by Robert Lock
There was a pause. The phone line was so clear Julian could hear the unmistakable sound of an American police siren in the distance.
“Mr Walker?”
“Carmen?”
“Nathan, you know, the guy I was talking to, he is an associate producer, and he does get to hear about casting decisions. We’re not talking about the catering assistant here.”
Julian started to shade the innermost triangle. “They’re often the ones who know the most. As far as the sort of people you mix with are concerned catering assistants and such-like are invisible… plates just magically appear in front of them, then poof! they’re gone again, but these invisible people have ears. They can hear what’s being discussed.”
“Every now and then you remind me how you got to be MD, Julian.” Carmen unclipped one earring and gently massaged the lobe of her ear. “Okay, here’s the deal. This guy Mike Kavana, the one from the Aussie soap Sunset Beach who’s trying his hand at singing… the guy that’s supposed to be coming to you for the summer season, is being lined up for a big part in the next Michael Mann movie. He’s as good as signed, if he hasn’t already. I don’t want you to lose a chunk of your star billing halfway through the season, or maybe even sooner than that, because you’d blame me for not doing my job. He’ll sign for you, because he’s not stupid and he knows a studio contract might never materialise, so it’s as well to have a back-up plan, but if Hollywood says yes he’ll be out of your theatre so quick you won’t have time to bring the curtain down.”
The EuroEnts Managing Director smiled ruefully to himself.
“You’ve lived in LA for too long, Carmen. You can’t tell the difference between a script and real life any more. I’ve got Mike Kavana’s signature on a contract, and he’ll be here next month to honour that deal. I only hope he doesn’t find out how little faith you have in him.” He glanced at his watch. “Anyway, you’re missing out on your beauty sleep, so I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for the call.”
“Okay, Julian, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Call me the next time you’re in town. I’ll take you to Spago’s for dinner.”
“I will. Goodnight, Carmen. Sweet dreams.”
He replaced the receiver and sat back for a moment, then swivelled round to his laptop and keyed in the password. Opening an anonymous folder tucked safely away in a remote corner of the computer’s hard drive, Julian clicked on a sub-folder labelled Pier Theatre and moved the cursor down a list of headings until he came to Summer Season Spoilers. Clicking again, he read the bullet points and added the line Mike Kavana leaves to star in film. Re-reading all the entries, including his latest addition, Julian tapped out a staccato rhythm of pleasure on the laptop’s hard plastic deck. When the decisions of others, taken in offices and boulevard cafes and cocaine-fuelled parties thousands of miles away, so dovetailed and enhanced his own plans, it could only mean that his was the righteous cause, the karmic imperative. There was an inevitability to the sequence of events that gave Julian a feeling of destiny, as though some higher power were guiding him towards greater and greater success. Business rivals had always regarded his uncle’s acumen and foresight with envy, even wonder; thirty years later the company his uncle founded had become a household name, a byword for leisure and entertainment, and now that he was in charge they would have to accord him a similar degree of respect.
He closed the secret folder. The computer’s desktop displayed a tranquil palm-fringed island, sandwiched between a turquoise sea and cobalt sky. Julian wondered what it felt like to be wealthy enough to buy an island like that, to possess the kind of mindset which meant that whatever you thought of, no matter how extravagant, you could have, without having to consider either the cost, the process or the consequences.
He wrote WorldEnts next to the triangles. GlobalEnts. What other words were there for the planet? Walker Worldwide. WorldWalker. Walker—
The intercom buzzer startled him out of his reverie. Julian pushed the flashing button. “Yes?”
“David Clark’s arrived? The pier manager? Your eleven o’clock meeting?”
Samantha, his PA, was an efficient young woman, with a truculent air he approved of, but she suffered from a habit which seemed to afflict many of her generation, that of ending each sentence with a rising intonation that turned every statement into a question.
“Oh, right.” Julian exhaled loudly. He had arranged the meeting as a means of reinforcing the impression that he was committed to the pier theatre’s long-term survival, even though plans for its re-development were safely stored on his laptop. To defuse the anger of both staff and conservationists Julian had realised quite some time ago that he had to seem to be trying to keep the theatre going, and part of this charade involved going through the normal business processes: booking acts, setting up seasonal shows, fixing maintenance schedules, in short, appearing to be fully involved with the day-to-day running of the pier. Hence that morning’s summer season planning meeting, even though he regarded David Clark as just the kind of old-fashioned, laissez-faire manager who had no part to play in the future of EuroEnts. Sammy Samuels was even worse, a foul-mouthed comic whose heyday lay thirty years in the past and who had only taken up residence at the end of the pier because there was nowhere else for him to go. Having these anachronisms cluttering up his schedule irked Julian greatly, but he was sufficiently astute to recognise their importance in bolstering the impression of business-as-usual. If he could convince David and Sammy that the company was not operating a secret agenda then their confidence in the theatre’s future would percolate through to the rest of the staff, leaving Julian free to orchestrate its demise without interference, whilst at the same time appearing blameless as to the outcome.
He pressed the intercom button. “Send them in in five minutes, Samantha. I’ve got a personal call to make.”
David Clark squinted at his reflection in the stainless steel plaque as he attempted to adjust his tie, bending his knees to avoid the etched lettering EuroEnts Ltd & Walker Holdings.
Sammy Samuels watched the pier manager with undisguised contempt. “What the fuck are you pratting about at? Anybody’d think you were here for a job interview.”
“That’s what it feels like,” David replied. “With Julian every meeting’s like a job interview. He said to me only last week that the company was facing a challenging year, and that the days of a guaranteed job were over.”
The comedian shook his head. “He’s just playing management mind games with you, but you’re too bloody naive to see it. They always come out with crap like that before the start of the season… it’s supposed to make us all work like niggers and not complain.”
“I find that word offensive, if you don’t mind.”
“What? Complain?”
David patted down his fringe. “You know what I mean.”
“You worry too much,” Samuels concluded. “A fella your size shouldn’t be getting so stressed. You’ll keel over with a heart attack and then it won’t matter to you what happens to the theatre.”
“Thanks for your concern.” The pier manager pressed the intercom button, and moments later a metallic voice enquired, “Can I help you?”
“Oh, yes,” he stuttered. “Hello…it’s David Clark and Sammy Samuels… We’ve got a meeting with Mr Walker.”
There was a pause. “Ah, yes.” The lock buzzed, and as David pushed open the door he stopped and turned to Sammy, who bumped into him. “You do realise that whatever you say in this meeting will affect a lot of people, not just you? Headliner or not, you’re part of a team, and it doesn’t matter whether you think Julian is playing ‘mind games’ or not, people’s livelihoods are on the line. Just try to remember that you’re in the managing director’s office, not on stage. The same rules don’t apply.”
Samuels backed away slightly. Pursed lips and a nod of the head seemed to suggest that he was seriously weighing up the pier manager’s words, an impression strengthened when he placed one hand on David’s shoulder i
n what appeared to be a gesture of solidarity. But when David saw the cold malevolence in Sammy’s eyes he knew there was to be no concurrence.
“I’m Sammy Samuels,” he whispered. “People recognise me all over the country. D’you know how I know? I see them looking. I see them pointing. They pay to come and see me. They’ll pay to come and see me wherever I am. Any theatre, any town. Doesn’t matter where. Speak like that to me again, sunshine, and you’ll be looking for a new star of the fucking show. You got that?”
For a moment the pier manager wondered whether it would be worth calling the comedian’s bluff. If Samuels did walk out he would be free of his jibes and bullying, with the added bonus of seeing him fined for breach of contract, and yet if he stayed Sammy’s position would inevitably be weakened. Either outcome was tempting, but then a mental image flashed into David’s head, an image of him walking on stage to explain to the audience that the main act would not be appearing, that of course their money would be refunded, and that as he spoke there would be Julian J Walker in the front row, stony-faced as he made a note in his electronic organiser.
David Clark turned away from the rain-flecked abstractions of the resort and headed into the bright, anodyne, rational offices of EuroEnts, all too aware that he had gifted the comedian yet another victory in their ongoing battle of wills.
“Does anybody actually know what these things mean?” Sammy enquired, peering at one of the framed motivational posters outside Julian’s office. “Success depends on brave decisions,” he read out loud, then tapped the photograph of a solo climber dangling one-handed from a precipice. “Presumably this fella made the right decision, because they wouldn’t use a picture of someone who fell off and spread ‘emselves all over the rocks at the bottom, would they? Mind you, you could use a photo of that instead. A body all bashed up, brains and guts all over the place. Underneath it could say Don’t applaud when you’re climbing.”
A buzzer sounded on the desk of Julian’s PA. She picked up her telephone. “Yes? Yes, they’re both here? Certainly.” She glanced up at them. “You can go in now?”
David Clark leaped in front of the comedian. For some reason he felt it was essential to enter the managing director’s office first.
“Once more unto the breach,” he murmured, opening the door.
The EuroEnts empire encompassed two theatres in the resort as well as the pier, along with a casino, amusement arcades, hotels and a go-kart track. There was also an amusement park in Herefordshire, a theatre in London, numerous villa and apartment complexes dotted around the Mediterranean and, the chairman’s latest baby, a non-league football club who, he insisted, would be playing Manchester United within ten years. All this had grown from William Walker’s first business venture, an apartment block in Torremolinos purchased just as the British began to flock to Spain. Further shrewd investments along the Costa del Sol made William a millionaire by the time he was thirty, and since then he had developed his company into one of the major players of the leisure industry, timing each acquisition to perfection as he anticipated a succession of trends. Thirty years of success saw William become one of the top five hundred richest people in the country, but his wealth never seemed to sit easily with the boy from Salford. He drove a ten-year-old Mercedes, frequently turned up to board meetings wearing golf shoes and the jacket and trousers from two different suits, and once famously pronounced that anyone who says they like caviar is a liar. Happily married for forty years, he and Esther had two daughters, neither of whom showed any desire to have a role in the family business, which left the way open for his brother’s son, who signalled his intent whilst in charge of the amusement park by tripling its profits within two years. Julian achieved this by re-writing employment contracts, bringing in more cheap foreign labour, increasing the rent for all franchises in the park, and lowering the age limit for an adult ticket from sixteen to twelve. None of these measures, naturally, were accepted without protest from both staff and visitors, but a board dominated by accountants saw only the bottom line and recommended him for promotion. William, whose deteriorating health overcame any misgivings about his nephew’s suitability for the role, agreed to the move, in effect signing over the day-to-day running of EuroEnts to Julian whilst retaining the notional title of chairman.
Less than eighteen months after this transfer of power, William had become marginalised to such an extent that his appearance at the company’s AGM consisted of nothing more than a slightly rambling introductory statement, followed by lunch with the only two members of the board he still knew by name. Julian naturally showered praise on his uncle during his speech, asserting that his own business plan was only a natural progression from William’s pioneering and shrewd empire-building, and that under his guidance EuroEnts would benefit from greater financial stability and efficiency. William, and his few remaining allies, predicted a turbulent and diminished future for the company.
Julian stepped from behind his crescent-shaped desk and strode towards David, right arm outstretched. The ceiling spotlamps reflected off his narrow, angular-framed glasses like the warning sweep of a lighthouse.
“Hi… David!” he enthused, shaking the pier manager’s hand whilst gripping his forearm with his left hand. “How are you? Good? Great! Great. Excellent.” His gaze drifted past David to Sammy.
“Ah, the star of the show!”
“Too fucking right,” Sammy muttered under his breath.
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.” The comedian beamed unconvincingly at Julian.
“Just chewing on a brick. I’m under strict instructions not to say a word.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“He’s just joking, Julian,” David said hurriedly. “You know what comedians are like.”
“Ah… yes,” Julian replied, his tone of voice implying not only that he did not know what comedians were like, but also that he regarded such knowledge as supremely unimportant. “I must find the time to catch your show one weekend, Sammy. I hear the numbers aren’t bad for this time of year.”
“Could be worse.”
“Don’t be modest,” David interjected. “We’re up on last year—”
Samuels snorted. “That wouldn’t be difficult.”
“We’re up on last year,” the pier manager persisted, “and Ian’s karaoke nights seem to be bringing in a fair few on Fridays.”
“Excellent,” Julian said, removing all connotations of jubilation from the word and reducing it to a collection of workman-like syllables. “Hopefully we can take advantage of Club Tropicana’s little licensing problem, which I’m keeping a very careful eye on. I can’t understand why underage girls would want to go to an Eighties club anyway, it’s hardly their musical era, is it?”
“Eighties music’s enjoying something of a revival with teenagers, apparently,” David explained.
“Really?”
“Well, it is according to my daughter,” he continued, anxious not to make the managing director seem ignorant or out-of-touch.
“She’s been borrowing all my Ultravox records… She says they’re ‘retro’, which makes me feel extremely old.”
Julian smiled briefly. “I wouldn’t worry about that too much, David. Retro seems to mean anything more than five years old these days. Still, it might be worth our while setting up an Eighties night somewhere if you think there’s enough of a market for it. Club Tropicana doesn’t have exclusive rights to that kind of music, does it?”
“And it’ll give all those underage drinkers somewhere to go,” Sammy added.
“I don’t think Julian—”
“I’m kidding,” the comedian replied heavily. “It’s a joke. You remember them, don’t you? Like, what’s the similarity between a woman and a tornado?”
The pier manager glared at Sammy. “This is neither the time nor the place… ”
Julian, who had studied this brief exchange with a psychiatrist’s analytical interest, touched his top lip with one index finger as thou
gh gesturing for silence. “No, no, let him finish.” The finger pointed briefly at Samuels like a floor manager’s cue. “What is the similarity between a woman and a tornado?”
Sammy paused, just for a moment. There were only two men in front of him, but they still constituted an audience, and his innate sense of timing took over. “They both moan like hell when they’re coming and then they take the house when they leave.”
For one terrifying moment, as Julian’s expression did not alter, David thought the managing director might throw them out of his office. Following on from this ejection, like some devastating chain reaction, he saw the summer season cancelled, the theatre falling into disrepair, its closure and demolition, all within the time it took for Julian to smile faintly and nod some sort of benediction in the direction of Sammy’s joke.
“Ah, yes. Very good. I should imagine that sort of material goes down well with the stag parties.”
Samuels tried to detect an expression of sarcasm or ridicule in Julian’s eyes, but the window’s reflection in his glasses turned both lenses into concealing mirrors. “I’ve had no complaints.”
“I’m sure you haven’t. Anyway, we’d better get on to the business of sorting out next summer’s season. Once that’s out of the way we can have lunch. I thought we might try Franco’s… my treat.”
David’s eyes widened. “Franco’s?”
“Would you prefer to go somewhere else?”
Sammy stepped in front of the pier manager. “Pay no attention to this pillock. Franco’s’ll be fine. It’s all tax deductible anyway, isn’t it?”
“I think you’ll find that the taxman keeps a far closer eye on things than he did in your day, Sammy,” Julian replied. The tone of his voice was so neutral that it was impossible to tell whether he meant the statement to be derogatory or informative.
The comedian, disarmed by this inert style of speech, sat down in the seat offered to him without further comment, followed by David, who sank into the adjacent chair. The pier manager felt that some kind of crisis point had been negotiated, but as little more than the introductions had been completed he could not afford to relax just yet. He felt drained by the verbal jousting and powerplay, and by the sense that, unfairly or not, he would be held responsible for anything controversial Samuels said. And yet, no matter how torrid the meeting turned out, it would have been worthwhile if only to witness how Julian handled Samuels. The managing director’s deadpan technique, coupled with a sort of amused tolerance, certainly seemed to strike a responsive chord within the comedian. Was this, David wondered, the kind of template he should be employing?