Ride the Titanic! (34 page)

‘That’s the good silver,’ she snaps in a voice as close-cropped as her hair. ‘Give it to me.’

I do and then stroke her exposed arm. ‘You’re packing some real muscles, kid.’

‘Be glad I’m not using them to break your neck.’

‘Sorry about business.’

‘What about our monkey business?’

‘Comes later.’

‘Providing the phone doesn’t ring.’

I hold up the evil instrument and make a big deal of turning it off, but chicken out at the last second and silence it instead, because even this small gesture of separating myself from Vegas makes me twinge, like I’m abandoning my twins to toddle across I-95 on their own during rush hour. I take a deep breath and let it out: I have a wife to seduce and a marriage to preserve. If I’m not careful, the
Titanic
will come back but Geena won’t.

Here’s where I’d like to say that because of my sensitive awareness of my wife’s feelings we reconcile our six month-long separation with a tender sharing of the conjugal bed. Truth is, when I silence my phone, I silence my libido too. Not that I want to. Are you kidding? Geena is more beautiful than ever, and I don’t mean that in just the physical sense. When we’re together I can feel her soul warming up mine like a blanket in a snowstorm. It’s why I married her. But tonight, after two failed attempts at love-making, she chooses to hog the covers instead of me.

I address the candle-lit shadows flickering back and forth on the ceiling.

‘Shouldn’t have had so much wine.’

‘Wine or work?’

I turn to her in the semi-darkness. ‘Both, and I’m sorry.’

A long silence. Then the delicate ‘clicking’ sound as she taps her fingernails against her teeth; something she does when deep in thought, which is the last thing you want when lying in bed next to a beautiful naked woman who happens to be your wife. I stroke her shoulder but the clicking keeps going, so I give up, raise up on an elbow and say,

‘What’s the prognosis, Doctor?’

Click-click-click-pause. ‘Jen called yesterday.’

‘As in, ‘NASA’s Jen?’’

‘Offered me contract work. Eighteen months. Mars project.’

‘That’s fantastic!’

Click-click-click-pause. ‘Turned her down.’

‘Why? Because of the twins? Or. . .’

‘They’re fine.’

‘Fiona? I’ll kill that Adam kid.’

‘She’s driving me nuts, but no problems with the boyfriend. He’s a straight-shooter.’

‘Why, then?’

Click-click-click-pause. ‘One unhinged person in the family is enough.’

Long pause.

‘Meaning me.’

‘You.’

‘I’m steady as a rock.’

‘And I’m a clinical psychologist, who worked with highly-functioning, ambitious madmen – and women – who wanted to become astronauts. And after two years of observing you in action, I’ve decided there’s no difference between you and them.’

‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

‘Not for me. Once upon a time I married a mechanical engineer who loved to make-believe. Now he’s apeshit to go to Mars.’

‘Las Vegas is not Mars.’

‘Don’t bet on it.’

‘It’s insane at times, but right now it’s thousands of miles away. I’m here and you’re next to me.’

‘Am I?’

She reaches across and grabs my phone off the end table. The cold-blue light of its glowing screen transforms her naked breasts into Michelangelo marble.

‘You said you turned this off.’

She drops it on my chest, but as it lands, the voice-mail alert buzzes. Without thinking, I touch the screen.

Geena slips out of bed. ‘You’re on your own. Two toddlers I can handle. Not three.’

The THUD of the
Gulfstream’s
wheels slamming onto the runway in Vegas stop my memories of that awful night.

Joe nudges me. ‘C’mon, kid, we got us a ship to sink.’ He unbuckles his seatbelt and starts making his way forward to the exit.

Lewis says, ‘Pop, sit down, we’re still rolling.’

Joe braces himself as the Gulfstream dances back and forth and then slows to a taxi. ‘Tonight’s the big night.’

Lewis nods. ‘Providing our pumping system’s online.’

‘It is,’ I say.

‘How do you know?’

‘I checked last night, top to bottom, no anomalies.’

Joe frowns. ‘I thought you two kids had a big dinner date.’

‘We did.’

‘And you checked your e-mail?’

I try a subject change. ‘Have fun with the twins?’

‘Like weeds they’re growing. Before you know it they’ll be tall enough to ride the ride.’

‘But no place to sleep when they get off,’ Lewis says, ‘Unless Xia gets off her high class butt and finishes the hotel.’

‘She said the outside’s a done deal. Panels finished. Ready to light.’

Joe gives me a long look. ‘You DID spend the weekend in Orlando, right?’

‘Mostly – look, see what I mean?’

Just as we pass the
Luxor
, about a mile-and-a-half from the hotel, the low-hanging clouds in the distance take on a blue-white glow as the
White Star Grand Hotel
lights up for the very first time.

Lewis hoots, ‘We got liftoff!’

Minutes later our SUV makes a right turn onto
Titanic Drive
and stops at the entrance gate. After two of Wu’s hard-ass looking ‘asset protectors,’ check our ID’s we drive up the gently curving road, past the stunningly-high shape of the
Titanic
, and arrive at the nearly-finished hotel entrance. When the roadway is complete, wrought-iron, period streetlights will light the way from Las Vegas Boulevard to the blue-white, glowing iceberg that doomed my beautiful ocean liner that’s going to sink for the very first time – I check my watch and take a deep breath – in less than two hours!

Inside the nearly-finished lobby a group of people gather around Xia. Her neon-red hardhat stands out like a cherry on the top of her equally vibrant neon-red coveralls. A happy-looking cluster of conservatively dressed, white hardhat-wearing city officials surround her, surrounded in turn by camera crews recording the
White Star Grand Hotel’s
celebratory ‘lighting up’ moment.

‘Gentlemen, a toast.’

She raises her champagne glass and the others woozily follow. Their glasses are empty but not for long. A phalanx of
White Star
dining stewards, replete in tailored white cutaway coats and black pants, stand at the ready with opened magnums of bubbly. At Xia’s fractional nod they top off the glasses as she continues.

‘Mr. Sullivan has arrived with news of great import, have you not, sir?’

Lewis and I exchange a quick nod of mutual agreement, and then I say, ‘I have indeed.’

She continues. ‘News that will make our so-called stupendous lighting ceremony of the
White Star Grand Hotel
pale into the significance of a birthday candle.’

She glances over my shoulder at the distant ship. ‘Gentlemen of Las Vegas, tonight is a night to remember. Tonight for the very first time, but not the last time, the
Titanic. . . .
’

‘Sinks!’ shouts a drunk in the group.

Laughter. More refills all around as I announce that indeed we will perform the first full submergence test.

‘And it’s our honor and privilege to extend a personal invitation to you gentlemen to be our first guests on the premium version of the ride. Without your steadfast support of our venture,
Ride the Titanic
would still be a stack of drawings and blueprints and a dream in our hearts.’ I lift my glass. ‘But instead, you, and the city of Las Vegas, have made our dream come true.’

‘Hear, hear.’

A spattering of ‘planted’ applause from our waiters stimulates some real applause from the city fathers who must have known that, far from encouraging our efforts for the past two years, they happily obstructed, obfuscated and otherwise did their best to maintain the status quo. After all, this is Vegas. No hard feelings, pal. Strictly business, that’s all. You have your job, we have ours. Now then, let’s have some more champagne and let bygones be bygones. You win, we lose, but we damn well tried! Now, let’s go for a ride.

One of the lesser fathers pipes up, ‘You sure that thing’s coming back?’

‘What goes down must come up.’

‘Aye, aye, captain!’

That’s their mood as they laugh and guffaw, while the wait staff herds them out of the hotel and down the curving walkway leading to the unfinished dock area, a scaled down replica of White Star’s Berth 44 in Southampton, England. For now, harsh, sodium vapor construction lights reflect off the
Titanic’s
vast vertical steel wall. But two weeks from now replica incandescent lights will bathe the wharf in golden pools of light.

The water surface of the three-foot deep dive basin is glass smooth, with nary a ripple in sight. But next week, if our sub-contractors are to be believed, a series of hydraulic turbine pumps embedded on the bottom of the basin will be pumping in perfect synchronization to make an ‘ocean’ foam against the ship’s bow, then rise and fall alongside the hull as it passes astern, and do so night and day while passersby stop in their tracks to behold the eighth wonder of the Las Vegas world, steaming ‘full speed ahead’.

A hearty chorus of ‘Welcome aboard’s’ from our ride staff as our entourage climbs the upward slanting boarding ramp leading inside the ship. Extra-wide to accommodate a triple row of riders, it can with a touch of a button, widen an additional three feet to accommodate a fourth row to increase rider flow-through during peak load times.

By contrast, this evening a modest group of only thirty people, including the news camera crews, descend the brightly-lit, wood-paneled
Grand Staircase
leading into the bowels of the ship. Lewis hurries off to monitor the Ride Bridge, Joe joins me at the back of the group, while Xia briskly leads the parade like a tour guide.

‘Real wood, gentlemen. Nothing fake about our first class, full-immersion experience.’

Joe nudges me and whispers, ‘Sounds like she’s gonna’ baptize the bastards.’

Xia continues proudly, ‘Our passengers will have the chance to regard and appreciate a great storehouse of historical information and artifacts as they move toward the loading area.’

RMS Titanic
memorabilia lines the museum-like passageway; posters, shipping charts, passenger lists, period-era photographs, everything screwed down and tucked away safely inside shadowboxes to prevent light fingers. Our procession moves at a snail’s pace as the city officials gawk and gaze at the carefully crafted opulence, while the news videographers hose down anything that doesn’t move.

Joe says, ‘Why let these bozos in to film the ride?’

‘Have to. When we open, the foamers will shoot their own versions and post them online ten seconds after they finish. Why not get some advance publicity?’

‘We should have had our own crew, then.’

‘What makes you think we don’t?’

In the distance, Ellie, her blonde hair wound in a tight bun that bumps up her hardhat, grips an impressive-looking DSLR video rig with the relaxed ease of a gunslinger.

Joe has to look twice. ‘Ellie?’

‘Makes sense, considering she directed all the scenes.’

She blends in perfectly with the other news crews; just another shooter, face impassive, almost bored as she takes in the scene with weary resignation. Of course it’s all an act, because behind those ‘been-there-seen-that’ eyes lurks a scheming mind that knows every angle, every sightline, every possible shot in the course of the ride. But instead of spending a couple hundred grand to have an ad agency over-produce a slick, promotional product, her brainstorm was to shoot, edit and post online the best pirated ‘Foamer video’ ever shot, far in advance of our
Maiden Voyage
.

Once it goes viral, we will – of course – express righteous outrage that one of our ‘trusted employees’ hijacked our opening night thunder by showing the world the entire
Ride the Titanic
experience in advance of our opening. An old advertising trick, but a good one and it’ll work – especially in cyberspace because our publicized anger will drive up the online views.

Joe says, ‘That kid’s a looker.’

‘She’s no kid.’

Joe sighs. ‘I know, but when I say ‘kid’ it turns off my libido.’

‘Is that Italian for ‘horny’?’

He punches my shoulder. ‘
Sta zit
.’

As we walk past Ellie she says softly, ‘Evening, gents.’

‘Nice seeing you again, kiddo’ Joe says.

‘Me too, Mr. Corelli.’

‘Got dinner plans tonight?’

‘Sure do.’

‘Figures.’ He sighs.

She flashes him a perfect smile and touches his cheek. ‘With you, if you’re free. I’m up for some decent Italian. Know a place?’

‘Do I ever!’

We arrive at the boarding station, where the ride attendants are loading the lifeboats with the Vegas VIPs and news crews. Like when Lewis and I tested the ride, each receives a color-coded RFID wristband. By the time the four-boat group shoves off, ours is only filled to half-capacity as we glide through the ride curtain and into the bright sunlight of the
Boat Deck
scene, where the past becomes the present and we’re in it, up to our eyeballs.

Being a ride designer, all I can see is the ‘wireframe’ beneath the reality. For instance, where Xia and her Vegas guests stare at crowds on the Southampton dock shouting ‘Bon Voyage,’ I see a small rip in the multi-curved projection screen that the vendor swore on the Bible could withstand the occasional bump. But it hasn’t. And when the ship’s steam whistle BOOMs out its brassy farewell, I detect speaker ‘fuzz.’