The Autograph Hound (24 page)

“That takes a load off my mind. I forgot what I was going to say.”

“We're on the air.”

“Oh, yeah. Big John, I'd like to ask a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you lend me three hundred and fifty dollars?”

“I don't know you.”

“You didn't know the man you saved from burning himself on account of the war, either.”

“You got to admit I get some weird requests.”

“You made headline news.”

“We gave the call to the WQLM Community Action Center. They went right to work. They're almost as fast as NASA. That's a big joke from Big John.”

“That's what I want you to do for me.”

“We were talking about the astronauts, Benny. Do you have any feelings about them?”

“I'm only thirty blocks away from you on 102nd Street and Broadway.”

“It was really something to see those parachutes billowing down to earth. I used the phrase ‘like the canvas of covered wagons.' Our space pioneers were coming back from the valley of death.”

“Big John, you wouldn't just be saving me, you'd be saving the finest collection of autographs in New York City.”

“Would you like to go to the moon, Benny?”

“I've got a TV.”

“Well, it's been nice talking to you.”

“But I'm not finished. I need the money. If you could put in a good word for me at the Community Action Center.”

“That's only for emergencies.”

“This is an emergency.”

“The astronauts were an emergency. Stranded in space. The whole world watching. You've got a problem. They came through with flying colors. So will you.”

“Big John, I'm sorry about asking for the money.”

“Forget it.”

“Instead could you speak to Miss Piri at Our Lady of Victory, room seven fifty-three. You're the best there is on the phone.”

“I don't know her.”

“You're a big name. She'll listen to you. Say I'm a good guy. Reliable.”

“Call back after the show.”

“I'd just like to say … I'd like to say … I'm sorry about missing the astronauts. But you see Judy Garland died …”

“That's old news. We're up to the minute on the Wonderful World of WQLM Radio, ninety-nine point three on your dial. All information, all the time. Seven days a week.”

“If I told you that it wasn't Judy in the coffin, what would you say?”

“This is the Big John Getz show moving along on this trailblazing day. There's no boundary these boys can't break, nothing they can't make our machinery do.”

“Big John?”

“Yes.”

“Give my best to Nora and the boys.”

“Will do.”

“I read where you're living on Central Park West in the same building with Lauren Bacall. Maybe some afternoon I could drop over and get your signature.”

“Call before you come.”

I don't mind waiting for Community Action Center to get on the line. If they'll tell me when they'll have the money, I can pick it up. Big John's got to be careful, otherwise he'd have every nut in the neighborhood bugging him for favors. I think I hear somebody speaking—no words, but a kind of whisper. Maybe they don't realize I'm still here, standing by.

“
Benny Walsh. Community Action?
” Another click. Then a hum. We've been disconnected, but they heard.

I hope I wasn't too pushy.

The door to my room's open. Gloria has moved from the window to my autograph table. The radio's on the window sill. Big John's voice's loud and clear. Gloria's looking through the file reading the names, smiling. She deals out some of my signatures like cards. They slide across the green felt, lying in clumps around the table. A few of the cards drop on the floor. You don't treat people that way. It might be Jean Seberg or Gale Sondergaard. They'll be smudged. Gloria shouldn't take liberties.

“Gloria?”

She applauds me. “Mr. Radio
and
Television Personality. You should have your own autograph in here.”

“What are you doing?”

“Getting a head start.”

“How was it?”

“It's easy. Some of them are very valuable, Benny. They go back ten years.”

“I mean the radio. How did my plan go?”

“You spoke right up. You sound very real on radio.”

“Did I make a good impression on Big John?”

“You two talked long enough.”

“A dime's worth.”

“It seemed longer.”

“Friends can cram a lot into a few minutes.”

“Well, let's start sorting out some autographs, Benny.”

“What for?”

“We don't have all day.”

“Big John's going to help me out.”

“I didn't hear him say that.”

“You weren't listening.”

“I was.”

“I set the dial. I tell you to keep your ears glued. You were looking through my autographs. Who gave you permission anyway?”

“Big John was talking about astronauts.”

“That's not all. He was talking about lending me the three hundred and fifty himself. He asked me if I needed more than that. I'm not greedy, I said. A friend in need's a friend indeed. This moved him. He switched my call to Community Action Center.”

“Then I'd have heard it.”

“Hasn't it been on the air yet?”

“Not yet … You promised Mr. Vic three hundred and fifty dollars by Friday. It's already Thursday. You can't put all your eggs in one basket, Benny. You've got to be as good as your word.”

“What did I say?”

“Don't you remember?”

“It's the details I forget.”

“They're important.”

“I work around the clock. I don't sit behind a desk. I don't make the big money. But I'm in business. I move around. You have to be on time. Except for signatures, one day's like any other.”

“Benny, maybe you should have a rest.”

“Not in my line. There are too many important people these days. You've only got so many good years. I get nervous thinking about it. We should be out on the street. Why are we waiting around?”

“You called Big John Getz.”

“Did he call back?”

“You don't have a phone, Benny.”

“Then we'll wait for the radio announcement.”

“First things first.”

“I remember my first Ann Miller movie. My first Mickey Mantle home run. The first time I saw Marilyn on Fifth Avenue. They'll always be first. Nothing can take their place.”

“You'll have time for your autographs, Benny. Business before pleasure.”

“All I have to do is pick up these triples—and everything comes back. Vera-Ellen. Sundown. 1964. Vera-Ellen. Hot and humid. Corner of Forty-ninth and Seventh Avenue, 1965. Vera-Ellen …”

“What are you doing?”

“See. I know the time of day I got them, and the weather. I can tell you where, too. It's all up here in my head.”

“You want to be a messenger walking all over New York, checking with the boss after every delivery? You want to park cars?”

“I can't drive.”

“You need a good location.”

“I'm not selling, Gloria. Big John'll come through.”

“Suppose he doesn't?”

“All you think about's money. What do you care? I'm only another guy.”

“Benny, you're crazy.”

“I'm not crazy, Miss Sell-All-You've-Got. I'll go to Hollywood.”

“How?”

“Judy's got fan clubs all over the country. They'll help. I'll work in a cabana. I'll distribute
Variety
to the famous homes in Coldwater Canyon. No throwing, hand delivered.”

“Benny, after tomorrow you've got no job. You don't have enough to ship your magazines and autographs to the West Coast.”

“I can always get something in Brooklyn. Nobody'll know my real job. On weekends I'll sneak away and take the subway to Broadway and hang out. I'll save my money. I'll buy my way back into the big time. It's only a matter of years.”

“All you think about is Benny Walsh. Other people have careers, you know.”

“I'm thinking about my collection.”

Gloria's crying. Black lines, like dirty fingers, point down from her eyes. She pushes away from the table and stands in the corner by W. C. Fields. He's holding a hand of cards close to his chest. He wears a high, funny top hat. Gloria's turned towards him, not me. He's saying what I would if I could. “Don't worry, my little chickadee.” He talks out of the side of his mouth. Gloria should be smiling, but she doesn't even look up at him.

“What's wrong, Gloria?”

She won't look at me either.

“I'm crying for myself.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry, Benny. It's private. Haven't you ever had something … I don't know … secret.”

“My life's an open book.”

“Something personal.”

“You mean like private conversations with public personalities? Sure.”

“Deeper than that, Benny.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Your own secret.”

“I guess I haven't had one.”

“It's not supposed to be this way. People are happy at the end. Where's the background music?”

“The radio's on.”

She's shaking now. I'm afraid to go near her. “If something hurts, leave it alone.” Mom was right.

“There were so many times—and promises. At Lake George, he said he'd take my picture by the fort. He never came. I waited two afternoons. Another time, when I was working at Screen Femmes, he said he needed money. I was just up and coming, but I gave it to him. He had a Leslie Howard look about him. I stayed in bed a lot that winter. I read the magazines. I watched the old films on television. They didn't treat women that way, then. He could be so nice. He said he would take me away from my film career. He bought me drapes for my window. He knew the best furniture. He said I had taste. He said I had an eye, and that he liked me. Then, after a while of liking, I'd cry like this. He disappeared.”

“Who was ‘he'?”

“They're all the same.”

“Nobody's ever cried in front of my collection.”

“You didn't see me cry.”

“Three thousand signatures and still growing.”

“Don't say you're going to work for a Triple-A restaurant, if you're not. Don't say you're staying, if you're leaving. Don't talk about being best, if you're giving up.”

“Why did you believe those guys?”

“You believe Big John.”

“There's a difference.”

“What?”

“He's famous.”

“Well, your collection will be famous.”

Gloria goes quiet. The worst is over. I ask her a few questions, but she's statue still. Then, as if W. C. slapped her, Gloria's head snaps back. Her hands grab at her forehead.

“What's wrong now, Gloria?”

“A wave.”

“Look at me.”

“My head won't stop. Oh! Stop!” She says “stop” three times. After each scream, she slaps her skull.

“Don't come near me, Benny. Stay away.”

What am I, a sex fiend? Do I smell? I hate loud noises. What's gotten into her? She's a maniac. “I'll have to call Mrs. Berado.”

“Nobody can help me when I'm like this.”

“You've got to stop it, Gloria. Big John's calling. We've got to be ready to act fast. Think of Joan.”

“Three months. Four months. I almost think I'm free. Then it comes back. Why me?”

“This is a happy home. Groucho, Marilyn, Mr. Fields, Bogie.” It's an insult. She won't listen to anyone, even them. They say cool it. “Stop crying, Gloria—please. Look, I'm doing my Uncle Miltie imitation. Stop crying or I'w kiw you a miwion times. I'll show you my Montgomery Clift, Gloria.” She won't stop. She's a weirdo. “I'll sell some of my autographs.”

Gloria turns around. Her cheeks are wet with tears. “I'm the happiest girl in the world.”

“No Academy Award winners. No retired firststringers. No top grossers.”

“Nothing you don't want, Benny.”

On Third Avenue, businessmen hurry by—eyes straight ahead, clean shirts, big briefcases, shoes kicking back the sunlight. They step like Gil Hodges to the mound. They know where they're going.

I ask Gloria to slow down. But she takes my arm and pulls me faster—past shoppers, in between the taxis that honk at us. People might bump me. My autographs might spill out of the paper bag and get run over.

My sneakers flap on the cement. I'm walking, but it doesn't feel that way. Nothing stands still.

“You okay?” says Gloria.

“I get lost easy.”

“We're almost there.”

It's the big time. I can tell by the leather. Leather chairs that wheeze when you sit in them. Leather desk tops. Leather signs branded with gold words.

TOP CASH PAID FOR LETTERS AND DOCUMENTS OF FAMOUS MEN AND WOMEN & Interesting Old Letters & Pioneer Journals & Whaling Logs & Old Broadsides & Posters & Books Signed By Famous Persons

Pictures of famous people are framed with their signatures. They hang around the room. Most of the signatures are from another time. I can tell because they are scratchy. But, without TV, how could a person really be famous?

The shop sounds like a library. The floor creaks. You hear footsteps. Even Springer, who owns the place and looks as old as some of the faces on the wall, whispers on the phone.

“Speak up,” Gloria says. She thinks I'm nervous because I'm breathing heavy.

Springer wears a green shade on his forehead. He also has glasses. It's hard to see his eyes. He's from Vienna, he says. I explain I'm from The Homestead. He's anxious to see what's in the paper bag.

First I show him some of my collector's believeit-or-nots, the really hard ones—Wernher Von Braun, Edward R. Murrow, Mark Van Doren, Christine Jorgensen, Alger Hiss, Satchel Paige, Ernie Kovacs.