The Autograph Hound

by John Lahr

  “I tell everybody I meet the first time the same thing, Walsh. I’m new. I’m young. I’m here to help. My job’s a big responsibility and it needs a big man. Winning isn’t a good thing, it’s the only thing.”

  “Vince Lombardi.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “He’s signed my pad many times.”

  “We’re like that,” Mr. Vic says, crossing his fingers.

  Mr. Vic takes me by the arm and strolls me around the room. His first business deal—a Mr. Softee stand on Bruckner Boulevard. His diploma from CCNY. Mr. Vic with his arm around Jenny Grossinger. “Don’t think I don’t know what it’s like to push plates. I’ve been there. I know. In the Grossinger days I worked fifteen hours straight during the summer rush. We’d get our tips once a week in an envelope. If somebody didn’t give me the tip I deserved, I’d spit in his food every night. I know how to hate, Walsh. Fuck ’em where they breathe, right?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’ve been at The Homestead eight years. And Garcia’s trying to cheat me.”

  “Enrique Garcia?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re on the Knights of Columbus softball team. Those Puerto Ricans can pitch.”

  “I can’t work under Garcia.”

  “I should tell you, Walsh, that Garcia was bellyaching on the phone this morning. He wants you blackballed. He wants me to suspend your pin for six months.”

  “Everybody hates him.”

  “He scratches my back, Walsh. I scratch his. Understand?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve had eight good years. According to Job Descriptions of Hotels and Restaurants, you’re eligible for promotion to waiter, pantryman, cook’s apprentice, head silver man, inside steward, and baker’s helper.”

  “I like my job.”

  “Most of the people who go into restauranting, according to the 1965 Manpower Report, don’t finish high school. Of every ten dropouts, eight reported they had no guidance. I want to change this and put my people on the right track.”

  “I didn’t need guidance. The minute I left the composing room, I knew what to do. There are so many important people in the world and not enough time to get them.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Lutèce would be the best. It draws the Impossible People—Katharine Hepburn, J. Paul Getty—people who never go out, who sign for everything.”

  “There’s a recession on. Everybody’s tightening their belts,” says Mr. Vic. “Even restaurants.”

  “Autographs are better than ever.”

  “Your kind of manpower, Walsh, is easy to get.”

  “How many workers know the clients?”

  “That’s the maître d’s job.”

  “What if the maître d’s a stupid foreigner?”

  “Now, Walsh. Be reasonable.”

  “All right. What if he’s stupid?”

  “Remember the motto of the UFRW—‘Ours is not to reason why. Ours is just to serve with verve.’”

  “Those are big words.”

  “You should read our rule book. I’ve written a new introduction.”

  Mr. Vic hands me a small gray paperback. I ask him to sign it. His writing’s what I expected—very daring and fast.

  “I like you, Walsh—there’s something about you. I’m a man who plays hunches. A poker player. I love drawing to inside straights.”

  “I don’t understand …”

  “The Homestead’s a very big restaurant to our union—high visibility. Garcia really wants to scuttle you. Whether or not this bomb thing is true, it’s a blotch, Walsh. You can’t deny it—a big stain. It’s going to be uphill.”

  “Garcia knows I didn’t do anything. The police cleared me.”

  “You know that. I know that. But in this business, you’ve got to keep your own counsel. You can’t play favorites. You’ve got to please everybody.”

  “What can I do?”

  “If this were a card game and I was dealt a hand like this—I’d double the pot.”

  “I don’t gamble.”

  “You’ve got to bet big to win big. And this honcho doesn’t play for less than fifty.”

  “What if I said sixty-five?”

  “That’s good for openers. Still doesn’t send the salmon in me going upstream. At that price, I might fade.”

  “One hundred and fifty-five.”

  This number pleases Mr. Vic. He picks up his putter from the golf bag near the window and sits on the edge of his desk. “Remember the Stork, El Morocco, the Little Club, Quo Vadis? Those days are gone. There are very few up-and-coming restaurants. You’ve got to know where to cast your bait. The Yale Club. Côte Basque. Top of the Six’s. They’re big fish and hard to catch.”

  “Really?”

  “But we’re on the ground floor. Victor Monte-Sano—Mr. Vic to you—is making it all possible. The restaurant renaissance is coming.”

  “It is?”

  “I’m going to be a midtown Medici, Walsh. Nothing old-fashioned. I’ve got style. Clout. The people behind these restaurants are CCNY graduates. They know how to credit and debit, how to retail and wholesale—everything. They owe me favors. Now what’s your bid?”

  “I thought we’d stopped playing?”

  “Where’s your fighting spirit?”

  “How do you keep score?”

  “It’s all in my head. No lists.”

  “Should I just say any number?”

  “Keep it high.”

  “Two hundred and ten. How’s that?”

  “You’re falling behind the pack. Two eighty-five.”

  “I’m tired, Mr. Vic.”

  “Try again.”

  “It’s your turn.”

  “Full-husky this time, Walsh.”

  “Three hundred and fifty!”

  “Bingo!” says Mr. Vic, throwing his hands in the air. “You win.”

  “That was fun. You sure know how to enjoy yourself, Mr. Vic.”

  “There’s a little more honey to the pot. House rules.”

  “It’s my lucky day.”

  “A case of Homestead Scotch.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Three hundred and fifty covers postage and telephone calls. You understand, Walsh?”

  “I thought I won.”

  “You did. I’m in your corner at that price. I cover your bases, get you off the ropes. All it takes is a quid pro quo.”

  “Can you buy them?”

  Mr. Vic smiles and taps my sneaker with his putter. “A man with all those valuable names can afford three hundred and fifty dollars and a case of Scotch.”

  “I thought there were no strings. I thought this was sport.”

  “I’m the sport. If I don’t go to bat for you, it’s the Automat.”

  “They don’t have uniforms at the Automat. No fresh tablecloths, no real silver.”

  “Remember, Walsh, I’m getting you into a Triple-A establishment—wine cellar, salad chef—the works. You’ll keep seniority. You can get OJT—on-the-job training—if you want to move up the ladder. When you buy my services, you get your money’s worth.”

  “But three hundred and fifty dollars. That’s not fair. I said numbers, not dollars.”

  “You came for a favor, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “All favors are unfair to somebody.”

  Mr. Vic throws three golf balls on the carpet and paces off twelve feet from his coffee mug. “Think it over for a minute,” he says. “No one else’ll give you the chance of a lifetime.”

  Mr. Vic’s hair’s cut straight across in back, as sharp and slick as Warren Hull’s. I wish Mr. Vic’s paperweight would light up like Mr. Hull’s Heartline heart. Mr. Vic would drop his putter and listen to the intercom. He’d tell me to sit down to get ready for it, somebody out there in the heartland of America had heard my story and donated.

  In the ’fifties it wasn’t all dog eat dog. There were lots of shows where a person could get help, This Is Your Life, Queen fo
r a Day. If you lived in the New York area, you could walk into a TV station (you didn’t need an I.Q., just a problem). If it was big enough, they’d try and solve it. When you lived far away and wrote them, they’d send for you after checking to make sure your story was true. My story’s true.

  “Get me the phone book, Ben, I’m gonna tell them about Ralph.”

  Each time she asked, I’d say “Mom, we buried Ralph in the dog cemetery three years ago.”

  “Hand me the book,” she’d say. “He lives in my heart.”

  Mom got very excited when the Heartline would start blinking and ringing and Mr. Hull would stop his questions to pick up the phone. She’d bang the coffee table with her cane. “I knew it, I just knew it. Ben, listen to your mother, at the end of a storm is a golden sky.”

  Warren Hull was the best and the gentlest. He never asked anything in return for his favors. He never took liberties with his hands like the man on Queen for a Day. He paid attention and made you want to talk. He’d tell your story in his own words, making it sound even more dramatic and getting it just right. “In twenty years, this newspaperman turned restaurateur from Ocean Beach, New Jersey, the only child of Francine Walsh, former beautician, who says she can count the things that happened to her on one hand—grew up, had a kid, raised the kid, had the operation—has acquired nearly three thousand autographs. It’s a truly American story—signatures to success. If we help him, he can continue his search. Is that right, Benny?”

  I mention the quid pro quo. Then the telephone rings. Mr. Hull gets very excited. “Wait a minute … I think … the Heartline’s calling … It’s the Heartline from the heartland of America.” The Heartline speaks in a deep voice. “Warren, Jack and Charlie of New York’s famous ‘21’ Club are waiting at this minute outside their spectacular statuette collection of plantation darkies to welcome Benny Walsh as a fulltime employee.” I can hardly believe it. I bite my lip, but my eyes get watery. “Go ahead and cry,” Mr. Hull says.

  “But I’m so happy. Thank you, Mr. Hull.”

  “Thank you, Benny for sharing your dream with us and letting us help you to strike it rich!” The audience’s clapping. The applause meter goes to ten—as far as it can go.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Walsh?” says Mr. Vic.

  “The Heartline.”

  “The what?”

  “How’ll I get this money, Mr. Vic?”

  “All I know is this—I’m leaving for a little holiday upstate on Friday. I’d better have my pin money by then. You’ve got forty-eight hours.”

  “That’s not a very long time.”

  “You’re not a very important person,” Mr. Vic says. Then, grinning, he puts his fists up like a shadow boxer and taps me on the shoulder. “Just joshing.”

  Bonni watches Mr. Vic take me to the door. “When the going gets tough,” he says loudly with a wink, “the tough get going.”

  I get it, and wink back.

  New York Trust makes an On-the-Spot Loan fun—the waterfall behind the desks, the singer who keeps banking hours at her Steinway. The TV doesn’t advertise this. They only show a man walking in and whispering what he needs. The banker, who’s young and whose teeth are as white as Dick Powell’s, hears his problem and, with a chuckle, asks him to sign on the dotted line. The man walks out the New York Trust door with an elephant. The banker explains, “When you’re thinking big, think New York Trust.”

  The Loan Department’s the row of desks near the window with the model sailboat display.

  A man taps me on the shoulder. “Mr. Derringer will see you now.”

  “I just got here. I’m overheated. I’ll wait a few minutes.”

  “Mr. Derringer’s ready,” the man says, patting the leather seat beside the first desk in the Loan Department.

  “I’ll stand until he comes.”

  “I’m Derringer.”

  “I’d like an On-the-Spot Loan. Nothing as big as an elephant.”

  “If I want to laugh, I’ll let you know,” says Mr. Derringer. “Any means of identification?” I give him my union card. He takes it and puts the info on the application sheet.

  “You write fast.”

  “Last year I put through one thousand, three hundred, fifty-six loans. They sent me and the little lady to London. Two weeks. All expenses paid. Maybe you saw my picture in The New York Times—Top Fiduciary Fifty.”

  “I missed it.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “Three hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “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 pitc
her 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.”