The Autograph Hound (28 page)

“I went blank. No buzzing. No vomit.”

“Think about it in the street, mister. People pay top dollar here. They don't want to see the likes of you.”

“I forgot how to breathe.”

Chapter Six

THE TV IS MY FRIEND. When
TV Guide
says that Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall are on at 1:00
A
.
M
., they show up. If it says
Samson and Delilah
with Victor Mature and Hedy Lamarr starts at 3:30, you can set your watch by it.

I sit very still.

I have one hand on the remote-control switch, the other on the arm of my chair. One cracked knuckle, one burp, one false move, and I'm done for. Bogie's been hired by Lauren Bacall's father to trail her other sister, Martha Vickers, who's a wild one. She's been hanging out with underground connections and running up a big dope bill. The old man sits in the greenhouse. It's hot and steamy, but the potted palms look familiar. Bogie has a few suspects. One of them's me.

I don't have time to explain. Bogie's gat has a hair trigger. He'd as soon shoot as hear my story. It's why I can't move. Bogie tried to get Mom to put the finger on me. He showed her a picture, me washing dishes. “That's not my Benny.” He was stumped. Then Gloria tried to squeal to Bogie and tell him where I was. She said she wanted a straight $400 for herself. But when he got to the warehouse for his rendezvous with Gloria, she'd been poisoned by a rival gang. Tough titties.

Hiding out is harder than I thought. It's a big city—millions of people, thousands of streets. But the walls have eyes. You're never alone, especially when you're wanted. Maybe I should switch on the radio, too. Turn up the lights. In New York lights mean nobody's home. But Bogie's from California. There'll be a knock on the door. I won't answer. Another knock. He'll push Bacall behind the bathroom door in the hallway. He'll fast-talk me. I'm not falling for it this time. I'm holding my breath. I'm squeezing my asshole tight. Nobody's getting in. I'm so quiet, I can't even believe I'm here.

Icy sweat dribbles from my armpits. I bite my lip.

I hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

The first gunshot is the worst. It knocks me back into the chair. The springs claw me. “You've got it all wrong.” But Bogie won't stop. He's got a job to do. He's supposed to have six bullets in his gun. But they keep exploding—ten, twenty, thirty shots. Not the BLAM! of a .38 but the BOOM! of a sawed-off shotgun. It's worse than a shooting gallery. The noise is so loud I can't feel my head.

He's left me for dead. But I know I'm not dead, I'm not bleeding. Hedy Lamarr tries to sweet-talk me. I'm through with painted lips, perfume, the longhair bit. She wants to get me hot. But I'm frozen. Victor Mature's a sucker for her come-on. “Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, Vic.” He won't listen. He can't see me in all this dark.

Delilah sets a fine table—goat's milk, dates, bread, assorted meats, fish, and wine. The napkins should be to the left of the silver plates. She wants me to sit down and have a bite. “Give your type an inch, and they'll take a mile!” That scared her. She goes back to Victor Mature.

Women are spoiled. Just because they are beautiful and have a hole, they think they can get anything they want. Hedy Lamarr wants Samson's hair. A piece of his coat, his arrow quiver—that I could understand. But hair? She complains. She pushes. She wants to know the secret to my strength, too. “Not telling, lady. You're not putting your clammy paws on my hair.” She keeps after me. She thinks my secret's in my head. It's in my collection, and it's staying right here in this room. “It took a lot of hard work.” Delilah doesn't understand this. She's never worked a day in her life.

They poke out Victor Mature's eyes with a flaming stake. He should've kept to himself. They're not getting me. My eyes are shut. What you can't see can't hurt you. I can hear Victor screaming. I can hear the others laugh. After a while I sneak a look. Samson's in the stadium. Dwarfs are running around him, tripping him, pinching him, confusing him. He's bleeding. Samson asks God for revenge. God comes through. Samson puts his arms between two pillars and pushes. The stones start to rumble. Rocks fall fast. First, the dust and pebbles, then the big stones tumble down. There's no time to move. I put my hands over my head—it's too late.

I feel a thud.

Everything goes dark.

Feet—on the ground. Hands—holding the chair. Bladder—full up and aching. Eyes—straight ahead.

Samson got the little bastards. I survived. So did the collection.

The room's cold. The TV's running. That's lucky.

I slide the chair close to the screen. I lie my head on top of the set. It's warm. I hug it close. The tube shines white light on my belly. People run across my skin. The shadows itch. I feel warmer.

Hugh Downs talks like he owns the news. I press the control switch. I make Downs silent.

Soldiers on search and destroy. They must have guns, but I can't hear them. Bodies are moving, so they can't be dying. The jungle's full of traps, but not a twig breaks. No one screams. Marines are foxy.

Press.

The splashdown. My chest's flashing like a neon sign. It's the astronauts' way of saying, “Thanks, Benny.” They're too tired to talk. Frogmen haul them into rafts. Nobody pushes.

Press.

The President talks to the nation from the Waldorf.

Press.

I feel honored and safe. The President's not shining on anybody else's body. His words are passing in through my pores. A whole letter. Maybe an electronic tattoo.

The Cubs are challenging the Mets for the pennant. Leo Durocher and Gil Hodges are talking together. Hodges keeps quiet, Leo's mouthing off. He says the Cubs are rested and they've got strategy. He says the Mets in first place is a joke. He says the Cubs are going to overrun New York and demolish them.

That's enough lip, Leo. I make him silent.

Press.

Hugh Downs says it's going to be a pleasant, cool Friday. He says it's a day to do all those things you've been putting off. He says to keep your fingers crossed for the Mets' crucial doubleheader with the Cubs. What does he know? I don't need him. When the news stops, I've got my autographs. They stick to your bones. They don't talk back. I'm sick of Mr. Downs anyway. I click him off. He starts to shrink. First to half the screen. Then a third. Finally he's only a white spot swallowed by blackness. “Good-bye, Hugh!”

I slide the armchair to the autograph table. They're all safe and sound. I lay the boxes on my lap. I run my fingers along the dividers. It feels good. I drop in on some of my collection at random.

JOE AMALFITANO, utility infielder. 1954-67.

REMARKS: “What the hell do you want me for?”

“ 'Cause you're the best pinch-runner in the business, Joe.” I should've told him that when we first met. I was younger and shy. After Dusty Rhodes would single to tie the game, Joe would run bases. He knew how to steal. He knew how to get the jump, even when the opponents were looking out for him. He slid under every mitt. He had a gift. He was always safe. He looked sharp, too, standing with both feet on the bag, dusting himself off after a slide. His liners were straight. The peak of his cap was pointed, the tongues of his spikes were turned down. He was professional.

GEORGE JESSEL, MICKEY ROONEY, OLEG CASSINI, JENNIFER JONES, BURT BACHARACH, RAQUEL, JOHNNIE RAY

Everyone I ask has the same story. As kids, they knew what they wanted to be. No Delilah could stand in their way. They didn't come out smelling like a rose. But once they'd grabbed the brass ring, nobody remembered anything but the sweet smell of their success. All those years practicing alone in their rooms, then the big break. When they came in the open everybody knew them. There was no more silence.

Everything will be new and white. Everything will smell fresh.

Nobody'll see me.

Everybody'll see me.

First, white socks with rubber bands snapped around the ankles. Tops turned down, the socks fit smooth as cellophane. My feet feel special—light, streamlined, quick. Then the trousers. The pleats are stiff and straight. Bones. They hold up my legs. Ben Casey wears white pants, so does Bogie in
Casablanca
. It looks professional. These pants are brand new. The white jacket's as flat and hard as a shield. It's got a starched shape all its own. It fits over me snug as a turtle's shell.

I pin my union button underneath the Flying H. I'm leaving my Mets cap at home. I open the drawer and take out the white hat. This one's not stained. I place it on my head at a Jimmy Cagney angle. It's no cunt cap, it's a uniform.

The day is full of people. They stare at me.

I'm looking good.

My card's gone. I can't punch in.

There's an envelope in my slot. No letter, just money.

Leo said he'd punish the Mets, but messing with the fans is below the belt. The Mets need me. One word to Zambrozzi, and Durocher or anybody from his crowd will never set foot in this place again.

I'm in my Homestead whites. I'm loyal.

The kitchen's empty. The vegetables are out. The meat—tattooed purple—is on the block. The tiles are wet from mopping. I'm not scared, I've had this dream before. The hissing isn't snakes, it's steam. Keep busy. Act natural. Stay alert. Leo likes to hit and run.

The candles are still burning on Chef's birthday cake. Over his desk is a streamer—FIGHT FIERCELY DESI. On his chair is Durocher's picture, folded face up on the back page of the
Daily News
—Leo's calling card.

Leo has a great eye, but he didn't find my autographs. I stuff the paper bag in the front of my pants. My white jacket hides the bulge. I go about my business. I take two dozen bricks from the freezer and put the wire ladder on top and push—butter patties. I arrange them neatly six to a dish. Leo's a tough coach. He respects only one thing—results.

If the crew's in trouble, maybe I should help them. Leo's probably herded them into the cellar for a pep talk, which means a brainwashing. He's telling them “nice guys finish last.”

The cellar's dark and damp. The door cracks when I open it. There are voices at the bottom of the stairs. “
Marrone!
” “Oh, no!” “Christ!” Leo belonged to the Gashouse Gang, he knows how to play rough. I've got to flush him out.

“What's the story?” I yell.

Everybody's silent. I scared him. I've got my back to the wall so he can't sneak behind me.

“Get down here and shut the door.”

The voice means business. I do what he says.

Leo's a shrewd manager. He's making us look at films. He shows girlie movies. He wants us to beat off before the big game.

A man on the screen holds up a piece of paper to the camera—

FUCK FILMS PRESENTS

A Doctor's Dilemma

I don't get it. Three girls are wiggling in bed. A knock at the door. Three doctors arrive with black bags. The camera slowly moves up their bodies from their boots, to their belts, to their faces. “Victor! Anthony! Garcia!”

“I can't stand it,” says a voice.

“I'm fainting,” says another.

“Blackmail!” I yell.

“Shut up!”

The three men are impostors. I can prove it. Victor, Anthony, and Garcia work at The Homestead. They're family men. They've seen
The Big Sleep
. They'd never get suckered into a frame-up like this.

The staff's laughing. They're losing respect for the chain of command. No waiter's going to give an order to a pervert sauce chef. No chef will listen to a sexed-up maître d'.

The three impostors take off their clothes and get into bed. The sheets move up and down. The girls aren't satisfied with the cure. One girl reaches for the phone. She makes a call (probably the police). Next, a woman enters dressed in black leather. Except for her lipstick, the cape, the hat, the mask, and the whip are exactly like Zorro. She marches to the bed. The impostors are tangled up with the patients. They don't know what to do. She cracks the whip over them in bed. They bump faster and faster. The girls seem to be screaming. Their mouths are open, their tongues are out. The man playing Garcia pushes himself up with one hand and waves his cowboy hat to the camera. She whips harder. And faster. Her mask slips to her neck.

It's Gloria. “Turn it off!”

“More. More.”

I can't trust anybody with this information. I've got to beat Leo at his own game. You've got to respect him. He knows how to undermine morale. The man's dangerous. But, if you get caught by him, you're getting it from the best.

I ask myself—why would he stoop to this? There's only one answer. After years of managing the Brooklyn Dodgers, Leo wants to move back to New York. He plans to beat the Mets, then take them over. He needs a hangout. He'll put Laraine Day behind the cashier's desk. He'll serve Michelob and hamburgs. He'll put pictures of the Old Gang around the room. He'll throw sawdust on the floor so his boys can practice their hook slides off season. This won't do. It's terrible. I'll fight to keep The Homestead great.

The door squeaks open. McDougal's voice. “Hurry fuckin' up, you guys! The customers are comin' in.”

“Lights. Give me some lights.”

“Shit.”

“Lights, lights, lights.”

“I'm looking, Chef.”

I count to five. I sneak up the stairs and out the door. Downstairs they're still shouting. I've got to work fast.

McDougal sings loud, he's not hard to tail. At ninety-three bottles of beer on the wall he turns into the pantry. By eighty-five bottles he's down the hall and in the John. I catch up with him at seventy-nine. Smoke puffs out from the vents. He's flipping the pages of a magazine. With all that noise, he can't hear me. I turn the key in the John. I take it out. I hide in the broom closet and wait.