The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 13: It’s Time to Play the Music
Saturday, September 19th.
Six hours left to our first performance. I was practicing a song with Edmund in the piano room of my suite. Well, Peter’s suite as far as Asim was concerned. He wasn’t here right now, but he had been hanging around a lot. Far too much for my taste, actually, but he wasn’t here while I bulldozed my way through ‘Enjoy Yourself’, a new addition to the set list that replaced ‘Springtime in Paris’.
“More legato, Martin,” ordered Peter. “Smoother.”
“I know what legato is,” I snapped.
“He’ll get it tonight,” said Edmund, playing a brief ending phrase and demonstratively closing the piano. “Don’t wear him out now. Let’s do some skits!”
“Verónica’s not here. We’re good. She just has to follow my lead. Uhm ... impressions? Have those scripts come in? I need more lines.”
“Yes, we now have a thing for Al Bundy. You need to memorise it, though if you do them all behind a lectern you can just read them,” said Peter.
“That means Al Bundy wears reading glasses. Can’t have that. It’s bad enough I don’t have hair. Stick it on the display at the back of the theatre. Can I see it now?”
“It’s ... I can’t...” said Peter, furiously stroking his iPad. “I can’t find the email now!”
I changed my voice to Jesse Pinkman.
“Okay Mr. White but ya know, I ain’t got a whole lot of time. So Gatorade me, BITCH!”
“Which one’s that again?” asked Edmund.
“Jesse Pinkman! You know! Breaking bad!”
“Oh. I’ve never seen that.”
“Yeah yeah yeah, Martin, you should drop that. That character is just a bit too far removed from you, especially when you’re dressed in black tie. Speaking of, I’ve had a look at your impressions and I think you should drop Alan Bennet, Tony Hancock, Steptoe AND son so both of ‘em, Nicholas Parsons, Ronnie Corbett, Les Dawson and Boris Johnson. They’re all British, an American audience won’t know them.”
I switched to Les Dawson.
“What, not even Les? He’s got some great lines, he has! ‘Me mother in law said she’d dance on me grave. So I’m getting buried at sea!’ M-hahaha.”
Edmund loved that one, but Peter just shook his head without looking up from his screen.
“Save it for Britain. Oh and lose Richard Burton, he’s been dead for a quarter of a century. No, you can do ... Michael Caine ... he’s British but he’s Batman’s butler so they’ll know him.”
“She was only fifteen years old,” I said, getting into the voice. But Peter cut me off.
“Yeahyeahyeah, okay. Uhm ... Morgan Freeman ... Everyone does him but okay, uhm ... Donald Trump ... Ira Glass ... John Gielgud? Let me hear Gielgud.”
“My dear boy, you can be good in a good movie, you can be good in a bad movie, you can be bad in a bad movie, but never, ever, be bad in a good movie.”
“Ha! Love that! Okay, do him. Uhm ... Groucho Marx, obviously. Kenneth Williams is OUT, he’s British ... I assume they know Alan Rickman? They HAVE to know Rickman.”
“I haven’t got any funny lines for him. And it’s quite close to my own voice. Get me a line or two and I’ll do him.”
“Okay. Frank Underwood! That’s ... You should lead with him. That’s really hot right now.”
“Okay.”
“Lemme see ... Gandalf is a yes, Jesse Pinkman is a no ... David Attenborough? Bit predictable, isn’t it?”
“Oh you HAVE to have Attenborough! If he’s doing Morgan Freeman he HAS to do Attenborough!” said Edmund.
“Problem with Attenborough is that you can only do vulgar jokes,” I explained. “Otherwise it’s just not funny. Unless a bird flies into the auditorium I don’t really have much for him.”
“Well, read the room then. The Al Bundy speech is the big one, anyway. Fuck, I’ll have to ask them to send it in again. We can...”
There was a knock on the door. Two Saudi security guards I hadn’t seen before came in, followed by prince Omar, who supported himself on a crutch. His eye was still covered up, with a flesh coloured plaster. Edmund seemed alarmed, more so because Omar was dressed exactly like he was at home. Which, given the murderous heat of Las Vegas wasn’t actually the worst idea. I mentally switched gears to become Carstairs, the poor economist who had to put on a show.
“Your Royal Highness,” I said, and briefly bowed my head. “You’re here early?”
“Salaam aleikum. Mr ... KING. It is good to see you again. Sorry for the intrusion.”
“No, not at all, Your Royal Highness! Uhm ... gentlemen? Would this be a good time for you to take a short break?”
“Oooooh are you a king?” asked Edmund, who knew better than that. He just has a childish streak. “Only I never met a king! Well, apart from HIM.”
He pointed at me. Omar looked at me to fix this, so I did:
“Your Royal Highness, this is Mr. Edmund Willowby, a talented musician. And this is Mr. Peter Green, a well-regarded theatrical producer. Gentlemen, this is His Royal Highness prince Omar Abdullah al Din Al Saud, sixth in line to the throne of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Kindly address him as Your Royal Highness.”
Omar briefly shook hands with Peter and Edmund, who then left the room along with one of the guards. I was sure he would post himself on the other side to stop them from eavesdropping.
Omar looked at the piano and sat down behind the keyboard.
“Well, Mr. Carstairs ... Asim has called on you once more to be a song and dance man, I hear.”
“Yes, he has, I’m afraid,” I sighed. “Not exactly what I had in mind when I offered my assistance.”
“Allow me ... it’s been a while,” said Omar. He turned to face the keys and positioned his fingers. He then gently played the first sixteen bars of Fur Elise.
“That’s very impressive, Your Royal Highness.”
Omar looked a bit sad.
“Imam Musa did not approve. He explained to me that a good Muslim doesn’t involve himself with such frivolities. So I gave it up.”
It felt very duplicitous to console him with the loss of his spiritual mentor, considering I was directly responsible for Musa’s awful demise. But I don’t like Omar either, so I didn’t mind rubbing a bit of salt in the wound.
“I’m sure you miss him a great deal. He would probably also have some misgivings about this place, I imagine.”
I vaguely gestured towards the window, which had a view of the pool. The infamous topless pool of the Delano Beach Club, in fact. I’d seen a few boobs from up here, but I’ve seen enough of ‘em anyway. One boob in the hand is better than ten by the pool, I always say.
“But he would understand it was for a good cause,” snapped Omar. “Anyway, Carstairs, I just wanted to know if you are sure that our Mexican associate will be pleased. As soon as tonight’s performance is done, we will make the first of three transactions.”
“Three?” I asked, even though Asim had already let something slip along those lines.
“Yes. It’s a lot of ... valuable material. On their side it is far too much to transport and check in one session. Also, there is a lack of trust on both sides. They will test our...”
He looked around the room and decided he didn’t need to speak in code.
“They will test our gold, several samples taken at random. That means we can’t package it too well. And they will bring several crates of paper money, which I will want to check. That too takes time.”
“I’m sure it will. And where will it happen?”
He looked positively shocked.
“That is NONE of your business, Carstairs. YOUR business is to pretend you are that actor and put on a show. Asim tells me it will be good, but I am afraid you are overplaying your hand. Just because you look like someone doesn’t mean you get their talents.”
This from a crown prince in a hereditary monarchy...
“I know, Sir,” I shrugged. “It wasn’t my idea. I’m not happy with it. Still not sure what to do if the real one shows up. Or his lawyers.”
“As I understand it the real one is still hiding in that addiction clinic. As long as you don’t irreparably damage his career, maybe he won’t mind too much. Asim will deal with any lawyers. Okay, I will leave you to prepare. Oh, one more thing: when this is all over, what are your plans?”
“Sir?”
“Your plans, Carstairs! What will you do after we’ve made the final exchange?”
“Sir!” I sputtered. “Princess Alexandra is well behind on her classes! I haven’t had the time, you see. We will have to work VERY hard to make sure she is ready for her...”
Omar held up his hand.
“Good. So you will be coming back with us?”
“Of course, Your Royal Highness!”
Omar smiled, which was a rare sight. He stood up and walked towards the door.
“I am pleased. I am not always sure where your loyalties lie. But if they are with Alexandra, that is good enough. Well, maybe I will have the opportunity to see your little show. Best of luck, Carstairs.”
“Thank you, Yohwrihness.”
He turned on his heels.
“AH! There it is ... The special title you have for me. I wondered when that attitude would come back. Do your best tonight, Carstairs. I don’t see a future for you in the Royal Household after Alexandra graduates. It is good to have something to fall back on.”
I should probably have apologised, but I didn’t have it in me. Asim would have to deal with any fall-out from this.
“Of course. Wouldn’t want to spend my life living large on the public purse,” I smiled, and basically threw the door shut in his face.
A few minutes later Peter and Edmund shuffled back in. Edmund was obviously bursting with curiosity.
“Who WAS that? And why do you let him talk to you like that?”
“I could tell you, but then I would have to arrest you under the Official Secrets Act.”
“Oh, hah hah! Well, I guess it was you on those shaky clips after all then, at the execution.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that. Peter, do you think I could have another practice session on that Theremin?”
Peter sighed.
“Sure. I suppose we’d best move proceedings to the theatre. How hangry are you?”
“Fairly. I noticed you had all the minibars cleaned out.”
“Not the fruit. Have a banana.”
“Have a banaaaaana!” sang Edmund. The ‘have a banana’ is shorthand for a particular kind of musical segue. Look for Bill Bailey’s comedy segment on ‘Cockney Motifs in Classical Music’ on YouTube. “I could eat, if I’m honest. ‘Ere, why did you put Martin on a diet? He looks fine!”
“It’s not a weight loss diet. It’s meant to keep his blood sugar consistent. If he flies off the handle, I have as much chance of reigning him in as Roy had with that tiger. Are we good to go? Oh, Martin, take some clothes with you for after the show. You’ll want to get out of black tie afterwards, trust me. Get the outfit for when we went clubbing.”
“HE WENT CLUBBING?” gasped Edmund. “HIM?!”
“I go clubbing in London all the time,” I joked, as I walked into the bedroom where I kept my clothes. “Now if you two wouldn’t mind waiting in the hallway? I have to escort Donald Trump to the bunker.”
“WHAT?”
Peter dragged Edmund out of the room by hooking into his elbow.
“That’s his way of saying he’s going to grow a tail. He thinks it’ll catch on. Come on, let the man have a bowel movement in peace.”
Ten minutes later we were on our way to the theatre. The driver wanted to drive down The Strip, which is actually called Las Vegas Boulevard, but Peter redirected him as he was about to cross over to the other lane opposite a McDonalds.
“Hey, take the freeway, would ya?”
“You sure? Not much traffic right now.”
“Yes, turn right on Russell.”
“Mr. ‘Green’ is a bit of a local,” I explained to Edmund, with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
“I am, actually,” said Peter, leaning back.
“He was in town for all of two hours and he’d already found a coke dealer and arranged a shag,” I added, which made Edmund giggle.
“Actually I had that lined up before I made it to my room. Now, you two switch seats.”
“What? Why?”
I may be a broad-shouldered gentleman, but Edmund is an unashamed tub of lard. And this was no limousine, but one of three rental vans Peter had arranged for the production. Edmund and I easily filled one of three bench seats. Peter sat in front of us.
“Just do it. Would I subject myself to your moaning without a good reason?”
And so Edmund and I switched places in a moving vehicle.
“Okay, so now what?”
“Just sit tight,” answered Peter, with an unnerving glint in his eye. And then he didn’t say another word. Edmund engaged me in a brief discussion about the running order, so I forgot all about it.
Two miles later, near the exit for Treasure Island, Peter tapped my shoulder.
“Look out the window, sonny boy.”
I did. I saw lots of concrete, many billboards, cars that ranged from rusty pickups to well-worn elongated pink limousines, poorly maintained asphalt and thousands of hotel room windows.
“Oh ... my ... Lord...” exclaimed Edmund, who nearly sat on my lap at this point. He’s a curious one, our conductor.
“What am I looking for?”
Edmund pointed at something.
“THAT! HEY, can you slow down?”
“Sorry, no,” said the driver. “There are cops all around.”
“WHAT? WHAT ARE WE...” I began. And then I saw.
“Jesus ... JESUS!”
“Like it?” said Peter.
It was very hard to get a sense of scale from a moving vehicle, but basically I had somehow overlooked a billboard at least the size of a parking lot, only vertical. Actually, it wasn’t a billboard but a large video display with individual pixels the size of a tennis ball, but a few thousand of them still produced a very sharp image. The display hung off a grey metal tower that stood in the middle of an actual parking lot behind The Mirage. The screen showed me, dressed in a tuxedo, casually leaning against the right hand edge of the screen. I had a Martini (or something with an olive at any rate) in my hand. In a bold, black typewriter font with letters the size of a car it said: “Martin WHO?” and then answered its own question a few seconds later, as the words changed to: “Martin King: Still Alive. In Vegas.”
A smaller picture of Verónica was visible to the left, next to some text in a more elegant typeface.
“Featuring Verónica Torreón. Three nights only at the Monterey. 1-800-MONTEREY 4 TIX,” read Edmund, his face uncomfortably close to mine. And then we’d passed the thing.
“Don’t worry, I’ve sent someone out to shoot a video,” said Peter. “Do you like it?”
“When did I ever pose for THAT?”
“You didn’t. We used your head from one of your telly ads and that’s someone else’s body.”
I slumped in my seat. I’ve seen myself on telly and on small video billboards in the Underground, but this was new. And what’s more: entirely unexpected.
“Good God. And I’m supposed to be a spy ... Look at that!”
“You’re WHAT?” asked Edmund.
“Oh, shut up! Like it’s not blindingly obvious by now!” I snapped.
“Not to me! What are you spying for?”
“GENTLEMEN! Let’s not bother our DRIVER, shall we?” said Peter. “Anyway, we’re sold out. This is mostly for Arturo’s benefit. He wanted to see his sister on that screen. Tomorrow and Monday she’ll be displayed as big as you are, but I felt you’d earned this.”
After we had arrived at the theatre we had time for a final rehearsal. It was a hot mess, not least because we didn’t have an audience and some things I prepared fell flat on their face, but even I had been in showbiz long enough that a terrible rehearsal is, in some ways, better than a smooth one. If things seem to be going well, that’s when you worry.
The show was scheduled to begin at nine, with doors opening around eight thirty. After all, people would want to have dinner beforehand. So did we, in a conference room. I sat next to Verónica and we did our best to build some repartee. It might seem odd, planning to do a big show with a virtual stranger, but that’s theatre for you. If everybody rehearses the right bits and knows when to perform them, things tend to fall into place. Theatre is one big lie and the illusion that everything is going to plan is part of it. I think even the people who perform The Mousetrap regularly ask themselves how in God’s name they’re going to make it to the end of another performance without the entire show coming to pieces. It’s part of the job.
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