Ride the Titanic! (37 page)

The hotel’s sea-green, outdoor-carpeted sidewalk leading up to the main entrance makes me a little seasick. The video projector overlaying moving water images onto it flickers too much. I make a voice-memo to Xia as I continue down a narrow corridor of what looks like carved ice, and then pass through the entrance doors into the breathtakingly enormous reception area, where hotel guests will first experience the
Ride the Titanic
adventure.

A vast, blue ‘sky’ ceiling, fifty-feet above, looks down upon a re-creation of the foredeck section of the
Titanic
, complete with teak deck, ventilator shrouds, rigging, and a towering, porthole-dotted white wall, with the bridge above, where Captain Smith and his crew stand watch. Clever use of forced perspective makes it seem higher than it really is.

The convincing sense of being onboard a ship instead of a hotel meets me at every turn, as I make my way across the deck to the hotel elevator banks. Halfway there I stop and take time to flat out admire how Herbie Gottschalk’s design seamlessly blends the hotel’s reception desk into the A Deck superstructure, including indirect lighting, now being installed by an electrician perched at the top of a ladder, a coil of wire over his shoulder, snaking it into a hidden conduit overhead.

‘How’s it going?’ I say. ‘The night shift, I mean.’

‘Quiet,’ he mutters.

‘Until now, with guys like me asking questions, right?’

He says nothing, keeps working. A real chatterbox.

‘Nice work on the overheads.’

A nod.

‘Got your family pass yet for the free ride? Everybody gets one, you know.’

He stops and regards me with his Paul Newman ice-blue eyes. ‘You the guy who dreamed this thing up?’

‘The ride, yes, not the hotel.’

‘That’s what I figured.’ He strips off insulation from a piece of wire in one smooth, practiced gesture. ‘Know that movie,
Field of Dreams?’

‘The one with Kevin Costner? Yeah.’

He points a work-calloused finger at me. ‘If you build it, it will sink.’

Xia’s on the phone when I come in and she waves me to the overstuffed couch directly across from her desk. Not a touch of chrome trim in sight, and not a stick of furniture older than the turn-of-the-19
^th
century. I still can’t believe Herbie made her office an exact replica of J.P. Morgan’s, the
White Star Line
owner and Wall Street baron, including a glass domed, brass ticker tape machine quietly ‘ticking’ away on a cleverly-disguised endless paper loop reporting the delirious news of an imaginary bull market in long-ago, gilded-age America.

The couch wheezes slightly as I sit. Simultaneously Xia’s voice rises to a paint-peeling, Cantonese screech that ends with a dramatic SLAM of her smartphone on the desk.

I say, ‘You’ll break that thing.’

She examines the shattered glass. ‘Just did.’

‘Let me guess, that was the vendor in China saying the load gate sensors were faulty.’

‘Wrong. My father. I called him after Bank of China called me. They’ve upped their interest schedule. Says they have some unexpected investment failures and are forced to do so.’

‘Jesus, here we go again. Can he help us out?’

‘Are you kidding?

Not a chance.’

‘How much and when?’

She waves my question aside like a pesky fly. ‘Too much and too soon.’

‘And?’

Her shoulders slump slightly then just as quickly stiffen. ‘Father said his hands are tied; that we’ve got to ‘reconsider’ our options, but I know he can help us.’

She slams her hand on the desk. ‘I KNOW it.’

We spend the next hour figuring out how to bridge a thirty-day, ‘measly’ five million-dollar gap that, unless we succeed will keep us from opening the ride on time. And if that happens an avalanche of construction penalties will kick in that will, in turn, trigger related contractual caveats along the way, each gathering strength from each other until the five million shortfall balloons into twice that much, not counting court costs.

Xia lapses into a chilling silence. Outside on the strip, the neon, LCD and sodium vapor lights happily profess to the world that you can find it all right here. All that is, except five million bucks.

‘Time to make a cake,’ I finally say.

She doesn’t even look up.

‘Let’s invite the devil over here and give him something sweet to eat.’

That got a rise. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

I don’t answer. I’m too busy looking up ‘Robert Grayson, Esq.’ in my phone contacts.

‘Busy?’ I say when he answers after the first ring.

‘On my third scotch, listening to Sinatra, but for you I’ve got all the time in the world to make a bet.’

‘On what?’

‘On which hand you’re going to use to wave the white flag. Why else would you be calling me?’

‘No way we’re giving up.’

‘Then good day to you sir, or good night is more appropriate. Chairman Sinatra and I have an appointment with unrequited love and the rest of my scotch. Her name was Eileen, in case you’re interested. First girl I ever kissed.’

‘Where we can get our hands on five million?’

A long pause. Frank singing in the background;
I Get Along Without You Very Well.
’

Grayson chuckles. ‘Legally?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Feeling the heat?’

‘A bit.’

‘Not from our side. My boys have gone into hiding, as you may have deduced.’

‘Why?’

‘They don’t pay me to ask those kinds of questions. Just consider yourself lucky is all.’

‘Not that lucky. We hit a shortfall – five million and change.’

‘And you’re calling me because. . .?’

‘Need your help.’

‘Said the fly to the spider.’

‘I mean it.’

A long pause that ends when Sinatra’s song ends and Grayson hums the last few bars. ‘Just so happens I have a certain person in mind who might be interested in playing on your side of the street – or strip to be more accurate.’

‘Investor?’

‘Much more than that. We’re talking partners of some sort.’

‘Xia’s hand shoots up like a traffic cop. ‘No way! Three’s a crowd.’

Grayson says, ‘Ah, didn’t realize I was on speaker phone. Lovely to hear your strident, take-no-prisoners voice, Ms. Zhu, and sorry you’re not interested. Well, Mike, it’s been grand talking with you. Wishing you both the very best. Call me when you’re ready to surrender to the dark side. Gotta’ go
Fly Me to the Moon
. . .’

‘When can we meet this guy?’

A long pause. ‘Actually, he’s a she – as of three months ago.’

Bellagio
brags about their exclusive high-roller rooms, but the one we’re ushered into bears no resemblance to the standard, sybaritic, women-filled, luxury appointed chambers high above the boulevard crowds that offer the highest stakes to the ‘Whales,’ casino’s biggest spenders, with
Texas
Hold ‘Em, Omaha, Baccarat,
Blackjack, Craps, and Roulette. A buffet of potential billions for sure, but the House is happy to take the whales’ money instead of giving it away.

The high-roller room into which Grayson leads Xia and me – just off an ordinary-looking hallway on the top floor of the casino – is no larger than your average living room. And the solitary woman sitting across from a croupier, no larger than your average home furnace, is Ulyana Petrova.

‘Ulyanya,’ she repeats. ‘Like Yule log,’ she adds. ‘Easier to remember that way. Bobby says you have great opportunity for me.’ She plops a meaty, bracelet-cluttered wrist on the attorney’s shoulder.

‘This man I trust with my life.’

He tries to shrug clear of her grip but it’s as tight as a tiger’s.

‘Ulyanya is too kind. I merely re-negotiated a few of her gambling debts a few years back.’

‘When I was man I was idiot,’ she says. ‘Pissing away money like water. This one save me.’

‘Now that you’re a woman you no longer need me.’

She grins. ‘Except for sex, maybe.’

Grayson’s killer shark smile wavers at the thought. ‘Have you considered what I suggested?’

Ulyana doesn’t answer. Instead she turns back to the croupier and says, ‘Spin, Tony.’

‘Your bet, madam?’

She taps an enormous stack of chips and slides them forward. ‘All.’

The croupier’s ice-calm exterior melts slightly and he licks his lips. ‘Madam is certain on the amount she wishes to place?’

‘Spin.’

‘Madam understands she has two rotations of the ball to place her bet before I call ‘No bet.’’

‘Not my first day on earth. SPIN fucking wheel.’

The roulette wheel twirls into play, its thirty-six tiny red and black pockets a dark blur. Tony sends the white ball spinning in the opposite direction, round-and-round, once. . . .twice. . . .

‘RED!’ Ulyanya shoves her stack onto the red space.

‘How much?’ I whisper.

Grayson mouths, ‘A lot.’

Xia and I exchange a hopeful glance. If Ulyanya wins, she’ll double her winnings. Irony of ironies to have
Bellagio’s
money bail us out. But any port in a storm, even if it’s the enemy’s.

The ball does its skittish dance back and forth, dinging in and out of the pockets, first black, then red, and then up the dome-shaped center, nicking one of the chromium turning posts, and then down again, giving one last tiny hop before coming to rest.

‘Black,’ Tony whispers.

‘
YOB
!’ Ulyanya’s ladylike voice surrenders to a male roar.

Tony’s L-shaped croupier stick hovers over her chips for a nanosecond before whisking them home to the House.

Grayson says, ‘Win some, lose some.’

Ulyanya says, ‘Easy for you. Lawyers always win.’

‘We bet on sure things; real estate, treasury bonds. . . .’

‘
Ride the Titanic
,’ I say quickly.

She gives me a long once-over. ‘You gambling man,
Mischa
?’

‘Not really.’

‘Bobby say you gamble your life on this stupid ride.’

‘Not stupid if it turns a profit.’

Ulyanya nods. ‘Profit always good, right Bobby?’

‘Ms. Petrova knows of which she speaks. She has petroleum and natural gas holdings throughout Russia.’

‘And Turkey,’ Ulyanya adds.

‘And Mongolia, too, from what Moscow says.’

‘Not yet, Bobby.’ A wolfish smile. ‘But soon. Very soon.’

Xia says, ‘So you’re a real live oligarch.’

Ulyanya’s features tighten. ‘Oligarch-ess.’

‘Of course.’

Ulyanya fingers some chips, her bright red-lipstick mouth pursed in thought. ‘What House give me, Tony?’

‘For you, madam, no limit.’

She holds up a gold-colored chip. ‘I play million?’

Tony swallows hard. ‘Maybe I should check.’

While he excuses himself to make a hurried phone call we sit in silence, lost in our respective thoughts. Mine are minimal. All I can do is stare at that golden chip and wonder what will happen next. Moments later, Tony returns to the room, his worried look replaced by let’s-get-down-to-business determination. After all, if Ulyanya wins, he’ll get one hell of a tip.

‘Place your bet, madam.’

Ulyanya slides the chip over to me. ‘All yours.’

‘Me?’

Her slightly Mongolian features tightens into a crafty smile. ‘Can’t find oil unless drill.’

‘Never played roulette.’

‘So? You never have sex until first time either. It work out okay, yes?’

‘I guess so.’

She nods to Tony. ‘Spin wheel.’

The croupier stares at me like a cop about to read me my Miranda rights. ‘Sir, you place your bet before the ball goes around three times, or I call ‘no bet.’’

‘Got it.’

Ulyanya says, ‘Choose red or black space.’

‘Got it – by the way, what’s the payout?’

‘One to one.’

‘But. . .’ My mouth suddenly fills with cotton. ‘We need five million.’

‘Then you want five to one.’ She turns to Tony. ‘A six-line pays that,
da
?’

He nods.

She smiles and rubs her hands together briskly. ‘Pick six numbers from intersection of rows here. . . here. . . and here.’

Only then do I notice how thick and rugged her wrists are, and how they must have twisted countless arms and necks on her climb to the top of the Russian oil industry as king before ruling over it as queen.