Ride the Titanic! (9 page)

‘Forget cute. This is the real, gut-grabbing thing. We need actors.’

I explain how we’ll film them in a series of iconic scenes representing the
Titanic
disaster. And do so on a green-screen capture stage at seventy-six frames-a-second. Action captured at that high rate of speed will make the actors appear so real that our riders will want to reach and touch them. We’ll integrate these scenes into the pre-existing three-dimensional tableaus by projecting them onto custom-designed, high luminosity screens. Done and done. Illusion complete and ride totally safe – for everybody.

When I finish explaining, Joe says, ‘Why not go CGI all the way? Dump the warm bodies and go capture-only, like Cameron did with
Avatar
.’

‘I’m not James Cameron.’

‘No kidding.’

‘And no aliens on the
Titanic.
Human beings like you and me.’ I punch his arm playfully. ‘You ARE human, aren’t you?’

‘Watch me throw up.’

‘The sea’s calm.’

‘Look again.’

He’s right; the glass-smooth surface has given way to long rolling swells. The wind’s picking up too, sending clouds scudding across what, minutes ago was a perfectly clear, late afternoon sky. To the southeast a bank of ominous clouds rises up on its haunches, waiting for us.

I try to make light. ‘How’s that saying go? Red sky in morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’

‘This is the afternoon, and I’m going to puke.’

The LCT slithers into the bottom of a swell, rises, and falls again. Joe jumps to his feet and makes his way to the side of the craft, grabs onto its bright yellow side, head down, shoulders heaving.

Taking orders from Bo Jackson, the rest of us spend the next half-hour rigging blue tarps over the cargo before taking shelter beneath one stretched over steel ribbing like an enormous umbrella, just seconds before the first raindrops start pelting down.

‘Rig for depth charges, folks,’ Bo says.

Within seconds the raindrops becomes sheets of water that whip across the open deck and pound on our tarp like a furious drum.

One of the actors shouts, ‘Some wedding reception, huh?’

The others laugh and clap, and begin singing. This time I know the words to the song and join in. Why the hell not? So does Joe who, distracted by the frantic activity to gain shelter from the storm, miraculously escapes from the clutches of his nausea.

Bo shouts from inside the small enclosed bridge. ‘Squall’s bad but won’t last long. Radar shows clearing to the east.’

Darkness arrives early because of the storm, and by my reckoning it takes us ten songs and the contents of two bottles of scotch passed around from singer to singer before the worst of it passes to the southwest like Bo predicted, leaving us once again sailing beneath clear skies and the stars as our guide.

Concerned for her sets and film gear, Ellie is the first to leave the shelter. After I’m sure Joe still has his sea legs, he and I do the same. Thanks to the scotch in his system, and with what remains in the bottle he clambers on top of the crate containing our ship model, takes up permanent residence, and within seconds falls sound asleep.

Ellie watches in silence, then whispers. ‘Mind telling me what’s really in the big box?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I did.’

She smiles that smile. ‘Try.’

I get weak in the knees. It’s in my DNA; I can’t resist a pretty woman and I start blabbing while she listens, eyes wide, mouth slightly open in happy amazement as she follows every twist and turn, not only of my ride, but of the
White Star Grand Hotel
iceberg-casino complex, that will make it a completely wonderful affair, fit for the madness of Vegas.

When I finish she claps her hands quietly. ‘Bravo. . .just amazing. What a hell of an idea!’

‘Keep it under your hat. It’s still in the concept stage.’

‘Your secret’s safe.’

She sticks out her hand and we shake on it, and as we do, her face shifts from gorgeous to strictly-business.

‘When do you start green-screen?’

I laugh. ‘That’s still over the event horizon. We need to get start-up backing first.’

‘How much?’

I tell her and she doesn’t flinch. Instead she frowns. ‘Been nice if daddy could have helped you out, but he’s got all his play money tied up in fracking at the moment.’

‘I wouldn’t call millions of dollars play money.’

‘That’s because you’re not Daddy. But anyhow, it’s moot. Heck, I just wish you’d come up with this idea a year earlier. He was burning money back then – look, do me a favor, pretty please?’

Again that dazzling smile as she slips me her business card.

In the dim light of the moon I can just make it out.

Eleanor Whitney
Port Players

Founding Director

‘Cut us in on the action if you can, okay? When green screen time comes around, remember that we work cheap, we work fast, and we’re damned good too. Especially the director. I guarantee it.’

I tuck her card away in my shirt pocket and get an idea. ‘So, what are you doing tomorrow night?’

She stiffens. ‘Reminding you of that wedding band you’re wearing.’

‘I’m happily married. I just want to know if you can help us pitch our backer.’

‘As what?’

‘Our dramatic effects director.’

‘But that’s not what I do.’

‘You direct actors, right? That’s what you’ll do if our ride gets off the ground.’

‘But I don’t know the first thing about green-screen.’

‘God invented geeks like me to explain technical stuff to artists like you. What He didn’t invent are people who know how to get great performances out of actors. Based on what I’ve seen so far, my guess is that you’re one of them.’

She tips her head to one side, contemplating my offer. ‘You’re serious?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you hardly know me.’

‘True, but I also know if there’s anyone who gets things done in the entertainment business, it’s a beautiful woman with brains, who uses both assets to get what she wants and needs.’

She grins. ‘So you noticed, after all.’

‘Hard not to.’

She sighs. ‘I’d love to take you up on the offer, but we’re going straight into production the instant we land in Freeport. First shot is set for dawn tomorrow. And it’s go, go, go, from then on. My actors and crew are doing me a big favor by keeping to our impossible schedule.’

She puts her hand on my arm. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I want to be involved with this project. I really do, it’s just that. . .’

‘You’ve got your own dream to dream.’

‘Exactly. But when it’s over, do you think? I mean. . .’ she trails off, then suddenly brightens ‘Look, let me talk to Daddy about what you’re trying to do. Maybe there’s some wiggle room in his wallet to invest in your ride.’

‘Is that a bribe?’

She smiles demurely and says in her Marilyn Monroe whisper, ‘Like you said, I know how to use my brains and my brawn.’

‘How can I resist?’

She taps my wedding ring. ‘Try.’

True to his word, Robin Wright is waiting for us when we dock in Freeport around ten o’clock that night. The storm that struck us swept through here earlier and refreshed the humid air with a steady breeze that ruffles the palm trees and Ellie’s blonde hair as she hustles her
Port Players
to unload the sets and film gear.

Amidst the hustle and bustle and goodbyes all around, Robbie tears his eyes away from Ellie’s curvaceous body long enough to direct a gang of burly men to wrestle our cargo into a waiting panel truck. When I start to climb inside, he steers me toward a waiting limousine.

‘Your chariot awaits, sir.’

‘But we need to set up our stuff up tonight.’

‘All in due time.’

‘This a Rolls?’

‘Hop in and find out.’

Joe and I settle into the butter-smooth leather seats. The aroma the car gives off is pure posh. I rub the seat to make sure it isn’t a dream. As the uniformed chauffeur drives off, Robbie jams his hands behind his head and stretches his long legs out to their fullest.

I say, ‘The yacht-design business agrees with you.’

‘This, you mean? Belongs to Xia. I’m just visiting her world. So are you.’

He leans forward and opens the exotic wood-paneled liquor cabinet to reveal the caramel-gold glow of whiskey bottles.

‘Care for a taste? How about you, Mr. Corelli?’

‘Bottoms up,’ Joe says.

‘Her Rolls came over on the yacht yesterday.’

‘She’s already here?’

‘No, just the yacht, and the Rolls they keep in the hold, plus the chopper on the helipad, and a twenty-person crew. Xia jets in tomorrow morning, signs off on her undersea baby – I hope – and then listens to your pitch for a half-hour before flying off to points unknown.’

‘Only half an hour? Not anymore?’

‘Look, she had you slotted for ten minutes. Be grateful.’

‘I don’t mean to be greedy. But. . . .’

‘Not another word. It’s the least I could do for the chance to help you build such a madcap ship in the desert.’

‘
If
we get the backing.’

‘That, my friend, is up to you. My job is to get my client to stand still long enough to hear you out.’

‘But if she flies off tomorrow, what happens to her car and yacht?’

‘They follow like puppies on the off-chance she wants to spend a night or two on board scratching their ears. Word is, she hasn’t set foot on that boat for over a year. Then again, private yacht crews are pampered gossips. One never knows the truth.’

The Rolls glides past the small hotel I reserved and I lean forward to advise the driver. Robbie waves me back. ‘Cancelled your reservations. You’re staying at my digs.’

Robbie’s ‘digs’ turn out to be the
Freeport Grand Hotel
, a five star antebellum-style mansion-hotel complex set back from the city’s hustle and bustle in a heavily-landscaped paradise, with a gently curving driveway lined with palm trees that greet arriving guests with feathery arms.

Joe says, ‘Yacht business pay pretty good?’

Robbie sighs. ‘It’s a living, Mr. Corelli. That’s all.’

‘Forget the mister stuff. Call me Joe.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘And forget the ‘sir’ stuff. I was enlisted.’

Our Rolls pulls up to the entrance, where a swarm of porters is already busy unloading our presentation materials from the van.

‘Home sweet home,’ Robbie says. ‘Yours too, for the night.’

I start to protest.

‘Not to worry. Your rooms are on Xia’s tab as a personal favor to me. He winks. ‘We’re very good friends, shall we say.’

I mumble my thanks.

‘Don’t thank me. Her family owns the joint.’

‘I thought they only had properties in Asia markets.’

He scoots me out of the Rolls. ‘If they did, you wouldn’t be having your little one-act play tomorrow morning at 11:45 in – let me double-check. . .’ He pulls out a slip of paper, scans it then continues, ‘In the Conch Room. I’ll show you where it is. Plenty of space there for your setup. Follow me, gentlemen!’

We trail our porter entourage into the luxurious lobby where a hush falls over the other guests at the sight of our casual attire of sneakers and T-shirts in a world where white linen suits and Panama hats prevail.

Robbie waves in the direction of the front desk. ‘Evening, Carlson.’

The tuxedo-wearing manager nods stiffly in response and says in a clipped British accent, ‘Ah, Mr. Wright, you’ve arrived with your guests I see.’

‘Conch Room ready?’

A slim gold pocket watch appears in his hand like a conjurer’s trick. He consults the delicate filigreed hour and minute hands. ‘Indeed it is. You may proceed.’

The faraway crash of opening doors makes him wince. ‘Do be careful setting up, won’t you? We’ve a board of governors meeting in there tomorrow evening.’

‘We’ll be out of your hair long before that.’ Robbie turns to me. ‘Won’t we, Sir Michael?’

I manage what I hope is a confident grin. ‘Won’t even know we were there.’

Carlson’s placid demeanor remains intact save for a tiny nervous twitch of his lips at the sound of my title. ‘Sir Michael, please forgive me for not welcoming you to the Freeport, which I do so now. And Mr. Corelli, you as well, sir.’

‘Nice digs you got here,’ Joe says breezily.

Carlson nods his stiff thanks, beaten but not vanquished.

We walk down the thickly-carpeted hallway past massive, gilt-framed oil paintings of landscapes, and tall flower-filled vases balanced on antique tables.

Robbie says, ‘Can’t blame Carlson for being nervous. What with the owner arriving tomorrow, and your being a knight of the round table and all.’

‘Xia owns it? Thought you said her family does.’

‘It’s the same thing when it comes to the Chinese. Their whole country is one big powerful family.’

Joe grunts. ‘Italians are the same way.
La famiglia e tutto
. Family is everything.’

‘Except you folks know how to mix business with pleasure. The Chinese haven’t figured that out yet.’

‘Oil and water, you mean?’ Joe says.

‘Nitro and glycerin is more like it.’

I can’t stop yawning as we unpack the presentation materials, hook up the computers, calibrate the video projector, and uncrate the ship model and set it in its simulated ‘water.’ Then we turn our attention to the
White Star Grand Hotel
, which Scooter cleverly designed as a two-dimensional fold-out foam core unit about four-feet high by six-feet wide. Some of the interlocking tabs give us fits, but by 11:30pm, we have the ship model and iceberg in place.