Wake Up and Dream

Goddard

ONE

A perfect morning in late June. The last of the mist had burned away and the smog had yet to settle as he took the offramp from the new Olympic Parkway and rattled north through Hollywood in his battered ’36 Ford. Stargazy queues were already lengthening outside the feelie houses for today’s first shows. Backstabber Wife, starring Trudy Rester—whoever the hell she was—was on at the Aladdin, and The Wonderful Prairie and Midnight’s Dust were in continuous double bill at the Classic, both featuring Saffron Knowles and James H. Pack, and he hadn’t heard of them, either. Not for the first time, he told himself that he should pay more attention to the industry on which this city thrived.

Today was his chance. Up along Franklin beside the high fences of the new Paramount-Shindo studios. On past the stores offering sightseeing tours and the boys selling maps of the stars and girls selling themselves and the plateglass boutiques and the bars which were already open for the morning, or hadn’t yet closed from the night before. And up. Into the hills.

There were pines. White clouds. Air so clean it tasted like God’s aftershave. The Ford’s engine made an ominous coughing sound as it climbed the hairpins. It wasn’t used to this kind of world. Neither was he.

* * *

He took the grade above Stone Canyon. The road here kicked and turned, with fine views all the way to the Pacific. He was struggling with his street guide as it flapped on the passenger seat when a siren blooped behind him. Cursing, he pulled away from the drop and into the farside verge as the other car swung around in front just before a large private estate sign that announced Woodsville.

Not a police car, although you’d have to look twice to be sure. The same black Mercury sedan the LAPD used. It even had the siren, and the blue toplight, although a badge on the side announced Gladmont Securities. Upscale areas like this used these kinds of companies to keep out sightseers and ne’er-do-wells.

Just to show willing, he uncricked himself from his Ford and put on his best aw shucks grin as the security guard—who was lean and tall, and carrying a gun in a pop-down leather holster on his belt—approached. The sunlight was turning the waters of the reservoir beneath them to glittering gold. The sun was doing a pretty good job up here all round.

You got business in this area? The security guard was wearing aviator sunglasses and the sort of uniform you saw in pictures of those German parades, right down to the peaked cap. The armband might as well have had a swastika, but it was just another Gladmont Securities shield.

Wouldn’t be here otherwise.

The security guard’s reflected gaze traveled up and down more slowly. Absorbed in greater detail the suit, which was faded yellow at the hem and edges from too much dry cleaning, the frayed necktie which had worked loose from his shirt collar, which was loose and frayed as well, and finally the shoes, which lacked the intense shine of the trouser knees. The gaze then traveled back to the dusty, two door, black Ford Tudor which had seen considerably better years, let alone days.

Maybe this’ll help… He reached into the outside pocket of his suit coat and removed a letter. It drooped from the dampness of his fingers as he held it out.

The security guard’s thin lips pursed as he studied it. So you’re the addressee? Clark Gable?

Nice, that: addressee. Yeah. That’s right.

And you’re here to see a Mrs April Lamotte up in Woodsville?

She wrote the letter. Said that was what she wanted. As you can see, I’m supposed to be there at ten o-clock.

You realize it’s quarter gone already?

The longer we stand here, the more I’m late.

Do you have any other proof of identity?

Making sure he got the letter back first, Clark reached into his top pocket and produced one of his business cards. Watching as the security guard studied it, he decided he really needed to splash out on a fresh print run without the telephone number changed and then crossed out.

So you’re a private eye? The security guard folded over the card’s corner and pocketed it.

That’s what it says. My permit’s in the car.

The security guard didn’t exactly raise his eyebrows; at least not as far as Clark could tell behind those sunglasses. It was more subtle than that. You’re carrying a gun?

Never could bother with the things. He opened his arms to show willing. Pat me down if you like.

What Clark could see of the tan, long face remained resolutely deadpan. This guy wasn’t much like any security guard he’d ever encountered. Far too young and too slim to be an ex-cop, and most of the rest were paid bullies. Then there was his light voice and cultured manner, which didn’t fit either—more like the guy was playing a role—although he reckoned the explanation was most likely the usual one you found when you came across someone doing seemingly odd work in this city. With those nice cheekbones, that regular complexion and thin, expressive mouth, he was probably just another actor between roles.

The security guard gave an eloquent smile, then he turned from Clark and with a rasp of his steel-tipped heels strode over to the far side of the road. He began to whistle tunelessly as he regarded the view. Some fine morning, isn’t it, Mr Gable? he said eventually.

I was just thinking the same myself. The whistling began again. The birds sang. The guard remained standing gazing at the view across the reservoir. Clark got the impression that this was one of those moments which could go on and on.

By the way, he asked, you don’t happen to know the exact way I should be going to get to my client, do you?

"The exact way? Something close to amusement played across the guard’s face as he turned and wrapped his long fingers around his gleaming belt. Don’t think I do. All I can honestly recommend, Mr Gable, is that you keep on going in the direction you’re already on…"

TWO

Woodsville. An exclusive development of the kind you saw advertised in the back of shiny magazines, but never for real. He passed a clumpy-looking guy pushing a wheelbarrow beside the lush hedges. A place like this, even roadsides were planted with brilliant borders and kept trim and neat.

There were no gates. No dogs, either. Or only the sort that sat on their matrons’ laps and licked the cream from their coffee. No sign of any of the security guard’s colleagues, either, and Clark was just starting to wish he’d stopped to ask the wheelbarrow guy for directions when he saw a big slab of polished stone carved with the word Erewhon on a slope beneath a fuchsia hedge. He braked and turned up the steep drive.

The overheating Ford made it across the last of the gravel before it stalled. There were big bushes of bright flowers. There was cool dampness in the air which felt good on his face as he climbed out and unpicked his suit from off his back and around his crotch. The house was a Chinese puzzle in glass and brick, when he’d been calculating on mock Gothic or farmhouse French. But that was probably next door, and the one which looked like a Greek or a Roman temple would be the one beyond that.

Two cars were parked by the steps. One was a dark red Cadillac Series 90, the latest model with the V16 engine, and the other a rare and beautiful cream-colored French sports coupé—a Delahaye. His Ford Tudor, which was wheezing and ticking like an unsprung clock as it cooled, didn’t look like a machine which had been designed to serve anything remotely like the same purpose as these. The Delahaye was particularly superb. Its top was down. There were so many buttons and switches it looked like the console of an airplane.

Erewhon’s front door was smoked glass. The sides around it were angled, and of glass as well. Several dozen different versions of Clark Gable swam up to him as he climbed to the last stretch of marble and searched for a doorbell, or a knocker, or anything resembling a handle. Then came a small, electric hum, and the doors opened neither in nor out, but sideways into hidden recesses.

Stepping inside, he called hello. Seemingly with a will entirely of their own, the sides of the door hummed shut behind him. The huge, polished hallway shimmered with dark reflections like silent birds. Should have done what he often did when he first saw a client and wandered around back on the pretense of not being able to find the right entrance—which would have made perfect sense here. Or talked to the neighbors. Or the servants or the houseboys. Or that gardener, maybe. Anything, really, other than just charge straight in like he had. He’d got distracted by the beautiful roadster, and the way the sun had flashed and sparkled on that reservoir, and the security guard, and the eau de cologne-scented air.

The hallway opened into a kind of atrium. His voice echoed and was lost as he called hello again. There was glass above him. Clouds fractured where the edges of the panes met as if they’d been put together like some huge, moving jigsaw. He caught glimpses of antique sofas and rugs in empty rooms. Flowers everywhere. Some of them were real. Some were in paintings. With some he couldn’t tell.

He reached a corridor. It was long and wide and tall, set to the left with dozens of windows open to the gardens beyond. White curtains drifted, bringing in the scent of cut grass. Midway along it, something else seemed to be moving, although he took it at first to be the curtains’ shifting reflections caught in mirror glass.

Close to, he realized that this was something else. He felt a cool pre-thunderstorm prickle across the hairs on his hands and forearms and down his neck which even he, who rarely went to the feelies, recognized as coming from a Bechmeir field. But this wasn’t like the dusty grids which fizzed behind the projector screen in thousands of theaters in every town and city across the country. This field coiled like gusting snow—or a dust devil—in the space between a black plinth and the swan-neck which curved six or seven feet above it. Held between the two charged plates which this structure, elegant in itself, supported, the feelie wraith gave off a faint crackling as it shimmered and danced. The plinth looked to be made of solid marble, although he guessed that it wasn’t; you had to put all the electronics somewhere, and he presumed that it was in there. A brass plaque—or solid gold, for all he knew—was inset into the plinth. Finely engraved on it was the single word Muse.

This, he supposed, was what you got. What you got, that was, when you’d already got the house, and the Cadillac and the Delahaye and all those gardens and the walk-in closet you could get seriously lost in.

He felt a thickening in his throat and the imminent pressure of sound within his ears as he looked up at it. It really had been years since he’d been to a feelie theater, and he’d forgotten just how powerful the sensation was when you stood before the plasm of a Bechmeir field. And how unsettlingly weird. No use telling yourself that some tiny nub in your brain was simply picking up the amplified waves of a clever recording. No use thinking of wires and transformers. And here, unaccompanied by the usual moving images and soundtrack, the feeling seemed to be strengthened rather than weakened.

Instead of a shapeless blur, the swirl, the presence, of the wraith seemed to form itself into a misty amalgam. Translucent mouths smiled down at him. Limbs stretched out in chill embrace. He caught flashes of vanished laughter, dark whispers of lost lives. He blinked hard. He knew how easy it was to get drawn in by a Bechmeir field’s tawdry allure. But it didn’t feel tawdry. Not at the time. That was the damndest thing.

You’re like everyone else who comes here, Mr Gable…

He turned. Something was coming towards him from the far end of the corridor. It seemed for a moment to be dark and indefinite, and he felt a sense of dread. But then he saw that the figure was human, and that it was female, and plainly composed of flesh and blood.

…that damn thing stops almost everyone in their tracks. I’m April Lamotte. You obviously got my letter. She held out a hand. She smelled expensive and she’d recently put on some kind of hand cream, but the grip was hard and purposeful. As was the way that she was looking at him. Have to say you’re not quite what I was hoping for, Mr Gable. No, not at all, really. But I guess you’ll have to do.

Mrs Lamotte… He cleared his throat as she finally let go of him. You have a very nice place here.

She glanced around as if the thought had never struck her. You don’t think it over-ostentatious?

I’m hardly equipped to judge.

But you wouldn’t want to live here?

Not sure I’d know how.

There probably is a knack to it. She gave a sharp laugh. Standing as close to the wraith as they still were, he tried not to shiver. One I’m still attempting to learn… She turned and headed back along the corridor towards the room from which she had emerged, glancing back as he followed in a way which he might normally have thought of as almost flirtatious. Here, he wasn’t sure. This really was a different world.

THREE

Please sit down.

April Lamotte looked gracefully young in the measured way that only rich, mature women ever did. She was wearing a pale green silk pants suit and seemingly little else. She was slim, almost thin—not his type, really—and her feet were bare. She had lustrous center-parted, red hair. He already had her down as a sharp and determined piece of work as she gestured for him to sit on a long couch.

His ass sank and his legs bobbed high, but she remained standing, her fingers turning her gold wedding ring in quick circles, and he was glad to see that small sign of nervousness.

You did as I asked? You brought the letter? No one else knows or is at all aware that you’re coming here?

He nodded. Clients were often over-obsessed with secrecy, and that security guard who’d stopped his car really didn’t seem worth mentioning. Discretion’s a given in the sort of work I do, Mrs Lamotte.

"As you can see, I’ve given leave to all my servants. None of this must come out. Absolutely nothing. Ever. You understand? I’d like that letter now. May I have it please? And the envelope…?"

He watched her flick a large silver lighter, turn the papers under its flame and lay the burning, blackening remains in a big crystal ashtray. The process made him wonder again how the letter, and the enticing fifty-C note which had come with it, had arrived at his delivery locker back in Venice with no stamp or postmark.

Maybe, he said, you could tell me a little more of what all this is about. Perhaps we could begin with some basic details—

I’m more than aware of the sort of work you do, Mr Gable. Before you start asking questions which aren’t appropriate, I should tell you that I don’t want a divorce. Neither is my husband having any kind of affair. In a way, perhaps, that might have helped.

You say you know what I do, Mrs Lamotte, he said. But I think you should know what I don’t do as well. There’s no violence or coercion. I don’t carry a gun. Beyond parking fines, for which I bill as normal, I try to avoid breaking any kind of law. I may help evidence along but I don’t manufacture it. In fact, most of what I do is simply to find out about what people are already doing, and then make sure it’s witnessed and photographed as cleanly and clearly as such things ever can be. My hourly rate’s three dollars.

April Lamotte made a small gesture of dismissal; even the tripling of his normal fee didn’t faze her. It was hard to tell the exact color of her eyes, although he’d have guessed at green. There was a slight pinch at the tip of her nose which, in its own way, wasn’t unattractive. The light was strange in here, dim after the brightness of those corridors, lit from a semi-circular bay of half-closed drapes which covered a wider sweep of window, but caught within the gloss of so many shining objects, this silk-clad woman included, that it sort of had a quality and substance of its own. Like fresh paint, the shine of that Delahaye’s dials, or that feelie ghost.

You’ll have a drink? She slung ice from a silver bucket into a cut glass jug.

Clark, who had sunk down so far by now into the couch that he was in a sort of embryonic hunch, attempted the gesture of someone who wouldn’t normally think of drinking this early in the day but was prepared to be sociable.

She poured with quick ease. He strained over his knees to take the glass, which was heavy and cold and deeply cut. The fluid inside was flecked with stuff which could have been mint, but the taste was so cold and sharp it was impossible to tell. Just the way he always did with any client, he watched the way April Lamotte drank. A short sip, and that was all. She was no lush.

Mind if I smoke? He tapped a roll-up against its case. She nodded and took one of her own from a lacquered Japanese cigarette box. Her cigarette was baby blue. They shared the flame of the lighter. She blew a plume of smoke. Outside, the soft sounds of morning filled this opulent valley. Birds and bees and distant lawnmowers were chirruping and buzzing and droning. Something about the way April Lamotte was standing there, sheathed in the glisten of silk, reminded him again of that feelie ghost along the corridor. He pushed the idea away.

What I want from you, Mr Gable, she said, what I’ll pay you for, and pay you royally by your standards—is for you to play my husband. I want you to become Daniel Lamotte.

FOUR

If there was one thing which he’d learned in his job, it was when to make an exit. He could swig back the rest of this drink, make some stupid non-apology, climb out of this couch. Keep the fifty, of course. And go.

"I’m sorry, Mrs Lamotte. I could take your suggestion one of several ways—and I don’t say that some of those ways don’t leave me flattered—but not one of them is the kind of work I do. If you’re looking for a chaperone, I guess I have a few friends who do that sort of thing when they’re between acting jobs. And if you’re looking for… Well, if you’re looking for more than a chaperone, there are some guys I know who—"

I’m not looking for any of those things, Mr Gable. Or anything else you might imagine.

Well… He gazed up at her, wondering why the hell he was still sitting here. That’s okay too. I’m really not here to judge. But I’m not here to waste your time either.

You’re going to tell me next you’re a busy man, I suppose.

The tone, the swagger, was new. April Lamotte was some piece, no doubt about it. She was unlike pretty much every other client he’d ever encountered. And he was almost certain by now that she was wearing nothing underneath her silky green trouser suit.

"I’m asking you not to leave, Mr Gable. More than asking. If you do, there will be consequences. Your State license, for example. That document you always say you have in the car, or at the office, or in the pocket of your other suit. As if you had another suit. She gave a nasty chuckle. Or a proper office. Or pay road tax on that rusty old car. Believe it or not Mr Gable, I’ve had you looked into—discreetly, I might add—and I do need the help of someone like you. You fit the bill in most ways, even if you’re not perhaps as good a match as I’d been hoping for…"

April Lamotte strode over to a dresser. She came back with a framed photograph. Here.

The frame was heavy and gilt-edged. He had to squint and tilt it before he could get a proper look at the photograph inside, which was of a guy standing before a low wall in that kind of hunch that tall men often affect. He was thickly bearded and wore heavy tortoiseshell glasses, along with suede loafers, pleated slacks and a white button-up tee shirt. His dark hair was messily slicked back so it stuck out around his noticeably protuberant ears. He wasn’t smiling and he had his hands stuffed in his pockets. He didn’t really look the sort of person who liked having their photograph taken.

"You can’t tell from the photo, but Dan’s got buck teeth much like yours. Never would have them fixed. Says they’re part of what he is. And he’s pretty much your exact height and build—and he’s got those jug ears as well. She gave another of those sharp laughs. So maybe I shouldn’t have been quite so disappointed when I first saw you. I mean, how close can two men get? There’s Dan’s beard of course. False ones always look false. But all you need to do is say that you’ve shaved it off. You know how different men look after they’ve done that. Then you can add in the way you’ll look with something like Dan’s glasses on as well."

She was getting way ahead of him. So… The photo made a dull clang as he laid it on the glass-top table. …what is it that you want me to do?

As I say, I want you to become my husband. But only for a few hours. The risks are so small that they’re barely worth mentioning. And the rewards—well, what would you say to a thousand dollars?

I’d say that nobody gets paid that sort of money unless they’ve earned it. Or the person who’s paying is desperate.

Desperate. She considered him and the word, her head tilted. "I wouldn’t say that exactly. But I do need your help. And I can make it extremely difficult for you if you walk out."

Where’s your husband now?

I’ll come to that.

And you want me to—

I’ll come to that as well. But first, let me tell you something about me and Dan… I won’t bore you with my life story, Mr Gable, but you should know that I grew up in mid-state nowhere and was always ambitious. I knew I wasn’t bad-looking, but I realized young that getting runner-up place in the local beauty pageant wouldn’t wash for much. My sister and I used to talk about it—make plans nights as we lay in bed. I decided to train as a nurse. I reckoned that that was the best chance I had of getting rich, and that LA was the best place to try. You know—changing the sheets and wiping the ass of some rich old guy in a big mansion who doesn’t see his family from one year to the next. A whirlwind romance, maybe a few blissful months of marriage, and then…

That’s a neat plan.

Is, isn’t it? Only trouble was, I wasn’t the first. You wouldn’t believe it, Mr Gable, but even the nursing agencies in the city of Los Angeles have a casting couch.

He had to smile. I believe I can.

I still had a plan, I still had hopes, but this was the start of the Great Depression and the only work I could get with my diploma was at the Metropolitan State Hospital—you know, the Met?

He nodded. Of course he knew about the city lunatic asylum out in Norwalk. Kids on the streets taunted each other with its name.

So there I was. Pretty much penniless and emptying bedpans and tightening the straps on straightjackets on sixteen hour shifts so I could afford to eat. I don’t know if you can imagine what working at the Met’s like.

To be honest Mrs Lamotte, I’m not terribly keen on those kinds of places.

She paused to give him a look. Who on this earth would be? Some of the patients—and a fair few of the people who work there—are enough to make you wonder what it means to be human. I’d come off shift and take the train back into the city so tired I was past sleeping, and I’d stop by late evenings at this rundown diner up on Bunker Hill called Edna’s Eats. It was there that I first saw Dan. He was just this quiet guy sitting nursing a coffee. But there was something about him. We ending up talking, and he admitted eventually that he was a writer. He wasn’t that proud of anything he’d written, but I was curious…

She walked over to a cabinet on the room’s far side. Its doors revealed a bookshelf of shabby yellowish spines. She took some out. You see.

Dime novels. He turned them over. They had that rough yellow paper feel and smell of cheap glue. Vixens in the Dark. It Came From Beyond. Midnight Lust. War on the Alien Horror. Beautiful Corpse. The covers were deliciously lurid. Knives and guns. Taut bosoms and slack lipstick mouths. Futuristic cities and strange pulsating machines.

He’d already written all of those, she said as he studied the authors’ names. Sid Tulla. Frank F. Freeman. He particularly liked Luella Stand. His real name was Daniel Hogg, and he said they were trash, but I bought a few and I read them on the train back from the Met. Those books, of their kind, were stunningly good, and I told Dan so, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more pleased.

So you decided this guy was your ticket to the high life?

We fell in love, Mr Gable. I know this probably sounds ridiculous to you—and it certainly hadn’t been part of what I’d planned on getting out of this city—but there you are. We fell in love and we moved in together in this rathole apartment, and I soon realized that Daniel Hogg was wasting his talent.

His name wasn’t Lamotte?

Can you imagine anyone ever making it in this town with a name like Hogg? So, that was one of the first things we decided to change. I liked the Daniel bit, and my name, Lamotte, was just about the only thing about my past life I was proud of. So he became Daniel Lamotte even before we married and I got him to start writing screenplays which, even back then before the feelies, was obviously where the real money was. That, and I also got him to fire his agent.

Sounds like you were already doing that particular job for him, Mrs Lamotte.

Those eyes, which he decided really were green, flashed. I haven’t brought you here to justify myself. You can take this story any way you like…

A story, he thought, which would have made a decent enough script itself. In fact, it probably was one, circulating somewhere from studio to studio in twentieth draft. Nurse (you’d probably need to make her an aspiring actress as well; no one would ever believe a good-looking broad in this city wanting to be anything else) meets pulp writer at some midnight diner. Maybe he’s scribbling on a notepad. Maybe she’s read one of his books. Or maybe she just spills coffee in his lap…

"I know this sounds over-fancy, but Dan lived to write. He’d never written any kind of script before, but the stuff just flowed out of him, and it was good. Between us, with him doing the writing and me quitting nursing and doing whatever was necessary—and I do mean whatever—to get his scripts noticed, we finally started to get some work. He was especially good at twists and endings—events which seem inevitable once you’ve seen them, but which you’d never have been able to predict before. Have you seen Freedom City? That was one of Dan’s very earliest. And then along came the feelies—"

I don’t go much for the feelies, Mrs Lamotte.

"But I guess you’ve heard of The Virgin Queen?"

He nodded. Not that he’d actually seen that one, but even he’d heard of it. A ruffs and codpieces epic, it had come out in around 1933 or 4 and, as much as anything, had been responsible for convincing the world that the Bechmeir field was the future of the entertainment industry.

Funny, isn’t it? One of the most famous of all the feelies, yet no one remembers the name of the guy who wrote it. Even those idiots at the Academy passed it over. But it brought us the kind of life I’d dreamed about when I came to this city. Dan’s work sold, and it did well, and for a few years we were happy. We both were…

He let his gaze travel slowly in the shafts of sunlight which were playing in narrower and brighter patches across the parquet as the light outside strengthened towards noon, and then he looked back to Mrs Lamotte. Even with her strange request, and although Daniel Lamotte was supposed to be the sort of writer who was above such things, he was still expecting some standard plot-twist to emerge at the end of this story. The new blonde secretary with legs up to here. That bitch in the house opposite who always sunbathes in the nude. The pool boy. He was used to most kinds of tale as to why lives and marriages went wrong.

He risked raising a questioning eyebrow. Everyone gets happy for a while, Mrs Lamotte. It’s an unwritten law of the universe. And then they get less so. That’s another law. And that’s normally where I come in.

I suppose you’re right. April Lamotte sighed. She did such a good job of the sigh that he wondered if she really hadn’t put in time as an actress as well as a nurse. Then she and her barefoot reflection resumed pacing the shining floor. "And after the success of The Virgin Queen, Dan could write the scripts he wanted and know they’d sell. But maybe that was part of the problem. He’d always written under pressure. But now he had time, opportunity, freedom. We’d bought Erewhon and had a pine lodge up above Sierra Madre. We were doing well and there were some real successes—Sometime Never, Prospector, Friday Means Tonight… but each new idea was harder than the last. By about 1938, Dan hadn’t produced a script in a whole year."

He’d stopped writing?

A new cigarette. A fresh plume of smoke. You disappoint me, Mr Gable. If I didn’t know you’d lived in this city all these years, I’d wonder where you’d been. You’re like me—you came here to find riches and fame. Almost got there as well, didn’t you? Toured as an actor, got a contract with one of the old talkie studios. You were well on the way to somewhere, even if that somewhere ended up as where you now are.

Well—thanks.

So you of all people should know enough to understand that writers never stop writing, or at least trying to write. He tried everything. Doing without sleep or not getting out of bed for days. Holing up in our pine lodge. Then he started going off on these jags. I found him once out by the Third Street tunnel under Bunker Hill. He was huddled up and howling like a baby.

She shook her head. "It slowly tore him apart. I mean, he was always shy and nervy—he always left dealing with the outside world to me. But now it was something else. He just froze. Wouldn’t speak, would barely move, for hours, days. Lying in bed or the same chair. Sometimes, he’d just stand in one place like time had stopped inside him. It was scary. Or he went manic. It was like this terrible fear. Something at