§ § § - March 8, 1980
Mary Ann Carlin, it turned out, was so popular that she was actually scheduled for a performance within the hour of her arrival. Leslie, who was hoping to get Mary Ann's autograph before the ventriloquist got too deeply involved in her fantasy, accompanied Roarke to the supper club, where an eager audience had gathered and was enjoying Mary Ann's act with Valerie. It soon became clear to Leslie that Valerie was the "star" of the act and that Mary Ann, like most ventriloquists, played straight man; but as the act progressed, both she and Roarke began to get an idea of what Mary Ann was up against.
"How do you like my ring, darling?" Valerie purred in a sultry voice that didn't even sound like Mary Ann's, disguised or not. "Omar gave it to me. You remember Omar, the oil man? It was part of our divorce settlement."
"Oh, I remember," Mary Ann said. "Omar was your third husband."
"Fourth," Valerie corrected. "I made him a millionaire. Of course, he was a multimillionaire when I met him." She chortled, and the audience laughed in appreciation; Leslie and Roarke chuckled, glancing at each other and Tattoo, who had managed to arrive with a pretty blonde on his arm. Onstage Valerie added, "Oh, he wants to marry me again—to get back some of the money I married him for. Ooh...I think I'm getting a migraine."
"Valerie, I'm appalled that you'd marry somebody just for money!"
"No, no...you don't marry for money, you divorce for it!" At this line even Roarke let out a laugh; Leslie grinned, but already she thought Valerie came across as much too cynical. Roarke glanced at her, took in her expression in just that one second, and smiled at her in reassurance as Mary Ann spoke again.
"Is that all you ever think about, is men? Men and money?" she asked. "What about love? Love, and romance?" For some reason, Leslie noticed, the question caused Roarke's expression to become solemn; she looked back at Mary Ann, whose bewildered look seemed to be genuine.
"Oh, Mary Ann, you're so common!" scoffed Valerie. "Why must you be a wet blanket? Don't your juices flow?" Valerie's large blue eyes rolled back and forth as if in sheer disdain. "Honey, what you need is some young blood."
"I have young blood," protested Mary Ann.
Valerie leaned over and seemed to eye Mary Ann up and down before retorting cruelly, "Why keep it in such an old container?" The audience cackled in glee, and Tattoo chortled; but Roarke's expression remained dark, and Leslie began to get nervous stomach. Usually the ventriloquist got in at least as many barbs as the dummy, but that clearly wasn't true in this case; Mary Ann just seemed to serve as a target for Valerie. She leaned over and said as much to Roarke, who nodded.
"You're right, Leslie—very observant," he said softly. "And there you see, if only in a surface manner, the problem Miss Carlin faces."
"And speaking of old—" the puppet began, but Mary Ann covered her mouth with one hand.
"That's enough, Valerie," she said firmly, turning to the gathering. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for being such a nice audience; it was wonderful being with you!" She stepped off the stool and bowed, and the audience applauded for her, giving her a standing ovation as Mary Ann started offstage. Leslie thought she heard Valerie say, "Speak for yourself!" but wasn't quite sure; she and Tattoo both caught Roarke's nod, and Tattoo had a quick word with the blonde before he, Roarke and Leslie headed for the backstage area.
"Most enjoyable, Miss Carlin," Roarke said in greeting as Mary Ann and Valerie came down from the steps leading to the stage wings.
"I love your act," added Tattoo in a heartfelt voice.
Leslie smiled as Mary Ann thanked him, but was unable to do more than that. "Tattoo, Mr. Roarke, I'd like you to meet my manager, George Reardon." Reardon came forward, and greetings, handshakes and introductions were exchanged amongst them.
Then Valerie demanded, as if of her own volition, "Aren't you gonna introduce me, dummy?" This she directed at Mary Ann, and Leslie winced. "After all, I am the better half of the act. I mean, who goes to see plain Jane?" Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other and caught Leslie's increasingly uncomfortable mien.
A little sheepishly, Mary Ann said, "This is my colleague, Valerie."
"How do you do, Valerie?" said Roarke politely.
Tattoo offered in a cheerful tone, "Hello, Valerie." Leslie murmured a greeting, with little enthusiasm; something about Valerie made her want to hide behind Roarke, as if to keep the dummy from noticing her.
"Say goodbye, Valerie," Mary Ann said then, taking the puppet to a large wooden box nearby. As Mary Ann lay her inside it, they all noticed Valerie grunt in annoyance and then mutter distinctly, "One of these days..."
Roarke frowned, watching, then offered, "If you are ready, one of our drivers will take you to your bungalow now, Miss Carlin."
"Of course," Mary Ann agreed, placing a lid on the puppet's box.
"I'll meet you later for lunch, and dancing, and riding," George Reardon suggested to Mary Ann then. "Let's have some fun."
"As soon as I get settled in," Mary Ann promised, and Reardon agreed, taking his leave with a few words to Roarke and Tattoo.
"Well...Mr. Reardon seems very fond of you, Miss Carlin," Roarke observed low as Reardon left.
Mary Ann smiled. "It's mutual."
"He doesn't seem to know why you're really here," Tattoo remarked.
"He doesn't. Part of my reason for wanting to get my head straightened out is so we can find out how we really feel about each other."
"I see," said Roarke. "And are you worried that he might find the Valerie part of you more intriguing, or appealing, or...fascinating, than the Mary Ann?"
Mary Ann started to answer, then reconsidered; finally she let the question go and simply shrugged a little. Roarke relented. "Since you've just come from a long plane trip and an immediate performance, I suggest you rest in your bungalow for the next hour or so; Tattoo and Leslie and I have other guests to attend to, and once that is done, I will meet you in your bungalow at that time."
"Can we make it two hours?" asked Mary Ann. "I'd like to have a shower."
Roarke agreed, and with that they took their leave, returning to the main house in a rover. "I told you her act was great," Tattoo said enthusiastically as they made the short drive back. "There's a good reason she's so popular. That Valerie just cracks me up."
"Valerie's creepy," said Leslie, as if in dissent. Roarke glanced at her in the rearview mirror; Tattoo twisted around in the front seat to stare at her.
"Why do you say that?" he wanted to know.
"It's like I told Mr. Roarke," she said. "Valerie gets all the laughs—and she does it by being cruel to Mary Ann. And Mary Ann doesn't get to return the favor. All she does is get the darts thrown at her, and that's not right or fair. It makes the act mean instead of funny, and I can't figure out why nobody else sees that. That audience was just hysterical."
"They think it's part of the act, Leslie," Roarke explained. "Very few people see the truth behind the façade. Somehow I doubt you would either, were you not previously aware of the reason Miss Carlin has come here."
"Maybe not, but it'd still bother me about Valerie getting all the insults in and being so mean about it. Valerie's a bully," Leslie announced, "and I hate bullies."
"Then you better not let Valerie know that," Tattoo said teasingly. She simply made a face at him, and he shrugged and turned back to face front.
In the study, David Farley was pacing the floor waiting for them; Roarke apologized for this, and Farley waved it off. "No problem. So...whose autograph book is that lying there on your desk?" he asked with a grin.
Leslie's face flamed as she admitted, "It's mine. I, um..."
Farley laughed and picked it up. "I don't mind signing it at all. What's your name?"
"Leslie Hamilton," she said, and Farley pulled a pen out of a holder on the desk and signed the book while Roarke gave him a quick explanation of Leslie's history.
"Wow," said Farley, handing Leslie the book. "Sorry to hear that, Leslie." She thanked him, trying to hide her fiery cheeks by reading the inscription on the page; it said, To Leslie, with best wishes, David Farley the Jungle Man.
"Thanks for the autograph, Mr. Farley," she said, clearing her throat as she noted the amusement on the men's faces. "Anyway, you're not here to sign your name all over the place, I know that." The actor grinned at her, but his expression grew rapidly pensive and he began to meander toward the shuttered side windows, driving his hands into his pockets.
Roarke took the initiative, seeing that Farley's mood was beginning to swing south. "Well, Mr. Farley, are you ready for your fantasy?"
Farley turned to face him with some surprise. "Ready? I've been waiting for this chance for the past two years, ever since my television series was canceled."
"You keep in good shape," Tattoo commented.
"I trained for this role like a fighter trains for a shot at the championship. Maybe harder," Farley said. "Because in a way, I...I don't know, I kinda became the character. I am Jungle Man." As if he had noticed the looks between the men and Leslie, he added, "Or at least, the old me was. Which, as the producers' lawyers said, makes me an obsolete man. It's kind of hard on the ego, being called obsolete at thirty-seven. You don't want to hear it, even if it is true."
Tattoo seemed to have an inspiration and turned to Roarke. "Boss...maybe we could help him to sue those producers."
"Thanks, Tattoo," Farley said before Roarke could speak, "but giving me this fling as Jungle Man is all I ask."
Roarke smiled at that. "Oh, your fantasy will be more than just an acting 'fling', Mr. Farley. It will be real."
Farley looked surprised at that, then seemed to accept it, a smile breaking out on his own features. "I'm in your hands. The other characters from my television series—will they be there too?"
Roarke smiled again and sat up. "Mara, your wife, yes; your enemy, Derek Haskell, the White Hunter; Prester John, your faithful native friend; and Princess...uh..."
"Rima," Tattoo supplied eagerly, and Leslie grinned.
"Princess Rima, yes," Roarke said, nodding.
"Who wanted to, uh, you and her...you know what I mean," Tattoo added with a broad smile of recollection. This time Leslie giggled a little.
Farley gave her an understanding smile. "They sound kinda corny, don't they. I don't know, maybe they were." He settled into a club chair. "Our stories were just simple—good versus evil. The audience loved it."
"We all did," Tattoo agreed. "I still watch the reruns." Roarke released a faint huff of amusement and regarded Tattoo with a smile; Tattoo caught it and returned it, and it made Leslie smile in turn. She had always been in awe of the close brotherly relationship Roarke and Tattoo seemed to have.
"That's why I need this fantasy," Farley said then, voice soft but intense. "If I can become that character one more time...being strong, confident, able to handle things...maybe when I come back, I can put the pieces of my own life together. If it doesn't work..." His voice trailed off, and an anguished look crept over his features as he lowered his head and pulled in a few deep breaths. Leslie tipped her head to one side, wondering again what he had been through to be in this much pain.
Tattoo gave Roarke a look of appeal, and Roarke glanced at him, then arose with an almost abrupt mien. "You understand, Mr. Farley, your fantasy has been one of the most difficult we've ever attempted, hasn't it, you two?"
"Right, boss!" Tattoo agreed, and Leslie nodded.
"Yes," Roarke went on, coming to take the other club chair beside Farley, "the people from your past whom I just mentioned will be there, alive, in the same way that other famous fictional characters—Oliver Twist, Sherlock Holmes, Sir Galahad, and Hamlet—can come alive: with motives, passions and honesties true to themselves."
"I'll pick up where I left off?" Farley asked.
"Not quite," Tattoo said. "They've continued lives of their own since the series ended."
"So you must understand, Mr. Farley, you will have no script to follow, no stuntmen in dangerous situations. You will have only yourself to rely on; and since it will all be real...if you are killed during your adventure, Mr. Farley, you will be dead a very long time."
Farley seemed unfazed by this last; his features took on a look of wonder. "Mara, all of it, real...I couldn't ask for more than that, Mr. Roarke. When do I start?"
"Right now," said Leslie with a smile.
Roarke nodded and arose, gesturing at the time-travel room at the foot of the stairs. "Just through that door."
Farley looked at him, at Tattoo, at Leslie, then drew in an anticipatory breath and strode to the door, opening it, then pausing to stare back at them. When he didn't say anything, Tattoo offered, "Good luck, Jungle Man."
With a small smile at that, Farley turned and slipped fully inside, closing the door. Leslie loitered beside the chair Roarke had been sitting in, staring at the door while her guardian and his assistant retreated behind the desk once more. After a moment Roarke noticed and inquired, "Is something wrong, Leslie?"
"I was just thinking a few minutes ago," she murmured, without taking her eyes off the door. "When he said maybe he could figure out how to put his real life back together after this fantasy ends. He must have been through some really awful things. He looked so unhappy...really lost, like he..." She hesitated, then peered at Roarke and said with some reluctance, "Like he thought his only other option was suicide."
"You really think so?" Tattoo asked, looking startled.
Roarke settled back in his chair. "Mr. Farley went through a very bitter divorce in the past year, and it's no secret that he has had severe financial difficulties in the wake of the cancellation of 'Jungle Man'. The divorce merely exacerbated that. His agent dropped him when he could no longer find acting work, and now he has had even appearances in the guise of his character taken from him."
"Wow," Leslie murmured, biting her lip.
"People have bounced back from worse problems than that," said Tattoo. "I'm sure when his fantasy's over, he'll have some more confidence in himself."
"I hope you're right," said Leslie, turning to him, "because the way he talked, being Jungle Man one final time is his last hope."
Roarke regarded her with interest, then smiled gently. "You may well be right, Leslie," he said. "For now, suppose you take all the outgoing mail to the post office for me, hm? Tattoo, I have several errands I need you to run; a driver is waiting out front for you. There's a delivery down at the ferry dock that must be picked up, and I'd like you to deliver the regular restaurant orders to the fishing village and the pineapple plantation."
"Got it, boss," Tattoo agreed, and he and Leslie left together, with Leslie toting a post-office bucket filled with envelopes and a few packages. Tattoo's driver dropped her off at the post office, where she handed over the bucket and then returned to the main house on foot; when she got there, Roarke was preparing to leave.
"Is it already time to go to Mary Ann Carlin's bungalow?" she asked.
Roarke nodded. "If you wish to get Miss Carlin's autograph, perhaps this would be the best time to do so," he said. She nodded and grabbed the book from where it still lay on Roarke's desk, and followed him out to another rover parked beside the fountain.