick 'em up.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, next time come back and see us. Blood money's better'n no money.”

Anne stands up behind the desk. Her breasts point straight at me. They're too large for her dress. You couldn't describe them as “knockers” or “boobs,” which sounds like there are two. Hers are like one wedge of Cheddar cheese. She could donate a breast to science herself, and not miss a thing. I don't want to think dirty thoughts in a Catholic hospital. I keep my eyes on her eyes—blue, with green mascara and eyelashes all around like Twiggy.

“Yeah?” she says. “Deliveries around the corner.”

“Quick Draw says to stick 'em up.”

“You can tell Quick Draw to go fuck himself and all his funny friends.”

I'm shocked. That's no way to talk to a scientific gift. Maybe I'm the cure for cancer, the missing link, the Nobel Prize. “I heard an announcement on the radio.”

“So Quick Draw sent you in here?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn't blood good enough for you?”

“I wanted to make a bigger gift.”

“Glory boy, huh?”

“The announcement said I'd be helping mankind and making money.”

“Whaddya want to be—a guinea pig or a gift?”

“Which pays more?”

“Let's see …” She pulls out a file card index and licks her fingers to flip through them. Her tongue's as smooth as pink velvet. Her nails are polished red. “I've got something in Dream Research. Dr. Rogers—the guy written up in the
Post
.”

“What's that about?”

“They watch you sleep.”

“I don't sleep much.”

“They're studying the REM cycle—that's rapid eye movement.”

“I sleep with my eyes shut. I don't dream.”

“I'd go up there and try it myself, but you've got to sleep alone.”

“I once had a dream.”

“Tell it to the doctor. You want this or don't you? They put wires on your head. It's fifty dollars a day, controlled conditions. They've got everything up there—air-conditioning, Muzak, the magazines.”

“No television?”

“How can you sleep if the tube's on?”

“But how do you know what's happening outside?”

“That's the point. You don't. It's like one long Sunday morning—walk, talk, eat, read. You're guaranteed a week's work.”

“Got anything else?”

“There's the Sperm Bank—one hundred and fifty dollars a yank.”

“I don't understand.”

“Listen, I'm doing you a favor. We don't advertise this one. People don't know about it. How many times do you have a chance to get your rocks off and get paid? Artificial insemination. You know—test-tube babies. First we get the pill. Now we're getting rid of pregnancy.”

“We are? That's against the Church, isn't it?”

“Ever heard of the Immaculate Conception? Now our hands'll be clean, too.”

“I'm surprised Our Lady of Victory allows it.”

“Don't lecture me, mister. I only work here. The Sperm Bank's the latest thing.”

“Really?”

“Soon there won't even be survival of the fittest. Everybody'll be fit as a fiddle. They'll mix up the chemicals before birth. No more weaklings. Everybody'll be normal.”

“Who discovered it?”

“I'm only in reception, but even I know Darwin and his beagles. That's one of the first things they teach you in biology at the convent.”

“You mean stars won't be born, they'll be made?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't believe it.”

“You can't argue with science. That's not scientific.”

“It wouldn't be good if everybody was a star. If everybody was equal that wouldn't be American.”

“Dr. Rudd? It's reception. I have a man here who'd like to make a donation … I don't know … I'll ask.”

Anne puts the phone in her neck like Mr. Vic and talks to me.

“Did you go to college?”

“No.”

“Did you finish high school?”

“No.”

“Did your parents have a history of diseases?”

“I don't think so. But I've got Mom's history with me.”

“It's ‘no' across the board, Doctor. Sorry to bother you.”

“What if I donated two bodies?”

“You and your shadow?”

“Would you take me? Could I get the money fast?”

“It's the same with everybody—rush, rush, rush. In science things take time. There's no joke about giving something to science. It's bigger than marriage. It's forever. You can always donate your whole body to the hospital. They give you five hundred dollars and a tattoo. But they only pay you for yourself.”

“I'll take it.”

“Think about it. It's a big step. Once they give you a contract, that's it.”

“Like an audition?”

“Yeah, but it's a show you can't quit.”

“Quitting wouldn't be professional.”

The nurse in room 753 tells me to relax.

I'm not sweating. I'm not talking loud. I don't look nervous. She makes me fill out a form.

“For the purposes of our files, Mr. Walsh, what inspired the decision?”

“Money.”

The nurse smiles and waits. “Many people joke when they give their body to us. I wrote a paper on the phenomenon for my psychology class at Hunter. Anguish has many existential outlets.”

“That's it. I wanted an outlet.”

“That's very interesting,” she says, clicking her ball-point pen. “For what, Mr. Walsh?”

“An outlet for money.”

“There must be some conviction—let's not call it religious at the moment, Mr. Walsh—for you to want to give your body to the city of New York. These things are important for us to know.”

“I guess if I could pin it down to one person …”