The Autograph Hound (3 page)

“I'd be a lead guitarist. The Feds would never find me underneath those groupies. One-night stands all over the country. I'd have money. A rep. Hard dope and fucking—what a life!”

“You couldn't be a star with that attitude.”

“I'd be great. I got rhythm and I got blues.”

The musicians take their time coming on stage. Don't they know people are waiting? They check the amplifiers.

“Tina's gonna grease your tracks, Benny. She likes to make you suffer. Know what I mean?”

Moonstone doesn't even know Tina. He keeps poking my shoulder until I turn around.

“Look at that!”

He doesn't have to point. The lady stands out like Mary Martin across a crowded room. She takes a seat a few rows behind us. She doesn't chew. She doesn't stomp the ground or clap for the show to begin. She's wearing a long dress down to her ankles, a veil hangs from her hat. Her skin seems very white, her lips very red. Her nails and toes are painted the same color. She's got to be Broadway, maybe Hollywood. She's not reading the program but a book—a large one she rests on her lap. Hardback. Shiny pages.

“Where have I seen her? She's very Joan Crawford.”

“Let's lay a drink on her. If she's here, she swings.”

“She's Somebody.”

The band starts to warm up. Moonstone sits back in his seat. “There's only one woman,” he says. “Wait for it.”

“
And now straight from a record-breaking five months in Las Vegas
—
the Ike and Tina Turner Revue
.”

I get comfortable. I push my knees against the back of the seat.

The Ikettes bounce into the light. White dresses with fringes wiggling with them. Legs like breadsticks.

“Easier than bangin' H, eh, Benny?”

“Sssh!”

The Ikettes are going to sing golden goodies. The first's “Under the Boardwalk.” Everybody applauds. I don't—just mentioning the beach makes me feel sand in my shoes. The Ikettes sing about warm nights and love—but that's only three months of the year. Somebody should tell them about the rest. Booths boarded up. Wind too strong for sand castles. Old folks talking to their dogs. Pee dripping through the cracks, stinking up the sand. No radios, no kids … just Ma by the pavilion at five yelling for me to come home.

“Twist and Shout” is next. The minute they say “shout” I picture Garcia, or Mom by the staircase telling me I forgot to flush. But the Ikettes make screaming fun. They are loose, not tight. Their hair falls in front of their faces, their hands flap like wings. They get carried away, but not at you. I feel like laughing.

“Just a cocktease,” says Moonstone.

It's no time for conversation. The Ikettes are sliding sideways—knees high, hands waving as if they held spears. “Who can do the Tinaroo?” They keep singing the question over and over. Of course they can't do it—they're not Tina.

Tina jumps out from the wings. She does the dance. The Ikettes can't touch her. It's dangerous. Tina could hurt herself.

She grabs the microphone. “Hi, everybody!”

“I'm here, Tina. I'm here. Slip it to me—I need it!”

“Sit down, Moonstone!”

“C'mon, you can do better than that. I'm gonna yell it one more time—Hi, everybody!”

“Hi, Tina.”

She remembers me.

She says, “We don't do nothin' nice 'n' easy—we do things nice 'n' rough.”

The lights go down. You can hardly see the Ikettes bopping behind her. She's in a purple glow. She sings about being a honky-tonk woman and how she needs a honky-tonk man. First she looks at Ike, then at us. It hasn't made the charts yet, but when you're with Tina everything feels like a smash.

Tina gurgles into the microphone, “Shuggabugga. Shuggabugga.”

I swear I used to say those words to myself in the dark.

She whispers, “What you hear is what you get.”

I can hear her nylons scrape the microphone. They're silver. They sparkle as she sings. Her knees nudge the long stand. Her legs are all muscle. They bulge. They shine. Everything's tight and fresh. If she were a steak, she'd be too tough to chew.

I put my cap in my lap.

The lights are way down. It's better to shut your eyes and imagine Tina.

She says, “Now, I'm gonna be serious. I'm gonna sing this for the men.”

Everybody's very quiet.

Tina says, “I want you to give it to me …”

Ike says, “Oooh, shit baby …”

I have to see this. Flat palms working their way up the head of the mike. She never touches it. Just her sharp nails and long fingers. Her hands seem to be singing.

Tina is

a pony

a panther

a Cadillac convertible.

She is standing bowlegged, singing—

“I wanna take you higher

Higher

Higher

Higher …”

She does her sidestep. She's bucking. The strobe lights start to click. Tina turns silver. You have to squint to see her. A cloud of smoke bursts from the floor.

“TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER! TINA TURNER!”

When the voice stops, the smoke has cleared.

Tina has vanished.

“Outtasight,” says Moonstone.

The audience's standing on their seats, yelling for Tina, asking for more.

This is the way it should be with the stars. You should see them. Then they should disappear.

Moonstone's on home ground. He knows a shortcut. He leads me through a small room by the side of the stage and onto the street.

I can see Ike and Tina's bus. The crowd presses close to it. One man stands on the bus's fender, holding onto the rear-view mirror for balance.

We angle in toward the stage door. Moonstone's good at running interference. He talks right into people's faces. “Did you see Bob Dylan? On the corner. Bob Fucking Dylan.”

People turn, standing on tiptoes to get a look.

We slip closer to the door.

The Fillmore stage door doesn't have your bronze Broadway polish or the lettering. It's black and rusting. The Fillmore door slides open, the Broadway stage doors open out. It's more dramatic. You see the iron staircases. You hear the vibrations of the stars hurrying down on their way to Sardi's. The doorman's at his table—the bulletin board with telegrams saying BREAK A LEG is right under your nose. The Fillmore's a letdown. There's nothing to see backstage—no sets, no stars. The stage managers are as hairy as the musicians. Sometimes the door slides open and a familiar face peeps out. The crowd pushes forward. The face disappears. Rock stars spend too much time in recording studios, they don't know how to treat their public.

Moonstone puts his head against the door and talks through a small crack. “A cat here wants Tina to do a riff on his pad for auld lang syne.”

“Tina's not seeing anybody.”

“She brought him down here. His maiden voyage. Noonan sent me.”

Moonstone waves me close. He takes my pen and pad and pushes it through the door. “Benny Walsh.”

“Is he a relation?”

Moonstone starts to tell a lie. I stop him.

“Just sing this to her—Kill me. Thrill me. Chill me with your sweet love …”

The door clamps shut.

“Tell her to say ‘To Benny.'”

The bolt thumps down on the latch.

“Didn't you want one, Moonstone?”

“I'm on vacation.”

After a few minutes, the door opens again.

“Make way.” A Hell's Angel type waves the people back. He's got my pen and pad in his hand. Moonstone grabs them back. He's learning fast.

Suddenly, a whole wedge of bodies, a human wall, rushes out of the door. Ike and Tina are in the middle. “Clear the way!”

The people won't budge. They fight to keep their places. It's hard to get a look. I see a hand reach out over the guards' leather jackets and grab at Ike's tie. There seems to be a fight. Somebody's hooting, waving Tina's scarf in the air. He shoves it into his blue jeans.

“Sypher has green fringe from Little Richard's bolero jacket. He's a hot shit.”

“Get wise, Moonstone. That stuff's worthless. I mean you can't prove it's his.”

The lights on the bus go on. The engine turns over. The man on the front fender won't get off. He's staring right over the windshield wipers at Tina. His pants slap against the flat front of the bus. He's leading the crowd. They yell, “WE WANT TINA.” The crowd rocks the bus. The driver honks his horn until the man jumps off the fender. The bus creeps down the street.

They follow it.

Both of us hear the scream. “
My book! Somebody help!
”

The crowd's a forest of elbows and ankles. Then I see her—Moonstone's well-dressed lady—on her hands and knees. She can't get her balance. Feet ram the book and kick it aside. It slides under the fire escape by the ash cans.

“Let's get out of here,” says Moonstone.

“Wait a minute.”

“Haven't you ever been in a riot? Keep on the outside of the crowd.”

I work my way over to the ash cans.

“Wanna get trampled, Benny?”

I pick up the book. I push into the crowd and help the lady up.

“Thank God you found it,” she says. “Are the pages dirty?”

“They stepped on it.”

“Thirteen eighty-five for a
Players' Guide
. Five hundred and twenty-four pages, five pictures to a page. Why won't they stop pushing?”

“C'mon, Walsh!”

“No upbringing. They treat you like Bette Davis,” she says, looking at her broken shoe. “
You're all pigs
. Not you.”

“Are you all right, ma'am?”

“All right? Of course, I'm all right. Don't I look all right?”

“The crowd's murder.”

“Look at my hands—they're scraped. And my nail! Ecch. Don't look at me.”

“I saw you at the concert.”

“These people act like animals.”

“Let's get across the street.”

She holds the book to her chest. I step in front of her to lead the way. “Don't look at me,” she says. “I'm not composed. I'm a mess.”

I put her book on the hood of a '68 GTO called “The Eliminator.”

She leans against the car and buckles her shoe. “The only Joan Crawford ‘Chase Me' shoes in New York. Took a month to find them. Three-inch heels. Open toe. None of those imitation fat heels. Stiletto, see. The real thing.”

“They don't pay much attention in a rough crowd like that.”

“You'd think they'd show some respect. Where have you seen platform shoes, cinch belts, padded shoulders, real silk stockings?”

“In the movies.”

“I've been wearing these kind of clothes fifteen years. Boutiques are just catching up with my style. Are my seams straight now?”

“Yes, ma'am. Very Joan Crawford.”

“You've got a better eye than your friend. That's because you're older. You've been around.”

“C'mon, Benny, let's split.”

“I know your type—Bette Davis fans. You applaud when she walks out on Leslie Howard in
Of Human Bondage
. So what if he had a club foot? Leslie Howard would've made an excellent husband. He was kind and talented. He had the bedside manner. The minute he looked down Bette's throat, Leslie knew it was her lungs.”

Moonstone pulls me aside. “Benny, this broad's a bomb.”

“I heard that.”

“He's just a kid, lady. He don't know how to act around grown-ups.”

“What's your name, Mr. Know-It-All?”

“Moonstone.”

“Mr. Moonstone, what do you do in case of an atomic conflict?”

“You gotta be kidding, lady.”

“One. Never look at the sight of the blast. Two. Turn your head away from the shock wave. Three. Get as close to the ground as possible. Four. Cover your head to avoid debris.”

“Can we split now?”

“The number-one rule of safety, and he doesn't know it.”

“Who cares?”

I give Moonstone the elbow. He's been hanging out with Sypher too much. You don't talk back to performers. You listen.

“The new actors have a method. They get background for their parts.”

“Do you play nurses or something?”

“Is there any place around here where a girl can make herself pretty?”

“I'm new down here, too.”

“First time?”

“It was worth it for Tina's autograph.”

“You got it?” she says.

“Uh-huh.” I show her the name.

“For your information, that's Benny Walsh. He has more autographs than anybody in New York. He's the Motown of signatures.”

“Really?”

Moonstone whispers, “She's jeffing us, Benny. If she's in movies, what's she doin' waiting for Tina to sign?”

“Lady, if you're in movies, what were you doing getting Tina's autograph?”

“Part of my research. I study film types. Tina just finished her third movie.”

“What movies have I seen you in?”

“I'm working my way up.”

“That's the only way. Color or black and white?”

“The works—close-ups, middle-long shots, take four.”

“I'm sorry, miss,” says Moonstone. “There's a mirror at the luncheonette around the corner.”

“I've been an actress nearly five years. I also sing. I'm not boring you, am I?”

“My name's Benny Walsh.”

“I'm Gloria.”

We shake on it.

Moonstone leans across the linoleum tabletop. “Take it, Benny. Go on. It's gossamer tip. The best.”

“Are you crazy? She'll be out of the Ladies any second.”

“I'm telling you she's hot to trot. She's wide open.”

“You said you were sorry.”

“Starlets, man. They get to the top on their backs. That's the rules.”