The Dream Merchants

by Harold Robbins

  He looked toward the bedroom. The door was closed, but a thin white stream of light shone through the crack at the bottom of it. He smiled to himself. Dulcie had probably needed to feel well again. He hadn’t slept very much on the train.

  He put his hand on the door and turned the knob. It opened slowly before him.

  ***

  Suddenly he was sick. There was a nauseous retching at his stomach and he fled from the door and ran to the kitchen. He leaned against the sink retching helplessly. His eyes were filled with tears and burning against his lids. Again and again his stomach heaved. At last the vomiting stopped and he turned from the sink and walked dully back into the living room.

  His mind was blank and empty, the lids of his eyes were almost closed as if they could shut from his mind what he had just seen. A shrill voice tore at his ears. He opened his eyes slowly; it took a terrible amount of effort, they weighed so heavily upon him.

  Dulcie was standing naked in front of him, her face contorted with rage, her voice screaming at him.

  He walked around her to his bag and picked up his hat and coat. His face was empty of expression, he said nothing.

  She followed him, still screaming at him.

  He looked at her blankly. What was she trying to say? He forced his mind to listen.

  The shock of her words reacted in his mind. Suddenly his arms reached out and his hands fastened around her throat. His hands were strong, very strong. They had got that way from the crutches.

  Her voice died away and she looked at him in sudden helpless terror. She tried to speak but she couldn’t. She couldn’t breathe. Her hands clutched at his, trying to break his grip on her throat.

  He was shaking her. Shaking her so fiercely she thought her neck would snap. There were low growling animal-like sounds deep in his throat.

  He looked over her shoulder as her head swung back and forth in front of him. In the bedroom Warren was staring at him, his face white and drawn, as if hypnotized.

  He looked back at Dulcie. He saw her as if for the first time. “What am I doing with you?” he said in a voice filled with disgust and loathing. He took his hands from her throat and hit her across the face with the back of one of them.

  She fell to the floor. He looked down at her. “This is my wife,” he said to himself over and over. “This is my wife.”

  She looked up at him and there seemed to be a strange smile on her face—a mixture of triumph and fear. Her hand went to her throat. “That’s what I always expected from a cripple!” she flung at him. “You never really thought you were good at anything else, did you?”

  For a moment he stared at her, then he turned stiffly and walked to the door. He closed it behind him softly and quietly walked down the hall to the elevator.

  The night clerk was still asleep as he walked out past him into the raining night. The rain beat down on his head, reminding him he had left his hat and coat upstairs on the floor where he had dropped them. He turned the collar to his jacket up and started walking.

  ***

  He didn’t know how long he had been walking, but the sky above was beginning to turn gray over his head. It was still raining and his clothes were wet through to his skin. His head hurt and there were dull throbbing pains all through his body. With every step he took, shooting pains would come up from the stump of his leg and run through his side.

  Words were racing through his mind. Words she had flung at him in scorn. What was it she had said? “Go back to Doris,” she had screamed. “The little bitch still has hot flashes when you’re around!” That was when he had grabbed her by the throat.

  Suddenly his mind was clear. Everything was clear to him now. He should have known it before. He looked around him on the street. It was a familiar street. He had seen it somewhere before.

  He began to run wildly toward the end of it. Then it came back to him. This was the street of his dreams. The street he ran up after that girl. He strained his eyes to the corner. There should be a girl standing there. He thought he saw a skirt turn the corner away from him. She was there. She had to be there. He knew who it would be now.

  He ran out into the gutter and called after her. His voice was a shrill scream. “Doris! Doris! Wait for me!” His voice echoed hollowly in the empty street.

  He stumbled and fell. He struggled to his feet, ran a few steps, and fell again. This time he lay in a puddle of water. Wearily he tried to get to his feet again, but he couldn’t, he was too tired. He laid his head down in the puddle of waster. It felt good against his face. It was so nice and cool while his face was so hot and burning.

  As if in a dream he heard the screech of an automobile’s brakes and a car skidding to a stop. As if from a distance he heard a man’s voice saying: “It looks like somebody is lying there in the road.”

  He heard footsteps approaching. Suddenly the man’s voice was excited. “It is a man!” he shouted.

  He felt hands turning him over. He wished they would go away and leave him alone. He was just beginning to feel good.

  “Why, it’s Mr. Edge!” he heard the man’s voice exclaim incredulously.

  “And what’s so unusual about that?” he thought lazily to himself. “Did he expect me to be anybody else?”

  He felt the hands lift him and carry him to a car and put him in it. He sank into the seat. He was cold again and began to shiver.

  “What should we do with him?” he heard the man’s voice ask. “He looks sick.”

  A woman’s voice answered. “He’s probably drunk,” she said coldly. “Do you know where he lives? We’ll have to take him home.”

  The word “home” dug deeply into Johnny’s mind. He forced his eyes open. “Not home,” he said weakly, his voice cracked and hoarse. “I ain’t got no home!”

  The faces in the front seat turned around and looked startledly at him. Johnny recognized the man. It was Bob Gordon, who did the Westerns at the studio. He didn’t know the woman. It was probably his wife.

  “Gordon,” he said wearily. They could hardly hear him. “Take me to Doris Kessler’s house.” He shut his eyes.

  9

  Peter stirred restlessly in his bed. He opened his eyes and looked toward the window. The sky outside was gray with morning and the thin sound of the falling rain echoed hollowly in the rain gutters on the side of the house. He looked at the alarm clock near the bed. It was six o’clock. He sighed with relief. Another hour and he could get out of bed. He hadn’t slept all night.

  He stretched his body wearily. He had been a fool to worry about Johnny, everything had probably been all right. The sound of an automobile coming up the driveway came to his ears. He sat up in the bed and listened.

  There were the sounds of a man’s footsteps on the gravel. He could hear them coming up the front steps and then stop. Suddenly the doorbell rang. It sounded like an alarm through the house.

  He sprang from his bed and, snatching up his bathrobe, ran down the stairs. He was tying the bathrobe around him when he got to the front door and opened it.

  Bob Gordon was standing there. He looked at Peter’s suddenly frightened face. “Mr. Kessler,” he said excitedly, “I got Mr. Edge in my car outside.”

  Peter looked at him dumbly.

  “I found him lying in a puddle of water on your street, just two blocks from the house,” Gordon hastened to explain. “He looks sick.”

  Peter found his voice. “Bring him in, bring him in,” he almost stammered. “What are you waiting for?”

  He followed Gordon down the steps to his car, neglectful of the rain that was falling on him. There was a woman in the car. He paid no attention to her.

  Gordon opened the door to the back seat. Johnny was lying there, huddled in a small ball, his lips blue and cold. Gordon got in the car and began to lift him out. Johnny didn’t move. Gordon looked at Peter.

  Peter took Johnny’s legs and Gordon slipped his arms under Johnny’s shoulders and they carried him into the house.

  Esther was standing in the
door when they got there. “What happened?” she asked, her frightened eyes on Johnny’s limp form.

  “I don’t know,” Peter answered in Yiddish. They put Johnny on the couch in the foyer. His wet clothes dripped water down over the couch onto the rugs.

  Esther ran over to Johnny and knelt by his side. Her hands flew over him, loosening his collar and tie. She pressed her hand against his forehead as the butler came up. She looked at them. They were watching her with typical male uselessness in time of sickness. “He’s burning up,” she said, getting to her feet. She turned to them, her voice crisp and assured. “Papa,” she said to Peter, “go and call the doctor right away.” She turned to the other two men. “Take him upstairs and undress him and get him in bed.”

  The men sprang to do her bidding. “Put him in Mark’s room,” she said to the butler. Mark was in Europe and would not be using it. She followed them upstairs.

  A few minutes later Peter came into the bedroom. “The doctor will be right over,” he told them. He looked at the bed. “How is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Esther said, “but I think he’s got a terrible fever.”

  Peter sneezed.

  Esther looked at him. “Papa,” she ordered, “go and change into dry clothes. One sick one around here is enough.”

  Peter hesitated a moment and then went into his own bedroom. Esther turned to Gordon. “You must be soaked,” she said sympathetically. “Come downstairs and I’ll get you some hot coffee.”

  “I’m all right,” Gordon protested. “My wife is in the car and I have to get down to the studio.”

  “You left your wife in the car?” she asked incredulously. Her tone became emphatic. “Go bring the poor girl into the house. I won’t let you go until you’ve both warmed up. The studio can wait.”

  Peter came into the dining room while Gordon was telling how he had found Johnny. Gordon saw him and repeated the story for his benefit. “I was driving down to the studio early to get some work done before the crew came on when we saw him lying in the road.”

  “It’s a good thing you found him,” Peter said when the doorbell rang. He got out of his chair and hurried to the door.

  It was the doctor. They followed him upstairs and stood anxiously in the room while he examined Johnny. At last he got up and turned to them. “You’ve got a very sick man here,” he said in a low voice. “I ought to get him to a hospital, but I’m afraid to move him in this kind of weather. He’s got a bad case of double pneumonia complicated by some sort of shock that I can’t understand. I’ll have to put him in an oxygen tent.”

  Peter looked at Esther then back at the doctor. “Whatever is necessary, doctor,” he said. “Don’t spare any expense. That boy’s gotta be all right.”

  The doctor looked at him. “I can’t promise anything, Mr. Kessler,” he said quietly, “but I’ll try. Where is the phone?”

  They could hear the doctor’s muted voice coming from the hall through the closed door as they stood around the bed. Esther looked at Peter. “We’ll have to call Dulcie and let her know,” she half whispered.

  Peter nodded hesitantly, looking down at Johnny. “I guess so,” he agreed.

  Johnny stirred on the bed. He opened his eyes and they stared out feverishly at the others. He tried to raise his head but couldn’t, it fell back weakly against the pillow. His eyes closed wearily. His voice was faint, so faint they could hardly hear him, but it was filled with a desperate determination that made it sound like an explosion in the quiet room. “Don’t—tell—Dulcie—” His lips were barely moving. “She’s—no—good!”

  Unconsciously Peter’s hand found Esther’s and squeezed it tightly. His eyes filled with tears and he looked down at Johnny. Now he knew what had happened.

  ***

  It was a late Sunday afternoon, three weeks later. The slanting rays of the sun sparkled against the water in the pool, making it soft and iridescent. Its warmth fell across their faces as they looked down at the chessboard between them.

  Peter made a move. He looked up at Johnny and smiled. “Knight to rook seven, check!” he announced. “That ought to hold you.”

  Johnny’s face was still wan and pale as he studied the board. His position was hopeless, for on Peter’s next move he was checkmate. He looked up at Peter; his eyes sparkled with a faint mischievous light. “This calls for something brilliant.” He grinned.

  Peter’s smile was triumphant. “Nu, so go ahead and be brilliant,” he chortled. “It won’t do no good.”

  Johnny looked at him for a moment, then his grin broadened into a smile. “I will be brilliant,” he said, laughing, “I resign!”

  Peter began to reset the chessmen on their board. “Another game?” he asked, looking at Johnny.

  Johnny shook his head. “No, thanks,” he answered, “two lickings in one day is enough for me.”

  Peter leaned back in his chair and let the sun play on his face. They were silent for a while. Johnny took out a cigarette and lit it. The smoke drifted idly from his nostrils.

  Peter watched him. Johnny’s face was somber and thoughtful. “You made up your mind?” Peter asked. “You’re going down there tomorrow?”

  Johnny nodded his head. “I want to get it over with as quickly as possible,” he answered tersely.

  “I know,” Peter said, “but do you feel well enough to go yet?”

  “Reno is as good a place as any to recuperate,” Johnny replied.

  They were silent again for a few minutes, then Peter spoke. “I sent out their contracts Friday. Canceled. Morals clause.”

  Johnny didn’t answer for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and strained. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly. “After all, I know they mean boxoffice.”

  Peter looked at him. “Do you think I would have them around my studio after that?” His voice was indignant. “I couldn’t stand seeing their faces any more!”

  Johnny looked across the pool. “If I had only known before, if I only could have guessed! What a fool I was! I should have known better. All those things in the paper and I laughed at them, didn’t believe them. And all the time the laugh was on me!” His voice was bitter. He covered his face with his hands. “Why didn’t somebody tell me?” he asked brokenly between opened fingers.

  Peter’s voice was filled with pity. He dropped his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Nobody could tell you, Johnny,” he said softly. “It was something you had to find out for yourself.”

  ***

  The air in the musty old courtroom was dull and lifeless as the court clerk intoned in a singsong voice: “In the case of John Edge versus Dulcie W. Edge, is the plaintiff in attendance?”

  “He is.” Johnny’s lawyer motioned to him to get to his feet.

  Johnny stood up slowly and faced the white-haired judge. The judge’s face looked tired and bored. This was nothing but routine for him. He looked down at Johnny. “Mr. Edge,” he asked in a low monotonous voice, closing his eyes as he spoke, “is it still your desire that this divorce be granted?”

  Johnny hesitated a moment. His voice sounded strange to his ears. “It is, your honor.”

  The judge opened his eyes and looked at him and then down at the papers before him. He picked up his pen and wearily signed his name to the bottom of them, turning each paper over to the clerk, who stood next to him with a blotter in his hand. Finished, he looked down at Johnny. “Then it is the judgment of this court that this divorce be granted.”

  The clerk picked up the papers and walked to the side of the bench. He looked up at the courtroom. “In the case of Edge versus Edge, the decision of the second district court of Nevada, the Honorable Justice Miguel V. Cohane presiding, the divorce is granted to the plaintiff on the grounds of incompatibility.”

  Johnny’s lawyer turned to him and smiled. “That’s it, Mr. Edge,” he said. “You’re a free man now.”

  Johnny didn’t answer. He watched the lawyer step forward and take the papers from the clerk’s hand and come back t
o him. The lawyer held out the papers toward him.

  Johnny took the papers and put them inside his jacket without looking at them. He held out his hand to the lawyer. The lawyer took it. “Thank you,” Johnny said.

  He turned and started to leave the court. At the door he paused a moment and looked back. The walls of the room were a dirty worn gray, paneled in brown rotting wood. The benches were a light yellow and covered with knife cuts and pencil marks. It was a fitting place for his marriage to come to an end.

  Suddenly his eyes were wet and he turned and hurried out into the street. What was it the lawyer had said? “You’re a free man now.” He shook his head. Would he ever be free? He didn’t know. There was a heavy sunken feeling inside him.

  He stopped at a news-stand and bought a paper. Idly he opened it and glanced at the headlines. There was a streaming red banner across the top of the front page.

  Stocks Tumble for Second Time in Month!

  Millions Lost as Wall Street Panicked!

  N.Y. Oct. 29 (AP)—The ticker ran more than three hours behind sales today as on the floor of the staid New York Stock Exchange excited ordinarily conservative businessmen screamed and fought their way through milling mobs. Their only concern was to sell, sell, sell! Sell, before their fortunes were gone and the stocks fell any lower in this, the greatest recorded break in stock-market history.

  AFTERMATH

  1938

  SATURDAY

  I woke up with a splitting headache. The pulses in my forehead were pounding like trip hammers. I sat up in bed and swayed for a moment. I tried pressing my hands against my temples to quiet the pain, but it was no good. It didn’t help at all.

  A sudden nausea ripped through my stomach. I fought it down as a foul taste came into my mouth. The wretched feeling passed and I knew the worst was over. I looked up. “Christopher!” I yelled.

  Where the hell was he? He was never around when I wanted him. “Christopher!” I yelled again.

  The door opened and he came in carrying the breakfast tray. He hurried to the bed and put the tray down in front of me. “Yes, suh, Mistuh Johnny,” he said, lifting the cover off the tray.