The Autograph Hound Read Online Free

be Broadway, maybe Hollywood. She’s not reading the program but a book—a large one she rests on her lap. Hardback. Shiny pages.
    â€œWhere have I seen her? She’s very Joan Crawford.”
    â€œLet’s lay a drink on her. If she’s here, she swings.”
    â€œShe’s Somebody.”
    The band starts to warm up. Moonstone sits back in his seat. “There’s only one woman,” he says. “Wait for it.”
    â€œ And now straight from a record-breaking five months in Las Vegas — the Ike and Tina Turner Revue .”
    I get comfortable. I push my knees against the back of the seat.
    The Ikettes bounce into the light. White dresses with fringes wiggling with them. Legs like breadsticks.
    â€œEasier than bangin’ H, eh, Benny?”
    â€œSssh!”
    The Ikettes are going to sing golden goodies. The first’s “Under the Boardwalk.” Everybody applauds. I don’t—just mentioning the beach makes me feel sand in my shoes. The Ikettes sing about warm nights and love—but that’s only three months of the year. Somebody should tell them about the rest. Booths boarded up. Wind too strong for sand castles. Old folks talking to their dogs. Pee dripping through the cracks, stinking up the sand. No radios, no kids … just Ma by the pavilion at five yelling for me to come home.
    â€œTwist and Shout” is next. The minute they say “shout” I picture Garcia, or Mom by the staircase telling me I forgot to flush. But the Ikettes make screaming fun. They are loose, not tight. Their hair falls in front of their faces, their hands flap like wings. They get carried away, but not at you. I feel like laughing.
    â€œJust a cocktease,” says Moonstone.
    It’s no time for conversation. The Ikettes are sliding sideways—knees high, hands waving as if they held spears. “Who can do the Tinaroo?” They keep singing the question over and over. Of course they can’t do it—they’re not Tina.
    Tina jumps out from the wings. She does the dance. The Ikettes can’t touch her. It’s dangerous. Tina could hurt herself.
    She grabs the microphone. “Hi, everybody!”
    â€œI’m here, Tina. I’m here. Slip it to me—I need it!”
    â€œSit down, Moonstone!”
    â€œC’mon, you can do better than that. I’m gonna yell it one more time—Hi, everybody!”
    â€œHi, Tina.”
    She remembers me.
    She says, “We don’t do nothin’ nice ’n’ easy—we do things nice ’n’ rough.”
    The lights go down. You can hardly see the Ikettes bopping behind her. She’s in a purple glow. She sings about being a honky-tonk woman and how she needs a honky-tonk man. First she looks at Ike, then at us. It hasn’t made the charts yet, but when you’re with Tina everything feels like a smash.
    Tina gurgles into the microphone, “Shuggabugga. Shuggabugga.”
    I swear I used to say those words to myself in the dark.
    She whispers, “What you hear is what you get.”
    I can hear her nylons scrape the microphone. They’re silver. They sparkle as she sings. Her knees nudge the long stand. Her legs are all muscle. They bulge. They shine. Everything’s tight and fresh. If she were a steak, she’d be too tough to chew.
    I put my cap in my lap.
    The lights are way down. It’s better to shut your eyes and imagine Tina.
    She says, “Now, I’m gonna be serious. I’m gonna sing this for the men.”
    Everybody’s very quiet.
    Tina says, “I want you to give it to me …”
    Ike says, “Oooh, shit baby …”
    I have to see this. Flat palms working their way up the head of the mike. She never touches it. Just her sharp nails and long fingers. Her hands seem to be singing.
    Tina is
    a pony
    a panther
    a Cadillac convertible.
    She is standing bowlegged, singing—
    â€œI wanna take you