Chapter 21

Harrison sat in a darkened screening room.  The images of celebrities, scholars and students passed before him in rapid succession.  “Can’t you click that thing faster, Mara?  I’ve found two maybe three that might interest Ari, but these faces are about as exciting as snow in Alaska.  Does Pasolini really get off on these people?  Look at them.  Even surrounded by the Mediterranean, these people look bored.  Don’t they get drunk?  Drugs?  Something?

Mara, who was head of the Profile’s public relations department sighed, lifted the circular tray and placed a new one on the projector.  “You’re trying to find faces and behavior that’ll sell magazines, Harrison.  Umberto only cares about brains.  This was a party two years ago on Mykonos.  Like always, same group with a few odd guests thrown in.  This one got some royalty from Denmark and Sweden involved.”

  Harrison watched quietly for a few minutes, then sighed and rose to leave.  “The Greek Isles and nothing but the same… champagne, civilized.  Dancing, civilized.  Even the gays, civilized.  Find me three more on the Baja guest list, and make sure they’re a little messed up.  I’ve got to give him something to work with in case Umberto turns into a dud, Okay?”

Harrison made his way back to his office with less than optimism.  He had succeeded in finagling a way for Ari to get into the party, but he hadn’t told him he must go yet.  That would be the hard part, especially without some exciting personalities to put in front of his lens.  It would be so much easier if he wasn’t so obsessed with Samantha, he thought. 

His mind continued to wander, think, and guess.  To his mind, the collages Ari had sent were less about selling magazines than those he had hanging on his walls.  He had studied them carefully, pondered, even got wasted one night in an effort to see Ari’s perspective, but Ari’s take on Samantha was a take only he understood… so far.  It wasn’t that Harrison had not tried. 

The first submission of Samantha’s facial expressions mixed with that of animals from the jungles of Borneo didn’t connect.  Harrison had even shown them around to a few trusted employees who gazed like himself and shrugged.  “We are, after all, a glossy smut magazine.  Our readers would declare mutiny,” one had commented.  Another reminded Harrison that his fair-haired boy was trying to be too personal. 

The picture he had sent next showing Samantha being reborn over and over again inside a surrealistic New York landscape struck Harrison as too esoteric, even though it was more easily understood. 

It was the third uplink, however, that gave him real concern.  Ari had created a futuristic robotic dragon template.  Projecting through the layers of fire coming from its mouth were stretched and mutated images of Samantha.  Beneath the imposing dragon fire was a New York skyline.  Beneath that, the coastline of Los Angeles.  It wasn’t a pretty impression of this theatre icon that was revered like a saint all over the world. 

Obviously, Ari saw her different and it was causing the decision-making process to turn into a stalemate.  That wasn’t the kind of game Harrison needed right now.  Ari was the best eye he had… the best eye he had ever seen.  He wanted to believe Ari would come through.  He wanted to believe that completely because he was putting himself, the magazine, everything on the line.  All because he had wept one-night staring at one of the Samantha collages he bought from Ari. 

Harrison needed to clear his head.   He stopped at his built-in bar, opened it, selected southern Comfort and poured a healthy shot.  I don’t even know why it brought tears, he thought as he drank.  Why the hell did the bitch make me bawl? He closed his eyes and saw every detail of the piece that had made him a believer in Ari.  It was unassuming enough, a billboard-look showing the torn and weathered remnants of old posters that had once faced a sidewalk construction fence.  Amidst the overlay of political propaganda, rock and classical concert posters, even a rare Billy Graham – “God and you” poster were the images of Samantha Turner in her most famous Broadway and film roles.  You had to look for them, but Ari made the puzzle inviting.  He had placed an eye here, a hairdo there, mouths that had uttered some of the most memorable lines in recent acting history as well as costume pieces.  For fans of Samantha, even the smallest glimpse of a role would be identifiable.  Harrison was a fan.  Harrison wept remembering the evenings in the theatre or cinema when he had witnessed the full performances.  Perhaps it was the way this piece brought him to tears that frightened him so much.  If it moved millions of readers like himself, he was home free.  If it didn’t, it would become the magazine’s biggest embarrassment and most likely its last.  As he finished his drink, he wondered if taking Ari away from Samantha and making him work the party was the right move.  Would Ari get pissed and quit?  Just the thought of it kept his throat dry.

He finished the glass, poured another, drank it and then… it hit him.  He smiled and snapped his fingers. “Yes,” he said out loud.  “Of course.  What are friends for?” He had stumbled onto the only answer, the only insurance policy that made sense.  He picked up his phone and dialed the screening room.  Marla hadn’t come up with any sure bets and so it was with much relief that she listened to his idea.

***

With the precision and authority of a drill instructor, Shauna moved quickly along the straight line of waiters and waitresses standing at attention. She inspected their general appearance including white starched shirts, paisley kerchiefs tied around their head pirate style, finger nails, shoes, and most important… “No garlic from now until the party is over.  Is that clear?” she bellowed, sounding very much unlike the sophisticated lady that ran Pasolini’s social calendar.

“Yes, Ma’am,” came the syncopated chorus-like response. 

Maggie, the Profile plant among the waitresses shared her relief in a muttering to herself.  “Thank God.”

Shauna, overhearing the comment, turned and stepped up to Maggie.  “Beg your pardon.  Did you say something?”

Maggie, embarrassed, smiled and in her best Spanish accent replied, “I just said thank God because if you don’t tell us, we stink like peasants and don’t even know it.  Guests don’t like peasant breath, right?  Very good you tell us.  Very good.  Yes.  Good.”

Maggie realizing she probably got carried away with herself, bit her tongue as Shauna gave her the once over, carefully scrutinizing every detail of her grooming and clothing.  “You’re new from the agency, correct?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Thought so.”  She finished her take on Maggie with a close look at her nails.  “Beautiful nails, but a bit on the long side.  You might spill something, you know?”

“They can be cut… removed, anyway you want it, Miss Waring.”

  Too many Stanislavsky classes had driven Maggie to consume two cloves of garlic for her important role.  Shauna stepped back with a grimace. “Just a little trim will do fine.  And you’re right about the peasant breath.  Very right.”

“Right,” smiled Maggie nervously, fearful she was over the top and about to get fired.

At not a moment too soon, an aid stepped up to Shauna and informed her of a phone call holding.  She excused herself and dismissed the catering group.

As she picked up the phone and heard the secretary ask that she hold for Edward Klowsky, she smiled and reminded herself of the recent past.  Klowsky was not a regular on the Pasolini guest list, but the removing of the Senator’s speech from the Network Special had endeared him to Shauna’s heart.  A simple reminder of the concession to Umberto had been enough for him to be all smiles at her suggestion that it would be appropriate to include Mr. Klowsky on this particular party roster.  This was probably a call to thank her and she waited patiently, flattered at the opportunity to speak to the CEO of the largest broadcasting network in the world.

“Miss Waring?”

“Yes, Mr. Klowsky.  What can I do for you?”

“Well, first off, my thanks for your kind invitation.”

“Well, it’s long overdue, Mr. Klowsky.”

“You’re very kind.  The real reason for my call is to ask a small favor.”

“I’m sure we can accommodate a small favor.  Umberto is very grateful for your relieving him of the embarrassing situation involving the Senator.”

“Yes, well, it has to do with a friend of the network who asked to remain anonymous.  He wanted me to ask you if I might bring two of his friends to the party.  Seems they are honeymooning on the Pasolini Island at the moment and my friend…”

“…thought what a perfectly romantic surprise to be invited,” interrupted Shauna.  “Of course.  I’ll make sure an invitation is hand delivered to them.  Their names?”

“That is very kind of you.  Their names are Mr. and Mrs. Max Quinlan.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Shauna said.  “I wasn’t aware we had Samantha Turner and her husband as a guest on the island.”

“Well, as I understand it, Max is a very big fan of Umberto and he mentioned the party to the friend who knows me and…”

“Not another word.  Consider it done.  I think Umberto is a fan of Samantha’s work.  He’ll be most delighted to meet her.”

“Thank you so much, Miss Waring. My friend will be most grateful.”

“You’re quite welcome and again, thank you for the consideration on the TV Special.  Goodbye.”

***

Edward’s immediate call to Harrison to assure him that the task was completed was met with a sigh of relief. He had reluctantly called on the IOU only an hour before and his old childhood friend had come through.  “Just make sure this favor doesn’t come back to haunt me, Harry.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a set up for you to get some covert pictures.  But, I know the press is banned, so what you’re getting out of this I don’t know, and you still won’t tell me, right?

“Right.  You’d probably let it haunt you.  Just joking.  Just joking.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Harry,” said Edward.

“After all these years, wouldn’t think of it.”

“Right.  Remember that I taught you all you know about bullshitting.  Do me a favor, Okay.  At least do it to me in the dark.  I don’t want to see it coming.”

They both chuckled at their one-upmanship talents and Harrison ended the conversation with a final thank-you and an assurance that nothing was going to happen that he’d regret.

Harrison hoped he had solved the biggest problem, but he wasn’t finished yet.  He had enough picture and story history on Samantha to know she had a propensity for boredom, suggesting that even on a honeymoon, a party of this importance would probably appeal to her, given it was presented appropriately.  Now, his attention turned to getting Ari happy with the idea.  Getting him to leave his obsessive roost at the castle to cover the party would have been a formidable task without getting Sam and Max invited.  Now Harrison was in a good position to persuade Ari that the unique surroundings would play to his imagination and help create the cover picture.  Unfortunately, Ari had a different take.

“I’m going to be what… a waiter?” screeched Ari into the phone.  He rose from his chair, almost knocking his laptop over. “You’re not serious?”

“You’ll be right back into the ‘party’ foray like the good old days,” said Harrison, slugging down another Southern Comfort.  “I’ve got Leonard meeting you tomorrow to fit you with the lapel camera.  Maggie has arranged for you to replace…”

“Lapel cameras… Maggie?” stormed Ari.  Jesus Christ, I’ve got to work with strange equipment and her as well?  That ‘wanna-be’ actress is a pain in the ass.  She’ll blow it with her big mouth and…”

“She’ll be fine, Ari.  She knows how important this is.”

Ari searched for a Gauloises and lit up.  “And this camera of Leonard’s, if it’s that LT 24 he’s been using lately, I’ve seen the results. That piece of shit has never delivered a ‘cover’ shot.  Why would you want to risk it?”

“He’s had excellent results, Ari, and you know how particular he is.”

“Sure, that’s why he’s still shooting for any tabloid that will pay the price.”

“That was a cheap shot, Ari.”

“Truth, Harrison, ‘cheap’ truth.  He’s like all the slime bags I divorced myself from.”

“Okay, call it like you see it, you always do anyway.  Just get me some shots of Umberto and who knows, you might just get the shots you need of the ‘diva’”

“Diva?  Now who’s taking cheap shots.”

“You’re right.  I’m sorry.  I apologize.  Ari, we’re both beating up on each other here.  It’s not the time.  I want you to succeed with this, for both our sakes, but you’re the one having problems getting what you want.  We both need what you’re capable of delivering.  I believe in you, damn it, and I’m way out on the proverbial limb on this one.  You capture the real Umberto Pasolini, whatever that is, or the real Samantha whatever the hell that is and the Profile lives.  You don’t and the magazine and both of us…”

Ari snapped back, “Die?  You think we both die?  No, you die.  Not me.  Save the rest of the speech because on I don’t like doomsday threats.  I’ll go on one condition.”

“I’m listening.”

“If I can’t get the right shots of Pasolini tomorrow night, you leave me alone while I continue with Samantha.  You pay whatever expenses I need, no questions.  I go where she goes.  Deal?”

“Deal.  Let me ask you just one question, Ari.  What in God’s name is it about her that’s got you so consumed?”

“If I had the answer, I’d have the canvas finished.  I’m banking on whatever it is that’s got me will get your readers.  Otherwise, this whole exercise is a waste of time, don’t you think?”

“I think we could go with the picture off my wall, but you don’t.   I also think life was a whole lot easier before I met you… before you computerized that bitch into some kind of naked and raw essence that pushed a button I don’t even understand.”

“She was always clothed, Harrison.”

“That’s my point.   You come back with either Pasolini or Samantha fully exposed, and we’ll most likely get sued by all the other tabloids for unfair trade practices and maybe grab a Pulitzer.”

Ari put out his cigarette and smiled, “You know how to play me like a fiddle, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.  Do I”

“Do I have to share the Pulitzer with you?”

Ari hung up without receiving an answer.  He slumped in his chair and stared at his computer screen.  He idly placed his fingers on a couple of keys and up popped four quadrants displaying four different collages of Samantha.  He studied them for a moment, then muttered to himself, “Maybe a crazy party in your life is exactly what’s missing, huh Samantha?”

***

“A party?  Why would he think a party would be of any interest to us?  We’re on our honeymoon,” Max angrily answered Sam as he executed a poor putt that fell short of the cup by four feet. 

Sam, standing next to her ball some fifteen feet away leaned on her putter bemused and watched Max lean down and place a dime where his ball was.  “Putt out, Max.  It’s Okay.” 

Max paused and noticed her mood.  Her eyes were down, then up, then to the side toward castle three.  From the vantage point of their private putting green, the view was unobstructed, and Max wondered what it was that kept her mind off the putting and on the other castle.

The sun’s reflective kick could only be seen by Sam.  It was coming from a lens protruding out from a decorative gun turret on the upper deck of castle three. She smiled and addressed her ball.  Leaning over and preparing her aim, “Klowsky is the head of a major network, Max.  His public relations department keeps tabs on people like us continually.  Why not?  He knows we’re here.  The party’s over there.  It’s just good PR to ask them to extend an invitation to us.  They probably still want me for that mini-series.”

“It’s obvious you want to go, but doesn’t it seem kind of strange expecting us to jump when it’s our honeymoon.”

Sam looked back toward castle three and said, “Why?”

Max didn’t respond.  He putted out and excused himself, shuffling his way back to their castle.  Sam paused a moment watching his dejected gait and leaned over her ball.  She took her time.  After several adjustments with her hands and feet she dared tap the ball.  Much to her surprise, it dropped into the cup.   She smiled with pride, turned and walked back toward the castle, stealing a glance toward the gun turret of castle three.  She couldn’t see any reflection.

As she reached the entrance, Max leaned over the upper balcony and looked down at her with a sigh.  He smiled and said, “That was a fine putt.  Best I’ve seen you do.  You’re improving.  You’ll be out there with Tiger soon.”

Sam stopped, looked up and said, “I’m sorry.  We don’t have to go.”

Max shook his head with assurance.  “It’s fine.  I was out of bounds acting like that.  It will probably be a good break.”  He chuckled as she strode through the entrance below him.

Raising his voice as she climbed the stairs,  “They say this Pasolini is quite the lady’s man, though, and quite vintage.  Am I safe?”

Sam reached the top and smiled back. “You needn’t worry about vintage, Max.”  She turned to close the door and something flashed across her eyes.  She glanced up.   Was it the same reflection again?   Castle three looked empty of any life.  Her eyes quickly looked about.  Nothing.  “Vintage should not concern you… right now, Max.  Your bouquet is still enticing.”  She felt a chill.  She didn’t know why.  It was ninety-eight degrees outside.