The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

  “Want to know about real life, bitch?” he said, still raining punches and slaps on her. He reached into her neckline and ripped the silk dress open, violently, laughing his charming light laugh. He tore off her brassiere, hitting her in the face whenever she tried to rebel. After so many years Bill felt alive again. Nothing else interested him. He wasn’t interested in the consequences. He wasn’t thinking about anything. Because there wasn’t anything but this. Nothing but this moment. Nothing but himself. Her little firm breasts barely dented the air, Bill took hold of one and squeezed it, hard, as if it were an orange, as if he had to squeeze it, as if it was full of juice that he was thirsty for.

  She screamed. The blood went down the wrong way and she coughed.

  Bill laughed again; he couldn’t keep that forgotten joy inside him. Now he lifted her skirt. He ripped off her panties and garter belt, spread her thighs, unbuttoned his pants and plunged into her body, excited. “Ya want the real world?” he shouted into her face. “Here it is, bitch!” And as he thrust his member inside her, violently, raging, savoring every expression of pain and desperation from his victim — he couldn’t think of anyone but Ruth. As he reached orgasm and filled the starlet up with all his venom, he was frightened at the idea that Ruth still lived inside his blood and his head. He clamped his jaw so hard his teeth scraped, with a rage in his body that sexual violence hadn’t completely extinguished, ready to do more damage to the girl under him.

  She glanced to one side. And a new expression came into her dark eyes. A look of surprise and loss, along with the fear.

  Bill looked over and saw Arty Short, standing alone, staring at him in silence from behind one of the panels of the set. Bill stiffened his muscles, but didn’t move. He was ready to spring. He’d kill him if he had to. And maybe he should in any case. The director was looking at him with a strange expression on his face. He wasn’t moving a muscle, either. A gold bracelet dangled from his left hand. That was the only movement in the huge space.

  The two men looked at one another, unspeaking, each gaze challenging the other’s, studying each other. Bill tried to guess what the director’s first move would be, so as not to be caught off guard.

  The girl, trapped by her rapist’s weight, moved ever so slightly, whimpering.

  Then the director spoke. “Can you do that again in front of the camera?” he asked in a husky voice.

  Bill frowned. What was wrong with this situation? He was ready to kill him. But he hadn’t expected this.

  Now the director was smiling, approaching the bed.

  “Arty,” sobbed the actress, through torn lips that were already swollen.

  “Keep quiet,” said the director, still looking at Bill.

  Bill got off the bed. He buttoned his fly. He cleaned his sticky fingers on the edge of the sheet.

  “If you can do that again on camera, we’re gonna be rich,” said Arty.

  Bill stared at him silently.

  Then the director turned to his starlet and slid the gold bracelet between her breasts, very delicately. “Were you looking for this, Frida?” he asked her, smiling. “You left it in my car.” He came past Bill and picked her fur coat off the floor. The left side of the collar was stained with blood. Arty gave the coat a couple of little shakes, as if he were brushing dust off it. He came back to the girl and held out his hand to her politely: a gentleman. He helped her to stand up and put the coat on. “Button it,” he said. “That way nothing shows.” He reached into his pants pocket and took a fifty-dollar bill out of his gold money clip. He handed it to Frida. “For the taxi. And the drycleaner.” He stroked two fingers on the pale fur with its splotch of blood. He laughed. He laid both hands on her shoulders, turned her around and headed her towards the door. “Take two weeks off to get well. Call Dr. Winchell and tell him I’m paying.” He gave her a kiss on her hair and again eased her towards the exit. “And don’t say one word to anybody about what happened if you want to keep working.”

  “Arty,” mumbled the actress.

  “Good night, Frida,” said the director and turned his back on her, giving Bill an intense look. Neither of them spoke until Frida’s halting steps had stopped echoing in the hangar. As soon as they were alone, Arty’s pockmarked face widened in a friendly smile. “Come on, let’s get something to eat and talk business,” he said. He flung an arm around Bill’s shoulders. “I’m gonna make you a star.”

  42

  Manhattan, 1927

  “Ready when you are,” Karl Jarach said into the intercom.

  Christmas looked through the glass rectangle at the manager of N.Y. Broadcast, the soundman, Maria and Cyril. Christmas had asked these last two to be there. He tried to smile at them, but only managed a grimace. His lips were dry. He was tense.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Karl said again.

  Christmas nodded. He reached out and gripped the microphone. His hand was slippery with sweat.

  “Hello, New York,” he said in a tentative voice.

  He looked up. Maria was watching him anxiously, nibbling a fingernail. Cyril looked impassive but Christmas could see that his hands were clenched into fists.

  “… Yeah, hello, New York City,” he said again, with forced playfulness. “I’m the head guy in Diamond Dogs and I want to tell you a few stories about–” he stopped. “No, first I need to explain who the Diamond Dogs are. They — we — we’re a gang, and I — we — like to …” he glanced at Maria again.

  She smiled at him and nodded. But there was no excitement in her huge dark eyes. And Cyril jabbed his fists at him, like a prizefighter, to encourage him. Christmas could read his lips: “Go on! Do it!”

  “And that’s why I know a lot of secrets,” Christmas went on, awkwardly. “Secrets of the Lower East Side alleys, of Bloody Angle in Chinatown; of Brooklyn … and Blackwell’s Island and Sing Sing, because uh … I’m a tough guy, see? I’m somebody who …” he stopped again.

  He couldn’t breathe. Now that he was there, one step away from his dream, he was struggling for words, almost stammering. Now that his chance was within reach, his stomach felt painfully tight, as if it were in a clamp. His lungs were like two damp rags, wrung out and knotted. He could see the uneasiness growing in Maria’s and Cyril’s eyes. And maybe some disappointment. The same disappointment he was feeling. Disappointment and fear.

  He pushed the mike away angrily. I can’t do it, he thought.

  “Try it again,” said Karl through the intercom. “Just take it easy.”

  “When you down there with me you don’t never stop talkin’,” grumbled Cyril.

  Christmas looked up at him and laughed. It sounded forced.

  “Let’s start over,” said Karl.

  Christmas pulled the microphone closer. The cramps in his stomach and lungs showed no sign of dissolving.

  “Hi there, New York,” Christmas waited in silence for a few seconds, then stood up suddenly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jarach. I can’t do it,” he said, his head hanging, his voice thick with frustration.

  “Lemme go talk to him,” said Cyril to Karl.

  “Maria?” Karl asked.

  She nodded.

  Cyril started to go out of the sound room.

  “Wait,” Karl stopped him. “Wait …” he said, thinking. He turned to the soundman. “Douse the lights.”

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them?”

  “In the studio?”

  “In the studio and in here,” said Karl impatiently.

  “Then we won’t see a damn thing,” protested the soundman.

  “Put them OUT!” shouted Karl.

  All the lights went out. The studio sank into darkness.

  And in the dark, Karl’s voice crackled through the interphone. “One more time, Christmas.” A pause. “Play.” Another pause. “Like you did last night.”

  Christmas didn’t move. Play, he told himself. He sat back down slowly. He felt for the microphone. He breathed in and then out. One, two, three times. He closed his e
yes. And he listened to the tense silence in the studio. Like in the theater when the audience waits …

  “Raise the rag!” he cried suddenly in a coarse voice.

  “What the hell’s got into him?” the soundman muttered in the dark.

  “Quiet,” said Karl.

  Maria grabbed Cyril’s shoulder tightly.

  “Raise that rag!” Christmas shouted again. He let the echo of his cry fade away. “Listen, New York. Can you hear me in the dark?” His voice was warm, eager. “No, wait — don’t go away — I ain’t crazy.”

  “‘Raise the rag?’ That’s what they used to say a long time ago, for ‘let the curtain rise’ at plays. And now it’s time to raise the rag again everybody, ‘cause you’re gonna see a play nobody’s seen before. We’ll be takin’ a trip through the city of Frog and Toad. Yeah, that’s what they called New York back then — the place where all roads lead, if you’re a tough guy. City of cops and robbers. Frogs and toad, end of the road.”

  “C’mon on inside. This is a the-ayter on the Bowery, and the actresses on stage are so bad in every way that nobody’d ever let ’em set foot on any other stage, anywhere. Take my word for it, I know. Huh? Didja say vulgar? That’s right, pal — farce, comedians tellin’ dirty jokes, sketches about gangsters and murderers in the streets outside. Oh, and by the way — watch your wallet …” Christmas laughed softly. The pain had disappeared from his stomach. The air was coming in and out of his lungs easily now. The spotlights were on, the music rising. And he could hear the murmur of the crowd, their thoughts, what they were feeling. “The people around you are newsboys, street-sweepers, ash haulers, rag vendors, young thugs … and most of all, prostitutes and divers … right, you heard me: divers. Oh, yeah — I keep forgettin — ‘scuse me. You folks are flats; you don’t know our slang. Okay, lesson number one: A flat is … somebody like you, who don’t know the tricks of the trade … OUR trade. And a diver is … a guy who dives right into your pockets. The best pickpocket you could ever imagine. And so … look out! There, I saw him! First he lifted ya wallet … and a minute later, he got a bean from you — a bean? Naw, he ain’t gonna eat it, it’s a five dollar gold piece. I was hopin’ you’d ask. An’ hey — you, over there? Didja know ya just kissed Charlie goodbye? That’s what we call the solid gold watch ya don’t have any more. In a little while you’ll wonder what time it is, then your hand goes to the chain hangin’ across your Ben — don’t you know who that is, either? Jeez, you really are flat, aincha? Ben? That’s your vest. Anyhow, look at you, fumbling for Charlie and he’s flown away. Farewell forever. And hey, don’t bother yellin’ an’ carryin’ on an’ makin’ a scene, cuz people are just gonna laugh at you. And they’d really split their sides laughin’ if you was t’ go runnin’ after a frog or a pig — you know: a cop, because they can’t do a thing. Not even Hamlet could help. Naw, don’t look at the stage. Hamlet ain’t some dead guy in a play, he’s the chief of police!” Christmas paused for a few seconds. It was easy now. The words were rushing into his mouth even before he thought of them. It was a game now. He laughed out loud. “So ya wanna know where Charlie’s headed, ya poor chump? Charlie’s goin’ to church! Not the one where you go on Sundays, that’s ‘autumn’. Oh, an’ if we meant autumn, we’d say ‘leaf’. No, the church I’m talking about is the place where they change the marks on jewelry. So there y’ are, pal, with no Charlie but with a problem: Ya gotta go home now and explain it all to your strife. Oh, c’mon — can’t you figure that out by yourself? Give up? Ya wife. Okay. And your strife won’t believe you; she keeps callin’ you names; she says ya gave Charlie to ya ‘left-handed wife’ — that’s your girlfriend. Do I gotta spell it out for ya? Pal, ya got trouble. Or maybe you don’t have no girlfriend — Okay, I’ll buy that. But maybe ya stopped by the cathouse t’play with one of the kittens inside there? What swells might call a lady of the night, get me? And what if a vampire was t’ see you, and follow you back home? Aw, I feel sorry for ya, pal. Yer breakin’ my heart. That’s where the real trouble starts. Because — get this — a vampire, yeah, he’s gonna suck ya blood. Drain ya dry. Vampires is guys who spot a nice-lookin’ fellow like you comin’ out of a cathouse, and then they blackmail ya. If you don’t want him spillin’ the beans — this time it’s real beans — to ya strife, then he’s going to want a Ned, so there goes a ten dollar gold piece. Or maybe two beans. But what if he comes back an’ asks for a century? Have you even got a hundred bucks to your name, buddy? I wouldn’t wantcha to be so down you started spendin’ all ya bingo on hooch. But if ya really got to hit the bottle, make sure it ain’t baptized — watered down, see? — or that it ain’t blue ruin. That name oughta tell ya somethin’: ruination in a bottle, and before ya know it, aw — just look at ya — a sentimental gentleman. A drunk. Consecrated, pickled, schnockered. It goes downhill from there. I can see you sittin’ at a Cain and Abel — that’s what we call a table — and your flappers — I’m talking about your hands, pal, not them dames what cuts their hair like Louise Brooks in the movies; your flappers, like I was sayin’, startin’ t’ shuffle the devil’s books. You know — cards. Now what’s this? I see ya got your Friday face on, looking gloomy. Oh, so you was countin’ on three of a kind beatin’ two pair? Tough, cuz da other guy’s three was all aces, an’ the next thing ya know — ya even lost ya German flutes. Give up? Your boots! Then you try something cute, but you know you ain’t good at it. One second later — a canary bird in a cage. It’s almost the end. They ain’t gonna take you outa the cell till the day you go in the frame. Which is the gallows …”

  “Amazing,” Karl said softly, in the darkness of the booth.

  Cyril squeezed the hand Maria had kept on his shoulder the whole time. “That how he be down in the shop. Never quiet a minute. Like to drive me crazy,” he said proudly.

  The soundman laughed. “How the hell does he know all this stuff?” he said. “Sorry, Mr. Jarach. I got carried away.”

  “Are you recording?”

  “You bet,” said the soundman, still laughing.

  “Shh,” said Maria.

  “It’s gettin’ late, New York … It’s dark out here.” Christmas’ warm voice filled up the dark studio with its own light. “But I’m comin’ back. Right now my gang’s waitin’ for me. The Diamond Dogs: You already heard about us, right? Yeah, sure — it’s true: The word’s out and that’s how come I know all this stuff. So don’t worry, flats, I’m gonna teach ya everything you need to know. Who knows — ya might get t’ be in a gang. Keep your ears open. I’ll show you every part of Noo Yawk … I’ll take you by the hand and lead you down the dark alleys … swarmin’ with the kind of life that scares you a lot … and fascinates you even more.” He paused. “And so, from a dark place … good night, New York.”

  Silence fell.

  Good night, Ruth, thought Christmas.

  The lights came up. Through the glass Christmas could see the faces of his audience of four, all wreathed in enthusiastic smiles. Maria ran down and hugged him. Cyril came into the studio, too, rocking back and forth, proud and embarrassed, not sure what to say.

  “I have to talk to management about this,” said Karl, shaking his hand, “but you’re really … nobody’s ever done a program like this.”

  “Nobody,” reiterated Cyril feelingly.

  “How long could you go?” asked Karl.

  “Go?” said Christmas, bewildered and with a strange sensation in his body, a mixture of euphoria and melancholy, as if he needed to laugh and cry at the same time.

  “How many stories have you got?”

  Christmas pressed Maria’s hand. “A whole lifetime,” he said. “And when I finish those, I’ll start making up new ones.” He laughed.

  “You’re good,” said the soundman.

  “Thanks,” said Christmas. Now he just wanted to escape and be by himself.

  “Nobody’s ever done a program like this,” Karl said again, as if he were talking to himself.

  43

  Los Angeles
, 1927

  The girl stood in the middle of the set and looked around, confused. The shooting stage was dark. A single lamp, dangling from the overhead struts, spilled harsh light on the stained floor. The set replicated with great realism a laundry room in a tenement building. A door with scabby paint at the left of the rear wall gave access to the room. To the right of the door, three big washtubs. On the two side walls, high up, as if the laundry room were in a basement, were two long narrow windows that hid two cameras. A third camera was positioned behind the rear wall, watching the scene through an opening between the two washtubs. It looked vaguely like a drain set at eye level. Unlike normal sets, where there was never a fourth wall so that nothing impeded the filming, this set was closed off with metal fencing stretched between two iron poles. Another camera at either end, set far enough out so that they wouldn’t be picked up by the camera hidden between the two tubs. All five of the cameras were synchronized for the director’s signal, and they’d shoot the scene without any cuts. There was only going to be one take. It wasn’t going to be a scene you could repeat.

  So the cameras would all start together, each loaded with one reel of film, maybe twenty minutes’ worth. All the time they’d need.