The Boy Who Granted Dreams

  But he wasn’t there anymore.

  Now there was Daniel, who elicited about as much love as she could permit herself to feel. Kiss him again, she made herself think, looking at his soft red lips, shining from their chaste lavender-scented kiss. She felt herself filled with the reassuring mildness of that lukewarm emotion.

  “You’ll have to be patient with me, Daniel,” she told him.

  60

  Los Angeles, 1928

  When Arty Short found him by accident, a month after he’d disappeared, he almost didn’t recognize him.

  Arty was in his car, stopped at a red light. He glanced over vaguely at a crowd of bums and onlookers. One of the bums, a skinny old guy, with a face sucked dry by life and the sunken eyes of someone possessed by demons, was standing on a wooden crate. He howled out random phrases about the end of the world, the Apocalypse, Sodom and Gomorrah, Sodom and Hollywood, the plagues of Egypt and Sunset Boulevard, quoting film titles and Bible verses, mixing up Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Moses, the tablets of the Ten Commandments and the front page of the scandal tabloids. And around the prophet, a little crowd of the unwashed and common people, all of them desperate enough to listen to him and chorus “Amen!” every time the old man raised his shaky arms to heaven calling down divine thunderbolts, hail and a storm of locusts.

  Arty smiled. Even though he had nothing to smile about. He’d lost The Punisher, his hen with the golden eggs. Over these last few days — urged on by his clients, who were impatiently waiting for a new offering from Hollywood’s best-loved sadistic rapist, — Arty had resigned to having lost his partner. But none of the petty criminals he’d tested had managed to project The Punisher’s savage fury. In front of the cameras, even the worst cutthroat turned clumsy, stumbling. Fake. All the ones he’d tried — after having dug them up from the lowest bars in town — might scare you in a dark street, at night, in real life, but in the spotlight they became cartoonish, amateurs. None of them had what Cochrann had. None of them had his charisma. No, there was only one Punisher. And he’d lost him.

  Arty watched the old prophet climb down from the box. The light turned green. A car behind him honked. Arty turned his head and changed gears. But as he was looking away, he felt a shiver of excitement down his spine. He looked at the group of bums again. The car behind him honked again. “Go fuck yourself!” Arty yelled. He pulled over to the sidewalk and took another look at the bums. One of them, a young one, looked familiar, with a patchy unkempt beard and filthy hair. He was picking up the box the preacher had been standing on. The prophet held out a tattered hat at the passersby. A few people tossed small change into it. The old guy rummaged in the hat and then jerked his head at the young man, signaling that he should follow. The young man, with an apathetic hopeless shuffle, came along behind him, dragging the box, which squealed as it scraped along the sidewalk. Another three bums followed the prophet and the young man. The onlookers scattered in all directions.

  Arty got out of the car, his heart racing with excitement. He let the streetcar go past, and then he ran across the street. He reached the straggly group and went past it, and then he stopped and looked hard at the young guy dragging the box. He was skeletally thin, malnourished; his clothes were in tatters, his shoes worn out, without laces or socks.

  “Cochrann!” cried the director.

  The young man opened his eyes wide, then looked down again and went on past, dragging his box, his head down, trying to walk a little faster.

  “Cochrann, Cochrann …” said the director. He came up to him and took him by the arm, trying to stop him. “Hey, Cochrann, it’s me, Arty — Arty Short, don’t you know me?”

  But the young man lowered his head even more and pulled the box along behind him, like a mule.

  “What seekest thou from my disciple?” said the old guy, facing Arty and raising a hand to heaven, in a grave and hieratic gesture.

  “Get fucked, asshole,” said Arty. “You don’t know who you’ve got here. This is Cochrann Fennore, The Punisher,” Arty went on, staring at the youth, who had come to a stop. “The greatest one of all. He’s a star,” he said, with an emphasis not unlike the prophet’s.

  Bill turned, and looked at him in silence, squinting, as if to focus better. Tilting his head to the side.

  “It’s Arty, see? Don’t you recognize me?”

  Bill stared at him without speaking, brows knit, as if we were trying to stitch together the scattered thoughts in his brain.

  “The Lord hath seen fit to make him mute,” said the old guy.

  “Mute my ass,” said Arty.

  “Lo, the God of Vengeance hath shriveled his tongue for his sins, like he’s gonna do to all of us,” the old man said, pointing a grimy finger at Arty. “Whereupon the God of Justice will smite us blind and deaf on account of we invented movies, O Lord, for we are the shame of Creation.”

  “Amen,” said the other three bums mechanically. One of the three held out an open palm to Arty, in the hope of alms.

  “I’m Arty,” the director said again, standing next to Bill, taking him by the shoulder.

  Bill stared at him with his mouth open. His chapped lips barely moved.

  “Ar-ty,” he said painfully.

  “Right, Arty!” cried the director, embracing his champion. “Arty, Arty Short, your partner, your pal.”

  “Arty,” Bill repeated softly, and his eyes seemed to come back into focus, aware of the world. Slowly. First the director, then the clothes he was wearing, then the old prophet and his three disciples. “Arty …”

  “Yes! Arty!”

  “Arty Short …”

  “Right, baby!”

  Bill shook off the embrace, looking around him. His eyes were bright with fear. “They’re after me, Arty,” he murmured. “They wanna put me in da electric chair,” and again he looked fearfully around. “I gotta get away …”

  “No, no, listen to me, Cochrann. Look at me — look at me," said Arty, holding his shoulder. “The police came and talked to me, too. They’re after you for some silly robbery. In Detroit. A dame who works for Ford said you stole her savings. Hear that, Cochrann? Nobody goes to the chair for crap like that.”

  “Liv …”

  “Right, Liv.”

  Bill’s eyes clouded over again. As if he was getting lost in memories again.

  “Listen, Cochrann …” and Arty gave him a little shake. “Pay attention. Look at me. I’ll fix everything. Let’s go now. We’ll go home. You need a bath. A nice dinner, you’re so thin it’s scary. Everybody’s waiting for you, they’re all asking me about you. We’ve got to make another film.”

  Bill smiled. Distantly. But it was a smile.

  “We’re going back to the movies, Punisher,” Arty murmured into his ear, embracing him. “Back to Hollywood.”

  “Sodom and Gomorrah!” cried the prophet, placing a hand on Bill’s head, in sign of ownership. The three acolytes came closer, looking menacing.

  “Get lost, Methuselah! Don’t fuck with me!” Arty reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of change and threw it on the sidewalk. The prophet and his three remaining disciples fell to their knees, scrabbling for the coins, snarling at each other.

  “Let’s go,” said Arty. He held on to Bill’s shoulder and hurried him towards the car.

  Bill let himself be led. He was still dragging the box with him.

  “Let go of that frigging box! Come on, hurry up!” When they reached the car Arty helped him in, and then sped away.

  After a week, Bill remembered everything and had regained control of his mind. He remembered being picked up by the prophet and his vagabond followers. He remembered sleeping in the open, with no blanket, lighting fires here and there, and living off alms. He remembered that at the beginning, the prophet had hit him with a staff. And then had given him the job of carrying the box he preached from. Finally he remembered the morning when Arty had found him and saved him.

  Meanwhile, Arty — while he took care of him at home — had clo
sed his bank account and opened another one, transferring all the money into a new account, in another bank, after arranging a new identity for him.

  “From now on, you’re Kevin Maddox,” Arty told him at the end of the week. “Cochrann Fennore has nothing to do with you anymore.” Then the director softened for a moment. “I know, I know — it’s your name, and likely you’re fond of it. But there was nothing else to do. I’m sorry.”

  Bill looked at him and suddenly burst out laughing. The light laugh he hadn’t lost in his wanderings with the prophet through the Hollywood hills.

  Arty stared at him not knowing what to think.

  “Don’t worry, Arty,” said Bill. “I’m okay. It’s just that I never could stand bein’ named Cochrann Fennore. Naw, I like Kevin Maddox, that’s fine. But why not call me Bill, okay?”

  “Bill?”

  “Yeah: Bill.”

  “Okay,” said Arty, looking thoughtfully at him. “Is there anything else I ought to know about you … Bill?”

  Bill just stared at him. Then he clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m ready to start any time, Arty.”

  “That’s my boy! That’s what I want to hear you say!”

  “Yeah, I’m ready t’ go back on the set.”

  “There’s something new,” said Arty.

  “Yeah? What kinda thing?” Bill said defensively.

  “Relax, partner,” laughed Arty. “It’s something that’s going to make our films even better.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Sound, Bill. Sound!”

  “Sound?”

  “Right. I’ve signed a sound technician and made a deal with a synchronization studio,” Arty went on, excited. “We’ll hear them scream!”

  He laughed. “We’ll hear The Punisher’s fists!”

  “Sound, huh …” Bill muttered.

  “And now come over here,” said Arty, beckoning Bill to the living room window. He pulled the curtains back. “Look down there, Bill.”

  Parked at the sidewalk was a dashing LaSalle.

  “Izzat her?”

  “That is certainly her,” said Arty, handing Bill the keys.

  “Thanks,” said Bill.

  Arty lowered his voice. “But there’s one problem I haven’t quite solved yet,” he said.

  Bill looked at him.

  “All our clients know you as Cochrann Fennore. We can’t tell them why you had to change your name, now can we? So maybe it’s best if they don’t see you around for a while. I’ll be the one who deals with them, like I did before,” said Arty.

  Bill jabbed a finger at his chest. “Don’t you try t’ screw me, Arty,” he said in a dark voice. “I’m grateful to ya. But don’t never try to cheat me.”

  “You got yourself in a lot of trouble,” said Arty.

  He no longer looked weak, Bill noticed.

  “You have to trust me,” said the director.

  “Yeah, okay, I trust ya.”

  “And maybe you’ll need to give me part of your percentage.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Bill, Bill,” Arty sighed. “I have to do everything by myself now. All the work falls on me.”

  “How much?”

  “I wouldn’t want to take advantage …”

  “How much?”

  “Seventy for me, thirty for you.”

  “Sixty.”

  “Seventy, Bill.”

  “Sixty-five, fuck!”

  “Don’t get hot under the collar. Seventy. I can’t do it for less. Believe me,” Arty laid his hand on Bill’s shoulder. “You’re in one hell of a bad position. With the cops looking for you, fake papers … and how do I know there isn’t something else you haven’t even told me … Bill. I’m taking a huge risk. What if they catch up with you?”

  “Gimme a drink,” said Bill, falling back on the sofa.

  Arty opened the liquor cabinet, poured some contraband whiskey and handed Bill the glass. “No hard feelings, partner?”

  “Aw, go fuck yerself, Arty.”

  “When would you like to start?”

  “Ya got me so riled up I feel like beatin’ da shit outa somebody right now.”

  Arty laughed. “Spoken like a man!” He poured himself a drink and raised his glass. “To the return of The Punisher!”

  Bill raised his glass. “Get fucked, Arty.”

  “We can’t do it today. And tomorrow’s out, too. But I’ve got a little piece lined up that you’ll be crazy about,” said Arty, dropping onto the couch next to Bill. “Just the type you like. Dark wavy hair, slim, a really innocent face. She says she’s twenty-one but I wouldn’t swear to it. How about Friday?”

  “I awready said whenever ya want.”

  The girl began weeping at the first slap. And she started to scream after the first punch. The soundman signaled Arty that he was getting everything perfectly. Arty rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. Now that they had sound, they’d be making even more money. And seventy per cent was going into his own pocket.

  The scene was going wonderfully. The little piece looked even younger on film. Arty had given her a schoolgirl dress, white knee socks. White cotton panties. No garter belt or lacy undies. A little girl. He snickered happily as The Punisher gave her a kick in the stomach and then ripped off her skirt. The girl screamed like a madwoman, and tried to cover her bare legs in spontaneous modesty. Maybe she was a virgin, Arty thought. He shivered with anticipation.

  The Punisher took her by the hair and slung her onto the narrow bed. The set was a reconstruction of a college dorm room. Arty watched, smiling, as Bill pulled her tennis sweater off clumsily and then ripped her blouse open. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere, only a thin cotton undershirt over her little breasts.

  “Now fuck her,” muttered Arty.

  The Punisher punched her in the mouth. The girl whimpered. Arty turned to look at the soundman who nodded back. The sound was perfect. The Punisher tore off her panties.

  “Good. Now fuck her,” Arty repeated.

  The Punisher grabbed the girl, dragged her off the bed, and flung her on the floor. He started kicking her again.

  “Just go ahead and fuck her, for Christ’s sake,” Arty said again.

  Bill stood panting in the middle of the set. He stopped. He put his hands to the leather mask and squeezed his head.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Arty asked the cameraman who was next to him.

  Bill heard the whirring of the cameras. He could hear it distinctly. But he wasn’t getting excited. Nothing was happening between his legs. He looked down at the girl, crumpled at his feet, sobbing and whimpering. Arty was right, she was his type. But nothing was happening. And all the damn whirring did was make him remember his nightmare about the electric chair.

  “Arty!” cried Bill, pulling the mask off.

  “Cut!” shouted Arty to the crew and came onto the set. “What the hell’s happening?” he asked Bill sotto voce. Outside the set the crew was murmuring and snickering.

  “It ain’t gettin’ hard,” said Bill.

  Arty looked around, as if hoping to find a solution. “She’s a virgin,” he told Bill, pointing to the girl on the floor. “Don’t waste it. This could be our best one yet.”

  Bill grabbed him by the lapels. “It ain’t gettin’ hard,” he breathed into Arty’s face, choked with rage and frustration.

  “Okay, okay, calm down now,” and again he pretended to be thinking of a solution. “We’re spending a pile of money,” he muttered, walking up and down the set.

  The girl tried to get up.

  Arty stopped her. “Stay there,” he ordered her. He turned to Bill. “Just pretend to be fucking her. Open your pants and act like you’re fucking her brains out. I’ll shoot from the back. But she has to scream.”

  Bill stared at him.

  “It can happen to anybody, Bill. Just put the mask back on and finish the scene. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to notice a thing,” said Arty. He turned back to the crew. “Ready!” He wen
t back behind the lights, and when Bill had resumed the mask he yelled, “Action!”

  The cameras started whirring again. “Do a close-up of the girl,” Arty told one of the cameramen. “I’ll splice it in.”

  The Punisher unbuttoned his pants, mounted the girl, spread her legs and pretended to penetrate her. He made her scream by twisting one of her nipples as hard as he could.

  The film met with a tepid reaction. Arty and Bill took in the usual amount of money — more than thirty thousand dollars — but the clients weren’t completely satisfied. There was something unconvincing about it, they said, even if they didn’t know what it was. But Arty and Bill knew.

  “Like I said, it can happen to anybody,” Arty told Bill the day they were preparing to shoot the next film. It was going to be sold at a discount as bonus for their faithful clients. “But it had better not happen again.”

  But it did happen again. “Ya want me t’ fake it?” asked Bill.

  Arty shook his head. “No, we can’t risk another fiasco,” he said, and walked away.

  That night Bill couldn’t sleep. The rage and frustration had been replaced by doubt. He climbed into his LaSalle and began racing down the Coast Highway. But even his foot on the accelerator didn’t go all the way down. He was going fast. But not as fast as he used to go. He stopped halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego. He got out of the car and walked to the edge of the ocean. The sound of the tide calmed him for a while. Then he turned and saw a cop car’s flashing light beside the LaSalle. His instinct was to run. But the cop pointed his mobile searchlight at the beach, illuminating him. The soothing sound of the tide turned into the whir of a movie camera. The searchlight became a ten thousand watt spot. And behind the light Bill knew there was a cop. They got me, he thought. He felt the straps of the electric chair tighten around his wrists and ankles.

  “Mister, mister — are you all right?” came a voice.