the Last Buffoon Read online

  “But I already have.”

  “Good God Almighty!”

  “Stop worrying so much, for chrissakes. Listen, we’re arranging a nationwide publicity tour for you. When’ll you be ready to leave?”

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  I hang up the phone and run into the street to flag down a cab. I’ve got to get home fast, gather my valuables, and go into hiding before the posse gets organized. A dented cab veers toward the curb and I drive into the back seat, giving the driver my address.

  As I ride downtown I can’t help thinking of the horrible moral issue involved here: one of my books caused a crime to be committed. I always thought I was helping to prevent crime, because a would-be criminal, instead of beating someone to death for instance, could have the same fun reading about it, and not actually have to do it, but I guess I was wrong. Guilt, guilt, guilt. And I’ll probably be reincarnated as a slug next time around.

  I don’t have time to worry about that shit right now. I’ve got to calm down and try to think strategically, because my very life is in danger. It’s safe to speculate that Greenberg’s PR staff is calling all the papers, wire services, and TV stations to say that Mike Dunsdale is a pseudonym, and that the real author of The Van Killers is Alexander Frapkin who lives in Apartment 22, 123 Christopher Street. That means my pad is no longer secure but somehow I must sneak in to snatch my file of notes because if Landlord Shapiro takes the opportunity of my absence to throw all my belongings out the window, many great masterpieces will be lost to the world.

  All things considered, this has to be viewed as a serious deterioration of my already badly deteriorated situation. I feel like a submarine that’s just been hit by a depth charge. But I must keep pressing on, and look at the positive side. There must be a positive side someplace. I have about two grand to my name right now, and that ought to keep me going for awhile. I’ll call Warmflash as soon as I can and tell him to start lawsuits on all fronts.

  And if a bullet comes with my name on it, I’ll try to die like a solider.

  Back downtown, I approach my tenement from its rear through an alley on Bedford Street. I’m not taking the chance of going in the front door and possibly meeting reports, photographers, and citizens bent on vengeance. I sidestep past garbage cans and climb over a four-foot fence. Ahead, fastened to the rear of my building, is a spindly fire escape. Let’s hope it doesn’t collapse when I’m hallway up. I look about and am surrounded by the sad backs of a dozen buildings, and above the sky is a mass of phlegm. Get moving, Frapkin — you can’t afford to waste time.

  I put the handle of my attaché case in my mouth, jump up, grab the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder and begin my climb. Ahead on the first floor there’s a landing, and the rest of the way it’s a regular staircase. When I reach the first floor I take the attaché case out of my mouth and dust myself off. I’m standing next to a window and happen to look through to see Mrs. Spagnoli mopping her bedroom floor. She spots me and nearly jumps out of her housedress, but I smile and make sign language to indicate I’ve locked myself out.

  Up I go to the second floor, where Mr. Castelango, the drunkard, fully dressed in his longshoreman’s clothes, is passed out atop a white bedspread. I hear a window opening behind me and turn around. From the tenement across the way an old guy in a T-shirt yells: “Hey, whataya doin’ out dere?”

  “I live upstairs and I locked myself out!”

  On the third floor I see the unmade bed and the piano of a chick who’s an aspiring musical comedy star and has thus far repulsed about five of my advances. Continuing my climb, on the fourth floor old Mary is standing behind her open window, a toothless grin on her face. “Your wife lock you out?”

  “I locked myself out.”

  “But she’s home — I can hear her up there.”

  “I guess I didn’t ring loud enough.”

  “You two ain’t gettin’ along?”

  “Of course we’re getting along.”

  “Then how come she locked you out?”

  “I told you I locked myself out.”

  Finally I reach the landing outside the window of my office, and just then something compels me to turn around. The Japanese geisha girl, completely dressed unfortunately, is looking at me, her pretty face expressionless as the Buddha’s.

  Turning, I knock on my window, because if Mabra’s home she can admit me, and I won’t have to break in as I’d originally planned.

  Mabra comes running into the office screaming, “What’s going on here?”

  “It’s me — open up!”

  She peers through the grating. I wink reassuringly.

  She scurries out of the office, returns with her keys, and unlocks the grating. “What is going on here?”

  I crawl into my office. “Please stop screaming.”

  Her face is pale and distraught. “There have been telephone calls for you and people have been banging on the door. They say they are reporters and they want to talk to you about a rape. You have raped somebody?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What are they talking about?”

  “It’s a long story and I don’t have time to explain, but you can rest assured that I haven’t raped anybody.”

  “You are capable of that, I think so.”

  I open my attaché case, lay it flat on my desk, open the bottom drawer, pull out my folder full of precious story ideas, and lay it in the bottom of the case.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going away for a couple of weeks.”

  She crosses her arms. “So you did rape somebody, and now you are running away.”

  “That’s not true. Trust me.”

  “How can anyone trust you?”

  I touch the tip of my finger to her cute nose. “If you don’t you might find yourself back in Argentina with the synagogue burning down around you.”

  She slaps my finger away. I turn, open the top drawer, take out my bank book and check book, plus my stock certificates in case the Amalgamated Corporation goes up a hundred points, and drop them into my attaché case. Dashing to my dresser, I select some socks, underwear, and handkerchiefs. What else can I fit into that attaché case?

  There is a knock at the door.

  Mabra looks at me with the eyes of a frightened doe.

  “Well go to the kitchen together,” I tell her, “and you’ll ask who it is.”

  She shakes her head. “I do not want to get involved with your rape!”

  “First of all I didn’t rape anybody, and secondly, if you don’t help me — it’s back to Argentine for you.”

  More knocking.

  “Go ahead.”

  With a defeated look, she turns and heads for the front door, while I follow quietly. Approaching the door, she bends to the level of the peephole. “Who is it?” she asks, squinting.

  “I’m Don Singleton of United Press. Is Alexander Frapkin home?”

  “Tell him I’m not here,” I whisper.

  “He’s not here.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “Tell him I’ve gone to California and you don’t known when I’ll be back.”

  “He has gone to California and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “Do you know where he can be reached in California?”

  “Tell him I’m staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

  “He’s staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

  “May I ask who you are, ma’am?”

  “Tell him you’re subletting the apartment from me.”

  “I am subletting the apartment from you — from him — from Mr. Frapkin.”

  “Are you a friend of his?”

  “You never met me — you got the place through a real estate agent.”

  “I never met him — I got the place through a real estate agent, and I wish you would leave me alone because I have got a lot of work to do.”

  “Thank you very much, ma’am.” His footsteps shuffle down the hall.

/>   I’ve got to split before one of these wise guys realizes there’s a rear fire escape that a desperate character like me might use. Racing to my office, I look around excitedly, spot my thesaurus, and stuff it into my attaché case.

  “When are you going to tell me what is going on?”

  I grab the bottle of valiums off the bureau, twist open the cap, and roll one out. “Why don’t you take one of these?”

  “I do not need drogs.”

  “Well I do.” I toss one down my throat, cap the bottle, and throw it in the attaché case. I also throw in the Dalmanes, Dexedrine, and my plastic baggie full of Colombian buds. What else? I can’t think of anything right now. I’ve got to travel light so I guess that’ll be it. Wait a minute — the gold ring I inherited from my father — I don’t want to leave it behind because it’s pawnable. Taking it from its hiding place underneath my shirts, I squeeze it onto the third finger of my right hand, which suddenly becomes his hand, that crazy old father of mine. I close and latch my attaché case and head for the window.

  “Where are you going?”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you. If anybody comes looking for me, tell them what you just told that guy.”

  She holds her head in her hands. “I can’t believe what has been going on since I married you. I think I am going crazy.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want a valium?”

  “I do not take drogs!”

  I crawl out onto the fire escape, turn around on my hands and knees, and throw her a kiss. “Goodbye for now, my little wife. If we meet again we shall smile, and if not, then this parting is well made.” I don’t think she’s familiar enough with English to know that’s from Shakespeare.

  “But what about the immigration?”

  “Tell them I’m out of town on business.”

  With a flourish I get to my feet and commence running down the fire escape fast as I can.

  Chapter Eleven

  I slow down on Bedford Street two blocks from my apartment, and wonder where to go next. In Brazil a few years ago a secret underground organization of cops systematically executed people they considered undesirable, and maybe some New York cops of the same persuasion are combing the city for me right now — I wouldn’t put it past them. That means I can’t move into a hotel because those’ll be the first places they’ll look. But where am I going to hide?

  I know — I’ll call Jake because he’s been on the lam lots of times and knows how to go about it. I’m sure he’ll help me even though I insulted him a couple weeks ago.

  There are bars a few blocks away on the waterfront, and I should be able to find a public telephone. I make my way through darkening streets lined with warehouses and parking lots full of trucks. Gays lurk in the shadows, hoping for love to come along. Assassination squads of police goons are spreading dragnets for me.

  Ahead looms the elevated West Side Highway, closed to traffic because it’s collapsing and the city can’t afford to fix it. On the other side of the highway is the Hudson River where a huge white ocean liner is docked, lit up like a mirage in the night. The air smells of salt and oil.

  I turn the corner onto West Street and collide with a crowd of gays swarming outside a bar called The Roundup. They’re dressed like cowboys, longshoremen, motorcycle punks, and high school kids, and probably think I’m an executive gay from uptown. I don’t want to go into a gay bar so I walk uptown to the next bar, which is three blocks away, called Dodge City and also has a crowd of gays outside. I guess they’ve taken over the waterfront and if I want to make a phone call I’ll have to go into a gay bar, but that might not be a bad idea because the assassination squads would never dream of looking for me here.

  I lower the brim of my hat, throw back my shoulders, and squirm through gays to the saloon door, push it open, and walk inside. A long bar is to the left and gays are three deep in front of me; to the right is a pool table where two gays are imitating Minnesota Fats and Fast Eddie. Gays line the walls and stand around everywhere chatting, hugging, and chug-a-lugging beer out of cans. Some view me with disapproval because I left my Lone Ranger outfit home. In the far right corner a jukebox is playing rock and roll, and near it a few gays are swiveling their hips.

  I walk toward a solitary gay in a Levi jacket and Abraham Lincoln beard. “There a phone in here?”

  He points with his bottle of Bud. “In back.”

  I walk back and turn left into another large room where a bunch of gays are sitting at tables facing a stage, on which a gay with shaved head and tartar mustache is taking off his pants under a spotlight. My eyes search the room and finally come to rest on the public telephone affixed to the wall in the far corner. I walk over, drop in a dime, and dial Jake’s number.

  “Hello,” sings the happy voice of his wife.

  “Hi, Judy — this is Frapkin.”

  “Frapkin? Congratulations.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re famous! They were just talking about you on television.”

  “What did they say?”

  “That two guys read one of your books and then committed a crime.”

  “Is the pasha there?”

  “Just a minute. Jake!”

  On the stage, the naked gay turns around, bends over, and shows his asshole to the audience, which applauds appreciatively. Is he going to shit bubble gum for us?

  Jake picks up the phone. “How’re you doin’, baby?”

  “Listen — I know you’re probably mad at me for what I did at your party, but I’m having a problem and I need your advice.”

  “I’m not mad at you because I expect you to freak out from time to time. Did Judy tell you some guy from your publishing company was on television?”

  “Yes.”

  “He said they’re flooded with orders for your book. You’re gonna be rich!”

  “I’ll have to sue to get the money, and that might take years. Right now I’m afraid some law-and-order maniac might try to shoot me, and I’m looking for someplace to hide. Do you know anybody who’s got a vacant cellar?”

  “When you’re on the lam, there’s only one place to go — a whorehouse. They’ll never find you in a whorehouse.”

  “Who do you think I am — Legs Diamond? I can’t afford to live in a whorehouse.”

  “You could go to Australia. They can shoot you without a warrant there, but at least it’s clean.”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary to go all the way to Australia.”

  “I can’t think of anything else off hand, man, but don’t live in a cellar. You’re liable to turn into a mushroom.”

  “You’ve been a big help, man. I’ll speak to you later.”

  I hang up the phone and look toward the stage. Another spotlight has come on, shining over a brutish gay man wearing jeans, a checked flannel shirt, and one golden earring. He rolls up his sleeve of his right arm, then begins applying vaseline to his hand and wrist. Surely he’s not going to stick his hand up that other guy’s ass. Never mind him — where are you going to stick yourself?

  I close my eyes and try to think of who’s got a big apartment. The only big apartments my friends could afford would be uptown on the West Side. Who do I know on the West Side? There’s Danny, but he lives in a studio and he’s got that big nasty Doberman. Mark deals heavy in dope so I’d better stay away from him. Marvin is a painter and you can die from the stink of turpentine. Wait a minute! My second wife Lucinda Perez, Guatemala’s foremost actress in New York City — Guatemala’s only actress in New York City — has a big place on 160th Street and Riverdale Drive, right on the edge of Harlem. The neighborhood is as dangerous as Normandy Beach in 1944, but she’s got three bedrooms and two bathrooms that’re still under rent control, and she owes me a favor because I married her so she wouldn’t be deported. I take my little black book, find her number, and dial.

  “Hi, Lucy — this is your former husband Alexander Frapkin.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need a favor.”

/>   “What kind of favor?”

  “I’d like you to rent me a room for a month.”

  “Why should I rent you a room in my apartment where I live and receive my friends?” she asks in her clipped Spanish accent.

  “Because I need to drop out of sight for awhile. And let’s not forget that I did you a favor when you needed it. I’m the guy who married you so you wouldn’t get thrown out of this country.”

  “I paid you fifteen hundred dollars to marry me, so don’t start pretending you’re my old amigo. What have you done wrong?”

  “You haven’t been watching television tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Two guys tried to rape a girl today and when the cops got them they said one of my books made them do it.”

  “I saw that in the paper. Is it one of yours?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Why are you afraid? The pooblicity will be good for you.”

  “I’m afraid the girl’s brothers will try to shoot me, or something like that.”

  “Ah — I see.”

  “Can I hide up there for awhile?”

  “Let me think.”

  I turn to the stage and, holy shit, it looks like the gay with the earring is actually going to stick his fist up the other gay’s ass! I don’t believe it — it’s an anatomical impossibility, but the first gay is bent over with his hands on his knees and his ass thrust toward the audience, and the second gay is kneeling beside him and actually squeezing his fist up his ass. Astounded, I lean back against the wall and let my eyes bulge. The audience applauds appreciatively.

  “Where are you?” Lucy asks.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ve just thought of something. It might be a good idea for you to live here for awhile because I’m trying to make my boyfriend jealous. He’s been taking me for granted lately, and I have to do something.”

  “Does he go up there often?”

  “No. that’s why I want somebody here to make him jealous.”

  “He won’t do anything to me, will he?”

  “Don’t be a coward.”

  “When can I come over?”

  “I’ll be home for another hour, then I’m supposed to go for an audition.”