the Last Buffoon Page 11

  Presently the door opens and McFarland stands there like the Sergeant of the Guards. “The president would like to speak with you.”

  I follow McFarland down the long narrow corridor and hear choruses singing Hail to the Chief, God Save the Queen, and Deutschland Uber Alles. Editors, clerks, and secretaries look at us as we march past their offices. The president of this great American corporation is actually going to permit me a consultation in his holy of holies.

  McFarland opens the door and motions for me to enter. I strut into a large rectangular office that has Picasso, Chagall, and Calder lithographs on the walls, and at one end a desk where sits an overweight man in black sideburns, green shirt, yellow tie, and coarse face. As I draw closer I see sharp canine teeth. This guy could steal your socks without taking your shoes off, stick a knife in your gut while asking how your kids are, and tell you straight-faced that black is white, up is down, and he isn’t a crook.

  McFarland closed the door and runs forward to make introductions. “Alex, this is Joe Greenberg. Joe, this is one of our best authors, Alex Frapkin, the creator and author of the Triggerman series.”

  Joe stands behind his desk and extends his hand. His sleeves are rolled up and his top shirt button undone, signifying he’s a hard-working no bullshit captain of industry. “Hello, Alex.”

  “Hiya, Joe.”

  “Have a seat.”

  I take off my hat and sit on an upholstered green leather chair in front of him, while McFarland drops on a chair to the right.

  Joe snuggles into his seat, rests his elbows on his desk, and folds his hands in front of his chin. “What’s the problem, Alex?”

  I point my thumb at McFarland. “You mean he didn’t tell you?”

  “He told me a little, but I want to hear it straight from you.”

  “You owe me a lot of money.”

  “What do you mean — we owe you a lot of money?”

  “You owe me fifteen hundred dollars for the last Triggerman, fifteen hundred for the ones I have here and maybe ten thousand in royalties on my other books. I’m not writing another word until you pay me everything.”

  Joe closes his eyes, shakes his head, looks exasperated. “Alex, I’ve got a big problem in this company,” he says confidentially. “It’s the chief accountant, who’s a very strange person. He pays the rent, he pays the salaries, he pays the printers, he pays the distributors, but for some reason I’ve never been able to fathom, he doesn’t like to pay the authors.” He holds both hands out to me. “I’m the president of this company, Alex, and even I can’t make him pay the authors.” He picks up a stack of contracts and waves them at me. “We owe advances to all these authors and I can’t him write out the checks — can you believe it?”

  “Of course I can’t believe it.”

  “I can’t believe it either, but it’s true.”

  “Why don’t you fire him?”

  “He’s my brother-in-law.”

  “Fire him anyway.”

  “How can I fire my brother-in-law?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not writing another word for Criterion until you pay me every penny you owe. I’ve already discussed this whole thing with my lawyer, who happens to be a former judge, and he’s waiting for me to give him the green light to sue not only for monies owed but for damages as well, because lack of money is ruining my health.”

  Irv looks at McFarland. “How many books of Alex’s have we published?”

  “Four Triggermans and about three in other series.”

  Joe looks back at me. “After all those books you’d leave us, Alex?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  He sighs. “To tell you the truth, I don’t blame you. I wish I had an argument but I don’t because you’re right, completely right, there are no two ways about it — you’re right. What can I do to keep you with us?”

  “Pay me.”

  He opens the top middle drawer of his desk and pulls out a check. “This is for the last Triggerman. I promise you I’ll pay you for the new Triggerman within thirty days, out of my own private checking account if necessary, and I’ll order one of my junior accountants to get to work right away figuring out your royalties so we can get completely straight with you. He’ll have to do it on the sly so the chief accountant doesn’t find out, but it’ll be done — I promise you.” He hands me the check.

  I take it, make sure the numbers are right, and slide it into the inner breast pocket of my herringbone, next to my heart.

  “Now don’t you think that shows good faith, Alex?”

  “It’s a good start.” I open my attaché case and hand him the manuscript for Miami Massacre. “That shows my good faith.”

  He lays it on his desk. “You’ll do another Triggerman for us?”

  “I’ll tell you in thirty days.”

  Back on the street, I’m as jaunty as a motherfucker, with that big fat check in my breast pocket. It’ll pay the rent and keep me in food long enough to finish my big novel, and then of course the millions will start pouring in.

  Amid the crowds on West 57th Street, I take out the check and look at the beautiful red numerals. It’s drawn on the Chase Manhattan bank two blocks away but instead of going over there and cashing it, I’ll simply deposit it in the branch of my own bank two blocks the other way.

  As I walk toward the bank, I feel confident and powerful. It’s amazing what money can do for one’s state of mind, particularly when the one in question is none other than me. People who’ve been economically comfortable all their lives have no concept whatever of how destructive poverty can be. Poverty has made me into the nasty character I am today. I’d much rather be sweet and light, believe me, but how can I be sweet and light in this jungle where my only protection against the ravenous capitalist class is the money that I don’t have?

  Chapter Nine

  I’m in my office going through my notes trying to figure out what to write next, when suddenly I remember Patti’s Honeymoon. I’d better call my English pal Geoffrey Ames right away to find out how the film project is going.

  “I’m very busy right now, Alex,” Geoffrey says, “What’s on your mind?”

  “When’re you going to start filming Patti’s Honeymoon?”

  “We decided it’d be too expensive to make.”

  “It wouldn’t be any more expensive than any other dirty movie.”

  “We’d need a whole resort hotel.”

  “In the off season you could rent one for a song.”

  “It’d still cost too much. If you can’t make these films cheaply you can’t get your money back.”

  “This is going to be a fantastic success — what’re you talking about?”

  “Nobody’ll invest in a hard-core porno with a high budget.”

  “You’ve got to sell them on the idea that this isn’t just another porno film. It’s the porno film.”

  “Come on, Alex — it’s just another dirty story.”

  “Fuck you and goodbye.”

  Crestfallen, I hang up the phone. That porno film is a great idea and I don’t care what anybody says, least of all Geoffrey. The British Empire has shrunk to a miserable damp little island because of people like him. I’ll put this one together myself.

  All I need are some pornographic actors and actresses, who are a dime a dozen, some equipment that I can rent, some technical people that I can hire, a script that I’ll write, a resort hotel that I can borrow for a few days, and some money that I don’t have.

  The obstacles are the resort hotel and the money, but maybe I can convince a hotel owner to lend me his hotel in exchange for a piece of the film. He’ll probably ask for a big piece, but there’ll be plenty of money for everybody once it gets into general release. Okay, that leaves about fifty thousand dollars that I have to raise. Wait a minute! When I was in college I worked as a waiter one summer in a Catskills hotel owned by the Weitz family, who are best known for the chain of movie theatres bearing their name, and a few of them are on 42nd
Street. All I have to do is go up to the big man’s office, lay my very strong proposition on him, and let him put up the money and his hotel. How can he turn it down, particularly since he can book the film into his own theatres and really clean up? What a great benefit it is for a writer to have been a press agent, because an ordinary writer would never know how to scheme like this.

  I dial my old office and ask for my former secretary, Ethel.

  “Hello, Ethel, this is Alexander Frapkin and although I left the office eight years ago I still consider you my secretary and there’s something I want you to do.”

  “Well hello, stranger,” she says. “How’ve you been?”

  “Pretty good. Listen, look in one of those theatre directories and tell me where the home office of the Weitz Theatre chain is, and who’s their top man.

  “Justa minute.”

  I sit and wait, planning my attack on Mister Big whoever he is.

  “Alex?”

  “I’m here.”

  “They’re at 1501 Broadway, the old Paramount Building. The president is Seymour Weitz.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  “Why don’t you come up sometime and say hello?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “I’ve read some of your books. I had no idea you were so talented.”

  “What a nice thing to say.”

  “How come you never sent me any autographed copies?”

  “I’ll send you the next one. Listen, I’ve got to get going. Thanks for the information, and keep up the faith.”

  I remain at my desk a few more moments and concoct a film budget that surely will impress Seymour Weitz with my sound business mind. Dropping the presentation into my attaché case, I dress in my very fine gray pinstripe suit, back-up hat, and raincoat. I leave my humble home and take the subway uptown.

  I’m approaching the old Paramount Building where the young Frank Sinatra knocked ’em dead thirty years ago. The theatre section is gone forever, renovated into offices, a bank, an Off-Track Betting parlor, and one of those Times Square gadget shops always having a going-out-of-business sale. The demise of the old Paramount Theatre is another sign of the decline of western civilization and will be duly noted as such by future historians.

  In the building’s lobby I peruse the register and see that Weitz Theatres, Inc. is on the fourteenth floor. I get on the elevator with a bunch of office workers and try to project the dignified knowledgeable air of Henry Kissinger. The doors close, the elevator elevates, and my guts stretch down to my knees. The elevator stops a few floors up, and my guts slam against the top of my head. It stops four more times before reaching my floor and by then I’m ready for the Emergency Vomit Team from Mount Sinai Hospital, but a girl behind a desk smiles at me and I pull myself together.

  “May I help you?” she asks.

  “Can you direct me to Seymour Weitz’s office, please?”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She picks up the phone. “Your name please?”

  “I’ll just walk back — it’s okay.” I head for the nearest corridor.

  You can’t go back there like that!”

  But I already have and am penetrating deeply into the Weitz fortifications. Straight ahead is a bright young executive having a drink at a water fountain.

  “Can you direct me to Seymour Weitz’s office please?”

  He smiles, defers, thinks I’m a big shot. “Take your first left and your next left and it’s at the end of the hall.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  I unbutton my Joe College topcoat and speed along, my chin thrust forward with determination, my eyes ablaze with confidence. Seymour Weitz will be unable to resist my barrage of sound business arguments, and soon I’ll be rich and he’ll be richer.

  I hear a shuffle of footsteps behind me. “Hey you!”

  Turning around, I see some guys in shirts and ties coming after me. I’ve got to reach Seymour before they waylay me; obviously they’ve been alerted by the receptionist. I break into a sprint, turn left at the first corner, left at the second, and ahead at the end of the corridor is a desk, a file cabinet, and the door. Behind the file cabinet I see the bleached blonde head of a woman trying to hide — she’s been warned too.

  “You can’t go in there,” she says weakly as I pounce on the doorknob.

  I twist the big brass handle and nothing happens — they’ve locked the fucking thing. Turning around, I see the herd of executives bearing down on me, their ties flying in their wake. I’m trapped like a rat but I’m a smart sonofabitch and I’ll merely talk my way into Weitz’s office.

  They stop about eight feet away, look at me, look at their leader.

  He’s a thickset guy with fat lips and a head round as a bowling ball. He holds out both his arms and his troops form a skirmish line.

  I smile at them. “Listen, I’ve got something very important that I’ve got to speak to Mr. Weitz about, and I’m sure he’ll be interested because there’s a lot of money in it for your company.”

  “He might have a gun,” one of the executives says.

  I smile even wider. “Don’t be silly. I’m a businessman just like you. I told you that I have to speak with Mr. Weitz because…”

  “Get him!”

  They all dive at the same time and I’m pressed against the door by a half-ton of squirming bodies. They grab my hands and feel, pull, and I’m hanging like a monkey, looking up at hostile faces.

  “Hey, whataya think this is? You can’t treat me this way!”

  One of them snatches my attaché case.

  “Be careful,” their leader says, “there might be a bomb in there.”

  A young executive opens my attaché case and makes a face. “There’s only papers.”

  “When Weitz finds out about this he’ll fire the whole bunch of you.”

  “You think we should call the cops, Bob?”

  “Just throw the bum out.”

  “Bum! I’m going to see my lawyer and have you arrested for assault and battery!”

  Bob looks down at me. “Mister, how’d you like to go to Bellevue this afternoon?”

  “I don’t want to go to Bellevue.”

  “Then shut up.” He stands erect. “Let’s go.”

  They carry me toward the elevator while other executives and their secretaries look from doorways and mock me, as I hang ignominiously. Beside the receptionist’s desk, Bob presses the elevator button. I look sideways at the receptionist and she glowers at me with undisguised contempt.

  “You people are making a terrible mistake,” I say with as much dignity as I can summon.

  They don’t reply, hold me tight. The elevator comes, the doors open, and Bob asks the people onboard to step to the side. They do and I’m launched into the air, fly to the back wall, hit, and slide down to the floor. My attaché case lands on my lap.

  “If we ever see you up here again,” Bob says, “We’ll press charges.”

  The door closes and the elevator drops. The other passengers look down at me, and I look up at them.

  Maybe I’d better give up on this movie.

  Chapter Ten

  I limp out of the Paramount Building and head for the subway. Von Clausewitz said that the most important quality for field command is the ability to keep a cool head and make rational decisions in the face of the most terrible reversals, and that’s what I’m trying to do right now.

  The problem with this world is there are too many people without vision. Someday I’ll connect with the right financier and there’ll be no end to the great things I’ll do.

  I slow down near a newsstand and glance at the front pages to see if anybody’s been killed today. The Post headline says, RAPIST SAYS BOOK MADE THEM DO IT. I wonder what that’s all about. I pay the man, take a paper, and see a photograph of two black guys getting booked in a police station. The story is on page three. I stand at the curb, turn to the story, and read: PAPERBACK THRILLER INSPIRES RAPIST.<
br />
  Two would-be rapists were foiled this afternoon by an alert pedestrian who saw them dragging a young secretary into the back of a van at the busy corner of 23rd Street and Park Avenue.

  The pedestrian, Miguel Torres, tried to rescue the victim, and a brawl ensued that led to the arrival of Patrolman Dennis Wheatly and Saul Ginsberg, who arrested the alleged rapists, later identified at the 31st Precinct as Clarence Watkins and Washington Jones, both giving their residence as the Monaco Hotel on Lenox Avenue in Harlem. The van was listed as stolen.

  A police spokesman said the two men made a complete confession in which they stated they got the idea for their crime from a paperback novel called “The Van Killers.” The thriller was written by Mike Dunsdale and —

  Holy Shit! That’s one of mine! My hair stands on end and I imagine the victim’s father, four uncles, eight brothers, and sixteen cousins buying guns to blow me away. The paper trembles in my hands as I read the rest of the story.

  — and published by Criterion Publications of New York City. It tells the story of two young medical students who rape and murder several young women in the rear of a van.

  The police spokesman said the incident proves that lewd and lascivious literature is a direct cause of crime and should be banned in New York City.

  The victim’s name is being withheld pending further investigation.

  I run across the street to the phone booth in Nathan’s and dial Criterion Publications.

  McFarland comes on like the Amtrak Express. “Frapkin, where are you?”

  “In a phone booth — listen, I just read the Post and — ”

  “This thing is going right through the fucking roof, Frapkin! We’ll probably sell a million copies!

  I clutch the phone with both hands. “Listen McFarland — whatever you do, don’t give the press my name and address!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because some crazy son of a bitch might try and shoot me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I know what I’m talking about. Don’t give anybody my name and address.”