“What does that mean?” asked Ruth, sitting next to him as he drove off again.
“The end of the dream.”
Ruth looked down the road ahead of them. Now the border was near. The American border police let them pass without stopping them. Ruth looked back and saw the five fugitives being pulled out of the police car and handed over to the Mexican police. The woman with the wounded forehead turned and stared back at America as soon as she reached the Mexican side.
When they got back to San Diego that night, Ruth developed Barry’s wedding photos and the ones she’d shot at the border.
“At least they tried,” said Barry, looking over her shoulder.
From that day on, whenever Ruth had a day off, she’d take the bus that went to the border and stay there for hours looking at the people crossing over and going back. She didn’t really know why. And then she’d walk along the wire holding pen. She made pictures of them in this cage. After a while the border police recognized her. They struck poses for her, a six-shooter in each hand. Ruth photographed them. And behind them she always tried to include the dark proud faces of the Mexicans, with their deep unhurried eyes. Full of passion.
At night she developed the pictures, looking at them over and over for hours. The more she looked at them, the more she felt something moving inside her. Like knots being untied. She still felt the emotions she was fleeing. But something in her was changing. As if she were cultivating a thought that she still wasn’t able to formulate. As if that thought was bringing her something she’d once thought was the peace she’d been seeking. A kind of suffered serenity. Something she could glimpse in her photos, in the eyes of those Mexicans who couldn’t make it across the border. Something that saddened and comforted her at the same time. But only as long as the thought hadn’t shown itself clearly.
When it did explode inside her, Ruth stopped taking the bus to Tijuana. She didn’t take any more pictures of the border or the faces of the Mexicans behind the fence. She was afraid. Again she was afraid. And from that day on, her emotions and memories became an even greater torment.
After two weeks, Ruth asked Barry for some time off. She made some excuse and took a bus to Los Angeles, and from there, another one to Newhall. It wasn’t Sunday when she came through the gates of the Newhall Spirit Resort for Women, the clinic for nervous illnesses where she had been confined. Still, they let her in and let her see Mrs. Bailey.
Ruth found her as she always was, in front of the window, her gaze lost in her own world. She sat down beside her silently, and she held her hand. Mrs. Bailey didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m always so afraid I’ll get caught in the trap again,” Ruth said after a while. “What should I do?”
Mrs. Bailey kept staring out the window, seeing nothing.
Ruth stayed with her. She didn’t say anything. Then, after nearly an hour, she let go of her hand, got up and went to the door.
“One day a little boy, the son of a man who sold canaries, decided to free all his father’s birds,” Mrs. Bailey said suddenly.
Ruth stopped, her hand on the doorknob.
“He opened the cages, and all the canaries flew away, filling the air with twittering,” Mrs. Bailey went on. “All but one. A female canary named Aquila. She was the oldest one of all, she was born long before the little boy. He shrugged his shoulders. Sooner or later she’d fly away, he told himself. She’d be free. But that evening the canary was still there, perched in her cage, in the corner opposite the open door. ‘Sorry, Aquila, it’s for your own good,’ he told her, and he took her little dishes of water and food away from her open prison. He was sure that being hungry and thirsty would make her come out of the cage. But the next day she was still there, only now she was stiff, with her rosy back against the floor of the cage, and her little feet sticking up, all shrunken and contracted, with her eyes dull and veiled, and the wings she’d never flown with crossed on her breast. As though she were being embraced by chains.” Mrs. Bailey sighed and stopped.
Ruth felt a shortness of breath. And then a river of tears. She came back and sat beside Mrs. Bailey, silently weeping.
Then Mrs. Bailey reached out and took Ruth’s hand in hers.
Ruth didn’t look at her. They sat, looking at the window, seeing nothing around them, each woman lost in her own world, her thoughts, her remembrances.
At sunset a nurse came into the room with dinner, and told Ruth she’d have to leave.
Ruth slipped her hand out of Mrs. Bailey’s and left the clinic. Later that night, she rang Mr. Bailey’s doorbell. She slept in her old room at the Wonderful Photos agency.
If Arty thought he could fuck with him, he was making a big mistake. “It’s over,” he’d told him two months earlier. The Punisher was over. The coke was over. The hell it was over, Bill thought. Not till he himself said it was. Arty said they weren’t making as much these days, that there weren’t any profits. Fuck that. Bill was sure they wanted to replace him. To stick his mask on somebody else. But The Punisher wasn’t a mask; he was what was behind the mask. Arty thought he could make a pile of money again without him. Fuck that, too. Bill wasn’t going to let that happen.
When Arty saw him raping the Mexican hoor that first time, Bill thought he’d have to kill him. It was obvious: That was Arty’s destiny. To get killed by Bill. He’d been kept alive long enough to open the gates of Paradise for Bill, but now he’d done that. His work was done.
“Yeah, get fucked, Arty. It’s me that don’t need you no more. Amen.” Bill laughed, snorting a generous dose of coke. He screwed the cap back on the vial and put it back in his pocket. He breathed in deeply, clenching his teeth. And his thoughts grew as sharp and shiny as a scalpel.
“Arty. Prickface,” he muttered.
Two months ago, when the director had told him he was finished, he pretended to be despairing; begging Arty not to dump him. But he realized right away that he was acting. Unconsciously. At the time, Bill had believed it himself: He was desperate, drooling, begging that little shithead pimp for a fix. But his instinct had shown him the smart thing to do: show his weakness to the enemy so he could fuck him up more completely. He figured this out two days later. Two days spent in bed, without the strength to get up and react; feeling lost. Finished, like Prickface had said. In that shitty room in a shitty boarding house in the shitty town where he was a prisoner. With a couple of shitty bucks in his pocket. But no, he wasn’t finished. He got to his feet. Rage had given him the strength he needed. Rage was pumping adrenalin through his body again.
For another two days he followed Arty. He studied his movements before he struck. In those two days he found out where Arty was getting the coke. A fancy dresser by the name of Lester. Bill dropped in at Lester’s house, beat the shit out of him and made him tell who his supplier was. Tony Salvese met him in the back room of a pool hall, protected by two guys with pistols in their belts. And Bill told Tony Salvese who he was: The Punisher. Tony Salvese laughed and told his thugs, “This guy’s fucked the best-looking broads in Hollywood.” And the two gunsels laughed too. From then on they looked at him in a different way. Bill explained that he wanted to sell coke to Hollywood. Tony Salvese gave him a kilo on consignment. “Broads like coke, huh?” he told him. “Eighty percent, that’s my cut. If there’s a penny missin’, I’m gonna feed ya dick t’my dog.” When Bill came out of the poolroom, with the cocaine stuffed down his pants, he went straight to Lester’s house, with a hood over his head. Then he stole his coke and his dough. Finally, he could fill his nose.
So now he was dealing cocaine. It wasn’t hard to find clients. He made the rounds of the ones who knew his films. He told each one of them who he was. He was back in business. He’d be starting some new movies soon, he said. Because there wasn’t anybody like him. He was taking his time. But Bill was patient. Already a few of his clients had organized little parties, in a motel on the outskirts of Los Angeles. He was the guest of honor. They had him put on his Punisher mask and rape a broad wh
ile they watched. A live performance. Bill felt like the magician at a baby party. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. After that first time, they’d called him for two other command performance parties. Once he hadn’t gotten hard, but the coke made him smart, clear-headed. Bill didn’t get upset. He looked at his depraved hosts and told them, “Okay, I tenderized da meat for ya, now you take it from there.” This was a brilliant idea. They gave him an extra five hundred bucks, they were so happy. Yeah, sooner or later he’d be back in pictures. He’d be The Punisher again.
But now he wanted to get rid of that asshole Arty.
He sniffed another line of coke, clenched his fists, ground his teeth. There, now he was invincible. He waited till Arty left his house, as he did every day. Arty was a guy who had a schedule. Every day he went out for a walk. Like some fucking guy on an old-age pension. On the way back, he stopped at a cafeteria and had breakfast. “Poor shit,” Bill said, forcing the back door and going inside. He went straight to Arty’s bedroom and pulled all the junk out of his bedside table. Bill knew about the false bottom. He lifted it out. He found five thousand bucks in cash and twenty vials of cocaine.
Then he went into the living room, put the five grand in his pocket and set the little bottles of coke on the table. He went to the phone and called the police number. He gave them the address, and told them to hurry. A big stash of cocaine. When he hung up he spilled one of the vials on the table. He sniffed up the white powder, for the fourth time that morning, and left through the back door.
Art came home just as the cops arrived, sirens wailing. They shoved him against the wall, forced him into the house. After a very short time he came out in handcuffs.
“It ain’t worth dirtyin’ my hands on no pimp,” Bill snickered, watching the action from behind a tree. No, he didn’t have to kill him. This was a lot more fun. Maybe he’d send him a cake in prison, so’s he’d know who he had to thank. So’s he’d know he couldn’t say The Punisher was finished; he couldn’t just dump him like one of his hoors. “So long, Arty,” he said, and he walked away as other police sirens filled the air with their song of lamentation.
He walked into Tony Salvese’s pool hall. “I need some new papers,” he told him.
If Arty thought he could get off by turning him in, he was making another big mistake. They weren’t never going to find him. William Hoffland, Cochrann Fennore, and the youngest, Kevin Maddox — none of them even existed any more. He’d get a new name.
“It’s gonna cost ya,” said Salvese.
“How much?”
“Three gees.”
Bill pulled Arty’s five grand out of his pants pocket and counted out three thousand of it. Thanks for this too, Arty, he thought. Then he burst into a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” asked Salvese.
“Nothin’ Tony,” said Bill. “I was just thinking about an old friend a mine.”
“Yeah? So what is he, a comic or somethin’?” The two gorillas, that were always around, laughed too.
“Yeah, kinda,” said Bill. “He was a pimp. An’ a traitor.”
Salvese grinned. “I’m glad ta hear ya usin da past tense, then,” he said.
Yes, Arty was the past. Now he needed to think about the future. “I need some extra stuff,” said Bill.
“How come?” asked Salvese.
“I’m goin’ to a party where’s there’s gonna be a bunch a big shots.”
Salvese nodded. He pulled open a drawer hidden in the pool table and took out a big package. He tossed it onto the green felt.
Bill picked it up, grinned, and left. He went back to his room, hid the coke in the air vent, and lay back on the bed. He thought of the look on Arty’s face when they were stuffing him into the police car. He laughed. He got up again suddenly. He rubbed his eyes, opened, and closed his hands. He couldn’t keep still. He walked up and down the room. He stopped and spilled some white powder on the dresser, rolled up one of Arty’s C-notes, and breathed in deeply. “Here’s to you, Arty.” He had to laugh.
Then he took a cream colored suit, a red silk shirt, and went to the laundry around the corner. “I need this for tonight,” he said. “Cleaned and pressed.”
The owner gave him a ticket. “Five o’clock all right?”
“Make it five sharp,” said Bill. His legs wouldn’t keep still, he balanced first on one foot, then the other. He came out and then went into a barbershop. “Shave and a haircut,” he said, sitting in the chair. He looked in the mirror, and he could see a blonde woman in a striped uniform, slippers on her feet. She was sitting on a bench, reading a magazine. “Can ya do my hands?” he asked her.
“Yes indeedy,” she said, without looking at him. She put down the magazine, stood up, and went into the back room.
Bill could hear water running. “After da shave, I wancha ta rub lotion on my face,” he told the barber.
The woman came back with a bowl full of soapy water. She sat on a low stool near him. Bill gave her his hand. She took it and placed it in the bowl. The water was tepid, relaxing.
The barber soaped his face and began to sharpen his razor on the leather strop.
Bill looked at the razor. It was sharp and shining. Like his own thoughts. Like cocaine. He was invincible. “T’night I’m goin’ to a big party in Hollywood,” he told the woman.
“Lucky you, mister,” she said, not looking at him, as she clipped his nails.
Yeah, thought Bill. Life was starting over again. Big time.
67
Los Angeles, 1929
“Barrymore asked me about you,” said Mr. Bailey. He was holding a package.
Ruth looked at him, but she didn’t answer.
“He said that if you came tonight he’d display one of the photos he didn’t tear up.”
Ruth smiled.
“What does he mean?” asked Clarence.
“That he’s a brave actor.”
Mr. Bailey shook his head. Why try to understand? “Will you come with me?”
“I don’t know …”
“Oh, come on. Be kind to a poor old man,” said Bailey. “I hate parties but I can’t get out of this one.”
“I honestly don’t know, Clarence.”
“I would make a great impression if I showed up with a beautiful girl,” Clarence smiled. “And one of my most brilliant photographers.”
Ruth smiled.
“Capricious, crazy … but full of talent.”
Ruth laughed. “I’m not capricious.”
“Oh yes you are,” said Clarence. “More than any movie star I know. And the best thing about it is; we let you do it. Now please — come with me; that way I’ll get to see your picture of Barrymore.”
“I don’t have anything to wear,” said Ruth.
Mr. Bailey set his package on Ruth’s desk.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Open it.”
Ruth opened the box. Inside was a silk dress. Emerald green.
“It goes with your eyes,” said Clarence.
Ruth gasped. “But why …?”
Clarence reached across and gave her a gentle hug. “Once upon a time the thing I liked best was buying dresses for Mrs. Bailey,” he said softly. “Seeing how she looked in them.”
“But … why would you do it for me?”
Mr. Bailey held Ruth by the shoulders. “You’re the only woman I can give a gift like that to without looking like a dirty old man,” he said.
Ruth laughed. “Thank you, Clarence.”
The old agent shrugged his shoulders. “I did it for myself,” he said, “So that I’d feel alive.”
“I’m not talking about the dress, Clarence,” said Ruth. “If it hadn’t been for you …”
“Well, good. That’s settled. You’re coming with me,” and Mr. Bailey turned away and went out of her room.
Ruth looked at the green dress. She held it up in front of herself and looked in the mirror. The last person to give her a silk dress had been her mother. A blood red dress. That had
brought her to the Newhall Spirit Resort for Women. And yet Ruth didn’t feel her stomach twist at the memory. That was where she’d met Mrs. Bailey. And Clarence. No matter how painful some of the images were, The Newhall Spirit Resort was where her new life had begun. She had found the courage to come out of the cage of her family. Ruth returned her gaze to the green dress. “They’re opening the cage for me again,” she murmured.
She spread the dress on the bed and went out. She bought pale stockings, a pair of black patent shoes with little heels and a short black silk jacket with a broad curved collar and narrow three-quarter sleeves. Then she went to a notions shop and bought five large flat buttons, the same green as the dress, to replace the original black ones on the jacket. In a cosmetics store she acquired a delicate pink lipstick, some pearly foundation, a black eye pencil, and a bottle of Chanel Nº 5. Finally she had her hair ironed by a hairdresser.
When Clarence came downstairs to take Ruth to the party, he stopped at the door of her room, his mouth open. “Excuse me,” he said, “have you seen Miss Isaacson?”
Ruth laughed and blushed.
“You’re really lovely,” said Clarence, with a father’s pride. He offered her his arm. “Shall we go?” But when they were already in the lobby, he put a hand to his head. “Wait,” he said, and went back up to the fifth floor. When he came back down he was holding a floating transparent scarf of black tulle. He placed it around Ruth’s neck and spread it across her shoulders. “It belonged to Mrs. Bailey,” he said. “There. Now you’re perfect.”
They got into the car and drove to an enormous villa on Sunset Boulevard, blazing with lights. They had to stop the car almost at the bottom of a long driveway. A valet opened the gate and had them get out while he parked the car at the end of a long line of luxury cars. Ruth and Clarence had hardly arrived when several other cars pulled up and parked behind theirs.
Clarence glanced back. “There,” he grumbled. “This is the part I hate most. We have to leave the car outside the gate. And now we’re blocked in.” Again he offered his arm to Ruth and they went up the driveway.