Chapter 20
Hey everyone, welcome back. Fell behind on this chapter. A couple of bad days, and I hit 4000 words on this chapter. Didn't honestly mean for it to be that long. I thought I would be done in 2000 or 2500 at most. Had a lot of ideas and was going to keep going, but I cut myself off so I could get something out to you all.
With that said, just so you all know. I put up an art page of everything Ruth owns or will own at some point. Will add more as I go along. Also, put up the painting Norman Rockwell did of Liz. I used several AI-generated sites to get images I liked, with no luck, but posted two that were closest to what I imagined.
Moving on to reviews or questions.
Roronoa2, I am happy you like the idea. I am not going to give anything away about how many girlfriends she had before the end, but I will be adding them to the story as time goes on. I also almost forgot about historical artifacts. I need to get into that. Oh, and before I forget, thank you for all the artwork suggestions. It really helped. If you have more names, please drop them. I left out a few things because I felt they were too out there to include, even though I am playing very loosely with history, lol. And you guessed it, all her Guitars will be custom-made down the road and named after her, this girlfriend or the other.
Somnifer, you're very welcome.
Taoist_yuri, I am happy you liked it. All I can say is that she thinks she can't say anything because she is acting stupid. It's how most relationships end. Someone always does something stupid or stops communicating, and it falls apart.
Darth_Vesha your welcome.
D_eta015 I like the idea of Ruth working with Alice Guy-Blaché, who is still alive. Maybe she can hire her. What do you all think?
A few things at the bottom.
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"When did you first realize you wanted to work in film? What made you decide you wanted to become a director?" the interviewer asks.
After taking a moment to think about it, Stanley Kubrick says, "What was the moment… the moment I knew what I wanted to do with my life? Ah, let's see here, I guess it would have been when I worked on the set of Raging Bull as a boy."
"You were on the set of Raging Bull?" the interviewer asks, clearly surprised.
Nodding, Stanley says, "Yes. I was 12 when my father, through a close family friend, got me a job on the set of Raging Bull while they were filming in New York City. In fact, if you watch the credits, you'll see my name listed with about a dozen other boys and girls as runners. Something that, till that point, no one did, but Ruth, who always gave everyone credit for what they did for the films she made, no matter how small, did."
"Wow, that must have been amazing, but I have to ask what is a runner?" the interviewer asks.
"A runner is basically an errand boy or girl. That was my job—I ran errands for the set's photographer, a wonderful woman named Vivian Campbell," Stanley says.
"Wow, that must have been incredible—almost a dream job for someone your age," the interviewer says.
"It was. It was a wonderful job and a great chance to see how films were made—something I was already deeply interested in," Stanley says.
"So you weren't interested in meeting the stars at all?" the interviewer asks with a knowing smile.
Which earns him a laugh from Stanley, who says, "I wouldn't go that far. After all, I was like any other boy who had seen Shane, so meeting Alan Ladd was wonderful—especially since he was such a kind, friendly man. But meeting Vivian was what truly set me on the path to becoming a director."
"Can you tell us more about her? In an essay you wrote in the 1980s, you described a woman named Vivian Campbell as a major influence on your life, but when my team looked into her background, they found very little beyond her work on Ruth's first three films," the interviewer asks.
Looking uncomfortable, Stanley shifts slightly in his seat and says, "Well... that's sadly not surprising. She... she died young. Too young to show how talented she really was."
"I am sorry. I can clearly see I have upset you. Can I ask what happened?" The interview asks.
Stanley takes a deep breath, seeming to weigh whether he wants to speak about the woman who inspired his love of photography. At last, he says, "She was... she was murdered by her own father."
"Oh God," the interviewer says, shocked and outraged. Being a father of two girls himself, the thought of killing his girls. It sickened him.
Stanley, now visibly irritated, says, "She was so talented. So beautiful. You can see it in the pictures she took. If she had lived, she would have been one of the greatest photographers of our time. That's why I named my eldest daughter after her. I don't want to forget her and remind myself not to be like Vivian's father, who hated her for being who she was. I want my girls to know that their father loves them no matter what and will always be proud of them."
-Interview with Stanley Kubrick 1981-
-1940-
-Stanley Kubrick POV-
"Remember, Stanley, don't just take a picture. Anyone can do that. A true photographer doesn't simply take a picture—they make one," says a young woman only about a decade older than Stanley.
Her name was Vivian Campbell, a 22-year-old woman from Brooklyn. Of French and German heritage, she was the first in her family to attend college and graduated from New York University with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in photography, one of the few women to do so in the university's history. She was especially proud of that achievement because she had done it without help from her family, who opposed her going to college in the first place.
"Yes, Miss Campbell," I say, lifting the National Graflex Series 1 my father gave me for my last birthday.
"Watch the light. The difference between a good photograph and a poor one is the light," Vivian says as she sits on a park bench and watches young Stanley try—and most likely fail—to take a good picture of some ducks on the pond.
As she watched, Vivian couldn't help but smile at how serious he looked. It was one of the many reasons she had taken him under her wing, so to speak. While the other children who were hired to run errands on the set of 'Raging Bull' were busy trying to catch a glimpse of Mr. Ladd or Miss Scott, Stanley was the only one who took his job seriously. If you asked him to do something, he did it—and with the type of detail that clearly marked him as a perfectionist. Just like she was.
Such drive was rare in someone so young, and his sharp attention to detail made it obvious he had a great deal of talent—talent that, with the right guidance, could become something remarkable. Vivian saw it for the first time when she watched him raise his camera to photograph his friends on set. He didn't simply point and shoot as most people did. No, he moved, measured, and adjusted for the light and angle. It wasn't a conscious action yet, but the instinct was there, and with the little time she had, Vivian was determined to help him sharpen it.
I take another picture of the ducks on the lake and grimace. I wouldn't know for sure what it looked like until it was developed, but I already knew it wasn't what Miss Campbell meant when she said, "Make a picture." Glancing over at her on the park bench, I'm reminded again how lucky I am that she took an interest in me. Before I met her, I really thought I was an ace photographer.
After all, my mom, pa, and all my friends had praised my pictures, and I, like a fool, let it go to my head. I thought I was as good as—maybe even better than—real photographers who had gone to school for it. Then I met Miss Campbell, who came over when I was taking pictures of my friends. Not of Miss Scott, who just so happened to be in the background. No matter what anyone says, I was not crushing on the starlet at the time.
In the end, it didn't really matter what I had been trying to photograph. The moment I took the picture, Miss Campbell came over and told me the lighting was off. The photo would turn out fine, she said, but much of the background detail would be lost. At first, I didn't believe her. I thought I knew everything, and I told her so. What a fathead I was. But after she showed me one of her own photographs and compared it to mine, I saw exactly what she meant. It was quite a wake-up call.
My father called it a learning experience when I told him about it, though at the time I was too upset to appreciate what I was being shown. It didn't help, either, that a girl was showing me how wrong I was in thinking I knew everything. I guess you could call it a much-needed slap in the face. Still, I was lucky Miss Campbell didn't take it too personally when I called her a ditzy broad who didn't know what she was talking about. She only made me carry her camera equipment around all day—all fifty pounds of it.
That day was hell, but afterward she began teaching me things I never would have learned otherwise—at least not without going to college. She taught me the technical side of photography: exposure, composition, lighting, and camera settings. She taught me how to tell a story in a single image. It was all new, all complicated, and all wonderful.
"Miss Campbell," I call.
"Hmm? Yes, Stanley?" Vivian asks.
"Thank you again for taking the time to teach me so much," I say with a wide smile.
Vivian smiles back. After our first—honestly disastrous—meeting, she had quickly learned that I was actually shy. Unless I knew someone well and felt at ease with them, I wasn't the sort to smile so freely.
"You're welcome, Stanley, but don't think I've taught you everything. You've only just begun. You still need to take a thousand more pictures to be considered good, and tens of thousands more to become great," Vivian says.
"Like you?" I ask, half joking.
To my surprise, she shakes her head. "No. I still have a long way to go, and honestly, I don't know if I'll ever be as good as Henri Cartier-Bresson or Ansel Adams."
"Well, I think your pictures are wonderful," I say with complete certainty.
That only makes her laugh in a way that sends my heart fluttering.
"Thank you, Stanley, but I think you're even more naturally talented than I am. In fact, I'd say your raw talent rivals Ruth's," Vivian says.
And she meant it. Ruth was gifted—far too gifted for the word talent to fully capture how talented she really was. Her command of color, light, and composition matched, and sometimes surpassed, what Vivian had been taught in school. It was as if Ruth were constrained by the era's limits, forever forced to compromise between her vision and what the technology of the time allowed. Or so that is how she saw it.
That kind of ability went beyond ordinary talent. Ruth seemed to exist on a level only a few people could ever reach—a level Vivian believed Stanley might one day be able to reach himself.
Blushing like the 12-year-old boy I was, though trying to hide it, I mutter, "Ah, jeez, Miss Campbell."
Then I turn back to my camera and try to focus on taking another picture, but as I do, I finally gather the nerve to ask what I'd wanted to ask almost from the day we met.
"Hey, Miss Campbell... if I ever become as good a director as Ruth, would you... Well... would you marry me?" I stutter the last part and immediately feel foolish for asking something like that of an older woman.
But she doesn't laugh or mock me. For a moment, it's as if she has left. When I turn to face her, however, she's looking at me with a small smile—one that, for some reason, seems sad. I lift my camera and quickly take her picture before she says, "Sure. Once you're as good as her, I'd be happy to, Stanley."
Those words, however, don't make me happy as I had expected. Instead, I feel sad, for some reason, as if a part of me knew this moment would be the last time I would ever get to see her. Quickly shaking my head, I put such thoughts out of my head. Of course, I would see her again. Filming wasn't yet over after all, and they would be heading back to LA for at least a few more weeks.
- Meyer Lansky POV-
As I looked around the table where I sat at the head of, I was reminded once again never to underestimate my goddaughter Ruth. It was a lesson I had thought I had learned long ago. Even before she entered the movie business, I knew she was far more like her father than most people realized. That is why I bought her the studio, now called Lucky Pictures. She had the same drive to succeed and build something of her own in the legal world. Much like her father did in the illegal one. She would not stop till she reached the top and even then would most likely keep going. It was in her nature after all.
So I always knew she would succeed at whatever she set her mind to. But even before that, I knew she was one of the most dangerous people I had ever met. You only had to look at those sat around me, waiting for my goddaughter to serve them dinner: Joseph Bonanno, Joe Profaci, Vincent Mangano, Frank Costello, and Thomas Gagliano—leaders of New York's Five Families and their underbosses—all seated together, peacefully, talking among themselves about a range of topics. None illegal, however.
That was her influence. She had been building it since childhood, winning over her father's friends with things like cakes, muffins, and other small kindnesses. Albert and the others had been right to nickname her the Mob Princess, because that was exactly what she was. Not one of the men at the table could say a bad word about her. They all knew by now that she was far more than she seemed, but that knowledge was softened by memories of the sweaters she knitted them for Christmas and the birthday gifts she never forgot to send.
She was not universally loved or trusted, but she was liked, and everyone trusted her to keep silent about what she heard or saw. To slight her was to risk offending every man at this table. It was a quiet kind of power, and she used it well. She showed that when Albert reached for a cuccidati as Ruth was setting down the plate, only for her to slap his hand away—much to everyone's amusement.
"Albert, you know the rules. No one eats until everyone has said grace." She scolds him as if he were a child.
The fearsome, ill-tempered man doesn't take offense, though many would expect him to. Instead, he grumbles, "Oh, come on, Ruth. It's just one, and besides, we've got a Jew at the table. Can't we skip grace?"
Giving him the kind of look an angry mother gives a misbehaving child, Ruth says, "Skip, I'm sorry, but are we so uncivilized—like those Nazi pricks—that we've forgotten the Lord and His grace?"
When Albert says nothing and leans back in his chair, Ruth replies, "That's what I thought. This is my father's table, and his tradition will be respected, even if he isn't here. That means grace will be said before we eat."
Then, taking her seat beside me, she says, "Now, everyone, bow your heads—and show some respect—while Albert leads us in grace. Godfather, as always, feel free not to pray." She lingers on Albert's name just long enough to make her displeasure clear.
Albert grumbles, but everyone takes the hands of the people beside them as he begins to say grace. Everyone but me. I simply watch, and as I do, I look at my goddaughter with both respect and affection. Her control of the room is absolute. She may call it her father's table, but it is very much hers as well. When the prayer ends, everyone begins to eat, and I hear more than one man trying to hold back a moan of satisfaction.
I could hardly blame them, since I wasn't much better myself. I don't know how she did it, but even the finest cooks in New York couldn't match her. As everyone ate, the wine flowed—but never enough for drunkenness, which was frowned upon at dinner. Only after dessert would she retire and let the boys drink as much as they pleased. Around the table, small talk replaced the usual hostility. Men who normally couldn't stand each other spoke like gentlemen. There was no business talk. Ruth had made it clear she didn't want to hear it, calling it plausible deniability. If she didn't hear anything, she could always claim she knew nothing. After all, knowing criminals wasn't a crime in itself.
As dinner went on, Ruth finally spoke. "I'd like to take a moment to thank you all for accepting my invitation tonight. I know you're busy men with business to attend to, so the fact that you made time to be here reminds me how fortunate I am to know such honorable men."
I had to stop myself from laughing as several men practically lapped up her words. They were sweet words from a beautiful young woman, but the sweetest words are often laced with venom. I knew my goddaughter well enough to know she did not consider most of these men her friends, nor did she particularly like them. She handled them the way her father had—only with a feminine touch that made them lower their guard.
Each man raises his hand in cheerful salute at her words. Some, however, are still on guard. At least more so than others.
Ruth then continues, "I also want to thank each of you for your support during the filming of my new movie, Raging Bull. Without your help, making it would not have been nearly so easy."
"We have no idea what you're talking about, Ruth," Joseph Bonanno says with a knowing smile, drawing laughter from the table.
"Of course—my apologies. I mean, thank you for not giving me any support at all," Ruth says, prompting another round of chuckles. Then she adds, "And to thank you for not giving me any support, I'd like to give each of you a small gift."
A man they all knew well entered the room and began handing envelopes to the men at the table. But their attention wasn't on the envelopes—it was on Richard Huston, one of the deadliest killers the world had never heard of. Even I kept a close eye on him. That was how dangerous the former hitman was.
How many people Richard had killed, even I didn't know. No one but Lucky—and perhaps Ruth—did. He never spoke of his kills. In fact, he hardly spoke at all. Most people mistook him for a mute, but the truth was simpler: he just didn't like to talk. That made him far more frightening than any loud, swaggering killer. A silent man could be trusted, but he could never be read, and that unnerved people more than any snarling cur.
Once all the envelopes had been handed out, Richard thankfully left, and the room visibly relaxed. I, of course, did not receive one; I already knew what was inside, having helped Ruth pick it out. So I watched the men around me open theirs. Each took out a sheet of paper and read it. None of them was stupid, but several looked puzzled by what they held.
Albert looks at Ruth and asks, "What are these, Ruth?"
Smiling softly, Ruth says, "Those are stock shares, Albert, in companies like GM, Smith & Wesson, Winchester, Chrysler, and Pfizer. Altogether, each of you has about 250 shares, and each share is worth around ten dollars."
The men glance at one another and nod. They may not have been formally educated, but they understood money. At roughly ten dollars a share, each envelope held about 2,500 dollars' worth of stock—a generous gift for the relatively small favors they had done for Ruth by ensuring her film's shoot in New York went smoothly.
Vincent Mangano is the first to speak. "Thank you, Ruth. This is a generous gift."
Smiling, Ruth says, "Don't thank me just yet, Mr. Mangano. What you're holding is only the tip of the iceberg, gentlemen."
"What do you mean?" Frank Costello asks.
"What she means, Frank, is war," I say.
Confusion flickers across the faces around the table. They don't fully understand, so I continue: "The war in Europe, gentlemen, is intensifying."
"And what does that have to do with us?" Thomas Gagliano asks.
Ruth answers, "As you all know, because of my father's influence, I grew up not only around men like you, but also around members of Congress and the Senate, along with their families. I even finished my education at an all-girls school here in New York, surrounded by the daughters of some of the most powerful men in the country."
"We know, Ruth. You complained about those stuck-up… what did you call them cunts, to all of us more than once?" Albert says, making every man at the table laugh, myself included.
Ruth was usually more careful with her words, always trying to maintain the image of a proper lady. But she was Sicilian and Irish to the core—passionate, fiercely loyal, and quick-tempered enough to match any man. So when she began ranting about that school and the people she had to endure there for what was really only two years, her language could be as foul as any dockworker's.
Ruth blushes and looks away—not in shame, but embarrassed to be reminded of those not-so-small moments.
Still blushing, Ruth says with a sly smile, "Regardless of how I felt about them, I did make a number of friends during my short time at that school. Friends who have let certain things slip—things their fathers would never say to most of you, but will say in front of their wives or daughters without a second thought."
That gets everyone's attention. They all turn to her at once, waiting for her to continue.
With a faint smile, she says, "Roosevelt is planning to bring the United States into the war in Europe."
For a moment, no one speaks. Then Bonanno says, "Impossible. The people won't stand for it."
"I thought the same when Ruth first told me," I say. "Then she explained how he plans to do it."
"All right, then—explain," Thomas says.
Looking at him, Ruth says, "According to my sources, Roosevelt has been exploring ways to supply the Allies without declaring war. I don't yet know what the bill will look like, but make no mistake, gentlemen: soon—very soon—the United States government will be spending billions on wartime supplies. Which means the stocks in your hands will most likely be worth at least twice what they are now by this time next year."
For a moment, no one speaks. They simply study Ruth and do the math. Each man is holding about $2,500 in stock. If she is right and the value doubles, that becomes $5,000—an impressive gain, and better still, clean legal money. But none of them are fools. No one gives away information like this for free.
Frank looks at Ruth and asks, "All right, Ruth—what do you want in exchange for this... information?"
Still smiling, Ruth rises slowly, and every man in the room stands with her, myself included. She leans down, kisses my cheek, and says, "Godfather, I think I'll go get dessert ready now."
"Of course. I'll see you shortly, Ruth," I say as she leaves.
We all watch her leave, and every man in the room understands why. If Ruth is absent, then whatever is said next can never be tied to her. She hears nothing, knows nothing, and can deny everything.
The discussion lasts well over an hour—far longer than any dessert would take to make. What we discuss is both simple and complex: Ruth, acting as an independent third party, will create a series of shell companies to buy stocks and bonds for the men at this table. She will then move the proceeds through multiple bank accounts across the country to send it their way. Of the profits, she would keep 30 percent, and the rest would come to us.
Many of the men thought 30 percent was too much, but they reluctantly agreed because Ruth's name would appear on the paperwork and, to them, she would be taking all the risk. What I did not tell them was that behind Ruth was a monster of a man who understood numbers and finances better than any of us could ever dream. Not only would her name never appear on any form, but none of the money would ever be traced to any of them. From what her friend Sam had shown him, by the time anyone realized what was going on, and that was only if anyone ever did, the money would be long gone and cleanly funneled into Ruth's trust fund and their own pockets.
That, of course, was not something I intended to share with the men at my table. After all, she was my goddaughter. Looking out for her best interests was just what a good godfather did.
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Hi everyone, thanks for reading this chapter. So, real quick, I know nothing about banking or financing. All I know is that if you think tracking banking information today is hard, back in the 1940's it was far harder. Ruth is taking advantage of that to basically pull off an Andy Dufresne. Creating a fake persona so she can make as much money as she can during the war and the Cold War that follows. How much she makes, I don't know. Would have to do more research, and she isn't a financial genius. But let's say during the war, the US spent 50 billion dollars just on lend-lease. 296 billion total. So let's say they make pocket just one percent of the overall profits. That is 2.9 billion; 30 percent goes to Ruth, so her share is 888 million dollars by the end of the war. Allowing her to grow her company very quickly.