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To Ray Harryhausen,
who, along with Willis O’Brien,
inspired and amazed and stunned us all…
Prologue
A Painted Ship…
26 degrees 13 minutes, 45 degrees, 12 minutes
BRADDOCK FELT EVERY RIPPLE in the sea rocking the small boat, bobbing even as the engines tried to make some headway in the choppy water.
His cap barely kept the blazing sun off his face.
Like the others, he had broken out in blotchy patches that cracked, and then turned red and sore, as if they all had stayed out in the sun way too long.
But it’s not that, Braddock knew.
The sun had nothing to do with this. No, the first mate on this ramshackle pearl boat knew that something else was wrong with the entire crew.
Some of the men hadn’t surfaced for breakfast, and the cook barely got through throwing some leftover hash into a pot and declaring it edible.
Something had made everyone on board sick.
And God, he thought …where was the nearest land, the nearest civilized land where we might hope to get some medical attention, something to stop the peeling, the redness, the churning feeling in our guts that made eating an impossibility?
Braddock licked his cracked lips. There was only one thing to do. The captain had to get them to land.
And fast. But Braddock knew that wouldn’t be easy.
He looked up at the amazing blue sky, the golden sun, the brilliant light.
Yeah, if you sat out in the sun for a day it would only burn you; but it couldn’t do this, whatever was happening to the crew.
Braddock had an idea what it might be.
He looked at the steering room. Captain up there, all alone.
Braddock wiped his brow, turned, and started for the wheel room.
The captain sat in the tall chair in front of the wheel, staring at the sea. He didn’t react when Braddock entered the room.
Though a native of Cuba, Captain Luis Garcia spoke good, if accented, English. Usually he told Braddock what to do, and the mate made it happen.
This conversation would be different.
“Captain, it’s getting worse.”
No reaction.
Was Braddock surprised? This time, though, he would just back off. He could see that Garcia’s face also bore the telltale markings of the illness. The red rough patches, the peeling skin. The mate guessed that the captain must also feel that churning in his insides.
Braddock raised his voice.
“Captain, we have to do something.”
Now, ever so slowly, Garcia turned to Braddock. Scattered among the rough patches, the captain’s face was flecked with a wiry stubble. His eyes were narrow; the redness visible even here.
If they didn’t act soon—Christ!—would there be any time at all?
“Do something?” The captain’s face took on a sick grin. “Do what?”
“I told you. Everyone is sicker; soon you’ll have no one to run the ship and—”
The captain laughed, a horrible laugh that degenerated into a hacking cough. He then spit right on the wheel-room floor. Braddock looked down; the sputum was flecked with blood.
“And what? Maybe some will die and then, guess what, amigo? More for you and me. That is unless you”—another sick grin—“die too!”
He’s crazy, Braddock thought. Garcia had always been eccentric, a little wild; give him some cheap port and he could turn into a madman under the moon as the pearl ship stayed at anchor. Singing, laughing, until finally slipping into a Cuban patois that only one of the crew, one of the Cuban divers, understood.
That man was now below. Alive, but barely moving even when Braddock gave him a nudge.
“I don’t want to die. None of us does, but if we keep going this way—”
The captain spun around in his chair and pointed a bony finger out to the sea. Braddock stared—how long since Garcia had a meal?
“Out there, straight ahead—hm?—are the Riau Islands. I will find a port. A place to land with our cargo, a place to get well, a place—”
“No. We’ll never get there. If we keep going this way, we will all be dead well before then, Captain.”
Garcia turned around and stared at Braddock.
Had he started to figure out what Braddock was thinking, what the mate might do?
“So…what? You want to head for one of these small islands? Someplace where, once they know what we have below…” He repeated the words “…what we have hidden below, they would just as soon kill us?” Garcia nodded. “That’s how we can die. Killed. Never selling our prize, never getting any”—more coughs—“help. No, there’s only one thing we can do. Make for the western islands.”
“It’s not the only thing we can do, Captain, we can—”
But now Garcia had turned back to the sea. He rested a scrawny hand on the wheel, almost as if the wheel were steering him.
The conversation was over—for now.
Braddock nodded. He’d go down below and see how the crew was doing. See, think…and plan.
Because, he imagined, none of them had any time at all.
Book One
Before the Voyage
1932
1
Fortieth Street and Eighth Avenue,
New York City
ANN DARROW SAT ON THE hard wood chair—one of three—that faced the secretary’s desk. The woman opposite her turned the pages of the Daily News while she chewed and popped her gum.
It was odd—as if Ann weren’t even here. The wooden blinds sent slices of brilliant sun into the room and, at this angle, she could see thousands of tiny dust motes floating in the air.
Floating, she thought, like me…loose, no direction.
Maybe even a bit lost.
Her dream of being an actress, of having a career…it all seemed so fantastic now, almost impossible.
She looked at the office door. Every now and then she heard a laugh indicating that the meeting was still going on.
She had been waiting for thirty minutes…thirty minutes past her appointment. As if she didn’t feel worthless enough.
Ann turned and looked at the door to the office, the beveled glass showing the backward letters that read VICTOR MAJOR THEATRICALS. Then, below it, AGENTS TO THE STAGE AND SCREEN.
Screen.
That’s where all the buzz was, Ann knew. Moving pictures kept getting bigger and bigger, and New York might not be the place to be anymore.
And what were her chances of gettin
g to Hollywood, to act, to where this new world of movies was exploding despite the tough times?
None. Not without money.
And so far any money she earned was just barely enough to keep her going, pay the rent, pay for food.
She looked down at her shoes. Though she had polished them earlier, Ann saw that they still had scuff marks around the edges. New York was a tough town on shoes. And she had only two pair, and her others were showing even more signs of wear.
Her fingers held her hat tight. After her first check from the Follies, she had bought the hat. To treat herself. The style was perfect, and she loved how cute it looked. Though the curtain operator at those shows said, “Hey, Annie…looks like a helmet. You wanna nab a fella or go to war?”
Manny, her protector and the man who made her look so funny in their Follies act, said it was adorable.
Though it was a comic act, still it was…an act. An important step, she had thought.
If only the show had run longer…
Manny said something would turn up. Irons in the fire, he remarked.
There were always new shows, new productions, and always a new bunch of kids, singers, dancers, actors, waiting in the wings.
Waiting in the wings…
The secretary looked up in mid-chew. She didn’t smile at Ann. Guess I’m not a very high-ticket client, she thought. Not even worth the occasional smile, or “Mr. Major will be right with you.”
But then there was another burst of laughter, closer now, and the inner office door opened.
Victor Major, all four feet of him, came out, a chunky arm on the shoulder of someone easily a foot or two taller. That man, still grinning from whatever joke, looked down at Ann. A bold appraisal. Another good-looking lug who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.
Then Ann thought she recognized him. He starred in that new Cole Porter musical, Gay Divorce. Yeah, she had seen him.
The actor held the look for a moment as if asking, Hey, doll, wanna walk out with me and twenty-three skidoo the meeting with your tubby agent?
Ann turned away as the agent steered his client to the door.
“Right, right, well, you just keep those matinee ladies coming back for more, and 1932 will be a very good year.”
The man turned to Major at the door. “I will do my very best. And you make sure you follow up with those film people.”
Film. A fancy name for the photoplays. Fancier even than movies. Film. It’s where Ann knew she should be, making people laugh.
“You got it, Roger. I’m watching out for you.”
The two men shook hands, and then the dashing actor with the self-important smile left the room.
Major took a moment to stop—and adjust his demeanor.
All the smiles and heartiness vanished as if the agent had just stepped out of the shower into a suddenly bone-dry room.
“Okay, Ann. I guess we can talk, hm?”
Dripping with enthusiasm.
“Yes,” she said.
And she stood up and followed the troll-like man into his office.
“You don’t get it, kiddo. There isn’t a lot out there.”
Ann nodded. The agent seemed perpetually distracted by the Sargasso Sea of papers on his desk. Whatever the secretary did for the agent, it had nothing to do with organizing the mess in front of him.
“But,” Ann began, “new shows are opening. All I need is to get into an audition. I’m good, and—”
Major looked over, a flicker of interest in his red-veined eyes. But not an interest in her talent, she immediately felt. The man smiled.
“Of course you’re good, baby. I bet you are very good.”
God, she thought. She thought she had dealt with this when the agent first started handling her, when she was only eighteen. And now here it was again.
Maybe I sound too desperate.
This city, this country, was filled with desperate people. She hoped that maybe if Hoover lost the election, maybe change would come.
“But you know what,” the agent went on, now opening a drawer, fiddling, digging as he spoke to her, “there are a ton of good kids out there, all of ’em wanting to act, on stage, on the big screen. It’s called competition, and—ah—”
He pulled out a silver tube and slid out a half-smoked cigar.
If the agent had to save his half-spent stogie, then Ann guessed he wasn’t exactly doing too well.
Major popped the cigar into his mouth and then lit a match. The room began to fill with the foul smoke.
“Competition,” he continued through clenched teeth. “Though you know—there is something that might be great for you.”
Ann smiled. She imagined that she was going to walk out of the room with nothing.
Major handed her a piece of paper. An audition at the Variety Playhouse—Ann guessed what that meant. Not a real show. Something passing for burlesque, with a good chance that some stripping was involved.
“I don’t think—”
“Hey, don’t be so fast. The Variety is doing a new show, wants some fresh…blood. It would just be something to tide you over. Until you got a real shot, know what I mean?”
She pushed the paper back. She knew other performers, young actresses and chorines who drifted into that, and further. Maybe hooking up with a sugar daddy and not calling it what it really was. A few, she heard, drifted into worse. Getting set up in apartments on the Upper East Side. All set up to run a little business, and then thoughts of acting slowly slipped away with the turnstile arrival of businessmen who still somehow managed to have money.
“No,” she said. “I can’t.”
The agent shrugged. “That’s a shame, sweetie. Wouldn’t be bad. And I know a lot of other girls who’d jump at it.” He looked right at her as he repeated the words…“Jump at it.”
“No,” she said again.
“Well, guess we’re done here. Don’t got nothing else. If I do, I’ll give you a call—” He snapped his fingers, reinforcing his sarcasm. “Oh, forgot. You don’t have a phone, do you?”
“The landlady can take a message.”
“Right, sure. The landlady.” He shook his head.
Ann leaned close. “You must have something else. Something real, doesn’t matter what—or even where.”
He took a puff and made a big smoke ring.
“Doesn’t matter where? You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You know how to ride, don’t you? Horses, I mean?”
Ann had spent her summers upstate…her mom just dumping her off. And her grandfather made sure that she knew how to ride the small farm’s two horses.
“Yes. I can.”
For a moment Ann imagined some show with a Western theme, and they needed singers and dancers who could ride. She started to get excited. This could be something—
“And you…like to ride?”
Ann nodded, still excited, but now she noticed a funny smile on Major’s face.
“Well—and you can relocate for a while. I mean, until something more substantial comes along?”
“Yes, I can, but—”
“Ever hear of the Steel Pier?”
The Steel Pier—a half-mile of shows, photoplays, exhibits—was a full day’s entertainment for one low price. “Yes, I have. In Atlantic City.”
“Yup. Good old AC. Greatest boardwalk in the world. The best salt water taffy too. And the seafood? Doesn’t get fresher.”
“But…what’s the job?”
For a moment Ann forgot that they had started this by discussing her riding. She imagined that it might be something for an exhibit, a hostess, maybe talking about a new Ford, or—
“They need to add another girl to one of their big attractions. Maybe their biggest attraction.”
The room now filled with a filmy smoke that started to make Ann feel sick.
I’m going to throw up if I don’t get out of here.
“What will I do?”
“Something great, Ann.
Something big. Probably biggest thing you’ll ever do!”
She waited. The bastard loved that he was teasing her.
“You’ll get on a horse, climb high above the crowds—and then dive right into the Atlantic Ocean! Now how about that?”
Ann looked out the window.
The world-famous diving horses of the Steel Pier.
And at least, she thought, it isn’t stripping….
2
Hunter’s Point Navy Yard,
San Francisco Bay
SAM KELLY WATCHED THE AIR hose as it streamed into the murky water like an endless snake.
“I don’t know why the hell they bother,” DiGiacomo said. “I mean, what the hell for? This whole operation shuts down in what? Eight days. Eight goddamn days, and then this becomes just another abandoned Navy yard. I don’t get it.”
That DiGiacomo didn’t get “it” was, by now, quite clear. The base was closing, and they were soon out of the Navy. What Sam also knew was that the short, barrel-chested diver didn’t need any encouragement to continue. He was one of those special people who could continue a whole conversation, and keep it running all by himself.
Sam looked up.
He saw a small cruiser moored nearby, and a few Navy freight ships. To all appearances, this yard still looked like a going concern.
But he knew better.
His commission ended in three days; then the whole yard shuttered a week after that.
And yet…still the training continued. Young guys learning the ins and outs of hard-helmet diving, even though the U.S. Navy would be closing down shop here.
Then what?
Good question that.
For a Brooklyn boy, Sam had come far.
From the Irish ghetto of Flatbush to this near paradise of San Francisco. He remembered the first time he saw the pictures that fired his imagination, men in bulky dive suits and giant helmets, wandering through another world, stepping around coral and past schools of fish with amazing colors.
And sometimes the diver held a knife in his hand as a shark or barracuda did what—in the magazines at least—seemed natural…attack, teeth bared, ready to rip the tough material of the dive suit to shreds.
The Island of the Skull Page 1