The Autograph Hound (15 page)

“You'll need more than that.”

“Three hundred and fifty's exactly what I need.”

“Have a blast. Spend what's left over on yourself. Our Quickie-Six Hundred comes to only pennies a day. Now what's the loan for?”

The New York Trust also puts you on the spot.

“C'mon, Mr. Walsh, answer up. The recession's killing my totals. This time last year I was working on number eight hundred and forty-five—a home repair loan. They're taking this year's winners to Honolulu.”

“I'm moving from The Homestead.”

“To?”

“Can't say.”

“No chitchat, Mr. Walsh. You get to be East Coast champion by actions, not words.”

“A Triple-A restaurant. I don't want to say any more.”

“You mean you don't live at The Homestead?”

“I work there.”

“That's an expensive move.”

“A busboy collects a lot of things after eight years of loyal service. Favorite trays. Champagne bottles from famous guests. We've got a lot of traditions, too. When you move on, the custom's to give a little something to the chef and waiters. It's a great restaurant. You can't leave looking cheap. Tiffany ashtrays, pen and pencil sets, bottles of rare wine. It adds up.”

“Any layoff between jobs? We need a three-week guarantee.”

“No.”

“I've never made a restaurant moving loan, but …” Mr. Derringer takes out a Bible-black book. He flicks the pages. He studies it carefully. “That'sa boy, Big D,” he says. “You've got it, big fella. We'll work a little time-margin variable on them.”

“What's that?”

“It's like stealing third base, Mr. Walsh. The same thrill. You need a good jump, a sharp eye. It's in the rules—but it's a risk, a gamble. When you're behind, you take chances. If you're caught, you're out. That's what makes ball games. But Big D's fast. Hold on a minute, Mr. Walsh.”

Businessmen like Mr. Vic and Mr. Derringer aren't the only ones who can talk baseball. I know about stealing, too. I can still see the green Coca-Cola stand behind home plate the day I pinch-hit against the Pioneers. Coach Fasolino put his arm around me and said not to swing no matter what. In the eighth inning with no runs and Peter Parella pitching the game of his life, a walk was as good as a hit.

The Pioneer catcher kept insulting me. He called me four eyes and no hit and rubber duck. He tried to make me mental. The coach yelled at me to remember the instructions. Our signal was hand on hat.

Parella's pitches whistled. I didn't see the first two, but I heard them. Strikes. The next pitch hit me in the toe. I was the first Trade player to get on base.

Coach Fasolino was the third-base coach. He ran all the way to first to talk to me. Coach whispered to keep my foot on the base, to tag up on the fly, and to watch Parella at all times. Parella's next pitch went over the catcher's head. Everybody on the bench shouted to run. But coach hadn't given me the sign—hand on cap. Finally, I saw him throw his hat on the ground. I ran as fast as I could. I slid into second base. The catcher hadn't even found the ball. The cheerleaders yelled—

“Big dog, little dog
,

Fluffy-eared pup—

C'mon, Benny
,

Chew 'em up!”

I couldn't hear myself breathe. I felt like I'd been mugged.

“Watch me! Watch me!” Mr. Fasolino kept screaming. I couldn't keep my eyes on the pitcher and the coach. After Parella's next pitch, Coach yelled, “Walsh, you missed the steal. Come down here on the next pitch, goddammit!” I started for third as Parella went into his windup—but halfway there, I saw the third baseman already had the ball in his glove. He was coming toward me. Mr. Fasolino was on his knees, slapping the ground. “Hit it, Walsh. Hit it!” I did my slide. But the third baseman tagged me between my legs just as I was doing my hook. “Where'd they get you, kid?” Fasolino said, standing over me. My place ached. I couldn't talk. I stared at Mr. Fasolino. I was the winning run. I remember Bobby Thomson's homer, the “shot heard 'round the world,” I remember Jackie Robinson stealing home against the Yankees in the World Series, but with all these sports thrills, the clearest thing in my mind's my slide. That was no thrill. That hurt.

“But you're all right now, Mr. Walsh? I can put down you have no physical disabilities?”

“Who said I wasn't?”

“Formalities. We're hanging in there. I think I've found a ruling for a case like yours. One quick call to your boss and we've got them by the short hairs.”

“The Boss doesn't know me. We've never been introduced.”

“Who's your supervisor? All I need's a guarantee of your term of employment up to the date of transferal.”

“Mr. Enrique Garcia. You won't get much from him. He's Puerto Rican. He can't talk good.”

“We've got a lot of triple threats at Trust. I can talk Spanish, French, and English.” Mr. Derringer swivels his chair close to mine. “
Me preunto un amigo/lo que era celos/no sabe el bien que tiene/con no saberlo./De buena gana/trocaria mi ciencia/por su ignorancia
. Can I speak Spanish or can I speak Spanish? The bank doesn't know there's dynamite in the Loan Department.”

Mr. Derringer picks up the phone and holds it to his ear with his shoulder and neck. He laughs to himself. “D, you're too much. Sit down, Mr. Walsh. This'll only take a minute.”

“Maybe I should come back later.”

“Big D always gets his man.”

“Garcia's hard to pin down.”

“Slippery, huh?”

“I'd say greasy.”

Mr. Derringer puts his hand over the phone. “It's ringing now.”

“This man's very touchy, Mr. Derringer.”

Mr. Derringer asks for Garcia. He has a pencil already sharpened. His pad's right in front of him. On top of the paper it says BULLET BOB DERRINGER, and underneath, like an ad for a Broadway play, it says “The Banker Who Throws No Curves.”

“Hello, Mr. Garcia … This is Bob Derringer of the New York Trust … I want some verification on Benny S. Walsh.”

Mr. Derringer turns to me very surprised. “He says he has no comment.”

“That's because of the bombing …”

“Mr. Benny S. Walsh's right here beside me, Mr. Garcia …” Mr. Derringer holds the phone away from his ear. “What do you mean, ‘bombing'?”

Mr. Derringer turns up a speaker by the telephone. We can both talk to Garcia and both listen to him. “It's very important, Mr. Garcia. Could you check your files to make sure this is the right man?”

“We no keep files,” says Garcia. “If we did, I never tell the
Post
.”

“The
Trust
, Mr. Garcia. The New York Trust. This is Robert Derringer, senior officer in charge of loans. Mr. Walsh is here with me.”

“Put Walsh on the phone.”

“What about the bombing, Mr. Garcia. I want to know about the bombing?”

“Tell Walsh that's a bridge under the water.”

“Sir, at New York Trust bombing's a serious business. Mr. Walsh has applied for an On-the-Spot Moving Loan. He told us everything about himself. If there's anything you can add …”

“I no talk.”

“You've got to talk for Walsh to get his moving loan.”

“Don't believe him. He no move. He ours. We need him at The Homestead.”

“I can hear every word you're saying, Mr. Garcia. You've howled wolf-wolf for the last time.”

“Benny?”

“I'm right here.”

“Benny—you come home.”

“I'm moving to Lutèce, where a busboy's treated like a bus-boy.”

“I no yell, Benny. I'm saying from the heart. There's big problems in the kitchen, Benny. I don't speak on the phone.”

“I want one thing cleared up, Mr. Garcia. Does Benny S. Walsh have anything to do with your crisis at The Homestead? Yes or no.”

“Yes
and
no.”

“Mr. Garcia, you're talking to an officer.”

“Yes and no, sir!” Garcia squawks more Spanish through the speaker.

“Mr. Garcia, we here
habla
three languages. Spanish was my major at college. So watch it.”

“You don't know how dirty he can talk, Mr. Derringer. That's not school Spanish, that's street Spanish. See why I want to move?”

“Benny, please. I put you on station four. I make the last three days happy days. I pay big overtime.”

“Can I eat with the kitchen staff?”

“
Si
.”

“Can I keep my autograph pad in my pocket?”

“I look the other way.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Garcia. Did I understand you to say Benny S. Walsh has only three more days of employment?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thank you for cooperating, Mr. Garcia. Goodbye.”

Mr. Derringer hands me the application. “Read the fine print, Walsh.”

“‘I represent, warrant, and affirm that all of the statements made by me in this application are true and correct and have been made by me to induce you to grant credit to me with knowledge that you will rely thereon.…'”

“What do you think about that?”

“I think it sounds good.”

“It's clear English?”

“The clearest.”

“He's wasted Big D's time. He sits here while Big D hustles a loophole in the bank bylaws. He lies like a rug. He's out of a job in three days and he tells me three weeks.”

“You said three weeks.”

“With twenty-one days we could've parlayed it. Erlanger in our uptown branch probably got three While-You-Waits in the time I've been on the phone. Now Big D's been insulted by a maître d', and almost conned by a bomb-throwing busboy.”

“I had nothing to do with it. The police know that. They checked with Johnny Carson.”

“The typing pool's going to be yokking it up for weeks. If this gets out, I'll be eating alone in the Officer's Dining Room. Big D. Steady fella. Hang loose.”

“Mr. Derringer—it says outside ‘No wait. No red tape.' We've been here twenty minutes. You're a Trust officer, aren't you? I trust you.”

“I have my superiors to account to.”

“I didn't mean to fib. At least, I didn't tell you about the
quid pro quo
.”

“Mr. Walsh, I really must ask you to take your business elsewhere.”

“But the New York Trust's the friendliest and the best.”

“And should be treated with more respect.”

“Don't I get my On-the-Spot? I answered all your questions. You've got me excited. Pay up!”

“Guard,” says Mr. Derringer.

The
Post
has two important stories on the front page, a picture of the astronauts in their capsule and a headline that makes me dizzy—TOM SEAVER LIFE THREAT. The Mets' front office has received a note from a member of the Chicago Bleacher Bums.

I'd have let you live if you'd kept your won-lost record below 15 games. You're getting too good. You've gone too far. I'll shoot you in the sixth inning when you start against the Cubs, Friday. The Cubs for first. The Cubs forever.

DETERMINED FAN

The spacemen are having trouble breathing near the moon. But it's not easy down here, either.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeh!”

The scream spins me around. My heart's skipping. An old lady pushing her way along the building wall, standing on a subway grate. At first I want to slap her a good one with my
Post
. But I might rip the story.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeh!”

“There's nothing there, lady. Stop it!”

I don't want to see her. She's got white hairs on her chin like Mom. Her stockings are rolled up to her knees. Her ankles are black with dirt.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeh!” Her fists tighten.

“What did you do that for?”

She smiles at me, like if I were shouting, not her.

The Homestead stagecoach pulls up to the stoplight on 44th Street and Broadway. The horses are shiny with sweat, so is George Rumsey, the driver, who's a dead ringer for Gabby Hayes and who used to break in horses on the back lot of MGM. Rumsey's in street clothes—no bandanna, no boots, no hat with real bullet holes that kids can stick their fingers through. Usually, the horses are brought out after sundown to get the customers, who pay $40 or more, to the theater on time. The Homestead stagecoach is one of the sights of the city. It's higher than your ordinary car and says THE HOMESTEAD across the luggage rack. The Homestead horses are authentic Western types, none of these phony English kind with their tails pointing in the air like pinkies.

“You shouldn't drive the stagecoach during the day, Rumsey. People are too busy to notice.”

“Nine o'clock this mornin' Garcia calls. He's beggin' for me to come down to the restaurant. The wife gets really pissed. ‘Reb,' she says, ‘I may look good, I may give the impression of health, but I'm a very sick woman. I can't take emergencies. Tell him to fuck off.'”

“You shoulda heard me talk back to Garcia. He was on his hands and knees asking me to come back.”

“I had a hard time hushin' her up. The wife don't like me ridin' the streets of New York in an open carriage and cowboy suit. She thinks some crazy'll mistake me for a plainclothesman and drill me.”

“Garcia's paying me overtime. It's a grubstake.”

“Don't get me wrong, Walsh. I ain't afraid of rushing. The Rumseys rushed all over this fuckin' country. Hightailed it to California in the Gold Rush around eighteen fifty-four. Back to Kansas in the Land Grab of 'sixty-two. That didn't work out, either. So Gramps up and came to Hollywood in the boom of 'nineteen. Things got tough for cowboys when they brought in those stunt men, so the family moved out to Colorado near the oil fields.”

“I like staying in one place.”

“You gotta pick up stakes to raise the stakes. Don't this beat all? A grown man who's rode with Andy Devine and Randolph Scott deliverin' groceries and sendin' ten-dollar telegrams to the Boss in Palm Beach. No time to even put on my outfit. ‘Guests and food must go through.' You'd think Garcia was the Pony Express.”