Ride the Titanic! (22 page)

He hangs onto every word
Signor
Mercurio says, as though coming from Julius Caesar. He raises his eyebrows and beams at
Signora
Agostina, who makes the occasional cool observation, to which he responds in rapid-fire
sotto voce
Italian, transforming her regal bearing into girlish laughter.

Ever the jazz improviser, the instant dinner conversation momentum slows, Joe turns to Max, mutters something that set offs the young engineer whooping with laughter, which, being utterly infectious, triggers his wife’s low-throated chortles, with Joe quickly explaining his humorous aside to the others – and to me in English – and waves of laughter envelope the table once again.

While everyone at the table stares transfixed at the dessert chef who begins serving her fantastic creations, Joe whispers. ‘How’m I doing?’

‘You own the joint.’

‘Gonna’ make sure you own it next.’

‘What are you saying to them?’

His smile is like the flash of a lighthouse. ‘What they want to hear.’

Joe turns back to the plate before him, filled with a towering stack of chocolate wafers laced with brown sugar tracery and a thin ribbon of cream along the top. He whispers something in Italian and the table screams with laughter again, and the blushes of the women, the chef included, compete for whose is the deepest.

Elena wins.

Watching Joe perform, I see where Geena gets her skill at being my biggest fan. Something about the tilt of his head and the sharpness of his eyes as he follows his dinner table companions’ every word, as if each is a pearl on an impossibly beautiful string that he can’t wait to present them when it’s finished, all tied up and perfect. And yet he doesn’t fawn over them or adore or idolize. Just the opposite. He is their equal, but at the same time a brightly polished mirror who reflects back all that is wonderful about a person without distorting the image with flattery or lies.

I mentally applaud his seemingly hypnotic power, when the ladies rise as one to go to the powder room. Whether that is true or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that as I stand with the others to honor the ladies’ retreat, the Fincantini men exchange a lightning-fast look of cautious alarm, as if their wives’ protective cover has been stripped away, the jig is up, the maestro finished, the concert over.

Joe confirms their fears when we sit back down and he says to Max.
‘In inglese per favore, va bene?’

‘Si, certamente. Signor
Mercurio and I are conversant in your wonderful language.’

‘Now he tells me,’ I grumble.

Joe dings a small spoon against his espresso cup, speaking one word at a time. ‘Four. . . months. . . before. . . .delivery. . .
e vero, o falso
?’

Mercurio shrugs slightly. ‘Three months. As of today’s report.’

I lean closer to Max. ‘What will it take to change that to ‘we’re right on schedule.’’’

‘
Un miracolo
. A miracle.’

‘The Pope’s busy. What else can you do for us?’

Max looks pleadingly at Mercurio, who regards the Trieste harbor with the same proprietary air as Caesar did centuries ago. He finally says softly, ‘What you ask is simply impossible.’

I try to keep my voice steady but it shakes with a combination of fear and anger. ‘Then why the hell did you sign the contract with us in the first place?’

A slight smile. ‘It is a remarkable project; this ocean liner ride of yours. Fincantini wanted to be a part of its success.’

‘But now you’re the reason for its failure.’

‘I cannot change history,
Signor
Sullivan. What has happened has happened. Unexpected delays in delivery of vital sub-assemblies. . .’

‘From Poland!’ Max snorts, as if it’s their fault. ‘And from the Germans we get end-plate steel with too much manganese and too little molybdenum. They promise one thing and deliver another!’

Mercurio sips his espresso. ‘Do you wish us to continue?’

Joe says, ‘We get the picture.’ He stirs his espresso, tastes it, and smiles. ‘
Perfetto
. By the way, my son-in-law tells me you were the guy who recommended your board of directors to bid on this project.’

His cup rattles slightly. ‘
Si
, yes.’

‘He also tells me that you got a big promotion out of it.’

A deprecatory nod.

‘I read somewhere in
Forbes
that you’re fast-tracking for VP, Marine. That true?’

A noble nod.

‘So, what do you think is going to happen to that promotion when we pull the plug tomorrow morning?’

‘I do not understand that expression.’

Joe pulls out a thick envelope and holds it up. ‘How many years you been married,
Signor
Mercurio?
Quanti anni esposato
?’

‘
Quaranta cinque
.’

‘Bennissimo.
My wife and me? Forty six years. And happy years too, because when we got married we entered a verbal contract. Words like ‘to have and to hold, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.’ Did you say that sort of thing to your beautiful wife, Agostina?’

A silent nod.

‘Now if I’d screwed up, or God forbid my wife did, we would have been in breach of contract. Know what I mean?’

Max is far ahead of the curve and gasps. ‘You are considering ending our working relationship?’

‘It’s called divorce.’ Joe taps the envelope and hands it to me. ‘Tell them, Mike.’

The moment arrives. Either they’ll take the bait that we strategized with Xia back in Vegas, or they’ll swim away, leaving us with empty hooks and, ultimately empty wallets.

I say as off-handedly as I dare, ‘We’re building ten of these
Ride the Titanic’s
in the next five years. We need to work with a company that can keep up with the pace of our demand.’

‘Ten?’ Mercurio looks alarmed. ‘You never told us that.’

‘Good ideas grow fast, like branches on a tree. As of today we have signed contracts with developers in Macau, Moscow, Baden-Baden, Lisbon – but you don’t need the details. All you need is this.’ I slide over the envelope. ‘Open it.’

Max intercepts it and slides it back. ‘We do not wish to know the contents.’

Joe says. ‘It’s simple, really. Our company, ISM, is suing your company,
Fincantini Navali
for breach of contract.’ He looks around for the waiter, spots him. ‘
Il conto, per favore
.’

Max waves his hands. ‘No, please!’

I pull out my credit card, ‘Our treat, I insist.’

‘I meant the lawsuit. You absolutely cannot. . . . .’

Mercurio’s brows lower ominously, Max catches his glare, falls silent and plops back down.

The distinguished gentleman says, ‘If you file suit, we will cease construction immediately.’

‘As to be expected. And we will finalize our contract negotiations with
BAE Systems
for the pressure hulls.’

‘The British?’ The words drip from his patrician mouth like venom. ‘They’re ten times worse than the Germans.’

Max piles on. ‘They promise the moon and deliver shit.’

‘We’ll spray deodorant on it.’ I lean forward, aim my finger like a pistol. ‘At least we’ll have a British pressure hull, not Italian hot air.’

Mercurio’s eyes flash a warning, but then soften and he smiles – not at me but at someone over his shoulder.
‘Cara!’
And we rise to allow the ladies to take their seats.

Augusta sits, sips her tepid espresso, makes a face, takes in our tense stand-off with a wearied smile and says in flawless English, ‘So, who won the battle, gentlemen?’

Mercurio stiffens and starts to speak but her bejeweled hand dismisses him into silence. ‘I know my husband wishes he were wearing the crown of laurel leaves, but from the looks of things he has lost his head instead.’ She turns to him
‘E vero?’

‘They are building ten of these rides.
Diece!
’

‘You say, ‘they,’ not ‘we.’’

I step in. ‘
BAE Systems
is ready to take over the contract – since Fincantini can’t deliver on time and now stands in breach.’

She sighs. ‘Such a pity. I was so looking forward to being invited on the maiden voyage in Las Vegas. Such a grand idea you have.’

Joe came alive. ‘
Certamente signora!
This does not mean we can’t continue to be the best of friends.
Siamo Italiani, no?’

‘Si.’

‘No matter what happens, you and your husband, and Max and his beautiful wife will still be on our A-list, right, Mike?’

His words carry a subtle meaning that I struggle to find, and then almost trip over it in a rush of understanding. ‘Max, how do I say absolutely?’

‘Assolutamente.’

I turn to Mercurio. ‘Business is business,
signor
, but friendship is far more important, and families are the most important of all. My father-in-law teaches me that every day. And while I’m sorry we can’t work with you any more. . .’ I stick out my hand, not as a gun this time. ‘I sincerely hope we can still be friends.
Per favore?
’

He regards me coolly for a long moment, and then reluctantly shakes my hand. But just as he does so, his eyes widen like one of those cartoon characters who grabs a live wire. He jerks his hand away and says something to Max, who literally slaps his head in stunned awareness, and off they go in machine-gun fast Italian. All I understand is the word ‘
Todaro
’ over and over again. As Max keeps answering in the affirmative, Mercurio’s demeanor shifts from Roman senator to Roman circus clown; his face flushes, his smile beams and his eyes dance as he keep saying ‘
si, si, SI!’

‘What are they talking about?’ I say to Joe.

‘They’re going way too fast. Something about their
Todaro
submarines and some kind of jig-welding process. Too technical for me.’

Meanwhile Augusta and Elena engage in what looks like casual small talk, but the tense way they hold their bodies says the opposite.

The waiter arrives with the check, but instead of paying, Joe signals for
Limoncello
all around. By the time the waiter pours the chilled, pale yellow, citrusy after-dinner drink into six cut-crystal glasses, Mercurio and Max’s fevered conversation has subsided to short, choppy, sentences punctuated with a stream of confident ‘
Si, si, si’s’

When they finally stop, Max inclines his head deferentially to Mercurio who frowns and says, ‘You tell them. Your English is superior.’

‘But your solution to the problem will forever be superior to the one I had,’ Max says.

‘Tell them.’

Max sips his
limoncello
, smacks his lips in appreciation, leans forward, grins and delivers a breathless explanation of how
Fincantini
will employ a building technique used on their
Todaro
-class submarines to more efficiently construct the pressure hull sections for
Ride the Titanic.

I’ll spare you the details because I barely understand what he’s saying, especially phrases like ‘Walking-jigs’ and ‘Triple-staging.’ Bottom line? Fincantini can reduce construction time by a full third and deliver on time – or at least close enough to make Joe tear up our ‘lawsuit’ envelope, making sure none of the blank sheets of paper we stuffed inside fall out.

If they can deliver as promised, then all we have to do is make sure our desert ‘ocean’ will be ready for the
Titanic
sections when they start arriving, not to mention finish building the iceberg hotel that ‘Grayson’s Geezers,’ as I’m calling them, are determined to melt – after they sink us first.

A drafty airplane hangar is not the most congenial place to work, but we need a weatherproof location to assemble and test the various ‘scenes’ our riders will encounter during their eight-minute, swooping, swirling adventure, including the
Crow’s Nest
, the
Forward Hold
,
Boat Deck I
and
II
plus six more scenes. Lucky for us, an airline maintenance outfit at McCarran airport folded, freeing up tens of thousands of square feet in a hangar as big as a small town, or so it seems every time I look up, and up and up.

Tonight, almost six months to the day after Joe and I had our ‘Come to Jesus’ moment with the
Fincantini
folks in Trieste, three-quarters of the ride scenes stretch out like a Mobius Strip that rises and twists and turns upon itself as it snakes along the polished concrete floor, surrounded in turn by a dense forest of steel tubing, wiring bundles, and support cables that make no sense to anyone except the tired and overworked creators who created them. And just as a roller coaster is nothing but a jumble of steel and rails without string of cars to go zooming over and through, so too our prototype Enhanced Motion Vehicle ‘lifeboat’ sits waiting for its first all-up systems test.

When we fired it up for the first time a week earlier, it rocked thirty-degrees to starboard and froze solid. If that had happened during a ride, our onboard restraint systems would have kept passengers safe from harm (and ISM safe from lawsuits). We fixed the simple glitch. But since Lewis and I are the only passengers tonight, I disable the seat restraint. I’m the ride expert, right? I’ve seen it all, done it all, right? So I don’t need some wussy seatbelt to keep me safe from harm.

Right?

So, I stand up to say something, and the lifeboat boat promptly tips, and out my arrogant ass tumbles onto the unforgiving concrete. Fortunately it’s only a three-foot trip that damages pride more than body.

To cover my embarrassment I shout, ‘Who the hell’s lead on this?’

A swarm of young techies explode away from their monitoring consoles like flock of crows abandoning road kill to reveal the familiar, lanky figure of Lewis standing there regarding me with a sly smile.

‘Baby fall down, go boom?’

I go for his throat but trip over the gunwale on my way there and fall again. Luckily for me, the insanity of the moment breaks the spell and I laugh like a madman at my own stupidity. Lewis laughs too as he grabs me and whoops me around in a circle, singing,

‘Baby go boom, baby go BOOM.’

In our line of business, too much caffeine and not enough sleep can create edge-of-the-cliff moments like this; when what’s consuming you spits you out and tumbles you through the air until you land in a heap – or if you’re lucky – passed out in bed, asleep.