§ § § -- March 8, 1982
They watched two plainclothes policemen escort Frank Barton onto the dock; for a moment the man turned to stare at the three of them with something akin to angry hopelessness in his eyes. Tattoo looked at Roarke and remarked, "Mr. Barton's fantasy didn't turn out happily."
"Boy, there's an understatement for you," Leslie remarked.
Roarke smiled faintly and said, "Perhaps it will in the long run, Tattoo. He will now be where he should have been for a long time—under a doctor's care."
"Why did you grant him his fantasy?" Tattoo demanded, voicing Leslie's thoughts as well. "You could have been killed!"
"If I didn't, his sick mind would have driven him to seek prey somewhere else," Roarke explained. "Do you understand?"
Leslie and Tattoo both nodded in realization. "You know, Mr. Roarke, I'm really glad you're on our side," Leslie remarked, and Tattoo nodded vigorous agreement. Roarke smiled; then a car pulled up with Jack Hecker and Suzi Swann.
"Thank you, Mr. Roarke," Suzi said, "from both of us."
"Oh, then the fashion show was a success, from your point of view?" Roarke asked.
Hecker smiled. "I've had a dozen offers to create a new line of designer dresses, which we will begin to think about right after our honeymoon." He squeezed a radiant Suzi.
Suddenly Tattoo held out a box of gumdrops and said playfully, "Miss Swann, I have a going-away present for you…just in case."
Suzi grinned. "Aw…thanks, Tattoo, but no thanks. I like things just the way they are." Laughing, they all made their farewells; then Tattoo turned to Roarke again.
"Boss, what about her fantasy?" he questioned curiously. "After all, she didn't fall out of love with him."
"Ah, that is a question of interpretation, Tattoo. Miss Swann did fall out of love with the Jack Hecker she used to know," Roarke said, taking the box of gumdrops from him, "but at the same time, she fell in love with the new Mr. Hecker, who appreciates her for the loving, desirable woman that she is." As he spoke, he opened the box and extracted a piece of candy, popping it into his mouth once he had finished talking. Leslie watched him all the while, then bit her lip when she saw his chewing slow as if in contemplation.
He shot her a sudden glare, then directed it at Tattoo and said, "I don't like you." Tattoo drew back in shock, while Roarke peered at Leslie and shook his head. "You either!"
"Hey!" she protested, stunned. "Tattoo, where'd you get those awful things?"
"I didn't actually think they were those gumdrops!" exclaimed Tattoo. Roarke, still glaring narrowly at them both, made a face of sheer contempt and tipped forward toward them for a moment as if in threat. "Oh, boss!"
All of a sudden Roarke lost his composure and began to snicker, and Tattoo and Leslie sagged in relief before looking at each other and laughing at themselves as much as at him. Tattoo shook a playfully scolding finger at him, and Roarke reached out to pat his shoulder and squeeze Leslie's, still laughing.
§ § § -- July 4, 2006
Christian could only shake his head when they'd finished. "Herregud, my Rose, you seemed to have a knack for getting into trouble in those days."
"Hey, it's not like it was my fault," Leslie protested, playfully bopping him on one thigh. "Listen, just for you, here's one that was really a lot of fun for me. Okay, folks, do you remember a 70s rock star by the name of Jimmy Jordan?"
"Wasn't he one of those glam rockers or something? The kind that should have gone out with Kiss and Alice Cooper when that era ended?" Julie asked.
"He was very popular in Europe," Christian said thoughtfully. "Late 70s, early 80s…he was one of those oddball types of rock musicians that Roald would have been interested in had he been old enough at the time. I seem to remember Gerhard having bought a record or two of his. My brothers and sister couldn't understand his appeal, my parents paid no attention at all, and I myself had different tastes."
"Didn't he disappear late in 1982?" Rogan asked.
"Indeed he did," Roarke said, "and when he did, he came here. And this is why."
§ § § -- October 30, 1982
The band that year consisted of the usual four musicians, plus this time a crop of six lively dancing women to add some interest. Leslie didn't mind the new tunes that Roarke incorporated every fall—although she felt that this year's was more suited to a Caribbean island than a South Pacific Polynesian stronghold—but she still wasn't sure about the dancers. She watched them leaping, twirling and trailing brightly colored silk banners in the air around them until Tattoo's question, "Who is she, boss?" diverted her attention. A somewhat plain-looking woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a nondescript blue dress and with her brown hair haloing her head in a riot of untamed curls, was on her way down the landing ramp.
"Miss Andrea Barclay, from St. Louis, Missouri," said Roarke. "She's come to Fantasy Island hoping to begin a long and illustrious career in musicals."
"Oh, is she an actress?" Tattoo queried.
"She not only acts, she also dances and sings, too," Roarke said.
"Then what's the problem?"
"She's never really been able to perform on stage, Tattoo." As Andrea Barclay stepped onto the grass with her drink, Leslie now saw that her first impression had been mistaken; she was actually quite pretty, though her hairstyle didn't suit her at all in Leslie's opinion. If truth be told, Leslie thought she bore a strong resemblance to Nyah, the pesky mermaid princess. Roarke continued: "You see, Miss Barclay suffers from a paralyzing case of stage fright. It's so bad that she's on the brink of giving up her dream entirely. So this weekend will either make or break a promising career that has not yet even begun."
"You mean we hold the power to decide whether she becomes a star?" Leslie asked, amazed. "Boy, that could be a really heady thing."
Roarke just grinned and turned back to the plane dock as a shortish man dressed in a trench coat and hat, wearing sunglasses and a nicely trimmed beard and mustache, stepped out of the hatch. He glanced furtively back and forth once or twice as he started along the dock, trying to hunch over and hide his face inside his coat lapels. "That guy looks kind of jumpy," Tattoo noted.
"He has reason to be jumpy, Tattoo," Roarke said gravely. "His name is—" He caught himself, looked around to be sure nobody was within earshot, then leaned down so that Tattoo and Leslie could hear him and said softly, "Jimmy Jordan."
Leslie's eyes nearly sprang from her head; Tattoo registered shocked excitement. "Jimmy Jor—" he blurted aloud, cut off only by Roarke's hand over his mouth. Blinking, he peered up at Roarke and all but whispered, "Jimmy Jordan!? The famous rock singer who got killed in a car accident?"
"Well, that's what he wants everyone to think," Roarke explained, voice still low. "You see, while giving a concert in Las Vegas two nights ago, he inadvertently witnessed a gangland execution." Tattoo turned to stare at him in alarm; Leslie, who had thought her eyes couldn't get any wider, discovered she had been wrong. Roarke nodded. "The man he saw holding the gun is the most powerful figure in the world of organized crime—a man who will stop at nothing to make sure that—" He lowered his voice still more. "—Jimmy Jordan doesn't live to testify against him."
"You mean he's running from the mob?" Leslie asked.
Roarke nodded again. "I'm afraid so, yes."
"Does he have a fantasy?" Tattoo put in.
Roarke stared at him in disbelief; Leslie began to giggle at the exasperated look on her guardian's face. "Isn't it obvious, Tattoo?" he asked incredulously, and elaborated when the Frenchman shook his head: "The man wants to stay alive!" On Tattoo's expression of understanding, Roarke straightened up, barely in time to meet the girl who brought him his drink on a silver tray. "Does he have a fantasy," he muttered disgustedly, and Tattoo shrugged, then shot Leslie a quelling look as Roarke raised his glass and called out, "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"
Andrea Barclay smiled and raised her glass in return; Jimmy Jordan barely nodded, looked around behind him and tried to hide behind his drink. Roarke threw Tattoo one last glance, and Tattoo executed one more shrug, which just renewed Leslie's laughter.
‡ ‡ ‡
They arrived at the theater in Amberville and made their way backstage; the whole building was empty at the moment—or so they thought, till they heard a voice beginning to sing softly, gaining volume and confidence. The song was an old one: "They say that falling in love is wonderful…"
Roarke smiled and led Tattoo and Leslie into the wings, where Andrea Barclay stood singing to an imaginary audience. Andrea began the next line and slowly pivoted, only to see the three of them standing there; she cut herself off abruptly and blinked. Roarke urged encouragingly, "Oh, please, go on, Miss Barclay."
"Yes, it was beautiful," Tattoo agreed, and Leslie nodded.
Andrea looked frustrated. "I can't continue! That's my problem. When I'm alone, I'm great—I think…" Her hosts glanced at one another in gentle amusement. "But the moment I see people out there, watching me, I just…I fall apart." She cast them a pleading look.
"Maybe the problem is, you're trying too hard," suggested Tattoo, going out onto the stage to address Andrea directly.
"Well, I just get so…s—nervous and self-conscious whenever I get on stage. What am I to do?" Her voice was soft and hopeless.
Tattoo smiled and suggested brightly, "Trust the boss. He's the only one who can make your fantasy come true."
"And he's really good at it, too," Leslie put in loyally.
Andrea glanced at her with dawning hope, then at Roarke. "Can you, Mr. Roarke? Can you make it come true?"
"Oh yes." Roarke strolled onto the stage with Leslie behind him. "Yes, I can provide the opportunity for you to conquer your shyness and prove yourself on the stage if you would try very hard to have faith in yourself."
"I will, Mr. Roarke." Andrea grinned a little with determination. "You just give me the toughest audience you can find."
Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie looked at one another in surprise. "The…toughest…audience I can find?" Roarke echoed slowly, looking amazed and stymied at the same time. Then he slowly brightened, as if an idea had just occurred to him. "Yes…Tattoo, the lights, please." Tattoo acceded and headed for the control box just offstage.
"You might be sorry you said that, Miss Barclay," Leslie said teasingly. Andrea, who had been watching Tattoo go, blinked and threw her a suddenly intimidated look.
Roarke approached her. "Now, Miss Barclay…imagine that you are already the famous actress you want to be. Feel the confidence flowing from you." His voice was slow and mesmerizing, seeming to trap the young actress under a spell.
Just as he was beginning to raise his hands, Tattoo called out eagerly, "Now, boss?"
Leslie jumped, startled, and Roarke hastily shushed him with some impatience before the spell was completely broken. He resumed his former actions, raising his hands a little higher, then paused as if waiting. When nothing happened, he glanced at Tattoo long enough to mouth, "Now!" Tattoo nodded and began to slowly lower the lights.
The stage darkened except for a pool of soft light on Andrea; Leslie saw Roarke raise his hands once more in the reflected illumination, and an inexplicable breeze sprang up, blowing Andrea's curls to one side. The light turned deep blue, then vanished altogether, plunging the stage into total darkness.
There was a long pause; then Roarke called out, "Lights." Nothing happened, and he sighed and clapped his hands sharply once. "Lights, Tattoo, please!"
"Oh…sorry, boss…" After a few seconds the lights came back up, revealing Roarke's exasperated expression and Andrea's absence. Leslie grinned at Tattoo's sheepish look.
"What's the matter with you this weekend, my friend? You seem to be missing the most obvious cues," Roarke said, shaking his head.
Tattoo shrugged. "I guess I'm a little distracted, boss. I'm sorry. I'll do better, I promise. Just give me another chance."
Roarke's brows popped up. "I was beginning to think I'd have to rely on Leslie to take your place this weekend. I'm relieved to see that you're ready to concentrate more on your job. Well, come along, you two, we're to meet…" He cleared his throat slightly. "…our other guest at the house, so we'd better hurry."
They arrived there just before Jimmy Jordan scurried in through the French shutters, still hunched into the coat and trying to shield his face under the hat. Leslie wasn't entirely sure his disguise was all that successful; he looked more like an inept spy, particularly with the large sunglasses he wore whose lenses were ringed with miniature rhinestones. The rocker stopped short behind the desk, took in his hosts' curious stares, and smiled a little sheepishly at them before glancing behind him and removing the glasses.
"The hat, too," Tattoo suggested gently.
"Right." Jimmy Jordan plucked the hat off his head and stuffed his sunglasses into his pocket, tucking the hat between his trench coat and his wrist. "I presume you know who I am and what happened…"
Roarke nodded and aimed a remote control at the television set that he'd had brought down from the spare room upstairs. It clicked on to a videotaped news report, showing a concert arena filled with screaming, cheering fans. The voiceover of a reporter kicked in: "This film, shot at a concert last month in Denver, shows Jimmy Jordan at the height of his career—a career that ended tragically yesterday when his car plunged off a cliff and into the ocean near Point Dune, California." The scene shifted to a solemn-looking man with the perfectly shellacked hair universal to all news anchors. "Jimmy Jordan, a man with an abundance of fame, fortune and talent, lived a life filled with applause; now he's lost."
Roarke shut off the set, and Jimmy sighed wistfully. "Well…except for my business manager, you three are the only ones who know I'm alive." His gaze darted back and forth between Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie before he turned and headed toward the settee, beginning to remove the coat. "It's got to stay that way, too. Oh, Lordy, why me?" He dropped the coat onto the settee, and both Tattoo and Leslie stared at him in amazement; he was still wearing a concert costume that reminded Leslie of the ones Elvis might have worn in his last few years performing in Las Vegas, with more rhinestones twinkling in the room's light, a belt that had to be a foot wide, and the eagle-appliquéd shirt open almost all the way to the belt buckle. "Why did I have to witness a murder?"
He seemed unaware of Tattoo's and Leslie's exchanged glances of amazement; even Roarke seemed a little taken aback by Jimmy's choice of attire. They all looked at each other but didn't bother to comment; finally Jimmy saw their expressions and mumbled, "I was between sets when I observed the killing. I've been so busy running for my life, I haven't had a chance to change clothes."
Roarke nodded with his accustomed aplomb. "Naturally. Uh…did you tell the police what you saw?" he asked, taking a chair nearby.
"Yeah, I called 'em right away. Didn't tell 'em where I was, but I called 'em. Naturally, they want me to testify; they offered me police protection, too." He hesitated, then said, "When I asked 'em, 'What about after I testify?', they said they can't guarantee anything."
"Huh," commented Tattoo, disgusted. "That's terrific."
"So I hung up the telephone, without telling them who I was, drove my car out to Point Dune, put it in gear and sent it…" He made a gesture, then said resignedly, "Over the cliff. Goodbye, Jimmy Jordan." And he flopped tiredly into a chair. "Goodbye…"
"And the mob would think you're out of the way," Tattoo filled in.
"Exactly," Jimmy said with a nod. "Only, my business manager, who knows everything, told me there are two hoods looking for me to make sure I'm really dead. One of 'em is a missing-persons expert, the other one's an assassin." Leslie drew in a slow breath and watched Jimmy get abruptly to his feet and approach Roarke. "You don't think that, uh, they could trace me to Fantasy Island, do you, Mr. Roarke?"
Roarke looked a little sorrowful and inquired, "How good are you at handling bad news, Mr. Jordan?" Jimmy's expression sharpened and he stared questions at Roarke, who pointed a quick finger toward the open French shutters. They all looked around to see two men weaving their way through the foliage in the direction of the terrace. Fortunately for the startled occupants of the study, the two didn't bother looking inside but veered down a trail to their left.
Jimmy sprang into action and hid against the back wall, out of plain sight. "Is that them?" he gasped. Roarke nodded, and Tattoo promptly ducked aside to join Jimmy in hiding, as if he too were an avidly sought witness. Leslie looked at Roarke as Jimmy cried, "What'm I gonna do?"
Roarke arose and went to him, placing the remote on his desk. "I believe a new identity is in order…which means we'll have to do something about his appearance, Tattoo. Ah…yes." His handsome features lit with an idea, and Jimmy watched him apprehensively. "Yes, indeed." Even Tattoo looked puzzled.
"What're you gonna do, Mr. Roarke?" Leslie asked.
Roarke winked at her. "Tell me, Leslie, who do your friends tell you is the best hairstylist in town?"