§ § § -- January 8, 1983
Leslie had been trying to schedule fantasies for Roarke for the last hour and a half, but she was so unhappy and morose that she didn't have the enthusiasm she usually did for this work. She was aware of Roarke glancing at her from time to time, but she wouldn't meet his gaze, and he didn't push the issue. It was just as well; she didn't want to talk anyway.
All of a sudden the foyer door slammed, and Tattoo appeared at the top of the steps, his hand over his chest, looking a little winded. "What's wrong, Mr. Tattoo? What's all that commotion out there?" asked Roarke, making Leslie aware now that there were a lot of voices in the yard.
"Boss, they're going crazy!" Tattoo exclaimed, entering the room. "Strangers are asking me for loans, and my friends act like they don't even know me anymore. Even Susie and Marco said they had to go home." Susie and Marco were a pair of children from town whose single mother worked at the hotel; Tattoo had become friends with both the kids and their mother. He climbed into a club chair.
"Well, that's to be expected, I suppose," Roarke observed. "You see, a man's station in life often dictates who his friends can be."
"Friends!" Tattoo groaned and rolled his eyes. "They were more like a hit squad!"
Leslie smiled faintly in sympathy, unable to muster up more than that; Roarke arose, chuckling and rounding her chair to take the seat next to Tattoo's. "Well, why not hire a bodyguard? Lots of celebrities have them. It would keep the crowds away. Ah, don't worry. I'm sure you will adjust." His demeanor changed and a serious expression stole over his features. "Which brings me to the reason I wanted you to see me."
Tattoo looked at Leslie, who bit her lip hard and looked instantly away. "I knew it," he mumbled.
"Do you remember when we had so many guests who wanted to stay and live here after their fantasies were fulfilled?" Roarke asked.
"Yes, that's when I suggested to have a working rule to make room for the new guests." Roarke nodded, and Tattoo suddenly stood up, frowning. "What are you getting at?"
"I'm afraid you can't stay on the island any longer," Roarke said gently. "Regrettably, you'll have to leave on the morning flight." They both heard Leslie gasp, but Tattoo, overcome with shock, paid no attention.
"But boss…I love it here!" he protested. "All my friends are here! I belong here!"
"I am so sorry, you must believe that," Roarke said, truly apologetic, "and I hate to see you go. But I'm also very happy for you. Think of all the wonderful things you'll be able to do with your money."
"Boss," entreated Tattoo, "you always have the answer for everything. Do you know any way we can get around this, so I can stay here?"
"I'm afraid not." Roarke rose. "It's always been your fantasy to be rich, Tattoo. Suppose I did let you stay. What would happen, huh? Hundreds of people would follow your example, and then we would be so overcrowded that we could no longer function. Fantasy Island would no longer exist as we know it. Would you want that?" The question was directed as much to Leslie as to Tattoo.
"No, no, never," Tattoo said.
"Well, then, you see, our hands are tied," Roarke said. His expression shifted again and sadness filled his dark eyes. "You do know how much we're going to miss you, don't you?"
"Not as much as I'm going to miss both of you," Tattoo murmured.
Roarke watched him. "You do understand, don't you?" Tattoo nodded, and Roarke looked at Leslie. "Do you?" She gave one jerky nod, just to keep him from repeating the question.
Roarke, who had an appointment, started for the foyer, leaving the two where they sat; he paused, glanced back once, only to see Leslie break a gaze that was surprisingly hostile. She lowered her head over the book in her lap, and he sighed quietly and left.
Tattoo turned on Leslie then. "Did you know the boss was gonna do this?"
Her head jerked back up and she instantly burst into tears. "He told me…" she managed. "I knew he was going to say you had to go. But I d-didn't think he'd m-make you leave so s-soon!" She angrily backhanded tears off one cheek. "How can he do this? I got my fantasy, and here I am, so why not you?"
Tattoo went to her and gripped her hands, ironically finding himself forced to play devil's advocate. "You got to stay here because the boss was fulfilling your mother's fantasy, Leslie," he corrected her gently. "She asked him to help you break the family curse, and she asked him to raise you. You're here because it was her fantasy, not yours. Do you see what I'm saying?"
She stared at him, realizing he was right but unwilling to admit it. "Well, I still don't think it's fair."
"I don't like it, but that's the way the rules go." Tattoo looked down at their joined hands and squeezed hers. "But don't you ever think I'd forget my favorite honorary niece…never. Hey, come on, don't blame the boss. He's right, you know. I want you to promise me that when he comes back, you apologize, okay? Tell him you understand the rules and that he can't break them just for me. Okay?"
"Okay, but only because you're the one asking," Leslie said, blinking away tears.
Tattoo actually managed a smile for her benefit. "Good. I guess maybe I should go and start packing my stuff." For a split second before he yanked his hands out of hers and fled through the open French shutters behind the desk, she saw his face crumple and knew she wasn't the only one grieving.
‡ ‡ ‡
Roarke had talked Leslie into coming with him to check on another fantasy, requested in person the previous day by a vacationing couple named Clemens, and she had shrugged and agreed, putting aside the date book she just couldn't keep her mind on. Despite Tattoo's words, she still found herself blaming Roarke for sending him away, but knew there was no changing his mind. She had remained silent all the way to the meeting, and he had let her do so. Undoubtedly, she thought dismally, he knew she was stewing in her own juices, especially in the wake of that blasted promise she'd made Tattoo.
He was in the middle of counseling patience to their guests when he happened to glance over and see Tattoo sitting alone at a table. "Oh, will you excuse me for a moment? I'll see you in my office, all right?" They agreed, and he made his way to Tattoo's table, with Leslie trailing listlessly.
Tattoo put on a patently false happy face when he saw them coming. "This is great," he said. "I'll be living in Paris, New York and Aspen. You gonna come see me?"
"Oh, I would love to," Roarke agreed, "that is, if I can ever manage to take the time off. I'm sure Leslie would as well." He shot her a swift but pointed look.
Tattoo essayed, "Wasn't that Mr. and Mrs. Clemens over there with you?"
Roarke took the only other chair. "Tattoo, remember, under the present circumstances, I cannot discuss the fantasies of our guests with you."
Tattoo's frustration got the better of him. "Boss, this is terrible! I can't believe that Ambrose wanted me to leave the island. He knows how much I like the place."
"Yes," Roarke mused. "Well, perhaps he didn't take into consideration the circumstances, you know? I wonder what Ambrose would have done with the money had he lived to collect it." He gave Tattoo a sharp look that even Leslie couldn't misread, and she peered at him, her sagging spirits lifting slightly.
"Hmm," muttered Tattoo, making a face. "I wish I knew."
"I suggest you give some thought to it," Roarke suggested a little pointedly, rising.
"But boss," Tattoo protested, "I don't have the time. I gotta leave tonight."
"Well, you still have a few hours. Perhaps something will come to you…something you may have overlooked." He smiled slightly, then guided Leslie across the clearing to where the car waited.
She squinted up at him and smiled, speaking to him for the first time all afternoon. "I think I know what you're trying to do, Mr. Roarke," she said softly. "Thanks for trying to make him find a way to stay on the island. And I'm sorry I got mad at you for sticking to the rules."
Roarke smiled back and hugged her close. "I can't blame you for feeling as you did," he said. "Even I was upset at having to enforce the rule, but I had no choice. Perhaps things will change. All we can do is give him a chance to go over things in his own mind."
By the time they stopped by the Presidential Bungalow to pick up Tattoo, it was clear he had been wearing himself out thinking. Ms. Stanton, who had come with them, seemed oblivious to Tattoo's mood. "You'd better hurry, Tattoo. We don't want to miss the plane."
He didn't move, and Roarke leaned forward as if this would help him to see his assistant better. "Is something wrong, Mr. Tattoo?" he asked.
Tattoo's round face looked tired. "Boss, I remember something that Ambrose told me a long time ago."
Roarke leaned farther down. "What?"
"About a dream he had—to be back with his old friends again. Well, he told me he wrote everything down, and he was gonna show it to me."
Roarke straightened up and asked, "Now where do you suppose he would have left such a message?"
"The only place it could be—the cottage. Come on, let's look." Tattoo led the way out the door, and within ten minutes they were there, searching in earnest. Even Leslie found little, if any, reluctance in her eagerness to find whatever it was they were searching for. But after some fifteen minutes Tattoo groaned, "It's no use. Boss, I don't even know what to look for!"
"It seems important, though," Roarke mused, focusing on Leslie, who was standing in one spot scanning the walls. "I wonder…where would a sailor keep something important, huh?"
She froze, her eyes glued on something they had somehow missed seeing the first time they'd been in the cottage. "What about that bottle up there on the cabinet?" she asked, pointing at it.
"Ah, perhaps so!" Roarke exclaimed and went to retrieve it; the others gathered around him while he removed a rolled-up sheet of paper. At Tattoo's urging, he read it aloud. " 'Dear Tattoo…' " They all looked at one another before he resumed. " 'I'm writing this to you because you are the only one who would understand. I miss the sea and the men who sailed it. I long for their rough ways and their tall tales. Some nights I go down to the shore and dream of a place where men of the sea can all be together again, where we could always hear the surf pounding against the sand, a place where we could sit and share our dreams, and remember the days when we were young.' "
"That's beautiful," Ms. Stanton said softly, "but it's kind of sad, too."
All of a sudden Tattoo shook his head hard, then reached into his jacket, withdrew his plane ticket and began to tear it up. Roarke watched, Leslie gaped, and Ms. Stanton exclaimed, "Tattoo, what are you doing? Aren't we going to catch the plane?"
"No," Tattoo said firmly. "I don't have to be a millionaire. I'm a millionaire right here. I make people's dreams come true. No amount of money would make me leave that."
"You mean you don't want the million dollars?" the lawyer asked in amazement.
"Oh yes, but not for me." Tattoo turned to Roarke. "Boss, for once I can make people's fantasies come true all by myself."
"That's right, Tattoo, you certainly can," Roarke agreed quizzically.
Tattoo nodded and asked, "Ms. Stanton, will you make all the arrangements necessary, please?"
"What for?" she asked.
Tattoo smiled. "For the Hornpipe Retirement Home for Mariners," he told her. His heavy French accent rendered the words almost unintelligible to Ms. Stanton, but Roarke repeated them for her benefit, and Tattoo smiled a little sheepishly. "Sounds nice, no?"
"Very good, Tattoo," Roarke said, beaming. "Very good indeed."
"Oh," Tattoo added then, "it should be a big white house, overlooking the sea…" He cast a glance at Leslie over one shoulder, then concluded, "…in New England."
Leslie lit up. "That's perfect, Tattoo!" she exclaimed, delighted, and they all laughed.
Ms. Stanton said cheerfully to Tattoo, "I'm sure I can find exactly what you—what Ambrose would want. I'll get on it right away." She rose and headed for the door.
"Oh, thank you very much, thank you!" Tattoo called after her, and they watched her go before Tattoo's gaze drifted to the portrait of Hoskins on the wall and grew wistful. "Boss, it's kind of a shame that Ambrose isn't gonna be there to enjoy it."
"Oh, he will be, Tattoo," Roarke said in a vaguely mysterious tone. He glanced at the ceiling with a little smile. "He will be." His and Leslie's gazes followed Tattoo's to the painting; even as they stared, the slight smile on the man's painted features turned suddenly into a genuine grin of wholehearted approval.
§ § § -- January 10, 1983
The Soames family had been enlarged by one, with the quiet marriage of their daughter Allison to her weekend leading man, Richard Ames, who had played Captain Warrington in the operetta as per his own fantasy. Herbert Soames' fantasy—to have his wife see how her pushy ways were alienating him and their daughter—had been granted too; they all looked much happier. As they retreated up the plane dock and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie were returning their waves, Leslie peered at her guardian and remarked laughingly, "Mr. Ames doesn't look even slightly slobby to me."
Roarke laughed. "No, indeed he does not." Before a surprised Tattoo could pose any questions, the second rover appeared and Roarke handed Margaret Stanton out of the car.
She thanked him and said, "Tattoo, I'll be in Cape Cod tomorrow looking at property."
"Cape Cod?" Tattoo echoed, looking at Leslie, the native New Englander.
She grinned. "It's the perfect place. You should be able to find something fabulous there." They laughed and Tattoo gave her a thumbs-up.
"Mr. Roarke, I didn't come here for a fantasy, but I feel happier than I've ever felt before." Ms. Stanton smiled at them all, kissed Tattoo's cheek, and went to board the plane.
Watching her go, Roarke remembered something. "Oh…Tattoo, there is a small matter I need to clear up with you."
"Oh? What is it, boss?"
"It's in regard to your bill." Roarke reached into his jacket and removed a sheet of paper.
Tattoo looked blank. "Bill? What bill?"
Roarke cast him one incredulous look before pointing out, "Well, you did have the most expensive bungalow on the island, and then there is champagne, caviar, the finest of everything. Look." He handed the multi-page bill to Tattoo, who went through it with a good bit of consternation.
"Boss, I gave all my money away. It's gonna take me six years to pay that bill!"
"In that case, I'll have to charge it to…" Roarke stuck the bill back inside his jacket, swept Tattoo and Leslie with a glance of dawning amusement, and concluded, "Overhead." Tattoo shot a profoundly grateful glance skyward and folded his hands together, breathing a great sigh of relief. Behind his back, Roarke and Leslie shared huge, gleeful grins.
§ § § -- July 4, 2006
"Wow," Rory mourned when they finished. "Tattoo really gave away all that money? Gee whiz. Imagine all the great toys I could buy with a million bucks."
"Keep dreaming, kiddo," said Julie, her look warning everyone not to remind Rory that he had only to conjure up said toys if he wanted them that much.
"How about another action-packed tale, then?" Rogan inquired. "That last one was amusing, to be sure, but I must admit to a wee bout of boredom."
"Then this ought to get you going," Leslie told him. "I bet you'll never forget Vanessa Walgren, Father."
"No, I certainly won't," Roarke agreed with a laugh. "She's right, Rogan, this should provide more than enough action for you."
§ § § -- March 12, 1983
All week Leslie had been seeing roped-off areas and signs announcing "Pentathlon Event Site", and had been more than a little curious; her friends had been asking her about it, but she had been unable to tell them anything. So when Saturday morning finally arrived, she could no longer hold back the question, and by the time they reached the plane dock, her curiosity had hit full boil. "Are we finally going to find out what the hype is all about?"
"That you are," Roarke assured her. As if on cue, their first guest emerged from the plane, and he nodded. "Ah, Mr. Tom Vale, a Wall Street economist from Montclair, New Jersey."
Tattoo eyed the man with interest. "Sounds pretty glamorous," he remarked. "Maybe he's looking for a partner."
"Uh, no, no, Tattoo. Mr. Vale is here because he wants to experience the world of old-time burlesque."
"Burlesque?" echoed Tattoo, lighting up with even more interest. "You mean like in strippers? Oh, boss…like I said, maybe he's looking for a partner."
Roarke awarded him a disapproving glare that made Leslie snicker. "Burlesque was much more than a strip-tease, Tattoo," he said a bit severely. "It was a spirited variety show with song and dance and marvelous comedy. In fact, Mr. Vale's fantasy is to become a comic headliner. Those other aspects of burlesque don't interest him at all."
"Anything you say, boss," Tattoo replied amiably, but Roarke still peered suspiciously at him before deciding to let the subject lie. Leslie grinned; then her attention was captured by the pretty, lithe blonde woman exiting the plane. Tattoo's was as well, it turned out. "Boss, she's a foxy lady," he said with clear appreciation.
"Wow, you've really got a one-track mind today," Leslie remarked with a laugh.
"Indeed," said Roarke. " 'Foxy'…now really, Tattoo." Then his gaze grew concerned and he stared at the newcomer. "But you may be right, in more ways than you can imagine."
"What do you mean? What's her fantasy?" Tattoo asked, finally growing serious.
"That's Mrs. Vanessa Walgren," Roarke said, "an amateur sportswoman who wants very much to become a professional. She says her fantasy is to win the first annual Fantasy Island Pentathlon, being held here privately this weekend."
"She says?" Leslie repeated, catching the phrase.
"That should be easy," Tattoo put in, "since you're judging the competition."
Roarke stared at the woman. "Yes, but while I'm judging the competition, I'm afraid Mrs. Walgren will be judging me. In fact, before this weekend is over, she will appoint herself my judge, my jury…and my executioner." That got a frown from Tattoo, and Leslie heaved a long sigh, feeling the pterodactyls take up roost in her stomach again—especially when Vanessa Walgren, raising her glass to return Roarke's weekly toast, shot him a meaningful look that was impossible to miss.
‡ ‡ ‡
Once they had properly launched Tom Vale into his fantasy and seen that it was off to a good start, the trio made a somber trip to Vanessa Walgren's bungalow. Roarke rang the doorbell—another new installation from the previous summer for the bungalows—and after a pause, they heard a female voice call from inside, "Come in." They did so in silence, and Vanessa Walgren nodded politely. "Ah, Mr. Roarke…Tattoo, Leslie. Sit down."
"Thank you," said Roarke on behalf of them all, and took a chair; Leslie settled into its twin, and Tattoo stood between them. "Well, Mrs. Walgren, I hope you've prepared for the competition this weekend. IT's going to be difficult."
"I am," she assured them, tipping her head quizzically. "But I heard there's going to be no audience, no spectators. Why?"
Roarke smiled. "It's a private competition between the best men and women in the world. They are interested in sport, not applause.
"Ah," Vanessa said. "And the five events?"
"Fencing, martial arts, a quest involving dressage, skydiving, and the 'friend or foe' competition." Roarke arose and settled onto the sofa beside her, while Tattoo took the vacated chair. "Well, Mrs. Walgren, are the conditions of the pentathlon satisfactory to you?"
"Yes, very," she said. "In fact, they're perfect."
"Good," said Roarke. "Then why don't we talk about the real reason you came to Fantasy Island." At which Tattoo and Leslie exchanged surreptitious glances and both leaned perceptibly forward in their chairs.
Vanessa's expression turned cold. "All right, let's." They all saw her gaze go to a small framed photograph of a handsome, rugged-looking dark-haired man with a mustache, holding a tennis racket over his shoulder and wearing a half-smile. "That's my husband, Michael. He came here a month ago to have a fantasy…and died."
The name rang a bell with Tattoo. "Michael Walgren, the tennis pro?" That in turn awoke Leslie's memory, and she bit her lip, remembering the uproar everyone on staff had been in for more than a week. It had been a wonder business had gone on as usual.
Roarke nodded confirmation. "Yes, Tattoo, Mr. Walgren's fantasy was to repeat the famous Kon-Tiki voyage." To Vanessa he said, "I warned him of the dangers of sailing the high sea on a raft."
"You warned him?" she repeated in disbelief. "What did you do to protect him?"
"The storm that moved in and destroyed his raft was unpredictable. We sent out a rescue party immediately, of course, but it was too late. I am deeply sorry."
"I don't want apologies," Vanessa said in a hard voice. "I want answers."
"I wish I could give you some, but I'm afraid it's impossible," Roarke replied quietly, his tone regretful. He looked at the photo again. "It was a terrible tragedy."
"Tragedy? I think there's a cover-up going on. The police won't investigate—I tried that." She scowled blackly.
"I assure you," Roarke said, "you are wrong. That's all I can say."
She sat back, gave him a frigid, narrow-eyed glare and a nod, then got up and stalked towards the indoor terrace. "Well. Then what I came here to do won't be so difficult after all." Leslie sat up straight and Tattoo's gaze grew sharp and watchful; but she was focused solely on Roarke. "My husband's dead. As far as I'm concerned, you murdered him, and you're going to pay." She stepped forward, leaned over so that she was on his seated eye level, and said, "I've put a bounty on your head of a million dollars."
That was too much for Tattoo. "Boss, let me call the police right away." He turned and picked up the phone, but Roarke stopped him.
"No, don't…don't, Tattoo," he said, earning a stunned look from the Frenchman. Leslie, for her part, couldn't keep her shocked stare off Vanessa Walgren. Roarke went on as Tattoo slowly replaced the receiver: "I know you feel tremendous grief and anger. You obviously loved your husband very much. But if you could just wait until the weekend is over…"
She only stood up and informed him implacably, "The bounty is on."
Roarke slowly got to his feet, watching her carefully. "Very well," he said coolly. "I accept the challenge…on the condition that, if I am still alive when the weekend is over, you promise to give up any further ideas of revenge and go home."
She nodded. "Agreed."
"Thank you," Roarke said quietly. "Will you excuse me." He started briskly for the door; Tattoo threw his hands into the air in astonishment and followed, casting a scowl over his shoulder at Vanessa Walgren even as Roarke prompted, "Tattoo…Leslie."
Tattoo made an urgent come on gesture at Leslie, but she took her time standing up, all the while glaring at a serene-faced Vanessa with blazing eyes. Behind her, Roarke walked out the door without looking back; Tattoo paused just within the doorway and waited, as angry at Vanessa as anyone else, but eager to get Leslie out of her sight.
Leslie's fury overrode her common sense and she snarled suddenly, "If you succeed in killing my guardian, I'll put a bounty on your head. And then maybe you'll know just what it feels like to be the target of blind, unreasoning hatred!" She whipped around and stalked for the door without waiting for a reply, and Tattoo hastily backpedaled out the door to keep from being mowed down.