The Autograph Hound (29 page)

The air smells of soap and dust. It makes my nose twitch. The mop's slimy fingers fall on my face. I've got to stand still. Soon the bell's banging. Zambrozzi's voice is saying, “
Fai presto!
” Victor and Anthony are yelling. Everything seems normal.

You can only fool some of the people some of the time.

Buttons on. Check. Shoelaces tight. Check. Autographs in place. A-okay. Time to bail out.

On the way to the dining room, I knock on the John.

“Busy.”

I knock again.

“Go shit in a hat.”

“The jig's up, McDougal.”

“You gotta earn the crapper.”

“I'm wise to you.”

“Back off, jack-off. All you guys in the cellar. I like a good time, too, ya know. Just 'cause I'm new here, don't mean you can stick me with all the punk jobs. I ain't missin' the next show.”

“Stay right where you are.”

“You bet your sweet ass!”

The dining room looks great. The tall green trees giving shade to the tables, the paintings of Western history on our stucco walls, the waiters' cowboy hats moving among the customers who talk and take their time. It's real atmosphere. It takes you back. It makes you dream.

Station 4's filling up. A man at table 25 waves at me. “Could we have some bread and butter?”

He looks familiar. He has cuff links made of gold nuggets. He's talking to a beautiful blond, whose earrings are also made of gold nuggets. They must be a team.

I fill the glasses.

“Bread and butter.”

“That's inside. I can't go inside.”

“Bread and butter. I don't care who gets it.”

“I'll get it.”

“Good.”

“Aren't you famous? Haven't I seen you on TV?”

“Should we go somewhere else, darling?”

“The movies. That's where I know your faces.”

“Let's go.”

“Stay right here. It's station four—the longest history of service at The Homestead.”

“I don't believe this!”

“Pictures are worth a thousand words.” I take out my wallet and put three snapshots on the table.

“We're hungry.”

Only the very famous pretend not to be famous. I go to table 36 and borrow the bread. “Hey, that's ours,” says a lady who belongs in Schrafft's.

“Station four needs rolls, ma'am. There's a V.I.P. over there.”

“Who?” she says.

I hurry back to my table. The rolls are still warm. I wrap a napkin around them to hold in the heat. I put the basket on the table. “Fast, huh?”

They open the napkin. They take rolls and break them. The smell of fresh dough is sweet and strong. The first whiff's the best. They start nibbling.

“Did you like the pictures?”

“Butter.”

“Of course, in the famous crowd you two move in, you probably don't recognize Eddie Arcaro, the jockey. He's not the special supplement type. A little man with a big heart. A big money winner, too.”

“If I say I'm famous, will you leave us alone?”

“I've been at this station eight years, three months. I know famous.”

“The butter.”

“That's Levy. He was the best. Drove a Buick. Notice how jazzy our outfits were in the old days?”

“This is incredible,” says the blond.

“I swear it's true. I wouldn't lie to stars.”

Business is really picking up. Waiters bang through the doors with Zambrozzi's food on large steel trays. “Watch it! Watch it!” It's great to be outside on the floor. People excited about their meals, peeking toward the kitchen, looking at all the important people who are looking back at them. I sidestep two waiters. I grab the butter on table 36. “Hey, pick on somebody else.”

“If you don't have bread, lady, you don't need butter.”

I'm back with the butter in no time.

“What's your name?” the man asks. He takes out his pen.

“Call me twelve-sixty.”

I'm looking good.

There's screaming at the reservation table. The customers are upset. They look up from their food. Screams are what you hear in the street, not in a restaurant with atmosphere. The waiters pretend nothing has happened. The screams continue. Short squeals. Outside, anybody'd guess this was a purse snatching and go about their business. I sneak close. This could be another of Leo the Lip's tricks. He likes a lot of noise when he plays.

“
Puta!
” Garcia shouts. A woman's shoving by him. He blocks her way. Finally he grabs her and lifts her to the door.

“He's in here! I know he is!”

“He no here. Get lost.”

Garcia may be mean to me, but he's loyal to The Homestead. It's the real Garcia. He may need help. I step closer.

“There he is!” The girl's pointing over Garcia's shoulder. She's putting the finger on me. It's Gloria up to Leo's stunts.

“I got it, Benny!”

“Throw her out, Mr. Garcia. Good riddance to you, Miss Lady Lash LaRue.”

“I brought you luck.”

“Don't fall for the sweet talk, Mr. Garcia. Those are ‘Fuck Me' shoes.”

Garcia spins around. “Jesus Christ!” The news shocks him, too.

“She's trying to frame us. I'm onto her game. You're no sex maniac.”

Gloria puts her hands over her ears.

“What's the matter, you Cub kamikaze? Can't take the truth?”

Garcia stares at me. He doesn't say a word.

“She'll show you her credits. She'll try and snow you with her medical background. It's the flimflam, Garcia.”

“Walsh, you never worked here. Understand?”

“It's me. Willie. Remember? Below the waiters. Station four.”

“I count ten. You disappear.”

“You've got The Homestead hat. The maître d' spurs. The greaseball accent. But you're not Garcia. I've worked here.”

“I count five. Then I chase you out of here. One, two …”

“This clinches it, mister. Now I know you're a wooden nickel. There's no running in the dining room.”

I'm running Joe's pattern—down and out. It works like a charm. I've got my balance. I feel strong. I see an opening and bull ahead. People are screaming from the sidelines. Opponents crash and curse behind me. I've seen this before. This is how it's supposed to happen. It feels as smooth as slow motion, but it's not. Swivel-hip fake. Change pace. I'm in the clear. Run to daylight, big fella. I'm golden.

The staff's yelling. “Block him! Block him!” I shove a table in front of the kitchen door. The impostor blitzes the front wall. He crashes through.

They try to stop me. My rip-away jacket fools them. I stay on my feet. My number's still on my chest. They can tell who's running the ball.

I pick up two white footballs from the bowl. I heave them at Garcia. My bullet passes explode on his chest. I knew he was chicken. He's bleeding yellow. “Get him! Get him!” My team's too slow. They want to be nice. They don't know how to win.

“Sonofabitch!”

He corners me by the freezer. I feel something heavy in my hand. “Stand back, Mr. Big. I'm turning you over to the proper authorities. The blackmail's stopping right here.”

“You pussy, Walsh. You motherfucker.”

“Keep my mother out of this!”

“Benny, put that down!”

“I'm winning, Desi. If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen.”

“Walsh, you got your money. Get out. You're fired!”

“Nobody fires an eight-year man, jerk. They give him a watch. They call him into the Boss's office for a highball and handshake.”

“You always trouble. You and those dumb autographs.”

“You think it ends here, Mr. Frame-up. It doesn't. I got friends. They're not gonna let you get away with this.”

I show him the bag. “These people could buy you and sell you.”

“I call the cops.”

“That's been tried before. These people are above the law. They could ruin you.” I shove the bag under his nose. “I should make you eat them. But they're too good for you.”

He grabs the bag.

“Give me that back!”

“Your friends, huh?”

“I'm warning you. They're right behind you.”

“Fuck your friends!”

He rips my bag. He treats it like lettuce. He makes it into small pieces.

I can hear myself laughing.

I can see my arm moving.

Garcia opens his mouth. Red ribbons roll out.

The staff's lined up across the kitchen. They stand in silence. I wish Mom was here.

The honor guard, in blue, surrounds me. One man's writing me up.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

“He was an impostor! It was some fight. I feel on cloud nine.”

“Mr. Walsh, anything you say at this time may be held against you.”

“I want this for the record.”

“You're entitled to counsel.”

“A cleaver's for your ribs and joints. Splitting, not chopping. It's a one-stroke tool. The power's in the follow-through. The wrist.”

The man scribbles on his white pad. I watch him. He's got every word.

“Pen?”

He looks up from his writing. He hands me his ball-point.

“What's your name?”

“Sergeant Anthony Ambrosi, Homicide.”

I sign underneath my story.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Lyrics from “I Want to Take You Higher” by Sylvester Stewart used by permission of Warner Bros. Music. Copyright © 1968 by Daly City Music. All Rights Reserved.

Lyrics from “They All Laughed” used by permission of Gershwin Publishing Corporation. Copyright 1937 by Gershwin Publishing Corporation. Copyright renewed.

The author wishes to thank the Rockefeller Foundation and its Villa Serbelloni, where this novel began.

Copyright © 1972 by John Lahr

cover design by Mauricio Diaz

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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New York, NY 10014

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