The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

  It didn’t even say that Christmas had been his only friend.

  And in that lonely corner of Mt. Zion Cemetery, there was nobody besides his father and mother, standing motionless in front of the freshly turned earth. Like two pillars of salt, sweating in their winter clothes. Nobody else. No one to mourn Joey. No one who was a close enough friend to Abe-the-Schmo and his wife to give them solidarity. There were only the three of them.

  “He was … a boy,” Christmas began, because he didn’t want Joey to go without even a word. But then he stopped, uncertain about how to continue.

  Joey’s mother turned to look at him. Just for an instant. Without either reproof or hope. Then she went back to staring at the earth that covered the coffin and the grave.

  He was a boy, thought Christmas, walking way. Because there wasn’t much else to say.

  Then, into that silence without oblivion, there came a sound, sudden and uncontrolled. Off-key. Like a stifled whimpering.

  Christmas turned back and saw that Abe-the-Schmo’s shoulders were sagging, shaken by another brief, almost ridiculous sob that made his yarmulke fall to the ground. His wife bent down and picked it up, and rearranged it on her husband’s head. Then Abe-the-Schmo straightened his shoulders, and the couple was once again transformed into two pillars of salt, gazing wordlessly at the mound of dirt.

  54

  Los Angeles, 1928

  Arty kept telling him he should buy a house like his. He said it would be an investment for his old age. And he said those little houses in rows that they were building downtown were a bargain.

  But Bill wasn’t thinking about old age. He couldn’t imagine himself old. He didn’t know why not, but that’s how it was. Out here in Hollywood, Arty Short was probably the only person who did think about getting old. Bill was pretty sure that not even the old folks thought about growing old. And so he would never buy one of those sad little identical houses with a hanky-sized garden in front that meant you’d have to say something to the neighbor whenever you took out the garbage, and another green hanky in the back, so you’d also have to smell their Sunday barbecues. No, that wasn’t the life for Bill. That wasn’t the life he was expecting from Hollywood.

  Ever since he’d become co-producer of The Punisher films, Bill’s earnings had increased so much it made his head spin. “So you wanted t’ hold on t’ all this, huh?” he said after splitting the take with Arty. After expenses, each of them had almost four thousand dollars. And then the word went around that there was a new kind of pornography: violent, real; and their client base expanded. Now they came from Texas, Canada, New York. Even from Miami. Their second film brought them seven thousand bucks apiece. The new clients ended up buying prints of the first movie, too. So another three thousand each was added to the original four thousand. By the time of the third film, the waiting list was so huge that when it went on the market, Bill and Arty split twenty-one thousand dollars in just one month. Ten thousand five hundred each. These were figures that made you dizzy. And from one film to the next, the profits kept growing. Bill and Arty had made seven films by now — the last one had taken in a good thirty-two thousand dollars — and they were always invited to the right parties. The Punisher was a star. Everybody wanted to know who he was. So everybody wooed the two producers. But neither of them had ever revealed his identity.

  Being around Hollywood people, Bill realized that The Punisher did the same things as they did. After Mae Murray’s memoirs came out, everyone in town echoed her nickname for Erich von Stroheim: “that dirty little Hun.” And how different was Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, who had killed Virginia Rappe at the St. Francis Hotel by raping her with a bottle? Hollywood was a rape machine. Weren’t the illusions they created and destroyed in the blink of an eye all rapes? That’s why The Punisher was such a big hit. He incarnated the spirit of Hollywood and the men who ran it. Physically, on the screen, The Punisher was doing what all the rest of them were doing by other means.

  Bill got proof of this when Moll Daniel, one of the girls he’d raped in the fifth film of the new Punisher series, tried to blackmail them. The other girls had all kept quiet. The five hundred bucks Bill and Arty gave them was a nice chunk of money these days. Their promise to recommend them to other producers and directors did the rest. The illusion that powerful men would watch them in those moments of degradation on film and, on the basis of such a performance, go on to offer them a role was typical of the dreams that had brought them to Hollywood. Then there was the shame. But Moll wanted more than promises and illusions. And she wasn’t ashamed. In his way, Bill admired her. But Arty was terrified. So they went to see one of their clients, a well-known producer whom Arty had known for years and who dealt only with him. The producer was a big fan of The Punisher’s violence, and promised to take care of everything. He’d give Moll a part and he’d sleep with her, because he’d always had a weakness for redheads, he said. But in exchange he wanted to know the identity of The Punisher. Arty was ready to spill everything when Bill shoved him out of the way, grabbed the producer’s shoulder, and led him to a corner of the office. He whispered something in his ear. The producer raised his head and stared at Bill in silence. Then he nodded thoughtfully.

  “What did you tell him?” Arty asked as soon as they were out of the office.

  Bill leaned over and said softly into Arty’s ear, “Ya wanna know who The Punisher is? He’s you … Yeah, you’re The Punisher. Hurt her. She’s gonna like it.” And from that day on, the well-known producer wanted to deal only with Bill.

  That’s how Hollywood was. Arty didn’t understand shit. He was nothing but a pimp who knew about cameras.

  Just to show how little he knew about Hollywood, now, Arty was telling Bill to buy one of those crummy little houses, like some bank clerk. No, Arty didn’t know how to live, Bill thought that day, sprawled next to the pool. He’d rented a villa in Beverly Hills. The pool wasn’t a big one, and neither was the garden. It wasn’t even the best part of Beverly Hills. But he’d come a long way from the Palermo Courts. And instead of the Studebaker, now Bill was driving a brand new LaSalle. He’d bought it after he read that a year ago Willard Rader had tested the V-8 engine on the General Motors proving track in Milford, where he’d set a record of ninety-five miles an hour, including fuel stops, over nine hundred and fifty-two miles. Only two miles short of the average set by racecars at Indianapolis that same year. It was one hell of a car. Arty said it cost a fortune, that it was silly to throw that much money into buying a car. But Arty, he didn’t know how to live. Bill did. So he went ahead and bought it, and whenever he could, he would go speeding down the Coast Highway. There was nothing that felt as good as rushing at crazy speeds down the asphalt, with the ocean on your right, heading for San Diego.

  “I’m fuckin’ rich,” Bill told himself, stretching out on the lounge chair next to the pool, while the California sun dried his hair after his morning swim. “Hoor,” he said, glaring at the cover of “Photoplay,” an issue dedicated to Gloria Swanson. She was on that year’s Oscar list for best actress in her role as Sadie Thompson. He could put up with rich guys. But rich women, never. “Stinkin’ hoor,” he said again, and spat on the magazine that lay on the lacquer table next to him. Then he laughed, put on his robe, and decided to go for a ride. His LaSalle was gleaming near the gate.

  And then he saw them.

  Two uniformed cops had parked their patrol car in front of the entrance. They got out of the car, one of them holding a sheet of paper. The other one took a set of handcuffs off his belt. Bill shrank back behind a corner of the house. He saw them ring the doorbell. One, two, three times. A piercing sound that came into Bill’s ears like a shriek. Then one of the cops — the one with the handcuffs — glanced around. “Lady, do you know this Cochrann Fennore?” he asked a woman going into the house across the street.

  “Who?” asked the woman.

  “The fella that lives here,” said the cop, pointing at Bill’s house. The other cop kept on peering
through the wrought-iron gate and ringing the bell.

  “Oh, yea. Him. He drives like a madman,” grumbled the woman. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “No, lady, we’re not interested in his drivin’.”

  “What’s he done?” the woman asked.

  “Well, when he lived back East a few years ago, he did somethin’ pretty bad. The district attorney’s already booked him a vacation in San Quentin,” the policeman laughed.

  “I never liked him,” said the woman resentfully.

  “Don’t worry, he won’t be around anymore.”

  “Good,” said the woman, disappearing into her house.

  They found me, thought Bill, his heart hammering. And all at once he saw Ruth’s white dress with blue ruffles, the emerald ring, the clippers squeezing her finger, and the fish knife slicing his father’s hand and sinking between his mother’s ribs. He saw their dead bodies and the puddle of blood spreading over the floor, and a fish scale floating in the blood. He heard the last breath of the Irish boy whose identity and money he’d stolen, and he saw the rosy face of his fiancée looking for him, calling out his name on the immigration boat. And in an instant, faster than his LaSalle could go, Bill retraced his life of violence, rapes, and abuse. It’s over, he thought, gripped by panic. All the blood he’d shed, all the tears he’d caused, poured through his brain, while his eardrums ached from the insistent ringing of the doorbell and the cop’s loud voice shouting, “Open up, Fennore! Police!”

  Terrified, Bill slipped into the house through an open window at the back. He flung on his clothes and reached the wooden gate at the back of the property. He opened it and looked around, and then he started to run. He ran. He ran. Until he fell to the ground, gasping for breath. He hid himself behind a bush and tried to breathe. But everything around him was colored red. Blood was coming out of the ground, the dry branches. The sky itself had turned red. He leaped to his feet and began to run again. Trying to escape from himself more than the police. And as he ran — not knowing where he was or where he was going — he started to hear a whirring in his head, and it was growing louder. He covered his ears and screamed to cover the sound. He stumbled and fell, and rolled down a slope. Branches lashed him, ripping his face and his hands. Halfway down the slope a tree trunk stopped his fall. The impact bent him in two. He tried to stand. His legs gave way and he slipped. He started rolling again. He managed to grab the root of a tree. He was panting. But the whirring still filled his ears. He saw a sudden explosion of brilliant colors, and then only blackness.

  In that black place, the whirring started up again. Something familiar. The camera was rolling. And there he was, at the center of the set. Sitting in a stiff uncomfortable chair. He tried to move. His arms and legs were fastened with leather straps. He could hear voices behind him. He tried to turn around but something was blocking his head and chin, too. And from a chilly cap, fastened to the top of his skull, an even colder liquid flowed. Water. Pure water. The best conductor of electricity. He was in the electric chair. Ruth appeared. Dressed like a prison guard. She came over to him and caressed his face. Her hand was missing a finger. Blood spurted out of the wound. Ruth gazed at him adoringly. “I love you,” she whispered. Just then a director — was it Erich von Stroheim? — put the megaphone to his mouth and shouted “Action!” Ruth’s expression changed. She looked at him with eyes cold as ice, and with her bleeding hand she switched on the current. Bill felt the shock all through his body, while Ruth laughed and Von Stroheim kept on shouting “Action!” The ten thousand watt spotlights lit up the set, blinding him, and the camera whirred in the background, filming his death.

  Bill screamed, and his eyes flew open.

  It was night. He still clung to the tree root. Everything was dark. Not a single light anywhere. He didn’t know where he was.

  He was afraid. Like when he was little, and his father was coming after him with his belt wrapped around his hand. A fear that took his breath away, that chilled his hands, paralyzed his legs. Like always when it was nighttime.

  Then slowly tears came to wet his eyes and then to flow, mixing with the dirt on his face and turning it to mud.

  All night long Bill hung on to the root, his feet braced against a stone, trembling, alone with the weight of his own nature. Alone with the horror to which he had abandoned himself for nearly six years. And in that darkness, he was lost. He couldn’t find the path. The images of the past, the time that was fleeing — everything got mixed up, topsy-turvy. The pain of his childhood; the depravity of his youth. New York and Los Angles; his victims and ambitions; his poverty and his wealth; the forty-dollar jitney where he’d raped Ruth and his speedy LaSalle; his own face and the mask of The Punisher; his fear of his father and his dread of the electric chair; dreams, nightmares; all spawning a single swamp full of quicksand, dark and frightful, sucking him toward a darkness even darker than the night that seemed to be unending. The dawn would bring no light, leaving him instead stuck in the slimy blackness that was all he had left. His legacy.

  Bill had flung open the doors of his madness.

  55

  Manhattan, 1928

  “This is a crappy microphone,” Christmas snapped, sitting in CKC’s secret studio and sneaking nervous looks at his watch.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Cyril.

  Christmas didn’t answer. He looked at his watch again. seven twenty. Just ten minutes till airtime. And the guest still hadn’t shown up. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Cyril and Karl’s faces when he showed up. But his pleasure in imagining the scene had been spoiled by the mixture of spitefulness and disbelief he’d been brooding over ever since he’d found out about Karl’s treachery. Karl the traitor. Karl the bastard. But his hour had come. Christmas had nourished his anger for a whole week without letting a single word slip out. But now the time had come to settle things, to call him to account. He yanked out the microphone and began scrabbling through a drawer.

  Karl looked at him, frowning.

  “What you lookin’ fo’?” Cyril asked patiently.

  Christmas didn’t bother to answer. He swore softly, and threw some plugs and wiring down. Then he looked at his watch again.

  “What do this microphone got wrong wit’ it?” asked Cyril, examining it.

  Christmas turned back and grabbed it out of his hand. “It’s just crap, it’s not worth a dime,” he spat out.

  “He’s right, Cyril. Only the best is good enough for a big star like him,” said Karl sarcastically.

  Christmas gave him a dark look.

  Karl met his stare, then turned to the window and moved the black cloth aside to lookout.

  “Close that,” Christmas ordered, “You know the light bothers me.”

  “A lot of things seem to bother you these days,” said Karl, replacing the blackout curtain.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Christmas said darkly. “And you’re number one on the list.”

  “What the hail got into you?” said Cyril, standing up and standing between the two of them. “We got less than ten minutes. Let’s try an’ calm down,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Now you famous, now you got to carry on like high-sterical womenfolks?” Cyril shook his head, laughing.

  “When some kid comes up from nothing it doesn’t take much for him to get a swelled head,” said Karl, staring at Christmas.

  “And when some guy licks ass long enough, it doesn’t take much for him to sell out people like they were nails in his shitty hardware store. So much a pound,” hissed Christmas defiantly.

  Cyril peered at them, astonished. “Somebody best tell me what the hail goin’ on.” he said firmly. “But tell me fast, ‘cause we on the air in eight minutes.”

  Christmas gave a chilly little laugh. “Go ahead, Karl. Why don’t you tell everybody listening how you want t’ sell us out for pennies on the dollar.”

  “You’re pathetic,” said Karl, shaking his head. “At least have the balls to tell him.”

  “Tell what?” ask
ed Cyril suspiciously.

  “The kid’s selling himself to the big boys. He’s dropping me, you, and the whole station. He wants to fly high, and the hell with everybody who believed in him,” Karl said scornfully.

  “Cute story,” sneered Christmas. He pointed a finger at Karl and turned to Cyril. “Do you know what he’s up to? He went to the top guys at N.Y. Broadcast and offered our crappy outfit to them for pocket change, just so he could have a desk in the sunshine again.”

  “Just what do you think you’re saying?” barked Karl, grabbing him by the lapels.

  “What the fuck are YOU saying?” cried Christmas, jerking brusquely away.

  “Enough,” Cyril’s voice like a growl, forced a tense silence in the room, broken only by the quick breathing of the other two. “All right. Now you explain t’ me what you talkin’ about.”

  “He went to N.Y. Broadcast,” hissed Karl.

  Cyril stared at Christmas. “Izzat true?” he asked, his voice thick.

  Christmas didn’t answer.

  Karl gave a bitter smile. “How much did they offer you?”

  “More than you asked them for when you were tryin’ to sell me,” said Christmas.