Ride the Titanic! (38 page)

‘You got?’

‘Think so.’

The bright white numbers in their colorful little boxes stare back at me. Not for a second do I try to conceive of a system of any sorts. I’m no world-weary safecracker trying out a new combination. Just an amateur grabbed by the scruff of his neck and ordered to do the impossible. I take a deep breath and place markers on the intersecting lines of 35, 33, 24, 6, 8, and 2.

‘We have a double street on the table,’ Tony says.

He spins the wheel. Around and around goes the dancing ball. Xia places her hand in the small of my back as if to support me, which actually helps because I would have leaned forward and fallen onto the green baize betting table. After twenty torturous seconds of uncertainty and bouncing back and forth, the ball lands nowhere near any of the numbers I chose, and the million-dollar chip swiftly disappears into the House’s every-hungry maw.

A long beat of silence. Ulyanya finally sighs. ‘Dry hole.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. Only money.’

‘But it’s your money.’

‘
Nyet.’
She waves away the thought. ‘Russia‘s money. Flows like river. Can’t stop it. Better down Bellagio’s toilet than politician’s pocket in Moscow.’

A long, heavy beat of silence. Ulyanya’s bracelets jangle as she drums her fingers on the roulette betting table.

Xia says, ‘A pleasure meeting you, Ms. Petrova.’

I manage to mumble. ‘Thanks for a chance to win the jackpot.’

Her cat eyes narrow slightly. ‘Can’t win unless you play game.’

‘Except when you lose.’

She cocks her head to one side. ‘Bobby tell me this ride you dream up going to change world.
Da?’

‘Maybe not the world, but sure as hell Las Vegas.’

‘And if it work here, why not everywhere?’

‘That’s what we’re planning.’

‘Moscow, even?’

‘Sure, why not?’

‘How much ticket cost?’

Xia says quickly, ‘Depends on when you take the ride. Daytime, twenty dollars per-person, family rates apply. Night ride, five times that. A flat hundred.’

‘Not enough.’

I say, ‘Our market research says that’s the best price point.’

‘I want buy ticket.’

I laugh. ‘Happy to oblige, but without five million dollars, there’s not going to be a ride.’

She lowers her brows, and all traces of her womanhood vanish when her voice deepens. ‘Want to buy night ride ticket.’

I shrug. ‘Okay, one hundred dollars it is, but like I said. . .’

She ignores me as she digs into her tiny purse. ‘Can you break five?’

‘It’s only a hundred dollars.’

‘Mean five million. Bobby says you need that much for you to sink ship,
da?
’

The five gold chips she places in my hand feel cool, light, insubstantial.

Ulyanya adds softly, ‘Like a river this stuff is. You’ll see, once ride gets going.’

I recall Grayson’s warning. ‘What do you want in return?’

Ulyanya shrugs. ‘Already got.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘When you lose bet your face die. Wonderful to see. When I give you chips, you rise like Lazarus from tomb. Even more wonderful to see. That enough for Ulyanya.’

‘You’re giving us five million dollars just like that?’

‘
Da.
’

‘No conditions?’

‘I let you know.’ Her grin tightens slightly. ‘After ride.’

I worked two of Disney’s ‘rollouts.’

Cars Land
was meteoric and marvelous, the other, which shall remain nameless, was a Chernobyl meltdown – not that the public ever found out. Hard-working chumps like me propped up one failed event after another by throwing ourselves beneath the wheels of a rollout designed by an outside consultant who took the money and ran. But he didn’t get far. Disney’s attorneys tracked him down and got Mickey’s money back, proving once again the maxim: ‘Don’t EVER mess with the mouse.’

Like
Cars Land
, I promised myself that
Ride the Titanic’s
rollout
would slide just as smoothly down our bribery money-greased ways, and slip into the Las Vegas Ocean, fireworks exploding overhead. We’d usher in a new era of entertainment not only in Vegas but four more locations within three years.

Paris, of course; they love disasters, especially ones they don’t create. Dubai wants to ‘start talks’ with us. Cape Town has come calling too, not to mention a flock of attorneys for a mysterious, unnamed ‘Entertainment Group’ in Sao Paolo, Brazil, who flew in to Vegas to talk terms, but ended up gambling most of the time. Even so, they flew back home with an ‘agreement in principle’ from Xia’s hotel group and ISM. All of which pleased her father so much that his ice-hard conviction that our venture would sink into the depths and take his daughter along with it finally melted from the warmth of more and more banks not only willing to do business with us, but actually lining up to compete as word of our franchise plans spread.

With fat sugar plums like Paris and Dubai dancing in my head I find it hard to pay attention to a determined young man named Cullen, who, along with his Vegas PR agency team, invited Xia and me to their offices to feverishly describe the sights and sounds that will introduce
Ride the Titanic’s
‘Maiden Voyage’ to the waiting world in two short weeks.

Their presentation begins with a stunning image of the
Titanic
sailing across the Atlantic Ocean as it will appear on
SkyHi
, the gigantic Ferris wheel attraction where Xia and I first met Robert Grayson two years ago. Back then he threatened us with a dire string of ‘icebergs,’ both real and imagined, that would destroy my beautiful ship and Xia’s dramatic hotel. But despite it all, here we sit, thanks to Ulyanya’s last-minute financial transfusion, alive and kicking – and smiling – as Cullen continues his presentation.

‘The good news is that they’ve doubled the refresh-rate, which will give us a nearly a 3D effect on the wheel.’

‘And the bad news?’ I say.

He looks blank. ‘Uh. . .there isn’t any, sir.’

His young face has a placid softness that suggests he’s never felt the lash of the real world – at least not yet – and most likely never will, considering his role as the boy-king of a successful public relations agency. I both envy and feel sorry for him.

‘Eyeball-count still the same?’ I nudge.

He looks relieved. ‘Even better. Fifty million foot traffic a year. . . seventy-thousand cars. . .’

‘Airlines?’

‘Sarah was just about to cite those numbers, sir.’

He nods to a fresh-faced girl, who when she opens her small precise mouth makes me think of a nun about to pray. ‘Over forty-million passengers per annum.’

Xia leans forward and cuts to the chase. ‘What’s our contract with
SkyHi?
’

Cullen says, ‘Two weeks shared brands, one week exclusive, after the maiden voyage.’

‘Other brands?’

Cullen passes off the question to a much older man, who says in a weathered voice, ‘We got diamonds –
Hermes
, of course –
Louis Vuitton,
and one other one. . .wait a sec. . .what the hell was it? He consults his notes. ‘Oh, yeah,
Armani
.’

I say, ‘Heavy hitters. Doesn’t that make us look high-end?’

He shoots me a sharp look, then at his young boss who stares at the ceiling, lost in imponderable thought. No answer forthcoming, he shrugs. ‘A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Mr. Sullivan.’

‘Agreed,’ Xia says. ‘But we don’t want to share our ship with handbags and diamonds for two solid weeks Ruins our price point. Make it a one week share, two weeks exclusive and we’ve got a deal.’

Cullen jerks as if he’s been tasered. ‘We can’t possibly do that.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘It cost a fortune to buy what we’ve already got.’

Xia shoots me a sideways look. I know what’s coming, so I pop some mental popcorn and wait for the movie to start.

Her voice is silken. ‘Exactly whose fortune are you spending? Or were you so generous as to put this on your personal tab? And if so, thank you from the bottom of my corporate, uncaring heart.’

‘No, of course not, I. . .’

‘We’re paying your agency to make our maiden voyage the event of the year. Getting the word out is your job. Giving you our hard-earned money to do so is ours.’

‘Yes, ma’am, of course, it’s just that. . .’ his boilers run out of steam and he just sits there, his tender mouth open, gasping for air, his king’s crown sitting a bit sideways. He looks helplessly to the older man, who clears his throat and says calmly to Xia, ‘Have to bend some arms, ma’am. Maybe break a few. But it can be done.’

Cullen looks relieved.

I think about Ulyanya’s godsend five-million dollar carry-over and try to be casual as I say, ‘How much you figure?’

‘For two full weeks with just you folks inside that gigantic fucking Ferris wheel?’ He looks to the ceiling for the answer and found it. ‘A hair over a million-five, maybe six.’

‘Who gets it?’

He laughs. ‘If you’re thinking the agencies, you’re nuts. They’ll never tumble. And even if they do, it’ll take a year’s worth of meetings and five times what we’re talking about, and even then your odds are lousy.’

‘You’re talking grease?’

His arched eyebrow examines my question but he refuses to answer it. ‘We’ll yank their campaigns and run yours in their place. No questions asked.’

Xia says, ‘Won’t they find out?’

‘The brand managers are back in New York fattening up their 401Ks. The corporate boys are out golfing. The million-five I’m talking about is for the bozos who work for a living here in paradise to look the other way.’

I say, ‘What’s your agency’s cut?’

He gave a belly laugh. ‘Not a dime. And Cullen, here, wouldn’t take it even if you offered it. Me? I’m a different story.’

A collective gasp from the others at the table.

‘Easy, boys and girls, just kidding.’

Tight smiles all around. He leans forward and takes in the group with a weary, oddly-satisfied gaze. ‘As you can see, they keep the old guy here for entertainment value.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Cullen says.

A nervous rustle of shaking heads and protests echo his comment, at which he laughs again. ‘Roger’s daddy and I started this agency thirty years ago. When he died – too young, heart attack, rich food, booze – I ran it on my own until Einstein here got his college degree and came back to work on the farm. Now he drives the tractor. Me? I just sit around and shuck corn.’

Cullen stiffens. ‘Uncle Bill. . .’

‘Okay, okay.’ He waves him to silence. ‘The kid’s all right. And our agency will do right by him, once he learns to NEVER to say no to his clients when they ask to spend more money, right?’

His nephew reddens and fingers his laser-pointer, which accidentally turns on and a red dot wobbles over his uncle’s chest. He comically raises his hands and says in mock terror, ‘Don’t shoot, I was only venturing an opinion.’

‘Cut it out.’

He raises his hands in surrender. ‘I will if you see my point.’

‘I do.’

‘Good, because money makes the world go around. And
SkyHi
, too. Not to mention James Cameron, Celine Dion – who else we got lined up for the big dive, Sarah? What about the president of the United States?’

‘No, sir.’ She flushes. ‘But we do have. . .’

She dutifully reads off the list of celebrities who have agreed – for hefty appearance fees – to come to Las Vegas and enjoy a weekend of pleasure at the
White Star Grand Hotel
, capped off with E-Tickets for the maiden voyage.

‘. . . .Robert Ballard and. . . .and. . .’ She gulps and swallows.

Uncle Bill grins. ‘You pronounce it Lay-oh-NAR-do, like in da Vinci.’

‘I know that, sir. Uh. . . Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslet. . .’

Uncle Bill turns to Cullen. ‘Winslet’s the ‘get’ of the year, I salute you, young man.’

His nephew grins like a happy kid. Me too. Star power like Winslet and DiCaprio are the ultimate icing on our multi-layered PR cake.

‘What was your bait for Kate Winslet?’ I say, still not quite believing they managed to convince her managers to grace us with her radiant, superstar presence.

‘Free passes for her kids.’

‘No kids allowed on the night rides.’

‘Not a problem. We arranged for her to take them during the day.’

As Sarah continues, the names of the show business personalities bloom in my mind like 3D letters on movie posters. Of course we’ll make no demands upon DiCaprio and Winslet, or any of the Hollywood luminaries. No press engagements, no special appearances, no tedious obligations for stars of their caliber. They will be our guests, nothing more.

Unlike mortals, these people are like actual stars, creating their own brilliant light from some mysterious thermo-nuclear reaction in their souls that glows upon the silver screen. For our event, all they need to do is stand in the hotel lobby, or walk along the pier. They just have to BE who they already are. The subtext of where, when, how and why they’ve come to Vegas needs no further explanation. The ship and the iceberg say it all.

People will forget ‘Leonardo’ and ‘Kate.’ In their place they’ll once again see the star-crossed, doomed lovers, ‘Jack’ and ‘Rose’ reunited in Vegas at long last. And the iconic film director, James Cameron, who waved his Best Director Oscar at the audience and shouted, ‘King of the world!’ is coming. ‘And who’s that over by the ship’s bow? My God, it’s Bob Ballard, the man who found the original
Titanic
. And wait just a second. . . that voice? Dear God, it’s Celine Dion! She sang
My Heart Will Go On
, and I cried and cried when Jack and Rose fell into that ice cold sea and were torn apart from each other forever!’

That’s how our PR tidal wave will roll onward, picking up more and more followers as it advances, generating more and more stories on television, radio, print, and social media internet until the publicity wave explodes against the rocks with spray and foam, bringing fame and fortune to
Ride the Titanic.

Sarah finishes her star-studded list and sits back pleased, as though having climbed Mount Everest. I hate to bring her back down to the base station by saying, ‘Were you able to get through to Mr. Cameron’s agent and explain our ban on filming?’