the Last Buffoon Page 15

  “Then I’ll have something to look forward to when I’m old, won’t I?” she walks away with the money, rings it up, and brings me change. “Shall I put them in a bag?”

  “I’ll wear them. You know, they say that May and September make a delightful combination.”

  “I’ve heard September say that, but, curiously, never May.”

  “Little girl, you’re awfully sharp.”

  “Mister, I know it.” She walks off to wait on an old biddy.

  Moving from the counter, I can’t help thinking that if I were rich and famous like Norman Mailer, she’d meet me afterwards for a glass of wine, and maybe around midnight she’d let me eat her. Once again my lack of success is hindering my love life. I’d better return home immediately and go to bed early, so I can arise early tomorrow and resume work on Benson. As soon as I get the advance I’ll write an important significant novel, and then after it’s reviewed in the Time and sold to the movies, I’ll come back here and sweep the little bitch off her feet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Benson pushed open the door and walked inside the saloon. Some people were sitting at tables and some sat at the bar. They all looked at him with suspicion. He tightened his grip on the .44 and walked to the man in the cashmere coat, halfway down the bar.

  “I want to talk to you,” Benson said to him.

  The man turned around, his highball glass in hand. He had sleepy eyes and a droopy mustache. “Who’re you?”

  Benson showed his shield. “Detective Joe Benson, 21st Precinct.”

  “Whataya want?”

  “You.”

  The man laughed. “Come back later — I’m busy right now.”

  Benson pulled out his .44 and pointed it between the man’s eyes. “Let’s go, fucker.”

  The man made a motion toward his pocket, but Benson hit him hard with

  Someone is knocking at my door. I sit still and wait for them to give up and go away. More knocking. Then I hear a key turning the lock. The Puerto Rican super enters my kitchen, followed by two guys in topcoats and fedoras. I walk toward them. “What’s going on?”

  The front guy pulls a badge out of his pocket. “Police.”

  He looks just like Benson, and I’m wondering if I’ve fallen into my novel, like Alice through the looking glass. I’ve got to stop smoking so much dope.

  Johnny the super shrugs his skinny shoulders as if to say he doesn’t know what’s going on.

  “I’m Detective Jenkins,” says the front cop, “and this is Detective Burke. Are you Alexander Frapkin?”

  “I am.”

  “We’d like to talk with you.”

  My mind is malfunctioning at the speed of light. First of all, I don’t think this is a hallucination. Second, if it’s a drug bust they would’ve shown me a search warrant by now. “Why don’t you come in the living room and sit down?”

  “I gotta go,” Johnny says.

  “Thanks for helpin’ us out,” says Burke.

  Johnny leaves me and I’m without a witness, but I think I can handle it. I lead the cops into the living room. “Can I take your coats?”

  “We won’t be here that long.”

  “Have a seat.”

  They fall onto my sofa and look around at my stereo, TV set, and poster reproduction of Avalokitesvara, the Buddha of Ultimate Compassion, who’s useless as usual. I sit on the leather chair and wonder what the fuck is going on.

  Jenkins takes out a notepad. “We’re here on a complaint that you threatened to kill a Joe Greenberg. What can you tell us about that?”

  “I never threatened to kill him. He’s lying.”

  “Did you have a telephone conversation with Joe Greenberg on the morning of November 28th?”

  “I believe I might have.”

  “Do you remember what you talked about?”

  “He owes me some money, and I supposed I asked for it.”

  “And you didn’t threaten to kill him?”

  “Oh no, sir. I told him I’d turn the matter over to my lawyer.”

  “What’s your lawyer’s name?”

  “Louis Warmflash. His office is at 315 West 42nd Street.”

  “Do you own a gun, Mr. Frapkin?”

  “No.”

  Jenkins looks at Burke. They stand up.

  “Mr. Frapkin, if anything happens to Mr. Greenberg, we’ll be back.”

  They were such nice guys, so respectful of my civil rights, so reasonable. How can I portray them as fascist pigs in my books? Well, they’ve got the Policeman’s Benevolent Association to look after them, and all I’ve got is my gay lawyer, whom I’d better call without delay.

  “What is it now, Frapkin?”

  “My publisher told the cops I threatened his life, which of course is true. The cops are on their way to see you right now, so tell them what a nice gentle guy I am.”

  “My, what an exciting life you lead, Frapkin. You never know about some people. Mabra told me you’re back home. I can reach you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about inviting me over for a frankfurter sometime?”

  “Warmflash, you’re a distinguished citizen and a member of the bar. Will you please stop trying to fuck me?”

  “I’ve always been attracted to shady characters.”

  “How can you call anybody a shady character, you leather queen?”

  “Let’s you and me play drop-the-soapy in the shower sometime, Frapkin.”

  “Let’s try to bring our relationship back to the squalid professional level where it was before I found out you’re a fag, okay? Now having settled that, can you tell me how my lawsuits are proceeding against Criterion Publications?”

  “We’ve filed our papers and we’re waiting for a court date, but I wouldn’t raise my hopes too high if I were you. All the publicity has died out, and that means your books probably are selling the way they always sell, which is to say poorly. You know how it is, Frapkin. One day you’re on the bottom, and next day you’re still on the bottom. The public is fickle. They have a short memory. But I have a long cock that I’d like to place ever so gently between your buns.

  “I’m hanging up right now, Warmflash. You’re my lawyer and I’m your client, but good day.”

  I sit at my desk, my spine collapsing. I thought I was going to make some big money out of this lawsuit, but it doesn’t look that way. Shit. Fuck. Piss. Yet I can’t let this setback stop me. I must fight on, secure in the belief that in the end I shall emerge triumphant.

  I storm into the grungy office of the Housing Authority on lower Broadway. I’m wearing torn jeans and a moth-eaten topcoat saved for situations like this. “Who’s in charge here?” I scream.

  The center of the room is crammed with a hundred grumbling people sitting on chairs, and around the cubicles where complaints are taken.

  A harried social worker broad comes up to me. “May I help you?”

  “I want to speak to the person in charge here.”

  “You have a complaint against your apartment?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to sit and wait your turn.”

  “If I sit over there I’m liable to infect those people, because I’ve got a hundred and one fever. You see, there’s a broken window in my apartment and the landlord won’t fix it.” Cough, cough, cough.

  I pound my chest and follow her across the room to her cubicle, where we sit down. She has blue eyes, a mole on her chin, and her light hair is combed into a bun. “Your name please?”

  “Alexander Frapkin.”

  “Your address?”

  I take out my wallet and hand her my driver’s license.

  She writes on her form. “You said you have a broken window?”

  “In my bathroom. I called the landlord months ago, but he won’t fix it.”

  “Who’s your landlord?”

  “Murray Shapiro — you’ve probably heard of him. He’s the worst slumlord in New York. Why don’t you people put him behind bars?
”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I can’t afford a doctor.”

  “What’re you taking for your fever?”

  “Anything I can get my hands on. Have you got a pill that perhaps you could recommend?”

  She shuffles some papers. “We’ll notify Mr. Shapiro of this violation, and if he doesn’t fix it within thirty days, we’ll fix it ourselves and send him the bill.”

  “Why don’t you send an inspector over? He’d find a hundred violations and then you could issue Shapiro a subpoena.”

  “I ought to issue you a subpoena.” She throws the form on a pile. “Next!”

  The door was opened by a glamorous blonde in a negligee. Her eyes were blue and her breasts substantial. There was a mole in her chin.

  He showed his badge. “I’m Detective Benson from the 21st Precinct. Are you Miss Shapiro?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard you have some information for me.”

  “Please come in.”

  He entered her large luxurious living room, and she locked the door behind them. “Would you like a drink?”

  “I don’t drink on duty.”

  “Do you sit down on duty?”

  He walked across the room and sat on the sofa. “What’s the information?”

  She sat opposite him on a chair, and when she crossed her legs he could see she wasn’t wearing underwear. She wasn’t a real blonde either. “Actually I wanted to talk about Clarence Watkins, who you arrested last night in Harlem. I wonder if you’d consider dropping your charges against him.”

  “What’s he to you?”

  She looked him squarely in the eye. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “You’d better find another boyfriend, because he’s going away for a long time.”

  She stood up, pulled a piece of lace, and her negligee fell away. She was naked as hell and beautiful as heaven.

  Hey that’s a real nice line, Frapkin. And you didn’t even plagiarize it from anybody.

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to change your mind?”

  He reached down and unzipped his fly. “I don’t know. What can you do?”

  She walked toward him tantalizingly, dropped to her knees, and reached for his

  Rrriiinnnnnnnnnggggggg.

  “Hello.”

  “Frapkin?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Selma Sapperstein at Brunswick. We’re spinning a new cop series off Benson, so change his name to Mike Shanahan and keep going.”

  “But I’ve already got it half-finished!”

  “So you’ll only have to make half the corrections.”

  “What’ll I do about Benson’s wife?”

  “Push her off a cliff. Shanahan isn’t married.”

  “Do you realize how much extra work you’re making for me?”

  “If you don’t want to write the book, don’t. I’ve got a hundred starving writers out there who will.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Of course you’ll do it. I’ll see you when it’s finished, Frapkin. Goodbye.”

  I hang up the phone and grit my teeth. I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take. The muses put obstacles in our paths to stiffen our muscles for the steep upward climb toward success, or at least that’s what Segovia said, and I’ll try to keep it in mind as I go back and make all the fucking changes. Where is my Maxwell Perkins?

  Chapter Sixteen

  I’m sitting with Mabra and a dozen other married couples, some with lawyers, in a waiting room at the Bureau of Immigration, waiting to be interviewed. In hushed tones the lawyers rehearse their clients to make sure their phony stories jibe, but Warmflash chose not to come because he was here with me before and doesn’t want to arouse the suspicion that he and I have a racket going. Mabra and I go over our story for the last time. I had to dream it up because she has no imagination.

  We’re called into the cubicle of an official named Ms. Riley, who wears her gray hair at earlobe length and is a fussy old maid. She looks us over, and I must say we’re a handsome couple today, me in my basic blue suit, and Mabra in jewels and a wool skirt fastened with a gold safety pin. Ms. Riley asks some general questions about my application, and then requests that Mabra leave so the cross-examination of me can begin. When she’s finished with me she’ll question Mabra alone, and then compare stories. If they don’t match up, Mabra will return to Argentina, and I’ll be prosecuted.

  The cubicle is battleship gray and in a row with other cubicles where officials are popping questions. Ms. Riley looks up from the papers on her desk and smiles like a weasel about to grab a hare. “It says here you’ve been married before, Mr. Frapkin.” Her false teeth gleam in florescent lighting, and I realize that was a question.

  “I’ve been married twice before, Ms. Riley.”

  “You’re second wife was also an alien?”

  “Yes she was from Guatemala.”

  Ms. Riley’s eyes light up like a pinball machine. “You’ve married two aliens?”

  “I’m attracted to exotic women, I guess.

  “How long did your marriage to the Guatemalan last?”

  “About six months.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Her career made severe demands on our marriage. She was an actress, and actors and actresses get married and divorced all the time.”

  “But only six months — my, my.”

  “Mabra and I won’t have that problem. She’s not an actress.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a nurses’ helper at New York University Hospital.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  I look at the ceiling as if trying to remember the details. “We met last January 20th in Central Park. I recall that it was a beautiful day — the sky was clear and the sun shone brightly on newly fallen snow. I was ice skating in the Wollman Rink — it’s one of my favorite pastimes — when suddenly a girl fell down in front of me. I stopped and took her arm in an effort to help her up, and when she looked at me, I realized I was gazing into the eyes of the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in my life. That’s how I met my wife.”

  Ms. Riley’s eyes have that faraway look. “What did you say to her, Mr. Frapkin?”

  “It was something like: ‘I think I’ve found you at last.’”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said: ‘You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.’”

  “And what did you say then?”

  “I invited her to have a cup of coffee with me in the pavilion.”

  Ms. Riley moves to the edge of the chair. “And then what happened?”

  “I want this Shanahan dead,” said Duke Blackstone.

  “He’s tough,” replied Needles. “It won’t be easy.”

  “Nobody’s tougher than a bullet. Take as many of the boys as you need and gun the motherfucker down.”

  “The boys are afraid of him. He damn near beat Clarence Wilkins to death in the Bahama Bar, and he shot how many others? Six?”

  Blackstone slammed his fist on his huge mahogany desk so hard the papers on it fluttered. “What is it with you fuckin’ bums? You’re afraid of one stupid cop? If I wasn’t so busy I’d take him off myself.” He pointed his Egyptian cigarette at Needles. “Get going, and don’t come back unless it’s to tell me that the pig is dead.”

  Needles stood up and put on his big hat. “Okay, boss.”

  I lean back in the chair and look at my watch. It’s twenty minutes after midnight, and my brain is turning into oatmeal. I’ve been working on this fucking book day and night for eight days in a row. I can’t go on like this. If I don’t take some time off soon I’ll have a total physical and mental breakdown.

  Tomorrow I think I’ll get high and go to a movie, maybe splurge afterwards and have dinner in one of those macrobiotic restaurants in the East Village. I won’t think of Shanahan at all. Fuck Shanahan.

  I roll a Dalmane out of the bottle I keep on my
dresser, because I want to get knocked out fast. It’ll make me stupid tomorrow, but I’m taking the day off and it won’t matter.

  Like Frankenstein I make my way to the sink for water. The sofa is empty — Mabra hasn’t been here for two weeks. We’re just about finished, but that’s the way it goes. She’ll marry Dr. Sidney Siegel and someday I’ll be found slumped over my typewriter. The great Nijinsky once said that all writers are martyrs, and in my case that’s certainly the truth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Shanahan got out of the Plymouth. Stretching, he was about to slam the door when he heard a soft metallic snick. He dropped to the ground just as a gun exploded, and a bullet crashed into the wall behind him. He lay still. There was silence for a few seconds.

  “I got him!” somebody shouted.

  “You sure?”

  “I toldja I never miss.”

  There was a rustle of feet, and Shanahan opened one eye. From behind the cars in front of him he saw

  The front door is opening. I look and see Mabra entering the kitchen. I go out to greet her.

  “My notification came from the Immigration today,” she says. “Mr. Warmflash said I can move away now.”

  My jeweled maiden is leaving me. I drop into the leather chair.

  “I have been taking my things away little by little,” she says. “There are only a few things left.” She brings a suitcase form the closet and fills it with frilly things.

  “Are you moving in with Dr. Sidney Siegel?”

  “I am getting an apartment of my own. I have a new job, you know.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Executive assistant to a vice president of the Schaumberger Corporation.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They import shoes from all over the world. I will be in charge of Latin America.”

  “You’re really moving up in the world.”

  “I am not a dreamer like you.”

  She goes to the bedroom and finished packing, while I watch mournfully.

  “I guess that’s all,” she says, folding a skirt into the suitcase.