But while she looked away, Nadler reached over and touched her shoulder. “Hey, did I say that? The girl who we thought had to leave doesn’t. That’s all. The Steel Pier is a big place. I mean, you saw how big; lots of shows, lots of opportunities.”
She turned to look at him, her eyes steely locked against those tears. But not wanting to believe too soon that this was all going to turn out okay. “So you do have something for me?”
And in that moment she became aware again of where they stood…beside those glass doors, the big picture of the diving bell above her, the ticket booth.
“I’m going to work here?”
And the man smiled.
Nadler put an arm on her shoulder and pointed beyond the glass doors. But the arm didn’t feel grabby, not at all as if it was the first step in making some kind of play. No, he seemed proud to be showing her what lay outside the doors.
“See that?”
Ann looked out the doors and saw a giant cylindrical chamber.
“That is the world’s only diving bell for entertainment purposes.”
“What does it do?”
“People go inside, sit down on the metal bench inside, and the hatch is sealed. Then the bell begins an amazing journey down, below the boardwalk, into the sea, down deep, to thirty feet until it rests only a few feet above the bottom.”
“And it’s safe?”
“Perfectly. Air is pumped in, and the person running the bell talks about the force of pressure, and other amazing facts about the great ocean.”
Ann noted portholes ringing the diving bell. “And what do people see?”
Nadler laughed. “Not much. The water is so murky from the surf, the tides, all you can see is a foot or so, flecks of sand, whatever. No big fish sightings I’m afraid. Still”—he squeezed her shoulder—“it’s an adventure, something people can do nowhere else.”
She turned to Nadler. “So my job is…?”
“You will be the person running the diving bell, Ann. We need someone who’s young, attractive—like you. Someone who can reassure the grandmas and the little tykes, let them know it’s safe as you shut the door and seal them in. You’re perfect.”
“Not really a performance job…”
Nadler’s eyes widened. “What do you mean—not a performance job? Not only will you be reassuring the crowds, getting everyone in, seated, ready—what you do is all about performance, Ann. You’ll be part of the show from the very beginning. And not only that—see that microphone over there?”
Nadler pointed to a small wooden platform that jutted out of the wall with a microphone on a stand.
“When the people are down there, you’ll talk to them.”
“About…?”
“You know you’re funny? You got a great sense of humor. You talk about the ocean, about going under water, about the adventure.”
“I just make stuff up?”
“Nah, we got a whole script for you. All about the temperature, the depth, the pressure—all the stuff I mentioned before. So how about it? As I said, I think you’ll be perfect.”
And Ann had to think…what other choices did she have?
None. And she knew nothing currently waited for her back in New York. She could do this awhile, and maybe something with the diving horses would open up. Save a little money, enough so she could try Broadway again.
Because if there was one other thing her grandfather taught her…you just don’t give up.
“So how about it Ann? Pay’s good. You can start tomorrow. One of the girls in the stage revue even has a spare bed. You’ll be all set.”
“Okay. I’ll take the job,” she said quickly, realizing that in truth it wouldn’t be hard for Jerry Nadler to find scores of girls who would jump at the chance.
On some level, and not as a letch, she realized he liked her.
“Great. Only one thing we gotta do then, hm?”
Ann’s eyes narrowed. Nadler liked holding his cards close, and she felt he had one last secret for her.
“And that is?”
“Babe, you gotta go down.”
She pointed out the doors. “In that?”
“Sure. I mean, how are you going to give people the feel of what they’re experiencing without doing it yourself? And if someone should get worried—there’s a two-way phone in the bell—you have to be the voice reassuring them. And you can reassure them a hell of a lot better if you’ve been down there yourself.”
She looked at the bell sitting there, as sheets of rain pelted the sea green surface.
“And the thing is…if you’re going to take the job, if you’re going to go down, you might as well do it now.”
She turned on him.
“Now? In this storm? Now?”
He nodded. “You start tomorrow…so…’fraid…
so.”
10
Baffin Island
DENHAM STOOD UP IN THE landing boat. He checked that his camera was lashed securely under the gunwales and covered with a heavy tarp.
Amazing the places I bring a camera, he thought. He looked at the back of the boat, to the actor, Bill Tyler, bundled in a heavy parka, fur cowl pulled tight so the only sign of a head were the puffy breaths of air escaping from his mouth and shivering teeth.
The things actors will do for a job, Denham thought. Though he always told them what they had to look forward to, describing it fully, they always came and quickly started suffering.
Though to be honest, he did describe this shoot in the best possible terms, playing up the adventure, the excitement.
The small boat rocked as Hayes guided his crew rowing toward the shore. Once the Venture had anchored beyond the curve of the bay, and protected now by a natural jetty, the stormy conditions eased, as if giving up a losing battle.
Still there was enough chop in the sea to make a movie star more than green. He imagined that Tyler would be constantly spewing…that is, if he had anything left to spew.
Poor bastard. And now that he was stuck here, what could he do? No cabs or buses off this trip. The only way back to civilization was the Venture. And part of Denham liked the idea that he had control over these actors. He needed them—he wished he didn’t, but without them there could be no story.
And as much as Carl Denham loved capturing images of the world’s wonders, he knew that it didn’t mean much without a story. A good story raised the images to a mythic level—the bull elephant became more than just a big mammal; it could be some once great hunter’s last chance at redemption. The cougar could be the force that made someone else face and defeat their fear.
Where human and animal met, there could always be a story.
It was just unfortunate that also meant actors.
Or in this case, one seasick, cold, and miserable actor.
“Mr. Denham, you want to put in over there?”
Denham turned around and looked in the direction Hayes pointed. There looked to be a natural stony beach, flat, and leading to a rise with some big rocks, tufts of some plant attempting to grow between the cracks. And off to the right, a long jumble of big rocks that formed part of the natural jetty.
“Looks great, Hayes. Take us over.”
Carl smiled. Herb Preston smiled back, pointing to the sky. “It’s amazing, Carl, but you even got good light.”
The boat rocked, hitting some more of the erratic chop that danced in the bay.
Yes, did it get any better than this?
Denham doubted it.
The men quickly unloaded the boat. They put up a tent to protect the camera and audio gear should the dark clouds return. Some food for the men while they shot. Filters for the camera.
And while they did that, Carl could walk the stony beach looking for the best place to shoot. He spotted his actor, Bill Tyler, sitting on a rock. Least he was on shore, the guy had to be grateful for that. He’d give him a few minutes to settle in before talking over the shots Denham wanted to get.
The orcas might be elusive, but they
still had another week or so up here before they’d have to give up.
And what if the orcas didn’t materialize?
That would be a problem. But he’d do what he always did.
Improvise. The short history of film was based on people of vision making mistakes, and then using those mistakes to achieve greatness.
Denham had a clear vision of what he wanted to do. To go to places people have never seen, film things people only read about—and use it all to tell a story.
“He looks pretty shaky, Carl.”
Preston had walked over, and nodded to where the actor sat. Carl looked back.
“Yeah. But at least he’s not on the boat anymore. He’s gotta be happy about that.”
“Want me to talk to him, see how he is?”
Denham shook his head. “No. We start listening to his complaints, and that’s all he’ll do. Let him get some air, settle down.”
Herb had the camera set up, and was checking the lens.
“Herb, I think up here will be a good spot for some shots, you know when the explorer starts thinking about leaving the camp?”
Herb looked at the rolling curve of rocks and boulders that led up and around the cove, out of sight.
“Could be. Want me to take a look and see what it’s like up there?”
“Great. Yes. Do a little exploring of your own. I’ll go see how things are in the tent and then maybe talk to…‘the star.’ ”
Denham clapped Herb on the back, and then he and Preston walked back to the beach.
“Okay,” Denham said to the crew who had carefully arranged the equipment. “Guess we’re all set here.”
Most of the boat crew sat with Hayes over by the shore, squatting on a scattering of rocks, talking, smoking. They had no interest in the filming process, and that was just fine. Just as long as they stayed away.
He walked over to the actor.
“Hey, Bill, we’re just about set here.”
Tyler looked up, his poached-egg eyes sunken and masked behind dark circles.
Good thing we’re not shooting a musical comedy. As it is, Tyler looked perfect for his part, the haunted explorer.
Denham gestured toward the tent. “Want a bit to eat? I know you—”
Tyler quickly shot up his hand, and Denham thought he might start gagging.
“Didn’t think so. All right, soon as Herb comes back, we’re going to get some shots of you exploring this area, get some sounds of the black-backed gulls, the water, then shoot you moving inland…the beginning of your trek. All right?”
Tyler nodded unenthusiastically.
“Good. So, I think—”
“Carl! Carl!”
Herb’s voice rang out over the cove, sounding both scared and excited.
The director turned and looked to the incline of boulders and rocks.
“What is it?” Denham yelled back.
The crew had stood up. Hayes had his rifle by his side. Never went anywhere without it, as if he was ready to hit the trenches of France again.
Some guys never left the war.
“Get up here,” Preston yelled.
Then: “You’re not going to believe it!”
Denham, followed by Preston and the crew, raced to where Herb stood, waving at them.
And Denham had to wonder: You can plan, you can organize, but there’s always luck. Could it be that luck is about to rear its head?
For a moment he almost went back to grab the camera.
But in a quick decision, he kept running, thinking, hoping…that whatever Herb found looked to be there for a while, ready for them to capture on film.
11
San Francisco Bay
DIGIACOMO UNDID THE BOLTS HOLDING Tommy Hautala’s helmet, while another sailor freed Sam. The two helmets came off at exactly the same time.
And the kid was grinning, a big stupid smile plastered on his face.
Is that because the kid doesn’t know that he almost died?
But then:
“Thanks, Lieutenant. I was in a bit of trouble down there.”
The other sailor offered Sam a cigarette, but Sam waved it away. He had noticed that he breathed harder when he went down after smoking. The ads might say that a smoke was good for your breathing, even with doctors in their ads…
But Sam guessed otherwise.
“A bit of trouble?” Sam rolled his eyes at DiGiacomo. “Kid, you were this close to becoming a permanent attraction of that wreck.”
“Or gettin’ the bends. You’re one lucky diver,” DiGiacomo added.
The two divers started removing the rest of their suits. The morning sun was bright, and the fear from below faded. Funny how that didn’t last. As soon as the event was over, the feeling, the terror, began to fade.
You started to think…it was okay. Nothing really bad could have happened.
But then as Tommy stepped out of his suit, the gash through his Navy T-shirt had turned deep crimson, still bleeding.
“God, kid, that’s a nasty cut. Get to the infirmary.” Sam turned to one of the other sailors. “Get him to the infirmary, okay? Get that looked at.”
The sailor walked over to Tommy. “Come on, Hautala. Let’s go.”
But the young diver got up and came over to Sam.
“Lieutenant, I just want to say thanks again. What you did down there, I mean…I know that could have been it.”
So the kid wasn’t completely oblivious.
“Just part of the job, kid. Now get going.”
Tommy smiled, and stepped into the small launch that would speed him over to the Navy docks.
“You want to head back, Sam?” DiGiacomo asked.
But Sam shook his head. The sun glinted on the harbor, the air had turned warm, and he couldn’t think of anything better than sitting right where he was.
12
Atlantic City, New Jersey
NADLER TOOK THE SMALL SIGN from Ann’s hands.
“Look, it’s not really dangerous. This sign, ‘CLOSED DUE TO WEATHER,’ is just because it gets rocky in seas like this, a bit bumpy. But nothing can go wrong. The bell slides down its steel shaft then back up again. We’ll have you heading over to your new apartment and new friends in no time.”
The only thing Ann felt like she wanted to do now was turn around and walk away. This was like some crazy joke, getting her out here to the diving bell and sending her thirty feet under a roaring sea, all by herself.
“I don’t know.”
“Look, I don’t have all day. Gotta lot to do. Always a headache when we have to close the pier early. But we can do this now, and tomorrow the job is yours. Whad-dya say?”
“Straight down and up again?”
“You got it. Just so you know what the whole deal is.”
Her eyes were locked on the bell itself, an enemy waiting for her, lurking outside in the rain.
“All right. You’ll operate it?”
“Sure, and when you come out, I’ll show you the ropes. A kid can do it. Hell, you’re almost a kid anyway.”
“Do I need any special outfit, or—”
Nadler laughed.
“Nah. We’ll just run out there to the bell, get you settled, seal you in. Ready?”
“Yes.”
Nadler grabbed the door, and the wind sent drops of rain into the building. He ran out and grabbed a giant lever, and the diving bell opened. He gestured to her to hurry.
Ann ran to the door, bending down a little bit to get in. She saw a metal bench that circled the interior, so people could lean close to the portholes for their personal view of…nothing.
“Okay,” Nadler said above the wind, “take a seat; you hold the railing in front of you. I’ll talk to you from inside the pier. Shutting the door now, okay?”
Ann nodded.
Crazy, she thought. She never liked the ocean, even on a bright sunny day. The few times her mom actually took her (that is, whenever some fella her mother was with decided to go), Ann used to sit on the sand, her ba
ck to the crashing waves. The waves, the sea seemed hungry to her, violent.
And it still seemed that way.
“Okay. Have a good dive!”
Nadler slammed the door, and Ann heard the sound of metal hitting metal, followed by the loud locking sounds as he pushed down the outside latch. There now was no way for Ann to get out. She looked up, and saw a small phone—the two-way—with a small sign that read FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY. ENJOY YOUR TRIP UNDER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN!
She wanted to grab it right now and holler, Get me the hell out of here! The dry air smelled so stuffy, a mix of salt and sweat.
Then she heard a voice from the small speaker on the ceiling of the bell.
“Okay, Ann. We’re all set here. Here’s where you tell the patrons all about holding on to the rail, and how deep they will be going, and to keep their eyes peeled for any creatures of the deep…if that was ever likely. Here we go!”
She felt it move. The diving bell started sliding on its massive shaft through a circular opening in the boardwalk. Through the porthole, she watched the boardwalk floor rise above her, then she saw the flooring and pipes, also rising—the hidden underbelly of the boardwalk.
Then underneath the great timbers, a dense jumble of massive poles streaming down from the pier, into the sea. She leaned a bit closer to see the water below.
The gray-green sea rocked back and forth, waves cutting across each other, jockeying for position as if eager to somehow find a way into the diving bell. Then, amazingly the bell slipped slowly below the sea.
And even more amazingly, it became calm. The water took on a greenish color that nearly matched the paint on the bell. Or did for a few feet, before turning a murky gray.
Ann felt the movement of the bell as it made its way down a pole buried in the seafloor.
“Pretty nifty, heh kid?”
Ann plastered her face against the porthole. Does anyone ever see any fish down here, or anything? As Nadler mentioned, she could see only a few feet beyond the glass, though she noticed that there was some kind of light from above.
The Island of the Skull Page 5
