The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

  “Don’t talk shit.” Karl took Cyril by the shoulders and turned him towards Christmas. “Look at your boy. Just look at him. He’s already turned into a shark. But what could we have expected from somebody who hangs out with criminals? Look at him. He’s leaving.

  “Go on, tell him, tell him you’re leaving, Christmas.”

  “Izzat true?” Cyril asked again.

  Christmas looked at him without speaking. Then he asked, “Do you believe that?”

  Cyril didn’t blink. “I believes what I sees,” he said.

  “And what do you see?”

  “I see it five minutes till air time. I see you keeps lookin’ at yo’ watch like a man on death row,” said Cyril. “And most of all, I sees two roosters stampin’ aroun’ the henhouse, with they mouths full o’ words. But I don’ see no facts. Not a one.”

  Christmas went over and stood so close to Karl their faces were almost touching. “You were at N.Y. Broadcast, too …”

  “No,” said Karl.

  “Before I went, before they sent for me …”

  “No,” said Karl.

  “You wanted to sell them the program. And you told that shitty Howe that you’d talk me into working cheap.”

  Karl gazed at him silently. He didn’t lower his eyes, he didn’t step back. Without any shadow of yielding or uncertainty. “They fucked you around,” he said firmly. “I didn’t do any of those things.”

  Christmas measured Karl’s look, struck by how sure he seemed, and, at the same time, swept by his own contrasting emotions. One part of him still felt the echo of the anger he’d felt at Karl’s betrayal, but also the feeling that Karl was telling him the truth. On one side, the anger he’d brooded on unjustly for days; and on the other, a new anger mingled with shame having been caught out by Karl. As he struggled with these opposing forces, unable to speak — under Karl’s gaze, in which he could read his own mixture of reproach and scorn, accusation and blame — he heard a lot of noise and confusion just outside the door.

  “Who there?” cried Sister Bessie, suspicious and a little bit frightened.

  “Christmas is expectin’ me, lemme in, it’s late!”

  Then another voice, muffled, like someone speaking with a hand over his mouth.

  “Now what?” grumbled Cyril, going to the door.

  At that point a boy burst into the room, leading a man with a hood over his head and an elegant camel’s hair overcoat, followed by Sister Bessie.

  “Take this thing off my head. I’m suffocating,” said the hooded man.

  Cyril stared, eyes wide.

  Sister Bessie asked, “You know these folks, Christmas?”

  “Take the hood off, Santo,” said Christmas, never taking his eyes off Karl.

  Karl didn’t stop looking at Christmas.

  Santo took off the man’s hood.

  “Mercy me, you is Fred Astaire!” cried Sister Bessie.

  “Well, that was amusing, but I couldn’t stand it any longer,” said Astaire, smoothing his hair. Then he saw Christmas and Karl, who were staring at one another in silence, their face’s only a hand’s breadth apart. “What’s this? A duel?” he asked, laughing.

  Neither Christmas nor Karl answered him. They didn’t look at him. They went on confronting one another in silence.

  “So?” said Karl. “Did you sell out?”

  “I told them no. Yesterday,” said Christmas.

  Cyril let out a long, sonorous breath, as if he’d held in all the air until that moment, without breathing. “’Scuse me if I has t’ bother you all,” he said in a matter of fact way, “but we got a broadcast comin’ up in about thirty seconds, and Fred Astaire jus’ showed up at Sister Bessie’s wit’ a bag over his haid.” He shook his head and sat down in front of his equipment, arranging it neatly. “I don’t understand none o’ this,” he muttered.

  Christmas turned to Fred Astaire. He controlled himself and smiled at him. “Thanks, Mr. Astaire,” he said, indicating him to Cyril with a flourish. “Mr. Astaire is our first guest on Diamond Dogs.” He put his hand on Santo’s shoulder and winked at him. “And this is Santo, another member of Diamond Dogs, not to mention that he’s the new head of the menswear department at Macy’s. And he earns so much money he’s got a car, which is how he was able to kidnap Mr. Astaire.”

  “Just say the word, Boss,” said Santo.

  “You is all crazy,” grumbled Cyril, pressing a series of switches. “Thirty seconds …”

  “You remember how it starts, Mr. Astaire?” Christmas asked.

  “I’ve done my homework, yes,” answered Fred Astaire.

  “Twenty …” Cyril looked daggers at Karl and Christmas. “You two done scratchin’ on each other, white boys?”

  Christmas turned to look at Karl. Their eyes met, still full of tension.

  “Ten …”

  “I thought you trusted me,” said Christmas.

  “Five …”

  “So did I,” said Karl. His voice was hard and flat.

  “On the air,” said Cyril, flipping a switch.

  “Hello, New York …” said a voice.

  They all turned to look.

  “I know, you were expecting to hear Christmas talking to you. I’m Fred Astaire, and they’ve brought me to a place that’s really dark …”

  Christmas sat down next to Astaire.

  “I’m speaking to you from the secret broadcast studios of CKC Radio, friends,” Fred Astaire went on. “But don’t ask me how I got here. They kidnapped me. They put a hood over my head, tossed me into a car, and drove me around for half an hour to get me confused …”

  “And did it work, Mr. Astaire?” Christmas asked, into the mike.

  “You bet it did,” laughed Fred Astaire. “You gangsters have a system that’s not bad at all — if you want to keep someone confused.”

  Christmas laughed softly, too, but he didn’t look for Karl’s reaction as he always did, hoping to read approval in his eyes. Karl laughed, too, but he didn’t look at Christmas. He didn’t want to deny him the support he’d always given him. Both of them knew that something was spoiled.

  “But don’t worry, New York,” Fred Astaire continued happily, “I’m safe and sound. Right after the broadcast the gang will set me free again, and I’ll be waiting for all of you at the theater tonight.”

  “I was just thinking … gangsters and actors aren’t all that different. I’ve got a couple of interesting little stories I might tell you. Yes … in the theater, we have our own ways of getting rid of people …”

  Christmas, Karl, Cyril, Santo, and Sister Bessie all laughed. All the listeners tuned in laughed, too. So did the gangsters. Cetta laughed, bringing her hands up to her mouth, emotional. Sal snickered, muttering, “Faggot.”

  “There’s only one kind of person that’s worse than actors and gangsters,” Fred Astaire’s voice went on. “Naturally, I’m talking about … lawyers.”

  56

  Manhattan, 1927

  After Fred Astaire, it was Duke Ellington’s turn to be kidnapped. During the broadcast, before playing for free, the Duke said, “Hey, apart from the business with the hood, I like this CKC. They let colored folks in here, it’s not like the Cotton Club. A couple of them are sitting here, right next to me.” Cyril’s chest swelled with pride, in silence. Sister Bessie, however, couldn’t control herself, and cried: “I done put the first dollar in this radio station! I owns a piece of it, Duke, and you ain’t got nothin’. It be YOU sittin’ nex’ to ME, an’ not the otha way ‘roun’.” All of which caused a huge burst of laughter to go out over the airwaves and brought Diamond Dogs even more popularity and respect throughout Harlem.

  Other kidnap victims were Jimmy Durante, Al Jolson, Mae West, Cab Calloway, Ethel Waters, and two young Broadway actors, James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart. Bogart agreed to take part in the show because he wanted to meet Christmas. “Why?” they asked him. “Well, I was born on Christmas day. How could I pass up the chance to meet a guy whose name is the same as
my birthday?”

  It was becoming fashionable to be kidnapped. Every public personage wanted to participate in Diamond Dogs. Having a hood pulled over your head meant that you were part of the happy few who got to set foot inside the clandestine radio station. “I was in their hideout,” they said afterwards at exclusive restaurants, or parties, theatrical first nights, and movie premieres. Not a single guest refused the hood. And so the location of CKC Radio remained a secret and continued to feed popular folklore. Santo became the driver for the Gang — now everyone called CKC the Gang — and rediscovered the joy and excitement of the old days, when he and Christmas were the only members of the phantom gang.

  At the beginning, reporters tried to follow stars who were likely CKC kidnap victims, trailing them with camera and notebook. Probably sooner or later they would have managed to find the station, but they couldn’t have foreseen that the gangsters of New York City would decide not to let that happen. They discouraged nosy reporters by using the same effective means they used in the business of crime. A bullet through the glove compartment; an anonymous letter that listed one’s family’s schedules in great detail; a face to face intimidation, if necessary, perhaps accompanied by the destruction of one’s camera.

  The director of this network of protection was Arnold Rothstein. But when he saw that as soon as he managed to discourage some fire-breathing journalist another popped up to take his place, Mr. Big organized a drastic action involving twenty men and a dozen automobiles. One morning, after having plotted every detail of the operation, Rothstein kidnapped the managing editors of The New York Times, The Daily News, The Jewish Forward, The New York Amsterdam News, The Post, and even The Daily Worker. The six men were hooded on the street. And, as Rothstein had planned, not a single witness informed the police. Instead, they all laughed, sure they had just seen guests being kidnapped for Diamond Dogs. The editors had thought the same thing, too, at first. But when they were all together at the Lincoln Republican Club, facing Arnold Rothstein, their good humor suddenly vanished, replaced by fear.

  “Christmas is not no gangster. But it’s like he was one of us,” Mr. Big began without preamble after the editors had been rudely shoved onto prepared chairs. “I’m ready to declare war on you inkslinger guys, all of you, if you keep on trying to spill the beans about the station location. CKC, get me? So I don’t want no trouble for that kid, or his program neither, on account of this conversation we’re having today, which by the way never happened. Nobody gets to know nothing about CKC and Diamond Dogs. So tell your bunch of loser newshounds to lay off; tell ’em to go look for a scoop someplace else. And don’t come crying to me about freedom of the press, neither. You get your dumb freedom, and the rest of us gets to lose one of the only things worth hearing in this crummy town. That can’t be right.” Rothstein moved away from his pool table and came over to them, looking them over, one by one. “You spoil Diamond Dogs and I’m gonna show up at your house,” he said in a moody voice. Then he smiled, showing his white sharp teeth. “But I already decided I was gonna do you a favor.” He glanced at Lepke, who brought him a fistful of straws. “We’re going to play a game, like when we were kids. The one of you what draws the short straw is going to get kidnapped. And he gets to introduce a episode of Diamond Dogs. And I don’t want nobody to be unhappy, so he won’t be an official guest, he just gets to make notes and pass the information on to the rest. That way all your papers can come out and tell all about da program, just like you was all there at once. Awright?” Again Rothstein gave his special smile, frightening them even more. “I guess I don’t got to say that if you was to put in stuff what told people where maybe they should look for CKC Radio, as far as I’m concerned, the deal’s off.”

  Now Mr. Big reached out the hand holding the straws to each of the editors. First to the managing editor of the New York Amsterdam News, and then to the others. The short straw was in fact drawn by the “Amsterdam News,” the Harlem weekly paper.

  “All right, that’s done,” said Rothstein, releasing them. “Say: Christmas don’t know nothing about this friendly conversation we had, so don’t get no funny ideas. He’s a good kid, he’s got talent.”

  He looked at them again, one by one. “And he’s under my protection,” he concluded, signaling his men to hustle them out. “Don’t you forget it. So now beat it, inkslingers.”

  The next day the editor of the New York Amsterdam News paused in front of the tenement on 125th street and looked up at Harlem’s clock that as always said it was seven thirty. He laughed and climbed to the fifth floor where, like everybody else who lived in Harlem, he knew the station was. Just as he’d known he would draw the first straw, and that it should be the one with a tiny red mark on it. Because Rothstein didn’t like to take risks. Or lose bets. The editor introduced himself to Christmas and told him about Rothstein.

  Two days later all the New York papers carried a detailed account of the program. Almost all the articles ran on the first page and were entitled In the Lair of the Diamond Dogs. The editors signed them personally, so that they could flaunt their privileged status to the world, just as famous actors and musicians did. And that day the newsboys in the streets of New York sold out their papers faster than they ever had.

  The audience for Diamond Dogs grew even bigger.

  The national press had to take notice of this phenomenon. The news traveled from coast to coast, all the way to Los Angeles, where it came to the notice of Hollywood stars and producers.

  “We’re getting too much publicity,” Karl said ten days later.

  “First you busts our balls puttin’ signs all over town, and now you complains ‘bout too much publicity?” grumbled Cyril.

  “We’re backing the authorities into a corner,” Karl went on. “They can’t pretend they don’t notice. They’re going to find us.”

  “Let ’em come,” said Cyril. “Let ’em try t’ get past my people.”

  “Karl’s right,” said Christmas.

  Karl looked at him. And Christmas met his gaze silently. Ever since the day they had quarreled, something in their relationship had been broken. As if each of them felt crushed by the suspicions he’d had about the other.

  “You’re right, Karl,” Christmas told him. “You’ve been right all along.”

  Karl still looked at him.

  “I’m sorry,” said Christmas.

  Karl relaxed imperceptibly. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. He took a step towards Christmas and held out his hand.

  Christmas took it in his and drew Karl to him, embracing him.

  “Fuckin’ white folks,” growled Cyril, adjusting a microphone, head down, smiling.

  “True love, now don’t it just break yo’ heart?” said Sister Bessie, coming into the room. “‘The Amsterdam News’ editor be here. Can he come in, or does I wait fo’ you girls’ t’ get yo’ clothes on?”

  “Why the fuck he comin’ again?” asked Cyril.

  “You wash yo’ mouth, I gots babies around,” said Sister Bessie. “What you want me t’ tell him? He waitin’ outside.”

  “May I?” said the editor, poking his head into the room. He waved an envelope. “It’s for Christmas. It came to my office this morning. It was addressed to me, with a sealed envelope inside for Christmas. They asked me to deliver it to you.”

  “And if you does that, then they knows you knows where we is, dickhead,” said Cyril.

  “Cyril!” warned Sister Bessie.

  “’scuse me, Sister Bessie,” said Cyril.

  “See what I mean?” said Karl. “They’re going to find us.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the editor from the New York Amsterdam News. “It’s from Los Angeles.”

  Christmas went pale, snatched the envelope out of his hand and ripped it open. Ruth, was all he could think of. Ruth. He took out the sheet of paper folded in three and looked at the signature, his heart beating fast, so fast. He lowered the letter, disappointed. “Louis B. Mayer,” he said sadly.

  “Who?�
�� asked Cyril.

  Christmas looked at the signature again. “Louis B. Mayer, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer …” he read.

  “So what do he want?” asked Cyril.

  “I don’t know,” said Christmas, and he tossed the letter on the table. Ruth, he thought again. Crushed.

  Karl picked up the letter. “‘Dear Mr. Christmas, We have learned through the press about your success in telling mysterious and realistic stories that fascinate people,’” he read out loud. “‘We are certain that your talent would be greatly appreciated in Hollywood, and we would like to invite you to our studio for a discussion and to consider possible subjects. You may contact me at number’ bla bla bla … ‘we are happy to provide travel expenses and lodging’ bla bla bla … ‘one thousand dollars for your trouble. Yours, Louis B. Mayer.’”

  A stunned silence followed.

  “Movies,” Sister Bessie said softly.

  “So what? I don’t care,” said Christmas.

  “Well, you should think about it.”

  Christmas stood, his head dropping.

  “I’m telling you,” said Karl.

  “I don’t care a thing about Hollywood,” Christmas repeated.

  “Ain’t yo’ girl out in L.A.?” Cyril asked, as if it were a casual remark.

  Christmas turned to look at him.

  But Cyril was already looking down, pretending to be busy with some plugs. “We on in two minutes,” he said.

  Christmas nodded and sat down in front of the microphone.

  “I’ll be going,” said the man from The Amsterdam News.

  No one answered him. Sister Bessie patted him on the shoulder and led him out of the room, closing the door again.

  Christmas, Karl, and Cyril waited in silence.

  “Thirty seconds,” said Cyril.

  “I have to talk to you about something …” said Karl.

  “Right now?” said Cyril crossly.

  Christmas didn’t move. He was thinking only of Ruth.

  “With all this publicity, they’re going to find us. And they’ll shut us down,” said Karl.