The Autograph Hound (25 page)

“Very interesting,” says Mr. Springer. “You have letters from these people?”

“Autographs are letters.”

“Well …”

“Look at the one you have in your hand. ‘To Benny, Who found me on the twelfth floor of the Plaza. You win. Best regards, Howard Hughes.' There's a whole story there. What else's a letter? With autographs, they write you before your eyes. No waiting. No postage due.”

Mr. Springer tilts his head right, then left. “Maybe.”

Mr. Springer's a buyer, not a doer. He doesn't understand how hard it was to get these people. Mr. Springer holds each autograph close to his eyes. He flips them over gently. Each name's a picture in my head. Hands. Smiles. Doors shutting. Elevators opening. There aren't twenty people in New York who have these kind of signatures.

Mr. Springer talks slowly. It's hard to listen, but I open my eyes wide and nod back like at school. “Historians, biographers, libraries find them of great value. There's a market.” Gloria squeezes my arm. “For letters,” Mr. Springer says.

“Some of these people are dead. The live ones are on the move—working, training, going from place to place. It's hard to keep up with them except on TV or the magazines. They don't have time to write.”

“Ah,” says Mr. Springer, and picks up my second category, The Great Achievements—Wilt “The Stilt” Chamberlain (most points scored in one game), Joe Namath (most yards gained passing), Alfred Drake (most consecutive performances in a Broadway musical comedy), Raquel Welch (biggest bust).

“These have a great value to you, Mr. Walsh?”

“They certainly do. I'd say the collection comes to between fifty and a hundred thousand dollars.”

“But to me, you see, individually, they are not worth much. They have no enduring literary value.”

“Joe Namath and Johnny Carson wrote books.”

“Yes, but nothing has been written about these people.”

“Thousands of articles.”

“In my business, Mr. Walsh, you have to be careful. You can't invest everywhere.”

“How about Buster Keaton? The Alka-Seltzer commercial, remember?”

“They're very interesting, Mr. Walsh. But Mischa Springer only buys historical. A president, a writer, an inventor or explorer. Now if you had Bonaparte, Luther, Disraeli, Einstein.

I could give maybe five hundred dollars for one autograph. I pay the best prices. I'm well known for it.”

“You want Jews? I have Jews in here—famous Jews. Of course, they've changed their names. They're Americans now.”

“I buy people who have made their mark.”

“That's what I'm telling you. Look at the back of each card, Mr. Springer. Living history. Their exact words. Two centuries from now, people will be able to know what they said while they signed their names. It's preserved.”

“Bismarck, Lenin, Picasso, Marx, Tolstoy—those are big names. I pay a lot for them. To be frank, I can mount them with a nice engraving, like my Andrew Jackson over there. A wonderful Christmas gift idea.”

“Do they come to New York?”

“They're dead. Anyway, they were Europeans.”

“My people are great Americans. There's a new President every four years. There's only one Frank or Joe or Wilt. They put America on the map.”

“I give you fifty dollars for the Keaton, one hundred if you throw me in Murrow, Garland, and Wernher Von Braun.”

“Now wait a minute! I thought this was a highclass place. You're not taking Buster for any fifty dollars.”

“The offer stands. You want to think it over, I'm here six days a week, nine to five.”

“This isn't Andrew Jackson. It's Buster Keaton—the funniest man in the world.”

Mr. Springer asks me not to yell. I'm not yelling. I wasn't even talking to him, I was talking to Gloria and looking at him. On his desk is an old
Who's Who in America
. I open it to Keaton.

“Mr. Walsh, I know the man.”

“Look, Mr. Springer, Keaton has at least four inches of history.”

“What are you doing?” says Mr. Springer. “Put that ruler down!”

“Now let's measure Andrew Jackson.”

“Andrew Jackson's not in
Who's Who
.”

“He's not in the top four thousand.”

“He's in the almanac.” Mr. Springer takes another book from his desk. We all lean close to it. I read.

“‘Andrew Jackson, seventh President of the United States (1829-1837), was born on March 15,1767, in Waxhaw, South Carolina, the son of a linen weaver who, upon migrating to the U.S. from Ireland, became a farmer.'”

“What does that prove, Mr. Walsh?”

“Keaton has four inches of history, Jackson has one inch. Keaton's got a bigger history and you want to steal him away from me for fifty dollars while Andrew Jackson's on your wall for six hundred.”

“It depends on what you call history.”

“History is what happens to you when you're alive. And more has happened to my Americans than any mick.”

“Benny!” Gloria says. “Hush!”

“Andrew Jackson was a great man,” Mr. Springer says.

“How do you know? You weren't around to see him.”

“I'm a professional.”

“So am I.”

“That's a matter of opinion.”

“You're trying to jew me down.”

“Benny!”

“Shut up, Gloria. No kike's getting my collection for a song.”

“Benny, control yourself.”

“He knows what they're worth. Jews are shrewd. He knows.”

“Mr. Springer's an expert. He gives the best prices.”

“What does he know? Andrew Jackson's family was foreign like him. He's trying to boost the price of his own kind. I've been here all my life. I know what's valuable.”

“Benny? Take the money. Apologize to Mr. Springer.”

“My blood's pure. My body has been sold to a major American hospital. I came from pioneer stock. He should kiss my ass!”

“Benny!”

“Jews are cowards. History proves it. So do the movies.”

“Let's get out of here.”

Springer picks up my autographs and stuffs them back in the paper bag. It isn't the A & P. He can't treat my signatures like soup. I grab them and put them back on his desk. So what if Springer turns away from us. Springer's got ears—big ones. He can hear.

“He wants me to sell. He wants me to get out. He wants me to give up. Just like a Jew. I'm no quitter, Springer. Ask Big John. I'm an American.”

“Out! Out!”

Gloria picks up the autographs and pulls me outside. Springer locks the door behind us, and stares out from behind the glass. He can't scare me. I'm looking at him. I've caught him doing the dirty.

“Wahoo! Wahoo! Jew!”

“Benny? Put your hat on.”

“I'm scaring him.”

“He's not moving.”

“He's terrified.”

“Benny, he's seen the autographs. He's in business. Those are the facts.”

“He wants to split my collection.”

“I feel a wave, Benny.”

Springer's taking cover. He pulls the shade down over the window. I can see my reflection, and his cheap shoes at the bottom of the glass. Only the laundress'll know how scared he is.

“I'm talkin' to you, Springer. You scum-suckin' pig. You autograph rustler. Slap leather!”

“Benny, there's electricity all over me.”

“I'm fighting mad, Gloria. I gave him a chance to make a good offer. He can't push me around. Hear that, Springer!”

“It doesn't matter any more, Benny. We lost.”

“He wouldn't have tried the swindle unless the collection was a gold mine. If you could see what I see. It's so simple.”

“But Springer said …”

“What does he know? He doesn't even pray to the same God. When he lies in bed at night, I bet he dreams European.”

A pencil tips open the mail slot. A voice says, “Go away! Or I call the police!”

“I had a dream, Springer! You're not going to shaft us out of this one, Mister Big-Time-Loser.”

This close-range yelling's better than a ball game. My voice sounds deeper, my body tingles. I cross the street with Gloria. I slap the taillights of the taxis.

“What did you see in the dream?”

“How things would be. Comfortable and warm. Very blossomy. The best money can buy. People happy together forever. Peace and quiet.”

“Did you hear music?”

“A hum. There were words, too.”

“A message?”

“‘Take what you can get. It's a free country.'”

“That was some message,” says Gloria. “What's going to happen?”

“Meet me at The Homestead after work. I'll have some results. I swear it.”

“Sing ‘Cottage for Two' with me. For luck.”

“I can't sing.”

“A barbershop duet. I'll sing, you repeat the words you like.
In our cottage for two
…”

“Cottage for two.”

“
Our forever rendezvous
.”

“Our rendezvous.”

“
We'll share rooms with a view of the sky
…”

“Of the sky.”

“
You and I
.”

“This is silly, Gloria. The songs come later.”

Why can't people keep their bodies and their breath to themselves? All, the way to The Homestead on the subway, they rub me with their knees, their shoulders, their backs. They try and spin me off course. But I'm on the scent. Nothing can stop me. Not Springer with his denture breath. Not Rumsey, who smells like his horses and won't let go of my arm. I tell him the barricades are down, everything's back to normal. He pulls me inside the stagecoach and rolls up the window. Boxes are on the floor.

“I held down the fort, right? You saw me, Walsh?”

“I've got an emergency.”

“I'm not payin' no never mind to any emergencies. No tip. No thanks. No day off. You bust your balls, and nobody remembers. They plan a party for Chef's birthday tomorrow—a big blowout. They lean on you for contributions for the entertainment. But do you think I get an invite? I wouldn't go if they had a gorilla high-steppin' out of a cake. I'm tellin' you, Walsh, things have changed.”

“Things can't change that quick.”

“Would you believe they're talkin' of phasin' me out, scrappin' Blackey and Spot. We led the Macy's Parade two years runnin'.”

“You're kidding?”

“Nope. They're gettin' up a new menu. They put a suggestion box in the pantry. There's talk of a contest to rename the restaurant. Zambrozzi's handin' out typed memos left and right. It's a new world.”

“I'm going to a restaurant where there are no sudden changes.”

“Everything changes, kid.”

“Not if you're rich and successful.”

“I told 'em I wouldn't come in this mornin' after workin' fourteen hours yesterday. ‘If you don't hitch up today, don't hitch up tomorrow.' I'm not wearin' street clothes on this rig for the rest of my life. I'm a driver, not a delivery boy.”

“I need help.”

“So do I. We're in this together. Their best busboy out on the street. And then me workin' from the inside to topple 'em. When we're finished, only shitheels'll work for them.”

“I need money.”

“Let's bleed 'em. The Rumseys know about revenge. Sent smallpox in with blankets to avenge the late, great General George Custer. Dammed up a river on our Colorado territory to keep the sheep farmers off our grazin' land. The Rumseys know how to hate.”

“I want a case of Scotch and three hundred and fifty dollars.”

“You got it.”

“I don't.”

“Walsh, the Scotch is yours. What do you think I been pickin' up all day, daisies? Look in that box?”

Rumsey's laughing, slapping his side. “Watch me now, Grandpa. The Homestead's gonna be my Wounded Knee.” He takes out a piece of paper, wets the tip of a pencil with his tongue, and writes. “Changin' numbers is easier'n spittin' in a skillet. I'll put a case under the seat.”

“I still have to do some fancy footwork.”

“Help me unload the rest. When you're ready to make tracks, give a yell.”

“I've got to float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”

“Well, you won the first round, Benny.”

“Benny Walsh is still in there punching.”

“Hot dog!” says Rumsey.

Nobody says anything to us as we stack the boxes in the pantry. Liquor's very heavy. Rumsey puts his arm around me walking back to the stagecoach. “There was a whole side of the Rumsey family that did this. Desperadoes. Stole from the rich to give to the poor.”

“You mean like Errol Flynn?”

“No,” says Rumsey, lifting out the last case. “Like the Lone Ranger.”

The phone booth stinks of piss. “Mr. Monte-Sano, please.”

“He's in a meeting. Can I help you? This is his assistant, Bonni DeGregorio.”

“Tell him the game's not over till the last out.”

“What?”

“Can't you take a message?”

“Who is this?”

“Tell him Benny S. Walsh gets results.”

They let me punch in. They let me put on my whites. They wait till I'm excited about getting back to station 4 and making a last-ditch stab at big-money contacts. Then they hit me below the belt.

Zambrozzi's the hatchet man, even after I waved hello and asked him to sign my book. Now he tells me I'm not going out there today.

“To the victor belongs the spoils, Chef. But I'm no spoil.”

I try to talk to Zambrozzi as one Catholic to another. “The first day of our all-Italian menu. You miss the first shift, Benny. I got to be practical.”

Zambrozzi's no Catholic, he's a Jew.

McDougal's on station 4. He's not even union. Zambrozzi says it's not hard to get a card. (It's not easy, either.) McDougal's got personal problems. He's got sex on the brain. The Homestead's respectable. You can't chew your food and listen to that filth. He'll be bad for tips. Guests'll see McDougal's two holes. Zambrozzi doesn't know what it's like out there. You're on show.