Scatter the Stars, page 29
Ten days before, she’d flown from New York to Los Angeles for a meeting with Biff and a sour-faced studio executive who had brandished Randy’s contract at her. ‘Where the fuck is he? He has a deal here. Seven pictures. Voyage to Paradise made him a star and he walks away from it. He owes us. If he doesn’t get his ass into a studio and in front of a camera, he’s dead meat in the movie business. Capisce?’
‘Sure, sure. Keep your hair on, soldier,’ snapped Ariel, realising as she said it that the man was wearing a toupee. ‘The guy has suffered a tragedy, you can’t expect him to be leaping around like a gay young blade. And just what picture did you have in mind? He has to be careful about what role he does next.’
The man blew out his cheeks in a farting noise. ‘Crap. Audiences just want to see his body, see him flirt with a dame, win a fight or two, dash about a bit and get the broad. End of story.’
‘Biff . . . what did you have in mind?’ Ariel appealed calmly to the director.
‘I have a great script for him. Tailor made. We’ll be starting pre-production in about three months’ time. But the studio wants him back here ready to start shooting another movie in three weeks. Okay?’
‘And he’d better be here. We’re lending him to Seigelmann to star in For Richer or Poorer.’
‘The Robin Hood remake?’ asked Ariel. She’d heard about the problems with the script. Sherwood Forest had been relocated to the Hudson River and the streets of New York City in the 1920s where a mysterious vagabond, dressed as Robin Hood, had pulled off spectacular raids in the face of Mafia standover men and the cops of the seventeenth precinct. ‘It sounds kinda dumb. I don’t know that I want Randy in that.’
‘He’s got that English accent and he looks good in tights. You and he got no say, kid. He just does . . . okay? And if he does okay, maybe you can look at the next script. If he’s any good. Sort it out, Biff.’
They were dismissed. Ariel stomped out of the plush suite.
‘I tell you, Biff, he thinks he’s such a shtarker. He deserves bobkes, or as Randy would say, bugger-all.’
‘He holds the paper, Ariel, on which is writ – Randy plays, they pay. Even if some of them are, as you say, dumb. He knows he’ll clean up if Voyage to Paradise is any indication of Randy’s pulling power. Where is he anyway? Can you get him back here smartish?’
‘He’s bobbing round the Pacific Ocean on that damn boat of his. He periodically checks in with some business guy in the capital, Port More Of, or whatever it is.’
Biff grinned. ‘Moresby. Well, let’s cable him again.’
They’d resumed strategy talks by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel some days later.
‘Well, at least we know where he is,’ said Biff. ‘Contacting him will be a trick.’
‘Who’s ever heard of Thursday Island? Why would he go there?’
‘The best anchorage between New Guinea and Australia,’ answered Biff. ‘I’ve checked it out. There are twenty islands in the group sprinkled between the tip of Australia and Papua New Guinea. You fly into Cairns in northern Queensland, then up to Horn Island where a lot of our guys were stationed in the war, then hop over to Thursday. That’s where the Sorcerer will be for sure. Apparently the islands are really lovely. Big on pearls.’
‘Excuse me, do I understand you think I’m going over there?’ Ariel burst out laughing. ‘Sweetheart, I want to get my man, but I ain’t no mountie.’
‘You think a cable will bring him back?’
‘He’s got to need money soon. What if he’s sailed off into the wild blue yonder again?’ Ariel didn’t like the drift of Biff’s conversation. Travel to Ariel meant moving around the continental USA with the occasional excursion on a cruise ship to the Caribbean.
‘Ariel, you’re one of the few people he’ll listen to. You are his agent, after all. If anyone can get him back to the real world, you can.’
‘Listen bubele, much as I love you . . . I can’t see me landing on some dot in the middle of nowhere on the off chance I can find my client.’
Biff grinned at Ariel. ‘I can’t see it either but, hot damn, I wish I could be there!’
So here she was, sitting uncomfortably in this small boat – oh, God, what if she got seasick? – surrounded by bags of mail and supplies. A small island, with two bare headlands with rocks down to the water and a wharf jutting into the sea, loomed into view.
Ariel quickly surmised that taxis were not a ready amenity at the Thursday Island wharf so she shared a ride into town with a relief officer from the Overseas Telegraph Communications office, who recommended she stay at the old Federal Hotel on Victoria Parade.
As they drove over the rutted surface of the street, Ariel wondered why better roads hadn’t been constructed during the war. She had to admit that downtown Thursday Island, if one could call the casual conglomeration of buildings in Douglas Street by such a grand name, was picturesque. The wide street was framed by large shady trees, one her companions pointed out as the wongai. ‘They say if you eat the fruit of the wongai, you will always come back here.’
Ariel gave a tight smile and fanned herself. ‘I might give that a miss.’ Thursday Island, a speck one square mile in area, surrounded by the Prince of Wales, Hammond, Horn, Friday and Goode islands in the Torres Strait, was not where she planned to spend any significant part of her life.
But when they turned into Victoria Parade parallel to the waterfront, the view lifted her assessment slightly. Several pearling luggers were unloading pearl shell. The scene looked like a carefully designed Hollywood film set. The luggers reminded her of the object of this mission to the end of the world, as she’d described it to Biff.
‘Where would I find two guys around here in a sailboat called the Sorcerer?’ she asked.
‘Any cove off any beach off any of the islands,’ he answered helpfully. ‘You could start by asking down at the docks. They’ll know who’s been in, who’s sailed, and probably have a good idea of who’s coming.’
‘I’m hoping he’s still here,’ said Ariel, scanning the activity around the waterfront.
The OTC man gave her a sidelong look. ‘Your bloke run away to sea?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ she answered.
‘Here’s the Federal.’ He stopped the car and gestured out the window. ‘Bit of a landmark. Tom McNulty, an ex-Queensland copper, started the original back in the 1890s. Had it shipped over in bits. It was called the Thursday Island Hotel then, and later Tattersall’s. When it burned down, he built this one. You should look up his daughter, Maggie, she’s still around. Boy, can she tell you stories of this place. Lots of famous people have tarried here to escape the world.’ He helped Ariel take her bag from the car and left her outside the romantic old two-storey hotel. ‘Good luck with finding your bloke.’
She picked up her bag. No wonder Randy liked this place. It was like a scene from Casablanca.
She lay under the fan on her bed and waited till the cool of the evening before setting out to explore the town. Thanks to the islanders’ love of gossip, it took her less than an hour to find Randy and Mac. They were in a waterfront bar called the Shambles. Which is what it was. And so was Randy.
He was unshaven, his clothes dirty, and he was well into his cups. Mac, also looking the worse for wear, was beside him. His sailor’s hat cocked to one side of his head, he was pouring a glass of beer down the neck of a strange-looking bird sitting between them on the bar.
‘Come on, drink up, my feathered friend, we got money riding on you.’
Randy raised an arm. ‘Last bets, that this here bloody magnificent hornbill won’t knock back a pint in under three minutes!’
‘I’ll put a hotspot on that.’ Ariel slapped her hand on the bar.
‘Jesus Christ, here’s a looker,’ cried Mac. ‘What’re ya drinking, luv?’
Randy blinked and did an exaggerated double take. ‘Struth. It’s the boss. We’re caught out now, Mac. How much are you betting, Ariel?’ He turned his attention back to the swaying bird.
‘That if that bird falls over, you get on the next plane, boat, canoe, whatever, outta here, back to LA.’ Ariel reached into her handbag and threw a handful of dollar bills on the bar.
‘That’s not the bet. We’re not betting on going anywhere, just drinking. This is a drinking bird. What are you doing here, anyway?’
‘What do you think? You come back with me and start your life again or I walk away without you and you can sink into the Pacific never to be seen or heard of again. Where’re you putting your money, Mac?’
‘This bird can knock back the beer. But I reckon he’s done his dash. My money’s with you, luv.’
‘Turncoat,’ snapped Randy. He picked up the glass of beer and held it to the bird. ‘Head back, sport, down the hatch.’ But the bird’s head wavered. It opened its beak to drink but its eyes glazed and its feet, curled over the brass bar rail, loosened their grip. It toppled in a heap to the floor, its huge coloured bill and tail splayed out amid the spilled beer and sawdust.
The crowd stared silently at the drunken bird. A man next to Ariel let out a rude noise and rubbed his nose. ‘You mob are crooks. I don’t believe that bird does anything. Give us me money back. All bets are off.’
Ariel drew herself up. ‘Listen, buddy, the bird is stonkered. You want he should sing too?’
The crowd roared with laughter and went back to their drinks.
‘Ah, shit, Beefcake, you let me down.’ Randy picked up the woozy bird and stuffed him inside his shirt where the bird settled down to sleep it off. Randy shook a finger at Ariel. ‘The bird was pissed before we started. He was handicapped.’
‘Told you he’d had enough,’ said Mac.
‘You two. You’ve had enough,’ declared Ariel. ‘Where is the food in this place? Let’s eat.’
‘Good idea,’ said Mac. ‘Let’s go.’ He straightened his hat but was very unsteady on his feet.
Randy linked his arm through hers, his other holding Mac upright, and left the bar. Making their way along the footpath, he leaned his head on her shoulder. ‘Shit, Ariel, did you come all this way just to see me? You’re a good friend. The best. I love you, Ariel.’
She couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’re bloody hopeless, Randy. Tell a girl you love her and she melts. Even if you’re drunk and smelly.’
‘I’m not drunk and smelly! Am I? Am I, Mac?’
‘Can’t smell a thing,’ he admitted.
‘So are you melting, Ariel? Mmm?’ Randy nuzzled her ear, missing a step.
She grabbed him more firmly. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you two. Where are you staying?’
‘Our home sweet home. Where we always stay. On our loyal lady, the mistress Sorcerer.’
‘I’m not climbing on another boat. Done that today, thanks.’
They walked another block and turned into the Federal. ‘Hey, Maggie’s joint! Let’s find old Maggie,’ cried Mac.
They sat in a far corner of the dining room and Ariel ordered the evening’s special of soup and baked fish all round. Then she changed her mind in case one of them choked on a fishbone and made it an omelette and french fries.
‘You mean chips, luv. Give us a big plate of chips. And tomato sauce,’ called Randy to the waitress.
They got through half a bottle of rum with the meal and as they headed for the bar for a nightcap, she left them and took the man at the desk aside. ‘When those two reprobates in there keel over, put them in a room here. Don’t let them out of the hotel. Put it on my tab.’
They were gone when she came down to breakfast though they’d left a note for her at reception. She ate her breakfast slowly. Something told her, despite the fog around Randy’s brain last night, the reason she’d come all this way had sunk in. But she wasn’t sure how Mac might react to her dragging him away. He must miss Talia dreadfully.
She was struggling through the second cup of tea when Randy appeared at her table. He’d made an attempt to tidy himself. He’d shaved, his clothes appeared clean, if crushed, but he was bleary eyed. ‘G’day. This is a sight to be remembered. New York’s finest with her finger on the pulse of the nation, taking toast and – is it tea? – in the social capital of the Torres Strait.’
‘I won’t forget this either. Sit down and have some of this stuff. At least it’s hot and wet. Ugh.’ She pushed the teapot towards him ‘So. What do you remember about last night?’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘Not a lot. I wanted to make sure you were really here and I hadn’t been hallucinating.’
‘How’s the poor damned bird?’
Randy grinned. ‘Beefcake never gets hangovers. Wish I could figure out what’s in his system. Make myself a fortune.’
‘Speaking of making fortunes,’ Ariel bit into her toast, ‘there’s a smallish fortune waiting for you back in the good ole US of A.’
‘But I have to stay there and make some crappy film.’
‘It doesn’t have to be crappy. It’s what you make of it. You can rise above anything, then you get to write your own ticket.’
‘I don’t know that I want that any more.’ Randy rubbed his eyes.
‘What do you want? Seems to me this is all a bit aimless. I thought you guys were running a plantation.’
‘We haven’t been able to face it, without . . . Talia.’ He had difficulty saying her name, and a look of pain flashed across his face.
‘You’re going to have to face it eventually, Randy. Everywhere you go. You can’t keep sailing away from your hurt.’
‘The place where we lived has a lot of reminders. That hurts.’
‘Then leave it for a bit,’ Ariel quickly countered. ‘Have a break, make some money, have a bit of fun. Movie making isn’t total drudgery. And may I gently remind you that you have a contract.’
‘Yeah. What happens if I walk away from that? It’s hard to think of leaving Mac on his own.’
‘Five Star Pictures sues your ass off. And you kiss goodbye to working in the movies again. And that means goodbye to boat and plantation – everything.’
‘That bad, huh?’
‘You don’t know how spiteful and vindictive they can be. It’ll stuff Biff’s career too. He put a lot on the line for you. Five Star figured they’d found a hot one in you. And they’re right. Don’t toss it away, Randy.’
He ran his hands through his hair. Even in this state he oozed sex appeal. Ariel could see millions of women longing to soothe his furrowed brow, smooth his hair, stroke the worry lines from his eyes. The looks, charisma and vulnerability of the man bowled you over, and it was magnified on the screen. ‘Randy, you gotta do this,’ she pleaded, and reached across to take his hand in hers.
‘But Mac . . .’
‘Listen, you leave Mac to me. He’ll tell me, honest John, what he thinks, what he wants. How do you know? He’s trying to do the right thing by you. Leave him to me.’ Ariel tried to sound mellow and reassuring but in her head she was scheming and she knew she could twist Mac’s arm if she had to. She had a few emotional blackmail cards in the deck she could throw at the old boy if necessary. She liked Mac, but he couldn’t stand in the way of Randy’s future. In the long run, it would help Mac. Somehow.
Mac was accommodating. He and Ariel sat on crates on the dock watching Randy fuss with the sails on the Sorcerer. ‘I don’t want to see him throw his life away. He’s a young bloke. All right for an old codger like me to paddle round the seas. Course we did have big plans, before . . . well. Things are different now. I can keep the place running along. Might venture into some other schemes eventually. I think he should choof off and make those films. He needs the cash. Paradis certainly needs it.’
‘He can come back between movies. It’ll give him a sense of stability knowing it’s there for him,’ agreed Ariel.
‘I don’t want him thinking he’s gotta stay for me. I can manage on my own.’
The old man’s resoluteness barely hid the anguish and loneliness he was feeling. Ariel knew he’d miss Randy desperately.
‘Mac. You can come to America. Cheer him up no end. Be a break for you. Promise me you’ll do that.’
The old man brightened. ‘Yeah. That’d be good. Try and keep him out of mischief a bit.’
‘Well, from what I’ve seen of you two together, I don’t know who leads who astray.’ Ariel gave a smile and touched his arm. ‘I know you miss Talia, and Randy does too. But life has to go on, Mac. Send him on his way.’
‘He’ll be there. I’ll see to it, luv. And you keep an eye on him when I’m not around.’
‘That’s my job. But more than that. He’s my buddy. I’ll always look out for him.’
Randy was subdued as the flight headed into Los Angeles. He peered at the yellowish fumes swirling around the massed buildings and roads. Jesus, what was he doing? Why wasn’t he at sea with a blue sky, Mac humming and the sails set fair?
Sensing his feelings Ariel took his hand. ‘This is a new beginning, Randy. Forward and upward.’
He didn’t want to return to the memories of the Garden of Allah so Biff arranged a bungalow at the Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard. A party was arranged at Ciro’s to announce Randy’s next film – For Richer or Poorer. Randy had glanced at the script and thrown it across the room. ‘Ariel,’ he shouted at the top of his voice, ‘robbing the rich to help the poor, okay. But why does he have to wear a disguise? Green tights, for chrissake!’
‘C’mon, figure it out. It’s a ballsy part!’ She laughed. ‘It could be kinda funny. They think it’s deadly, you could make it a spoof.’
‘Take the piss out of the character, you mean? Make him so the cops, the heavies, the local people all think he’s outrageous, and cheer him on. God, you could have him swinging from ropes between buildings! Did Robin Hood swing on vines between the trees of Sherwood Forest?’
‘I think you’re thinking of Tarzan,’ said Ariel dryly. ‘But you’ve got the spirit of the guy. He’s a bad guy who becomes a hero ‘cause his motives are good, but he carries out his deed with dashing derring-do. There’s your motto.’
‘So that’s my modus operandi for this one. If the tights fit . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Who’s the leading lady?’
