The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

“Cochrann! For Christ’s sake, Cochrann!” shouted Arty. “Don’t ruin the merchandise, fuck!”

  Bill stopped, panting. His head was turning. He had drunk too much. The girl was still on the floor, curled in the fetal position to protect herself from kicks.

  “Get out,” said Bill, his voice thick with alcohol.

  “Cochrann, what the hell’s got into you?” said Arty, pushing the blonde aside and sitting up on the bed.

  “Out!” shouted Bill. His eyes were dazed and red. He was swaying.

  The dark-haired girl got off the floor and put a hand to her mouth. It was barely bleeding. She untied the dildo and started to get dressed. So did the blonde. Arty sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. Then he sighed, stood up and got dressed.

  “Tomorrow I’m in the cutting room,” he said, opening to door. “If you want to come and take a look.”

  Bill nodded, not looking at him.

  Arty and the girls left, closing the door behind them.

  Bill was alone now. He fell back on the bed. Face in the pillow. Eyes shut. Blackness was spinning around him. And then in that dark whirlpool the image of a woman began to appear. No, a young girl. In a white dress with blue borders. A schoolgirl’s dress, and long black curls that fell to her shoulders. A girl of thirteen. Ruth. At first Bill was afraid it was one of his usual nightmares. Ruth was going to kill him this time, too. But instead the young Jewish girl smiled at him and began to take off her clothes. And her dress fell away in tatters, as if it had been ripped.

  Bill put a hand on his groin and unbuttoned his pants, still face down on the bed. He began to caress his prick.

  And as Ruth undressed little by little, Bill saw she was bleeding. But nothing happened. He didn’t get excited. Then just as he was about to take his hand away from his inert member, a buzzing came into Bill’s head, slow and constant, like a camera shutter opening and closing rhythmically, of film running through sprockets, calling him. Then he started to feel a pleasant tingling between his legs, and his pecker grew hard.

  As he touched himself, more and more frenziedly, he imagined he was shooting that first violence, that magnificent night in which he had discovered his own nature, until he burst into orgasm.

  He lay there unmoving for a few minutes, while the warm liquid that he’d drawn out of himself got sticky on his hands, belly, and the bed. Then he turned over. He reached the receiver, lifted it off the hook, and waited.

  “Yes Mr. Fennore,” said the doorman’s voice.

  “Tell the nigger woman to come up and change my sheets, Lester,” said Bill.

  “It’s not Monday, Mr. Fennore, you know that?”

  “Yeah, half a dollar, I know, Lester,” said Bill, and he hung up.

  52

  Manhattan, 1927-1928

  The heavy-set man sat down directly in front of the large radio, shoving past other people who had crowded into Lindy’s at seven thirty to listen to Diamond Dogs while eating a piece of cheesecake.

  “Hey, that’s my place,” said a voice behind him.

  “Yeah? Show me where it’s writ down,” said the big man, not looking back.

  “I don’t need no writin’ so move ya droopy ass,” the voice said again.

  “Then you must be lookin’ for trouble,” said the big man, turning back, his huge hands clenched into fists and a threatening expression on his face. But as soon as he saw who’d been talking to him, he turned pale, jumped to his feet and pulled his hat off. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lepke … I didn’t know …”

  Lepke didn’t respond, but turned to the bar. “Leo, tell this moron who it was what gave ya a radio!” he shouted at Leo Lindemann, the owner of the Broadway restaurant.

  “Who made us put it in, you mean,” said Leo’s wife.

  “Don’t complain, Clara. It doesn’t look like you’re suffering much. Tell me I’m wrong,” said Arnold Rothstein, entering at that moment, with a smile on his lips. “This place fills up at seven forty because of that radio.”

  “Oh, well, yes, I admit it, it was a good idea,” laughed Clara. “If you want cheesecake, Mr. Big, you better order it now. We’re about to run out.”

  “Yeah? Then give me a double,” said Rothstein, standing next to Lepke. The heavyset man shrank even further into his shoulders and, backing up, stumbled, and fell against a table. The crowd gathered in the restaurant — mostly Rothstein’s men — laughed.

  “Okay, now shut up,” said Rothstein, sitting down. “I want to hear the kid. Turn up the volume, Lepke.”

  “Good evening, friends, and once again, welcome to our secret broadcast,” said Karl’s voice. “You are about to hear another episode of Diamond Dogs.”

  “Shaddup!” shouted Lepke.

  Even Clara and Leo Lindemann set down the plates they were passing into the kitchen so they could listen to the broadcast.

  “… Good listening, from CKC,” Karl’s voice echoed.

  “Did I tell you I own part of this radio station, Leo?” said Rothstein.

  “About a hundred times, Mr. Big,” said Leo.

  “Yeah? Well, you better get used to it, I’m going to tell you another four hundred times. On account of I bet him five hundred bucks,” laughed Rothstein. Then he looked around the room before turning back to Lepke. “What, isn’t Gurrah coming?”

  “He got stuck in Brownsville, hadda take care o’ some business,” said Lepke. “He’ll be listenin’ to it at Martin’s. An’ if I know him, he’ll be raisin’ hell on account of the sandwiches there is so crummy.”

  “I’m talking from a dark place, New York,” came Christmas’ voice. “Because a gangster’s life ain’t all beautiful cars and dames what make ya head spin … we also got some dirty work t’ do. Work nobody wants t’ do … an’ it’s gotta be done right, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Amen to that,” said a thug with two long scars that divided his face, cutting his blind right eye in two.

  “Quiet, asshole,” said Lepke. “What would you know about doin’ a job right, huh?”

  “The story I’m gonna tell ya tonight is a sad one … cruel, too. Hey, if it scares ya too much, then you ain’t cut out for New York. Don’t just change the station, change to some other town, too, I’m tellin’ ya …” Christmas went on.

  “The kid’s good, huh?” Lepke muttered in Rothstein’s ear.

  Rothstein nodded, with a proud smile. “I bet on the right horse.”

  “… It’s a story what shows ya how fast we gotta think just t’ stay alive, just t’ keep on livin’ in a jungle. Naw, I ain’t gonna name names. I found out that a bunch o’ cops, I mean our beloved police force, lissen t’ our program … good evenin’ Captain McInery, tell your wife I said hello. And good evenin’ from CKC to Sergeant Cowley, too. Oh, is that you, District Attorney Farland? Are ya makin’ notes?”

  All the gangsters gathered at Lindy’s laughed.

  So did the ones at Martin’s, in Brownsville, where — as Lepke had foreseen — Gurrah Shapiro had just unleashed a string of curses after biting into a sandwich that wasn’t even half as good as Lindy’s enormous combo sandwich.

  The gangsters listening in the clubhouse on the Bowery laughed, and so did those at the pool parlor on Sutter Avenue.

  “All right then,” said Christmas, “One night a while back, they was a guy what needed t’ disappear … for good. Know what I’m sayin? But the guys who was supposed t’ make him disappear, they was under siege. A bad moment, when every cop in town has his eyes glued on ya. It happens. But it also happens that certain guys what talks too much still gotta disappear, an’ I mean fast. In a hurry. Right away. So whatcha gonna do? Ya gotta use ya brain. And sometimes luck gives ya a hand. Even if turns out t’ be somebody else’s bad luck. What they call a cruel fate. So, as it happens, lucky or not, the guy who’s supposed t’ make the canary bird disappear has a father. And his father’s dyin’ in his apartment, right over the garage he owns. So what’s he do? He brings the guy who’s gonna star in the vanishin’ act right in
ta the garage; he kills him — ya really don’t wanna know how; he’s got helpers, who knows, maybe I’ll tell ya some night —, yeah, he kills him, O.K.? Then he gives two bills to a kid who drives a stolen car out to a field and leaves it there, wit’ da cadaver inside. So next day, when the cops show up to grab suspect number one, they find him and his pals all kneelin’ by his fodda’s deathbed. And so the cops take off their caps, say they’re sorry, talk real soft and respectful, and the case don’t never get closed …”

  “Hey, I told him that!” Greenie exclaimed proudly, in the parlor of a brothel on Clinton Street, while every one of the prostitutes listening with him sighed, dreaming of meeting that young man with the warm voice who seemed to know their lives as no other man did.

  “What case is he talking about?” Captain Rivers of the Ninety-seventh District asked his men. “You need to find this Christmas for me.”

  “It’s a voice in the air, chief,” said his sergeant. “Where would we even start?”

  “Start with the name,” snorted the captain. “How many people in New York are gonna have a stupid name like Christmas?”

  “It’s gotta be a fake name,” said the Sergeant.

  The captain nodded distractedly. “Prob’ly. Yeah, I think so too.”

  “But we can try to–”

  “Didja know why we call cops cops?” Christmas was saying.

  “Be quiet,” said the captain, leaning towards the radio.

  “No? Think about it. Take a good look at the next one you see. He’ll be wearin’ a badge, a star, an’ it’s made outa … copper!”

  “I knew that,” said an officer.

  “Yeah? Well, ya ain’t on a quiz show with prizes, asshole,” said the captain.

  “… but back in the days of Five Points,” Christmas went on, “sometimes they called ’em leatherheads, on accounta they wore helmets made outa leather. But I bet they didn’t do much against clubs …”

  “Yeah, the pisser knows what he’s talkin’ about,” laughed Sal. He was in the living room of Cetta’s apartment, where they sat hand in hand, intent on the Radiola.

  “I want hear him,” said Cetta, giving him a little slap on the arm.

  “… Speakin’ about clubs, I just remembered somethin’ my father use ta say …” said Christmas.

  “His father? Lissen t’ da pisser, he’s fulla shit, huh?” Sal laughed.

  “Whenever he seen me out on da steps wit’ my baseball stuff,” Christmas continued, “he’d tell me, in da deepest voice in da world,‘I’m tellin’ ya, pisser. Get ridda da ball and hang onta da bat.’”

  “Hey, it was me what use ta tell him that, not his father,” laughed Sal. Then all of a sudden he grew serious. Cetta felt his muscles become hard and stiff as a stone. And after an instant he stood up and switched off the radio. “Let’s us go for a walk. This program stinks.” He strode to the door and yanked it open. “Comin’ or not?” he said crossly.

  “Is all right to feel something,” Cetta told him.

  “Yeah? You an’ your kid? A coupla dumb clucks!” Sal roared and he left, slamming the door.

  Cetta smiled and turned the radio back on, curling up on the divan where she could still feel Sal’s warmth.

  “Wanna know the real difference between an eye-talian gangster and a Jewish one?” Christmas was saying.

  Over at Wally’s Bar and Grill, an old Mafioso, who had miraculously stayed alive to a venerable age, clutched his son’s shoulder with arthritic hands. “Let’s just see if this guappo really knows us,” he said in Italian.

  His son turned laughingly towards his own son, a shambling seventeen-year-old who was cleaning his nails with a switchblade as long as his hand.

  “There’s one big difference between an Italian gangster and a Jewish one,” Christmas went on, “It’s a fact. The Italian is gonna teach his son da tricks o’ the trade, to make him a gangster same as he is …”

  “Sì, sì, say it loud, radio guappo!” laughed the old Mafioso.

  The son laughed with him. So did the grandson.

  “But the Jew, he’s gonna send his kid t’ college, so he don’t gotta make all da same mistakes he made, so he gets t’ pass for American …”

  “Che cazzo? What this buttfuck saying?” cried the old Mafioso, letting go of his son’s shoulder.

  And the son turned on his son, grabbed the knife out of his hand and slapped his face, “Startin’ tomorrow, you goin’ back to school!” he yelled, pointing a finger in his face.

  “It’s gettin’ late again. I don’t like sayin’ goodbye, ‘cause it’s lonesome here in the dark … but it’s time ta go,” said Christmas’ voice. “Good night, New York …”

  “G’night, New York!” all the gangsters gathered at Lindy’s shouted in chorus.

  “A winnin’ horse,” Rothstein’s voice rose over the others. “It was me got him started in radio. I don’t lose no bets, you know.”

  Cetta got up from the sofa. Standing by the radio, she ran her hand across its shining surface, like a caress.

  “And good night to you, too, Ruth … wherever you are,” Christmas concluded.

  Cetta turned off the radio. The tubes crackled in the sudden thick silence of the house as they cooled down.

  In a short time everyone was talking about CKC, the clandestine radio station. By now the gangsters had come to consider Diamond Dogs their own personal broadcast. And since the rumor had gone around that Rothstein had bought a radio and given it to Lindy’s, so that he could listen to Christmas, many other rival gangs and lowlife organizations, too, had put radios into clubhouses, pool rooms, speakeasies and even the odd garage where stolen cars were recycled, just so they could switch them on at seven thirty sharp and follow Diamond Dogs.

  But the same thing had happened in the poor neighborhoods of Manhattan and Brooklyn. Thanks to the stories Christmas told, ordinary people were enjoying fantasies about being tough guys, able to win themselves the freedom that society was denying them because they weren’t strong enough to fight for what they deserved. Christmas had become their voice. They were dreaming about opportunities, dreaming about transgressions. And, as they sat comfortably in front of their boxes of tubes, they thought about what it would be like to risk everything …

  Harlem, the secret bastion of the clandestine transmitter, felt itself to be the homeland of liberty. And every black in the neighborhood, whether he’d invested that initial dollar with Cyril or not, considered himself an owner of the station hidden behind the fake clock on top of the tenement on 125th Street.

  Cyril didn’t have a minute of free time and kept on building radios for everyone in the neighborhood. But the proudest of all the black fans of the station was Sister Bessie, who announced to all comers that it was she who had given the first dollar, as if that were the first brick that supported the entire enterprise.

  The newspapers of course missed no occasion to embroider on the legendary broadcasts. The city pages always mentioned something about the program, the phenomenon that was spreading across town like an oil slick.

  “This is all free advertising!” Christmas and Cyril said happily, reading the headlines. But Karl shook his head, worriedly. He didn’t say anything. He looked very thoughtful.

  Soon the police were being spurred on by the city authorities, who in turn were being pressured by the official radio stations because their seven thirty audience had fallen off dizzyingly. They had no programs that could compete, although several did try to copy Diamond Dogs. Neither the writers nor the actors had Christmas’ freshness; and, most of all, the fact that those programs were legal greatly reduced their appeal to the listening audience.

  The police never even came close to discovering CKC’s hidden studio.

  Not only because of the network of omertà that worked so perfectly in Harlem and in gangster circles, but also because the cops themselves — most of them devoted listeners to the program — didn’t try very hard.

  And so the winter passed, and spring came. T
he large broadcasters starting applying pressure again. And to condition the press, insisting on the fact that CKC was breaking the law every day.

  “We can’t keep this up forever,” said Karl one evening after the broadcast.

  “What you sayin’? We got to give up now?”

  “All I said was: We can’t keep this up forever,” Karl said again. “It’s time for us to take a leap. Now or never.”

  “Leap where?” asked Cyril.

  Christmas was sitting by himself with a frown on his face, — listening — with dark thoughts buzzing inside his head.

  “We’ve got to start having wider programming,” Karl went on. “Become a real broadcast station. Get legal. Get known. We have to do this now, or they’ll kill us. You tell him, too,” said Karl, turning to Christmas.

  Christmas avoided Karl’s gaze. “Yeah … maybe …” he muttered.

  “What do you mean, ‘maybe’?” said Karl, spreading his arms in a gesture of discouragement. “We’ve talked about this.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Christmas cried, getting abruptly to his feet. “But I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “What else do you need to know?” asked Karl.

  “Oh, fuck! I don’t know, that’s all!” Christmas shouted, and he stamped out of Sister Bessie’s apartment, slamming the door.

  “What eatin’ him?” asked Cyril.

  Karl didn’t reply; he went to the window. He saw Christmas come out of the door and hesitate on the filthy sidewalk of 125th Street.

  “What eatin’ that boy?” Cyril asked again.

  “Who the hell knows? Why don’t you ask him?” said Karl angrily. “I’m not his nursemaid. Or yours, either.”

  “Well now, partner, if you puts it like that,” said Cyril sulkily, “go an’ fuck yo’self.”

  “Okay, Cyril; sorry.” Karl sat down again. “I know how a radio station works. Right now we’re on the crest of the wave, people are still curious, but … it’s all resting on Christmas’ shoulders. And he can’t last forever.”

  Cyril picked up a microphone. “An’ so you sayin’ it comin’ to an end now?”