The Dream Merchants

by Harold Robbins

  SIGNED: Col. James F. Arthur, U.S.A.

  Commanding Officer,

  Long Island State Hospital

  The words flashed from the screen almost before Johnny could grasp their meaning. He had been frozen to his chair when Peter’s name had flashed on the screen, but now it was gone.

  And in its place came the familiar trade-mark, the opening shot that identified every Magnum Picture: the big champagne bottle with the champagne flowing into a glass until the glass was filled to the brim. Then the words covering the whole screen in Gothic lettering:

  MAGNUM PICTURES

  PRESENTS

  Johnny’s voice reached Rocco’s ears in an agonized whisper. “Take me out of here, Rock!” it said with suppressed intensity. “Take me out!”

  For a moment Rocco stood still in surprise. He didn’t understand it. Johnny had been so eager to see the picture, and now before it began he wanted to leave. He leaned forward. “What’sa matter, Johnny?” he whispered in his ear. “Yuh sick?”

  He could see Johnny’s fists clenched on the arm of the chair as he replied: “No. Just take me out, that’s all. Take me out!”

  He steered the wheelchair to the door and out. The bright lights in the hall hurt his eyes and he blinked for a moment; then he looked at Johnny.

  Johnny’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, so tight that tears stood in the corners of them. His face was white and strained and drops of sweat stood out on his pallid skin.

  Quickly Rocco pushed him back to his room and helped him into bed. Johnny’s body was trembling. Gently Rocco covered him and stood near him. “Was it somebody you knew, Johnny?” he asked gently.

  Johnny’s eyes opened suddenly and stared at him. Accidentally Rocco had stumbled on the truth. He must not know any more. “No,” he said slowly. What was that thing he had heard the doctors talking about the other day—claustrophobia, the fear of being shut up in a small place and not being able to get out. Make Rocco think that was what had been the matter with him.

  “Suddenly I couldn’t stand it in there any more,” he said. “I felt I would never get out.” He laughed self-consciously. “I must have that claustro—er—something the doctors talk about.”

  Rocco looked at him but didn’t answer. His mind was working. Johnny wasn’t fooling him this time. He was going to find the real reason behind the way Johnny had acted. If he had really been afraid of being cooped up in there, he never would have been able to stay in this room so long a time.

  ***

  The girl came out of the officer’s room. She smiled at Rocco. “You may go in now, sergeant. Captain Richards will see you.”

  He thanked her and went into the little office. He drew himself to attention and saluted the officer.

  The officer negligently returned his salute and looked up at him wearily. “Sit down, sergeant,” he said in a tired voice. “We don’t hold with the formalities in here.”

  Rocco sat down in a chair opposite the officer’s desk. The officer looked down at the paper on his desk and then up at Rocco. “Your request is a most unusual one, sergeant,” he remarked.

  Rocco leaned forward in his chair. “It’s the only way I believe we can help him, sir.”

  The officer grunted and looked down at the paper on his desk again. He studied it for a few minutes and then spoke. “I have Corporal Edge’s service record here as you requested, but there is nothing on it that would give us any clues as to his family or friends or background. He took no life insurance from us and the only one to be notified in case of injury to him is one Joseph Turner, now deceased.” He took a pipe from his desk and filled it with tobacco. He held a match to it until it was drawing comfortably. He looked over at Rocco. “You say he says he has no place to go and that he wants to remain here.”

  Rocco nodded.

  The captain shook his head. “Well, there’s no way we can force the man to leave short of bodily ejection if he doesn’t want to. The only thing I can see is to transfer him to a mental hospital.”

  Rocco jumped to his feet. “There’s no reason for that, sir,” he said quickly. “Johnny’s all right. There’s no more the matter with him than there is with me.”

  “You seem to know him very well,” the officer said.

  “We were buddies,” Rocco answered simply. “We were in the same outfit overseas. I sent him on that mission on which he got hurt and Joe got killed.”

  The officer nodded his head slowly. “I see,” he said, “and you feel responsible for him?”

  “Sort of,” Rocco admitted.

  “Is that why you stayed in?” the officer asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Rocco answered.

  The officer was silent for a while and then he spoke. “I commend you for your feelings, sergeant, but if all the people in the service took their responsibilities as deeply as you, we would have more orderlies in the hospitals than patients.”

  Rocco made no reply.

  The officer continued: “That, however, does not resolve our problem. Have you any further suggestions?”

  Rocco leaned forward in his seat. He spoke anxiously. “If you could get Joe Turner’s service record, maybe something on it would give us an idea of Johnny’s background.”

  The captain thought that over. “And if we did, sergeant, we are not allowed to investigate any further.” He paused for a moment and then added: “Officially.”

  Rocco smiled understandingly at him. “I know that, sir,” he said, “but I might accidentally stumble across something that would be of great help.”

  The captain stood up. He returned Rocco’s smile. “Accidentally, of course.”

  Rocco got to his feet. “Then you will try to get a copy of Joe’s service record, sir?”

  The captain nodded his head.

  ***

  Rocco stood on the street in front of the building. The sign over the doorway read: “Magnum Pictures Company, Inc.” He hesitated a moment and then entered the building. He was in a small reception room.

  A girl’s face peeked through a small window at him. “No hiring done here, soldier,” she said.

  “I’m not looking for a job, miss,” he said. “I came to see someone.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Whom did you wish to see?”

  Rocco took the slip of paper from his pocket and looked at it. “Mr. Peter Kessler.”

  “Your name, sir?” she inquired.

  “Sergeant Savold, Rocco Savold,” he answered.

  “Won’t you sit down, please?” she said. “I’ll see if Mr. Kessler can see you.”

  Rocco sat down. He sat there for almost fifteen minutes. He wondered if the girl had forgotten about him. The window flew up suddenly and the girl’s face looked out at him.

  “I have Mr. Kessler’s secretary on the phone. What do you wish to see Mr. Kessler about? He’s very busy at the moment. If you tell her your business, she will put you down for an appointment.”

  Rocco hesitated for a second. He didn’t want to talk with the secretary, but she would have to do if he couldn’t talk directly with Mr. Kessler. He nodded.

  The girl handed a phone through the open window to him. “Hello,” he said into it.

  The secretary’s voice was briskly efficient and impersonal. “I’m Miss Andersen, Mr. Kessler’s secretary. Can I help you?”

  “I—uh, I don’t know, miss,” he said, “I wanted to speak to Mr. Kessler on a personal matter.”

  “You can speak with me,” the pleasant impersonal voice replied, “I’m also his personal secretary.”

  He thought for a second. She would have to do. “I wanted to speak to him about Johnny Edge,” he said. There was a sudden silence on the other end of the phone. “Did you hear me, miss?” he asked anxiously.

  The voice that spoke now was a different one from that he had heard before. “I heard you,” it said. It was very faint, he could hardly hear her. “You wanted to speak about Johnny Edge?”

  “That’s right, miss,” he said, sudden
ly excited. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Is he all right?”

  “Sure,” he said, smiling into the phone, “sure.”

  “Thank God,” came the fervent whisper back into his ear.

  10

  Rocco pushed the wheelchair into a small walk on the far end of the grounds. They were almost a quarter of a mile away from the hospital. It was quiet here. Tall hedges growing on either side of the walk, small beds of flowers spaced carefully between them. The wheelchair stopped. Johnny looked up.

  Rocco’s hands were going through his pockets.

  “What are you lookin’ for, Rock?” he asked.

  “My cigarettes,” Rocco answered. “I’m fresh out.”

  “Take mine,” Johnny said, reaching into his pocket. There weren’t any there. Puzzled, he looked in the other pocket of his blouse. It was empty too. Funny, he thought; he had put some there just before they left. “I’m out too,” he said.

  Rocco looked at him strangely. “Yuh mind if I run back to the canteen an’ get some?” he asked. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Go ahead,” Johnny said. “I’ll be all right.”

  Rocco turned and started back. Johnny turned the wheelchair into the sun and leaned his head back. He could feel the warm rays of it on his face. It felt good. His hand hung over the sides of the chair and toyed with the long blades of grass. Idly he pulled at a few and stuck them in his mouth. They tasted a bitter green. He smiled to himself. “You can’t taste a color,” he thought. He sat there basking pleasantly in the sun.

  He felt drowsy and lazy. It would be good to get out of the chair and lie down in the cool grass and rest. He turned his head to one side and looked at the ground. It would be good, but it was not for him. He would not walk on the grass and throw himself on the ground as he used to. It was for others to do, not him. He shut his eyes again and faced the sun.

  He heard footsteps behind him. “Rocco?” he asked without turning his head or opening his eyes. “Give me a cigarette.”

  He felt a hand place a cigarette between his lips. He heard a match striking. He drew on the cigarette and felt the smoke going deep into his lungs. “It’s nice out here,” he said.

  “You like it, Johnny?” It was a familiar voice, but not Rocco’s.

  He opened his eyes suddenly and spun the chair around. A cry burst from his lips. “Peter!”

  Peter stood there, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wet with tears. He shook his head. “Yes, Peter,” he said slowly. “Didn’t you want to see me, Johnny?”

  Johnny sat there completely still, his cigarette frozen to his lips. He couldn’t speak.

  Peter moved closer to him and took his hand.

  He could feel the warmth of Peter’s hand on his and suddenly his feelings rose in his throat and began to choke him. He leaned forward over Peter’s hand and began to cry.

  Peter’s other hand rested on Johnny’s hair. “Johnny,” he said, his voice shaking, “Johnny, did you think you could always hide from those who love you?”

  11

  They stood there on the sidewalk as the cab pulled away. Johnny looked down at his crutches. They were new and shone with a yellowish brightness. The side of his trouser leg was pinned neatly to his thigh. His one leg looked strange and lonely there between the yellow crutches.

  He smiled wryly at Rocco and looked over at the building. The stone letters on the building spelled out: Magnum Pictures.

  “Might as well get it over with,” he said.

  Rocco looked at him, “Yeanh.”

  Slowly Johnny moved to the door and hesitated when he reached it. His face was white. There were small beads of sweat on his forehead. “I don’t want anybody feeling sorry for me,” he said in a low voice.

  Rocco smiled reassuringly at him. “Don’t worry about that. Nobody will feel sorry for you. They might feel a little strange at first and want to help you a little more than would be normal, but they’ll soon get over it when they see you can manage. Then things will be the same as they always were.”

  “They better be,” Johnny said.

  “They will,” Rocco answered, opening the door for him.

  Johnny entered the small waiting room and Rocco followed him. The girl’s face looked curiously at him through the small glass. She made no move to open it.

  Rocco smiled at her and motioned to Johnny. “Through that door,” he said, pointing.

  Johnny looked about him curiously. They had changed the place around. He didn’t say anything, but went through the door indicated and they were in a long corridor. From behind the door came the sounds of people working. Typewriters, adding-machines, people talking. They moved toward the end of the corridor. Occasionally someone would pass them in the hall and look at them curiously, impersonally.

  Johnny felt as if he were in a strange place. He recognized none of the people who had passed him. They came to another door marked: “Executive Offices.”

  They went through it and were in a small, pleasantly lighted corridor. There were several comfortable chairs placed there, and the floor was covered with a soft red carpet. There was no sound in there.

  “Doesn’t sound as if anyone is in here,” Johnny said.

  “We’re early,” Rocco answered. “Peter told me that no one got in much before ten o’clock.”

  Johnny looked at his wristwatch. It was a quarter past nine. “Good. I’ll have a chance to sit down for a few minutes before I get started.”

  “Your office is down the end of the hall, next to Peter’s,” Rocco said.

  Johnny followed down the corridor. Several of the doors had names on them. Johnny did not know them. He had been gone only a little more than two years and yet the business had grown so rapidly during that time that new names had appeared on doors. He felt strange, out of place.

  They passed a door with Peter’s name on it. “Yours is the next office,” Rocco said, stopping in front of it.

  Johnny looked at the door. His name had been painted on it. The paint looked new, almost as if it hadn’t dried yet. Impulsively he put his fingers on it. It was dry.

  Rocco smiled at his gesture.

  He smiled back at him.

  “Shall we go in?” Rocco asked, still smiling.

  Johnny nodded.

  Rocco threw open the door and stepped back as Johnny came to the threshold.

  Johnny stood there in surprise as a wave of sound greeted him. His face went strangely pale and he seemed to totter a little as he leaned there on his crutches.

  Rocco put a hand out to steady him.

  The room was packed with people—people whom Johnny knew and people whom Johnny had never seen before. Peter and George and Jane were standing in front of the others, looking at him.

  The room was all decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, and a big painted sign hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. “Welcome Back, Johnny,” it read in big red letters.

  The sound died down and he stood there looking at them. He opened his mouth twice to speak, but nothing came out.

  Jane stepped forward and held out her hand. Johnny took it. “Hello, boss,” she said as if he had just come back from lunch.

  As if it were a signal, someone turned on a phonograph and music began to blare forth and everybody began to sing:

  “When Johnny comes marching home again, tra la, tra la.”

  He could see the tears in her eyes and felt his own eyes beginning to smart. “Janey,” he managed to say.

  She threw her arms around him and kissed him.

  His eyes were clouded with moisture. He tried to put his arms around her, and one of his crutches fell to the floor with a clatter. He stumbled and would have fallen had Rocco not put an arm around him and held him up.

  He looked at the crutch lying there on the floor. Then, strangely, as he looked at it, its bright yellow wood gleaming against the soft red carpet, he began to feel helpless. And with that feeling of helplessness came an even str
anger feeling of terror—a terror of all these people watching him.

  He shut his eyes for a moment. This feeling would pass, he told himself desperately. But it persisted. He began to feel his head reeling. He could feel himself stumbling, falling, but he kept his eyes tightly shut.

  He could feel people helping him to a chair. He heard Rocco’s voice quietly asking people to leave. He could hear Rocco explaining to them that he was still tired, still weak, and all this excitement was too much for him.

  He could sense the sudden silence in the room as the people left it. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked around him. He was on a small couch. Peter and George and Jane were watching him with frightened looks on their faces. Rocco was holding a small glass to his lips.

  Automatically he drank it. The liquor burned through his throat to his stomach like a livid flame. Color crept back into his cheeks. He smiled wanly at them, but the fear that had been in him still clung to the corners of his heart.

  “You all right, Johnny?” Peter asked anxiously.

  He nodded his head. “I’m all right,” he answered. “Too much excitement I guess. I’ll feel better after I get a little rest.” He shut his eyes again and let his head sink back against the pillow of the couch. He wished they would go away and leave him alone.

  He heard the door open and close behind them and he opened his eyes again. Only Rocco was in the room with him now.

  “Rock,” he whispered.

  “What is it, Johnny?”

  “Rock, you gotta stay with me, Rock,” he said, his voice desperate and cracked with strain. “You gotta stick with me. I’m afraid to be alone with them.”

  Rocco tried to smile reassuringly at him. “Whatta yuh got to be afraid of, Johnny? They’re all your friends.”

  “I know,” Johnny whispered in the same tone of voice, “but I feel so helpless without a leg. When I looked down and saw it wasn’t there, I thought everybody was going to laugh at me.”

  “Nobody would laugh,” Rocco said softly.

  “I don’t care,” Johnny said. “I’m afraid. You gotta stick close to me all the time, Rock. I can’t face them alone.” He grabbed at Rocco’s hand and held it tightly. “Promise me, Rock, promise!”