The Autograph Hound (27 page)

The moon makes a path across the water.

In the morning, there'll be mists. The sun'll burn through by noon. Flamingos, rabbits, deer, cougars, buffalo—they'll be drinking at the shore. We won't disturb them, but they'll come near us anyway. They'll be our friends, we'll be theirs. It's good to be near water if you're building a house. We'll make ours of natural wood. Rumsey'll help cut and clear the forest. I'll gather and collect. Gloria'll cook. Together, we'll plant the fields in the spring and forget about them until October. Then, we'll harvest. There'll be too much of everything. Fish, meat, and flowers we never expected.

“Isn't it beautiful, Benny?”

“Let's explore.”

“Are you kiddin'? This place's a jungle at night,” says Rumsey. “Wanna get yourself killed?”

We'll be safe.

It's no Boardwalk, no Broadway. We'll walk only on land no man or animal has touched. We'll know by the sound—the snap like fresh carrots—that ours are the first steps. We'll be the first on this territory, and we'll make it beautiful.

“Don't you think it's gorgeous, Benny?” says Gloria.

“Fantastic.”

“I've seen pictures of this in the ads.”

“Not this.”

“Maybe not, but almost.”

“Giddyap,” says Rumsey.

The clock on the Grand Central building is round and white. It stares at us. 11:00. It's not my fault it's late. It's not my fault we can't move. Riding the stagecoach through the park, an hour seemed like minutes. Now, standing still with cars bumper to bumper in front and behind us, minutes seem like hours. Fumes from the cars smell up the air. The buildings blot out the sky. The horses lift their tails and make number two in front of us. The other cars have air conditioning and radio, they can forget the traffic jam. We're out in the open. Shadows and stink are all around us.

Rumsey's stopped singing. There's nothing to think about but what's inside your head. This gives everybody the jitters. “I knew we shouldn't have taken this ride. I knew it,” Gloria says.

“The clock's off.”

“What are you going to do?” she says. “There's no time to waste.”

“Why is it always my fault?”

Gloria won't look at me.

I wish we were moving, then I wouldn't have to think. I'm reliable. My collection proves it. I wish Rumsey would crack his whip, and Gloria would start singing again.

We're not the only people who are upset. Kids honk their horns. They leave their cars and sit on the pavement. Cabdrivers open their doors and pull themselves up above the hood to see if anything's moving.

“Ain't this a mess,” says a driver to Rumsey.

“Terrible.”

“They should make the Mayor take a cab, instead of a helicopter,” the cabdriver says. “Every cab in New York should drive up to Gracie Mansion and honk him out of bed. Keep the lights on so he can't have his beauty sleep.”

“The traffic cops should be out here.”

“There's a thousand policemen at the Waldorf tonight.”

“Where'd you get that?”

“Radio.”

“It figures. They're all inside eating chicken and peas and listening to a speech.”

“Shit, no. There's a convention of longhairs protesting the President.”

Gloria turns toward me. “The President.” She jumps off the seat. “C'mon, Benny.”

“Hey!” Rumsey says. “We still got some celebratin' to do.”

“Business,” I explain.

Louis says he'll do it for a Judy Garland.

He takes an I.O.U.

This is where connections help. Without Louis coming to the garage door Gloria and I could never have gotten inside the Waldorf. Louis says not to mention it.

“Did you get a load of those crowds?”

“It's a good thing Cole Porter's passed on—it would've turned his stomach to see so much hate stretched all the way around the block to the Waldorf Towers.”

“Where's the President speaking?”

“The ballroom.”

“Let's go.”

“You don't want to go in there, believe me. You won't get near him.”

“I've got to get him, Louis. It's do or die.”

“Every two minutes, people are standing up, applauding. It don't matter what he says—wars, money, moon landings. They keep jumping up and down. You'd think he was hitting fungoes off the dais.”

I hate talking to Louis after what he did to Judy. He's as cocky as ever. I pinch Gloria's arm to make her smile and be perky. You've got to get along to get ahead.

“The smart money's with Lena Home upstairs at the Empire Room,” says Louis. “She's breaking records.
Variety
said the b.o. was a socko fifty-two thousand last week.”

“The President's more impressive.”

“They say Lena wears such a tight dress they have to lift her onstage.”

“But I need the President.”

“If you saw Lena, she'd make you forget that old fart.”

“Please, Louis.”

“It's such a hassle. I can't take you through the kitchen.”

“You just said—”

“I know what I said, Walsh. But I'm taking a big risk. I'll need more than a Garland. We've got to sneak up through the garage to Peacock Alley, where they're holding the press conference. That's worth a Sinatra.”

“It's a holdup.”

“At the Waldorf, you pay for the best.”

“How do you know he'll be there?” says Gloria.

“My buddy set up the chairs,” says Sypher.

“How do we get there?”

“Frank Sinatra, Juliet Prowse, and … Ava Gardner.”

“Let's go.”

“Because of you, Otto Preminger and I are quits.”

“I'm in a hurry.”

“Frank Sinatra. Juliet Prowse. Ava Gardner. Rocky Colavito.”

“Okay.”

Louis writes out the names on the I.O.U. He makes Gloria and me sign our initials over each one.

I'm very nervous waiting outside Peacock Alley. The microphones are there, the water and cups are in place. But nobody's around. Louis has taken us through so many doors and up so many stairs that the President could've given a quick talk and gone.

The Empire Room's past the elevators. Louis points across the lobby.

“Maybe I could just sneak over and get Lena while we're waiting.”

“You stay right here, Benny Walsh.”

“This guy could be all night,” says Louis. “Lena's a pro. She knows when to stop.”

“I can't go with you, Louis.”

“Pussy-whipped,” says Louis. He heads across the lobby. The elevator bells start pinging. Doors open. Men with thick necks and dark suits rush out and line the way toward Peacock Alley. “Move back there!” one of them says to us and pushes us off our spot.

There's so much whiteness, it's hard to see. Men hold gigantic lights above the crowd. I hear cameras humming. Suddenly TV men, strapped like astronauts with mechanical equipment, are walking slowly backwards towards us.

The President's smaller than he looks on television. His color's better. In a tuxedo, his skin's very white, not gray. He walks slowly. He's used to the light, he doesn't squint. He's speaking to a young man beside him. Reporters and photographers pester him, but he keeps on talking as if they weren't in front of him and at his knees. Gloria says she likes him better on television.

The young man's whispering to him as he passes us.

“These?” the President says.

The President stops and pushes by the two broad-shouldered men who've muscled in ahead of us. They get out of his way. The President touches our shoulders. He's smiling.

“Do you like football?”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” says a photographer.

“We'd like your autograph,” Gloria says.

He grins, not the way he looks in photos. His gums are salmon-colored. “I like the Jets and the Mets.”

“Would you sign my book, Mr. President?” Gloria says.

“What a lovely comb you have in your hair, young lady. My mother had one just like it.”

He puts his arm around Gloria. He asks her name. He writes in her pad.

“Over here, Mr. President!” somebody yells.

He stays with us.

“You're great, Mr. President,” I say.

He turns to me for my pen and pad. I have the pen. But I forgot the paper!

I take Gloria's pad and turn the page to a new, white sheet.

“You don't change the game plan at half time, do you?”

“Benny Walsh, Mr. President. Sign something revealing.”

“A great captain sees an opportunity and takes it. He never looks back. He never falters.”

“You're doing a great job, sir.”

“What should I write?”

“Us Mets fans stick together. Isn't that right, Mr. President?”

“Why do you think I'm great?” he says, looking up from the pad.

“Make it like a letter.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Tomorrow, I'm off on that three-week nonstop tour of Europe you've been reading about. The Cavalcade for Community.”

“A personal postcard.”

“It's the toughest job in the world. But you know, son, it's worth the twenty-hour days.”

“To Benny—A Good Guy.”

The young man comes up behind us. “Mr. President, we've got the
Times
deadline.”

“It's great the way you make history, Mr. President.”

He hands the pad back to Gloria and waves at us. “My pleasure,” he says, and steps inside the Peacock Alley.

Gloria wants to get outside before looking at the President's autographs. We try the back exits.

“Didn't you feel funny being that close to the President, Gloria?”

“I felt at home.”

“I don't think of him having nose hairs.”

“He doesn't.”

“People always joke about the President. They wouldn't if they met him. He's a great guy. You overlook hairiness.”

“He put his arm around me.”

“Some people say it's a sign of a he-man.”

“His fingers were strong like my father's.”

“He had hair on his knuckles. Did you see that? We root for the same teams. Did you get that? If he had time to spend, he'd be interested in my autographs. I could fly to Washington to show him. Maybe when he retires …”

“He's not retiring,” Gloria says.

“When he does.”

“He's not hairy either.”

“He was wearing makeup.”

“But he's a lady's man. I could tell by the look he gave me.”

“Springer's going to pay through his Jewish nose for this one.”

“The President's the most powerful man in the world,” says Gloria.

“Don't I know it.”

“He's got everything.”

“Even free postage.”

“His hands were smooth like a boy's. His eyes were deep and blue. He was affectionate.”

“Let's look now, Gloria.”

“Can't we wait?”

“Let's do it now.”

She takes the pad out of her purse. “Let me look first. Alone.”

Gloria walks to the florist's window. I hate silences. “What's it say?”

“It's beautiful.” Gloria hands me the pad and turns back to stare at the flowers. “Poetic.”

“The signature's a little small.”

“It's the thought that counts, Benny.”

“‘To Gloria—Keep a Good Thought.' Not bad.”

“He's so generous,” says Gloria.

“It's not what I call personal.”

“I think it's intimate. Don't forget I've never seen a President before.”

“If you'd have asked for something revealing, he might have done a whole page.”

“Give it to me.” Gloria grabs the pad.

“Okay. Read mine. Surprise me.”

“‘To Benny Walsh.'”

“My whole name. Already that's historical.”

Gloria shuts the book.

“I told him to be revealing. If it's embarrassing, they'll pay even more.”

“Benny.”

“Read the rest.”

“‘To Benny Walsh.'”

“I've already heard that part. Now the good stuff.”

“That's it, Benny. He didn't sign.”

“I saw him write his name.”

“It's not here.”

“It has to be.”

Gloria shows me the pad.

“He was right in front of me, wasn't he? He put his arm on my shoulder, didn't he?”

“What's wrong, Benny?”

“I'm not excited, Gloria.”

“If you say so.”

“At least he signed your pad.”

“Yes.”

“We can get good money for it.”

“No, we can't.”

“Oh, yes. Springer said he paid the highest prices. Of course, a letter'd be better. This still makes a good gift.”

“I can't give away the President after all he's said.”

“But you were the one …”

“He stood so close. He called me Gloria. We hadn't even been properly introduced.”

“My collection's the best. You said so.”

Tears roll slowly down Gloria's face. “I'm going to be faithful.”

“But we're a team, Gloria. You helped me.”

Gloria feels her cheeks, and looks at her fingers. “My mascara. I look awful.”

“Give me the autograph, Gloria. I gave you Crawford.”

“Don't ask me, Benny.”

“Please.”

Gloria runs down the hall. She disappears through the revolving doors. I'm too tired to run. I've got to sit down.

“Get up, mister,” says the doorman, pulling me to my feet. “The Waldorf has enough trouble with protesters sittin' down. It don't need drunks.”

“I'm not drunk. I'm all right.”

“You were spread-eagled on the floor.”

“I forgot. For a moment I forgot.”

“This isn't a flophouse.”