He edged past the dancefloor, trying not to trip over anybody in his clumsy platform boots. Thankfully, Gabriel’s back was to him. But that meant that Brenda was facing him and the look she shot at him was pure venom.
Sheldon mouthed at her, “Relax and enjoy it,” and scuttled out of the bar.
He raced down three flights of stairs, clutching madly at the railing to keep from falling. The ship tossed and swayed and the stairs seemed to be trying to deliberately move out from under Sheldon.
But finally he made it to the Main Lounge. B.F. was sitting at a table near the bandstand, surrounded by blondes of all description, from a Pickford to a pair of Monroes. Lassie, believe it or not, was lying on the carpeting at his side.
A George Jessel was on the bandstand singing the Marine Corps Hymn, while George Burns and Jack Benny argued quietly but with great animation, off at the far end of the lounge, over who would go on next.
Sheldon made his way around the outer perimeter of the once-plush Lounge, squirmed through a phalanx of blondes and finally managed to get close enough to Bernard Finger to lean over his shoulder and whisper:
“Trouble, B.F.”
Finger raised his dimpled chin in Sheldon’s direction. “So he sings off key. So did the original Jessel.”
“That’s not what I mean. Ron Gabriel’s crashed the party.”
“What?” Finger shouted laud enough to startle Jessel into almost a full bar on-key. “That little snot! Here? Uninvited?”
“What else?” Sheldon said.
“How’d he get here? Where is he? What’s he want? Is he hitting anybody?”
If Sheldon weren’t convinced that it was impossible, he’d have been tempted to speculate that B.F. was physically frightened of Ron Gabriel.
“He’s in the Sky Bar. Brenda’s got him in tow.…” And suddenly Sheldon realized that this was an opportunity straight out of the blue, a gift from Olympus. He had B.F.’s complete and undivided attention.
He took a quick breath, then suggested, “Maybe we’d better get you to a more protected location, B.F. You know how crazy Gabriel can be.”
Finger pushed two blondes aside and stood up. He seemed almost dazed with fear. “Yeah… right…”
“And there’s a lot about this situation that I have to tell you about,” Sheldon went on.
“Okay,” Finger said. “Down in my stateroom.”
Finger’s stateroom was a suite, of course. And it was actually up on deck from the Main Lounge, not down. It wasn’t until the steel doors of the luxurious suite were firmly locked behind them that Finger appeared to relax.
“That Gabriel,” he muttered. “He’s crazy. He hit Lucio Grinaldi once, just for adding two or three songs to one of his scripts.”
“That was Gabriel’s adaptation of
“Yeah.” Finger plopped down into an overstuffed chair. “Imagine punching a producer just for turning a show into a musical.”
A butler appeared and took their order for drinks. Sheldon sat down. His chair accommodated itself to his body. The air was sweet and cool. The suite was dimly lit, quiet, tasteful, with the kind of silence and comfort that only a lot of money could buy.
“Who’re you, anyway?” Finger said suddenly. “You work for me, don’t you?”
“I’m Sheldon Fad.”
“Oh?” No comprehension whatsoever dawned on Finger’s Cary Grant face.
“I’m one of your producers. I did the ‘Diet Quiz’ show last year.”
“Oh, that one!” Recognition beamed. “The one that got renewed.”
The butler brought the drinks and Sheldon eased into a roundabout explanation of his problems with “The Starcrossed.” How it was Gabriel’s idea and the untrusting fink had immediately registered it with the Screen Writers Guild. How he, Sheldon, had hit on the money-saving idea of taking the show to Canada for production. (B.F. smiled again at that; Sheldon’s heart did a flip-flop.) How Gabriel wanted Brenda as a hostage or harem girl.
“Probably both,” Finger grunted.
Sheldon nodded and pressed on. He told Finger that only Brenda’s body stood between him and a face-to- face confrontation with Gabriel.
“And he’s carrying a Tommygun,” Sheldon concluded.
“Now? Here?”
Sheldon nodded. “I think it’s going to be very vital to us to have Brenda go with us to Canada.”
“You’re damned right,” B.F. agreed.
“But she doesn’t want to go.”
“She’ll go.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Don’t worry about it. What I tell her to do, she does.”
“She might quit”
B.F. shook his head, a knowing smile on his lips. Somehow, it didn’t look pleasant. “She won’t quit. She can’t. She’ll do what I tell her, no matter what it is.”
6: THE CONFRONTATION
Ron Gabriel sipped a gingerale as he sat at one of the Sky Bar’s tiny round tables. Brenda Impanema sat on the couch beside him, staring moodily out at the moonlit ocean. On his other side, Allen Jenkins and Frank McHugh were playing poker on a little table of their own.
The crowd in the bar had thinned considerably. Many couples had drifted outside, now that the ship was clear of the L.A. smog and the moon could be seen. Others had gone down to their staterooms for some serious sexual therapy.
“It’s like a movie scene,” Brenda said, reaching for her Hawaiian Punch. “Moonlight on the water, the ship plowing through the waves, romantic music…”
Gabriel scowled at the computer, which was now issuing a late 1970s rotrock wail. “Call that romantic?”
Brenda, still in Lauren Bacall’s looks, made a small shrug. “It could be romantic.”
“If it was different music.”
“Right.”
“Then all you’d need would be Fred Astaire tapdancing out on the deck.”
“And sweeping me off my feet.”
Gabriel looked in the mirror across the room and saw Jimmy Gagney. But he no longer felt like Cagney.
“How come I can’t sweep you off your feet?” he asked Brenda.
Becall grinned back at him. “It’s chemistry. We just don’t react right.”
“I’m crazy about you.”
“You’re crazy about every girl you meet. And I don’t want to go to Canada with you.”
Gabriel remembered why he had come aboard. He picked up his glass of gingerale. In the mirror, Cagney’s face hardened.
“I don’t want to go to Canada at all. Period.”
“We can drink to that.” Brenda touched her glass to Gabriel’s.
Cagney scowled.
She tossed her head slightly, so that the long sweep of her hair flowed back over her bare shoulder. “Are you really after me or just my body? Or just a grip on B.F.?”
“That’s a helluva question,” he said.
