Ride the Titanic! (39 page)

Sarah looks pleadingly at Uncle Bill, who smiles and shakes his head. ‘If he wants to do a little filming behind the scenes – and he does, trust me – then you’re gonna’ have to accommodate him somehow.’

‘But why?’

‘He didn’t say. Just smiled and said he was ‘curious.’’

‘You spoke to him?’

Uncle Bill shrugs. ‘Yeah. Interesting guy. Word is, he makes some pretty amazing movies.’

I get hives just thinking about one of the most powerful motion picture directors in the world breathing down the necks of my ride team. But I’m also proud that the dizzyingly complex of mechanical and electronic systems required to sink a ship and bring it back again is like artistic crack cocaine to Cameron, the most talented and brilliant gear-head in America.

‘We’ll arrange for a ride bridge tour before the dive,’ I offer.

‘No way.’ Uncle Bill slowly shakes his head. ‘He wants to be with you when the ship goes down.’

‘We can’t allow that.’

He smiles. ‘Nobody says ‘no’ in Vegas, remember? Especially to someone like Mr. Cameron.’

‘This ‘nobody’ does.’

‘Listen to me for a second, willya’?’ Uncle Bill leans forward, ‘Guys like their toys. You got the best one in town – best in the world for that matter. Let Mr. Cameron come play nice in your wading pool.’

Xia says, ‘We’ve got to do it, Michael.’

‘After I run it by legal. We may have liability issues with a non-employee in a restricted area.’

Uncle Bill laughs. ‘The only liability you’ll have is your sorry ass in a major sling if they say ‘no.’’

‘But. . .’

‘Be like that captain on
Star Trek
; ‘Make it so.’’

‘Go in the front way,’ Xia says as I turn off the boulevard and onto
Titanic Drive
, the city-approved name given to the roadway we’ve carved out of the desert. For the past two years it’s been a beat-up, battered gravel road upon which dump trucks and earth movers rolled in and out of chaos, while they were busy creating the pristine world of make-believe now spread out before us.

Gone is the gravel. In its place a buttery-smooth, four-lane, paved roadway wends its way past the massive
RMS
Titanic
towering over us in the dive basin, her black hull surrounded by artesian well-fed water. Along her waterline, the hidden water jets are running full blast to create the illusion of her slashing across the Atlantic.

‘Nice moustache on the lady,’ I say, pointing to the foamy-white bow wave curling back from the ship’s prow.

Xia absently nods, while looking the other way at the newly-planted, fully mature trees lining the road. Cost a fortune, but that’s the price of first impressions. Teams of arborists and grounds men fuss like feverish handmaidens; digging here, mulching there, while a fellow worker mows the lush green, sprinkler-fed grass as close to the ground as a drill sergeant’s haircut.

Xia says, ‘They’ll never get this finished in seven days.’

‘God made the world that way.’

‘He worked for free. These guys are on overtime.’

The road continues another quarter mile back from the boulevard, where the
White Star Grand Hotel
shimmers in the bright sunlight; a blue-white mountain of ice that will never melt. Just before we arrive, the four lanes divide into eight as we pass beneath the canopied roof of the main entrance. Parked cars block seven of the eight lanes, doors opened, trunk lids popped, while a small army of valets dart back and forth with rolling carts and wardrobe racks as they dress rehearse the fine art of welcoming incoming guests, of which there are currently zero.

All of this feverish training is taking place beneath the unforgiving gaze of Mr. Clive Richardson, our morning-suited, ramrod-straight hotel manager, who we pirated away from the
Ritz London
with the promise of running a hotel the way
he
wanted, not the way
we
did.

On balance, the choice has been a good one. In addition to having a fabulous British accent, Clive has a unique hands-on style, while still managing to appear to wear ‘white gloves’ while doing so.

As proof, he doesn’t even bother greeting us as we get out of the car. Instead, he steps off the curb and glides over to one of the sweating valets.

‘Robert, observe the vast amount of space still remaining beneath your arms. You can fit another small piece there, maybe two. Down, down, put them down on the curb.’

The eager, young valet drops the practice luggage with a resounding thump.

‘A little more gently next time, my boy, now observe.’ Clive hoists them up as though they’re empty, even though they’re weighted to simulate a load, then deftly grabs smaller piece and magically tucks it on top. He marches over to the rolling luggage cart and slips them on with practiced ease.

‘Now you try it, my boy.’

Success this time, accompanied by a brisk nod of approval from Clive, who swivels around on oiled bearings and nods to us. ‘Good afternoon and the warmest of welcomes to the
White Star Grand Hotel
.’

Xia says, ‘How’s your crew, captain?’

A brief wince, then a smile. ‘Not a smooth start, madam, but getting better.’

‘Practice makes perfect.’

‘In most cases, yes, but I’m afraid our head valet has to go.’

‘Mr. Gordon? I thought him quite competent. What seems to be the problem?’

A touch of frost touches Clive’s features. ‘I’d rather not trouble you with the details, madam.’

A heavy beat of silence that ends when I say to Clive, ‘Can the guy.’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘You’re the boss. We’ll find someone else. C’mon Xia, Clive’s got an iceberg to run and we’ve got work to do.’

She flashes me an angry look but to her credit says nothing until we pass through the heavy brass revolving door that sweeps us into the main lobby, empty of guests, but filled with uniformed employees scurrying here and there, bent on their training duties. Their ‘costumes,’ as we call the period accurate
White Star Line
uniforms, arrived a week later than promised, cost twice as much as planned, but are so striking in their effect that the reassuring spectacle of brass buttons, deep blue fabric and delicate gold piping makes the wait worthwhile.

‘Mind telling me whose hotel is this?’ Xia snaps.

‘Yours, the bank’s and Ulyanya’s.’

‘Notice how your name does not appear on that list? And none of others that do, would dare tell me how to run it.’

‘You’re angry?’

‘Furious. You overrode me out there like I was a bellhop.’

‘Sorry, but you’re forgetting Clive’s the real captain of your ship. You’re just the owner. Don’t do like Bruce Ismay did on the
Titanic.
Once your hotel sets sail, stay the hell off the bridge.’

‘What about your bridge? Going to keep your hands off that?’

A montage of faces flash through my mind: Lewis, Molly, Joe, Ellie, the ride techs, LTV maintenance folks – once the ride is up and running and all of them are doing their jobs hour after hour, day after day, can I keep my fat fingers off their world?’

‘See what I mean?’ she says, ‘You’re convinced the ride can’t work without micromanaging every damn inch of it.’

‘Point taken.’

Her voice softens slightly. ‘So your solution is start micromanaging my hotel instead?’

‘We’ve got a problem, don’t we?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have a solution. Ever heard of Mae West?’

She shakes her head.

‘A Hollywood movie star, a zillion years ago. Loved bright lights, knew how to party. She says, ‘Too much of a good thing can be wonderful.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Three years ago I was out of work and out of hope. Today I know how James Cameron must have felt when he waved that Oscar at the crowd.’

‘Your point, please, I’ve got a lot of work to do.’

I take her hands in mine. ‘Instead of revving our engines and sniping at each other, let’s put our cars in gear and start talking about how much fun it’s going to be sinking our next
Titanic
in a REAL desert.’

She brightens. ‘Dubai?’

‘And after that, Cape Town.’

She grinned. ‘‘Make it so.’

The fun starts the day before
The
Maiden Voyage
, when the first batch of celebrity guests blow into town in their biz jets, now parked on the tarmac at McCarran.

No stretch limos, low-slung to the ground, parading into the city. No sir. Our VIPs travel like Middle East dictators in shiny black GMC
Suburbans
with tinted windows and tires squished down from the weight of bullet-proof armor, and the muscled bodies of their Delta Force-sized body guards.

I barely recognize Bruce Willis when he and his family disembark from their slab-sided, four-wheeled tank. But that’s what it’s like when you meet up with a celebrity in three dimensions. On the screen they only show you two, while you provide the third with your feverish imaginings. Seeing them in person can throw you into a fourth dimension, out from which it’s not easy to escape, especially when you encounter the pull of celebrity-gravity that can yank you toward them before you know what’s happening.

‘Mr. Willis, such a pleasure,’ Clive Richardson says in his buttery Brit voice, his morning suit a symphony of sartorial perfection. ‘So pleased your family could attend as well.’

Willis delivers his signature pursed-lip smile and I am instantly transported into memories of all his movies. Good thing Clive is on the clock, because I am succumbing to severe ga-ga and want to go over and start talking with Bruce like we’re drinking buddies.

‘Suppose I could get his autograph?’ I say to Joe who stands with me, off to the side of the main entrance where we can observe the dazzling action.

‘You serious?’

‘Used to collect them as a kid.’

‘
Paisan
, if we pull off this crazy ride of yours, that guy’s going to be asking for yours instead.’

We have the perfect view of all the arriving celebrities, including Celine Dion, who actually lives in Vegas, but we’ve convinced her to stay at the hotel for the two-day gig. I say ‘we’ but it was my father-in-law who pitched her.

Every movie cliché you can imagine came true when he did so, a week earlier, starting with our flashy backstage passes for
Caesar’s,
where Celine just finished her evening show. We steeled ourselves to run the gauntlet of suspicious over-muscled, shaved headed security guards to reach her. But they turned into tame pussy cats when they spotted the color-coded passes around our necks, especially the last bodyguard, big as an ox, standing outside her dressing room door, who said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, ‘Miss Dion is waiting for you, gentlemen.’

He knocked on the door.

A delicate-sounding voice said, ‘Show them in, Cubby.’

(Cubby. This guy’s an ox!)

The door opens to a vision of Celine turning from her dressing room mirror, a huge smile on her face and cold cream drooling down her cheeks. No longer the drop-dead glamorous diva who brought the house down, now she’s just a person. Even so my celebrity-ga-ga goes into hyper drive. She ignores me and rushes over to Joe.

‘My friend, it’s been too long.’

‘Cee-cee,’ he says and they cheek-kiss, a maneuver which transfers a portion of the cold-cream from her face to his.

‘Sorry,
cheri
.’ She tries to wipe his face clean with a tissue, but Joe laughs and does it himself.

Star-struck, I mumble, ‘Such a pleasure to meet you.’

Joe says, ‘Celine, this is Mike Sullivan, who after he stops staring at you like a deer in the headlights, wants your autograph before we leave.’

‘
Certainment.
’ A cool hand shake and small smile. Her French-Canadian accent delicately tinges her words. ‘So, you are the daredevil driver on the boulevard that everyone talked about for days and days. Such a sight, that enormous piece of steel moving down the highway out of control.’

‘Not really. We just made it look that way.’

A raised eyebrow. ‘You knew it would be all right?’

‘Sort of gambled it would.’

The eyebrow lowers. ‘Don’t we all?’ She turns back to Joe and the warmth of her smile makes me envy their friendship. ‘Before you ask, I want you to know that while I adore you, whatever it is you want, my answer must be no.’