Free Ride the Titanic! by Paul Lally Page B

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.