Chapter 1
Hi everyone, and welcome to my new story. So I am going to make this quick. There are a few questions at the end of the chapter. I hope you all enjoy what I have cooked up for you. Oh, and also, I am going to try a POV style of writing. Although there is only one main character, I will try to provide the perspective of the secondary characters.
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"I dedicate this book to the only man I can honestly say I have ever loved—my father, Charles 'Lucky' Luciano. To the world, he was a gangster, a pimp, a no-good thug, but to me, he was just my father. My prince charming, and while I was little more than a bastard born Irish/Italian mix. I was his little princess. The apple of his eye, and though I was not wanted, he loved me and made my dreams possible." A Dream Come True by Ruth 'Morris' Luciano.
-1939-
-POV Ruth-
I don't remember a lot about my past life. So little, in fact, that I often wonder if the memories of my past life were just the daydreams of a little girl and nothing more. How else could I describe the images in my mind of shadowy figures with no names? I felt like I knew them and missed them, but they were faceless, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't tell you who they were. Were they family, friends, or lovers? I had no clue. All I knew was that in these memories, one thing, or perhaps it's better to say several things, was clear—the movies I had watched in that life.
How did I know they were movies and not just parts of my past life? Well, that was simple. They were just so clear and crisp, unlike those faceless people whose names I couldn't remember. I remembered everything about those movies. Every line, every facial expression, and every feeling I felt as I watched them, from disappointment to excitement, sadness to boundless joy, and even arousal. Plus, I honestly doubt I was on another planet being chased by an alien I could not see. So what else could they be but the movies I had seen in a past life, and let me tell you, there were a lot.
Too many to count, and all of them I knew I had watched while dreaming that one day I would make my own movie someday. Only for that dream to be cut short by the last memory of my past life. A memory filled with sadness and regret at coming so close to my dream, only for it to end suddenly in what I could only guess was a tragic accident. I was unsure of that, but it didn't matter in the end. That life was the past or maybe the future. Who knows, but it was over, and I was here in this new one, and what a life it had been so far.
Born the daughter of a New York City nurse and perhaps the most influential mob boss in the world, my life was. Well, not privileged but good. I was unsure of what had happened or how my mother and father had met. Seeing as my mom refused to speak about my father after we left New York around the time I was three, and moved to LA. All I knew was that my father had ended up in the hospital for some reason or another. Most likely, after being attacked by someone for something. There he met my mother and fell in love with her. They dated for a time against my grandfather's wishes, and sometime around 1921 had sex, and 9 months later, I came along.
After that, my mom stopped working, my grandfather kicked her out of the house, and my father put my mother and me up in a hotel in the upper part of Manhattan. That was where I lived till I was three years old, and really, I remember very little of my time there. I only really remember my father and mother fighting a lot, and my father always looking tired, but never enough to stop him from reading me a bedtime story every night.
I do, however, remember crying when we left, and my father looking in a word beat. It would take me years to find out why we left New York, and it was only after I had bugged my Godfather Meyer enough for him to tell me the truth. He didn't give me much, but apparently, at the time, the fact that my mother was Irish and I, by default, an Irish/Italian mix, didn't sit well with some of the people in my father's outfit. Leading him to try to hide us away so no one would see us. Which, understandably, didn't make my Catholic mother happy. That was what most of the fights were about. My mother felt like she was being treated like some cheap whore, and my father was unwilling to make an honest woman of her.
Then things got worse as a gang war broke out. My father, fearing for our lives, reluctantly packed us up. He gave my mom five grand and sent us on our way, which was also the straw that broke the camel's back. My mom didn't understand or perhaps didn't wish to understand what was going on. All she knew or believed was that her father really did see her as nothing more than a whore, and when we left, she cut all contact with my father. Well, she tried anyway. I loved my mother, but really, she never understood my dad or how far he would go to keep in touch with his only child. Sure, anyone with half a brain could tell my dad didn't want kids, but once he had them, he took his responsibilities seriously.
No matter where we went or how often we moved, money would always find its way to our doorstep, along with two scary-looking men with guns. Not always the same men, but always the same amount. Along with a doll or some other childish gift for little girls. It's how I knew my dad loved me, and why, when I was old enough to get away with it, I ran away to New York to see him. There were, after all, only so many times you could tell a little girl no after she asked to see her daddy.
Looking back, it was perhaps the stupidest thing I had ever done, but at the same time, it showed everyone that I was just like my dad. I wouldn't take no for an answer, and come hell or high water, I would find a way to get what I wanted, no matter the cost. Lucky for me, this didn't lead to anything bad happening to me. Seeing as I was still too young to realize what I was doing was wrong, I had left a note about where I was going, and at the first stop along the way to New York, I was met by two men who, later, I would realize were gangsters sent to take me back home to my mom. Where she would proceed to whip my ass like I was a boy. Then sent me to my room to be grounded for the rest of my life.
"Ah, poor mom, if only she had realized sooner how useless that was. She could spank me all she liked, but all it ever did was make my desire to see my dad all the stronger. We could have saved so much timeand broken tree branches if she had realized it sooner." I thought to myself with an amused smile.
No sooner did she send me to my room than I was off again. Only to be caught again and again and again. Honestly, Mom should have had the tree next to my room chopped the 5th time if she wished to slow me down a bit. It wouldn't have helped, but it would have been a new challenge at least. Eventually, she did get the message after the 10th or maybe the 11th escape attempt and called my father to set up a visit. Of course, she wasn't the one who took me to see him. No, my mom would sooner rot in hell before getting within a 100 miles of Dad. So it was the men in black who took me to see him. One of whom I would come to call 'uncle' later on in life. When I arrive, Dad, of course, is ecstatic to see me, and we spend nearly the whole trip with each other.
From then on, I spent nearly every summer and holiday in New York with my father. Telling him all about my dream, which he would foolishly think meant I wanted to be an actress. Signing me up for the best acting classes, dancing classes, and singing classes money could buy. Boy, was he surprised when I finally got through to him that I didn't want to be an actress, but rather the man, or in this case, the woman behind the screen. I wanted to be a film director, producer, screenwriter, and so on. In other words, I wanted to be the boss. Just like him.
I can still remember him laughing as clear as day, but not in jest or condescension, but simple, unbridled joy. He was happy that I, in my own way, wanted to be a boss just like him. Now, did he believe that a girl could make it in the movie business as anything but an actress? Of course not, but he never said that out loud. He loved me way too much to crush my dream like that.
Dad was in jail now. Facing 30 to 50 years for compulsory prostitution. Not that I cared. I had realized long ago who and what he was, but it didn't matter to me. People could call my dad an evil man all they liked. They could tell me to stay away, but I never would, because he was my dad —that and my ticket to accomplishing my dreams. I thought to myself as I stepped out of the taxi in a flower-patterned dress and a wide-brimmed hat in downtown LA, and looked at the building in front of me with a smile.
Behind me, a man walks up and looks at the building as well and says, "What a shit hole."
Looking behind me, I see three men getting out of the taxi as well. My friends and business partners. Raimondo Carlin, Toby Madigan, and Samuel Aronthal. I am sure there was a joke somewhere around there about a WOP, a mic, and a Jew, most likely a very racist and insulting joke, but to me, they were just my friends and had been since we were little kids. Raimondo was the oldest of us at 20, with Toby and Samuel both being 19. We were so young, so stupid, and about to attempt, without a doubt, the dumbest thing in the world. Yet we were together about to take on Hollywood.
Laughing a bit at this, I say, "Come on, Toby, don't say that. It's like one of your shirts; I had to patch it up back when we were children. It just needs a little work and will be just fine."
That was how I met all of them, in fact. From the moment I was a little girl, I knew the difference between a man and a woman. No matter how smart or talented I was, no one would ever give me a chance behind the camera, at least not without spreading my legs for someone. To succeed in this world at this time, I would need men to support me if I wanted to make it in the movie business. That is where these three came in.
Every day after school or on the weekend after church, the boys of the neighborhood would get together to play ball in the sandlot behind Mr. Johnson's butcher shop. And I would go tag along with them to watch them play with my little first aid kit and sewing kit with me. As the daughter of a nurse, I knew a thing or two about first aid and sewing. So whenever the boys got a nick or cut, I was there to patch them up. They never asked why I always showed up. They were just happy I did and loved it when I cheered for them. Toby later told me it made them feel like big leaguers or men trying to impress a girl. Whatever the case, I did like watching them. Having loved baseball even in my first life, and whenever I went to New York, I would have my father take me to see the Yankees and the Babe himself play. I even had a ball signed by him at home. Along with Lou Gehrig, Ty Cobb, and even Shoeless Joe Jackson, who I never got to see play, but got the ball from one of dad's men who didn't want it anymore.
The other reason I went, however, was like I said. I would need men on my side when I took my first steps in Hollywood. No grown men of this time would ever hear me out, not without a lot of compromising. Boys, however they were easier to manipulate. Just by being there, I became the sandlot's little mascot, I suppose you could say, as well as their mother hen who fixed their boo boos and shirts and pants wherever they ripped. By the time I was in my early teens, I had more than enough boys who were more than eager to defend me against those who would try to pick on me or do me wrong.
Chief among them, of course, are the three young men by my side now. They were my big brothers, and I was their little sister who just so happened to take them with her to New York from time to time to watch baseball games. If you mess with me, you'd better watch out, because they wouldn't take that lying down. You only had to ask a boy by the name of Micky McGee to realize that. He had once made the mistake of lifting my skirt in public—a harmless prank, of course. The type of prank that all boys do without thinking. He didn't mean any harm, but that wasn't how the boys saw it, and they quickly curb-stomped him before I could say otherwise. Poor kid lost several of his teeth and broke most of the others as a result. That was the boys, however, and they couldn't be reasoned with when it came to me.
Anyway, that's how we met, and now, as young adults, we all share the same dream. This dream we called Hollywood. I think that was what truly brought us together more than anything else. Sure, we loved baseball, and I would often fix their clothes and bake cookies and other treats for them, but what we really loved was the movies. We all had dreams about Hollywood, and together we wanted to see them come true.
"I don't know Ruth? I remember your path jobs pretty well, and I don't remember them being good enough to fix something this bad." Raimondo says in an unsure voice.
Pouting and rolling my eyes at them, I say, "That's only because you all lack imagination."
"Noooo, we have imagination. I think you're just delusional. How much was your Godfather giving us again?" Samuel, our self-proclaimed accountant, asked.
I pout a bit more at the boys, but they ignore me. They are far too used to my pouting face to have any effect on them anymore. So I answer, "Well, let's see here. This place used to be a small studio a few years ago, and Godfather Meyer bought it for me, along with all the equipment at a discount, along with $1 million in cash to make the movie."
"That should be enough," Toby says.
Although what none of us were saying, but all knew, was that even at a discount, we now owed the mob $3 million. If we were being honest, the truth was that I owed the mob $3 million, not we, but again, boys wouldn't leave me to take this risk on my own. Besides, we all knew the only reason we got this loan was because I was the daughter of 'Lucky' Luciano, the godfather of Meyer Lansky, and the honorary niece of Benjamin 'Bugsy' Siegel—the same guy who used to take me to see my father every summer and winter holiday. Don't know why he liked me, but then I never asked.
That said, this was, like I said, a loan. Godfather Meyer expected to be paid back at some point, and if we didn't, well….. I would walk away scot-free. My father would make sure of that, but my dream would die. The boys, on the other hand. Well, honorary niece or not, Uncle Bugsy, on behalf of Meyer, made it very clear that while I would walk away, they wouldn't be so lucky. I honestly wouldn't have blamed them if they had fled for the hill that very moment.
I mean, they didn't call Uncle Bugsy, Bugsy for nothing. He was crazy and violent. Proof of that was when he gave me a Thompson submachine gun for my 12th birthday and showed me how to use it. The man had no moral compass whatsoever. Oh, sure, like any other man of this time, he believed a woman's place was in the kitchen and bedroom, but when it came to those he actually liked. Like me, he was willing to do some questionable things. Another good example was the butterfly knife strapped to my thigh and the Colt Model 1908 in my purse. Each of which he taught me a woman to use.
Anyways, with their lives on the line, to say we had a lot of pressure on us was an understatement. Yet we were more relaxed than perhaps we should have been. Perhaps it was the carefree nature of youth. Or maybe it was the confidence I felt in my knowledge of films and techniques no one knew about, and it was rubbing off on them. Whatever it was, we were more or less relaxed enough to make jokes.
Looking at the deed to the studio building and the sign I had delivered before we arrived, Toby says, "Lucky Studios. Isn't that a little on the nose, dollface?"
"Of course. That is the point. You know for those who know and those who don't." I say with a smile.
"Know what?" Toby asks, a bit confused.
"Twit, it's a message. You mess with Ruth Luciano; you mess with Lucky Luciano." Raimondo says in annoyance
"What you call me, you fucking WOP?" Toby says in anger.
Letting out a sigh as I see Toby get angry at being called stupid so quickly, I really couldn't blame him for it. Toby wasn't stupid. He was streetwise, but a lifetime of being called that by his father and worse had left him with a very short temper when it came to little jabs like that.
Stepping up with my hands held up, "Now, now, boys, let's not fight. Toby, you have much more important things to do than get into fights."
"Like what?" Toby asks, still mad but backing off, just a bit, so as not to upset Ruth.
"Like finding our female lead, Mr. Casting Director," I say with a wiggle of my eyebrows.
This earns me a look, and Toby says with a smile, "Dirty old man."
I never truly knew how much the boys knew and how much they ignored about my sexuality, but my sexual jokes and suggestive comments on women more often than not helped calm the boys when they got mad. It also helped that I could point them in the right direction when it came to wooing a woman or tell them who was interested in them and who was not. Didn't keep them from embarrassing themselves on more than one occasion, but well, boys and their dicks will always see themselves into trouble.
However, I didn't make Toby our casting director just to keep his temper in check, as he was more than a bit of a womanizer. Out of all of us, he was actually the most suited for the role. Toby may have been short-tempered when it came to childish things, such as being called stupid, but other than that, he was a very fun-loving person. Able to get along with almost anyone and an excellent judge of character. He had a talent for picking winners. I don't know how, but he was just good at judging a person's talent and was rarely wrong when it came to choosing a team or person to win in a contest. It was a talent I had hoped would translate to the movie business as well.
"Just remember, Toby, don't go after any big stars. We are looking for fresh faces. People we can lowball to say on cost." Samuel says.
Though Toby waved him off as he started thinking about how to go about casting, Samuel was well aware that Toby had heard him. It was something they had discussed enough about that he couldn't forget it if he tried. The fact was that most of the money would be allocated towards costume design, film, and set design. They had no choice but to find discount actors or new faces. Getting a Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, or Bette Davis was just not in the cards. And even if they could afford them, there was no way any of the major studios would let some no-names hire their top talent anyway.
"Well, boys, let's get started," I say with a smile as I take out the script to the movie that would make us or break us. As we walk inside to meet our destiny.
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So I am debating right now what movie will be the first one they do. My first thought was Gone With the Wind, but it's too expensive and too late, as it's already being made. Casablanca is too soon. So, I am thinking of a Western, maybe Tombstone, The Assassination of Jesse James, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, or Shane. Regardless of which one I choose, I believe all of them would translate well. Additionally, their storytelling is frankly superior to anything from the 1930s and '40s.