Ride the Titanic! (13 page)

‘Speaking of money,’ I lamely continue. ‘Let’s check out where else they’re going to spend it.’ I lick my dry-as-dust lips. No bottled water in sight. But the show must go on. I laser dot the corridor beyond the
Carpathia
Rescue
scene.

‘Five different kinds of retail stores, here, here and here, ranging from cheap to pricey. When the day rides are done, customers disembark and exit through here.’

‘As well they should,’ Xia says.

‘It gets even better. For the two night rides, we close the stores.’

‘Explain how losing retail is ‘better.’’

‘Let’s run the ride backwards just a bit.’

I go over to the model and point out the
Boat Deck
scene, which happens just ahead of the
Open Sea
scene.

‘By now the riders have encountered the
Bridge
Scene, the
Bow
Scene, the
Lookout Mast
scene and the
Iceberg Strikes
scene. They’ve smelled the ozone in the Marconi wireless room, seen the coal smoke and steam in engineering, and gone past a few more scenes that will build their panic, until they enter the
Women and Children
First
scene on the Boat Deck. Confusion everywhere, officers shouting, people screaming, steam escaping from the boilers, distress rockets whooshing up into the night sky.’

I laser dot a spot on the
Titanic’s
hull, forty feet below the Boat Deck; dull black, tiny rivets, pierced by small portholes glowing from the lights within.

‘Keep your eye on this area right. . . here. . .’

My laser dot hovers over what looks like a blank area of the hull. I reach over, press it, and a small set of doors open.

‘During the daytime, the EMVs go down the side of the ship on simulated davit ropes, and then exit through these doors into the
Open Ocean
scene. But at night. . .’ I swing my red pointer back to the
Boat Deck
scene and swap it out for a blue one. ‘Twice a night, our lifeboats, filled with premium ticket riders go down the side of the ship like during the day, but and watch what happens instead.’

A different exit door opens, this one higher up, and it swallows the EMV. The dive basin perimeter lights come on around the ship, casting rippling reflections onto the conference room ceiling. With that, and the faraway hum of servo motors, the
Titanic
begins sinking. Slowly at first, the bow settles into the water like it did that night when the real ocean poured into its starboard hull plates, fractured and buckled by the passing collision of an indifferent iceberg.

‘At this point, we secure the ride from the pre-show ramp up to this last set of doors, making it completely watertight. All that’s left is for the riders to take the ride of their lives.’

Higher, just ahead of the pivoting stern, a new set of side panels opens to reveal a series of serpentine, steel roller coaster-like tracks built into the core of the ship.

‘When the EMV’s reach this point, they uncouple from their motion cradles and become like roller coaster cars that follow this series of tracks up, down, over and through a pitch black space, filled with hi-rez projections here, here and here.’

While the effect is not visible in miniature, I explain how a series of projection screens in a variety of geometric shapes; some trapezoidal, others rhomboidal, present a psychedelic montage of scenes designed to compress time and expand it as the riders take a ninety-second ride that ends with an explosive WHOOSH as the EMV exits from the side of the hull, and slither-slides down a curved ramp and SPLASHES into the ride basin in a towering spray of water, while the unsinkable
Titanic
, her stern towering high in the night air of Las Vegas, slowly sinks out of sight and into myth.

As our miniature
Titanic
disappears into the watery depths, Joe’s fears come true. The displaced water rises higher and higher in the basin and spills over the sides and onto the deep pile carpet. But Xia doesn’t seem to notice, so I don’t say anything.

She sits up straight with a start. ‘Capacity?’

‘Non-sink, twelve-hundred per hour.’

‘Non-sink?’

‘We’ll run the ride twenty-four-seven. But only twice at night will it sink; nine o’clock and midnight. E-ticket stuff. Price point TBD, but most likely a C-note.’

‘Cheap at twice the price.’

‘Not if they come back for more. And they will.’

‘But not enough to break even. That ship will cost you fortune. You’ll never get it back.’

‘That’s what my wife says.’

A slight hesitation. ‘You’re married, yes?’

‘Yes, I guess I am.’

‘You guess?’

‘I mean, sure, yes, three kids, a house, the works. She’s the one – I mean Geena’s the one who came up with the hotel idea.’

Xia points to the model and says a bit disdainfully. ‘You call that thing a hotel?’

‘Just a quick 2D thing we slapped together. We didn’t have a lot of time to. . .’

She ignores me and heads over to the five-foot high display like King Kong about to wreak havoc. I blab a string of apologies, but she waves me into silence with a slashing motion of her hand. She tilts her head to the left and to the right as she absorbs the combined handiwork of Scooter and Joe, who, with cardboard and gaffers tape created a model of a five hundred-foot tall iceberg with a four thousand-plus room hotel and casinos.

‘This looks like junk,’ Xia says.

‘We’re working on a fully detailed model back in Orlando.’

‘What about casinos?’

Joe says cheerfully, ‘Coming right up.’

‘Got any interiors?’

‘Oh, you bet.’

Joe uncovers another easel to reveal a dazzling concept painting of one of four 1900s period-style casinos that will be part of the package. It resembles a quasi-steampunk version of what a casino would have looked like in 1912, with brass fittings, oriental carpets and mahogany railings framing the slot machine area, with plenty of copper trim, red velvet and potted palms showcasing the blackjack tables. Tiffany swag lamps splash color everywhere.

Here and there, Joe painted elegant, almost ghost-like, 1900s-era wait staff, wearing period tuxedos and long gowns to serve the modern-day desires of the Las Vegas masses who find themselves happily ‘afloat’ on the
R.M.S. Titanic
, lost somewhere ‘below decks,’ gambling in a casino, with strategically placed portholes here and there on the walls, backlit by LED screens displaying a constantly moving view of the ocean at night, aglow from the stars that pace the
Titanic’s
maiden voyage across the lonely Atlantic.

‘Nice touch.’ Xia says.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘We thought. . .’

‘I meant the painting. You’ve got the touch, Mr. Corelli.’

‘So do you.’

She smiles and nods. ‘Got a suite or two you want to show me?’

‘For you, ma’am, the Guggenheims invite you into Parlor Suite B60.’

Joe slides his next painting onto the easel. He stands back and salutes me. ‘Ship’s purser, want to welcome our guest to her digs?’

I salute back. ‘Aye, aye, captain.’

I explain how each room in the hotel will be a replica version of a first class stateroom on the
Titanic.
From the brass doorknobs on the white-painted, wooden doors along the passageways, to the LED ‘ocean view’ portholes on the ‘bulkheads’ inside the staterooms, every stick of furniture, every swatch of fabric, every fixture and fitting will echo the ruling class; when time was something to dabbled with, not obeyed, and luxury not the exception but the rule.

‘Room ratio, low end to high end?’ Xia says.

My mind goes blank, like somebody sucker punched me, but then Herbie Gottschalk’s number miraculously pops into my head. ‘Nineteen to one.’

‘Risky.’

‘Not for a destination hotel.’

‘All of Las Vegas is the destination,’ she says.

‘For now maybe, with its casinos, freak-show Ferris wheel and high-end shopping. But when our ship sails on the strip, it’s going to be a whole new ball game.’

‘Timeline?’

When a potential investor asks this question, you need to be prepared to answer it truthfully. I add up the real number, then for reasons I can’t explain, divide it in half. ‘Two years, portal to portal.’

‘You still believe that?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

‘You’re out of your mind.’

By the grace of pure adrenalin, I remember a Wikipedia reference to Xia’s family fortunes. ‘As I recall, your father was out of his mind when he built the
Summer Blossom
Resort
in Taiwan, against mainland government opposition.’

‘But he. . .’

‘And he said
you
were crazy when you recommended expanding your family’s hotel chain into India five years ago.’

‘A calculated risk. Nothing more.’

‘Which you took – over his strong objections – and now your family has – what, fifteen hotels there now?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Exactly. So, why am I crazy? I just want to build one that entertains the people who’ll take our ride.’

‘Because my family has five generations worth of experience in the hotel business. Many lifetimes. You are the first generation in yours.’

‘With these kind of rides, maybe. But history has to start somewhere, and I want it to start in Las Vegas. With you.’

‘As?’

‘As one of our major investors. Why else would I be taking up your valuable time? More than you allowed, as a matter of fact.’

Slightly startled, she looks at her watch and smiles. ‘It’s been almost forty minutes, and you haven’t thrown ice on me.’

‘Yet.’

She laughs, and then leans closer to look at Joe’s painting while he and I exchange hopeful looks and I pray for a miracle.

‘Your biggest problem is that something like this can’t be only in Las Vegas. You’ll need to have it in Macau, and in Singapore, and other venues too.’

I catch my breath and try to act cool. ‘Exclusive is a powerful draw.’

‘Perhaps, but if you built this combination theme park ride and hotel-casino all over the world, you could amortize your investment.’

I feel a little dizzy. ‘The world?’

Xia smiles. ‘Like you said, who doesn’t know the story of the
Titanic
?’

Robbie adds, ‘And who wouldn’t want to ride on it?’

Xia stands. ‘Here comes the easy part.’ She puts out her hand. ‘Congratulations, Michael Sullivan, you have my financial backing in your new venture.’

I’m speechless as I take her hand. Her gorgeous hazel eyes drill into me.

‘You need to shake my hand, not just hold it. This is a business deal, not a proposition.’

‘Just like that? You’re on board?’

‘What did you expect? Confetti and balloons? I’m fresh out.’

‘I don’t know what I expected.’

‘Money’s the easy part. Now comes the hard part. We’ve got to build this thing.’

‘We?’

‘You and me.’

Robbie clears his throat. ‘Something tells me your family is not in on this particular venture.’

Xia gathers up her belongings before answering. ‘I have a little money of my own. What I do with it is my affair.’

By now I’ve found my tongue and say cautiously, ‘We’re talking about fifty million for starters.’

‘So?’ Her face looks even more beautiful when blank.

Joe rubs his hands together briskly. Whenever he’s about to wade into a project, whether re-shingling his roof or painting a masterpiece, he rubs his callused, workmanlike hands together with great relish, and then attacks.

‘Ms. Zhu, lemme’ ask you a personal question.’

‘Call me Xia, please. We’re soon to be partners.’

‘Good. Then it’s ‘Joe’ on my side. Anyhow, lemme’ ask you, is your daddy gonna’ go ballistic when he finds out you invested all your pin money in this?’

She considers his question. ‘It depends on when and how he finds out.’

I say, ‘You can’t keep something this big under the radar very long.’

She opens her purse, fishes around inside, pulls out a business card and hands it to me. ‘Use this number whenever you need to reach me.’

I manage to gasp. ‘I’ll need a. . .a letter of intent for starters. . . for additional financing purposes, you know.’

‘Domestic?’

‘We’re building in Las Vegas.’

‘Don’t bother. I’ve got banking contacts in Singapore with money to burn. Better they invest it in an iceberg hotel and a sinking ship instead.’

‘That comes back,’ I add.

She ticks off her fingers, ‘Vegas, Macau, Singapore, Dubai. Day after day, night after night.’

Her imagination overwhelms me. I finally stammer, ‘I. . .I don’t know what to say.’

She takes my hand and holds it a bit longer and firmer. ‘A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice. . . for now.’

The next few days are pretty much a blur. I remember calling Geena and babbling about Xia’s signing onto the project. She asks me a stream of questions, none of which I can remember answering with anything more than the kind of soaring, unfettered optimism that comes when you see a newborn baby for the first time, or get unexpected praise for something you did. Geena, being a psychologist calls it ‘unfocused positivism’ or some such thing.

I call it joy.