§ § § -- November 27, 1982
The first guest off the plane was a balding, gray-haired man wearing glasses with dark square rims. "Ah," Roarke said with recognition, "Mr. Jack Oberstar, a successful businessman from Denver, Colorado."
"He looks kind of uptight," Tattoo commented of the unsmiling man. "What's his fantasy?"
"To go back in time to World War II," said Roarke.
"We sure get a lot of those," Leslie said with a soft sigh.
"I know," Tattoo agreed. "What does he want to be, a dead hero?"
Roarke smiled slightly. "No, my friend, he wants to find proof that his older brother was not the coward history has judged him to be. Unfortunately, he may be risking his life for nothing." Without embellishing on this, he returned his gaze to the plane, where this time a blonde woman clad in an attractive red jacket over a black dress with red stripes stepped out, followed by a man carrying a small, compact television camera.
"Boss, I know her," Tattoo realized in surprise. "She's one of the reporters for that TV newsmagazine."
"Quite right, Tattoo. Ms. Christine Connolly, of Exposé America, one of the most popular television programs of that country."
"Is she out to get one of our guests?" Tattoo inquired, evoking a giggle from Leslie.
Roarke, too, looked oddly amused, even though his next words produced aghast reactions in his two companions. "No, my friend, she is out to get me."
They stared at him. "What do you mean, boss?" demanded Tattoo.
"What'd you do?" Leslie kidded, though her expression was uneasy.
Roarke laughed. "Actually, she intends to prove that Fantasy Island is a fraud."
"What?" squawked Tattoo, outraged. "Boss!" Before he could protest any further, Roarke's drink arrived and he toasted their guests. Jack Oberstar nodded brusquely; Christine Connolly's cameraman filmed Roarke delivering his weekly greeting while she raised her glass with a wide grin that, to Leslie and Tattoo at least, looked challenging.
‡ ‡ ‡
Their first stop was at a bungalow that had been newly constructed over the summer, A-frame-style, with the main entrance on the second floor through French windows that were reached by a two-sectioned outdoor stairway. Within, Jack Oberstar gestured silently at a plush sofa where Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo took seats. Roarke had just broached the possibility of Jack's quest being in vain.
"No, no, no, Mr. Roarke, I know my brother," Jack said firmly. "You see, he was everything to our family." He sat heavily in a chair across from his hosts. "After our father died, Kenny took over. He took two jobs to support us…Lord, he even put me through college. You see, there wasn't a selfish nor a cowardly bone in his body."
Roarke said, "Yet, in my research to prepare your fantasy, I find the Army accused him of abandoning his command under fire, deserting and then engaging in black marketeering in Europe after the war."
"They had no proof," Jack snapped. "No one who knew Kenny ever saw him again after that day near Anzio."
"You think he was killed in action?" Tattoo questioned.
"Yes, I do, Tattoo," Jack said. "And over the years, especially while our mother was still alive, I've tried to prove his innocence. Unfortunately, I've been unsuccessful. And the grief that that caused our mother led her to lose hope and eventually contributed to her early death." Roarke listened quietly, glancing at Tattoo and Leslie, whose faces were solemn.
"I hope your fantasy fulfills all your expectations, Mr. Oberstar," Roarke said after a pause. His voice, like his expression, was sober. "Tattoo?"
Tattoo got up and said, "Follow me, please." Oberstar came after him, and Roarke let Leslie precede him to the tall double doors on the other end of the room. "In here, please," Tattoo directed next, opening the left-hand door. Leslie stepped aside at a glance from Roarke, who followed his guest into the room. Tattoo pulled the door shut and looked at Leslie, who sighed deeply.
"I remember one fantasy where a guy wanted to meet his father who died in World War II," she said slowly, "and Mr. Roarke referred to it as 'the last great romantic conflict.' But almost every World War II fantasy we've had tends to deal with death and betrayal and all kinds of awful tragedies. How can anyone call that romantic?"
Tattoo smiled sadly. "That's a really good question, Leslie," he said. "And I don't think there's a quick answer for it. Come on, let's go back to the main house and wait for the boss there. I'm sure Christine Connolly is on a tight shooting schedule."
Roarke returned before the reporter showed up, but she wasn't far behind; and he invited her to have a seat, which she declined. "How may I be of service?" he inquired.
"Well, I thought that, if it's okay with you, I would interview some of your guests on camera. You have no objections, do you?" Christine asked.
"If they have none, I have none," replied Roarke with a smile.
"Good!" said Christine and turned to survey the room. "Then I thought…oh, this is lovely! Then I thought I might interview you," she added, turning to study him speculatively, "because I would like the audience to watch you as you respond."
Tattoo, having gone to let Christine in, said from behind her, "Boss…" Roarke turned to face him, and he said with enormous suspicion, "She's hoping you'll get mad and throw her out of your office while the camera's rolling."
"Naw, I'm afraid I'll have no such luck," Christine remarked in a tone that made Leslie, who stood behind Roarke's desk going through the mail, look up and frown. "My research tells me that Mr. Roarke has his emotions totally under control at all times…like all good con artists." Leslie's frown turned into a glare.
Roarke eyed her with a reserved but polite smile. "Just what did your 'research' entail, Ms. Connolly?" he inquired coolly.
"Well, mainly, I just interviewed some of your clients," Christine replied, matching his vaguely frosty tone, "some of your guests who've been here before. Would you like to know how many?" Roarke nodded. "Eleven," she told him, "and you know how many dissatisfied customers you had? None."
So there, thought Leslie with a smirk, which Tattoo saw and grinned at in return. Roarke said, "Well, then, may I ask why you are here?"
"Well, because my experience tells me that there is no such thing as eleven satisfied customers," Christine said, pausing against the support post at the top of the foyer steps. "So I don't know what you did, whether you drugged them or hypnotized them, or maybe even both. But I intend to find out. Thanks." She favored them with a smile, turned and let herself out the door.
Leslie dropped the mail and joined Roarke and Tattoo at the steps, just to make sure she was really leaving, while Roarke leaned one hand against the post and watched with one foot on the first step up and a curiously amused smile. Both she and Tattoo saw it and stared at him in disbelief. "You gotta be kidding," Tattoo said.
"She has some nerve," said Leslie. "You know something, Mr. Roarke, I'm glad there's only one TV set in this house. I can't imagine watching muckraking junk like that show she's on. We'd never watch anything like that, would we?" She directed this question at Tattoo, who cleared his throat and lowered his gaze, guiltily shifting his weight. Leslie's mouth dropped open. "Tattoo!" she exclaimed.
"Well, after this, I'll never watch it again," Tattoo announced and eyed a still-smiling Roarke. "I promise, boss. Never thought she'd come after you."
"Well, she won't find anything, will she, Mr. Roarke?" Leslie said loyally.
Roarke just grinned. "She will try," he said. "Now we have a contest to get to, and since I am the announcer, we'd best hurry."
The contest in question turned out to be a weight-lifting competition that was intended to determine the strongest man in the world. Everything went according to plan, and eventually Roarke introduced the next-to-last contestant: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, from Venice, California, USA, Mr. Truck Sheehy." The audience applauded politely while a muscle-bound man took the small stage, which reminded Leslie of a miniature Greek atrium. "Mr. Sheehy will be attempting to lift 570 pounds, a new world's record."
Leslie, bored by the weight-lifting, found herself watching the little white press tent that Roarke had set up for the Exposé America crew behind the last row of seats in the audience. The breeze played with the canvas, making one side of the entrance flap rhythmically so that she could easily see Christine Connolly from time to time, interviewing a skinny African-American man whose back was to the door. Just as the man stepped aside and Christine and her cameraman came out of the tent, Roarke spoke into his microphone, startling Leslie, who turned to watch the doings on stage. "Now I must ask you for absolute silence," her guardian said.
The brawny young man onstage heaved a monstrous barbell over his head and stood straining under the weight of more than a quarter ton, while Roarke looked off to the right and smiled. Leslie followed his gaze. "The judges," Roarke said, "are indicating that Mr. Sheehy has succeeded in lifting five hundred and seventy pounds, for a new world's record!" The man on stage dropped the barbell and everyone began to applaud.
"Only one contestant stands now between Mr. Sheehy and the championship," Roarke went on. "Ladies and gentlemen, here is that final contestant, a virtual unknown from Chandler, Ohio…Mr. Jay Michaels." To Leslie's astonishment, the painfully thin young black man Christine had earlier been interviewing emerged from the press tent and hesitantly approached the stage. The guy might have weighed 120 soaking wet; what business did he have trying to compete in this thing? The audience got one look at him and broke into surprised laughter. Jay Michaels edged away from the murderous glare Truck Sheehy aimed at him and went up onstage.
Leslie saw Christine lift her mike to her lips and speak quietly into it, but she turned to Roarke. "Mr. Roarke…what's that guy doing up there? He probably weighs about a quarter what those barbells do!"
Roarke just winked and smiled at her, then spoke into his own mike. "In this, his first and final attempt of the day, Mr. Michaels will try to break the world's record by lifting five pounds more than Mr. Sheehy," he told the audience.
"Five!" scoffed Jay suddenly from the stage, loudly enough for all to hear. "Let's make that fifty. Let's go for the whole full hilt."
Even Roarke looked a bit stunned. "Fifty pounds, for a total of six hundred and twenty pounds, ladies and gentlemen! I again must ask you for complete silence, please." Tattoo eyed the skinny young man with serious doubt; Leslie winced, convinced Jay Michaels was about to permanently ruin his back. She looked away from the stage and spotted Christine Connolly standing with her cameraman, who was filming the whole thing. She made a face and hid one hand behind her back, where she crossed her fingers.
Jay Michaels bent to grasp the barbell, and Roarke said, "Uh…Mr. Michaels?" The young man came downstage, where Roarke met him and advised, "It is customary to chalk your hands first." Jay cleared his throat, and Roarke turned to Tattoo while Leslie looked on, suddenly realizing what must be about to happen. Trust her guardian to mount his attack from within the enemy's ranks! Her fingers came uncrossed and she tried hard not to smile smugly. Meanwhile, Roarke took a little black box from Tattoo, opened it and lifted out a small pouch, which he held over Jay's outstretched hands. The powder that drifted into his palms seemed to sparkle and gleam like silver. Leslie shot a cautious glance toward Christine, wondering if she had seen it.
Jay returned to the stage, dusting the magical powder across his palms. One of the straps on his light body leotard slipped off his shoulder and he self-consciously drew it back into place, casting a quick look at Christine. Leslie saw her wave at him with the microphone; he grinned and bent to heft up the barbell.
It came up with no effort at all, and his grin vanished into a startled look. He gritted his teeth—undoubtedly for show, Leslie thought—and heaved the thing to shoulder height, glancing back and forth to be sure he had everyone's attention. Finally, baring his teeth again, he lifted the barbell high over his head and stood with a broad smile, not even straining. The audience was clearly stunned; Truck Sheehy's mouth fell open, and so did that of Christine Connolly. Roarke glanced at the judges, both of whom nodded.
"The judges have confirmed it, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Jay Michaels has lifted a record-breaking six hundred and twenty pounds to win the championship!"
Jay dropped the barbell and Leslie looked over at Christine, whose mouth still hung open. She smirked again while Jay leaped up and down on the stage yelling, "I did it! I don't believe I did it…I did it!!" It was then that Christine turned a stare of sheer consternation in Roarke's direction; it was obvious that she saw not only Leslie's smirk but Roarke's knowing smile, and shot them both a supremely dirty look.