the Last Buffoon
The Last Buffoon
Len Levinson
Leonard Jordan
Contents
Introduction
Copyright
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
Afterword
About the Author
Lock Up Your Daughters…
Here Comes Frapkin!
When Frapkin steps out of his fantasy phone booth, he’s Superstud — a prize-winning novelist, a soldier of fortune whose daring exploits put James Bond to shame.
In real life, Frapkin is besieged by creditors, swindled by crooks, rejected even by the women he marries.
He’s the last of the red-hot losers — a man who’s learned that every silver lining has its cloud, and that the gold at the end of the rainbow is really an IOU.
But now, things are finally looking up!
(WATCH OUT, FRAPKIN!
IT’S PROBABLY A TRAP!)
(Cover posed by professional model.)
THE LAST BUFFOON
By Len Levinson (writing as Leonard Jordan)
This book was first published by Belmont-Tower Books in 1980. This edition was first published (by arrangement with the author) in 2016 by Destroyer Books.
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional; any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons (living or dead) is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1980, 2016 by Len Levinson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews and other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover artwork designed by Ayla Elliott and © 2016 Destroyer Books.
Cover photograph by S.H. Linden.
Destroyer Books would like to thank Joe Kenney for bringing this title to our attention — check out his blog at http://glorioustrash.blogspot.com!
For more information on this title, or any of our other titles, please contact the publisher at devin@destroyerbooks.com.
Chapter One
Ripelli peered through the bushes and saw Dominick Passalaqua seated on a lounge chair beside the swimming pool. The old Mafia kingpin had a rubber-tire belly and read the Wall Street Journal, a fat black cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth. Beside him was a pretty blonde doing her nails. In cold hate Ripelli stood, tucked the butt of the submachine gun into his hip, and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked and stuttered in his hand. Blood spurted from Passalaqua’s fat gut; he howled at the searing pain. Passalaqua tried to stand, belched great gobs of blood, and then fell to the ground. Ripelli kept his finger pressed against the trigger. Passalaqua’s head shattered like a rotten watermelon, his brains flew into the air, his nose exploded down his throat. The girl screamed in terror, the palms of her hands
Riiiiinnnnnggggg.
“Hello?”
“Frapkin?”
“Yes.”
“Frank McFarland at Criterion Books. How’s the new Triggerman coming?”
“I’m working on it right now.”
“When’ll you have it done?”
“A few more days.”
“I was just talking to the artist, and he says he wants to put a helicopter on the cover. Can you write in a helicopter?”
“Do you want it taking off, landing, or just flying around?”
“Have some gangsters shooting at Ripelli from the helicopter, and have him shoot back. You’re setting it in San Francisco, aren’t you?”
“Miami.”
“I’ll tell the artist to put in some palm trees. Speak to you, Frapkin.”
“Wait a minute!”
“What’s the matter?”
“When am I going to get paid for the last Triggerman? I handed it in almost two months ago.”
“I’m the editor, not the accountant.”
“I keep calling the accountant, but for some strange reason he’s never in.”
“You’ll get paid, Frapkin — don’t worry about it.”
“That’s what I tell my landlord, but he says he’s going to throw me out on the street.”
“I’ve got a call on the other line. I’ll be speaking to you.”
The connection dies in my ear; the prick has hung up on me again. I return my phone to its cradle, chew my beard, try to pull my concentration together. McFarland and that bunch treat me like shit, but I’ll break away from them someday. My great talent cannot be held down forever.
Suddenly a helicopter swooped over the tops of the palm trees. One man sat at the controls; another pointed a machine gun out the window at Ripelli. The hoodlum opened fire, his machine gun explosions echoing across Biscayne Bay. Bullets slammed into the ground around Ripelli’s feet. He dropped to one knee, raised his machine gun, clenched his teeth, and squeezed the trigger. The windows of the helicopter shattered and the hoodlum’s face disintegrated into a pulpy red mass. Ripelli continued his murderous stream of fire as the helicopter lurched and
Riiiiinnnnnggggg.
“This is Louis Warmflash — how’re you doing?”
“I’m broke.”
“I thought so. I’ve got a client who’s going to be deported unless she can find an American husband fast. Are you interested?”
“Maybe.”
“How soon can you get here?”
“Half an hour.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I plop the vinyl hood over my typewriter and run through my dingy apartment to the bathroom, where I wash ribbon stains off my fingers, brush my teeth, and comb my graying beard and balding head. Other problem areas are my eyes, which are baggy and hint of misfortune, and my pot belly, a disgusting protuberance on my tall otherwise lean frame. I’m forty-two years old and going downhill so fast it horrifies me.
But now there’s a ray of hope — my crooked lawyer might snatch me from the jaws of disaster once again. I dash to my bedroom, which also serves as my office, and open the door to my closet, which serves as my file cabinet. I select my brown Harris Tweed jacket, brown corduroy slacks, and Humphrey Bogart trenchcoat, a genuine Burberry that cost two hundred and forty balloons at Abercrombie and Fitch. From the shelf I pull down my Borsalino fedora and genuine imported French aviator sunglasses from Sex Fifth Avenue. Old Frapkin cuts a dashing figure on the street and soon he’ll have money, which is necessary if a man his age wants to carry on affairs with beautiful young women.
I dress quickly, turn down the brim of my Borsalino all around, turn up my flappy collar, and leave my apartment.
It’s another cloudy shitty day on Christopher Street, the gay white way where I live. I head east and pass swarms of homosexuals hanging out like vampire bats in doorways, turning meaningful stares into a life style. When I become rich and famous I’m going away from here, because I have a deep-rooted secret fear that this environment, in concert with my thwarted heterosexuality, might turn me into a screaming homosexual maniac.
At Sheridan Square near the subway entrance I buy a New York Times and see on the front page that the President of Egypt has made a blatantly
anti-Semitic speech in Chicago. An eel crawls up my spine because I have another deep-rooted secret fear that such speeches will bring out the latent anti-Semitism in red-blooded Christian Americans, who’ll build crematoriums to settle the hash of New York Jews like me.
Flipping quickly to the financial pages, I look to see how my one and only stock isn’t doing. Back when I had a job I bought, on a hot insider’s tip, one hundred shares of the Amalgamated Corporation at twenty dollars a share. I had no idea what the Amalgamated Corporation did and I still don’t, but within a few weeks of my purchase the stock began to plummet to three, where it’s hovered ever since, but hope springs eternal in my hoary breast and I run my finger down the page that trembles in the autumn breeze. Amal Cp is now at two and five-eighths, down an eighth since Monday, crouching like a lion preparatory to leaping a hundred points.
Folding the newspaper under my arm, I hop down the subway steps and spot a young blonde in a black coat. She glances at me and I flash my best Robert Redford smile, but she looks away quickly. It’s all over for me — I might as well sell my cock to a rich old Arab. I continue into the depths of the Sheridan Square station, a ruined man but a great artist, on the way to selling my soul once again.
My lawyer’s office is in an old stone skyscraper on 42nd Street amid the jungle of porno movie palaces and peepshows just east of Times Square. Near the building’s entrance is one of the best-stocked porno bookstores in America, and although I promised to hurry, I must go inside to see if they still carry my great porno classic, Patti’s Honeymoon by Lancelot Wimbledon.
Strolling past the deliciously lewd window display, I open the door and step into the bright interior, full of horny guys slobbering over color photographs of naked girls getting fucked and eaten in various and sundry ways. Like a boy scout following his azimuth, I head straight for the display of books published by Bacchus Press, number one in the field, and see my great porn classic there at shoulder level. Most porno books are ordered once, eventually sold out, and forgotten, but Patti’s Honeymoon lives on forever, re-ordered again and again for almost three years, and my editor at Bacchus told me it’s required reading in a course called Sex and the Novel at a prominent Canadian university. But does Bacchus pay me royalties as stipulated by the contract I signed with them? Of course not. I’ve discussed this with my lawyer and he said if he succeeded in obtaining the royalties, he’d require most of them for his fee, in which case I’d still be broke on my ass, despite having written the porno novel of the decade. I leave the bookstore and head for his office.
His matronly secretary recognizes me but has forgotten my name. To spare her embarrassment, I remove my Borsalino and say: “I’m Alexander Frapkin and I have an appointment to see Mr. Warmflash.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Frapkin — he’s waiting for you. You know where his office is.”
I walk down a long bright corridor bordered with offices full of lawyers figuring out ways to fuck people over. Warmflash’s office is at the end of the corridor because he’s a senior partner in this high class swindle operation. I knock on his door.
“Come in.”
I open the door and enter. Louis Warmflash, balder than I and shorter, rises behind his desk, a Judas smile on his face, a Tripler suit fitting his beetle body, his right hand outstretched.
“Ah, Frapkin, how good to see you again. Take off your coat and sit down.”
I remove my Burberry and drape it on a stand, topping it with my sleek Borsalino, but leaving my shades on. With swift, lithe movements, for I’m quick as a jaguar, I move toward the nearest chair and sit down. Although I appear to be making myself comfortable, I’m ready for anything — as one must be in the office of a sleazy lawyer.
Warmflash has a wet, insinuating mouth. “So you’d like to get married again?”
“If the price is right.”
“It’s fifteen hundred dollars just like last time, half payable after the wedding, the rest when she gets her green card. And she’ll pay for the divorce and all other expenses of course.”
“Two thousand.”
His smile inverts. “You’re being greedy, Frapkin.”
“Look who’s talking. The price of everything is going up and I’ve got to live too. It costs fifty cents to ride the subway now, and have you looked at the price of movie tickets lately?”
“But two thousand dollars…”
“Your clients are loaded — they can afford it. Besides, this’ll have to be my last phony marriage, and I might as well make it pay. I don’t think I could get away with another one.”
“That’s true — the Immigration people are getting tough. They spot-check homes now, so I’m afraid you’ll have to live with her for a few months.”
“Live with her!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Forget it — I can’t write books with another person around.”
“She’ll get a job right away, so she won’t be home during the day, and maybe she won’t even sleep there too often. She’s an attractive young girl — she has boyfriends I assume.”
“Why doesn’t one of them marry her?”
“How should I know? Are you going to do it or not?”
“I’ll do it for two thousand dollars, and she’s got to pay the rent until we’re divorced.”
“Frapkin!”
“Cut the bullshit, Warmflash. A resident card is worth that to a rich broad who wants to live in this country.”
He sighs stoically, looking down at his hands crossed on his desk. He could’ve made a great career on the stage, but I guess there’s more money in the law. “All right, two thousand dollars.”
“And make sure you tell her that I’m a writer and she’s got to be quiet whenever she’s home.”
He raises his hands in the air and looks at the ceiling as if I’m asking him to perform a miracle. “I’ll tell her.”
“How soon can we get this over with?”
“We’ll have to move quickly — her tourist visa expired six months ago. Why don’t you meet her tomorrow, go down to City Hall for your marriage license, make an appointment to get married in City Hall chapel, and then go for your blood tests.”
“Tell her to drop by my place at ten in the morning. What country is this one from?”
“Argentina.” He winks. “She’s quite attractive. You might decide to stay married to her.”
“How old is she?”
“About twenty-five.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mabra Valente.”
Standing slowly, I give Warmflash a stern look because I know just how low he is — which is even lower than I am. “Make sure she understands that she’d better give me a certified check for one thousand beans immediately after the ceremony, otherwise I’ll go directly to the Bureau of Immigration and blow the whistle. And tell her if she gives me any trouble at all she’ll find herself back in Argentina so fast she’ll think somebody stuck a rocket up her ass.”
He stands and holds out his hand. “It’s good to be working with you again, Frapkin, despite your paranoia.”
“With people like you in the world, Warmflash, paranoia is a sign of mental health.”
I shake his hand, do an about-face, and split.
Four-thirty — too late to go back to the typewriter. Offices are letting out and I’ll be able to brush against beautiful young girls on the crowded sidewalks. That prospect cheers me, as does the thought of princely sums soon to come my way, for Criterion Publications owes me fifteen hundred bucks for the last Triggerman, and fifteen hundred for the one I’m writing now, and the Argentine undesirable alien will pay another two thousand. That’s five grand altogether, so I think I’ll buy some grass on credit. At the corner of 42nd Street and Seventh Avenue there’s a cheap restaurant with public telephones inside, along with junkies choking on nutritionless sandwiches. I stroll in and find a vacant phone.
“Yello,” says a deep bazonko voice.
“Jake?”
“Yeah.”
<
br /> “This is Frapkin. You holding anything good?”
“Are you holding any money, you fuckin’ deadbeat?”
“Not today, but by the end of the week I’ll have over a grand. I always pay you. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?”
“Nobody.”
“That’s not true. I happen to know that you front grass to Harry from Canarsie, for instance.”
“Harry from Canarsie has got a steady income, and you don’t.”
“But I always pay you. Jesus Christ, Jake.”
He chuckles, because he likes to break balls. He thinks people are at their best when they’re under pressure, which is bullshit, but you have to put up with this sort of thing if you want to buy good herb.
“Okay,” he says, “come on over. You got one of your books witcha by any chance?”
“Do you think I’m the New York Public Library Bookmobile?”
“The Public Library wouldn’t touch your fucked-up books, but I happen to like them. If you can’t pay for what I’ve got, at least you can bring me one of your books.”
“I’ll pick one up on the way over.”
“When will you be here?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Ring my buzzer three times before you come up.”
I walk up Broadway to 43rd Street and the big Bookmasters store that always carries the latest Alexander Frapkin pseudonymous masterpieces. Entering, I pass browsers crowded around tables where remaindered hardcovers are displayed, then enter a narrow passageway lined with paperbacks. On shelves around me are Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Hemingway, Proust, Celine — the great ones. One day I’ll take my rightful place among them, but until then I slouch to the crook book section where my execrable masterpieces in this genre can be found.
It distresses me that almost every book I’ve ever had published, and there are fourteen to date, has had on the cover a man with a gun in his hand, usually taking aim at the poor reader. Exceptions are my porno extravaganzas, which have naked women on the covers, and my Kung Fu fables, one of which is staring me in the face at this very moment: The Curse of the Green Dragon by Lin Chung, in which a Kung Fu master is shown splitting a villain’s head open with the blade of his hand. I’ll get that one for Jake, and here’s Times Square Manhunt by Emilio Sculangio, number six in my Triggerman series — I’ll pick it up too. To tell the truth, I’m rather fond of my Triggerman books. One day my biographers will note their similarity to Greek tragedy, and I’m told they sell well, particularly in bus stations in the Midwest and South, but thus far Criterion has paid no royalties, the cocksuckers.