Some hope
, thought Martin.
If Father Quinlan’s theory about the reincarnation of Satan were even half true, Boofuls would make sure that, this time, he accomplished what he had been born to accomplish. No more interfering grandmothers this time. No more vorpal swords
.
At last, Boofuls appeared on the soundstage, and bowed. He was wearing a royal-blue Little Lord Fauntleroy costume that he had borrowed from wardrobe, and Martin found it totally uncanny to watch him, fifty years after his death, strutting into the spotlights as if time had stood still, as if World War II and Korea and rock’n’roll and President Kennedy and going to the moon had never happened.
‘Doesn’t he look
adorable
?’ June cried out, and clapped her hands.
Martin felt a sinking in his stomach. She was won over already: give him five minutes and Boofuls would have her eating out of his adorable hand.
Morris said, ‘He’s a natural; an absolute natural. Never seen a child star like him.’
‘And what did you say his name was? Lejeune?’
Morris nodded. ‘That’s right. But don’t worry about his name. You just listen to him sing.’
Boofuls knelt and sang ‘The Sadness of Happier Times’. His voice was so pure and poignant that even Martin was moved. June Lassiter was unashamedly wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, and Morris blew his nose so loudly that Kathy Lupanek jumped.
When all of them were dewy-eyed, or very close to tears, Boofuls suddenly sprang up and danced the sunbeam dance from
Sunshine Serenade
. He kicked and flew and pirouetted as if gravity had no effect on him whatsoever; his blue-slippered toes scarcely touched the floor. Ahab Greene started applauding long before he had finished, and the rest of them joined him. Morris even stood up and shouted out, ‘Incredible! That’s incredible! Would you look at that, June? That’s incredible!’
Boofuls finished his dance and bowed low. Still they clapped him. At last, his cheeks flushed, breathing hard, he came down the steps at the side of the mock-theater stage and walked directly up to Chubby Bosanquet, completely ignoring June Lassiter.
‘Well?’ he asked in his high-pitched voice. ‘Will you do it?’
‘Lejeune–’ put in June. ‘That really isn’t Mr Bosanquet’s decision.’
‘He arranges the financing, doesn’t he?’
‘Well, certainly but –’
‘Then that’s okay. I know
you
like it, Ms Lassiter. All I have to know now is whether Mr Bosanquet is going to come up with twenty-five million dollars.’
Morris Nathan came forward and was about to lay his hand on Boofuls’ shoulder, but Boofuls stepped away.
‘Come on, now, Lejeune,’ said Morris, smiling uncomfortably. ‘Let’s not go over the top about this. It’s up to Ms Lassiter whether Fox makes this picture or not. And it’s a little impertinent, don’t you think, to assume that she likes it even before she’s had a chance to read the screenplay or listen to any of the songs?’
Boofuls pouted. ‘If I didn’t think she was going to like it, I wouldn’t have bothered to come down here.’
June Lassiter stood up and came closer. Boofuls beckoned to Martin to bring him the revised screenplay. Martin handed it over and said, ‘
Sweet Chariot
, a total rewrite. Updated, dialogue altered, motivations overhauled, characterizations sharpened up.’
‘And what makes you think I’m going to approve it?’ asked June. ‘Remember, it was only last week when you tried to persuade me to do the Boofuls musical; and I turned you down very, very flat.’
‘That was then,’ said Martin. ‘This is now.’
‘So tell me the difference.’
Martin scruffed up Boofuls’ hair. He was the only one whom Boofuls allowed to do it. ‘This is the difference, and you know it. He sings and dances better than Boofuls. He’s going to be the greatest child star there ever was.’
Kathy Lupanek pulled a so-what, child-stars-yuck kind of face. But June Lassiter gradually allowed herself to break into a smile.
‘Do you know something, Martin, you’re probably right. I’m going to recommend this project. Morris – you and I ought to talk some business.’
Boofuls said clearly, ‘Mr Nathan is not my agent.’
Morris looked perplexed. ‘Hey, come on, now! Didn’t I set up this audition for you? You
have
to have an agent! You can’t work without an agent! He’s such a
mazik
, this kid!’
Boofuls approached Morris and stared at him with those welding-torch eyes. ‘Not a
mazik
, Mr Nathan. A
dybbuk
.’ Not a little devil, Mr Nathan, but a demon from hell.
June tried to break the tension by saying, ‘Lejeune, honey – Mr Nathan’s right. You do have to have an agent, just to protect your legal interests. I mean, if you don’t want to use Mr Nathan, I can talk to your parents and recommend plenty more –’
‘I don’t have any parents,’ said Lejeune. His voice was high but expressionless.
June looked uncomfortable. ‘You must have
somebody
to take care of you.
Some
legal guardian.’
Boofuls paused for a moment, looking around. Martin could recognize that cunning strangeness in his face; the wolfish expression of an adult man. ‘My grandmother,’ he said. ‘I live with my grandmother. She’s my legal guardian.’
‘Well, I’ll call her myself and explain that you have to have an agent,’ said June.
‘I should work off my
toches
fixing this audition and then I don’t even get ten percent of thankyouverymuch?’ Morris demanded.
‘I’m sorry, Morris, it’s Lejeune’s choice,’ June told him.
Morris turned on Boofuls and stabbed a stubby finger at him. ‘You’re not a
mazik
and you’re not a
dybbuk
. You’re the
gilgul
of my old dead partner Chaim Selzer, that’s what you are!’
Martin came forward and took hold of Morris’ arm. ‘Morris, forget it. I’m sorry. I just automatically assumed that Lejeune would want you to be his agent.’
Alison squeezed Morris close and said, ‘Come on, Morry, forget it. It’s better you don’t represent him, believe me. If he can’t be grateful for what you’ve done for him, Martin’s right, you should forget it.’
Morris tugged his large white sports coat tightly around his stomach. ‘Forget it, you bet I’ll forget it. And
you
, Martin, you bet I’ll forget you, too!’
‘Oh, come on, Morry, don’t be upset!’ Alison cooed; but glanced across at Martin at the same time with an expression which meant don’t worry, I’ll cool him down.
‘All right, all right already!’ Morris snapped. ‘I’m not upset. I’m nice! Just don’t let me have to look at that kid’s face again, ever! And I don’t want to hear his name, neither!’
Boofuls meanwhile had eerily circled around so that he was standing in Morris’ way as Morris prepared to leave. Morris stopped and stared at him. Boofuls stared back, and then gradually smiled.
‘Are you
sure
that’s what you want?’ Boofuls asked him. ‘Never to see my face again, never to hear my name?’
‘Got it in one, Goldilocks,’ Morris told him. ‘Now, if you’ll kindly ex-
cuse
us!’
Taking Alison by the arm, Morris waddled out of the soundstage and into the sunlight.
‘I didn’t mean to make him cross,’ said Boofuls, watching him go.
June Lassiter laughed. ‘Don’t worry about Morris. He’ll get over it. Now – let’s go get some coffee and cake, shall we, and talk about this musical of yours? We must talk to your grandmother, you realize that, don’t you, since she’s your legal guardian.’
‘I understand,’ said Boofuls sweetly, taking hold of June’s hand. Martin followed behind them, with a feeling of increasing dread. He wished to God that Morris hadn’t yelled at Boofuls like that. If he had killed Homer Theobald just for touching the key to the safe-deposit box at the Hollywood Divine, there was no knowing what he might do to Morris.
Kathy Lupanek, walking beside him with her clipboard clutched to her flat chest, said, ‘I really hate child actors, you know? Especially snootsy-cutesy ones like Lejeune.’
Martin said nothing. He didn’t know how sharp Boofuls’ ears were. He wasn’t even sure that Boofuls couldn’t penetrate right inside his mind, and hear him silently screaming, ‘
You hideous evil son of a bitch! I’d kill you if I had half the chance, and I’d chop you up into pieces, just the way your grandmother did
!’
They were back home in Franklin Avenue well before eleven o’clock. Martin wanted to go see Ramone, and so he told Boofuls to stay in the apartment and watch television.
‘Can we go out later for hamburgers?’ Boofuls asked him with a surprisingly childish whine.
‘Sure. If you’re hungry now, there’s some baloney in the refrigerator, and some cake. Just don’t drink the beer, that’s all. You may be fifty-eight years old, but you’re still under age.’
Martin left the house feeling shaky and scattered and fraught. He drove badly down to Hollywood Boulevard, bumping over curbs and arguing with a Ralph’s delivery truck, and when he arrived at The Reel Thing he couldn’t find anyplace to park, so in the end he left the car on Leland Way, which was almost as far away as Franklin Avenue.
Ramone was leaning on the counter with his shades pushed down right to the end of his nose so that he could read the small ads in
Variety
. He stood up when Martin came in and said, ‘Hey, the wanderer returns! Where have you
been
, my man, I’ve been calling you for days! I even called round to your house this morning, around nine, and the Caparooparellis said you was away on biz-ness.’
Martin wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘When I tell you, you’re not going to believe it.’
‘Man – I saw that snake-cat. I’ll believe anything.’
Martin said, ‘Let’s go get a beer. This is not one of those things that you can tell anybody about when you’re stone-cold sober.’
‘Okay, then. Kelly! Would you mind the store for a half hour?’
They left the store and walked out into the hot mid-morning sun. Ramone said, ‘I asked Mrs Capelli about Emilio; but she said there wasn’t no sign.’
‘Was that all she said?’
Ramone nodded. ‘She seemed pretty uptight, so I didn’t like to bug her any more.’
‘She didn’t tell you about Boofuls?’
‘No, she didn’t. What about Boofuls?’
Martin hesitated. Then he said, ‘I promised myself I was going to keep this a total secret. The only people who know the truth so far are Mr Capelli and myself; and Mr Capelli found out by accident, although I guess he was entitled to know, Emilio being his grandson and everything. But – damn it – I can’t keep it in any longer. I can’t go around with a secret this big, especially when I have a friend like you to share it with.’
Ramone stopped dead in the street, and a punk who had been walking close behind him collided into the back of him. ‘Hey, man,’ the punk complained, but Ramone silenced him with a grotesque glare, like Mick Belker in
Hill Street Blues
. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Ramone asked Martin fiercely. ‘What the hell has happened?’
‘Lugosi went into the mirror,’ said Martin. ‘That hellcat came out.’
‘Go on,’ Ramone urged him.
‘Well … Emilio went into the mirror … and guess who came out in his place?’
Ramone stared at Martin in horror. ‘Boofuls,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Jesus,
Boofuls
.’
Shortly before eleven o’clock, Boofuls got up from the sofa, walked across to the television, and switched it off. Then he marched smartly to the mirror, his hands by his sides, and called out, ‘Emilio! Emilio! Come on out, Emilio!’
There was a short pause, and then Emilio came into the reflected room. He was carrying a huge brindled cat, so heavy that he could only manage to carry it under its front legs. The rest of its body hung down, and swayed as Emilio walked, and its eyes were slitted in displeasure.
‘You shouldn’t carry Pickle like that,’ Boofuls admonished him. ‘She doesn’t like it.’
Emilio put the cat down on the floor. There were crisscross scratches all over his small hands. ‘She’s so
heavy
.’
‘She’s well fed, that’s why,’ replied Boofuls. ‘She eats the tongues of telltale tits; and she drinks the blood of people who meddle; and she doesn’t like anybody who doesn’t love her as much as I do.’
‘I love her,’ said Emilio. He looked exhausted and hungry. His T-shirt was grubby and there were crimson bruises on the side of his forehead, as if somebody had been cuffing him.
In mirrorland, everything is turned from left to right, even Christian morality
.
‘She looks cross,’ said Boofuls. ‘Have you been taking care of her properly?’
Emilio nodded. ‘I play with her and I stroke her even when she scratches me.’
‘All cats scratch,’ Boofuls remarked scornfully.
He was just about to take another step toward the mirror when he heard footsteps on the stairs. ‘Ssh!’ he told Emilio, and listened. Somebody was coming up to the landing. Not Martin, the steps weren’t heavy enough. Not Mrs Capelli, they were far too quick. He frowned and waited. Emilio waited, too, breathless, half hoping that somebody had come to rescue him at last.
There was a knock at the front door of the apartment; then another. Boofuls waited, not moving, not speaking. Then a girl’s voice called, ‘Coo-ee, Martin!’