The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

Bill turned. The cop had come down to the beach. Bill felt the sweat running down his face. “Yeah,” he said. “No …”

  “Do you feel sick?”

  “No … it’s better now … I’m better …”

  “Is that your car?”

  “Yeah …”

  “You need to come back up to the road and show me your license and registration,” said the cop.

  It was hard for Bill to walk through the sand. His feet kept sinking in. As if it was quicksand. And he was panting.

  “Kevin Maddox … okay, everything’s in order,” the cop said slowly, checking his papers. “You sure you feel all right now?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Take it easy,” said the cop, rejoining his partner in the patrol car. He nodded to Bill. “Swell car,” he said. The patrol car disappeared down the highway, leaving him in darkness.

  And in that darkness Bill was afraid. Afraid of getting lost again. He jumped into the LaSalle and turned on the headlights. He headed back towards Arty’s house, slipped under the covers, and spent the night curled in the fetal position, trembling with fear, without turning off the lights in his room.

  “You look like shit, Bill,” said Arty over breakfast the next morning.

  Bill’s eyes were sunken. He was very pale and the hand holding his cup of coffee trembled.

  “I figured out how to make it work,” said Arty.

  Bill looked at him.

  He took a little dark glass vial out of his pocket, placed it on the table, and slid it across the table to Bill. “Cocaine,” he said.

  Over the next few months Arty and Bill shot two more Punisher films. The cocaine produced the desired effect. Bill was exultant and gave the best of himself. And he could even fuck when he wasn’t on the set. It was as if he’d been reborn. But Arty saw that he couldn’t do without it, that he was taking larger and more frequent doses, not just to play The Punisher, but also to live. Arty saw another negative aspect of the drug: Bill’s paranoia was growing day by day. By now The Punisher had an expiration date. And this is why he needed to wring as much as possible out of him. Because soon Bill would be completely used up. For good. He was already a wreck. How many films did he have left in him, Arty wondered. Not many. Fortunately, in the state he was in, Bill didn’t notice that Arty was taking more than the seventy percent they’d agreed on. He left only the crumbs for Bill. And the cocaine. But soon he was going to have to dump him.

  To make matters worse, the clients were getting used to their films. The Punisher was no longer a novelty. He always did the same things. And their profits showed this. The rich Hollywood perverts were looking for something else.

  “We need more,” Arty said one morning. “Something more.”

  He had a new set built. An operating room. White, immaculate, with shining metal. They wanted more? They were going to get it. Arty was going to give it to them. By means of The Punisher.

  The girl was dressed as a nurse. She trotted around the room checking all the surgical instruments. Sharp scalpels, clamps, saws. Enter The Punisher. The girl played the part of a frightened girl; played it badly, like all her predecessors, until The Punisher hit her. At that point her acting improved.

  Bill was arrogantly pleased with himself. He had his life under control for the moment. He felt like he was on top of a mountain and the air was thin yet full of oxygen. He was taking deep breaths, and there was no trace of fear in his black soul. He owned the world. And soon this whore was going to find out what his prick could do. But only after he’d softened her up with a good dose of punches and kicks. Maybe he’d lick her tears. The fans loved that. He was The Punisher. Not just anybody.

  But the girl, instead of crying, grabbed something shiny and stuck it in his arm. Bill had felt a warm tweak. No pain. The cocaine was a great anesthetic.

  But when he looked at his arm, he saw that the doctor’s coat Arty had made him wear had a spreading red stain on the sleeve. Blood. The girl was gripping a scalpel and she stuck him with it again. Slitting the white coat over his chest. More blood was coming out of that wound. Bill jumped back. He looked at the girl. Not his type.

  “Move in on the wound,” Arty muttered to the cameraman. Then he went back to watching the scene, He’d chosen a big girl. Strong. Muscular. Maybe not very sexy, but she could stand up to The Punisher better than the others. And that’s what Arty wanted.

  Bill touched his arm. He ripped the sleeve open and looked at the wound. A clean deep cut. The wound on his breast was more superficial; still, it was bleeding copiously. He didn’t feel any pain. The coke made him strong and invincible. He laughed, shoved the steel cot against the girl, making her lose her balance and stumble. He was all over her immediately, disarming her. He took the scalpel and held it against her throat, staring into her eyes. Then, with one quick movement, he sliced off a button at breast level. The girl squirmed away, turning on her side. The blade slashed her back. The girl screamed and fell to her knees. Bill was on top of her. She reached up a hand to defend herself. The scalpel sliced her palm. Like Bill’s father. Then Bill stuck the blade into her stomach, but not all the way in. Just enough to let blood stain the front of her smock. Because Bill wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. He was a god now. He was The Punisher. He ripped open her uniform, grabbed her throat, shoved her onto the shiny steel bed, and with sadistic slowness, made a little cut in her skin. Then he tossed the scalpel away and fucked her furiously.

  “Close-up on the blood,” Arty told the cameraman.

  This is what he’d give Hollywood. Blood. Because Arty was sure that once people saw blood, they’d even forget about sex.

  Maybe someday Hollywood would get tired of blood, and then they’d want death. But Arty hoped that when that time came he would already have accumulated enough money to retire.

  61

  Los Angeles, 1928

  When Christmas got to Los Angeles he found a car and driver waiting for him. The chauffeur took his suitcase and drove him to a house with a swimming pool on Sunset Boulevard. He explained that this was Mr. Mayer’s guesthouse. He introduced him to the Hispanic housekeeper, who would take care of all his needs, and then he told him there was a brand new Oakland Sport Cabriolet in the garage for his use. And finally the driver told him he’d be picking him up later that afternoon, to take him to the studio.

  As soon as Christmas was alone he stood at the bedroom window, looking beyond the gate. This is where she lives, he thought. Then he went downstairs, told the housekeeper he wouldn’t be there for lunch, and asked her, “How do I get to Holmby Hills?”

  It had been strange to go back to Grand Central Station. Even stranger to board a train for Los Angeles instead of staying on a bench and watching it disappear down the track. Christmas was no longer that boy from four years ago, twisting a funny-looking cap in his hands. He had a first-class ticket now. But as soon as he’d taken his seat everything that really counted resurfaced, to where it had been once upon a time. “I’ll find you,” he’d said. And it was as though only an instant had gone by since that evening four years ago when Ruth had gone out of his life.

  Christmas was thinking of nothing else while he was driving to Holmby Hills. But when he turned onto the wide street with its cast-iron lampposts, he could feel the anger he’d always kept inside him suddenly explode. Not one letter, never an answer. Ruth had cancelled him out of her life. As if he’d never existed. He parked in front of the huge mansion. He rang the bell loudly.

  Presently a white-jacketed manservant came and opened the gate.

  “I want to see Miss Ruth,” said Christmas.

  “I’m sorry, who?” the manservant said, frowning.

  “This is where the Isaacsons live, isn’t it?” asked Christmas, still gripped by the anger against Ruth that had overcome him.

  “No, sir. You’ve got the wrong address.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Christmas, peering into the garden.

  “Who is it, Charles?” a woman’s voice ask
ed.

  “Mrs. Isaacson,” said Christmas, leaning over the gate. “I need to see Ruth.”

  The woman appeared behind the manservant. She was tall and blonde, with a pair of garden gloves, and a cordial expression. “Did you say Isaacson?” she asked.

  “Yes …” said Christmas, hesitant now.

  “They don’t live here anymore.”

  Christmas felt his legs trembling. He hadn’t foreseen this. He’d assumed that everything would be as he’d left it, that everything would have stopped because he had stopped. And suddenly there was no longer any room in his heart for the rage he’d been brooding over a few minutes before. Despite the California heat, he felt his blood chilling in his veins. He felt weak now. He was afraid he’d come to Los Angeles too late. “And … do you know where … they moved to?” he gasped towards the woman.

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “But … how is that possible?”

  She looked at him curiously. “I have no idea where they live,” she told him. “But don’t bother looking for them in the nice neighborhoods. They had some bad financial problems.”

  Christmas stared at her for a moment, unable to speak, then turned back to his car. He leaned against the roof, not knowing what to do.

  “Close the gate, Charles,” said the woman.

  Christmas heard the gate creak shut and then the click of the latch. He looked up. Los Angles was huge. He felt lost and hopeless. He got in the car and drove aimlessly through the streets, looking at all the people walking along the sidewalks. He had never thought he might not find Ruth. He simply hadn’t considered it a possibility. And as he kept driving, suddenly everything seemed different from how he’d imagined it. What if Ruth had somebody else?

  He stopped the car. A horn blared behind him. Christmas didn’t hear it. Maybe he needed to go to a private detective. He had enough money to hire one. “I’m the one who has to find you,” he said, however. He glanced around and saw a diner.

  “Do you have a phone book?” he asked.

  The counter man waved him toward the phone booth, all scarred dark wood with a door that hung by one hinge. Christmas pulled the directory off the shelf underneath the telephone. He leafed through it with dread. Nothing. Not a single Isaacson in Los Angeles. What if they’d moved to some other town? He slapped the book down angrily.

  “Hey!” yelled the man behind the lunch counter.

  Christmas turned, without seeing him. What if Ruth was married and had a different surname? He came out of the diner and went back to driving around, ignoring the horns of other drivers who were honking at him for going too slowly, watching the people passing by, jumping every time he saw dark curls. Where are you? he thought obsessively, where are you? And for the first time, with a lucid desperation that grew block after block, he wondered if it were really all over. If he had come too late.

  He didn’t notice that time was passing until he saw a big clock at the corner of two streets and realized that Mayer’s driver must have already arrived at the house on Sunset Boulevard.

  “Mr. Mayer hates it if people aren’t on time,” said the driver nervously.

  “You better drive fast, then,” said Christmas, getting into the car. But he didn’t care what Mayer thought. As they sped toward the studio, he kept looking out the window at people on the streets.

  Louis B. Mayer made him wait half an hour, seated on a sofa across from a businesslike secretary who answered incessant telephone calls. Then Christmas heard the crackle of the intercom and a voice saying, “Have him come in.” The secretary got up quickly, went to the door of the producer’s office, and opened it, beckoning Christmas inside. Christmas shook off his thoughts and came into the huge room.

  Mayer was waiting for him behind his desk, a smile on his broad, sly face. “Well, well, Mr. Luminita. You don’t look like I thought you would,” he told him.

  “Dark, low forehead, thick eyebrows, greasy hair, short, walks like an ape and stinks of garlic?” Christmas suggested.

  Mayer chuckled. “Don’t forget the guns in your belt.”

  “Right now in New York there are a lot more Jews packing heat,” said Christmas.

  Mayer scrutinized him, trying to understand. “I heard about you. I heard you have more connections with certain Jewish gentlemen than you have with Italians.”

  Christmas just looked at him.

  Louis B. Mayer laughed again, a series of little short barks, like a coughing fit. “Sit down, Mr. Luminita,” he said. “I’m glad you were willing to make such a long trip.”

  Again, Christmas didn’t say anything.

  Mayer nodded slowly. “So you’re a gambler, eh?” he said. “Fine, I like gamblers,” and the smile faded from his face.

  Christmas sensed that this man could be as tough and pitiless as Rothstein. And from what everybody said, he was certainly just as powerful.

  He gave off great strength and solidity. Christmas smiled. He liked him.

  “Do you write, Mr. Luminita?” Mayer asked.

  “Are you asking me if I can read and write?”

  Mayer barked out another laugh. “Not really. But we can start there.”

  “Sure, I can read and write.”

  “Have you ever thought about writing professionally?”

  “No.”

  “Who writes the scripts for your broadcast?”

  “Nobody. I make them up as I go.”

  Mayer looked at him admiringly. “People tell me you’re a born actor. That’s what I read in the papers, too. I’ve got friends who listen to you every night at seven thirty.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be an actor.”

  Mayer laughed again. “Heh-heh. Goodness gracious, no. Actors in Hollywood multiply like cockroaches in New York. What I’m needing is a writer. Writers. Original ones, who’ll give me something new and electrifying. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s put our cards on the table,” Mayer stood up and came around the desk. He squeezed Christmas’ shoulder. “I’m looking to the future. And the future of the movies is going to include characters like the ones you talk about so well. You know about the ancient Romans? They used to have a stadium where people killed each other fighting. For an encore, they got torn apart by lions. And that stadium, it was always full. Sold out. It’s part of human nature. And we — the motion picture industry — we have to pay attention to what people like. The movies — this toy we have, it’s too expensive for us not to please people. Do you follow me?”

  “Sure, you’re saying it’s the public who’s in charge.”

  “Well … maybe that’s a little bit too simple. We can always help to shape the public’s taste,” Mayer smiled. “But, yes, in the long run you’re right. The public is our boss. And a good producer needs to know what they’re thinking about. Americans, they’re always asking for more. Blood they want, life they want. And negative heroes … because life, it always has a dark side. You and those stories you tell — all about light and darkness.” Mayer sat down next to Christmas. He put a hand on his thigh. “We’d like you to do something for me. Loan this talent of yours to the movies.”

  “First of all, I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “Why else are we having this meeting?” He smiled again. “How long do you plan to stay in Los Angeles, Mr. Luminita?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Fine, so you play them close to your chest,” Mayer nodded. “Do you like the house?”

  “Very much.”

  “With what I’m willing to pay you, you can buy one like it.”

  “I’ve already got a house in New York.”

  “So then you’ll have two houses. Good.”

  Christmas laughed.

  Mayer waddled back around the desk and sat in his oversized chair. “I like you, Mr. Luminita. You know some things about real life; I can see it in your eyes. So let’s try something. Write something for me.” He pushed a button on top of a black box. “Is Nick here yet?”
he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Mayer,” the secretary’s voice came crackling.

  “Come,” Mayer told Christmas. He stood up again and opened the office door.

  Christmas saw a well-dressed young man with slicked-down hair.

  Mayer gestured at Christmas. “Nick, this is Mr. Luminita. He’s all yours. So give him the tour,” he said. He turned and shook Christmas’ hand, smiling again. “It would be nice to talk with you some more, but my time … it’s not my own. Nicholas is my assistant. He knows everything. Anything you’re not sure of, you ask him.” He clasped Christmas’ shoulder.

  “I expect great things from you.” He moved closer and said in a low voice, “But maybe don’t say Jews have a monopoly on being gangsters. Show us some real men. Dramatic. Heartwarming. With mothers.”

  “Better be Italians,” said Christmas.

  Louis Mayer peered up at him through his glasses. “There’s always the Irish, no?” He laughed and went back in his office.

  “He likes you,” said the assistant as they went down the stairs.

  “Why would you think that?” asked Christmas.

  “Because you’re still in one piece,” laughed the assistant. He shook hands with Christmas. “I’m Nicholas Stiller, but call me Nick. I’m the one who solves problems.”

  “Am I a problem, Nick?”

  Nick laughed. “All the new ones are a problem at first. But then they learn the rules and the rhythm of things.”

  “Like horses,” said Christmas as they approached a low building with a balcony that ran along the second floor. It had a series of doors and windows, all identical. “We have to get used to the bit, and the saddle.”

  “You’re taking it the wrong way,” Nick smiled, climbing the exterior stairs to the balcony. “This is an industry. The rules help guarantee productivity.”

  “Otherwise there’s a problem,” Christmas nodded as they hurried along the balcony.

  “Exactly.”

  As Christmas walked along, he could see that every room contained someone seated at a desk with a typewriter in front of him. “And they call you to solve it.”