The Boy Who Granted Dreams

“No, I’m not saying that. But we need to find some other programs … we have to be independent of Christmas.”

  “So you want t’ throw that boy overboard?”

  “What if he was about to throw us overboard?”

  “Now why he do that?” Cyril said defensively.

  “I didn’t say he was going to do it,” Karl corrected himself. “Just — we need to expand. We need to have other programs … we need …”

  “So that why Christmas be all bad tempered ‘round here these last few days?” Cyril broke in.

  “Maybe,” said Karl. “Or maybe he’s got something else in mind.”

  “Do he think his days is numbered?”

  “I don’t know what he thinks,” said Karl, troubled. “But the two of us need to think up something, Cyril … and start earning money. This is our dream, but a dream needs to make money, otherwise …”

  “It just a dream.”

  “Yeah …”

  “An’ a dream don’ fill up you’ belly.”

  “No …”

  “What do the boy say?”

  Karl looked at Cyril. “He don’t say a thing.”

  Cyril got up and went to the window. He saw Christmas, still down in the street. “That ain’t good,” he murmured.

  Christmas glanced up and saw Cyril. Fuck you, too, he thought angrily, and walked away towards home. Thinking again about what had happened three days earlier, when he entered the great glass doors at N.Y. Broadcast. He had been summoned in great secrecy by Neal Howe, the general manager who had fired him.

  “Come in, Mr. Luminita,” said the old man with the military decorations across his jacket.

  Beside him, behind the huge cherry wood conference table the three other station managers were seated, along with the new artistic director, a lanky thirty-year-old who had taken Karl’s place.

  “Do you know why we’ve asked you here, Mr. Luminita?” Neal Howe had asked him.

  “I don’t suppose you want to fire me again,” said Christmas, jamming his hands into his pockets arrogantly.

  The old man gave him a tight smile. “Let’s put the past aside, shall we? And let’s talk business.” He paused for what seemed like a long time, then said, “Would ten thousand dollars a year be an interesting topic of conversation?”

  Christmas could feel the blood chill in his veins.

  “I admit it, we made a mistake when we discounted the potential of your program …” Neal Howe went on, with an ill-concealed note of anger in his voice. “What was its name?” he said, as if he couldn’t remember.

  “Diamond Dogs, sir,” said the artistic director.

  “Ah, yes, Diamond Dogs …” The general manager nodded sagely.

  Christmas felt bewildered. He couldn’t take his mind off those ten thousand dollars a year.

  “Perhaps not the greatest title, I must say,” Neal Howe gave him a patronizing smile, in which his cohorts joined. “But since now the audience knows it by that title … we’ll keep it. What do you say, Mr. Luminita?”

  “Wh — what do I say?” Christmas stammered.

  “Our legal department has the contract ready,” said Mr. Howe, looking straight into his eyes. Leaning across the table, he said, “Ten thousand dollars is a more than generous offer.”

  Christmas swallowed hard. His legs felt shaky. “Ten thousand dollars,” he repeated.

  “Well, what do you say, Mr. Luminita?”

  Christmas couldn’t manage to speak. He was silent, his head filling up with numbers. “I …”

  “Won’t you sit down?” Neal Howe interrupted.

  “Sure …” Christmas sat down. “Sure,” he repeated.

  “’Sure’, what? Does that mean you’re accepting our offer?” Howe was pressing him.

  “I …” a deep breath. “And Karl and Cyril?”

  “Who?” asked Neal Howe, again feigning ignorance.

  “Does Karl Jarach get his job back?” said Christmas, finding his courage again. “And Cyril Davis, the repairman — he should be promoted to chief technical person.”

  “Mr. Luminita,” chuckled Neal Howe, glancing at the others seated behind the cherry wood table with him. “It’s you who are Diamond Dogs, not those two. People want to hear YOU.”

  “We’re partners,” said Christmas, sounding more energetic now. “Without them, there wouldn’t be any Diamond Dogs. When you fired us, you talked about insubordination. Now you’re asking me to betray them.”

  “No, my boy. This is business.”

  “Karl and Cyril have to be part of the team,” Christmas insisted.

  Neal Howe’s face had turned purple. “Do you think you can dictate the rules around here?” he said in a hard sharp voice. “We’re offering you ten thousand dollars. Because that’s what you’re worth to us. Those two are worthless for N.Y. Broadcast. If the negro wants to stay on as a repairman, the job is his, but nothing more. As for Jarach, he’s never going to set foot inside N.Y. Broadcast or any other radio station, I can promise you that. Take it or leave it, Mr. Luminita. Say yes, and you’ve got ten thousand dollars. We aren’t negotiating. And if you’re stupid enough to refuse, you’ll sink with your friends. If Jarach knows even a little bit about this business, he must have told you that this adventure of yours isn’t going to last much longer. We’re trying to give you a hand, Mr. Luminita. I would suggest you grab it. You can save yourself. We’re going to do everything in our power to shut down your stupid transmitter. And I assure you that we have quite a lot of power.”

  Christmas got to his feet.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” Neal Howe repeated.

  Christmas faced him, not speaking.

  “Take a week to think about it, Mr. Luminita. Don’t let yourself be influenced just because you’re so young. Think about your future,” and Neal Howe, looked down at a pile of papers, leafing through them as if he were no longer interested in the conversation. “I was forgetting. A word of advice. Don’t mention this to your … partners. People are very noble when they talk about other people’s money, but they think very differently if the situation suddenly concerns them personally. Your friend Jarach came here two weeks ago to ask me if I wanted to purchase Diamond Dogs. But he didn’t show the same admirable youthful ardor that you’ve demonstrated. No, on the contrary — he told me he’d talk you into doing it … cheaply.”

  Christmas stiffened. “I don’t believe you,” he said instinctively.

  Neal Howe chuckled again. “You could always ask him, couldn’t you?” he said. “Unless you decide to keep today’s conversation to yourself. Unless you decide to think seriously about the kind of life you could have on ten thousand dollars a year.” He peered up at him through slitted eyes. “We’ll see you in a week, Mr. Luminita.”

  Christmas waited an instant, dazed. Then he turned away and strode out of the conference room.

  “Make sure Karl Jarach hears that that boy came to see us,” Neal Howe told his collaborators.

  Christmas reeled down the stairs at N.Y. Broadcast like a drunkard. Two pieces of information were colliding in his brain. Ten thousand dollars a year. Karl wanted to sell CKC to Neal Howe.

  Over the next three days Christmas kept silent. He didn’t mention it. He stayed closed up in himself. Because suddenly he wasn’t so sure that Neal Howe had been lying. And he was no longer sure that Karl wasn’t trying to betray him.

  That’s why he keeps saying we have to do better, thought Christmas, heading home that evening after rushing out of Sister Bessie’s apartment. “That’s why he says we can’t last forever. He’s selling us out. Without a word to us.” He was still muttering as he climbed the stairs to his squalid apartment. The more the anger grew inside him, the more hateful the apartment and his life seemed to him. The walls, with their cracks and peeling plaster, seemed unbearable to him. And the crummy suit; the threadbare brown suit. He thinks he can jerk us around like puppets, he thought, opening the door to the apartment. The sharp smell of garlic coming off the walls filled his
nostrils. When he looked at his cot in the corner of the kitchen, at the cheap furniture in the living room, he was sure that Karl was a lousy traitor.

  Bastard, he thought.

  53

  Manhattan, 1928

  He was out of breath. His legs hurt. But he couldn’t slow down, he couldn’t stop running, he could hear them behind him. Turning into Water Street he saw a dockworker coming back home with his bag of tools. “Hey!” he shouted, desperately. “Help me!”

  The docker turned back to look at the kid in the flashy suit, running awkwardly, by now exhausted, pursued by two thugs with guns. He could see a car with its headlights off coming up behind them.

  “Help me!” cried the boy.

  The docker glanced around, then went into a doorway, and was closing it when the boy stumbled up to him and tried to get inside.

  “Help me! They’re gonna kill me!” the boy cried again.

  The dockworker looked into the boy’s face. It was twisted with fear and exhaustion. He had deep-set eyes, dark-circled. The docker gazed at him, never speaking, while the boy panted against the still-ajar door.

  “Help me,” he moaned, with tears in his eyes.

  The docker leaned against the door and closed him outside.

  Joey turned back towards his pursuers. He started running again. But his legs were stiff with effort. He turned onto Jackson Street. In front of him he could see the dark waters of the East River and beyond, the undulant shape of Vinegar Hill. He slipped. Fell. He scrambled back up and started to run again, but he hadn’t yet reached the South Street viaduct when the black car passed him and braked, blocking his path. The doors opened.

  Joey halted. He looked back. His two pursuers had stopped running. They were smiling, out of breath, walking calmly towards him. All at once, it was as if time had stopped.

  Joey looked down and saw that he’d ripped the pants of his hundred and fifty dollar suit at the knee. It must have happened when he fell. He remembered the time as a little boy when he’d fallen, and Abe-the-Schmo, his father, had cleaned his skinned knee by spitting on his own necktie; and then, once they got home, he’d mended the rip in Joey’s pants. He sank to the ground and started to cry.

  Lepke Buchalter and Gurrah Shapiro got out of the car. Behind them came a man with an anonymous face and a felt hat. The driver stayed at the wheel.

  “Aw, Joey, Joey,” came Gurrah’s lilting voice. “Whatcha doin’? What, ya cryin’ like a little girl? Boo hoo?”

  Joey couldn’t look up.

  “So where’s da money?” Gurrah asked gently.

  Joey shook his head. He didn’t speak. His face was wet with tears. He sniffed.

  Gurrah leaned down. His knees creaked. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, lifted Joey’s chin, and pinched the handkerchief to Joey’s nose. “Blow,” he said.

  Joey sobbed.

  “Blow, Joey,” Gurrah said again. His voice was less friendly now.

  Joey blew his nose in the handkerchief.

  “Harder,” said Gurrah.

  Joey blew harder.

  “There ya go,” said Gurrah. “Okay, Joey, where’s da money? Lansky’s here, an’ he wants it.”

  Joey reached into his inside pocket and took out a wad of bills.

  “Izzat all it?” asked Gurrah, not taking it.

  Joey nodded.

  “See how easy dat wuz?” Gurrah laughed. “Doncha feel lighta? Huh? Tell me I’m wrong. Took a weight off ya conscience, dincha?” He took Joey by the arm. “C’mon, Joey. You give Lansky his money back. It’s nicer if it’s youse what does it, right?” He shoved him toward the man in the felt hat. “Lookit this kid, Lansky. He’s bringin’ back ya money. It’s true he took it in da first place, but now he’s givin’ it back. He’s a good boy,” he said once they came level with Lansky.

  Lansky stared expressionless at Joey, hands in pockets.

  Joey held out the roll of bills to him.

  “Put ’em back where they was,” said Lansky, never taking his hands out of his pockets.

  Joey put the money back in his jacket pocket.

  Lansky looked at him. “Ya ripped ya pants,” he said.

  Joey started to weep again.

  “’Scuse me, Lansky,” said Gurrah, pulling the handkerchief out of Lansky’s jacket pocket. “Mine’s dirty already.” He took Joey by the arm and led him toward one of the pylons of the underpass. “Blow,” he said, putting the handkerchief to his nose.

  Joey tried to twist away. But Gurrah held him firmly. Turning, Joey saw Lepke about to get into the car. “I’m a friend of Christmas!” he shouted, weeping. “Lepke, Christmas — he’s my friend!”

  Lepke turned back to look at him. He smiled at him. A frank and reassuring smile. “I know dat, Joey. Don’t worry.” He got into the car and closed the door. So did Lansky.

  “Blow,” said Gurrah.

  Joey blew.

  “Harder,” said Gurrah.

  And Joey blew harder.

  “Now take a good breath,” said Gurrah in a friendly tone. “Open ya mouth, take a breath, an’ blow.”

  Joey opened his mouth. Gurrah stuffed Lansky’s handkerchief into it, then his own. Joey fought, his eyes wide with fear, caught unawares, and he didn’t notice that one of the two thugs who’d been chasing him on foot had put a length of wire around his neck and was starting to twist it tight. Joey kicked wildly, tried to scream, and tugged at the wire with his hands. But the more he fought, the weaker he grew. Suddenly his eyes rolled back in their sockets and urine was staining his pants.

  Gurrah watched. “What a loser,” he said at last. He turned to Joey’s executioner and told him, “No point dirtyin’ da East River wit’ dis little shit. Put in da gahbage dump,” and he got in the car. It started up at once, with the headlights off.

  “So this is the last time, then,” said Christmas, pulling Maria to him.

  Maria stretched lazily, and then snuggled against him. “Yes,” she said.

  “I’m going to miss this bed,” said Christmas, stroking her black hair.

  “Really?” asked Maria.

  “My bed at home isn’t this comfortable.”

  Maria laughed. “How rude!” she gave him a pinch. “And I’m going to miss you,” she said.

  Christmas slid under the covers and kissed her between her breasts. “Are you inviting me to your wedding?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Maria smoothed back his hair and looked into his eyes. “This is why not,” she said.

  “‘This?’ What?”

  “Ramón would see the way we look at each other,” Maria smiled. “And he wouldn’t like it.”

  “Would he kill me?”

  She smiled again. “I’m in love with Ramón. I would never want him to suffer.”

  “You’ll be happy together,” said Christmas, with just a trace of sadness.

  Maria leaned her cheek against his. She brushed her lips against his neck. “Are you thinking about her?” she whispered softly.

  Christmas got out of the bed and began to get dressed. “Every day. Every second,” he said.

  “Come here,” Maria opened her arms. “Tell me goodbye before you go away.”

  Christmas buttoned his jacket, then leaned over Maria, and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. “You’re really beautiful,” he said. His eyes were clouded with the sadness of parting. “I’m sorry I won’t get to laugh with you again.”

  “Yes,” said Maria.

  “I’m going …”

  “Yes …”

  They looked at each other. They smiled. Two lovers who were separating without pain. Two friends who were losing one another. They smiled at the slight pain they were inflicting.

  “It’s early … can’t you stay a little while longer?”

  Christmas stroked her face, shaking his head. “No. There’s something I have to do before the broadcast.”

  “What could be more interesting than staying with me?” Maria teased.


  Christmas smiled, not answering her.

  “Well?”

  “I have to say goodbye to a friend.”

  “Ah …”

  They looked at each other.

  “I’m leaving,” said Christmas.

  “Yes …”

  And again they gazed at one another.

  “You’ll find her,” said Maria, and squeezed his hand.

  Christmas smiled, turned away; going out of the apartment and out of Maria’s life.

  He boarded a BMT train and sat there, staring at a rusty bolt across from him, without noticing the people who were getting on and off the car.

  His head felt empty and crowded at the same time. Preparing himself for another farewell. Definitive. Painful. Unavoidable.

  One part of his mind, now, just as when he’d been with Maria, kept brooding on what Karl the traitor had done. Bastard, he thought bitterly. He wanted to sell them out. “There’ll be time to take care of you, too,” he told himself.

  When the train reached his stop he got out and walked slowly, unhurriedly. He went past through the gates of Mt. Zion Cemetery, went along the silent paths, and finally — in an isolated zone of the Jewish cemetery — saw a man he’d never met but had often heard of, and a woman who avoided him when she’d learned he wasn’t Jewish. The man, in a dark gray suit with worn collar and cuffs, was wearing a yarmulke. The woman was veiled. She was dressed in black. They were both wearing winter clothes. And they were sweating in the sultry summer heat.

  Christmas came up to them and asked, “May I stay?”

  The man and the woman turned and looked at him expressionlessly. No amazement, no annoyance. They went back to staring at the little white stone with its incised Star of David.

  “Yosseph Fein, 1906-1928” was carved into the stone.

  Nothing else. Not “Beloved Son,” not that everybody called him Joey, or that his nickname was Sticky because so many billfolds stuck to his fingers, not that he was so thin you wanted to feed him, or that he had huge dark circles around his eyes. “When Abe-the-Schmo kicks da bucket they’ll put him inna hole at Mount Zion Cemetery an’ all they’ll write on da tombstone is ‘Born in 1874, died in … who knows, 1935.’ Period. End of story. An’ ya wanna know why? ‘Cause they ain’t anudda fuckin’ thing t’ say about Abe-da-Schmo,” Joey had said one day, full of scorn. Now Joey had the inscription he’d imagined for his father. They didn’t write that he wanted a beautiful car. Or that he swiped the protection money on slot machines that weren’t his, or that he sold dope, or that he made more money than his father by doing schlamming — beating up his own people with an iron bar hidden in a copy of the New York Times. It didn’t say that fear and a traitor’s weakness were written in his eyes. It didn’t say that he’d robbed Meyer Lansky of a chunk of the money paid by the unions to have protection from the Jewish mafia. It didn’t say that he was strangled to death and thrown in a garbage dump, or that he wore a hundred and fifty dollar silk suit, too flashy for him to be a decent person. It didn’t say anything. Name, year he was born, year he died.