King Dong

The old tramp waved his bottle towards the ship. ‘They lookin’ for any hands?’

The watchman held up his lamp and gazed at the questioner’s impressive collection of liver spots and elephant’s scrotum wrinkles. ‘Now see here, old timer, you don’t want to be taken on to that crew, if half of what they say is true.’

The old tramp blinked his rum-reddened eyes and gave a hacking cough. ‘What do they say?’

‘Why, that the captain of this old rust-bucket has hired it to Carl Deadman, the motion picture producer who’s always going off to the most crazy dangerous places he can find to make movies about the world’s deadliest critters with scant regard for the lives or sanity of his men, and he’s setting off tomorrow for an unknown destination with a highly dangerous cargo and a crew of the worst collection of low-life wharf-rats and plug-ugly desperadoes anyone has ever seen, that’s what they say. Why d’you ask?’

‘Come to think of it, no idea.’ The old tramp picked a louse from his beard. ‘How come you gave me such a detailed answer?’

‘I think we’re supposed to set the scene by providing an opening narrative thread and establishing an atmosphere of mystery and foreboding while at the same time adding a little local colour …’ The watchman broke off. The old tramp was making painful retching noises as his 100 per cent rubbing alcohol diet got the better of him, decorating the quay with a little local colour of his own. Shaking his head, the watchman moved on.

On board the SS Vulture, Captain Rumbuggery poured himself another glass of rotgut liquor with a shaking hand, and made a desperate attempt to focus on Carl Deadman. The movie producer was pacing the Captain’s insanitary cabin, from wall to rust-streaked wall, furiously chewing on the end of a cheap cigar. A fug of tobacco smoke and alcohol fumes had turned the air into a sickly pale-green mist.

Deadman paused in his perambulation and whirled to face Rumbuggery, slapping his hand down upon the desk. With a drunk’s instinct, Rumbuggery lifted his glass from the tabletop just in time to prevent its being knocked over.

‘I tell you, Skipper,’ growled Deadman, ‘sometimes I just can’t figure the movie business. I’ve been out with you on two expeditions to the ends of the Earth. Each time, I’ve brought back a swell film – and the public, rot them, just don’t want to know. I ask you! I put everything into those pictures – blood, sweat tears, even money – and what happens? An Exciting Movie About a Big Strong Elephant was box-office poison and A Thrilling Story About a Big Fierce Lion didn’t even open in the top theatres. How could pictures like that fail?’

Captain Rumbuggery gave a lurid belch. ‘I’m flying a kite here,’ he slurred, ‘y’know, jusht running up the flagpole and sheeing if anyone drops his pantsh – but could the titlesh have anything to do with it?’

‘Hogwash!’ roared Deadman.

‘Plus the fact that your leading men got trampled to death in the firsht picture and eaten in the shecond …’

Deadman waved a hand dismissively. ‘I tell you, Skipper, I have it all figured out. My movies have adventure, excitement, spectacle, thrills, danger …’

‘And big shtrong elephants and big fierce lionsh …’

‘Sure, sure. But they don’t have the one thing the public wants. Know what that is?’

‘A decent shcript?’ hazarded the sozzled Captain. ‘Conshistent plot? Compelling dialogue?’

Deadman stared at the old salt. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Skipper? No! The public don’t care for any of that horse-shit. I’ll tell you what they want!’ He leaned conspiratorially towards Rumbuggery. ‘Sex!’

The Captain stared. ‘Shexsh?’

‘You heard me! S-e-c-k-s, sex! That’s what I need! Sex!’

The Captain fumbled with his belt. ‘Well, why didn’t you shay?’

‘Not now!’ snapped Deadman. ‘In my movie!’

The Captain rubbed his grizzled chin. ‘Well, I don’t know … if it wash artistically valid, and the money wash right …’

‘Holy mackerel! You think the public are gonna pay to see a rummy deadbeat with his pants round his ankles?’

The Captain considered. ‘I would.’

Deadman ignored this. ‘No, you old fool, I need a girl. But every flapper I’ve tried to hire has been interfered with.’

‘Well, this is New York.’ The Captain did a cock-eyed double-take. ‘Jusht a cotton-pickin’ minute! Are you telling me you’re planning to bring a woman on board?’

‘I sure as hell am! What’s wrong with that?’

‘What’sh wrong with it?’ Captain Rumbuggery spluttered with righteous indignation. ‘I’ll tell you what’sh wrong with it! Women on board ship are nothing but trouble! Talk about a Jonah. Dischipline goesh to hell! The crew neglect vital dutiesh, such as shteering the ship and shtoking the boilersh and pleasuring their Shkipper. I tell you, Mishter Deadman, I’d shooner have an albatrossh round my neck. I’d sooner have a man-eating tiger on board than a woman!’

Deadman gave the Captain a contemptuous look. ‘Oh, pipe down, you old buzzard.’

The blare of an auto-horn from outside caught the movie man’s attention. He crossed to the porthole and rubbed at the condensation misting the grimy glass.

A taxi had drawn up on the wharf below. As Deadman watched, a platinum blonde wearing an outrageous amount of cheap fur and fake jewellery stepped out.

Deadman clicked his fingers. ‘There’s my girl now. Sit tight, Captain. I’ll bring her up here and introduce you.’ He yanked open the ill-fitting door at the third attempt and headed for the companionway.

By the time he reached the wharf, the argument between his star and the cabbie was already turning the air blue and causing the Vulture’s blistered paint to flake off over a wide area.

‘Whaddaya mean, wiseguy?’ his leading lady demanded as Deadman joined the fray. ‘A dollar thoity from Brooklyn? Ya lousy joik, tryn’a rob me.’

‘That’s the fare, lady.’ The cabbie’s voice was weary. ‘Right there on the meter.’

‘I’ll give ya meter, ya –’

‘Here. Keep the change.’ Deadman thrust a five-dollar bill at the cabbie and took his fare by the arm. ‘Come along, Darling.’

‘Darling?’ The cabbie whistled.

‘That’s my name, ya doity moocher,’ the lady replied. ‘Ann Darling.’

‘Sure it is. And mine’s Rudolph Valentino.’ The cabbie leered. ‘Keep one hand on your wallet with that one, Mac.’ He sidestepped to avoid a vicious swipe from Ann’s purse and roared off while Deadman restrained his furious star.

A few minutes later, Ann was installed in Captain Rumbuggery’s reeking cabin, wrinkling her nose at the foul atmosphere and staring disdainfully at the glass of 90 per cent proof spirit the old sea-dog had considerately poured for her.

‘Ann!’ Deadman radiated cordiality. ‘I’d like you to meet our skipper for the voyage. Captain Rumbuggery – Ann Darling, the leading lady of my new movie.’

Ann gave the Captain a hard-eyed stare and beckoned Deadman closer. ‘We’re sailing half-way round the world with him in charge? The guy’s a lush!’

‘Only when he’s drinking,’ Deadman reassured her.

‘Oh.’ Ann was mollified. ‘That’s OK, then.’ She gave the Captain a winning smile, from sheer force of habit.

Deadman lit another cigar. ‘OK, here’s the deal. Captain, we sail on the first tide.’

Rumbuggery nodded and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Right. Gotcha. Before any shneaky dockside rat getsh to hear about some of the characters we got in the crew – not to mention the cargo …’

Ann’s ears pricked up. ‘What characters? What cargo?’

Hurriedly, Deadman continued, ‘Sure, sure, Skipper. Then you take us to the co-ordinates I’ve already given you.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ demanded Ann. ‘What characters? What’s all this about a cargo? What sort of cargo?’